by Richard Fox
“Maintain orbit. I’m sending a message back to Navarre. You better hope you’re telling the truth,” the security officer said flatly.
“I do have a critical itinerary to keep…and some ship issues—don’t ask, because I’m not telling you over this unsecured, highly unprofessional link you have going here,” Ibarra said. “I’ll just have my crew dock, and we will remain in our ship while you do your checks. You’re welcome.”
“Stand by,” said the hard, emotionless voice.
“I think he pushed the man too far,” Duke muttered to Gor’al, who shifted nervously as he watched the confrontation.
“What do you mean, stand by!” Ibarra shouted into the mic.
“What I’m saying, Keyser Soze, is your docking request is denied.”
“Ridiculous! I told you my ship is having issues that require repair. Why don’t we dock and sort this out man-to-man, bucko!”
“Negative, Scipio. Stay. In. Orbit,” the security officer responded. “Station control, out.”
Duke tightened the cap on his bottle and hid the evidence of his vice before Ibarra looked his way.
“This is harder than it looks, my boy.”
“I’m not your boy. And I thought you said this would be the easy part. What happens if that message reaches Navarre?”
“I have a deal with the Keeper. She’ll disrupt comms back to Navarre. Our stuck-up security friend will get tired of waiting and question me while he stalls,” Ibarra said. “Trust me. And by the way, that’s a disgusting habit.”
Gor’al turned his gaze on Duke and narrowed his eyes. Sniffing the air, he moved closer. “Do you have something to tell me, sniper?”
“Just sitting here minding my own business. Have you mastered your nicotine addiction yet?” Duke asked. “You seem a bit on edge.”
“Have you?” Gor’al asked. “I’m smelling something very similar to dip and personal guilt!” He started to kneel as he gazed at the floor.
Duke waved him back, sitting forward abruptly. “Never mind that. We have a mission. What will happen if Tagawa looks over here and sees us poking around on the floor like a couple of janitors?”
Gor’al backed away but continued to stare at Duke. “I’m watching you, sniper,” he said, pointing one Dotari finger accusingly.
A tone sounded on the bridge.
“That’s enough bickering, children,” Marc said, stepping back to the microphone.
“Liberty Base for Keyser Soze, do you read me?”
“Reading you loud and clear,” Marc said. “Have you fixed that video problem yet?”
“No. We’ve never had so many problems with our communications. Protocol requires me to inform you of our progress, even though—if it were my decision—I’d just let you wait, due to your unprofessional and abrasive personality,” the security officer said.
“He does know you,” Duke muttered.
“Yes, communications are terrible. The war has messed up comms all across the Crucible network. Terrible about that disaster in Nekara,” Ibarra said.
“Where?” the security officer asked.
“Exactly,” Ibarra said, seeming more confident now.
“We are working on the problem. You are cleared to maintain close orbit, but do not dock without permission,” the security officer said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Chapter 17
Crewmen pushed the special Mule to the edge of the cargo ramp and checked the mag clamps that held it in place. When the time was right, they would push it out of the cargo bay and activate the cloaking device. The Mule would hang in space until the Scipio was clear, then make its way to Liberty, undetected, for the first stage of the mission. Hoffman’s team checked gear and reviewed their assignments before they boarded. Dressed in unfamiliar civilian clothing, each Strike Marine experimented with weapon placement and general comfort. Steuben and King remained in their Strike Marine armor. Duke and Gor’al stood apart, both in shipboard fatigues.
“This underwear is riding up my ass,” Booker said and wiggled in her blue jeans.
“I heard women didn’t wear panties back in the day,” Garrison said. “Whatever day the Ibarrans have the locals believing they’re in.”
She flipped him a middle finger. “Don’t gross me out.”
“I’m with you, Booker. We’ve got too much crap to pack into these cargo pockets and coats. Not that I’m complaining. I mean, look at these guns,” Garrison said, raising both arms to flex his biceps.
“Looks like muscles but smaller,” Booker said.
“Which way to Valdar’s cell? Is it over there?” Max asked, imitating Garrison’s pose, flexing his smaller physique and pointing with both fingers.
