“Meaningless words are waste of time. I'm a businessman, and responsible for the survival of my people. We need the trade connections you can provide, and if you've found some sort of significant salvage, we need that as well. Certainly more than you do.” Shaking his head, he said, “How much do you know about this area of space?”
“Not enough.”
“I'll give you a little free background, then. Consider it a sample of what I might give you in the future.” He glared at the albino bartender, and said, “The Koltoc, those white-haired bastards, live in artificial environments. If they have a homeworld, I've never heard of it. I suppose this might be the nearest they have to one. They've dominated trade in this part of the galaxy for centuries.”
“I thought the Collective was a nation of traders,” Salazar replied, taking a sip of his drink, recoiling at the sweet, syrupy taste.
“Only within their own borders, and the Koltoc spent decades trying to work their way in.” He shook his head, and said, “Not that they ever managed it. And now the Xandari have arrived, they're fluttering away like leaves in the wind.”
“And your people?”
“My grandfather didn't like the idea of being a slave to some Starborn bastard. A dozen ships rebelled, took their families, and left. I won't say where, not at the moment. Not that I don't trust you.”
“You're escaped slaves,” Salazar said, eyes widening. “Why didn't you tell us that before?”
“Thought you knew,” he replied, taking a huge gulp of his drink. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he replied, “What are you planning?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
He beamed a smile, and said, “You're going to give me the information I need. Then I'm going to go out there and pick up whatever salvage you've discovered.” Leaning forward, he continued, “My guess is that you are operating on your own, probably from a supply dump or a tanker of your own. Maybe you have other ships, but with all due respect, mine are more than a match for yours.”
“You've never seen us in a fight,” he said, his voice beginning to slur. “Drugged?”
“Yes.”
“Figured.” He shook his head, trying to steady himself, and said, “I won't talk. I won't tell you what you need to know.”
“I think you will. Don't take this personally. We're businessmen here, all of us, and we must have a competitive advantage. Besides, if we show a moment's weakness, someone will wipe us out. The Koltoc, the Collective, the Xandari. We're surrounded by enemies.”
Slumping forward, Salazar said, “We're independent. Ship owned by me and Harper. Military surplus, bought at auction.” He shook his head, then lied, “Followed a trail of supply dumps we found, ran out of fuel early.”
“And why do you need so much?”
“Top up the depot.”
“There's more to it than that,” the Neander pressed. Out of the corner of his eye, Salazar could see the bartender reaching under the counter, pushing a button. Everything he said was being recorded, and was being heard by many ears.
“Lost colony ship,” he finally said. “Lost decades ago. We found it. Passengers dead, cargo intact. Enough to found a new world. Machinery, supplies, medical equipment, even weapons, but old ones. Had planned to take it back a bit at a time, sell it on the open market, but Harper thought we could get the lot.” He shook his head, weaving from side to side, hoping that the antidote Garland had injected him with would continue to work. “Greedy, she is. I wanted to take things slower. Was going to offer you a piece of the pie for the fuel.”
“That equipment could mean life or death for my people. We can use some of it, sell the rest.” He smiled, and for a moment, Salazar felt a deep pang of guilt. “Where?”
“MK-133, system...”
“No, no, on our maps. You must have seen them.”
He looked up at the Neander and squinted, as though trying to focus, “Torba's Star. Third Planet, Inner Hendecaspace Point.”
“One short jump,” he muttered. “Other ships? Defenses?”
“Fighter squadron, ready to go. Four of them. Other surplus. Old ships, but tough. You'll have a fight on your hands, I promise.”
“I can assure you that we'll be ready for them,” he said, as Salazar slumped to the ground. Skeuros reached for his pistol under the table, quietly drawing it. He could hear a loud scuffle taking place and peered out to see one of the Neander knocking the barman cold, striking him across the forehead with his fist, a vicious swing that made him wince.
Two more Koltoc ran into the room, and Skeuros dived past them, running out onto the street, leaving his men behind to finish the fight. Doubtless he'd he launching his ships in a matter of moments, but with any luck Kilquan's cautious approach would also have paid off. There was a race on, and he had to start winning it.
As the new arrivals jumped over the bar to join in the brawl, he ducked out of the door, running back for the docking port, keeping his pistol stuffed in his pocket. His eyes widened as he looked at the group loitering outside, mostly Neander, all of them looking dangerous. Somewhere on the other side, Rhodes was waiting to provide reinforcement, but he wouldn't risk making a move with all of those people around.
He looked around, shaking his head, and a familiar face ran up to him, Urquot shaking his head as he approached, before gesturing for him to follow. Lacking any better ideas, Salazar raced after him, hoping that none of the Neander had seen him, letting the young boy lead him around a corner, into the dark space between a pawn shop and a brothel.
“You've got a problem,” the boy said. “I have the solution.”
“What's the price?” he asked.
“The information you gave Skeuros. The information that Kilquan overheard. And the true story about what you are up to out here.” He smiled, and said, “I'll get a nice cut of anything we pick up, and can guarantee that we'll beat the others to the draw.” Glancing to the side, he said, “I didn't come alone, so don't get any ideas.”
