by Daniel Gibbs
She chuckled. “Hardly. Ava Vardanyan. Shockwave Shuttles Ltd.”
“I’m Eddie Wyatt. Shuttles plural?”
“Two, as of this trip back.” Ava gestured down the berths at two craft side by side, one a sleek eight-passenger courier with variable geometry wings for easy atmospheric flight, the other a broad, wedge-shaped barge Dwyer guessed could carry forty. But more importantly, the courier was Florio brand. “Bought the Florio Ionworks Mark Six on our way back, me and my partners. I didn’t know anyone else operating here had a Thirteen stashed in their back pocket.”
“I’m not local. Sorry to disappoint.” Dwyer leaned against the landing strut, arms crossed, giving the impression he was interested in everything Ava had to say—which he was, sure, but he was also trying to give LT maximum mic pickup. “Passin’ through. I dropped some folks here a few days back but wanted to see if I could snag new passengers before I’m due for my next contract in a week.”
“Good luck with that. This place is so full up with pilots that sometimes I think we’d be better off paying each other for rides to the system’s edge and back so we can feel useful.” Ava pointed at Novabird. “Would you mind giving me the half-credit tour?”
“You bet.” Dwyer offered his arm.
Ava smirked but took it, putting her gloves into Dwyer’s chest pocket. Dwyer glanced back at Sev and winked. Sev muttered words Dwyer guessed were meant as insulting, but he went back to his tablet reading and let the tour proceed in peace.
Ava leaned nearer as Dwyer showed off the racer’s gleaming engine cowlings. “What’s with your loader bot of a man there? Don’t tell me he handles PR for your transport company, because I’d recommend he get a career change.”
“Nah. Severino? He’s okay. Don’t say hardly a word, that guy, which explains why I’m so keen on companionship by the time I hit port. I didn’t hire him for his people skills, not at all. He’s the one who makes certain I don’t put down in a place like this and wind up floating without a helmet outside an airlock, knife neatly inserted between my ribs, you follow?”
Ava nodded, still all smiles. “He keeps your ship for you.”
“For us. Partners, seventy-thirty split.” Dwyer grinned. “And if I ever get annoying passengers, well, I have them ask Severino any questions they may have. Funny how little I get bothered after that.”
Ava chuckled.
“Check this out.” They came around the backside of the shuttle. “See in there? I added a new set of boosters to the shield array. Ain’t going to get sneak attacked by missiles anytime soon.”
“Are those XDA Seven-Fives? You’ve either got a hell of a budget or a knack for finding unlicensed gear.”
Dwyer held his finger to his lips. “State secret, milady. It’d work out better if my drones hadn’t all gone on the fritz right after we set down. That’s part of why I’m still here—I need a top-notch repair tech to get ’em floating again so we can finish recalibration.”
“Good luck finding one who isn’t busy.”
“Yeah, they all seem busy. Word in the Loose Aileron is there’s a shortage. As in, some guys quit showing up to work when they shouldn’t have.”
Ava sighed. “Don’t I know it. Liz Wu was mine. You’ll never find a better drone whisperer. Girl could make them dance. I tried the other guy once, and he was good, but then he went—to a new job, I guess. Here one day, gone the next. Not uncommon for Bellwether, with new opportunities jumping in and out of the system.”
“You ever try Dunn? I forgot his last name…”
“Dunn. Garcia, maybe?”
Dwyer snapped his fingers. “Gonzales.”
“Right. I met him once. He was giving Liz a hand that day. Seemed to know his stuff. Not super friendly—” Ava took her gloves back. “Not like you. But a fine tech.”
“Is he around? I’ve heard good things, besides your stamp of approval, of course.”
“You know, he was still here before I left, and he was listed on the roster when I got back in. But his availability came up as ‘None,’ so I guess he’s down sick.”
“Huh. Guess so. Welp, do me a favor—you hear from him, have the guy drop me a signal, okay? Or at least put me in touch with him. I don’t want a half-assed job done on my racer.”
“I’m impressed you’d trust anyone here to put hands on her.”
