by Marko Kloos
“We just got pinged by an Oceanian courier boat. They say they’re on a delivery run. And they just discovered that their contract cargo is a nuke.”
Dunstan stopped in his tracks and blinked.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Could you run that by me again? Because I thought you said they have a nuke.”
“I did, sir. And it appears they do. Their engineer sent imagery. It looks like a Mark Sixteen. Or a very convincing mock-up of one.”
He brought up the image and showed the screen to Dunstan.
“Variable-yield tactical nuclear warhead, ten to five hundred kilotons. The engineer says her scanners show a plutonium fission core. The radiation profile is consistent with the warhead type.”
“That’s just wonderful,” Dunstan said. “Where are they now?”
“They requested a rendezvous to turn over the warhead to the authorities. We just gave them permission to approach on an intercept vector. But I ordered them to stay at least a hundred klicks from us or anyone else. Time to rendezvous is two hours, thirty-one minutes.”
“I suppose I have time to shower,” Dunstan said.
“Yes, sir.”
Dunstan looked at the plot, where Minotaur sat in the center of a bubble of mostly empty space. They had three days left to go on their low burn to Rhodia, where a long-overdue shore leave and overhaul was waiting for them.
Three more days, and it would have been someone else’s interesting problem, Dunstan thought.
“I hope you are correct, Bosworth. About the odds for an elaborate prank. Because if it isn’t one, we’re about to make system-wide news.”
Thirty minutes before the intercept, Minotaur was at action stations. Dunstan had never heard of a pirate blowing up a navy ship with a suicide nuke. But this year had seen new firsts for a lot of unusual things, and he didn’t want Minotaur to gain immortality as a fresh textbook example at the academy. There was no exact protocol for dealing with nuclear warheads on civilian ships because there weren’t supposed to be any nukes on civilian ships. Not even the few armed private security contractors in the system were authorized to carry atomic warheads.
“Tell them to come about and fly a parallel course no closer than a hundred klicks off our port side,” Dunstan said. “That ship is not coming closer until we have that warhead and the crew secured.”
“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Mayler said.
“They’re coming in nice and clean, by the book,” Bosworth commented. He was looking at the plot, where a single ship icon was closing the distance with Minotaur slowly. “Transponder on, position lights blinking, steady course at one g.”
“Once they get into position, give them a few sweeps with the targeting system. Not a hard lock yet. But let them know we have guns pointing in their general direction. I don’t think they’ll try anything dumb, but you never know.”
“We’ve seen them before,” Bosworth said. “That ID. OMV-2022 Zephyr. It’s that quick little ship we watched off Pallas a few days ago.”
“The one that pulled fifteen g,” Dunstan said. “What does the database say?”
“Everything matches, sir. Transponder ID, drive signature, hull profile. Tanaka Spaceworks model two thirty-nine, registered as OMV Zephyr in the database three years ago. They seem to be who they say they are.”
“That’s something,” Dunstan replied. It made it more likely they were telling the truth, but it didn’t tell him a thing about how they could have ended up with a nuclear warhead in their cargo compartment by accident. There was no way to get a nuke through a space station’s cargo transfer facilities without triggering twenty different kinds of alarms.
“Does the database say anything about authorized armaments on that ship?”
“Negative, sir. She’s not certified for offensive weapons.” Bosworth whistled softly through his teeth as he scrolled through the list of Zephyr’s sanctioned modifications. “She does have a killer point-defense array, though. Megawatt-class emitters, fully integrated defensive AI. That’s some pretty expensive kit for a fast courier.”
“Especially one that can sustain fifteen g. At a hundred K, we may even have trouble getting a missile through.”
“There’s no may about it, sir,” Mayler said from the tactical station. “If they decide to go to full burn and set their point defense active, we’ll never score a hit. Not at that distance.”
“Well, there’s no way we are letting them closer until that nuke is secured, and Bosca and his marines have gone through their ship from top to bottom. We’ll just have to play this out for now and assume they aren’t lying.”
