by Daniel Gibbs
In all six cases, the numbers followed a pattern.
She isolated the numbers and compared them separately from the rest. Yes, four digits, used in the six freight manifests. Someone had gotten sloppy. Either that or Tactisar’s inside person—this Boyd, whom Jackson had mentioned—was sending a message. Or both. It had been proven, after all, that when people tried to create false sequences like Gina had just examined, they used too many of the same numbers
Gina didn’t care which. She marked the similarities, jotted a note to Brant, and sent the localized tight-beam transmission. Her device obliterated the message as soon as it confirmed Brant’s receipt. Curious. The next step, of course, is to confirm the freighter was offloaded or loaded. All I’ve got so far is falsified digits in a file. Her job didn’t extend to snooping around the docks, not unless a customer was coming or going, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t direct someone else to do her dirty work.
Jackson. His disguise was perfect. And who better than the nameless Tactisar officers stationed at Nosamo HQ to peruse the local docks for security’s sake?
“Echo Two, this is Echo Home.”
Ah, there he was. Brant’s periodic talks through the implanted transceiver soothed Gina, like having a friendly conscience always looking out for her.
“Forwarding communications from Echo One. He’s been tasked to watch you, by the redhead in command. His words.”
“Roger that.” Gina kept her voice low, lips barely moving. The office was devoid of monitoring devices. Noor struck her as paranoid but apparently not overtly so. “I wouldn’t dream of disappointing Ciara. I’ll keep her in mind.”
“Confirmed. Thanks for the data, by the way. I’ll see what we can find. Godspeed, Two.”
Godspeed, indeed.
A message from Ciara—speak of the devil, as Brant would say—flashed across her device. Welton-Shinobi rep planning gathering tonight. 1730 at Rihon Flare. Dress appropriately.
Gina groaned. “If I don’t get the chance to break into this place and stun a few guards,” she muttered, “Jack will owe me two dinners.”
Brant held his breath and tossed off a prayer to Saint Joshua as he linked Jackson’s datachip to the bevy of intelligence hardware crammed into his office. The datachip had arrived via human courier, who’d practically hugged Brant when he’d paid triple the customary fee. The hand-scrawled note with it—crumpled on Brant’s console—read, Best I could do. Meeting in person an operational hazard. Plan for a group meet soon.
It made sense. Being a security officer meant Jackson was under tighter constraints than during their last op, when he’d posed as a skimmer maintenance tech. Besides, the less all five of them met up in one location, the less chance of raising suspicion. Still, Brant would have felt better to have Jackson by his side as the algorithm broke into the datachip, just in case it was a trap.
All his systems stayed green, no cascading viruses or breakware hiding behind root menus. Brant sighed. “Thanks for the grace, once again.”
He opened the files stored on the device. Boy, were they worth the initial anxiety. They contained complete floorplans of Nosamo’s HQ, including the Tactisar branch and, most importantly, the heretofore unavailable lab sectors—entry points, emergency exits, even life support and power grids.
Brant’s comm went off, shattering the silence of his apartment base, making him yelp. He should have kept the thing on silent pulse. “Echo Home, go ahead, One.”
“Tell me good news, Home.”
“Better than good. Praiseworthy. How about the full tour?”
“That’s what I like to hear. The redhead came through for us. Anything else?”
“Audio recording. Hold on…” Brant played it.
A woman’s voice greeted him. “Ram, hope this is the last piece. All it will take is the drones’ coordination to break through the last vault perimeter. Your security codes will get you in most of the way. Contact me for a meet—sorry we couldn’t make the first. Boyd out.”
Jackson’s grunt cut the silence afterward. Brant knew the sound too well—surprise, but of a pleasant sort.
“You know the lady?” Brant asked.
“It’s Ciara Bui, all right—the one who’s suspicious of Gina and who dropped the datachip in my coat. She’s Boyd, Ramsey’s person inside Nosamo.”
“From a rival company?” Brant frowned. “But isn’t she having you watch Gina because she suspects Gina of being the same thing—a rival plant?”
