Rescue at Waverly

by T J Mott

  Marcell remained seated, leaning forward from his seat and manipulating the touchscreen of the conference table. “Thanks. Sorry for the heat, but this is a very important mission and we’re going to have to run pretty hot to get there in time.”

  A virtual meter-long starship faded into existence above the table, rotating slowly in mid-air. It looked like it might have been an old military cruiser in a past life. Two gigantic hyperdrives hung in pods off the aft ends on the port and starboard sides, held away from the main hull to reduce heat transfer to the rest of the starship. The aft end had airlock doors for several hangars, while the main fusion thruster nozzles jutted out between them. Several turrets dotted the centerline on the top and bottom hulls, along with many oddly-bare spots that probably used to have turrets. Overall, it looked similar to many of the old ex-military vessels that had been retired and sold into civilian use.

  “This is the Cassandra,” stated Marcell. “It’s classed as a cruiser, but most of the weapons have been removed. The interior has been refit to serve as a freighter. It does a fair amount of smuggling and occasionally works with a few pirate gangs.” He paused to read from a display screen embedded in the table’s surface. “Among other things, it currently has a load of slaves. It’s stopping at the Waverly Depot for a brief refuel in about seven days’ time. We have a very narrow window to intercept it and rescue one of these slaves.”

  The mission’s objective surprised Reynolds. The Admiral often sent his forces on quirky or bizarre missions, but rescuing slaves was abnormal. Rescuing a single slave, even more so.

  Marcell paused, as if to compose himself. He tapped the tabletop a few times, and the starship was replaced with the flat image of a woman’s face. She might have been pretty, but in the image she was filthy, exhausted, and disheveled. Her hair was an unkempt mess of dirty brunette strands, her face a mottled, sickly pale, her eyes distant and unfocused, almost lifeless.

  “This woman,” he continued, and Reynolds thought he heard his voice almost crack, “is named Adelia Devaux.” Reynolds studied the admiral’s face and noticed a faint wetness creeping into his eyes, though it could have been sweat. “And I knew her from Earth.”

  Chapter 3

  Complete silence struck the room as the staff processed the phrase. Captain Reynolds looked around at the others. Most of them stared at the table in minor embarrassment. None of them looked directly at Marcell. Reynolds knew they were all thinking the exact same thing, mentally asking questions about their employer but politely remaining quiet in his presence.

  For as long as Reynolds had known him, Thaddeus Marcell had claimed to come from the mythical world of Earth, and had obsessively devoted a significant portion of his resources to searching for it. Most outsiders who knew of his search had written him off as yet another crazy treasure hunter. Those who worked under him had strong doubts about his sanity. Personally, Reynolds suspected some kind of brain injury, or a major amnesia event, that somehow those parts of his memory got scrambled up with various legends and myths and children’s stories to the point that he actually believed he was from Earth.

  In the present though, Marcell seemed perfectly rational and mentally competent, which is why Reynolds remained under his employment. But his memory, at least for events prior to about ten years ago, was clearly damaged and couldn’t be taken at face value.

  The Caracal’s chief gunner, a relatively new hire who had never met Marcell before, was the first to break the silence. “Um…” he muttered uneasily.

  Marcell looked up. His expression wavered. “Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re all thinking…just bear with me…this is the first lead I’ve ever found on Earth, in all my years of searching.” He gulped visibly. “Adelia is currently a slave…a sex slave…” He looked down at the tabletop, and his voice grew quiet and shaky. “I want you guys to disable the Cassandra near Waverly Depot. We don’t know her precise route or jump points, or even her next stop, so we have to make our move there while she refuels.” He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands, propped up by his elbows resting on the table. His voice sounded slightly muffled behind his hands. “Disable her, and the Marines will board. Find Adelia, return to the Caracal, and then we run like hell before the Depot can respond.”

  Marcell slowly stood and then walked out of the room without making eye contact with any of his officers. Everyone’s eyes tracked him as he sulked away.

