by Wen Spencer
"Sir! We're getting company!" Moldavsky pulled Mikhail out of his contemplations. "There's a boat heading this way."
* * *
The sea vessel heading toward them was ugly and misshapen. Bits and pieces from spaceships had been cobbled together into what could be called a boat. The bulk of the hull was a large troop lander with a bow welded onto its blunt nose to cut through the waves.
What worried him most about the boat was what looked to be gun turrets. He highlighted sections of the boat. "Are those weapons?"
"They appear to be." Moldavsky ran them through pattern matching software. "Yes they are, sir. They're out of New Washington Spitfire fighters."
Humans then. Specifically most likely New Washington. Mikhail didn't like the idea of not knowing any more about them. Opening lines of communication, though, would require giving away information on themselves; something he'd avoided up to this point. Until they were sure that there were no unfriendlies of alien or human origin, he would like to keep it that way.
Mikhail glanced at the antenna array beside them. "This is operational, isn't it?"
"Yes. I think they left it as a navigational beacon. It's got a solar array powering it."
Like a lighthouse. Lights are on, but no one home—except a visitor from outside the world.
"See if you can tap the Fenrir's transponder and query that boat. It looks like a troop lander; it might still have its transponder working." Using the Fenrir's transponder would at least disguise who was at the island.
"Yes, sir." Moldavsky worked for a few minutes in silence before saying, "Captain, the ship is the Red Gold. It's off the Dakota."
The Dakota he knew; he'd hoped for placement on the ship when he graduated from the academy. Odd, that fate seemed determined to strand him in this place. Ironically, when the Dakota vanished shortly after his father bought him the Svoboda to command, he felt it was a validation that he was going the right direction with his life. He scanned the Dakota records, reacquainting himself with the ship. Like the Fenrir, it had been a massive ship with a crew of thousands of men, women, and Reds. Obviously, the United Colonies data on the spaceship had very little relevancy to the incoming boat.
"Ensign Moldavsky, keep an eye on the boat." Mikhail needed to talk to Eraphie, who might know current information on the Red Gold.
* * *
He used the bug they put in Eraphie's reader to locate her. She was in one of the top level rooms. She'd answered his knock with "door's open." Mikhail tentatively opened the door, feeling like he was invading her private space. It was a small storage room lit by a skylight. Judging by the bedding and collection of foodstuff, she was living there.
Eraphie was curled on a nest of the blankets he'd given her. Reading. She'd shed off her defensive fur. At ease like this, she looked young and vulnerable. Perhaps even too young to realize how sexy she looked, lounging in the makeshift bed.
"This Mark Twain," Eraphie said without looking up. "He doesn't seem to know how to spell and he uses lots of words I'd never heard of but he's fun to read. I like his hero, Huck Finn."
Mikhail leaned against the doorframe since there were no chairs, and joining her on the blankets seemed too forward. "Mark Twain wrote in a time before humans ever left Earth. It was a long time ago. Words have changed."
"People haven't. Before they had Reds, they had these—" She paused to check the word. "Niggers."
"Unfortunately, yes." Mikhail decided that it was most likely that the dead Red in Fenrir's engine had been attacking not defending the people modifying the engine. He was tempted to show her a picture of the male Red, but until he knew where she stood, he wasn't sure if he should tell her anything about their mission.
Until then, there was the incoming boat.
"I need your help as native guide," he told her.
"Okay." She turned off her reader and rolled onto her back, putting the reader on her stomach. "What do you need to know?"
"Anything you can tell me about a boat called the Red Gold."
"The Red Gold? It's coming here?" Eraphie sat up, no longer at ease.
"Yes."
Eraphie bit her lip.
"What do you know about it?" Mikhail asked.
"It's a salvage ship."
"Your cousin's?"
Eraphie shook her head. "No, no, the Red Gold aren't Georgies. They're what's left of the Dakota."
He nodded. He knew that. Then stopped himself and actually analyzed what she said. "All that is left?"
