Assured (Envoys Book 2)

by Peter J Aldin

  To Chipper, she said, “That was one truly boring duty shift we just had, huh? Exactly the way you like it.”

  “Boring’s good when it means no one got hurt,” said Chipper. “I was just happy to see their warriors were so relaxed. Half of me expected the one from Domain Surface to carry out some kinda vendetta for the ones that …” He dropped his voice. “… died during that raid.”

  “Yeah, they all seem to wanna cooperate. The workers showed us everywhere inside that shuttle. Under the floors. Inside the ceilings. Opened compartments even Westermann didn’t think were there. Thing was clean as a bathed baby’s ass.”

  Chipper took a glass and held up the clear liquor to the light. “Shall we toast to things staying boring?”

  “Nah. Probably jinx ourselves.”

  He blinked at her. “Thought you didn’t believe in superstition.”

  She flashed him the St Mary tattoo on her left hand. “Maybe just a little.” She grabbed a glass of her own and swallowed its contents whole, coughing as it burned its way down. “That is some bad-shit bootleg. But it does the job.”

  She passed Chipper the change from his twenty-franc note and he slipped it into a shirt pocket.

  “Why they call it ‘bootleg?’” he asked.

  “Why they call anything anything?”

  It wasn’t her first drink of the afternoon. She’d arrived several minutes earlier than Chipper’s suggested time and gulped down two hard ales before he’d even appeared through the hatchway. Although the temperature was always cool on A-deck, she felt warm now. Light-headed too, as if gravity had been dialed down on this level. She pushed one of the other glasses around a little then clasped both hands around her empty. It was probably better if she slowed down.

  Why had he invited her here, anyway? Why had he offered to pay for drinks? Was he apologizing for losing the stupid basketball game? Was he setting up for something … more?

  Chipper sipped then said, “Something I been meaning to ask you.”

  Oh-kay. It’s something more.

  “Fire away,” she said with her heart beating faster, hoping the guys at the bar weren’t eavesdropping.

  “Sevens Party. The party that got elected to run Xerxes. Your party. Why’s it called Sevens?”

  Okay. It’s not something more.

  She ran a finger around the rim of her shot glass, eyeing the other drinks, then snatched one up and slammed it back. It came down on the deck plate a little harder than she’d intended. “You want a history lesson?”

  He nodded and sipped.

  She placed her first glass inside the second and turned them around on the floor between her boots. “Okay, so, originally Xerxes had separate cultural groups migrate in from various Earth countries, right? Like a lotta worlds did. Ours were Spanish, Mexican, Scottish, Irish, Filipino, white Americans and Vietnamese. Seven groups. Ethnic stew. But they got along okay. Then came PBT virus. Xerxes was as big a crapshow as anywhere. One whole continent lost everyone. Like, everyone.” That kind of thing had happened on more worlds than Xerxes. She figured Chipper’s Oceana with its one populated archipelago had gotten pretty lucky not to get PBT at all. There would have been nothing left. “On the other continents, survivors separated into tiny factions, mostly along ethnic lines. And they were suspicious of each other even when the virus burned out centuries ago. The Sevens were the first, well, gang who crossed all the ethnic lines. They drew people from the seven cultures together under one name. The name stuck and, you know how people are, the name got some kinda weird power. Right down to the level of juju. You think I’m superstitious coz I don’t want you jinxing us? You needa meet more Xerxians, guy. Xerxians are crazy superstitious people. In the Sevens, anything to do with the number seven got like a religious seriousness to it.”

  His frown was more amused than judgmental. “How’s that work?”

  “In weird ways. There were seven people in my Tactical Unit for example. I mean, before Lobos nuked two of ’em ...” Her voice caught as Olesco’s face surfaced in her memory. The pretty boy had been her on-off lover for years—and the closest thing she’d had to a friend.

  So now Chipper’s your friend, chica. Get on with living.