Now the second layer of his cover story could come into play, the result of hours of discussions back on Daedalus.
“I'm a Lieutenant in the Triplanetary Fleet, and we're on a deep cover mission. The story about the depots is true, leftovers from the Interplanetary War, but our mission was to retrieve an experimental prototype of a new faster-than-light ship, one based on wormhole technology.”
Urquot's face wrinkled, and he replied, “Wormhole technology? That's meant to be impossible.”
“So was the hendecaspace drive. We found an artifact from an old war, a few years ago, and managed to get it working. Too well, as it turned out. We've been looking for it for months.”
“And now you need the fuel to get it home.”
Nodding, he said, “We're pretty sure we've got it worked out this time, but it consumes a lot of fuel. More than ten other starships, but with a thirty light-year range...”
“Thirty!” the boy said.
“We think it's worth it.” He shook his head, and said, “If you provide us with the fuel, we'll give you our data. Everything we've gathered so far.”
“Data first.”
“I don't have it here. Not even on Daedalus. Security. You'd have to collect it from the Icarus.”
“Data, then fuel. Which means we'll be sending a ship, a very well-armed ship, to follow you.” Shaking his head, he said, “I assure you that we're more than ready to deal with Skeuros and Kilquan. My men are experts, and I have operatives on their vessels. We've been waiting for an opportunity like this for years.”
Frowning, Salazar asked, “That isn't you in there, is it?”
With a smile, the boy said, “The translator has certain other functions, ones that are not made commonly known to the public. With the right equipment, it is possible to override the neural networks of a target. To
copy yourself into another mind. Having a spare body has proven extremely useful in the past, and naturally, I am not likely to betray myself, am I.” At the disgust on Salazar's face, he continued, “Spare me the sentiment. Your people must have similar technologies.”
Remembering the memory wipe Scott had experienced, he said, “That doesn't mean I can condone them.”
“Do we have a deal, or not?” Maintaining the grin, he added, “I assure you that only one answer will allow you to leave this station alive.”
“Conditionally,” he replied. “I'll give you the information you're looking for as soon as I've safely returned to my ship, and not before. I presume that you already have one of your warships covering us?”
“Correct,” Urquot said. “If you feel that you need the illusion of security, I have no objection. As a symbol of my good faith. Follow me.”
The two of them walked down the alley, Salazar aware of eyes boring into his back, rifles pointed at him, ready to move should be so much as twitch. The young boy, whatever monstrosity he was, led the way, and he couldn't help but glance down at him.
“It's quite interesting, really. Downloading myself into a younger body. The adjustment period is somewhat brutal, and not always survivable.” Looking up, he said, “And to answer your next question, this isn't the first time I've done it. Transferring this way, I have lived for more than three hundred years.”
“Surely it isn't you, though. Just a copy of yourself, and an imperfect one at that.”
“Meaning that I still will die?” he replied. “Metaphysics doesn't interest me. If it helps, I will know as I die that I am immortal, and that I will live on forever. Be honest and tell me that you wouldn't take the same option, to live forever in one form or another.”
“Not as a frozen pattern of thought, the fading memories of a long-dead murderer.”
“And yet you seem willing to make a deal with me.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No. And I already know that you will attempt to find some way to betray me, and that there is something other than the bounty you have reported at the other end of this journey.” He smiled, and said, “Three hundred years has taught me a lot about human nature. The opportunity this accords me is, I feel, more than worth the risk that I am running. It isn't as if I intend to go myself, after all. At least, not this version of me.” He pointed at a door in the wall, a series of buttons along the side, and added, “You will find a United Nations spacesuit waiting for you inside. An older model, I fear, but I trust you will still be familiar with it. The thruster pack has been charged, and should be more than up to the task of getting you safely back to your ship.”
“What assurance do I have that the suit is safe?”
“Only my self-interest, and I can promise you that there is no stronger force in the galaxy.”
Without a backward glance, Salazar stepped into the airlock, where the promised suit was waiting for him, hanging in front of the locker. He quickly gave it a visual check, then started to put it on, a piece at a time, making sure each system light flashed green before he continued. Once he was half-way through, he pulled out his communicator.
“Rhodes, go home. I've got another ticket back.”
“Roger, sir, I'm leaving. Too many people interested in me at the moment.”
That done, he lowered the helmet into position, watching as the start-up sequence fired up, a long list of checks flashing into view on his heads-up display. The suit was almost primitive, and he looked down with a smile to see that it had the flash of Daedalus on the side. Either the crime boss had a sense of humor, or this suit was scavenged from his ship long ago.
His eyes widened as the implications of that ran through his mind. There was a connection between Urquot and the Xandari, and even if he wasn't actually working with them, he must have some sort of contact. And Scott had reported that there were ships in the system that looked Xandari, even if they didn't match anything in their database, back when they had first arrived.