"Pretty much. They landed in the open. Water isn't like air. It gets . . .heavier the deeper you get. You understand?"
Mikhail nodded. It actually was exactly like air, but he didn't see the point of detouring the conversation.
"When a spaceship lands in open water, it's too heavy to float. As it submerges, it's slowly crushed, and air seals start to rupture. Most ships don't realize their danger. Air is replaced with water, and the ship gets heavier, and it sinks deeper. Eventually all the compartments are breeched. Only some of the Dakota's crew managed to get off. Then they were adrift for a long time."
Total crew of Dakota numbered over eight thousand. He doubted if the Red Gold had a crew of more than a few hundred. It was a staggering loss of life. At least the commander didn't have the guilt of purposely bringing his crew to this place. The Dakota had been under heavy fire when it warped.
Thoughts were playing across Eraphie's face. Something about the Red Gold's arrival had her upset.
"What's wrong?" Mikhail asked.
"Well, I knew salvage ships were going to show up sooner or later. I was hoping someone from Georgetown would arrive. I'm not sure if I trust Hardin."
"Who?"
"John Hardin. He's the Captain of the Red Gold." When Mikhail frowned at the only vaguely familiar name, trying to place the man among the Dakota's command, Eraphie added. "He was the highest officer left alive, but I think he was only a lieutenant."
Mikhail nodded to keep her talking. He'd check the records later. "Why don't you trust him?"
She gave him a dark look. "No reason."
"I need to know if I can trust this man. He's a U.C. officer."
"He was." Eraphie stressed the past tense. "There's no such thing as the United Colonies here. Things have happened to him, horrible things. Don't think of him as the same man."
"Okay." He said and then cautiously pressed for an answer to his original question. "What did he do that makes you not trust him?"
She considered him for a minute with her dark eyes. "I don't like repeating things I don't know for sure are true. There are rumors. I don't know if I believe any of them, but they make me . . .cautious."
"What kind of rumors?"
She was silent for another minute before sighing. "He doesn't have any Reds. The Dakota was an assault ship. It had a pride of nearly three thousand. There are all sorts of stories about how he . . .lost . . .them."
Yes, it would make sense that she wouldn't trust a man who failed to protect his Reds. Who might have considered the Reds as acceptable losses, or even worthless to save.
"But like I said. I don't have any way of knowing which stories are true, so I'd rather not say."
Mikhail nodded. "Anything else I should know?"
"He won't risk coming into the harbor," Eraphie said. "That's too risky. He'll come around and tie-up to the salvage docks and come in on a launch."
* * *
Mikhail returned back to the observation deck to do a search on John Hardin. As Eraphie said, John Hardin had only been a Lieutenant on the Dakota. Mikhail frowned at the photo attached to Hardin's service file. The name and the face seemed familiar. Mikhail scanned Hadin's history; there were only a few places where he would cross paths with an officer from New Washington. Hardin spent a childhood in Capital slums. Worlds apart, and by more than just spatial distance. They had crossed paths, however, when Mikhail was eighteen and forced to attend the United Colonies military academy. Hardin been one of the ambitious, overachi
eving upperclassmen that the instructors wanted Mikhail to emulate.
The ambition clearly continued onboard the Dakota. In the year between his graduation and the Dakota being lost, Hardin became highly decorated. But the man had a temper, and with every honor, there was a black mark. Despite the pressures of war to fill command positions, Hardin was still only a lieutenant.
"Sir," Moldavsky said. "The Red Gold has launched a small boat."
Mikhail looked up. As Eraphie predicted, the Red Gold had tied-up to the floating salvage docks tethered over the wreck of the Fenrir. The boat looked like a water bug skating above the great sunken spaceship. A launch had left the Red Gold and was heading to the island.
"We're getting company!" Mikhail broadcast via his com. "Station rules apply—no shooting unless shot at. No inciting a fight, or I will punish the person that starts the fight. Secure the ship. Assume we've got thieves coming. Keep me posted on our guests."
