by Daniel Gibbs
Gina raised her glass, signaling her servo bot for a refill. She turned and gazed out the window, giving her the chance to murmur, “Wow, they’re subtle, aren’t they? I’m pretty sure they’re staring right at you.”
“Mm-hmm. Let’s hold off on the rest of our debrief until later.” Jackson gave his order to the bot—a seafood and pasta dish accompanied by a vegetable, all of which were sourced from the Eden Core. He switched to his tablet, which had a local news network pulled up. But it also had his messaging board active. Coordinate with Echo Home on potential avenues of access.
The message blinked back from Gina twenty seconds later. Delighted to do so. Can’t wait to go shopping for the finest money can buy.
Jackson shook his head, bemused. If it were up to Gina, they would slip into Nosamo tonight and wing it, scouring the secure servers, and if they were discovered, all the better. Adrenaline was her weakness. As soon as I know who the salesman is, I’ll get you his contact info.
Here’s hoping he’s more charming than you.
They passed the rest of their evening in silence, ignoring each other until Gina left the restaurant after her third glass of wine, when Jackson was halfway through his entrée. Even the Tactisar people watching Jackson were distracted by her exit—and half the restaurant along with them. That allowed Jackson to get imagery with his wrist unit of his two followers as he waved to the servo bot again.
“I’ll run them through the Tactisar servers,” Brant said in his earpiece. “And yes, I’ve gotten access. You’d think for a security provider they’d be locked down tighter. It’s pretty embarrassing. But I’ll avoid leaving a review on their company profile. Stop by after dinner, preferably with leftovers.”
An hour later, Jackson crossed to the exit, a still-warm container in hand. His Tactisar tail had left.
Brant took a forkful of pasta and inhaled. “God bless you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Brant’s apartment was halfway across Sector E and equidistant between the Core and the station’s outer hull. Cramped, it reminded Jackson of the dive he’d been assigned back on Aphendrika, only with better lighting. A transparent door—now opaque by the controls—looked out onto a broad balcony. They were six stories up, in a twelve-story section lined with residences above an endless thoroughfare of shops and entertainment.
“So. The microbots.” Brant wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He pulled a crowd of data onto one of the four portable screens he’d set up in the far corner. “They pulled together a complete layout of the Nosamo complex, which wasn’t on station records, by the way. The heads there clearly don’t want people knowing what’s where.”
“Shocker. They have any luck with the labs?”
“Only that there’s thirty. But four have security so strong they’re essentially blacked out. Still, it narrows things down. We also have Noor’s office pinpointed, as well as the security rooms.”
“Which is where I should be posted soon.”
Brant looked at him. “Did you get the intel from Oxford I forwarded?”
Jackson nodded. “Warrant Sakuri’s been through a lot. I’m grateful for the information she can provide, but those drones—”
“I can trace them, what with the signal data she got from Lieutenant Garza’s scans. Reprogramming one? That’ll take some more doing.”
“Sparks and Sev have orders to capture one down on the docks while they conduct their reconnaissance for Garza. Which, by the way, any news on that front?”
“We’ve been here less than two days, Captain.”
Jackson grinned. “I have high expectations, LT.”
Brant took another forkful of pasta. “Don’t I know it. God the Father, grant me patience with you. Anyway, I’ll get to work on the drone project. Meantime, you should know the two Tactisar goons from the restaurant are looking for you again. I’m monitoring their own security scans, and they’re coming down the corridor, so you’d better hang here for a while.”
He changed screens. Yes, the man and woman were on patrol, looking like they were doing their usual thing of breaking up fights. They were definitely moving with haste, though, not normal patrol speed. “Good plan. Speaking of monitoring, have their scanners picked up anything on Lieutenant Garza?”
“Not yet, and let me tell you, they’ve been scouring every corner.” Brant tapped a third screen. “Which is how I plan to access the drones. One of these feeds is coming from those guys—I just have to narrow down which. Warrant Eldred’s scheme to backtrace the signals the drones use for summoning maintenance bots is a sound one, though. If Garza’s piggybacking in an attempt to call for help, we’ll find him.”
