“It doesn’t matter what you do, say, or look like. Just so long as you stand out!” He remembered the advice of his old father, the Senior Tomas before him, who had stood in this very spot and looked out over the glory that was his empire.
The large man stood in a small room that opened out into a curving balcony, encased in plexi-crystal. He did as his father had done, leaning on the ornate brass railings and looking out at the star-lit sky, studded with stationary ships, and beyond that, just the hint of reddish nebula.
Behind him, the gallery had its own comfortable chair, with mechanized compartments that would produce glasses of the finest Old Earth wine at a gesture of his hand. Behind that, wooden steps led down, past the statues of previous seniors standing in noble silence, to the bulkhead door to which he, like every senior had before him, had the only access key.
“What would you say if you could see me now, Father?” Senior Tomas the Junior asked of the stellar night. If anyone had witnessed this one-sided conversation, they might have thought that they were witnessing a moment of weakness from the ruthless overload of the Armcore Conglomerate.
But of course, there would be no one watching. Just as the seniors had never allowed any surveillance equipment into this room, it was hermetically and electronically sealed in all ways apart from allowing the air to still flow.
His father did not answer him, and Senior Dane Tomas thought that was perhaps fitting. His father had been a rigorously skeptical man, after all. He had despised any attempt at levity, art, or ‘dalliance,’ as he had called it, instead preferring the cold hard facts of profits and guns. Senior Tomas the Elder had been a worthy inheritor of the CEO-ship of Armcore Prime, and sometimes Dane his son thought that his father only regarded him as a liability.
It was because he had been a fretful child. Dane frowned at his own reflection in the plexi-crystal. He was prone to wild theories and fantasies as a child, despite the hours of grueling training that his father had put him through. Never enough to shift his stubborn build, it had turned his weight into a hundred and twenty kilograms of muscle.
But all that was gone now. Dane regarded his large figure in reflection. Not that he cared anymore. His days of running circuit drills were long gone. He had the largest private army in Coalition space between him and any possible danger. Being the Chief of Armcore should come with some benefits, after all.
But still, the knowledge that his father had died despising him still left a poisoned thorn in his side. Even after all these years.
Beep. There was an electronic noise from the doors, and Dane Tomas, Jr. realized that it was time for his next appointment. Ah yes. The one that he was actually looking forward to.
The Armcore Commander-in-Chief always liked it when he had to fire someone.
Straightening his black and gold military jacket and smoothing his hair back once again from his forehead, he sat down and swiveled the chair so that it faced the door before his rather high-pitched voice called, “Enter.” He knew the impression that he would make as the doors hissed open. The thin man at the far end, illuminated by light, would see the stairs and the looming statues of the previous Seniors of Armcore, and right up there, surrounded by the stars, would sit this little man’s personal god. Him.
“Ah…uh, Senior?” It was that fool General Farlow. Thin, aging—probably a little older than Tomas himself—but already with his crew cut hair gone to silver grey. He wore the black and red uniform that was appropriate to his rank, and Tomas appreciated the way that he had even worn all of his service medals and shined every large button to approach his boss.
Dane waited for a moment, in silence. Let the man stew. Let him think that I might not be here, that he somehow has got off lightly, before…
“General Farlow. Don’t dawdle by the door!” Tomas snipped, his voice echoing in the gallery.
“Yes, of course, sir, of course.” The older man saluted and sharply stepped into the main vestibule. The doors hissed shut behind him solidly. He waited.
“Well!?” Tomas snapped and was pleased to see the slight tremor run through the man. How ridiculous and thrilling power is! Dane thought. This man below him was older than he was, he was a career soldier, clearly in far better shape than Dane would be or ever was. Farlow had even trained the younger Dane back when his father had been in charge, and now he quailed and jumped at his every command. It was a delicious reversal of reality for the man. “Your report?” Dane prompted. The fact that I had to tell you to report will cost you, old man. Dane smiled to himself.
“Yes. Well. We received an alert from one of our informants that the vessel in question, the Mercury Blade, had been spotted approaching the world of Mela, Coalition space,” Farlow said.
“Had?” Dane said like a knife point.
“Yes. I mean, sir, the vessel isn’t on Mela anymore,” the general stated quickly.
“Then where is it?” Dane already knew the answers to these questions, he had a live feed of alerts sent to his office on the next floor, but he liked watching people squirm. Especially officers like Farlow.
“Location unknown, sir,” the general replied.
The senior was silent. It was best to let the general ponder precisely how mad he had made him. Naturally, it was Farlow who broke the silence first.
“I dispatched the battle cruiser as soon as we heard word. I ordered our agents on Mela to apprehend the crew of the Mercury Blade, but it seems that they had some kind of outside help.”
“Outside help,” Dane stated. Not a question.
“Yes, Senior. The Mela Security had been successful in apprehending this Captain Eliard and another woman, but as they were being brought to a secure holding cell, to be transported here as per your orders, sir, they were attacked and freed by persons impersonating Mela Security officers.”