“Needs must, Ava.” Dwyer gave a slight bow. “Shall we continue, milady?”
“Lead on, good sir.”
The privateer destroyed itself, as it was supposed to. Doing so limited exposure, which meant those in charge were shielded from scrutiny. If only there’d been another way.
Captain Zhou Yongrui leaned against his command console aboard the modified freighter Meng Po, wishing he could be anywhere else in the galaxy. He knew the privateer captain and crew were the foulest of reprobates, scum the League’s External Security Services dredged up to do their dirty work. He shouldn’t pity them. But after his near death and his ship’s equally near destruction at Terran hands, he found he had greater sympathy for anyone who made their living in the deep, cold black of the void.
Seventy-seven days, that was how long it had taken for him and the few people remaining as his crew to limp back to the nearest League forward operating base—plus another three weeks of skulking about until ESS had come for him. Zhou hadn’t been sure they would. He would have been disavowed had he or anyone in his service been captured. But ESS had been pleased with the way the stealth-enhanced freighter had performed. She’d undergone a week’s worth of refit and alteration, so from the outside, she didn’t resemble the vessel she’d been.
Still she was his ship, and he’d kept his vow to christen her. He smiled, recalling the commissar’s puzzlement when Zhou insisted on Meng Po. Old Lady Meng, as she was also called, made sure those who were to be reincarnated from Diyu didn’t remember their past lives in hell. They had to drink of the soup of forgetfulness, on Nai He Bridge.
Zhou wasn’t about to forget how he’d almost died. And in a strange way, he didn’t want the Terrans to forget either. Surely, they’d kept scans of the freighter on record. Hence her refit and new disguise. Still, her bones were the same. ESS intended her to be reborn, reincarnated without those memories that proved troublesome, but Zhou wouldn’t allow it. The crew, those remaining, knew who she was. Zhou knew. She knew too.
After weeks of haunting the system’s fringes, his mission had begun when the privateer had exploded. The rigged munitions had served their purpose. The realization made Zhou’s reconstructed left leg ache. He staggered away from the console to the tactical display. The ship that had destroyed the privateer in those frantic seconds was gone as surely as if it had been a ghost. His hunch had been correct. So had Vasiliy’s.
CDF Intelligence had come and brought their stealth boat into play again.
Zhou smiled. Just as well. I’ve been so looking forward to rejoining the hunt.
8
Bellwether Station
Caeli Star System—the Alvarsson Wedge
20 November 2464
* * *
Jackson walked the avenue between residential blocks, patrolling the lower level. Two more Tactisar officers strolled the upper level, a drone above them—a disc with rounded instead of sharp edges, painted black with blue panels. It bobbed along, taking scans and recording both audio and visual.
None for me yet, though to be fair, I’ve only been on the job a few days. Instead, he was saddled with watching for drug deals and basic-level crimes, B and E, assault. Jackson had brought in a handful of people in that time. Playing the part of a private security officer was different, though, than becoming a cop. Forget about oaths, serving the public. His job was to keep things peaceful for Nosamo and Tactisar. If the public benefitted, well, good for them.
A shout cracked through the rumble of local chatter. Jackson quickly stepped right into an alcove entrance leading through a clothing boutique. Boots slapped along the fake tile avenue.
“
Thief! He’s got my merchandise!” An older woman yelled from so far back she seemed to be miniature. “Stop his ass!”
Neither of the two officers strolling up above made a move to intervene. Their drone didn’t so much as twitch, which meant they were not only watching the crowds but watching Jackson too. Nothing like being evaluated the first week on the job by having them track you in the field.
Jackson waited until the boot treads were a meter or so from the alcove before he stuck out his leg. The young man cried out. He toppled, sliding along the avenue, until his shoulder slammed into a concrete planter.
By then, Jackson was on top of him, plasma pistol shoved against his side. “Hold up here, kid. Hand it over.”
“Get off me, man!” The boy was pale skinned, bald, the top of his head plus his arms and neck covered with glowing green tattoos, which moved when he did. He had implanted technology above his ears—transmitters, maybe, for storing and replaying music. Not legal in the Coalition, but clearly the rules weren’t as big a deal out at Bellwether. “I didn’t take nothing!”
