by Dan Moren
Eli trailed after her, unzipping his flight suit and peeling off the sleeves. He let it fall loosely at his waist. It had gotten plenty warm in the cockpit, especially after the shooting had started, and the cool air in the hangar was refreshing. Regardless of his criticisms, the sim was pretty good at fooling his body, if not his mind, into thinking he was actually flying a ship.
But he was starting to feel that itch between his shoulder blades. The same one he’d gotten after his first months of intensive simulator training at the Illyrican Naval Academy almost a decade ago and, before that, back when his Aunt Brigid had first taken him up on her short-haul flights.
“Come on, doc. I’m ready to take a trainer up. Just a couple quick laps around the airfield. I’ll have it back before dinner.”
“Dinner is ten hours from now.”
“So, is that a yes?”
Dr Thornfield shook her head. “I just don’t think you’re ready for that step yet, Eli.”
Frustration bubbled up in his chest. “When the hell am I going to be ready, then? We’ve been at this for six months and… I need this.”
Her head tilted slightly. “Why do you think you need this?”
Eli scuffed his shoe against the floor, waving his hand at the hangar. Besides the simulator there were a few actual ships present, mostly for maintenance. He could hear the buzz of pneumatic tools and the clank of machinery, smell the faint whiff of fuel. His blood sang with it.
“This is torture, doc. It’s like plopping a kid down in a candy store and not giving him a taste. This… This isn’t where I belong.”
One white eyebrow arched. “Where do you think you belong, Eli?”
He stabbed a finger skywards. “Up there.”
“Uh huh. And where are you going to go?”
Eli opened his mouth to respond, too late realizing the trap he’d burned right into. “What?”
“Simple question: You’ve got a ship. Where do you go?”
She wants me to say “home”. “Somewhere… that’s not here.”
The look she gave him was skeptical, knowing. “Not a lot of options, as I understand it. You betrayed the Imperium at Sabaea–” she held up her hands to forestall Eli’s protest, “–on moral grounds, yes, I understand. But then you defected to the Commonwealth – and last time I checked, your home planet of Caledonia was still firmly in Imperial territory.”
Not that there was much reason to go back, frankly. Eli had run as far and as fast from the planet as he soon as he could. He’d come to the Commonwealth of Independent Systems because of a promise of a future from the covert operative – and, he’d started to think, possible friend – Simon Kovalic. Then again, Kovalic promised a lot of things. And then he dumped me here for six months and didn’t look back.
Dr Thornfield’s expression softened. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, Eli, but you are making progress. Slowly but surely. We’ll meet again next week.” She waved a hand and a sharp smile flashed like a shooting star. “Try not to let your recklessness get the better of you before then.”
Flipping her a mock salute, Eli turned to head to the locker room. Next week and next week and next week until his hair was gray and his reflexes were shot. Everybody was just keeping him in a holding pattern, and that was dangerous, because when he didn’t have anything to occupy his attention his thoughts gently settled to the bottom of his stomach.
“‘Not ready yet,’” he fumed. Teeth clenching, he delivered a sharp kick to a loose bolt on the floor that had made the mistake of getting in his way. It skipped and skittered across the hangar floor, bouncing off a pair of shiny black boots.
Eli looked up, an apology on his lips, then stopped dead in his tracks as he recognized the man to whom the boots belonged.
“Good day, Mr Brody. A word?”
He was an old man, slim with a fringe of white hair around his ears and the back of his head, and an equally white vandyke beard and pointed mustache that stood out against his bronzed skin. A hawkish nose and narrowed eyes gave him the air of a predator, despite his otherwise grandfatherly appearance. He wasn’t stooped, but he leaned on a handsome black wooden cane with a gold-colored pommel.
Eli had met him twice before, both times in the company of Kovalic, and though he didn’t know the man’s name it was clear that he was Kovalic’s boss. Despite that, he spoke in the cultured accents of a high-born Illyrican, a fact that made Eli’s head spin. What was a member of Illyrican nobility doing ordering around an elite Commonwealth military team when the two superpowers had been at war for most of Eli’s life? He wore no insignia, just a navy blue military-style jacket over a white shirt and black trousers.