“Just imagine,” Midshipman Boyer said. “Checking that cargo and finding out you’re carrying half a megaton of boom in your hold. I bet there wasn’t a clean flight suit left on that deck.”
The boarding was a calculated risk—Dunstan figured that if the other ship wanted to blow itself up, its crew wouldn’t be happy with a mere squad of Rhodian marines to take with them. But he still felt a familiar anxiety as he watched the boarding skiff leave its docking recess on Minotaur and make its way over to OMV Zephyr, which was obediently holding a parallel course just a little over a hundred kilometers away. Boarding actions were always inherently dangerous, and the presence of an unsecured nuclear warhead added an unsettling variable.
The skiff approached Zephyr, then changed course to come alongside. With the little skiff next to the courier ship, Dunstan saw that Zephyr was barely three times longer. It was a sleek ship, or as sleek as the designer could bend the blueprint around the general cylindrical shape required for a modern spaceship. Most civilian ships had their exterior sensor arrays and auxiliary gear on top of the pressure hull with no concern for stealth, but he could tell that some thought had gone into making this little courier less observable to eyes or sensors. Whatever protruded from the hull was set into streamlined fairings, and the hull plating itself had been coated with a nonreflective layer. On stern and bow, he saw the telltale emitter cupolas of point-defense energy mounts.
“What does the database have on that class?” he asked. “Tanaka model two thirty-nine.”
“It’s barely a class,” Mayler replied. “Custom run of four. Built as speed and pleasure yachts. They named them after the four winds. This one was launched first, but it wasn’t officially registered until two years later.”
“Whatever that thing was when they launched it, I know I am not looking at a speed yacht. What do you want to bet they spent the first two years on a custom retrofit right out of the shipyard?”
“I’ve seen lots of yachts with electronic countermeasure suites,” Bosworth said. “But I’ve never seen one with an ECM suite and a Point Defense System. That’s expensive tech.”
“And an expensive restricted-technology permit on top of it all.” Dunstan watched the optical feed, where the skiff was extending its docking collar toward Zephyr’s airlock. “While we have them nearby, let’s get every little bit of data we can. Feed it to the AI for some sims to compare to our past encounters. See if we may have run into them before without knowing about it.”
“You think they were the sensor echo from the internment yard, sir?” Mayler asked.
On the screen, the sensors of the skiff gave them a high-resolution view of Zephyr’s hull. The spotlights from the little boarding craft seemed to get soaked up and dimmed by the exterior coating that covered most of the other ship.
“It’s small, it’s stealthy with intent, and we know it’s very fast. You put those three properties together in a civilian ship, and I start to get nervous. But unless Bosca finds an internal launch tube tucked away somewhere in the hull, I’d say it’s unlikely.”
“Minotaur, Bosca,” the marine sergeant sent from the skiff. “We have a hard dock. Commencing boarding ops.”
“Fast but thorough, Sergeant,” Dunstan said. “Secure the nuke, detain the crew, search the ship for contraband. Specifically unauthorized weapons and munitions.”
“Affirmative,” Bosc
a replied.
The first boarding team crossed the docking collar and entered Zephyr’s airlock. Ten seconds later, the second team followed. If something was going to happen, it would be now, when the boarding party was in the most vulnerable stage of the process. Two minutes of comms silence passed. There was no gunfire, and the tethered combination of boarding skiff and courier ship did not disappear in a blinding nuclear fireball. Dunstan allowed himself to relax just a little.
“Minotaur, Bosca. Nuke is secured, six crew detained without incident. I’m sending them over in the skiff with second team while first team and I search the ship.”
“Very good, Bosca. What’s the ordnance tech’s word on the warhead?”
“He says it’s the fission core. It doesn’t have a fuse assembly, so it’s safe to bring over to Minotaur.”
“Understood. We are standing by to receive the skiff with the crew. Take your time with the search. I think these people will be with us for a little while.”