“All right. Keep it up.”
“This infiltration—you’re still waiting on the introduction, right?”
“That I am. No hints yet to who the rival company has inside. Ramsey must be keeping it all in his head or at least off network, I assume, since neither of us heard even a whisper.”
“I hate it when they’re smart like that,” Brant grumbled. “The man probably has a note scratched on plastic, or even paper, in his pocket.”
“Well, my pickpocket skills are rusty, and besides, I don’t want to throw that kind of suspicion on myself this early on.” Jackson clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure out a way to get it unless Ramsey jumps ahead and the rival infiltrator makes contact. Stay focused on your end of the plan.”
“Right. Finding Nosamo’s brand new, top-secret tech and locating our missing CDF Intelligence officer. Should be as easy as anything.” Brant rolled his eyes.
His negative attitude didn’t worry Jackson in the slightest. If anyone could dig through restricted networks and systems, it was Lieutenant Brant Guinto. “That, my friend, is exactly what I wanted to hear.”
7
CSV Tuscon
Six AU from Bellwether Station
Caeli Star System—the Alvarsson Wedge
19 November 2464
* * *
Major Nathan Mancini was ready for a second cup of coffee, but he didn’t dare break the spell his bridge crew was under. They’d been rigged for ultraquiet for the last six hours.
Lieutenant Olesen, the boat’s tactical officer, spoke softly from TAO as he highlighted a new indicator on the display. “Conn, TAO. Contact Sierra Four is continuing on course.”
“Pilot, match speed and heading,” Mancini ordered.
“Aye, Skipper, matching speed and heading.”
The vibration in the deck shifted subtly. Sierra Four was the brightest mark on the tactical display. It was the nearest of thirteen vessels Tuscon was tracking, and the only one acting suspiciously—because while it was being tracked, the unidentified ship was following a lumbering freighter flagged to a Saurian trade conglomerate.
“Sierra Four is not running with an active transponder.” Captain Patrick Godat, Mancini’s XO, squeezed in beside him.
“Color me unsurprised.” Mancini reached for the intercom mic. “Sensor Room, what’s the verdict?”
“Passive scans indicate a two-hundred-meter Tradesman-class merchant vessel, Major,” the sensor room’s senior chief responded. “Can’t give you more detail without going active, other than she’s been modified with upgrade armor and is putting out enough power I’d be willing to bet her shield strength is thirty percent above baseline for her type.”
“Manageable,” Godat murmured.
Mancini nodded. Even at a third stronger, the shields of a merchant ship of that class were no match for a stealth raider’s arsenal—not that Mancini expected to blow it out of space. He was stalking it, quietly, until it proved whether or not it was a threat. “Pilot, close the distance slowly.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
Standard rules of engagement were clear. If the Tradesman freighter proved itself to be a privateer, Tuscon would announce her presence as a CDF vessel and demand it heave to for boarding. But this space was unaffiliated. As such, CDF technically had no
jurisdiction. Plus, hailing them would broadcast to the entire system the presence of a stealth boat when maintaining a low profile was the whole point of her existence.
“If we engage, everyone’s going to know we’re out here.” Godat, of course, had practically read his mind, like a good XO should.
“I know it, but they won’t realize who we are. Let them think the privateers or raiders or whoever’s preying on ships in the region has competition. Better yet, let the raiders suspect someone’s trying to take them out.” Mancini smiled grimly. “It’s not like the crew will be around to confirm suspicions, not while they’re locked up in Oxford’s brig.”
An alert sounded from the tactical display. “Conn, TAO. Aspect change on Sierra Four. Accelerating toward Sierra Seven.”
Sierra Seven, the Saurian freighter. “Our time to intercept?”
“Fifty seconds, Major.”