  She cleared and touched her throat, making out it was the booze affecting her. And maybe it was. Restarting, she said, “Yeah, superstition. You should try gambling with the guys left in my unit. I mean, each of them makes a big deal out of the number seven, but a different big deal. Hecate thinks every seventh hand of poker is gonna be the lucky one, so she bets more aggressive then. Umbrano? In poker, he throws out every seventh hand he gets. Shit, I’m surprised he can even count to seven. And Manolo? If there’s a horse or dog race anywhere near her, she’ll always bet on the seventh animal in the fourteenth race. That’s all. Only thing she ever bets on.”

  “But the party’s actually called the Sevens because it’s a unifying force for Xerxes. Bringing all the cultures together.”

  “Unifying force? You can see it like that if you want.” She hesitated, almost reached for a third glass but stopped herself. Hands clasped together, she gave him a frank look. “In the early days, they kinda unified people at the end of a gun or a machete.”

  “Oh.” He swallowed the rest of his drink. “Glad I asked.”

  “Yeah, that’s our government. The people who’ve run our shit for centuries. Monsters, murderers, and thieves. Thing is, not all Xerxians were like that. Not all of us are.”

  The gaze he returned was as frank as hers had been. “I know that,” he said softly.

  At least that’s what she thought he said. Because his words were lost in the sudden clamor of a ship klaxon: five staccato notes repeating in a loop.

  The other crewers in the bar froze, staring at the overhead speakers. But Chipper was up and tapping at a datapanel by the hatch.

  Ana joined him, trying to read what he was reading, but her eyes wouldn’t focus. “What is that?”

  “Weapons discharge alert,” he replied, face grave. “Someone’s shooting on hangar deck.”

  With Pan and Fowler busy, it was Ensign Sintopas who brought Gregory up to speed. The ambassador sat in Piers’s pilot chair with Grace at his shoulder and Piers at the door.

  “We sustained several casualties, three confirmed deceased.”

  “Oh, God,” Gregory whispered.

  “Corporal Chandrasakhera, Able Spacer Mikita and Spacer Third Class McKinstry.”

  “The latter was a deck hand?” Grace asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Also deceased is Domain Ocean warrior Gheff. We assume the interpreter Yimiun may have bled to death. He’s still lying out there and hasn’t moved since it began. And there’s a lot of blood.”

  Sintopas would need to explain how’d that had even happened. For now, Gregory asked, “Envoy Buoun, the councillors, the XO, the other deckhands?”

  “Commander Chinyama got Envoy Buoun out an emergency exit. The other three deckhands evacced via another exit. All are unharmed. But the Domain Surface shuttle now contains hostages.”

  The other three councillors.

  On the cockpit’s commscreen, Sintopas patched through a front-on view of the blocky Tluaan transport. The winglike access-panels were now sealed into the hull. But why was it sitting there? Suran and Mingatat had made it back onboard. Why hadn’t it left? With a spike of fear, he wondered if the thing contained a bomb …

  Surely not. Surely not.

  “Envoy Buoun is currently with the captain and XO in the Ready Room,” Sintopas continued. “They just finished a comms-dialogue with the shuttle.”

  “Tell me about the hostages.”

  “Once the skirmishes were over, the Moon and Surface warriors appeared mildly injured but highly functional, sir. One rounded up Petty Officer Lukic—who seemed banged up but okay—and Councillors Naat, Vren and Pi—also apparently unhurt. The other dragged Sgt. Wepps onto the shuttle with them. Both came back to retrieve Warrior Vazak after that. Sgt. Wepps and Warrior Vazak were uncon
scious or dead, we’re not sure which. Sgt. Wepps was bleeding heavily, sir. Vazak had lost half an arm to a laser.”

  “Saw that happen,” Grace said. “I got the shitbag who did it. Are they saying they’re alive? Are they saying anything?”

  “Ma’am, they say all hostages are alive.”

  “How could Vazak be alive with an arm cut off?” Piers asked from back by the door. “She’d bleed out, right?”

  If Sintopas heard the questions, he didn’t answer them—any answers would only be useless conjecture. Gregory gestured for him to continue.

  The ensign said, “They’re saying they’ll depart peacefully if we hand over data about our FTL drive. And once they clear Domain Space territory unmolested, they’ll return the hostages in a separate shuttle.”

  “Yeah, right,” Grace snorted. “And who’ll fly it? The Grand Councillor? Warrior Vazak?”