There was an airlock door set into the top of the stairs with a high lintel to keep out torrential rain. Beyond it was a ladder down into a well lit by a skylight. The metal was hot as he slid down to the landing below.
. . .and dropped down into a memory.
. . .they were still covered with blood. Mikhail had blood on his shirt and holding fast to his anger, because if he lost it, fear would crowd in. Eight-year old Turk was furred over, wide-eyed with fear, with blood on his mouth. They were both scared for the same reason: Reds that attacked humans were put down . . .
Mikhail struggled to push the memory aside. He didn't have time for this. But it was like being trapped in a nightmare, the recall drowning him with details: the coppery smell of blood mixing with scent of leather and smoke of his father's personal study, the distant roar of the visiting dignitaries enjoying full rein of the palace, the monitor scrolling updates on the crisis he created—no—not him or Turk—but everyone else . . .
"If security had been doing its job right, this would have never happened," Mikhail clung to the hope he could shift the blame off of Turk. "He belongs to me! No one has any right to do anything to Turk without asking me first. Security should have stopped the Ambassador."
"Security had their hands full." His father ground out his cigar. "And there are more polite ways of denying someone their perversions than bashing their brains in with a hockey stick. But you know that."
Yes he did, but Turk had already bitten the Ambassador. If Mikhail hadn't attacked the diplomat and done serious damage—harm that couldn't be ignored—then Turk alone would have been blamed. The problem of being clones of the same man, he and his father thought too much alike. His father clearly saw through Mikhail's attempts to divert attention to himself. It was the same cycle of each knowing how the other thought which boiled all Mikhail's childhood down to a battle of wills. This time, though, Turk's life hung in the balance.
"I will not allow Turk to be punished. If he's harmed in any way, I'll refuse to cooperate with your succession plans." The danger of playing that card was his father could simply make another clone. Ivan was young and had time enough to raise another replacement. One that would probably be more stable.
"Yes, I know." Ivan acknowledged the truth of what Mikhail said and, perhaps, what wasn't said. "The question is how to salvage what you've left us with.
This was the start of my military career, Mikhail realized. He tended to think of his reluctant first days at the academy as the start, but that bloody night had been the true start. But why dwell on it now?
"Mikhail?" Eraphie said close at hand, and finally the memory faded, leaving him free to see the inner harbor. Sunlight streamed down from the skylights overhead. Steam lifted where the hot sun hit the cold water, wafting into the sunlight to turn it into shafts of misty gold. Something moved through the light and darkness, catching his eye. Was it a bio weapon like the one that attacked him earlier?
As he stared, he made out a sinuous form gliding toward him. Less than a shadow, it was merely a suggestion of a body, a distortion of light. As Mikhail watched, the creature slid closer, blurring the stones under it.
Close up, it was harder to see. Some trick of his brain eliminated the distortion when it filled his visual field. And 'big' was one of the few definite things he could tell about the creature. He took a couple steps back, trying to bring it back into focus.
It took five steps so that he could once again see the outline of the distortion and get some sense of the creature's presence. He got the impression of a snake rearing up, its massive wedge-shaped head looking down at him.
"Do you see . . ." He started to ask Eraphie if she could see the creature too.
But the creature suddenly moved, flowing over him, through him . . .
. . .Mikhail could hear Nanny Ingrid's soft breathing from her bed as he crept to his old crib. Since his baby brother arrived the week before, Nanny Ingrid had been napping in the afternoon. She would be asleep for a long, long time. Now was his chance to play with is new brother . . .
"No! Not that!" Mikhail flailed out blindly. His vision snapped clear as his hand passed through the creature and hit the stone. He welcomed the pain. He wouldn't be pressed and drowned in that memory.
"It's not me!" He said out loud to fill the vacuum in his mind left by the implosion of the recall. "It's making me remember."
The creature was deliberately dragging him through his past. Nothing would have made him think of that day in such clarity; he'd locked it away for years until the U.C. psych evaluations shook it loose. And he'd buried it again, determined not to think of it. He'd been three years old. He—he—he . . .