“Conn, TAO. Reclassify Sierra Four as Master One.” The blue dot representing Sierra Four turned red on the display. Mancini set his jaw. “Pilot, stand by full thrusters on my mark. TAO, firing point procedures, Master One, tubes one and two. Program the Hunter warheads to detonate one hundred meters behind their engines.”
“Aye sir, firing solutions set.”
“Make tubes one and two ready in all aspects. Open outer doors.”
“Tubes one and two ready in all respects. Outer doors are open,” Olesen confirmed.
Mancini stared at the display. The pilot kept the Tuscon acceleration steady, so they didn’t fall too far behind the target, but he held off ordering full speed until they had proof Master One was a threat. Then it would be Olesen’s job to cripple but not destroy the ship. A couple of well-timed missile explosions just shy of their engines should do the trick. Close-up weaponry would finish the job.
“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, missile launch detected,” Olesen reported. “Missile launched from Master One. Sierra Seven is engaging countermeasures and point defense.”
“Pilot, accelerate to full. Conn, TAO. Match bearings, shoot, tubes one and two,” Mancini commanded.
He held onto his seat as Tuscon surged ahead, chasing Master One as its opponent fired on the Saurian freighter. It didn’t take the attackers long to realize they had gone from being hunter to hunted. It pivoted on its axis and took off at a sixty-degree angle to its original course at a punishing speed that must have played havoc with the crew as the ship’s gravity tried to keep up with the abrupt change.
But Olesen’s targeting skills were up to the challenge. Both missiles exploded in Master One’s wake, above and below the engine quarter of the modified cargo vessel. The blasts were near enough they threw the freighter into a spin, trailing radiation and fuel as the engines sputtered.
Mancini grinned. The intercept numbers plummeted from the original fifty-second estimate as Tuscon raced toward the ship. “Get Master Chief MacDonald on the mic, XO. Tell him we’ll be good to board any moment.”
“Roger that, Skipper.” Godat relayed the information to Tuscon’s cramped hangar bay, where an assault shuttle was waiting with the Space Special Warfare team ready for launch.
“TAO, Conn. Master One has disengaged from Sierra Seven. They’re coming about.”
“Confirm, TAO. They’re moving to intercept us?”
“Confirmed, Skipper.”
“Sensor, Conn.” The sensor technician sounded puzzled. “Getting an energy spike off their core, sir. Its weapons are charging.”
Olesen made a face at his console. “Reading four plasma cannons deployed, Skipper.”
“No communications?” Mancini asked.
“None, sir.”
Mancini shook his head. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master One. Make tubes three through six ready in all respects. Open outer doors. Target their structural braces and engineering spaces.”
“Aye aye, sir. Firing solutions set. Tubes three through six, ready in all respects. Outer doors are open. Aspect change, sir—missile launch detected. Four headed our way.”
“Pilot, evasive action,” Mancini ordered. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, tubes three through six. Active point defense in automatic mode.”
Tuscon shuddered as four more missiles raced out of its bow. The rumbling took on a different pitch as CIWS emplacements engaged and batted down the enemy missiles, ripping them apart one by one until the stealth boat blasted through a cloud of fine debris.
Master One swatted at Tuscon’s missiles with her own PD turrets, but the superior technology of the Hunter warheads was on the CDF’s side. The shackled AIs performed tight maneuvers, evading most everything the enemy threw at them. While one missile exploded far from the target, the other three avoided the counterfire with a skill Mancini found a bit unsettling.
The blasts from all three ripped plasma cannons free of Master One’s hull, opening long gashes from bow to stern. The sensor readouts routed through Mancini’s console showed power levels falling off until the sensor tech confirmed the outcome.
“Reactor is offline, Skipper. They’re dead in space.”
“Good work. Bring us in to board. XO, give MacDonald the green—”
The explosion washed brilliant light across the displays around Tuscon’s bridge. Mancini gaped. Olesen swore.
“My God,” Godat muttered. “What happened?”
“Sensor Room, was that a reactor breach?” Mancini demanded.
“Negative, negative. I’m reading a massive weapons detonation.”