“And this outside help… Have they been tracked?” Dane asked quickly. This actually was news to the commander. He knew that the Mercury Blade had managed to escape, with all crew on board, but he did not know that they had allies on Mela. He would have to remember to talk to the colonial overseer there.
“No, sir, I am afraid not. We believe them to be rogues of some sort, perhaps mercenaries…” General Farlow snapped to attention.
“You believe?” Dane allowed some of his ever-present anger to show itself. “Are you here to report the facts to me, Farlow, or to tell me your beliefs?”
General Farlow went silent. Wise man, the senior thought.
“You can believe whatever you like, General, but it does nothing to change the fact that those helping these criminals could also be agents from one of the noble houses, or a rival power,” he said. The general nodded silently.
“So, to recap, General. The people who stole Armcore property and who led our battle group into an ambush at the Trader Worlds have once again escaped. To destinations unknown. Does that sum up the facts to you, General? Or would you like to tell me some of your beliefs again?”
“No, Commander, sir. And yes, those are the facts.”
Right. Dane could have purred at that moment. Get them admitting that they are in the wrong and everything is their fault, and then proceed to eviscerate them…
“How dare you…” he began.
“Sir?” the general asked.
“How dare you come to me with this weakness! How dare you stand there, in this hall, where my forefathers have led the glory that is Armcore from its humble beginnings to where we are now! Who do you think you are? Do you think you are worthy of them!?” The commander allowed some of his own knot of feelings to bleed into his tirade. “Better men and officers than you have stood there and reported to their senior, General! Men who would not hesitate to do the right thing for the glory of Armcore. Who knew what orders meant. That an order is a promise. It is a sacred duty. A contract between you and me, with Armcore itself…” At this point, Dane held up his hands to the ceiling, as if invoking the entire company as god. “And…” Dane sneered the last word to come ou
t of his mouth. “You.”
“I apologize, sir. I accept full responsibility.” General Farlow dropped to one knee, bowing his head as he did so. “If it pleases you, I will tender my resignation.”
Damn. Tomas could have spat in annoyance. The general really did believe all of this honor crap. He had jumped him to the firing part. Where was the pleasure in firing someone if they already thought that they were doing the right thing? That they deserved it?
“So you can retire?” Tomas burst out. “You want to run away from your obligations to me and the Core?”
“With respect sir, no, I don’t want to retire, but if it pleases you…” General Farlow suggested.
Ugh. Why do I bother? Dane thought in disgust. These self-righteous old guard would probably relish the chance to retire and spread rumors about me to all their old academy buddies.
“No, General Farlow, for your dismal failure and gross negligence, I have a different task ahead for you.” Dane’s thoughts raced. There is somewhere I can send him, somewhere horrible and nasty where his last thoughts will be why he ever failed me, ever. “You are hereby demoted to the role of captain-without-license,” Tomas said highly. That meant he could fly a ship, but he couldn’t command any marines. A glorified pilot.
“But, ah, sir…” The general seemed genuinely shocked by this, spluttering into his moustache. “My forty years’ service...”
“Which have clearly made you complacent, Captain Farlow!” Tomas had to stop himself from sniggering. “You are hereby reassigned to a scouting clipper class, and ordered to scout and report back on the situation at Sebopol, understood?”
“Sebopol?” The man in his fifties shook his head in confusion. Dane could almost feel sorry for the man, if he was capable of such things.
“Yes, Sebopol. The trash world. The one that we have been monitoring?” Dane sighed. Other people are so slow.
“Ah. I see.” Farlow balled his fists as he glared at the floor at his feet. He had been a four-star general, privy to the top-tier information about the suspected whereabouts of the Alpha prototype. The same super-intelligence program that had recently commandeered Sebopol for its unknown purposes.
And when this stupid, uptight little man gets there, Alpha will reach out and swat him like a fly, Tomas thought gleefully, as Farlow wavered a little in his boots. “You are dismissed, Captain,” Senior Dane Tomas the Junior said cheerfully.
8
Harvesting Revenge
The plan should be a simple one, El thought to no one but himself. He was currently sitting in the small canteen, with Irie on one end of the table and Cassandra on the other. Val had said that he was happy to take watch at the cockpit. They were in cruising mode anyway, taking the long way past the Andis Gas Fields, where they could hope not to run into many Armcore patrols. Outside the porthole windows seas of lurid colors from the nebula washed by, studded with the blackened rocks of asteroids or wandering moons. In the rare moments that the ship fell quiet—very rare, as there was always a tetchy Val Pathok on board, alongside a host of smaller computerized systems running in the background—but in those rare moments, it was possible to hear the very faint hiss of stellar dust cascading across the hull.
It might even be peaceful out here, El thought. You know, if we weren’t criminals on the run from the most powerful military-industrial complex in the universe.
“So, let me get this straight… You want us to just waltz into Armcore Prime, the very center of our enemies’ powerbase, and have a chat with their head computer?” Irie asked once again.
“Hey, I’m not asking you to throw yourselves into the Double-Suns of Pharos now, am I?” El said. It was, of course, already a done deal. Val had said that he would gladly do it. It meant that he had more chance to challenge those who sought to kill him (Armcore), and Cassandra of course had said she was going ahead with the plan because it was her House Archival who had come up with the idea in the first place.