"I won't!" To dwell on it would only taint his whole life. What had happened that day. What he had lost. What he had gained.
The creature had forced him to remember. It had slipped into his mind somehow and started a cascade of thoughts. How though? And why? Was it deliberately probing for some specific memory or was it making his neurons fire randomly? When the creature had touched him—seemed to touch him—he hadn't felt anything. No movement of air. No sense of pressure. No change in heat. Like it was a ghost made of his own memories.
"Are you okay?" Eraphie whispered from behind him.
"Can you see it?" He asked, pointing at the phantom.
"The seraphim?"
"Whatever the fuck it is!" His voice rasped and his hand was shaking.
"It's a seraphim." Eraphie whispered.
The mist swirled out in the harbor and Mikhail realized that a second creature had glided up to a piece of lumber floating in the water. The creature reared up, and this time he could see that it had forelegs resting on the flotsam. The wood didn't shift under it, as if the creature had no volume or mass.
He could detect no sound or movement between the one in the water and the one on the dock. The second, however, released the flotsam and swam away, and a moment later the first glided down into the water, following.
"What exactly are seraphim?" Mikhail asked.
"Seraphim are the first rank of angels which encircled the throne of God, existing off the love emanated by Him."
"Angels?"
"Yes, they're angels." Eraphie said it with complete conviction of someone who completely believed what she was saying. "Seraphim are described as vaguely snake-like, and you can see for yourself that these seraphim look like big snaky things."
"They could be some kind of aliens. Or even . . ." Mikhail struggled to come up with something that they could be. " . . .a bio-weapon."
"Bioweapons try to kill you. Seraphim protect people. They saved me. They moved me out of the blast range. They save people all the time by moving them out of danger."
So while they couldn't be felt, they could interact with people more than just making neurons fire. "You didn't mention this before."
"Because you hadn't seen the seraphim. Newcomers don't believe in angels until they've seen them."
The seraphim had spent entirely too much time threatening Mikhail's sanity for him to think of them as
angels. "Just because they save people, doesn't make them divine."
"The Hak say that they're holy beings."
"Who the hell are the Hak?"
"The Hak are gods."
Mikhail comline chimed. "Captain, the launch from the Red Gold has landed. What should we do?"
"I'll be out to meet them." Whatever the seraphim were—and any ties they had to his painful memories—had to wait. He had to meet with Hardin.
"Can you do me a favor, Mikhail?" Eraphie trailed behind him.
"What is it?"
"Can you ask Captain Hardin to check with Ya-ya and see if my cousin's ship, the Rosetta, is in port?"
Mikhail really needed to get Eraphie to call him Captain if she was going to be part of his crew. "I'll see how things go."
* * *
The salvage dock had survived fairly intact. A row of buildings, now rubble, protected it from the implosion. It followed the island's L-shaped harbor. The longer leg against the town had a high wide awning to provide shade for workers. Mikhail wanted a strong façade when the crew of the Red Gold arrived, so he had all his Reds at ready in the dock. Hopefully Hardin would assume that the Svoboda was maintaining a standard three work shifts and that Mikhail had three times the Reds than was at hand. Not that Mikhail expected an attack. He did, however, want to appear too strong for the thought to cross anyone's mind.
The Red Gold's launch was a sleek speedboat, obviously newly constructed for this world and not cobbled together from things that crashed into it. It was encouraging to see that somewhere manufacturing was taking place and not everything was jury-rigged salvage.
Hardin had four armed human guards. No Reds, just as Eraphie claimed. The launch hove up beside the dock. Hardin didn't wait for his guards to clear the area. Instead he stepped off the launch before the others could even disembark. The Dakota had only been lost for four years, but Hardin looked older than his last fleet picture by about twenty years. Time had ridden the man hard—his skin turned leather by sun, his hair gray. But it was definitely Hardin—his solid chin, thin lips and long nose. As he moved into the deep shadow of the walkway, he took off his mirrored sunglasses. His steel gray gaze swept over the Svoboda perched in the rubble and the Reds standing guard.