He couldn't panic. Didn't dare let any sign that he knew enter his thoughts. With an effort, he took deep breaths to calm himself down, knowing that his suit telemetry would be carefully monitored and checked. The initial burst of excitement would be written off, but nothing else would be. Nor could he report his suspicions, not until he was face to face with Harper.
The outer door opened, and he took a step out into space, unsurprised that his on-board system immediately plotted a course for Daedalus, his thrusters firing to put it into effect. For a second, it threw him into a disorienting spin, ramming home the knowledge that for this trip, he was simply a passenger, nothing more than that. Glancing to the left, he saw the shuttle departing, Scott taking Rhodes back to the ship, diving ahead of him.
All around, the stars were moving as the three fleets moved into position. They'd planned it to near-perfection, arranging for all of the power groups to know where to go, even if the antidote to the truth serum was giving him a raging headache. He felt a light tap on his arm, an injection of painkillers calming him down. Some of the automatic systems still working, at least.
Up ahead, a single point of light quickly grew, resolving itself into a comforting shape. If they'd got this right, Harper would be sitting on the bridge right now, worrying as he approached, their hendecaspace course already plotted and ready to go. The transit seemed to drag into an eternity as he continued his approach, firing spinning round as the suit slowed him for entry, an airlock opening to admit him.
Suited hands grabbed at him, tugging him inside, and he saw the face of Harper through the other faceplate, a mask of concern. The outer door slid shut, and the pressure built up, slowly rising. He reached up to remove his helmet, but the lock was jammed in position.
“We had a deal, Lieutenant,” Urquot said, screaming over the speaker. “Where?”
“Torba's Star. Third Planet, Inner Hendecaspace Point.”
“That's all I need to know,” he said, and the clamps released, allowing him to remove his helmet. He ripped off the suit, urging Harper outside, then closed the inner door before she could even remove her helmet, rushing to the nearest wall communicator.
“Get us out of here,” he said. “Maximum speed to the hendecaspace point.”
“Aye, sir,” Maqua said, confused, while Harper glared at him.
“I thought I gave the orders around here.”
“Xandari.”
“What?”
“That criminal syndicate is working with the Xandari.”
Her eyes widened, and she said, “Which means…”
“It means that we've just given them an easy path, right to the Neander refugees. We've got to get there first.”
Leaving the parts of her suit trailing in the air behind her as she went, Harper led the way to the bridge, Salazar following. Scott looked across from the tactical station as they entered, her sensor display a mass of confusing images, a tangle of course projections that seemed to make little sense.
“We've got fourteen ships on the move,” she reported, as Salazar relieved Maqua at the helm. “All heading right for the hendecaspace point at maximum speed. I've got energy spikes from eight of them, but whether they are planning on attacking us or each other I can't say. Did it work?”
“Too well,” Harper said. “How are we doing, Pavel?”
“Full acceleration burn, and unless I'm missing something, we're going to reach the egress point first, by at least eighty seconds.”
“Time enough for Alamo to get to battle stations,” she replied, shaking her head. “Anything from the station, Ingram?”
“I don't think we're popular, ma'am,” he replied. “I did get something though, from Minister Quaice. We have permission to bring other Triplanetary ships into this system.”
“Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,” she said.
“N
ever say never, Kris,” Salazar said.
“Energy spike!” Arkhipov reported from the sensor station. “Two incoming missiles, bearing directly!”
“Can we outrun them, Pavel?” Harper asked.
“I'd love to try,” he replied, reaching down to the controls, pushing the ship past the danger line, alarms sounding all around him as the hull stress readouts erupted in text, the reactor alarm sounding as he drew more and more power from it. There was no point trying evasive maneuvers. That was exactly what their aggressor wanted them to do, to waste time they could use getting to their objective first.
“Who launched it?” Harper asked, turning back to a red-faced Arkhipov.
“I don't know, ma'am,” he replied. “I mean, I know, but I've got no idea whose ship it is.”
“Record it for later,” she said. “Maybe we can work it out on the road.”
“Perry to bridge,” the engineer called up from the lower decks. “What are you doing to my ship? The reactor's at a hundred and fifteen percent! She isn't designed for this, or anything like it!”
“Hold it together,” Harper said. “Just for a minute.”
“That's all we'll need,” Salazar said. “Hendecaspace course computed and laid in. I'm running right for the point. Time to departure twenty-two seconds.”
“Funny,” Scott said. “That's about the time to impact.”
“Pavel, you have the call,” Harper ordered, and he rested his hand on the emergency manual control. It was a redundant move at best. If they missed the window of opportunity at this speed, it wasn't possible to react in time. All he could do was trust to luck. The ship screamed in protest as it continued to accelerate, the force pushing him back in his seat.
“Five seconds!” he said. “Hang on!”
Just as the missile lunged in for the kill, the familiar blue flash erupted all around them, and Daedalus disappeared into hendecaspace, the warning alarms fading away as the engines died down, power readings rapidly returning to normal.
“We actually gained a little time,” he said. “We're eighty-six seconds ahead of our nearest rival.”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Final Testament Page 15
