by Dan Moren
“Where the hell are we?” he muttered.
Taylor shook her head, frowning, and her grip tightened on the pistol. “Clearly whoever hired your boy there had deep pockets.”
Erich threw back his head and laughed. Taylor spun back and jabbed him in the gut with the pistol; he doubled over with an oof, but couldn’t quite banish the smile from his face. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourselves into,” he wheezed.
Her face cold, Taylor grabbed the pilot by the scruff of the neck, then placed him ahead of her. “You’re going to show us how to get out of here. Let’s go.”
Still bent over, Erich raised a hand and pointed. “This way.”
They followed him down a long corridor, lined with ornate carved sideboards that looked like they dated from a time before humans had discovered space travel. Eli tried to stop himself from staring, slack-jawed, at the sculptures that dotted small nooks – life size marble statues in many cases. He glanced down at the names: Caesar. Hannibal. Temujin. Whoever’s residence this was, they definitely had a specific taste in art and history. He frowned as they reached the end of the hallway and swung right down the corridor.
The hallway led into a large entranceway, inlaid in marble, with a wide stairway that led up around the room and formed a mezzanine. Across the hall Eli could see salvation in the form of a front door, flanked by two narrow floor-to-ceiling windows. He hoped they weren’t about to stumble into a suburban street with a hostage at gunpoint. That might be tough to explain to the Bayern security services.
They were halfway across the vestibule when Eli caught sight of a brilliant red firefly dancing in the light. It wasn’t until it alit on Taylor that his brain caught up with what his plummeting stomach had already figured out. He glanced down at his own shirt and saw a matching firefly on his own chest. The loud click of safeties being flipped off only brought their fates home.
“I think you two will want to stop where you are,” said Erich, with a smile and a wave towards the mezzanine. “And, if you would be so kind, place your weapons on the floor.”
Interlude
ISC Emperor’s Spear, Badr Sector – June 8, 2401
“Lieutenant? Sergeant Kovalic here; we’ve secured the bridge.” He eyed the array of a dozen crimson-uniformed crewmembers, on their knees with their hands interlaced behind their heads. Six of his own marines had their weapons trained on the captives.
“Copy, sergeant,” the thick voice of Lieutenant Fletcher crackled back to him. “Encountering resistance on the way to the engine room – I think they knew we were coming.”
“We did basically crash into their ship in a giant metal pod,” the sergeant pointed out. “Perhaps not the subtlest approach.”
“I’ll mention that to Command for next time. Keep a lid on things there. I’ll let you know when we’re in position.”
“Roger that. Kovalic out.” He glanced at the ship’s large main screen, which showed the ongoing battle. Someone was bound to notice that the Emperor’s Spear had suddenly gotten a little less engaged in the fighting – there were still a few isolated gunners running their own autonomous turrets, but given that its fire control and helm officers were now being held at gunpoint, the flagship of the Illyrican Third Fleet was mostly floating dead in the water.
“Looks like we’re still taking a pounding, sarge,” said Lau, one of his marines, who’d also been eyeing the screen. “That other dreadnought is doing just fine on its own.” He nodded at another large ship of the same class as the Emperor’s Spear.
The sergeant glanced at his wrist. “Give it a minute,” he said, looking to the communication console. Over on the Warhawk, if everything was going according to plan, Lieutenant Garcia’s platoon ought to be on the same timetable, which meant that the signal ought to be coming through anytime now.
“Come on, Toni,” he muttered to himself.
“Ambush!” yelled a voice in the sergeant’s ear and his eyes snapped up to the captured crewmembers before he realized that the shout had come over the comm in his ear. “LT’s down!” said the same voice.
“Calhoun, that you?” the sergeant said, pressing a finger to his ear. “Sitrep!”
“Sarge, we’ve taken heavy losses; they rigged some sort of booby trap on the way into the engine room. We’re blocked off, and the LT and Shimon are both down.”
The sergeant swore, turning back to the comm console. Still no signal. He glanced at his watch; Garcia ought to have reported in by now. It was possible they’d met resistance of their own.
Which made the question: how long should he give them before he assumed the mission was blown?
Onscreen, he saw one of the Earth fleet’s frigates light up as an explosion rippled across its surface. Shrapnel from the destroyed ship peppered a nearby corvette, not destroying it, but causing enough damage that it started to float aimlessly.
“We’re running out of time,” he said, more to himself than to his team. The newly formed Commonwealth fleet was little more than a loose conglomeration of vessels – most of them not even real warships – and there was no way it could hold its own against the Illyrican forces. Not in a fair fight, anyway.
But if the Illyricans trampled them here in the Badr sector, they’d have a clear path to the Commonwealth’s center of power on Terra Nova, and all organized resistance would crumble.
No pressure.
A light on the communications console blinked on, and the sergeant sighed in relief, flipping to the channel.
“Emperor’s Spear, this is Warhawk,” came an unfamiliar voice. “We’re under attack by enemy forces onboard; repeat, onboard. We’ve sealed our bridge; recommend you prepare for same.”
“Shit.” The sergeant slapped the channel off, and his eyes swept over the assembled marines. “Any of you happen to know how to fly a dreadnought?” Blank stares came back at him.
“Uh…” One marine, a skinny greenhorn named Briggs, raised his hand. “I think Trinh had some flight training,” he said. “But she went with the LT’s squad.”
“Great,” said the sergeant, flipping his comm on. “Calhoun, you still there?”
“Aye, sarge,” the rough voice came back, punctuated between rounds of gunfire. “We’re holding.”
“Is Trinh still up?”