“Missile overload?” Olesen asked. “I’ve seen reports of it being done before—but I thought it was all RUMINT, sir.”
“Apparently not.” Mancini magnified the image of the charred hull, cognizant of the increased hushed conversation around the bridge. “Belay that chatter. Sensor, TAO. Coordinate to confirm there’s nothing alive aboard ship. Master Chief won’t appreciate booby traps.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Still sending them over?” Godat asked.
Mancini nodded. “We’ve still got to see what this was all about, maybe now more than ever. I don’t get it. Privateers are in this game for the money. And it’s not like capture equals death. CDF law offers amnesty, provided lives aren’t taken and civilians don’t experience direct bodily harm or terror.”
“They were afraid of being caught.”
“Exactly.” Mancini made a face. “So, who are they scared of?”
Warrant Ehud Dwyer took his attention off the fastener for a moment so he could read the tablet Sev silently held before him. “Pirates, huh? I don’t think we’re too surprised, do you? Half the reason we came out here was so our big brothers could rattle their hulls. Sounds like they rattled them plenty.”
Sev lowered his head, perusing the story flashing in from the local news networks. “Sloppy.”
“Only on their part, not ours. Can’t believe they went and blew themselves up. It’s not like we’ve never seen raiders pull a reactor breach, but to set off their weapon hold? Yep, I suppose ‘sloppy’ is the best word.”
Dwyer gave the fastener a last crank and tested the access panel. He was running routine maintenance on Novabird’s auxiliary comms, the last of such checkups he’d run over the past few days. It gave him an excuse to stick around Shuttle Bay Golf Sixteen West Eight. Dwyer chuckled. It sure was a good thing traffic control gave all incoming craft locator beacons or he would never find his way around the maze of a station on foot.
Cap’n’s plan was solid. It involved Dwyer making acquaintances with the other shuttle pilots, many of whom were sticking around after their initial passenger drop-off to see if they could wrangle new fares to the bigger bulk transports coming through the Caeli system. A sprawling, dimly lit lounge a half klick from Novabird’s berth, the Loose Aileron, was always full. Dwyer considered it a second home.
Pilots loved to talk, which made sense. After days or weeks on their own—or worse, with just one other person to talk to—they were dying for conversation, which Dwyer obliged. He hadn’t heard anything yet about
the missing Lieutenant Garza—or Dunn Gonzales, his legend provided by CDF Intelligence—but he’d heard the murmured talk about a few techs who’d disappeared in previous weeks.
Being undercover was fine by Dwyer. He’d started out as a battlefield retrieval pilot, plucking downed men and women from the void while plasma blasts and shrapnel were flashing all around. He’d had three craft shot out from under himself. It’d been an exciting way to serve the Coalition—until Intelligence found out about his other skill set.
He had a knack for explosives and liked to tinker, which no one had noticed until he’d breached the fuselage of a League shuttle come to pick up prisoners on the same space battlefield where he’d been stranded after they’d shot his craft down. Dwyer smirked. Brass must have been mighty impressed when he’d called in for retrieval himself with a wounded pilot strapped beside him in the vented cockpit of the same League shuttle.
Sev grunted. He lifted his chin.
A woman in a hot-red flight jumpsuit headed their way. She pulled her gloves off, her grin broadening as she swept her blond hair into a ponytail.
Dwyer returned the grin. Only flaw in the cap’n’s plan? He made me dye my hair and shave the sides. Now how in blazes am I supposed to be charming when I look like a street punk? Good thing his zadye was gone—the old man would have reverted to good old sackcloth and ashes if he’d seen. Probably he’s lookin’ down on me now, wagging his finger at his poor, wayward grandson. “Mornin’.”
“Hey.” It wasn’t until the woman was right in front of him that Dwyer realized she was appreciating Novabird, not him. “Hell of a bird. I like the name.”
“Thanks. I etched it on myself.” Dwyer patted the fuselage right under the streaming wings of a stylized phoenix. “Ain’t seen you around since I put in. New?”