One thing Eli had concluded: he was certainly not a man to be trifled with.
“Uh. Hi,” said Eli, not quite sure how to address him.
“You remember me.”
“You’re a hard man to forget – I don’t believe I caught your name, though.”
“No?” said the old man. “A shame.”
They stood there in silence for a moment, then Eli caved. “Uh, what can I do for you?”
The old man gestured with one liver-spotted hand. “Walk with me?”
Eli looked around; the maintenance crews were going about their business – none of them were paying the slightest attention to the two of them, though in some cases that looked like a very deliberate sort of not-paying-attention. Giving the old man a cautious nod, Eli fell into step with him.
The man moved slowly, with an awkward stride; Eli detected the faint whine of servomotors as he moved. Prosthetic legs, he realized, trying not to obviously look down at them.
The old man caught the glance anyway, and smiled. “Lost them years ago. Had these prosthetics custom-built – they were top of the line at the time, but I’m afraid they haven’t aged well.” He chuckled. “I could say the same about myself.”
Eli gave a polite cough-laugh in response.
“You’re probably wondering exactly what I’m doing here, so let me be direct: I need your help, Mr Brody. We have a situation on the planet Sevastapol.”
Eli frowned. “That’s an Illyrican colony.”
“I’m aware of that,” said the general dryly.
“What kind of situation?”
The old man raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve seen the sorts of situations you deal with and just in case it’s slipped your mind, I’m not a soldier.”
“I don’t need a soldier. I need a pilot.”
“There’s some dispute on that score, too,” said Eli, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
“Yes, I’ve read Dr Thornfield’s reports.”
He’s read… Eli’s head snapped towards the old man. “Those are supposed to be confidential.” Why am I even surprised?
“I don’t agree with her conclusions,” continued the man, ignoring Eli’s comment. “Seems to me you’ve made quite a bit of progress in these last six months. We’ve been keeping tabs on you.”
Eli shook his head, trying to take it all in. “Who the hell are you?”
The old man stopped and turned towards Eli, fixing him with an appraising stare. “The real question, Mr Brody, is how do you feel. I need a pilot who can handle whatever’s thrown at them, and I’ve seen your records – all of them. I think that’s you.”
“This is crazy.”
“All you have to do is go in, pick up some passengers, and come back.” He paused. “There’s just one condition.”
“I thought you were being direct. Call it what it is: a catch.”
The old man shrugged. “If you like. Thanks to your defection from the Illyrican Empire, the Commonwealth currently has you classified as a ‘strategic asset.’”
“Yeah, I know,” said Eli, rolling his eyes. “I can’t even leave the planet without seventeen forms filled out in triplicate.”
“Indeed,” said the old man, having the grace to look slightly apologetic. “My fault, I’m afraid. But I also have a solution.” He produced a ta
blet from under his arm and handed it over.
Thumbing it on, Eli skimmed through the text onscreen, then blinked and read it through again, more closely. Then blinked again. “What is this?” he said, looking up at the old man, and then back down at the screen.
“Exactly what it looks like,” said the old man. “An officer’s commission in the Commonwealth military, lieutenant rank. Which, if I’m not mistaken, is roughly equivalent to your former standing in the Illyrican Navy.”
“I told you: I’m not a soldier,” said Eli, holding the tablet out towards the old man.
The man raised a hand, palm out. “I’m afraid without your agreement, I can’t fully brief you on the mission.”
“Then I don’t want your job.”
“I think you do.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“For one thing, it gets you out of here,” said the old man, waving a hand at their surroundings. “I can sign off on your medical records. No more simulators. No more focused therapy sessions. But even more to the point…” There was a slight hesitation before the old man spoke again. “It’s Captain Kovalic’s team on Sevastapol. And they’ve run into a spot of trouble.”