“That’s what I wondered. Could be she’s only trying to throw the scent off herself. In either case, I’ve got to get this to Ramsey. I’ll have to make like I snooped through it since Ciara didn’t tell me what I was supposed to do with the datachip.”
“Technically you didn’t, One. I did.”
Jackson chuckled. “I appreciate the spycraft tip, Home. Set up a courier to one of the public boxes Sparks is renting. I’ll pick it up there. One out.”
Brant removed the datachip and eyeballed it. One step closer. If he could just get those blasted drones figured out, they would have a real advantage when it came time for the heist—the real heist to prevent the Tactisar theft.
Brant grabbed for a lime-flavored fizzy drink popular in his apartment’s sector and took a swig before the plans gave him a headache again.
Ramsey stroked his mustache as he listened to Ciara’s message and didn’t make any commentary. Jackson waited in the corner of Ramsey’s office, arms folded.
Sergeant Cho was seated across from Ramsey. “She really came through.”
“Sure did.” Ramsey squinted at Jackson. “She made contact with you?”
“Yeah. She’s got me watching a new gal up there—used to work for Nosamo rivals. Ciara—or Boyd—thinks she could be a plant.”
“That’s a nice touch,” Ramsey mused. “Ought to keep the clean shoes on patrol up there occupied and away from her. Gotta hand it to Boyd—she’s got style.”
“I’ll say.” Jackson grinned. “You should have seen the way she put moves on me to hand over the chip.”
Cho coughed into his hand.
Ramsey rose from the desk. “What kind?”
“Hey. Just a flirt, an act.” Jackson held out his hands. “Nothing else.”
“Better not be.”
Interesting reaction to file away for later. “You got it, boss.”
Ramsey frowned. “Cho, I need you to verify what you can from this. Set up a meeting with Fernand. The benefactor needs to know we’re one step closer to pulling this off.”
“On it.” Cho was out the door before Jackson had the chance to follow up with questions.
“What else do we need?” Jackson asked.
“We have to find a guy,” Ramsey grumbled. “And since he shot a couple of mine, he’s not gonna be happy about it when we do.”
10
CSV Oxford
Seven AU from Bellwether Station—Caeli Star System
22 November 2464
* * *
Colonel Sinclair paced a slow circle around the exploded view of the privateer CSV Tuscon intercepted. Exploded was the perfect view. The holographic display was three meters across, the bulk of it filled by the debris from the ship. “Wind it back, Eldred.”
She completed the command. The explosion reversed, at one-tenth speed, until the privateer vessel was whole again.
“Ahead one half speed,” Sinclair ordered.
The recording played, with ignition beginning as a brilliant pinprick amidships.
“Hold.”
Eldred paused the recording.
Captain Tamir, standing a quarter of the way around the display from Sinclair, shook his head. “Four days at this, and I don’t think we’re any closer to determining an external source, sir. All indications say their weapons ignited.”
“I can see that, Butter Bars.” Sinclair had hoped for better news. “Bring up the real-time footage.”
“Aye, sir.” Eldred shrank the hologram to half size and filled the remai
nder of the display space with video imagery of the actual wreckage. Oxford loitered a few klicks away, having rendezvoused with Tuscon thirty-six hours before. Tuscon made sure the area was clear of scavengers before moving on to its next patrol vector.
“I’m not operating under the illusion that this was anything other than deliberate self-destruct to avoid capture,” Sinclair said. “What I’m hoping to find is proof either way. Only then can we reinforce our supposition and make it fact.”
“The probes are nearly complete with their survey of the wreckage,” Eldred pointed out. “So far, scan results match what we’ve expected—molecular debris matching twenty Novaburst missiles, the cheap civilian models. Subtracting the one fired at the Saurian transport and the four let loose during the engagement with Tuscon, fifteen were aboard when they detonated.”
Warrant Sakuri sat beside Eldred. She shuddered. “it’s bad enough getting hit by one. I’m surprised there’s anything left of that bucket, even if it was two hundred meters.”