  ***

  The surface of the dark, isolated asteroid was almost entirely barren, with a few man-made exceptions. Most of its inhabitants lived and worked in the tight cluster of domes, hangars, and tunnels which composed the main base on the surface. Another base nearly a kilometer away, concealed from view by the sharp horizon of the small planetoid, was used by Colonel Halle to train and administer the infantry battalion known as Marcell’s Marines. And some distance past that, nearly on the opposite side of the asteroid, were the facilities which housed necessary infrastructure such as the asteroid’s power plant, waste management, and water reprocessing.

  A patchwork artificial gravity system hid beneath certain parts of the asteroid’s surface, making it possible to comfortably exist in the common areas of the base. Most of the asteroid was not covered by this system, however, and due to its negligible natural gravity these expanses were generally off-limits as a matter of safety. One could simply jump off the asteroid’s surface and never return.

  But the asteroid was far more than it appeared to be at first. It concealed great wealth, hidden and unknown to all except for those at the very top of the Organization.

  Among other things, Admiral Marcell was an obsessive collector. While the search for Earth was always his main goal, he loved to acquire and stockpile information, technology, equipment, and weapons. And so to support this, the topside domes and buildings were rooted in a labyrinthine network of warehouses, hangars, laboratories, and datacenters located deep underground with limited access to the rest of the base and most of its personnel. In theory, the most sensitive underground establishments could remain hidden for quite some time should Admiral Marcell’s headquarters asteroid ever be discovered and conquered.

  Also secluded slightly underground, close to a pair of small underground hangars which opened into space through a nearby cliff wall, was Gray Fleet’s groundside bureau, where many of the fleet’s analysts and support staff worked. And deep within these office facilities was Commodore Cooper’s small, windowless private office. The assortments of strange trinkets, artifacts, and artwork he had collected over the years which decorated the walls and shelves bore a fuzzy layer of fine dust, a testament to the fact that this room sat unused and unoccupied for months at a time when he was away with Gray Fleet.

  “I need exclusive access to Hangar 7,” he was explaining to Lieutenant Carr, the officer whom the base’s Hangar Department had selected to help facilitate Gray Fleet’s needs after Cooper’s arrival the night before.

  “There’s berthing space there but I can’t get you exclusive,” the Lieutenant repeated. “Senior Captain Covier’s Cutlass is being overhauled there. But I can give you Hangar 10, it’s completely empty with a blank schedule for months.”

  Cooper was standing behind his bare, dusty desk for the first time in months. He shuffled his feet and grunted. “No!” he said gruffly. Hangar 10 was an underground hangar used for long-term storage and maintenance work, and was not particularly easy to maneuver ships in and out of. “I need a topside hangar so we can do quick turnaround on flight tests. 7 also has the space I need for storage and test equipment. And it needs to be empty.” He placed his hands on his desk and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Secret stuff,” he added unnecessarily, since anything involving the asteroid was already considered secret.

  Carr examined the tablet he held in his right hand and then folded his arms across his chest, managing to look both disinterested and defiant at the same time. “His ship’s reactor and thrusters are completely disassembled. It’s not flight-worthy and won�
��t be for another six weeks at least. We couldn’t fly it out if we wanted to!”

  “So what? This asteroid masses what, six kilos? Turn off the hangar’s gravity and carry the damn ship if you need to. Besides, why the hell is he taking up an entire Class 2 hangar with a Cutlass?”

  “It was the only convenient opening when he put his ship in for overhaul three weeks ago,” Carr explained, sounding whiny and bordering on insolence.

  Cooper shook his head in frustration. This wasn’t unexpected, though. It always went this way when Gray Fleet was there. Some of the permanent Headquarters staff had very little work to do when the fleets were away. And some of them, Cooper realized, had grown lazy and did their best to avoid work during the busy moments. “Look. Hangar 5 was barely at half capacity when I came in last night. Just move it over there. Get Colonel Halle to send some Marines over if you need help. I’m sure they could use the excitement.”

  The lieutenant sighed heavily, looking like he wasn’t sure if that was serious order or not. “Aye, Commodore.”