Eli froze, the tablet still held in his outstretched grip. Six months. It had been silly to think that Kovalic and his team had spent it sitting around, twiddling their thumbs – he’d seen them in action, and only an idiot would leave them on the bench when there was a war on, cold or otherwise. Even from his meager interaction with the old man, Eli felt pretty comfortable in his assessment that Kovalic’s boss was far from an idiot.
That said, Sevastapol was behind enemy lines and Kovalic, Page, and Tapper were stuck there. He eyed the screen again. I don’t owe him anything. Not really.
Even he didn’t find the argument terribly convincing.
“Why me?”
“You’ve worked with Kovalic before – he knows you. And, as I said, I’ve read your file. I think you’re the right man for the job.”
He wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but there was something the old man wasn’t saying – some other hidden catch, some ulterior motive, something that wasn’t clear.
“So, what, you want me to just fly into Illyrican space, pick up a team of special ops soldiers, and stroll away, nice as you please?”
They’d reached the hangar’s exit, and the old man gestured to Eli. “After you, Mr Brody.”
The warm wind ruffled through his air, even as the humidity started him sweating. Sitting on the tarmac directly outside was a hovercar with tinted windows; a woman leaned against the hood, but she straightened up when they emerged.
Her dirty blond hair was pulled back into a businesslike ponytail, focusing the attention on her face: elegant and pale-skinned, with high cheekbones, a slender nose and wide, expressive blue eyes that were on Eli from the moment she saw him. She stood at ease, hands clasped behind her back. Just a couple inches shorter than Eli, she was tall for a woman, with a wiry build that might be unwisely mistaken for slight.
“Mr Brody, this is Lieutenant Commander Taylor of Naval Intelligence Command. She’ll be leading the operation to Sevastapol.”
“I haven’t agreed yet,” said Eli, glancing at the commander, whose face remained impassive.
“Of course,” said the old man.
“What other idiots have signed up for this mission, then?” Eli asked, looking around. He sensed more than saw the woman tense.
“It’s just Commander Taylor – and you, of course, if you agree.”
“Funny.”
“I’m serious, Mr Brody. It was hard enough getting one team in – a smaller group stands a far better chance.”
Eli’s eyes darted from Taylor back to the old man. “This sounds like suicide – no offense, commander.”
Her eyebrows twitched upwards, accompanied by a quirk of her lips. “None taken.” Her voice was pleasant, but deeper than Eli had expected, with a posh timbre that spoke of years of expensive schooling. She’d better be full of surprises if she intends to make it back alive.
“So what the hell is this all about?” Eli asked.
The old man nodded to the tablet that Eli was still holding limply in one hand. “I know you’re not content to sit on the sidelines, Mr Brody. Even after everything you’ve been through, you still want to make a difference. Well, this is how.”
Even if it means signing away my soul. He raised the pad again, staring at the letter of commission that would shove him right back into the military hierarchy he’d already run away from. I never really wanted to be a soldier. But somehow, I keep getting dragged into it. But he couldn’t deny the way it made his heart thump – with fear, sure, but also, much as he hated to admit it, with a jolt of adrenaline. Aw, to hell with it – I’m done sitting around.
With a deep breath, he pressed his thumb on the indicated square. The screen flashed as it captured his thumbprint, and he stifled a gulp as he saw the text “Lieutenant Elijah Brody, Confirmed” appear. I guess there’s no escaping some things.
He handed the tablet to the old man, who tucked it under his arm and waved a hand at the car. Taylor opened the rear door; the three of them piled in.
The hovercar pulled away from the hangar and Eli cast a last glance over his shoulder at the building that had been more or less the entirety of his world for the last half a year.
“So,” said Eli. “I’m pretty sure I was promised some details.”
The old man cleared his throat. “We may be an informal organization, lieutenant, but let’s stand on some ceremony, shall we?”
Eli glanced at the commander, who couldn’t quite hide the smile from her lips, then back at the old man. “Uh, I’m pretty sure I was promised some details… sir?”
