by Jim C. Hines
Do not take your attention off the Prodryan until you are safely out of range.
You can try talking to the Prodryan. They will probably take this as an insult and use it as an excuse to fight.
If you try talking, be blunt. Prodryans have no sense of tact or diplomacy.
Ask direct questions. Prodryans are terrible liars.
Do not answer any questions about your mission, your unit, your ship, your training, your equipment—
You know what? Just don’t answer any questions, period.
Assuming you survive, immediately report all interactions to your Krakau commanding officer.
* * *
“HELP YOU END THE Krakau Alliance?” Mops repeated.
Advocate of Violence’s four mouth pincers clicked together, the Prodryan equivalent of a nod.
Mops saw three options. One: drag the Prodryan back to the shuttle where he could explain what the hell he was talking about. Two: have him explain what the hell he was talking about right here and now. Three: forget the whole mission and get the hell out of here.
Option three was damn tempting.
Advocate of Violence removed a thumb-sized metal rod from his armor, rotated a black ring on the end, and set it on the table. “Privacy sphere. The security feeds will pick up nothing but static.” He made a shooing motion toward the two Quetzalus. “This is a privileged conversation, protected by Alliance Civil Code Section 1723.4 through 1723.9. If you attempt to eavesdrop, I’ll have you cited and fined.”
The Quetzalus backed away. Ulique paused to say to Mops, “Promise me you’ll take him away from here.”
“That depends on what he says next.”
Advocate of Violence waited for the Quetzalus to leave, then leaned across the table. “The Krakau have four medical facilities on Earth where feral humans are transformed into soldiers and warriors and . . . you.”
“Yes, we know,” said Mops. “We were there.”
“They have a new facility,” he continued. “Highly secured and operating under the direct supervision of Fleet Admiral Belle-Bonne Sage.”
“Doing what?” Mops hadn’t intended to engage or ask questions, but the words slipped out.
“A bit of stolen satellite security video suggests a theory, but not one I can share here.” His wings shivered. “The only way to know for certain is for us to go to Earth.”
“Was that a translator error?” asked Monroe. “Or did a Prodryan just suggest we should take him to Earth?”
“There should be no errors.” Advocate of Violence touched a small device secured to the collar of his armor. “I installed the latest Human vocabulary update three days ago. I didn’t want to rely on your translator’s knowledge of Pyrulian.”
“A lesser-known Prodryan language,” Doc clarified. “I’m confident I could understand and relay his meaning, though obscure idiomatic expressions might be a problem. Pyrulian has seventy-three different words and expressions for ‘murder,’ for example.”
“I understand your hesitation,” the Prodryan continued. “Your planet is overrun by feral humans who would happily kill and eat you. It’s protected by the Krakau Alliance, which currently has thirty-nine separate alerts and warrants for you and your team. And your contact is a hostile alien who would happily erase your entire species from the cosmos, one who hopes to use this mission to undermine the Alliance.”
“You think whatever Sage is doing on Earth outweighs all that?” asked Mops.
“I’m certain of it.” He brushed a scrap of cloth over his mouth pincers, wiping away a smear of green predigestive fluid. “As was your Admiral Pachelbel. She knows far better than you the threat I present. And still she sent you here.”
That was a very good point, dammit. Pachelbel had been horrified to learn the secrets Mops and her team had dredged up months earlier about the Rokkau, believed to have been wiped out by their Krakau kin, and about the role Rokkau venom had played in humanity’s downfall. Ever since, Pachelbel had been doing all she could to help Mops find the surviving Rokkau and prove what had happened on Earth a century and a half before.
She’d risked her career, her family’s reputation . . . possibly her life. Fleet Admiral Sage had recently relieved Pachelbel of command of Stepping Stone Station. According to gossip Mops had picked up, Sage suspected Pachelbel, and was just waiting for her to slip up, at which point Sage would have her court-martialed and imprisoned for life.
Despite all of that, Pachelbel had still contacted the Pufferfish to arrange this meeting.
Mops glanced at Monroe. “Search and scan him.”
He moved in and began patting down the Prodryan’s armor. He removed several devices from a thick belt, including a serrated knife as long as Mops’ forearm. Advocate of Violence cooperated, though his antennae vibrated the entire time, suggesting annoyance. He even removed his own armor, stacking the contoured pieces neatly on the table and sliding them toward Mops. Underneath, he wore a simple yellow shift, secured with a matching sash around his slender waist.
“Six implants,” said Monroe. “Looks like a recording device in the left eyeball, a storage compartment in the right forearm, retractable razor-edging on the upper wings, pain-blocker at the base of the skull, databank interface in the right eyeball, and audio pickup at the base of the left antenna.”
“Correct.” The Prodryan peeled open a rectangular patch of artificial skin on his forearm and removed a metal canister. “My medication. Regurgitant pills, to help with a digestive disability. You can analyze them if you’d like. I don’t recommend trying them.”
Mops looked at her companions, trying to gauge their thinking. Rubin’s face was unreadable. Monroe’s expression wouldn’t give anything away to a nonhuman, but Mops had worked with him long enough to recognize the faint crease across the brow, the tightness of his jaw . . . the stillness that meant he’d swallowed his gum. It was the face of a man who’d mulled over the evidence and come to a conclusion he didn’t like.