  Gray Fleet’s executive officer, Senior Captain Abano, was also present in the room, standing off to Cooper’s side. “Once that hangar is cleared out, contact me and we’ll sort out the logistics. We have quite a pile of equipment to move in.” Carr nodded and left the room. Abano turned to face his boss, shaking his head. “Did you really just order for the Marines to hand-carry a disassembled starship from one hangar to another?” he asked incredulously. “There’s no way that ends well.”

  Cooper began to grin, but before he could answer, the door to the room suddenly opened and another officer burst in. “Commodore! Captain Pichler has been trying to contact you all morning!”

  Cooper raised his eyebrows at the sudden intrusion. “And you are…?”

  “Sorry, sir.” He straightened up and saluted, a gesture which appeared very out-of-place considering the young man wore basic street clothes—Headquarters staff had no uniform or formal dress code. Or formal manners, for that matter. “Ensign Bako, Ops.” His gaze darted around nervously at the small group of high-ranking officers he had just interrupted.

  Cooper glanced at Abano and gave him a subtle wink. “Tell me, Ensign Bako. Is it now standard procedure to barge unexpected and uninvited into senior officer’s offices and shout at a Commodore?”

  Bako gulped visibly and his face started to redden. “No, sir!”

  Cooper squinted slightly. “So, what is standard procedure?”

  “I, uh…” His eyes widened and then he looked down at his feet. “I don’t know, sir.”

  Commander Rapp, who sat silently in one of the chairs in front of Cooper’s desk, held a hand to his face to cover a grin that he couldn’t quite prevent, even though his back was to the ensign.

  Cooper deadpanned his face and slowly walked around his desk towards the messenger. Bako became more and more rigid as the Commodore approached. “How long have you been on Headquarters?”

  “Just…just six weeks,” he stammered in response.

  Cooper stopped right in front of him and studied his terrified face. He was no more than twenty years old, Cooper thought, still just a boy. Then after a moment he let out a laugh and grinned. “I’m just busting your balls. At ease, Ensign!”

  Cooper stepped back towards his desk, chuckling the whole way, and stole a glance at Abano whose cheeks were twitching as he fought back a laugh.

  “There’s no standard procedure here,” Cooper explained. “If I wanted to keep people out, I’d lock the door.” He sat down behind his desk and grinned widely at the embarrassed young man whose jaw now hung open. “I’ve been busy and was going to visit Pichler just before lunch. But since you’re here…did he say what he wanted?”

  “Uh…he wants you to know that you are currently the senior officer at Headquarters and in overall command.”

  Cooper frowned and cocked his head to one side. “Huh? I just talked to Marcell a few hours ago.”

  The redness began to fade from Bako’s face. “Admiral Marcell took a detachment from Blue Fleet and left this morning,” he explained.

  “Hmm.” Cooper stroked his chin. “It’s not like him to leave without telling me about it first. At least he didn’t mention anything when I spoke to him. Any idea where he went?”

  “No, sir. You’d have to ask Captains Pichler or Covier.”

  “Thanks Ensign. Dismissed.”

  Bako turned and left quickly.

  “You enjoy torturing the new guys way too much,” Captain Abano remarked. He looked down as if to examine the carpet where Bako had stood. “I half expected him to wet his pants.”

  Cooper leaned back in his seat and barked out another laugh. “Gives them something to gossip about. Besides, he was trying to act way too formal and military for my liking.” He leaned forward and swiped a layer of dust from his desk with a hand, exposing the computer interface embedded in the desk’s surface. “Let’s find out what spooked Marcell.” He tapped the touchscreen and brought the comm system to life.

  Pichler’s voice emanated from speakers hidden within the desk. “Commodore Cooper, I was wondering when you’d finally answer my calls.”

  “I’ve just been informed that I’m the boss now,” Cooper responded playfully. “So, first order of business. Grab yourself a duster and get down here! My desk was buried under a mountain of dust! I didn’t even know you called until I managed to dig it back out!”