“You want to have the master-at-arms put them in the brig for now, sir?” Bosworth asked.
Dunstan thought about it, then shook his head.
“I don’t want to treat them like prisoners just yet. They contacted us. They asked to surrender that warhead. Let’s give them the benefit of the doubt for now and assume they’ve been telling the truth. But I do want to talk to them separately when they’re on board. Have the marines move them to the officers’ mess once they get here.”
“Aye, sir. I’ll let the master-at-arms know.”
The Oceanian captain was a woman with blue eyes and blonde hair, which she wore in a tight braid. She had a no-nonsense air about her, but Dunstan could tell that she was off balance right now, separated from her ship and with her immediate fate in the hands of the Rhodian Navy. The marine who had escorted her into the compartment stepped outside and took up position out of sight next to the open door.
“Please,” Dunstan said. “Have a seat.”
She sat down in front of his workstation, hands resting on her thighs. He could tell that she was trying to figure out the level of shit she had gotten herself into. Dunstan didn’t need to ask her name, or anything else about her. While the Zephyr crew had still been in transit on the skiff, he had pulled all their ID files off the database. Her name was Ronja Decker, she was forty-three years old, and she’d had a commercial command license for twelve years after serving as second and first officer on a variety of freighters and ore haulers.
“Welcome to Minotaur, Captain Decker,” he said. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Park, the CO of this ship.”
“Thank you, Commander. I’m sorry to have to drop such a mess into your lap. But we were in Rhodian space when we discovered the nature of our cargo, and I ordered my comms officer to contact the nearest Rhodian warship immediately. That happened to be you.”
“Chance has it in for me,” Dunstan said. She flashed a sympathetic smile.
“Quite a ship you have there,” he said. “It started out life as a Tanaka type two thirty-nine. I like what you’ve done with it. That’s a lot of expensive custom work. You must be doing well.”
“Zephyr is owned by a small consortium,” Decker said. “They thought the niche potential justified the investment. So far, we’ve been able to keep them happy.”
“Well, I’m afraid you won’t be making a profit on this run. The Rhodian Navy is confiscating the warhead you’ve been hauling. But you knew that would happen when you contacted us.”
Decker nodded.
“Sometimes you end up eating a week of operating costs. We will manage.”
“Not that I don’t applaud your adherence to interplanetary law in this instance, but I can’t imagine you were at all keen on letting us have such a close look at your ship. I must wonder why you turned that cargo over instead of just returning it. Or dumping it in deep space somewhere.”
“Because that’s not a load of inert iron ore or a pallet of stims we’re talking about,” she said. “It’s a thermonuclear warhead. I don’t deal in those. And I don’t want to be involved with anyone who does.”
“We’ve both been behind the stick for too long to play pretend, Captain. Your boat isn’t a standard courier. In fact, if I had to go to a shipyard and say, ‘Take this yacht and turn it into something that’s perfect for smuggling,’ I think it would look a lot like that. So forgive me some degree of skepticism. That’s one of the risks you take when you accept contracts that involve unregulated ship-to-ship cargo transfers in the middle of nowhere.”
Captain Decker smiled wryly.
“We take above-the-table business most of the time. High-value express delivery. Sometimes passengers. And sometimes we do discreet cargo hauls if the rate is good enough. But we don’t do weapons or munitions. Nobody’s getting hurt by a few crates of tax-free comtabs.”
“Like you said, that cargo you brought with you isn’t that. Looks like you need to improve your screening process. Something a little more reliable than the honor system.”
“My chief engineer and my pilot both scanned that container when it came on board. It came up clean. They used a Category Six security capsule for that warhead. I’ve never even seen one of those outside of a classified government environment.”
“So you got duped,” Dunstan said. “Happens to the most diligent sometimes. And you did the right thing. But that’s still a thermonuclear warhead. A weapon of mass destruction. Subject to strict interplanetary control treaties.”