With a roll of his eyes, the old man shook his head, but plowed onward. “A few weeks ago we were alerted to the existence of a high-ranking member of the Illyrican government with an interest in… making a change in his living situation.”
Eli raised his eyebrows. “You mean defecting?”
“Quite. Captain Kovalic and his team were dispatched to Sevastapol to facilitate the defection, but it seems as though it didn’t quite go according to plan.”
“And what’s so important about this particular defector?”
The old man nodded to Taylor. “Commander?”
Taylor leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Albert Bleiden is the Illyrican Empire’s Permanent Undersecretary for Trade and Commerce. My department at NICOM has been running an investigation in which Bleiden had been flagged as a person of interest. We think he could shed light on some unsettling ties between the Imperium and the Bayern Corporation. The general got in touch when the SPT moved to secure Bleiden’s defection.”
Bayern? As in the biggest company in the known galaxy? “What kind of ties?”
Taylor shrugged. “Given the Corporation’s interests and Bleiden’s position, almost certainly financial, but the details are a bit scarce. We were hoping that he would be able to fill in the blanks.”
Eli raised an eyebrow. “Financial? Seems a bit out of Kovalic and his crew’s area of expertise. Don’t you have a team of special ops accountants?”
Taylor’s look was the kind one would give a precocious third-grader. “People get mugged for pocket change all the time – we’re talking trillions here. You think people wouldn’t kill for that?”
“The worry,” the old man put in, “is that combining the Bayern Corporation’s resources with the Imperium’s bald-faced ambition would be an… undesirable state of affairs. That makes uncovering the links between the two – and whatever information the defector has – paramount to the safety and security of the Commonwealth.”
Eli eyed the two of them as his position became slightly clearer. You needed a pilot on short notice, and lucky enough, my calendar was pretty open. “So, what’s the situation on the ground?”
“Touch and go,” said the old man. “What we know is that shortly after the arranged meet time, Ca
ptain Kovalic issued an abort code. Moments later, a light transport matching the registration of their ship was shot out of the sky by Sevastapol’s orbital defenses.”
Shot out of the… “Uh, no offense, but this mission is sounding a little less cut and dried than that initial pitch. Sir.”
“Welcome to the service,” Taylor murmured.
The old man’s smile took on a shade of the grim. “I told you I needed a pilot that could handle whatever was thrown at them. I hope I’m not mistaken in my assessment, lieutenant.”
The hovercar slowed to a stop, and Eli frowned. They hadn’t gone through a perimeter gate, so they were still on the base. He glanced out the tinted windows and saw that they had pulled up next to a sleek, if somewhat used-looking transport ship, its hull pitted with micro-abrasions and streaked with carbon-scoring. A maintenance crew was finishing what looked like final takeoff preparations, detaching fuel lines and umbilical cables.
“I take it I don’t have time to pack a bag,” said Eli.
“We lucked out: this intelligence is only twelve hours old. That’s about as fast as it could have gotten here from Sevastapol. We don’t know what the status of Captain Kovalic’s team is, but if they’re going to have any hope of escaping – or, for that matter, surviving – I need you on your way six hours ago.”
“That’s great,” said Eli, eyeing the ship again and doing some quick calculations in his head, “but even at best possible speed, the fastest we can make it to Sevastapol is probably another twelve hours. Not to mention clearing the relevant wormhole gates – no small thing if Sevastapol is locked down. And, oh yeah, those orbital defenses you mentioned.” He glanced at Taylor and thought he even detected a flicker of concern on her face at the list.
The old man smiled. “I knew you were up to the challenge, Lieutenant Brody. As to your concerns, don’t worry: I have an idea that should make this considerably easier.” His blue eyes glinted as he opened the hovercar door, and the sound of engines powering up roared into the compartment. The old man shouted to be heard over the noise. “There’s more than one reason I wanted you on this mission.”
Oh. Great.
