Shadow Play

by P. R. Adams

  “That crater randomly emits radiation bursts—”

  “This was no radiation burst but a message.”

  “Sent to where, which shipping lane, to what purpose?”

  The young officer looked away. “Inadequate data. That was the reason for the assignment. Your mongrel will take a team out to investigate for more information.”

  O’Bannon ran a finger over the sharp edges of the Order of the Iron Cross, the single decoration he held pride in. “To begin with, good Captain, my ‘mongrel’ is a decorated soldier who has fought in three campaigns against the Moskav. In addition, this is my command, so you will go through me for such assignments. Finally, if you had bothered to do your research instead of assuming you actually knew everything, you would have known that crater is off limits.”

  “Off limits to whom?”

  “Off limits to anyone with the intellect and will to survive.”

  “Then your mongrel should do well with the assignment given.”

  O’Bannon wondered what the penalty would be for pummeling to death a tube-born degenerate Commando. Would there finally be time to spend with Mia and the little ones before the whole of the Federation descended into lunacy? “I have canceled the assignment, Captain. Have a good morning.”

  To signal the conversation’s end, the major exited without fully shutting the door. The little bastard could close it himself.

  But as O’Bannon settled into his small cubicle space, curiosity began to gnaw at him.

  What if something had come from the charred pit in the ground or the ruins connected to it by the strange, twisting, narrow ravine? So little was known about the species that had created the place, the species that doctrine claimed as the forerunner to humans—true humans such as the Azoren ideal. Could the archaeologists be coaxed to return to Jotun and to send more people into the ruins?

  A chill ran down his spine. After so many failures with robotic probes and the loss of an entire team of researchers, no one would ever enter the ruins again.

  But perhaps there was merit in looking into the crater.

  2

  Lieutenant Brianna Stiles smoothed down the front of her uniform jacket—deep blue, with gold trim that caught the glow of her gold-brown skin and highlighted her dark green eyes. It had taken a few hours to become comfortable again in the outfit that had been tailored snug to emphasize her figure, hours spent decelerating after taking the Pandora out of Fold Space, and even with returning familiarity, she was wrestling with what the uniform represented. Lieutenant, not petty officer. The Group for Strategic Assessment, not Kedraalian Republic Navy.

  The golden brown of her delicate fingers seemed washed out in the glow coming from the search-and-rescue ship’s command console. No matter how well she knew the commands, this wasn’t her job, not her position. It belonged to the dead now in cold sleep: Lieutenant Commander Benson and her crew. It was their impressions that remained embedded in the seats, their scents and artifacts. Stiles had been forced to spend an hour repositioning Benson’s pilot seat, adjusting the taller woman’s unique preferences and posture. Her mug—still stained with the dark bronze lipstick she’d preferred—hadn’t been moved from its cubbyhole beneath the command console. Strands of her fine, brown hair still clung to the headset she’d worn most of her shifts.

  She’d been a good officer, someone Stiles had actually looked up to.

  But death in service to the Republic was still death, and someone had to pilot the Pandora back into Kedraalian space.

  A green light flickered on the comms section of the console: an incoming message.

  Stiles pulled the spare headset from under the console, brushed back black strands of hair, and settled the device on her head.

  “Kedraalian Republic Starship Pandora, this is KRS Clarion, do you copy?”

  Stiles thought back to her training. The Clarion was a light destroyer. Built for speed, with a mission centered on signals intelligence—SIGINT—rather than combat. It had been headed for mothballs, then spared and instead sent off for upgrades, which had only recently been completed. Officially a Navy ship, it was one of the GSA’s more frequently called-upon assets.

  She cleared her throat. “Clarion, this is Pandora. You’re coming through loud and clear.”

  “Pandora, Clarion command requests identification of ship personnel.”

  “Clarion, Pandora active personnel consists of Lieutenant Brianna Stiles, acting captain.”

  “Pandora, message received. Stand by for orders.”

  “Clarion, standing by.”

