by David Adams
Ezhova was career navy. She had sailed with Confederate ships for over half her life, spending most of her career as Captain Alexi’s XO. Ezhova had been with her every step of the way, Ezhova and Alexi. They were a team, so the sight of more fire and death was business as usual.
She’d been to too many star systems to list, cleaning up pirates and bandits and the occasional UE ship. This was a new one: rebels. Another enemy to test her resolve.
The whole process was routine to her by now. Try to secure a diplomatic solution, and when that fell through, make sure the inevitable battle was won.
After all, she could fight a thousand battles and win, but she only had to lose once.
Hercules, the ship’s cat, jumped into her lap. She patted his back as he kneaded her, sharp claws digging into her legs. He had a custom little cat-jacket, styled like their uniforms. It was crooked.
“Hercules, did your uniform get messed up?” Ezhova straightened it, gently tugging the clothing back into alignment. “There you go, boy. Who’s my special man, yes? You are, comrade.”
The chime on her door rang. Hercules leapt off her.
Well, that had been short lived. Ezhova stood up, brushing orange cat fur off her lap, and then straightened her back—baby-talk voice for the cat gone, all business in an instant. “Come in.”
The door hissed faintly as it opened. Lieutenant Lukina, one of her pilots. Chainsaw, apparently because of her snoring. Ezhova made a point to know as many of her crew as possible, personally if she could.
It helped to write the condolence letters when they died.
“XO,” Ezhova said, saluting crisply.
“Good evening, Lieutenant Lukina.” Ezhova’s eyes flicked over the other woman’s shoulder, to the open door behind her. “Please come in and make it snappy. You’re letting the old lady smell out.”
The pilot laughed, genuinely, and stepped inside. “You aren’t old, ma’am. Not as old as Alexi, at least, who I’m pretty sure is some kind of vampire.”
The moment the door was closed, Ezhova dropped the air of requisite military formality. “Wrong. I am old. And I plan on getting a lot older, something I can’t do if I don’t know what the hell’s going on down there. This ship is going to be mine, one day, but I’d rather that day be later than sooner.” Her voice softened. “Talk to me. Words. Explanations.”
Chainsaw pinched the bridge of her nose. “Well,” she said, “I don’t think Pavlov’s crazy.”
“He doesn’t have to be crazy to blow up the damn facility, but it would probably explain a few things.” Ezhova pointed to the monitor. “So. Why’s the Confederation’s building burning, flygirl?”
Chainsaw took a deep breath. Ezhova couldn’t help but scowl ever so slightly; Chainsaw had that look about her, the look of someone about to say something she didn’t want to hear.
But Ezhova needed to hear it. She had to know.
“There’s some kind of virus down there that drives people crazy. It’s transmitted by touch, and it makes them…well. I can’t say Pavlov was right to blow up the base, but my stowaway, Truby, wasn’t lying when he said that the Separatists have been, at least in part, affected by it.”
Bad news. Ezhova had arranged for her people to interrogate the boy already—separately to Pavlov, of course—just to see if their stories matched.
She had hoped, somewhat fervently, that they hadn’t.
“What’s the play here, XO?” Chainsaw asked. Hercules bumped around the pilot’s legs, rubbing his uniformed side against her thigh. “What does the captain want?”
Now, that was hard to say. This Hammerfall incident was a new one for her—biological weapons. It was safe to say it was a weapon of some description. Some UE trick? Something the Separatists had cooked up that had gotten away from them?
Why had seen been left to sort this one out on her own?
“Do you think Pavlov’s infected?” Ezhova asked.
“No,” said Chainsaw. “If so, he’s displaying absolutely none of the signs.”
She put a finger to her chin. “Good.” Ezhova blew out a groan, sitting back in her chair. “Bring him up to my office. I want to debrief him personally.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Chainsaw. “I’ll page Major Yanovna and have him brought straight to you. No delays.”
“Very good,” said Ezhova, and then she closed her eyes for a moment. “And send the captain a message, too. I want her kept in the loop, even if she doesn’t want to be bothered by…” It was difficult to believe Alexi had described it this way. “This ‘regional dispute’.”