“Except for the Saurian silk stuffed in your pockets.” Jackson ripped the clothing from the kid’s baggy vest. “The shop owner’s going to press charges. But maybe we can come to an agreement instead of locking you up.”
“Screw you! I know what you guys want.”
“Lockup it is.” Jackson slapped restraints on the kid’s wrists. He adjusted the fastenings until the kid shouted. “Too tight? Let me know which pocket.”
“Right bottom vest! Ow, ow!”
Jackson rifled through the indicated pocket. His hand came up clutching assorted pay chits. The gleaming numerals told him he’d bagged at least six hundred credits. “Not bad for starters. Gonna have to be at least twice that before we avoid jail time.”
“I’ll get it. I have it!”
“You’ll find me at Precinct Six on Sector C, Carrington. Officer Arno, code one one two three one one. Eighteen hundred in two days or you’re getting slapped with theft and evading arrest. Good?”
“Yeah, yeah, ow! Whatever you say, man. Let me go!”
Jackson triggered his badge. It picked up a recording of the kid’s face, complete with his tattoos and implants. Within seconds, a database entry appeared on the tablet with the kid’s local ID. “Get out of here.”
He released the binders and hauled the kid upright. Blood dripped from a cut on the boy’s forehead. Jackson tugged on the kid’s vest and mopped up the wound. Then he shoved the kid along.
The shop owner appeared at his elbow. “Good on you! You showed his sorry self.” She reached for the silken garment.
Jackson held it out of her grasp. “Not how it works, lady. I’m new here, but you aren’t.”
The owner scowled at him, but then she looked up at the next level. Jackson did too. The pair of patrolling officers had stopped, their drone descending from on high.
“Come on. Just a token will do,” Jackson said.
“Fine.” She tapped commands into the small device attached to her belt.
Jackson’s tablet chimed in response. Precinct Six’s message board flagged him with an incoming note—and a transfer to be approved from her finances to his. Forty credits.
“Happy to serve, ma’am.” Jackson dropped the silk and walked off.
He ignored the profanities she muttered in his wake. The realization that he’d extorted both victim and perpetrator of the crime roiled his stomach, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Even if he returned the money when he was off duty, word would leak out that the brand-new Tactisar guy patrolling this sector had a soft heart when his buddies weren’t looking. It would blow his cover and ruin his opportunity. To fit in, and to succeed in his mission, he had to be the kind of Tactisar officer Ramsey wanted for his heist plans. Jackson had to be despised. So far, so good.
The drone hovered a half meter from his face. Jackson winked into the bulbous, domed visual sensor. He fanned the credit chits. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure the boss gets his cut.”
“Damned right you will.”
Jackson detected movement beyond his peripheral vision, but given the crowds still flowing past the scene of the crime like nothing had happened, he wasn’t all that surprised Detective Ramsey stepped out of the line of travel like he’d gotten off a tram at the correct stop.
“Look, I know you like to evaluate the new guy up close, but isn’t this overkill?” Jackson asked. “People watching me when I go out to eat, tailing me when I do patrols. What’s this now, a supervisory checkup?”
Ramsey chuckled. He flexed his fingers.
Jackson dropped one of the pay chits into his palm.
“Slim pickings?” Ramsey asked.
“Will be soon, at this rate,” Jackson muttered, but he added a second chit.
“Much better.” Ramsey pocketed the chits. “Yeah, part of it’s an evaluation, but not just of whether you can do the job. I got to know whether you’re as good as you claim on your application, Jack. Whether you can keep track of multiple targets in a crowd or whether you can spot people who are out of the ordinary. You’ve got to notice things in this line of work, because it could be your next mark or the guy coming to kill you. We’ve had enough vacancies created by people I thought were good enough to know the difference but got sloppy.”
“You don’t have to worry about that from me. Last time I got sloppy, the Rangers did a class-A witch hunt. I know who I can trust—it’s me.”