“Clowns,” King muttered.
“The only thing is…I’d really like to keep my full demo kit with me,” Garrison said.
King cleared his throat. “Not in the mission plan. You’ll need to blend, not look like a terrorist.”
"Why does Steuben get to go and I have to stay?" Gor’al asked.
“They’ve never seen or heard of Dotari on Liberty,” Hoffman said. "They’ll panic and shoot you. Then dissect you. Then create a conspiracy to cover up you were ever here. I need you on the other team…and I don’t want you anywhere near a Starbucks.”
Gor’al pointed at Steuben. “He’s a Karigole and he’s going dirt side. What is a Starbucks? Do they have chewing tobacco and coffee beans? Never mind that. I actually want an answer to my question.”
“I will be in legionnaire armor and covered in a stealth cloak. I will be seen by no one I don’t plan to kill.” The Karigole loomed over ship crewmen who passed them to make the Mule ready. Some eyed him warily, while others focused on their jobs like seasoned sailors.
"We all have our assignments,” King said. "Someone has to steal the Breitenfeld back.”
“I am well versed in ship systems,” Gor’al said, “even older designs like the Breitenfeld’s. You expect Duke and me to steal the entire strike cruiser?”
“That won’t be an issue once we liberate Valdar and his crew,” King argued.
“The Dotty and I know the plan,” Duke said. “The Breit’s in dry dock, shouldn’t be too many Ibarrans on board. We’ll do our part, so long as Gor’al’s as competent as he lets on.”
King plucked a can of Duke’s chewing tobacco from Gor’al’s pocket, holding it up as evidence. “He can’t steal your dip without getting caught.” He tossed the can to Duke. “See that he has better luck with that ship.”
“Thanks,” Duke said, catching the can and tucking it away in one motion.
“Well, yes. There is that, but I can explain,” Gor’al said. “We should talk more about my very extensive knowledge of void ships and let all these other minor issues go away.” He waved his hand dismissively.
“Later,” Hoffman said, noticing that Garrison and other members of his team had been unusually quiet during the byplay.
The breacher checked each of his cargo pockets in order, then again, starting from the beginning. Max looked like he might throw up. Booker was pale-faced and quiet as she considered the task before them.
Duke put in a dip from the newly reclaimed can, filling his lip to bulging, then tossed the can to Gor’al.
“What's this? Are you trying to buy my compliance with gifts?" The Dotari Marine slipped the flat can into a side pocket as he spoke.
"I've got another one," Duke said, “and your compliance is assumed. You follow orders like the rest of us. That’s the last can I’m giving you. Trust me, Gor, I wish I was on the away team with a white-hot intensity you can’t imagine. Instead, I get to stay up here with your thieving ass.”
Gor’al threw one arm around Duke. “What do you complain about? We are brothers, very friends of fast.”
“Fast friends,” Duke corrected, then swatted away the Dotari Marine’s hands as they groped for one of his cans of dip. “Get your arm off me or you’re gonna be taking cyborg tips from Steuben.”
Gor’al
backed away, hands raised, feigning innocence.
“You’re staying with Gor,” Hoffman said. “End of discussion. Anyone else have something positive to add?”
“I’ll be good as long as I get to blow some shit up once we’re down there,” Garrison interjected, patting one of his small gear pouches. “Keep your fingers out of my itty-bitty demo kit, Gunney. I’ll need every inch of det cord I have. And you too, Steuby. You don’t have that many real fingers left.”
The Karigole bared his teeth and growled.
“When the time is right, I’m sure we’ll need one of your universal keys—no matter how much I want a nice, quiet mission,” Gunney King said.
“I don’t have a single pry bar or hammer,” Garrison complained. “No tamping wedges, denethrite bundles, or electronic ignitions.”
“Such a whiner,” Max said.
“Agreed. Breachers are nearly as bad as comms guys,” Duke said, controlling a friendly laugh as he spit into a bottle.
“They’re the worst,” Max said.