“I think,” said Chainsaw, “it’s more than that.”
Indeed. Ezhova inclined her head. “I see. So, what’s your take on all this?”
Chainsaw shuffled nervously. “Me? You’re…asking me, ma’am?”
“Yes. You’ve been down to the surface. You’ve talked to Pavlov. You’re closer to all of this. Tell me honestly, what the fuck’s happening in my war?”
For a moment, she thought Chainsaw might bullshit her, but that sense faded. “We’re in the eye of the shit-hurricane,” said Chainsaw. “Things are quiet now, but they’re going to get a lot worse.”
Don’t they always, though?
Ezhova pulled open one of the drawers on her desk. “So,” she said, clasping the grey vial within and placing it on her desk, “what do you think should be done with this?”
The way Chainsaw looked at it—as though the liquid were volatile, bubbling magma—told her everything she needed to know. “Destroy it,” said Chainsaw. “Immediately.”
Using a single finger, Ezhova pushed it toward her. “You do it,” she said. “I will send word to Ivanski that your ship is to be cleared for departure on my authority. No one else will be notified. Your orders are as follows: depart the Varyag, perform a q-jump toward Syrene’s star, and throw this fucking thing into it. Photograph its destruction. Return and show the photograph to me, only. I want to be sure.”
Chainsaw, with palpable reluctance, picked up the vial and slipped it into her chest pocket. “I will,” she said. “You can count on me.”
Ezhova waved her hand. “Very good, thank you. Dismissed.”
Chainsaw saluted again, opened the door, and stepped out into the ship’s corridors.
Ezhova went back to watching the charred remains of Hammerfall station smoulder in the blackened ashes that had once been vibrant jungle. Hercules jumped back into her lap and she slowly patted him, watching the angry red embers glow until the ship’s orbit took it out of sight of the station.
Alexi needed to get involved. This was something they needed to solve together.
But she knew how the old lady felt. Tired. Worn out, even.
Way, way too old for this.
CHAPTER 46
Pavlov’s Cell
“PAVLOV, PAVLOV, PAVLOV.” YANOVNA LEANED forward, putting her elbows on her knees. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”
What could he say? He’d already told her everything he knew. “Let me go?” said Pavlov, smiling helplessly. “Give me a parade in Druzhba City, and cover my chest with medals?”
“That isn’t going to happen.”
Pavlov rolled his eyes. “Well, I knew that, Major.”
“At least,” said Yanovna, brushing her uniform off briskly and slipping her tablet into her breast pocket, “there’s not much chance of a parade.”
Her meaning was lost on him. He blinked in confusion. “Sorry?”
“Come with me.” Yanovna touched the side of his cell, and the steel bars of his prison slid into the floor. She gestured to the guard. “You as well, Andrey.”
Confused, but hopeful, Pavlov stepped out of the cell and fell into step behind Yanovna, and the guard behind him. They left the brig, turning left toward the aft of the ship.
“Where are we going, ma’am?” asked Pavlov.
“You’re being sent to Kiev Prime,” said Yanovna, her boots clicking as she marched through the wide, winding corri
dors of the Varyag. “The dropship Warhound is waiting to transport you to a proper trial. You’re the military police’s problem now.”
Well, shit.
There was nothing more he could do here. The captain…that was one option. “I want to talk to Alexi.”
The captain had a reputation for fairness and understanding, although she was hard and uncompromising with those who crossed her. Older than the ship, older than anything, Alexi was just too stubborn to die.
Hungarians were like that. Tough bastards.
“Not possible,” said Yanovna, crushing that hope pretty quickly. “But I’ll talk to her and make sure she puts in a good word for you, given your…extraordinary story.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Pavlov. His throat hurt from all the talking, and the rubbing alcohol hadn’t helped, but if necessary, he was ready to tell the whole story again. Minus some of the more personal details. Yanovna’s reaction had been…remarkably subdued given the nature of his story, but perhaps some of the more…superfluous details would not prove helpful when putting his case to the captain. Babbling about the feelings of trees. Discussing the voice of God in his head. Stupid jokes.