He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.
“I can’t just bring that nuke back to Rhodia and hand it over without comment. Fleet command is going to go ballistic over this. Just the knowledge that there are unaccounted nukes floating around on the black market is going to set a whole lot of people on edge. You will have to turn over every bit of data from your ship, because intelligence will want to take your records apart forensically.”
“We will hand over whatever they want,” Decker said.
“You need to pick your customers with more care, Captain Decker,” Dunstan said. “I imagine your consortium would be very unhappy if you lost your operating license. Or your ship. I’m the Rhodian Navy out here right now. If I decide to impound it, nobody is going to stop me.”
He was pleased to see a little bit of genuine distress poking through the cracks in Captain Decker’s cool composure. If he impounded Zephyr, her career would be over, and her crew would have a hard time getting hired on other ships.
“I know your kind,” he said. “Independent commercial skippers in fast little ships. You start taking shady contracts in between the legal work. Start thinking you’re hot shit because you got some contraband past a slow-ass customs boat or two. The real world isn’t like that, Captain. Sooner or later someone pulls one over on you. And then you end up on some third-rate orbital transfer station loading containers all day for a living, and you wonder how it all went sideways. If you’re lucky.”
“You can impound my ship,” Decker said after a moment of consideration. “That’s your right. The consortium would file suit and get her back. Probably. But they’d give her to someone else; you’re right about that.”
She shook her head and sighed.
“I got a little careless, and I messed up. I just figured we would get some good will for coming to you on our own accord. For making sure there isn’t a nuclear warhead out there going back to sender. Or floating around in space for some salvager to find.”
The shrug that followed was resigned and defiant in equal measure.
“I’ve loaded containers for a living before. It wasn’t such a bad life.”
Zephyr’s crew was an interesting bunch. The first officer was a veteran of the Pallas Brigade, and Dunstan knew in the first thirty seconds of their talk that nothing he could say would scare that man, someone who had fought Gretian Blackguards hand to hand in the tunnels of his home world. Bosca had reported that the only moment of friction during the boarding had happened when he had asked th
e Palladian to turn over his kukri. Pallas and Rhodia were staunch allies, and the brigade was as respected on Rhodia as it was at home, but nobody under Dunstan’s command could extend that respect to letting a detainee keep a monomolecular blade in his possession. Luckily, Zephyr’s first officer had seen the logic of the argument and grudgingly surrendered his kukri to the Rhodian marines before things could get unpleasant.
The pilot was a young Acheroni woman with a buzz cut and an attitude. She only gave short and sullen answers, and she didn’t even try to hide her dislike for Dunstan’s authority. The medic was a tall and white-haired Oceanian who was friendly and almost gregarious, as if he had no worries about their situation at all. The mechanic was Oceanian as well. She was the only one who was nervous, the only member of the crew whose behavior fit the severity of their predicament, but Dunstan got the impression that she was mostly worried about her ship, not her personal fate. All of them had some mud splatters in their personal histories, but Dunstan knew what a crew of incorrigible hard cases looked like, and this was not one of those. The only other crew member was the ship’s comms officer and linguist, and he was the one whose background gave Dunstan concern.
“Aden Jansen,” Dunstan read off the projection from his terminal. “You’re the language expert.”
“I am,” the comms officer said in flawless Rhodian. His hair was slightly shaggy looking, and he had a short reddish beard that was just three days too old to be called stubble. From the way he had walked in, Dunstan could tell some military bearing.
“All the other crew members agree that you probably saved their lives,” Dunstan said. “When you figured out what your customers were talking about before they left your ship.”
Jansen smiled, but it was a curt smile, as if he was uncomfortable with receiving the credit. There was a nervousness radiating from him that wasn’t just worry about the possibility of being held in Rhodian Navy detention for a few weeks.
“So, good job on that,” Dunstan continued. “They all owe you a drink once the dust settles. I think you were right to warn them, and I think they were right to listen to you.”