  She was still several hours out from Tamos, a place unofficially classified as the Kedraalian Republic military’s sphincter. It was a planetoid, with just enough atmosphere to allow for sandstorms and brutal heat but not enough to block out dangerous radiation. Assignment there had eventually fallen to a small contingent of Marine reservists and civilian administrators responsible for depot-level maintenance on older spacecraft and management of the oldest weapons graveyard in known space, all managed by contractors.

  Thousands and thousands of contractors.

  Someone had to run the orbital shipyard, even if it no longer actively produced warships and rarely saw more than a few coming in for massive overhauls. All the dangerous work was done by robots, but without humans to oversee them, those robots couldn’t be counted on completely.

  So at least someone was making money off the refusal to completely mothball ships long past their prime.

  But Tamos was still officially classified a military site.

  It’s still at risk.

  Stiles forwarded the comms to her personal communicator, unstrapped from the chair, and found her balance against the tug of the braking reverse thrust. She headed aft, to Martinez’s cabin, which she’d made her own. Fresh-printed sheets, citrus-scented cleaner sprayed liberally over all the surface areas, scrubbing the deck on her hands and knees—she still hadn’t removed his imprint.

  She never would. He was dead because of her. Because of the GSA.

  A loyal sailor who followed orders he disagreed with. A hero.

  She set out the weapons belt and pistol she’d taken from the crates stored in the restricted area of the cargo hold below. They were a distinctive black, almost glossy. The belt material was smooth and cool to the touch as she adjusted it to rest on the swell of her hip.

  Rather than head straight back to the bridge, she continued aft, stopping in the infirmary—now scrubbed clean of the gore from the gunfight with the Azoren privateers. Antiseptic, white lights matched the medicinal smells. She passed through the outer area to the surgical cube, then opened the hatch that gave her access to the cold sleep chamber. Soft blue light revealed long, clear, plastic trays lining the walls. Her comrades were in those trays, as were Marines and a nurse lethally radiated thanks to the reckless behavior of Martinez and his senior engineer, Chief Will Parkinson.

  She winced at the memory of Parkinson’s tongue in her mouth, his hands on her body, his—

  It’s the job. It’s only the job.

  Stiles pressed the button that opened the tray holding Benson, then squatted beside the dead woman. Statuesque, pretty, smart. The gunshot wounds and freezing gel couldn’t erase those elements. The commander had nearly ruined the entire mission into the Azoren DMZ. A lesser officer should have been chosen.

  “I’m sorry for what happened, ma’am.” Stiles pressed her hand on the plastic lid above Benson’s heart. “We all have our missions.”

  The tray slid shut, and Stiles returned to the bridge. Not long after she settled back into her seat, the Clarion connected again.

  “Pandora, Clarion command requests you dock at shipyard. Berthing information transmitting now. All questions should be reserved for mission commander Colonel Avis McLeod. Copy, Pandora?”

  “Message received, Clarion. Coordinates plugged in. Pandora out.”

  McLeod. Probably the most senior GSA officer in the field. That meant things were proceeding. The insertio
n tests had worked. How long did they have before the risky business of testing Azoren defenses failed, though?

  She would know soon enough.

  Docking the Pandora was a simple task. Most piloting operations were automated and rarely required human intervention, but Stiles was ready, just in case. She checked herself in a mirror one more time, then headed to the cargo hold and the main airlock. It showed an airtight seal with the shipyard.

  The older airlocks made a terrible noise as their gears ground and pumps labored. At least the Pandora had an excuse, what with the privateers and Azoren Marines breaching the hatches. The shipyard was just poorly maintained.

  Beyond the airlock, lights revealed a scuffed, gray corridor. Paint peeled from a section that must have once held a sign designating what section she was in. Or maybe it had been a map display. Either would have been helpful.

  But there was no escort waiting. No robotic maintenance units. Just a long, empty passageway.

  Stiles adjusted her jacket, sighed, and marched forward. Somewhere, someone must be waiting for her, or there must be signs of some sort. Her boots clomped hollowly, lending a sense of abandonment and disrepair. The facility was at least a century old, and before the War of Separation had been active for ships headed to the outer worlds.