Yes, he should really tell fewer jokes. He wasn’t that funny.
Yanovna led him out of the ship’s inner core and toward the outer rings. Pavlov had been awake for so long, fighting for so long, surviving on adrenaline for so long…recounting the raw pain, the hurt, of all of it, had been intensely draining, and the drinking had taken a toll on his alertness, as had whatever the virus had done to him. Eventually.
His feet felt like they were made of lead, dragging along the deck, barely able to keep him upright. His eyes felt dry and they hurt. He rubbed them, trying to focus. Just had to get to Kiev Prime, and then get a word to the captain. Tell an abridged version of his story all over again. Make her understand, somehow, as he’d made Yanovna understand…
The further they got away from the brig, the more his fears eased.
Everything was going to be okay.
They walked from the inside of the ship toward the outside. The command centres, CIC, Captain and XO’s offices, were all in the armoured, central core of the ship. The airlocks were on the outer hull. The further out they got the quieter things became. The outer corridors were almost empty.
“Ma’am,” asked Pavlov, “can I make a request before I get transferred?”
“What?”
He clicked his tongue. “Booze. Just in case the dropship crew…the transport…just in case they have the craziness too.”
“No,” said Yanovna, still walking, putting one boot-clad foot in front of the other. “You know better than to ask me that, Pavlov.”
“I guess,” he said. There was no way the crew would be crazy. It would be okay. It was going to be okay.
“You know,” said Yanovna, “I’m really sorry it came to this.” She stopped, turning to face him. They had reached the port-side airlock. “I really wanted to let you go. I tried, Pavlov. I want you to know I put myself at great risk to help you.”
Squinting, Pavlov glanced out the small, round window in the airlock door.
There was only space beyond, black velvet full of twinkling stars.
There was no dropship.
“Then,” said Yanovna, “you had to go and mention Vitaly Three.”
Andrey grabbed his shoulders. The man’s hands were strong. Stronger than Pavlov had ever imagined a human could be.
Pavlov jerked his shoulder away, adrenaline smashing his lethargy. He went to protest, to shout for help, but the airlock hissed open and he was tossed inside.
Yanovna sealed it, standing in front of the tiny porthole, looking in. Pavlov climbed to his feet, squaring off against her.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” said Pavlov. “You set the bombs. You recruited the fuckwads from Vitaly Three. You…you’ve been here all along.”
“Of course.”
Pavlov thumped on the metal. “Hey. Hey! Anyone out there? Hey!”
Yanovna smiled that wide, happy smile. “You can shout,” she said. “Scream until your lungs burst. Nobody will hear you. I ordered this section to be evacuated.”
That settled that, then. Nobody was coming to save him.
Well, shit.
“Why?” he asked. “Why kill me now?”
“It’s interesting you ask,” said Yanovna. “We wanted to offer the humans a chance to be a part of what we are. A part of our joy. But humans reject us when they see us; they look upon the smiles of the people we integrate, the people we save, and they stand out as unnatural to them. Your species is intrinsically suspicious of happy people. Why?” Yanovna tilted her head curiously. “I think humans are intrinsically unhappy, and anyone who is happy attracts suspicion. An uncanny valley of emotions.”
Mindless babble. Pavlov had to keep her talking, though. Talking was what was keeping him alive. “You do stand out,” he said.
“And yet we are capable of change. Of keeping our joy in check, of adapting to better infiltrate you. We learned. I was able to fool you, wasn’t I?”
“I was super hung-over,” said Pavlov. “Rubbing alcohol makes you super sick.”
“Other humans have similar weaknesses. They, too, will be exploited.” Yanovna’s hand moved to the outer door flush. “All I need to know is that it was the alcohol in your blood that prevented your…joining. Perhaps it was a combination of your biochemistry as well? Who can say? In any event, we will recover your body, in time, our scientists will go to work on this issue, and it will be overcome. I know all I need to know from you. You have served your usefulness to us.”