“All right,” Mops whispered. “I’ll bring you to my shuttle. There, you’ll share this theory of yours, along with any additional evidence and information you have on Sage’s activities.”
“Excellent.” Advocate of Violence retrieved the privacy device, deactivated it, and set it atop the pile of his belongings. He then raised a limb and clicked the curved claws that served as fingers.
Rubin had her combat baton out by the second click. “What are you doing?”
“Signaling for my bill.” He gestured to the half-eaten nutritional supplement.
At Mops’ nod, Rubin lowered the weapon. She kept it ready at her side, though.
A quiet beak-clap marked the arrival of a Quetzalus wearing a poorly-fitted apron. He used his tongue to retrieve a small tablet from the apron pocket.
Advocate of Violence gulped down another chunk of his meal, then reached for his pill case. “I was told the captain would cover my expenses.”
Mops’ eyes narrowed. Scowling, she snatched the tablet from the Quetzalus.
“Mops, that thing is scanning you. Whatever it is, it’s not a bill.”
She hurled it away and grabbed the Quetzalus by the skin flap between his chest and foreleg. A sharp twist turned his hair blue with pain. “What the depths is this?”
Rubin climbed onto the table, baton ready to strike the Quetzalus in the face. Monroe moved closer to Advocate of Violence, keeping him covered.
The Quetzalus’ words were tight and clipped, either from fear or from pain. Probably both. “Marion S. Adamopoulos, you are hereby served notice of civil charges filed by Kona-molloko-hi. She accuses you of destroying a short-range vessel belonging to one of her offspring. She also accuses you of destroying said offspring.”
“Probably one of the Nusurans who tried to abduct us back on Coacalos Station,” said Monroe.
Mops tightened her grip. “Who are you?”
“Ix Suazalaxe, freelance legal agent for the Alliance Judiciary branch.” The Quetzalus’ head bobbed. “Your receipt of this notice has been recorded. You have thirty days to submit your response.”
“I can help you with that,” Advocate of Violence offered. “For a reasonable retainer and daily rate.”
Mops turned. “Did you tell him we were coming?”
“I met Ix three years ago during a civil dispute over injuries suffered at a Nusuran sex party,” said the Prodryan. “The centrifuge was improperly calibrated for the Glacidae guest, resulting in multiple exoskeletal cracks. Per the waiver signed by all participants, equipment neglect was not covered—”
“Did you tell him?” she repeated, her voice quiet.
“My business transactions are confidential. To answer that question would be unethical.”
She released her grip on Ix, who jumped backward. Quetzalus could move quickly when they needed to. “Have you told anyone else, Ix?”
“Only my client and my firm.”
If any of those communications had been overheard or intercepted, or if the recipients had talked to anyone connected to the Alliance . . . “Wolf, we’re on our way. Prep the shuttle, and take a closer look at every docked or incoming ship. We could be getting company.”
“On it, sir!”
Even over the comm, Mops could hear the relief in Wolf’s response. Probably excited about the potential for a fight.
Advocate of Violence rose. “I’ll need to gather my things.”
Mops shoulders tightened. “What things?”
“Just my reference library. A few pieces of furniture. Various mementos and souvenirs.” He paused. “How large is your transport, exactly? This may require more than one trip.”
* * *
Wolf closed the connection with Mops and—reluctantly—reopened the channel to Cuaxil Nukuklu, the refinery landing controller who’d been babbling for so long Wolf was ready to put an A-gun slug through her own skull. Or through Cuaxil’s skull.
“That was my captain,” said Wolf. “I’ve got to run through the prelaunch checklist.”
Cuaxil’s voice over the comm was as chipper as ever. “What a shame. I wish you could have come on board with your crew. I’m just so grateful to you Earth Mercenary Corpsmen for your service and sacrifices.”
Wolf glanced at Monroe’s notes, all neat and precise and thorough. Too thorough. Where the hell had he jotted down the scanner control tips?
“How many battles have you been in?”
“I was in SHS, not infantry,” Wolf said sourly. “I spent my days toting a mop, not a rifle.”
She tapped the icon for the long-range scanning logs. Anyone decelerating from faster-than-light travel would send out a deceleration signature, a signal flare everyone could see. According to this, there had been no new arrivals in-system. That meant she just had to take a closer look at all of the ships and shuttles that were already here.
She glared at the console’s unfamiliar array of gauges, lights, and controls. A yellow icon shaped like a curled tentacle blinked at her. What the depths was that supposed to mean?
“I thought all humans were soldiers,” said Cuaxil.
“Most cured humans, yes.” Wolf debated again simply killing the connection, but she couldn’t afford to piss off someone who could complicate their departure. Especially if they were expecting trouble. “We’re all part of the fight, one way or another.”
Wolf gave up and opened another line. “Monroe, how the hell do I scan the other shuttles?”
“Left side of the console,” said Monroe. “You should see two blue shapes that look like Krakau eye slits. Switch to the larger eye.”