But I need Irie on board with this, he thought a little worriedly. The captain knew that he could order her to do it. But he wouldn’t, not on something this big.
“It’s because of Alpha,” El said. “And a million Coalition credits.”
“Well…” Irie shrugged. “The money’s good, but the danger?”
“We have House Archival’s very best intelligence on Armcore Prime,” Cassandra pointed out.
“Yeah, I’ve taken a look through it, and its patchy intelligence, actually,” Irie muttered. “Whole areas of the station haven’t been mapped. Apart from a few preliminary access codes, we have no idea what sort of patrols or scans they are running inside there…”
“But with what we’ve got, could you figure out a way in?” El pressed her.
“I could,” Irie mused. “But it wouldn’t be pretty. I could only work out a strategy to get us past the front door. After that…”
“I can do the rest.” Cassandra nodded.
The captain turned back to look at Irie. “So…will you do it? For the money? Against Alpha?”
“No,” the master engineer said, and frustration roared in Eliard’s blood. “I won’t do it for the money, and I don’t give two galactic coordinates about this Alpha AI. But I will do it for this one reason, Captain.” Eliard watched the woman’s eyes glare with hatred. “Revenge. Armcore were the ones who were behind my father’s assassination—or ‘accident’—or, if it wasn’t them, then they set up the situation for it to happen,” she said devoutly. “It was Armcore that wanted Babe Ruth, and it was Armcore that wanted my father’s mecha designs. So, that is why I will give you my support on this mission, Captain…despite how absolutely crazy it is.” Irie drained her cup and banged it back down on the table. “I think I can speak for everyone here when I say that Armcore owes us, right?”
“Yeah,” El heard Cassandra say quietly, under her breath. What’s her beef with Armcore, other than coming from a noble house? But it was a mystery that would have to wait for another time, as the proximity alarms went off, and the crew members had to rush to their positions.
“What’s going on, Pathok?” the captain joined the Duergar at the cockpit.
“Gas-harvester.” Val nodded at the screens, and then at the cockpit windows ahead as a vast, dark shape appeared through the mists. Many hundreds of times larger than the Mercury, it was a large triangular-cone, moving through the Gas Fields as it sucked up the precious stellar stuff to be processed and shipped off for energy and fuel generation. Even the well-travelled Eliard had never seen one of the super-massive industrial ships before. It was a bit like watching a god at work, and hard to think that his bipedal species could have helped create something so truly gigantic.
A corona of odd-colored light shimmered down its hull where it nudged through the gas and dust fields, and Eliard saw a few small bursts of flame and light as some of the smaller asteroids were pulled into its gargantuan wake.
Something about that sight gave the captain an idea. “Val, can you check where its manifest is intended for?”
Val scowled at him, but his large fingers flickered over the controls all the same. The Duergar was not as savvy with computers as Irie was, but he had learned how to survive out here in space.
“Central Coalition space, Lashar System.” He tapped the screen, which showed the general details about the gigantic ship ahead of them.
“And I bet that Lashar System is a main distribution center for all those lovely stellar gases, right?” El started to grin.
Val shrugged.
“Well...” El pointed a long finger at the harvester. “One of the things about being the biggest navy in the world, and the biggest military contractor, and the most relied upon, is that I bet it means that you need an awful lot of stellar gas.”
“Ah…” Val nodded, grinning to reveal his many fangs and tusks.
“The distribution center at Lashar will be one of the main Central Coalition ones, which means it has to ship out to Armcore Prime. All we have to do is hitch a ride
…” El excused the Duergar from the controls, settled in behind the wheel, and started to flick switches off and on. The Mercury Blade began to quiet as non-essential systems powered down, and even the engines cycled slower.
Before long, everyone could hear that hiss as the ship pushed its way through the stellar dust.
“With a ship this massive, they won’t even register us,” Eliard said confidently, slipping the Mercury back through the nebula, falling behind smaller asteroids before he micro-controlled the booster rockets and glided toward the belly of the gas-harvester. He matched the orbits and the thrust of the Mercury Blade and the harvester perfectly, snugging as close as he could to a series of block-like protuberances from the lower hull without actually touching the giant vessel. When he was sure that he had matched their engine output, he locked the controls to follow the harvester and leaned back.
“They’ll have a hard time finding us with all this dust and energy diffusion from their own ship.” El said with a smile. “We’ll hitch a ride to Lashar, and then do the same to the containers heading out to Armcore Prime!”
9
Interlude II: Captain Farlow
Once-General Farlow massaged his sore knuckles and wondered if he should have hit the man quite so hard. His knuckles were scuffed and grazed, and he was sure that they would probably swell up before the shift was out.
Oh well. The man on the edge of his sixties sighed. Sometimes, discipline comes at a price. He looked at himself in the mirror in the clipper-scout’s bathroom. Crow’s feet. Tightly drawn skin stretching over his cheekbones. Several days of white stubble already spreading along his jawline.
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