“I can still be useful,” said Pavlov.
Yanovna merely smiled.
Options. He needed one. There was no way to open an airlock from the inside…just no way. It couldn’t be done, by design. Otherwise, that whole section of the ship would vent. He didn’t have a space suit. He didn’t have his armour. He had nothing except the bulge in his pocket. Pavlov retrieved it.
Dmitriev’s oxygen injector.
“Goodbye, Pavlov,” said Yanovna, and she pushed the flush.
CHAPTER 47
Cockpit
Dropship Anarchy
CHAINSAW COMPLETED THE LAST OF the pre-flight takeoff, and then uncoupled Anarchy from the Varyag’s starboard airlock. Flying with a spacesuit was always uncomfortable. Worse, they had only one pocket. The grey vial took pride of place, sealed in with Velcro.
“What’s with the suit?” asked Anne. “And where are we going?”
“It’s a special mission,” said Chainsaw, easing the ship away from the huge metal wall that was the Varyag’s hull. “We’re heading out to the local star. Prep the ship for q-jump once we’re clear of the Varyag.”
“Of course,” said Anne, her tone flat. “Dare I ask what the nature of the mission is?”
She couldn’t tell her AI any more than she needed to know. Chainsaw knew it was weird to talk to her computer, but…eh. Everyone was a little weird. “Trash disposal.”
“Well,” said Anne, “that happily answers nothing.”
Carefully pulling back on the stick, Chainsaw lifted the craft up and over the long, thick, blocky hull of the Varyag, drifting over the rows of her mag-rail guns. Lots of people considered the Varyag ugly. Not her.
Then again, Chainsaw liked ships. She drifted over to the hangar bay, on the port side, seeing the damage. Seeing how close they had come to being annihilated in the bomb blast. Barely a second later and Anarchy would have been completely inside the hangar bay, enveloped and blasted to pieces.
“I hope that kid’s okay,” said Anne.
“He’s fine,” said Chainsaw, trying to sound more confident than she really felt. “Believe me. The XO’s going to take good care of him.”
“What about the spetsnaz we rescued?” Anne was full of questions, now, it seemed. “We went through a lot to save him.”
Of that, Chainsaw was quite certain. “Unfortunately, I don’t think
I’ll run into Pavlov again.”
She sat there, floating idly in space, examining the burned mouth of the hangar bay, as a body thumped into the canopy.
The shock caused her to almost jump out of the cockpit. It was a body. Floating in space, seemingly having been shot out of the port airlock. A body holding a tiny needle.
A body she recognised.
“Open the rear hatch,” said Chainsaw, checking that her helmet was on tightly. “Decompress! We’re going to grab Pavlov!”
“He’s clearly dead,” said Anne, but she did as she was commanded. The console lit up, green lights turning red as the exit ramp opened, the dropship kicking as the atmosphere was violently shot into space.
Chainsaw unstrapped herself, magnetic boots clinking as she made her way to the passenger compartment hatch, pulling it open. A field of stars greeted her, the ship’s rear exposed to vacuum.
The air of the cockpit rushed past her, almost blowing her out into space, but she held on until it passed. Anarchy lurched as Anne turned, bringing her around until the ship’s rear faced the body.
Ice crystals had formed around Pavlov’s mouth and eyes, the sweat on his body boiling away. His body seized and jerked, twitching in the empty black of space.
Anne scooped him up, practically throwing his body into Chainsaw’s arms. She grabbed him and held tight.
“Close the hatch,” she said, “re-pressurise. Engage gravity. Hurry!”
The hatch sealed. Vents pumped white streams of air into the passenger hold. Chainsaw drifted down to the floor, holding Pavlov’s head and protecting it. He was in a bad way, lips blue as the sky, his face swollen due to the burst blood vessels within.
“C’mon, you stupid bastard,” she said, “you’re too dumb to die.” Chainsaw laid him out on the metal and ran, awkwardly, over to the bright red medikit, ripping it off the wall.
