by Gem Jackson
Still, it was better to err on the side of caution. Maybe he could unbalance things a little over the coming weeks. Even if she was uncertain about him, his identity should stand up to scrutiny as far as Titan. After that, well, what did it matter if she uncovered him? There were going to be fireworks either way.
Anton and the agents had been informed that they would be dining with the Captain that evening. It would be a kind of meet-and-greet combined with an informal briefing over plans for the next few weeks. They were to eat at eight o’clock ship time, which left Anton with a while to organise his new accommodation.
He unpacked his clothing—a diplomat’s attire. An evening suit, which he would need later, a trio of formal suits and a small selection of informal clothing all went into the wardrobe. He placed a wash bag onto the sink, shoes and boots into the netted shelving and a tablet onto the bed. He retrieved a small collection of books and stacked them on the desk. He’d be damned if he had to spend the duration of the trip socialising in the mess with the officers. He could already feel his brain rotting at the thought of watching endless re-runs of cheap American comedies and cheaper British imitations.
Finally, he retrieved the compact mech-printer, composite spools and data-sticks. He stroked the surface of the oblong machine. The fight with Hospers, the loss of face before the Captain, they were all worthwhile to get this aboard. Taking the Enigma had been a masterwork, but this would be his pièce de résistance. They wouldn’t see what hit them.
Once he was happy that everything was present he bundled the objects from the bed into a single bag and tucked it under the others in a large locker.
With the room secure Anton got ready for the meal, taking extra care to dress as formally as possible with the clothes he had brought. He wanted to make an impression. Once ready he picked up one of the paperbacks from the desk, a well-thumbed copy of Kant’s Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. It was a slim volume and so after an hour Anton was well into the final section. He admired Kant’s unshakable belief in absolute, fixed morality. This is right and that is wrong. No arguments.
Kant treated morality as if it were as much a product of rationality as mathematics. As if morals had some kind of objective existence out in the world like numbers. You can’t point to them, but they are definitely there somewhere. Two plus two equals four. It doesn’t matter who you are, it just does. Stealing is wrong. It doesn’t matter who you are, it just is.
For Anton this only worked while there were people around who didn’t disagree; You can’t hit someone over the head with your ethics if they don’t accept them. You can throw two stones at someone and then two more to show how it really does make four. How do you do that with murder? The failure of morality was down to the simple fact that no matter how strong the consensus on a moral rule, all it took was one person to disagree, to say “No. You’re wrong about that, stealing is acceptable. Murder is acceptable.” Still. The man had conviction, Anton had to give him that. Duty above all else. Do good, not because it feels nice, or out of friendship or familial obligation, but because it is the right thing to do.
He looked at his surroundings. Everything about the ship screamed military, from the grey washed walls to the meagre, thin towels. Duty, obligation, honour. These things are in the very bones of the military mindset; it was straightforward and inflexible. Anton loved that unbending, intransigent approach. You could make plans and build on such an ingrained way of thinking. It was predictable and when things were predictable, that gives control and with control there is power. And when one has power, there is… well… anything you want, really.
With a knock from outside the hatch, Ramis indicated it was time to go. The three guests and their escort moved through the ship to the Captain’s quarters. From the dimmed lighting Anton guessed they had moved into the ‘evening’ of the ship's artificial diurnal cycle. Space travel played havoc with hormones levels unless carefully modulated and so throughout the Solar System, wherever human beings settled, they attempted to preserve something of Earth’s twenty-four-hour day. Eventually they reached their destination and Ramis left.
Captain Bryant welcomed the three of them into his room and gestured to a small, oblong table set with six places. Anton did most of the chatting on the way to the meal, occasionally interrupted by a question from Tariq who seemed more relaxed after a chance to freshen up. September was quiet. You didn’t need to be an expert in reading body language to understand that she didn’t want to be there. She was the only one of the six present who hadn’t dressed formally. It was strange seeing her in the flesh. After years of keeping tabs on her investigations, it was unreal to be sat just a few feet away.
There were three members of the crew at the meal. There was the Captain, who stood talking to Tariq, Predovnik was there too, already sat at the table looking blankly at Anton. Also sat at the table was another officer; a woman, not young, but not middle-aged either. She held herself confidently and was clearly at ease in the company of the senior officers.
The Captain spotted Anton looking at the woman and came over to introduce them.
“Diplomat McVeigh, I don’t believe you have met Major Jemimah Board, the ships SIntO.”
Anton shook the woman’s hand, “Pleased to meet you. SIntO?” She had a firm handshake and a disarming smile.
“Senior Intelligence Officer,” she said. “The Captain asked me to come along this evening to answer any questions you may have. Yourself and the agents, that is.”
“Great.” It was September. “No dinner party is complete without three intelligence officers.” She took her seat, followed by Tariq and the others. Anton put himself down between Tariq and the Captain. He smiled at Predovnik, who did not reciprocate.
The Captain went to his desk and pulled a bottle from one of the drawers in his desk.
“Can I offer anybody a drink? We don’t normally carry much in the way of alcohol, but I’ve come into possession of something rather special.”
“Well,” said Anton, “I wouldn’t say no to a drop of the hard stuff.”