“Imprecise. Rough around the edges,” Duke agreed. “The only thing you’re going to need down there more than a breacher is a sniper.”
“You have your orders,” Hoffman said. “Didn’t you just explain the chain of command to Gor’al?”
“Well, but he’s a Dottie. Griping isn’t the same as insubordination. It’s an advanced skill.”
"King, I think they're ready for us," Hoffman said.
"You heard the boss. Let's mount up,” King said.
Sixty seconds later, the Strike Marines away team were strapped in and ready for the dead drop. Crewmen evacuated the hangar. The ramp lowered, exposing the shuttle to the void. An Earth-like planet floated below them.
Nothing happened for several seconds.
"Stand by for separation," the Scipio’s helmsman said over the IR. "Three, two, one, thrusters engaged at minimum power."
The Scipio moved away slowly, leaving the shuttle hanging in the void. It shimmered and vanished from view.
"Steuben, you're up," King said.
"Finally, we get to do something.” The Karigole rapidly flipped switches and reviewed screens. “Engaging graviton engines. Planet Liberty is already pulling us toward the surface.”
“What’s on your mind, Garrison?” Hoffman asked, concerned about the breacher’s unusual reticence.
“I finally got the feel for TITs, and now we’re soft-shoeing our way through the atmosphere. It’s been awhile. Forgot how much I hated it.”
“We have to go slow. Don’t want a heat trace through atmo on re-entry.” Hoffman checked the rest of his team to be sure no one else was struggling. “Steuben will take us down using the graviton engines, then we will deploy and establish security around the ship. We won’t break into teams until then. Booker, Garrison, Max, and me to liberate Valdar, with King and Steuben scouting and securing the spaceport.”
“Yes, we keep going over the plan,” Steuben said. “Has someone forgotten the plan, or did we change it?”
“No changes, Steuben,” said Hoffman. “Marines love our redundant backups—no margin for error.”
“Good,” Steuben said. “Do not forget I have the cloak of stealth. No one will see me unless I wish them to.”
“Just take the spaceport with King and hold it. I want to keep this simple,” Hoffman said. “Anyone else want to gripe?”
“Moving through the stratosphere,” Steuben announced. “You can see where each of the cosms start and stop. Look at the city lights on each continent.”
Hoffman studied the view screen for the majority of the slow descent. The planet seemed to turn. The view was vibrant and alive, but also unreal and strange.
****
Steuben piloted the shuttle toward the surface, carefully staying behind the sunrise. Unlike many of the Mules that Hoffman had deployed in, this Ibarran craft had porthole windows allowing him to see the planet surface.
"I never get tired of seeing views like that," he said.
Booker nodded appreciatively.
"Any problems, Steuben?” he asked.
"There are no problems. Did you expect something?"
Steuben ignored the banter. "We will land in two minutes."
Hoffman and King checked their watches and reviewed their lists of things they needed to do.
"All right, people, it's go time. Kill the cross talk until we've got security set up on the surface," King said. "This may not feel like the Kid’ran’s Gift or Syracuse, but make no mistake—this mission is dangerous."
"Ooh rah!" the team chorused.
There was just enough light in the early morning to reveal rolling foothills and deciduous trees. The gray outline of the mountains beyond the city provided an easy reference point regardless of compass headings or other landmarks.
"I wonder what old Earth city this is supposed to represent?" Booker asked.
"Colorado Springs or Denver, probably. Something on the Front Range of the Rockies," Max said. "There was a NORAD base there and a lot of technology centers."
"Get us down, Steuben," Hoffman said. "I don't want to become part of UFO literature."
The Karigole warrior piloted the craft expertly, setting them down in a clearing. King led the team out and set up security. Everything happened by the numbers.
He joined Max and Booker near the center of their secure zone. Pulling out something Marc Ibarra had called a flip phone, he unfolded it and waited for the startup routine.
"It should turn on automatically, but you have to power it up the first time. There's a button on the side," Max said. "This thing is so cool. Very retro."
Hoffman pressed the button and waited.
"Voice activation wasn't widespread in 2002, but it wasn't unheard of," Max said.