  Enemy worlds now, she reminded herself.

  The passageway came to an intersection, where an older, heavyset woman in gray urban camouflage stood at parade rest. The woman smiled pleasantly and stepped forward, extending scarred hands that glistened in spots with fresh, pink skin that hadn’t quite aged to match the almost bronze natural flesh. “Lieutenant Stiles? Welcome to the Tamos Shipyards. I’m Major Fero. I run the Marine detachment here.”

  “Thank you, Major.” Stiles shook the other woman’s hand. They were about the same height, but Fero seemed old enough to be a grandmother. It was an odd sensation for Stiles, as hard to get used to as Lieutenant Commander Gaines’s matronly behavior.

  Fero took them down a better maintained corridor, explaining the shipyard’s history and current situation with a dry, raspy voice that must have come from the bottom of a lot of alcohol bottles. It was all old news to the young GSA officer. She’d absorbed the war and all the associated history during her time in the knowledge vat. In fact, she could actually correct the major on what had destroyed the upper wheel of the shipyard if such a correction were important. If people wanted to believe that a Moskav separatist’s bomb blast was the cause, that was fine. It all ended up with the same narrative: People with radical views couldn’t tolerate people who didn’t share those views, and when the views became radical enough, violence was inevitable.

  They took a couple turns, each corridor better maintained than the last, then stopped outside an open hatch. Voices and warmth drifted out, along with a mixture of scents—cologne, a stale starchiness, the distinct chemical signature of the flex-material of combat boots.

  The major poked her head around the entry. “Colonel McLeod? The lieutenant’s here.”

  Silence settled inside whatever was beyond the entry, replaced quickly by whispers, things being shuffled around, and the scuff of boots. Soldiers, administrators, and contractors filtered out, all of them unremarkable, and many of them curious enough to glance at Stiles before heading down the opposite end of the passageway.

  “Lieutenant?” It was a man’s voice—deep, commanding. Confident.

  The major waved Stiles ahead. “I’ll see you later, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  A long, brown-black table with a scratched and chipped surface ran the width of a conference room. Chairs as old and abused as the table ran around it. At the far end, a tall, pale-skinned man with white hair sat with hands clasped in front of him. To his left, a younger, dark-skinned man barely any taller than Stiles sat. The taller man wore the same dark blue uniform as Stiles. The shorter man wore unmarked urban camouflage combat dress that was cut to accentuate his athletic frame.

  The taller man indicated the seat to his right with a nod. “Lieutenant, if you would join us?”

  Stiles crossed to the colonel’s right but kept her attention focused on the younger man. His jaw was set, his dark eyes—nearly the color of the table—were locked onto her.

  McLeod turned to the younger man. “Lieutenant, this is Samir Patel.”

  “From SAID.” She smiled just long enough for it to register.

  Patel glowered. “I was expecting Agent Penn, Lieutenant.”

  “One of the fatalities, unfortunately, Agent Patel.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “You might not realize it yet, but I’m the only person to have stepped off the Pandora.”

  “Agent Penn wasn’t just some Marine or sailor, Lieutenant. He had extensive training. He was a valuable asset.”

  “I respectfully disagree with you, Agent Patel. They were all valuable assets.”

  McLeod cleared his throat. “We have hospital staff pulling the crew out of cold sleep right now, Lieutenant. The folks suffering radiation poisoning will be sent on to more advanced facilities, but the scans you uploaded of the Pandora crew killed in the DMZ indicate resuscitation should be viable.”

  Her spine tingled. Was that relief? “Thank you, sir.”

  But Patel didn’t seem relieved. He distractedly drew a small circle on the tabletop with a fingertip. “This mission has been put at risk without Agent Penn.”

  The colonel nodded slowly. “I’ll note that in the record, Agent Patel.”

  Stiles bowed her head. “I noticed only the Clarion in orbit, Colonel. Is the rest of the task force delayed?”

  “Diverted, unfortunately. Comms traffic has been crazy the last few days.”