“Yes, well, this isn’t just any old mash and potato juice, is it agent Long?” He proffered the bottle towards her.
“Ah. I see.” She inspected the bottle and passed it back.
“Talisker ten year,” the Captain announced to the room, “not something I come across all that often.”
Anton looked between the Captain and September. There was something going on here and for once he was unsure what it was. Tariq shifted nervously. The Captain looked pleased with himself.
“Well done, Captain.” She muttered something and turned from Bryant, instead addressing the others at the table. “What the Captain is trying to do is knock me off balance by producing the bottle of whisky I had confiscated as we boarded—”
Bryant interrupted her. “You threatened to shoot a member of my crew if it wasn’t returned.”
“I made a threat whilst holding a gun.” She rolled her head backward. “It’s not the same thing.”
“You threatened Master Hospers with a gun?” It was Predovnik.
“Of course. I wasn’t going to threaten the marines. They don’t think as much. It takes longer for them to cotton on.” Anton found himself laughing with her. They were the only ones. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said to Predovnik, “I was handing my gun over at the time. That’s all.”
“You’re supposed to be an APSA agent. Who the hell have we allowed on board?” Predovnik looked back and forth between September and the Captain who was merrily filling their glasses.
“You have no idea,” said Anton.
Tariq interjected. “I’m sorry about my partner Captain, her approach can be, let’s say, idiosyncratic.” Tariq’s tone reminded Anton of a parent apologising on behalf of a naughty child.
Another awkward silence settled over the room.
“What are we eating tonight?” asked Anton. Food had been in short supply since the orbital and he was hungry. The Captain perked
up at the mention of food.
“A pasta starter I believe, followed by lamb chops marches style.”
“Marches style?” Anton asked.
“It means pan fried in wine before being coated in an egg yolk and lemon mixture at the very end.” Tariq responded quickly. “Is your chef Italian, Captain?”
“No, but it is Italian Wednesday.”
September planted her empty glass in the middle of the table, “Another for me please, Captain.”
“Of course.” Bryant filled her glass again and Anton realised he hadn’t tasted the whisky yet. He took a mouthful of the amber liquid and held it for a second. The fiery burning on the back of his tongue gave way to a smoky, caramel aftertaste before the familiar warmth on swallowing. He closed his eyes and for a moment he could almost feel the crackle of the fire and creak of his leather wingback chair in his study.
“Beautiful,” he said. “I’ll take another dram if you’re offering?” He proffered his glass to the Captain who took it and poured a measure.
“I’ve always wondered exactly what a dram is,” said the Captain, handing back the glass.
“A measure pleasing to both the guest and the host.” Anton took a sip as the Captain nodded at the definition. “This really is excellent stuff, agent Long.”
The hatch opened and a crewman entered, pushing a trolley with the starter. It was a spicy tomato pasta meal with slices of hot, Italian, sausage. Tariq explained it was an arrabiatta.
Food had never been high on Anton’s list of priorities in life. It was fuel, nothing more. Protein, carbohydrates and fat. It kept you going, that’s all. Still, as a diplomat, he imagined he ought to take more of an interest and quizzed Tariq further, who in turn offered to show him how to cook one in the ship's galley.
“If that could be arranged, Captain?”
“I think you may have mistaken my warship for a cruise liner, agent Abbas.” The Captain paused for laughter as the joke landed. “Can I suggest you get cookery lessons on the return leg, perhaps?”
“Are we getting to this briefing or what?” September pushed her empty plate away and folded her arms. “This is lovely and all, but I hear on the grapevine,” she pointed at Bryant, “that you have some new intelligence.”
“I agree,” said Anton, “aside from all this nonsense with my yacht, I would appreciate knowing just when we will get to Titan. Predovnik here—”
“Commander Predovnik” corrected the Captain.
“—Commander Predovnik seems to be under the impression that we’re going to Ceres. That can’t be right, surely?” Anton knew that it wasn’t a mistake. It was too much of a coincidence. His team had taken the Enigma around Ceres. They must have slipped up somewhere and let something out. That was the problem with using extremists. The strength of a person’s blind faith was inversely proportionate to their ability to get basic tasks done without fuck-ups.
“Okay, let’s get to business.” The Captain nodded at a crewman who expertly collected the dishes. Bryant asked for the main to be served twenty minutes later. When they were on their own again Jemimah Board began the briefing.
“Unfortunately, Diplomat, we are heading to Ceres. This isn’t ideal in terms of our ultimate mission at Titan—”
Anton interrupted her. “Damn right it isn’t!”
“—but recently we received fresh information regarding the Enigma.” Board switched on a screen across on the far wall. Anton looked around the table. For the first time September had put down her drink. She looked switched on. Board continued.
“One of our ships in the second battle group intercepted a fragment of data a few weeks ago. It’s not much, but analysis has identified it as originating from the Enigma. They didn’t think much of it at the time, but since the attack on Lancaster someone over there put two and two together and sent it our way. Long, Abbas, I’ll make sure you both get a copy.”