“Good deal. Come on. We’ve got introductions to make.”
“Oh yeah?” Jackson snorted. “You got another crime I can foil to make up for what you took out of my hand?”
Ramsey slapped his shoulder. “Even better. You’re getting reassigned to upstairs. The richest mark aboard station.”
Upstairs. Nosamo labs and HQ, hopefully. “Can’t wait. Am I finally getting a new partner, then?”
“Partner isn’t the right term. Believe me when I say, though—you’ll like Boyd.”
They rode the high-speed mag-tram straight up the two klicks’ distance from Jackson’s patrol route into Sector A, the upper level of Bellwether’s dome. Jackson feigned boredom but kept a watch on the tram map’s indicator—and made sure Ramsey saw him stealing surreptitious looks.
“Echo One, this is Echo Home. Good news on the drone front. I know you’re busy, but give me the high sign if you’re ready for the information.”
Jackson blew out a frustrated breath, the outward sign of his supposed frustration, and straightened his shirt sleeves—one of which sported his hidden transmitter. A double squeeze, combined with the exhalation, was the coded signal for Brant to proceed.
“Roger, One. Word from Base—our pals have completed their analysis of the drone communications. The embedded signal underneath would be difficult for the average tech to install but not a tech trained by our employer. I’m working the decryption now with our pals lending their expertise. Between the three of us, we should have it soon. I’m praying we’ll be able locate Vector Two shortly thereafter.”
Translation, their “pals,” Captain Tamir and Warrant Eldred, were working with Brant on cracking the code Lieutenant Garza had hidden inside the upgraded drones’ communications network.
And the sooner they could locate the missing lieutenant, the better. Jackson tried not to think about his body hidden between bulkheads somewhere aboard the colossal station, or drifting, his liquids crystalized, in the depths of space, gravity dragging it toward Caeli’s star. The young man had a family waiting back home.
The thought of delivering the heartbreaking news to Garza’s mother struck Jackson. He didn’t know how other CDF officers managed the duty. But it was easy enough to substitute another man’s grieving parents with his own.
Mom. Dad. He’d heard nothing from Harry since deployment. No messages waiting for him aboard Oxford, relayed from back on Canaan. Would Harry even tell me? For all his talk of wanting reconciliation, the uncomfortable undercurrent remained.
&nb
sp; Then there was Abby Castillo—a familiar face he’d missed for years, and which he had a sudden desire to see again, up close. Whether or not they pursued consolidation of their family properties, Jackson knew it was a reconnection that hadn’t happened by chance. Brant would call it God’s will. Jackson didn’t know if such a thing applied to him.
He drifted out of his reverie as he and Ramsey disembarked at Nosamo, which had its own mag-tram terminal. Tactisar officers stood guard at every exit and corridor, though they lacked the distinctive armored vests. Men and women alike, they wore expensive formal shirts and slacks, shining shoes, lightweight jackets. The only similarities were the octagonal badges and the way in which they carried themselves—focused, trained, but with an edge of hunger to their gazes.
They probably get bored because it’s a bad idea to shake down corporate execs for bribes using threats of violence. Jackson chuckled inwardly.
“Main lobby,” Ramsey said. “We have connections here to all levels of Nosamo. Main offices, labs, engineering hubs, security substation. Backup air and power, separate from the station-wide grid. I’ll get you the specs so you can familiarize yourself.”
“Nice place.” Jackson had his hair trimmed short and neat, with a fledgling beard cut in the same fashion. He examined himself in the polished brass as they headed down the huge main corridor beyond the reception area unhindered by security checks. Doing so allowed him to steal glances at the embedded sensor panels in the ceiling and the security bots hunkered in alcoves like ornamental pieces of art. “Do I want to know how much it cost to build?”
“Nosamo’s HQ?” Ramsey snorted. “Take the Rangers’ annual budget and triple it. You might come close. The higher-ups are the kind of people who display their wealth to remind people who has it. There’s no questioning who runs things aboard Bellwether.”
Jackson nodded, but as they walked, he leaned a bit closer and muttered, “Thought it was us.”