Hoffman leaned toward the screen, then followed the prompts. "Call Marc Ibarra."
The phone didn’t respond.
“Guess they didn’t add that feature,” Max said. “Pull down the menu in the contact list. He’s under Faben.”
Hoffman swiped down the screen several times.
“No, use the buttons,” Max said, patiently.
“Might as well use a frigging carrier pigeon,” Hoffman pressed his thumb against the numbers and frowned.
"Were they trying to replicate artificial intelligence in 2002?" Booker asked.
"Only in science fiction," Max said. "I've read a bit of it. It doesn't suck. Most of its kind of corny. Once we have our cell phones—such a ridiculous name for a comms device—we’ll be able to make calls or operate them as shortwave radios with an extremely limited range using local technology and tower service.“
"Hello?" The voice of Marc Ibarra came from the phone, sounding far away and tinny compared to what Hoffman was accustomed to with modern technology. "Is that you, Hoffman?"
"I'm here." He put the man on speaker.
"The quantum-dot communicator hidden in your phone is extremely reliable, but don’t trust the cell network once the rest of you get phones. Too easy to monitor. The sound quality may not be perfect. I couldn’t provide a QD for each member of your team,” Ibarra said. “Remember the earbud. It feels like I’m forgetting something. Did you eat a good breakfast? Dress warmly?”
“This guy is worse than a Mule pilot. Lame. Joke. Central,” Garrison said.
“I don’t think he’s joking. I think he’s two rounds short of a full magazine,” Booker said.
“Your team might want to consider how well I can hear them when you have me on speaker. The quantum-dot communicator is crucial to the mission. Don’t lose it.”
"Understood," Hoffman said, looking at the forest around them. "I'd be happier with my slate and a full sensor package."
"Of course," Ibarra said. "But this quantum-dot setup is untraceable and undetectable. Just remember, it's critical to blend in. Try to remember that you don't have the same amount of ammunition for those Glocks as you would carry for one of your gauss carbines—and the first two magazines are loade
d with stun rounds. Just don't shoot anybody. Those weapons are loud and the locals will throw you in the slammer. Or shoot you with real bullets. Depends on the local cops’ mood."
"Max, you're up," Hoffman said.
The communication specialist pulled out a slightly larger phone, some sort of personal assistant Ibarra had referred to as “like a Blackberry but not as sucky,” whatever that meant.
"Why does he get a slate?" Garrison asked.
"Because I need one, dummy," Max said, struggling to make his thumbs fit on small alphanumeric keys. “Remember the local ‘cell’ phone I gave you? You want it to work, right?” He consulted his device for several seconds. “We've got something. It's antiquated but sufficient. Nothing but a 3G network with exorbitant fees for people who have to pay. Fortunately, that's not us."
Hoffman handed Max the flip phone. "Make sure my link is good. Sounds like I'm talking into a coffee can."
"Looks solid. Got 3G connectivity for all the phones and my data slate. You don't really need it, but I see why Ibarra has it set up this way. We’re keeping our footprint as small as possible,” Max said.
"Thanks," Hoffman said, putting away the flip phone.
King and Steuben, in full legionnaire gear with Ibarran colors, the Templar cross over their helmet visors, stood watch for the rest of the team as they made their final preparations. Each of them carried a part of Garrison’s breacher kit, just in case. The gunnery sergeant had basic breacher training and the Karigole was a tech expert known for creative solutions to problems. They could use basic breaching tactics if needed.
Max hovered near Hoffman as he adjusted a blue earbud, looking at the closed cell phone until an LED light pulsed rhythmically to indicate the connection.
"It should work," Max said. "Just don't get too far from the flip phone or break it. Or drop it in water. Or lose your network connection."
"Got it,” Hoffman said.
"That's everything," Hoffman said. “Once we have Valdar, we’ll need to move fast. Get that spaceport secured, King. Don’t be late. We've handled important missions before, but this is the admiral we're talking about—and the Breitenfeld. This is personal. The Ibarrans made a mistake and it's our job to make them pay for it."