Board dimmed the lights and turned to the screen. What followed was a series of captured video stills and a few seconds of corrupted playback. Interference mired the visuals and the sound. The images showed a man talking into a camera. He wore a uniform as did those in the background. All of them looked extremely ill. The man addressing the camera had sunken, bloodshot eyes and sallow, reddened skin. His eyes lacked focus. A few of the stills captured him turned away from the camera, either coughing or vomiting; either way, there was blood. There were only a few seconds of uninterrupted playback and even then the sound was incomplete.
“[static]… ole crew… [static]… non-viral… [static]… adiation levels normal… [static]”
Board played it through twice before switching the lights back on and continuing.
“The Enigma was due to make a pass close to Ceres to exchange some data bundles. It didn’t. Ceres station has reported that it appeared in their vicinity, but never made contact before it jumped away again.”
“What was going on in the clip? With the crew?” asked Tariq.
“We don’t know. Medics have analysed the video and agree that visually at least, the crew are showing all the signs of acute radiation sickness.”
“But it said that radiation levels were normal, didn’t it?”
“That was our interpretation too. While we cannot be certain on only a sentence fragment, there are well established procedures for high radiation exposure. As far as we can tell none were instigated.”
“That’s how he got the ship.” It was September. “Whatever we’ve just seen there is how you steal a warship. So we go to Ceres? Start the investigation there?”
“That is correct,” continued Board, “the jump calculations should be complete within a few hours. Ceres is a high traffic area of the Solar System. Someone should know something.”
Anton let some of his frustration spill out. It was pointless pretending everything was all right, when in fact, he was furious with whoever screwed up and allowed that transmission to leak. It was draining supressing strong emotions when undercover, and that led to mistakes. Better to use them, to redirect them.
“This is shit. It’s a shit plan. We have a job to do. We have to get to Titan. Ceres is grimmer than a trucker’s ball-sack, you won’t find anything there.”
“You seem quite sure of that Forest. Any reason you know this?” asked September.
“Of course I’m sure of it. For a start, from what she’s saying,” Anton gestured at Board, “the Enigma never even stopped at Ceres. It just floated past. If it came within half a million kilometres, I’d be very surprised. Secondly, have you ever been to Ceres? No? Well, I have and it’s a shit-hole. And that’s using carefully measured diplomatic language. It’s like California, only before California became all shiny and nice. It’s California three hundred years ago when it was just rocks, snakes and the occasional bout of typhoid. Rough as fuck and full of miners with more fingers than teeth. What, exactly, do you expect to learn in a place like that?”
“Oh, you would be surprised what I can learn, Mr McVeigh. I like places with rocks. I enjoy lifting them up and looking underneath.” She knocked back her Talisker. “I’ll get another if it’s no trouble?”
“Yeah, well, that’s fine. So when we arrive at Titan in another month and there’s been an insurrection, we’ll just explain to the government ‘sorry we couldn’t be there sooner, but agent Long was collecting statements from people a half a million kilometres away from a crime that may or may not have been happening at the time’. Are you sure that you’re an intelligence officer?”
Captain Bryant raised his voice to make himself heard over the two of them.
“My, my. Aren’t tempers running high this evening? As it happens McVeigh, the order to make for Ceres came from Earth, so stamping your feet about it won’t get you anywhere. For the record, I also think it’s a waste of time, but the powers that be don’t want the trail running cold on this one. And in fairness to our colleagues at APSA, if we’re going to waste our time on anything at the moment it should be on catching whoever attacked
the Lancaster.”
“How long will we have at Ceres?” said September.
“No more than forty-eight hours. The Diplomat is right. Given a decent jump in the morning it will still take maybe a fortnight to reach Ceres and then another two, two-and-a-half weeks after that to get to Titan. That’s assuming we don’t have a bad jump. Forty-eight hours—I would make the most of it.”
The exchange settled as the main meal was served. It gave Anton a little time to reflect. His outrage before had not been entirely feigned. This trip was turning into one kick in the balls after another. The diversion to Ceres was not unforeseen, so it wasn’t fatal, but it wasn’t ideal either. For a start, it would mean spending an extra two weeks or so with Long and Abbas. He had absolutely nothing to gain from being near them. On the other hand, though they might not realise it, they were ideally placed to pick apart his fake identity and persecute the man beneath.
The transmission from the Enigma was sloppy, but Anton was long past expecting things to run like clockwork. Intelligence could be measured by how a person planned but character was seen in how a person reacted when those plans went awry.
As the meal progressed, with the tender lamb going down beautifully, discussion turned to the attack on Lancaster orbital. The captain was expressing his disbelief.
“I’m just shocked that Lancaster has gone. I remember seeing it as a newly commissioned officer. It must be twenty-five years ago now?”
“Twenty three,” said Predovnik.
“Twenty three, that’s right. I was a warfare officer back then, serving on a frigate. A tidy little thing she was, great at chasing down little pirate vessels. Terrific acceleration. Very good power to mass ratio. It meant we could get right up close and board the buggers.” The Captain paused, lost in thought. “We used to pass by it when we came back to Earth. I couldn’t believe how big it was. Nobody had ever seen anything like it before. It was supposed to last another century and a half. People had their lives on board.”