  “How’d our personnel die?” Gregory asked. “What killed them?”

  “Looks like Corporal Chandrasakhera had her throat slashed, sir. The warrior who tackled her and Sergeant Wepps had a small blade, possibly made from bone. The other warrior attacked Petty Officer Lukic and Able Spacer Mikita simultaneously. After a brief melee, it injured the Petty Officer and broke the Spacer’s neck.”

  And I saw that happen.

  Sintopas concluded, “Spacer McKinstry was shot with one of our EM-pistols after a hostile got control of it.”

  “They had a blade and a laser? How? We screened the warriors here, and that pilot and all the councillors were scanned at Liberty Habitat.”

  Onscreen, Sintopas’s drawn-looking face replaced the image of the shuttle. He shook his head ruefully. “Sir, the warriors and the foreign interpreter had weapons secreted within their bodies and neither we nor Liberty picked that up.”

  “Within their …?”

  “The warrior’s bone blade was interpreted as a bone growth in their arm. The interpreter wasn’t scanned and had a small laser unit sowed into the soft flesh beneath what Tluaanto have for ribs.”

  I saw him scratching. That warrior too. Damn it! “Let me guess. The warrior’s blade was sown into the flesh of their forearm.”

  “So the video would suggest, sir, yes.”

  “They ripped their own skin open with their fingernails?”

  “Apparently, sir.”

  Gregory looked up at Grace. “I can believe that of warriors, but the interpreter?”

  “Maybe he brought something sharp off the shuttle with him,” she said. “A screw? A piece of ceramic?”

  “He cut it out, fainted from the blood and pain—the pilot picked it up …” He shook his head. “Ensign, what’s the Captain planning? We’re not handing over plans to an FTL drive, I know that much. But can we get those hostages back? And is it safe having that shuttle inside Assured?”

  “He and Colonel Fowler are currently developing a strategy to neutralize the hostiles and rescue the hostages.”

  “And if we fail?” he wondered aloud. “Even if that shuttle’s not some kind of bomb that blows us to kingdom come, raiding it could get the hostages killed, Naat included. Then we’ll have a Tluaan head of state murdered on our watch.”

  “Bomb?” Piers groaned. “I really wish you hadn’t put that idea in my head.” He went stomping off down the corridor, no doubt toward the drinks station.

  Grace said, “I don’t think Suran and Mingatat are the type to blow ’emselves up as a big hack you to the rest of us. Too self-important.”

  Gregory told her, “Maybe not. But this situation’s a total basket of crap. Buoun, Pi, and Naat were telling the truth about Moon and Surface. They’re the worst.”

  “The worst of the worst.”

  Turning back to the screen, Gregory asked, “What’s the plan to take the shuttle, Ensign?”

  “Captain said you’ll know when he knows, sir. However, it currently looks like Colonel Fowler’s Tacticals will take lead on that.”

  They will?

  Grace’s expression said she would never have expected Pan to sign off on that either.

  “Corporals Westermann, Bradstock, Stines, and Tukimatu are currently at each of the hangar exits, covering them, along with Able Spacer Seroughi. The hangar deck lifts have been shut down by the way, sir.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s heading for the lifts, but I get it. Anything else we need to know?”

  Sintopas checked something beside him. “Uh, yessir. Captain asks if you can link your exterior cams through to me. The Tluaanto have burned all the security cams on hangar deck.”

  “I’ll patch ’em through,” Grace said.

  Gregory climbed out of the seat and to trade places with her. He said, “Thank you, Ensign. Please keep us apprised of any and every development.”

  “Aye, sir.” The monitor went blank.

  Gregory stared out the canopy as Grace tapped and flicked at panels. Would he see an enemy warrior skulking around out there? A Tactical sneak by? The calm beyond the storm was almost as alarming as the initial explosion of violence had been.

  Something hard slapped against his chest and he snatched at it. Grace’s compact automatic, clipped into its holster.

  “What?”

  “Bad guys might decide on taking another high-profile hostage. If they somehow breach our hatch, you’ll need that. I swapped the mag for a fresh one, so you have eight rounds loaded, six more in the one that’s now a spare.” She placed the spare on the console.