  Abano sat down in the other chair across the desk and rolled his eyes.

  “As I recall,” Pichler said, “Commander Rapp is in charge of all Gray Fleet facilities on the asteroid when his superiors are away. You’d better take your complaint to him.”

  “Hey!” Rapp protested while shifting around in his seat. “I was busy! Coop has me sifting through datachip after datachip full of ridiculous Earth rumors! I don’t have time to crack the whip on your maids!”

  Cooper narrowed his eyes at Rapp. Then he blew across the surface of his desk, sending a small cloud of dust towards the two men sitting across from him. “So, Captain, any idea what Marcell’s up to?” He then held up a hand as if to stifle a response from Abano, who was busy swatting at the air to defend his face from the approaching dust cloud. “That was addressed to the presumably clean captain on the comm, not the now-dirty captain in front of me.”

  “I don’t even want to know what’s going on over there,” Pichler said with a sigh. “Marcell said he had an urgent mission to Waverly, but he didn’t have the time to leave me a flight plan or mission parameters. You probably know more than I do.”

  Cooper frowned. “Waverly? I was just there a month or so ago. When did he leave?”

  “He took four ships from Blue Fleet and jumped out at oh-three-ten this morning.”

  “Wow. That was just a few minutes after I arrived.” His brow wrinkled in concentration as he recalled their brief conversation in the hangar. “He didn’t say anything about a mission to me. I wonder if something in my data dumps set him off.”

  “Well he took a platoon of Marines with him, too. I’ve never seen a platoon wake up, pack, and leave that quickly before. He sure made the Colonel grumpy.”

  “Good point.” Cooper turned to face the annoyed Captain Abano, who had finally resigned his defense against the dust cloud and was now fighting back a sneeze, and pointed a finger at him. “Abano, next order. Go spy on Colonel Halle. If he looks too grumpy and tired, refuse all calls from him until he gets his afternoon nap in. If he still looks too grumpy and tired, I want a covert ops team to sneak in and shoot him with a caf dart.”

  Then he pointed at the other officer. “Rapp, you and your guys start digging through the freshest pile of ‘ridiculous Earth rumors’ that I just brought back. Focus on Waverly. See what’s in there that would convince Marcell to scramble a task force and a platoon of Marines so quickly. Must be something big or obvious, he couldn’t have had long to review the data.”

  “Aye.” Commander Rapp stood and turned to leave.

  Coo
per stabbed a finger back at his executive officer. “And you. Abano. Go break into Pichler’s quarters while he’s on duty today. Look at his letters, diaries, holovid stash, trash cans, and underwear drawer. See what embarrassing things you can find. Then blackmail him so he personally keeps my office clean when we’re away.”

  Abano finally sneezed. He sighed heavily and shook his head. “Do you want me to do that before or after I spy on Halle and shoot him with a caffeine dart?”

  “Oh.” Cooper furrowed his brow as he realized his mistake. “Uh, do both at once. Drag Halle to Pichler’s quarters and he can sleep off the night’s interruption there while you go spelunking in the Captain’s personal stuff. Once you’ve found Pichler’s cheesy love letters or epically soiled underpants or whatever, you can shoot Halle with the caf dart on your way out.”

  “Hey, Commodore?” Pichler’s voice rang from Cooper’s desk. “I’m still on the comm…”

  Chapter 4

  Senior Captain Reynolds had had a number of matters to attend to that day. But after a few rounds around the frigate, a cold meal (all cooking gear was offline to reduce the ship’s heat production), and a lukewarm shower (the water temperature controls were also offline), he searched through the warship. Admiral Marcell was not in his cabin and had not been seen all day. His appearance and attitude at the morning’s briefing greatly concerned Reynolds.

  The ship was in as good a shape as could be expected. Life support had eventually succeeded in cooling the ship’s living spaces. In preparation for the next, much-longer jump, the technicians had cooled the interior to a chilly two degrees, giving the crew a slight buffer against the next jump’s heat. As he walked through the frigate’s corridors, Reynolds could see his own breath.