  “Trouble, sir?”

  “Not yet, but there’s increased activity across the DMZ.”

  “Activity as expected?”

  “Situations are escalating between the Azoren and the Gulmar. Violations of the established borders, claims of clandestine attacks, espionage—it’s all moving a little faster than expected.”

  “It was one of the scenarios we were briefed to expect.”

  “Yes, but…we had hoped for something different. Now we’re adjusting plans accordingly.”

  The lieutenant’s eyes shot to the SAID agent. “A facility like Tamos—”

  McLeod seemed to catch her meaning. “Is strategically valuable and would be at risk should anything happen along this part of the border, yes. Reinforcements are on the way.”

  Patel stopped drawing circles, and his eyes seemed to focus again. “The mission remains the same.”

  “We’ll need to wait for new orders, Agent Patel.”

  “I’m afraid not, Colonel. I’ve been given broad discretion in this regard, and a lack of reinforcements and data from my most valuable asset doesn’t change the objective.”

  Color flashed through the tall man’s cheek, darkening a knuckle-sized circle of flesh more than the rest. “Is Central Command aware of this?”

  “I just told you, I’ve been given broad discretion. The objective—”

  “It sounds like there might need to be a communication with—”

  Patel’s eyes narrowed to slits and he stood. “Colonel, as of this moment, I am Central Command.”

  The colonel seemed to wrestle with the idea for a heartbeat, then nodded.

  Seconds passed, then the SAID agent stormed out.

  Stiles opened her mouth to speak but stopped at the shake of McLeod’s head.

  He pulled out a small device about the size of a pinky finger and walked all around the room with it, stopping at the hatch to seal it before returning to his seat, grim-faced. He slid the device back in his pocket. “That could have gone better.”

  “He’s upset over Agent Penn’s death.”

  “SAID sheds no tears over the loss of military lives, but they value their own. Until they don’t.”

  It was a terrible, twisted game, the world of espionage. Stiles resented hav
ing been thrust into it, but no one had given her a vote. “So what’s the plan, then? We don’t have the ships to do further testing of the Azoren DMZ, do we?”

  “No.” McLeod’s cheek twitched. “But I don’t think that’s going to matter to Patel. This is all very personal to him. Penn was a pet project.”

  “It was unfortunate he lost his life.”

  “All life is valuable.” The colonel cocked his head.

  Is he questioning my loyalty, or does he think I’m questioning my orders? “The accelerated aggression between the Azoren and Gulmar—?”

  “Something must have been found in the DMZ implicating Gulmar agents. Perhaps the recovery of a well-established Gulmar security expert with proof he was an Azoren spy? That would worry many within the Azoren hierarchy, especially once they discovered how close they’d come at a chance to recover a key Haidakura executive.”

  Stiles reached inside her jacket and pulled out a storage device, then placed it in McLeod’s extended hand. “And once the Gulmar realize that the key Haidakura executive’s restricted data has been compromised…”

  “Panic. Yes. Escalating tensions would be the only foreseeable outcome. Well done, Lieutenant.”

  She nodded. It still felt terrible, but the recognition took some sting off. “If we don’t have the ships for more border testing, exactly what mission does Agent Patel have in mind, sir?”

  The colonel’s face twisted into a frown. “We’ve lost contact with a listening post just inside Azoren space.”

  “We have a listening post inside Azoren space?”

  “Several. This one happens to have one of our more senior SIGINT teams, and they’re monitoring an Azoren listening post. But that’s not what makes it special to Samir.”

  “Are we influencing the monitored data, Colonel?”

  “Yes. But that’s not it.”

  “If it’s one of our teams, why does he care?”

  “Because there’s a SAID agent embedded. Agent Patel’s sister.”

  3

  Cold gripped Lieutenant Commander Faith Benson, a cold so intense that it paralyzed her. It started somewhere at the base of her spine and radiated out, leaving every limb frozen. She couldn’t sit up, couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t even breathe. It felt as if her blood was a thick gel, incapable of being pumped properly.