Wolf found and flipped the switch, and the console controls reconfigured. A new set of notes and annotations appeared at the top, including Monroe’s preliminary scan of the other shuttles on Biorefinery Eighteen. He’d compiled a list of their identification beacons, but those were simple to fake.
Wolf double-checked Monroe’s notes, then magnified the silhouette of the closest shuttle, matching it against known ship types. Shape, construction, and power emissions all appeared consistent with the beacon information.
A comm light flashed. Reluctantly, Wolf reached over to unmute Cuaxil.
“—since I heard what your people did during the Battle of Avloka, I’ve contributed one percent of my salary to a Krakau charity dedicated to finding a cure for humans. It’s so tragic what happened to you and your world.”
“Yeah, it sucks.”
“Sucks?” Cuaxil paused. “Oh, a human idiom. How delightful. Have you killed many Prodryans?”
“That’s classified,” Wolf lied.
“Oh, of course. I’m sorry, dear.” Cuaxil breathed a long, rattling sigh. “It must be so hard controlling your savagery, channeling it into protecting the rest of us. I know a lot of people think humans are no better than animals, and the galaxy would be better off without you, but some of us appreciate the part you play in keeping those awful Prodryans at bay.”
“Thanks.” The second shuttle checked out.
Wolf banged the back of her head against her chair. This would take forever, and all it would prove was that the IDs matched their ships. She couldn’t see inside them to know who might be waiting to pounce.
“Is it true humans don’t feel pain?”
“Not physical pain, no. One of the side effects of the plague. Makes us better fighters.” From a thigh pocket, Wolf grabbed a packet of riverwood seed pods from Nurgistarnoq, tore off the top, and poured a stream of the spicy black pellets directly into her mouth. “Cuaxil, could I ask a small favor?”
“Anything you need.”
Wolf crunched and swallowed. “This is classified stuff, so I need to know you can keep a secret.”
“For you, my beak is sealed.”
If only. “We’re tracking . . .” She paused, trying to imagine what would be most alluring to someone like Cuaxil. “Space pirates.”
“Ooh.”
Wolf could practically hear her lighting up. “My CO has me checking out the other docked ships, but my shuttle’s equipment is pretty weak, and I’m limited to passive scans.”
“You don’t want to spook your prey.”
“Exactly,” said Wolf. “You’ve got good instincts for this.”
“I read a lot,” she preened. “Nusuran war romances, mostly.”
Wolf cringed. It was a popular genre, but they all ended with overwritten cross-species sex scenes. Her mouth went dry as she realized Cuaxil might have another motive for chatting up a bored human. She swallowed. “I know this is probably bending the rules, but is there any way you could send me registry and scanning info on everyone else docked on B-18?”
“You think someone might be using a forged ID beacon?”
“I guarantee it. Oh, and just to be thorough, do you have records of deceleration signatures from the past week? I can compare those against the data we have on those space pirates.”
“Let me check the logs, dear.”
“Thanks. May your beak be bright and your nest strong.”
It wasn’t long before data began scrolling down her console. Mostly Quetzalus ships and shuttles, just as she’d expected. She flagged several for closer review, then turned to the decel signatures. “Well, shit.”
“I don’t understand,” said Cuaxil. “Do you need a moment to relieve yourself?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Well, I hope you get a chance to visit after your mission is—”
Wolf killed the connection, her attention on a particular deceleration flare. A moment later, she was opening a secure line to Mops.
* * *
“You’re sure?” asked Mops.
“I was trained to clean toilets, not
identify energy signatures, but it’s hard to disguise a cruiser-class deceleration flare. And the Quetzalus’ satellites tagged it as an EMC ship, just like they did the Pufferfish.”
Mops dropped the abalone-plated shelves she’d been carrying and gestured for the others to stop. “I ordered Grom and Azure to keep an eye out for new arrivals. If they got distracted playing Black Hole Run on the bridge viewscreen again—”
“The decel signature is from four days ago,” Wolf interrupted. “They got here before us.”
“They knew we were coming.” Mops glared at their Prodryan contact. The other cruiser must have been lurking in the blackness on minimal power, just like the Pufferfish. They would have seen the Pufferfish’s arrival, but hadn’t been close enough to pounce. Better to slowly move smaller fighters into position while waiting until Mops and her team were most vulnerable. Like when her crew was split between the Pufferfish, the shuttle, and the Comacean. “Monroe, Rubin, forget Advocate’s belongings. We’re leaving now.”
“I trust I’ll be reimbursed,” the Prodryan complained.
Mops ignored him, hurrying down the bronchial tunnel that led from the residential pods back toward the main junction area.
“This might not be the best strategy,” said Monroe.
She paused at a doorway. “Explain.”
Monroe cocked an artificial thumb at Advocate of Violence. “If I was running a mission to take the Pufferfish crew, I’d tap into the internal Comacean security feeds. Ideally, you wait until your people are in the best positions and your prey is most vulnerable, but if the prey gets spooked—”
“You move now. Dammit.” Anyone watching would have seen Mops dumping Advocate of Violence’s things. She turned in a circle, wondering where the security scanners might be hidden. “Keep moving, but stay calm. Wolf, is anything happening out there?”