  “I can’t—”

  “You probably won’t need to, but you can. This is exactly what I’ve been training you for.”

  He turned the sheathed weapon over in his hands. It was the last thing in the universe he wanted. Now or ever. “It’s your gun, Grace.”

  “I have backup, don’t worry.” She teased up a trouser leg, revealing the bottom edge of a small ankle holster, confirming a suspicion he’d always had.

  Once a cop …

  “What about me?” asked Piers from the doorway. He did have a drink in hand. A tall one.

  Grace said, “They try’n board us, you go to your cabin and stay there.”

  “Or I could fire up the engines. You know I can fly things, right? I could actually fly us out of here right now, if you wanted. Just saying.”

  Gregory exchanged a long look with Grace as the same idea apparently occurred to both of them. “Fly us out of here,” they said in unison.

  Gregory indicated the helmpanels. “Can you connect me to the bridge again?”

  “You want permission from Pan?” Grace asked.

  “I want to ask him if there’s anyone he’d like to sneak onto our ship, so we can get them off his.”

  She hesitated a moment—her job was ensuring his survival, no one else’s. But her DNA was cop DNA. She tapped a screen to signal the bridge again.

  While he waited for Sintopas to answer, Gregory thought, We have an FTL-capable yacht. He loathed the idea of running away and leaving people on Assured and in danger. But if he could get a number to safety ...

  Sintopas relayed their suggestion to Pan, who relayed the reply that he appreciated the offer and would take it under advisement. In the meantime, he said, the yacht should be taken out of the hangar. Piers should dock them on top of Assured—since the yacht’s only mating hatch was underneath, connected to its emergency escape well at the end of the passage past its cabins and bathroom.

  “Amen to that,” said Piers, muscling Gregory out of his chair.

  Eight minutes later, they were clamped to the outside of Assured. They were out of harm’s way—while others prepared to put themselves in it.

  6

  The meeting room on C-deck was shorter and squarer than Pan’s Ready Room. Its only furnishing was the Human version of a holotable, a flat surface level with Buoun’s chest, perched on four legs. Fowler had gathered a small number of Assured personnel to stand around it: Pan, Chinyama, Tacticals Jogianto and Hecate, and a bridge crew member usually referred to as “Chief.” Commander Chinyama h
ad brought Buoun along after getting him out of the hangar alive and safe. Buoun owed the man a debt.

  Fowler had his hands inside the holographic field and was making adjustments to the 3D image of the Domain Surface shuttle holding the hostages. “It’s a box. Like the supply shuttle they sent earlier, but smaller. Envoy Buoun here managed to acquire schematics of this design from his own domain’s military intel.”

  “Thank you,” Captain Pan said, visible through the field and across the table.

  “Anything I can do, I will,” Buoun told him.

  “This is what my people are facing,” Fowler continued, changing the hologram image to an interior view with bulkheads and decks ghosted in. “Hulls are armored, half a meter thick. The floor of the crew and passenger areas sits one point five meters from the bottom hull. Forward of the passenger section, we have a cockpit with a sealable hatch. The passenger compartment opens on both sides as we know, with hinged hatches able to form access ramps. These hatches are sealed and we don’t expect to open them. The passenger compartment has these three rows of four narrow chairs each. Around the seating on all sides, one meter of margin or aisle.”

  Pan inserted a finger into the image behind the passenger area. “This compartment?”

  “That’s our best opportunity for ingress. It’s a cargo compartment, a luggage hold squashed in between the passenger section and the engine area firewall. Two meters from front to back, big enough for Humans to move around. I’m told the passengers brought no luggage over besides small carry bags, so it shouldn’t be too cluttered. But the best thing about this compartment is it’s divided into two levels, one at passenger floor level …” Fowler made a gesture within the field, creating a yellow outline around a rectangular below-deck area. “… and this one below. This is where my Tacticals will enter the vehicle and gain access to the passenger area.” He made the shuttle’s exterior hulls solidified again. “We can’t attack the main hatches directly, or the cockpit, because there are exterior cameras here, here, here …” He kept on pointing, noting eight camera positions all told.