“No evidence all the warheads went off, though,” Tamir said. “One was more than enough to start a chain reaction. You can see, in the holo, the highlights of where the explosion ripped through the dorsal spine and ventral keel. Bulkheads the entire length of the Tradesman buckled. The onboard emergency systems were disrupted. Whatever wasn’t immediately vented to space was obliterated by the heat and radiation.”
“Blasted shame,” Sinclair mused. “I pity the poor souls aboard. Has everyone been accounted for?”
“Not… wholly, sir.” Eldred looked pale. “We found eighteen distinct DNA fragments but very little that could reconstruct bodies. We’re getting IDs from local law enforcement databases but haven’t seen anyone we recognize—or rather, that Intelligence files have flagged as being faces we should know.”
“No League operatives, then,” Tamir noted.
“While I would not put it past the League to be funding these privateers, let us keep in mind Nosamo is rumored to be shooting down the competition.” Sinclair gave a wry smile. “Though it would be quite sloppy of them to link private raiders to their bank accounts, wouldn’t you say?”
“Exactly what Captain Tamir and I thought, Colonel.” Eldred returned the smile. “Which is how we’ve traced payments for this ship’s crew through five shell corporations and three dummy accounts. It’s a dead end at the moment but not a shocking development. Nosamo’s banking security is almost as impenetrable as that of their labs. I’m coordinating with Lieutenant Guinto. With 171’s personnel on site, we both figure they have a better shot at linking Nosamo to the privateers.”
“Which is where Ms. Wilkes’s intelligence comes in handy.” Tamir routed data from his tablet onto another large screen. A shipping manifest filled every square centimeter. “She’s highlighted discrepancies in cargo supposedly arriving at and departing from Nosamo’s corporate docks.”
“I trust there’s no need for me to give the order to investigate thoroughly and in person,” Sinclair said.
“No, sir. Captain Adams informs us he and Ms. Wilkes are taking the necessary steps.”
“Very good.”
Eldred’s console chirped at her. She made a face, as if it had personally offended her with the results streaming across her monitor. Sinclair wondered if she would physically rebuke the recalcitrant computer.
“Missile residue scans are complete, Colonel. Nothing to indicate an external strike or reactor core breach, so we can eliminate those as possibilities.”
“Thank you, Warrant. What of the missiles themselves?”
“Sir, like I said earlier, there’s nothing left—hold on just a second, sir. Captain?” Eldred waved Tamir over. “What do you make of this?”
Tamir leaned over her shoulder and, in seconds, assumed the same puzzled yet pensive expression. “Tricionite. I wondered.”
“Right? Who would need that aboard a missile?” Eldred tapped commands into her console. A molecular diagram appeared, spinning slowly at the center of the monitor. “No question, though. Computer’s matched it to within seventy-nine percent probability.”
“Tricionite.” Sinclair stroked his chin. “Well, now. This does add a layer of complexity.”
“What am I missing, sirs?” Sakuri asked. “I’ve heard of tricionite—it’s used on the edges of the system by ice miners and precious metals prospectors. For plasma torch fuel, correct?”
“Indeed it is, Warrant, though there’s no need for storage of such a volatile material aboard a privateer, especially not near armed missiles.” Sinclair gazed at the exploded vessel. “It does have a secondary purpose among the vocations, which you mentioned.”
“A quick and dirty explosive,” Eldred said. “For blasting big but precise holes in asteroids before the prospectors hone in on their motherload with plasma cutters. Only the tiniest traces of it are scattered around the debris field—”
“Which has spread considerably since the initial explosion,” Tamir pointed out.
“But running a simulation backward shouldn’t be difficult. Give me a minute.”
Sinclair made his way over to where the other three had clustered by Eldred’s console. “Warrant Sakuri, some of your family were members of the Nosamo board from the corporation’s inception, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” Sakuri shifted in her seat. “They—we were the ones who first exploited the metals of Argenti’s moon and the water in the cometary cloud, both used in the initial construction and supply of Bellwether Station. We like to think of ourselves as being in the middle of the corporation, which we were, in terms of nomenclature—Nosamo, Noor-Sakuri-Morgan.”
“Though you’re no longer in the corporation’s good graces.”
Sakuri exhaled. “No, sir, we’re not. I’m sure you’ve already hunted up the details, but let’s just say no one left from my parents’ generation would mind much if the whole station melted in a solar flare—with Ardalion Noor at its heart.”
“I understand.” Given how many of that Sakuri generation had met with accidental deaths or debilitating disease, he couldn’t blame her emotional response. Nor would he question such a reaction from the remnants of the Morgan clan, driven out not long after the Sakuris. “Your family must have made extensive use of tricionite in its prospecting days. Do you know of anyone from your clan still actively working in such a field?”
“None. Those remaining live on the other side of the Coalition from this foul place.” Sakuri frowned. “Sir? I’m not sure what you’re implying.”
“Inquiring, not implying. I would appreciate your compiling a list of the best locales in the Caeli system for acquiring tricionite. Because if my suspicions are correct—”
Eldred slapped her console. Her face reddened when she realized everyone’s gaze had turned toward her. “Sorry, sirs. Simulation complete. Running.”
A faint outline of the Tradesman-class ship glowed on her screen, surrounded by a diffused cloud of just a handful of red specks. Those specks drew inward, coalescing smack in the center of the privateer’s belly, where the missiles had been stored.
“Adonai have mercy,” Tamir muttered.
“As I was saying.” Sinclair indicated the screen. “Someone has to answer for this crime.”
Dwyer and Sev followed the corridor deep in Sector F, past abandoned machine shops, shuttle maintenance bays, and the access ports to several of Bellwether’s massive water tanks. Dwyer couldn’t fathom the millions of liters those things held. He was sure Brant could tell him down to the drop.
“Here.” Sev pointed.
He was correct. Right turn at Junction F919. Dwyer frowned at the map glowing on his tablet. The regulars who lived and worked aboard the station must have been geniuses when it came to navigating, because the few dozen people they’d passed on the long, dark walk hadn’t been using any visible aids.
They’d also left Dwyer and Sev alone, which Dwyer attributed to the blessed hand of God for their protection. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Sev fixed everyo
ne with an icy, targeted stare when they got too close. The three holstered pulse pistols between the two of them made for an additional deterrent.
“Ava said the shop where Gonzales worked is up ahead.” Dwyer made sure to use Lieutenant Garza’s alias. No telling if anyone was listening in, secreted in the deep shadows, even though Brant had assured them their wrist devices would alert them to snooping drones. Dwyer knew he could trust the LT to get a detail like that correct. “Let’s see if they can tell us the last time anyone saw him.”
“Echo Three, one of the signals routed through the Tactisar drones definitely came from here.”
There went the LT again, mumbling in Dwyer’s head. He wanted to shake the voice loose from his skull.
“Be advised, I’m tracking Tactisar squads four sections away from you stopping at each occupied business along the way.”
“I appreciate the heads up,” Dwyer murmured. “Y’all mind telling us when they’re close enough to smile and wave?”
“Echo One can probably spring you if they lock you up, but let’s not test the theory.”
“Roger, Home.” Dwyer glanced up at the neon sign, its letters spelling out H-A-X in alternating blue, yellow, and green. “Here we go.”
Sev grunted.
“Yeah, might be best if you let me do the talking.” Dwyer grinned and opened the hatch.
Light and sound poured out, smacking Dwyer’s senses as physically as if he’d been run over by a shuttle. The interior had the same pulsing color scheme combined with raucous, thumping music. Dwyer wondered who thought it would be a good idea to mimic a nightclub—surely not a soul could concentrate.
Yet, workstations lined both walls and the far distant back of the shop—far enough he wondered if the space had been converted from a hangar bay. Forty men and women, plus a trio of Saurians, wore headphones and labored over drones of every conceivable shape, size, and configuration. Dwyer spotted tiny room sweepers no bigger than his palm and hulking lifter bots four times as tall as a person.