“Yeah, but she’s a little busy.”
“Patch her in; it’s an emergency.”
There was a pause, and a woman’s strained voice came on the channel. “Yo, sarge. I’m kind of in the middle of something.” A ricochet sounded, loud, over the earpiece.
“I need you to walk me through flying this boat.”
A moment of silence. “Shit, sarge, it’s never easy with you, is it?”
“Just tell me how to lay in a course, private.”
“All right,” said Trinh with a grunt. “Take a seat at the console, and try to find the heading control.”
“Heading control… heading control…” the sergeant said, his eyes darting over the console. “What the hell am I looking for?”
“I don’t know,” Trinh seethed. “I’ve never flown a fucking dreadnought. Should look something like a big dial with numbers around the edge.”
Sure enough, a large dial marked at regular intervals with numbers sat in one corner of the touchscreen. “OK, got it.”
“Take a look at the holo display; should show you which direction the ship’s pointed in.”
The sergeant’s eyes found the display; a blue shaded corridor depicted the direction the ship was currently heading. Unsurprisingly, its nose was aimed more or less at the tattered remainders of the Earth fleet, moving at a roughly parallel line to the Warhawk. “Got it.”
“All right,” said Trinh. A series of reports echoed over the comm channel. “Spin the dial until the heading looks the way you want, then lock it in.”
Sucking his breath in between his teeth, the sergeant turned the dial, watching the projected blue line shift. He had to turn it pretty far to reach the direction he wanted, and
it turned out he had to slide it forward slightly in order to pitch the ship downwards. A flashing icon on the screen read “Lock” and the sergeant reached over and tapped it. Vibrations rippled through the deck as the ship slowed and applied its thrusters, lumbering along the new heading.
He leaned back and sighed in relief. “Got it, Trinh. Thank…” he trailed off as he watched the line. At the rate the ship was moving, it wouldn’t get there soon enough. “Crap,” he growled. “Trinh, where do I find the throttle on this thing?”
There was no response from the other end of the comm; just static.
“Trinh? You there? Come in!”
His jaw clenched. No time to think about that now – he had bigger problems. Casting his eyes over the panel again, they alit upon a slider that seemed to be marked in speed increments; it was at about half speed now. Taking a deep breath, he slid it to maximum. Increased acceleration pressed him slightly back into the chair. Glancing back at the heading dial, he made a slight adjustment to the ship’s direction, then hopped out of the chair and looked at the marines.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“What about them?” Lau asked, gesturing to the crewmembers.
“Throw ’em into the escape pods along the way,” said the sergeant, eyeing them. “Let’s just make sure to seal the bridge behind us.” He activated his comm. “This is Sergeant Kovalic. All troops fall back to extraction, on the double.”
As they marched the crewmembers out of the bridge, a klaxon sounded and a giant red warning burst onto screen, blaring “COLLISION DETECTED.” The Warhawk grew larger in the display.
“Here’s mud in your eye, you bastards,” growled the sergeant, ducking out of the bridge.
Chapter 21
“Boss? Hey, boss.”
Kovalic blinked. He swore he hadn’t closed his eyes, but he had the groggy feeling of being prematurely roused from a nap. The smooth ride of the Commonwealth hovercar had lulled him into a drowsy state, even in the few minutes it had taken to make the trip from the Corporation headquarters back to the embassy. Not enough sleep would do that.
He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Sorry, sergeant. What were you saying?”
Tapper cocked his head to one side, eyeing his boss with a speculative expression that had remained more or less unchanged for the last twenty years. “So, we think whoever grabbed the prince wanted to stop him from meeting with Vallejo. Why? What was so important?”
M’basa was sitting opposite them, her dark eyes watching them, hawklike. In spite of his intrinsic distrust of CID – and his frank antipathy for her boss, Kester – she’d been nothing but helpful. It was about time he reciprocated.
Kovalic produced the data chip from his pocket, holding it between thumb and forefinger. “I’m hoping this will tell us.”
M’basa didn’t bother hiding her surprise, leaning forward towards the chip. “Where’d you get that?”
“A friend… I hope.”
The deputy consul’s fingers tapped rapidly on one knee. “What’s on it?”
“No idea. I guess we’ll find out.”
“We?”
He tipped a nod in her direction. “This is your turf, as you said.”
M’basa raised a brow, but there was relief in her eyes. “’Bout damn time.”
The car glided into the drive at the Commonwealth embassy, and the three got out and walked into the building. M’basa led them through the halls to a heavy security door, where she swiped them into the relatively small suite of rooms that served as the CID station’s operations section.
“You can use this room,” she said, letting them into a closet-like room that contained three chairs and a secure terminal. “I need to go check in on a few things, but I’ll be back.” With that she closed the door behind them.
Kovalic dropped into one of the chairs, fighting back another wave of fatigue. His shoulder ached and he massaged it gently.
Tapper was leaning against the door, that thoughtful look on his face again.
“What’s on your mind, sergeant?”
Pursing his lips, the old vet shrugged. “Just wondering what you didn’t tell her.”
Kovalic’s mouth twitched in a smile. Slipping anything past the sergeant was a tall order. He turned the data chip over in his hands. “It was Page.”
Tapper’s eyebrows went up. “Are you sure?”
Tall, thin, in a suit. That was all Kovalic had seen. And yet the seamless, professional brush pass had Aaron Page written all over it. Not to mention the disappearing act that he’d pulled directly after. “Sure enough. I don’t know where Page has been or what he’s been up to, but I can’t think of anybody in the Corporation who’d be inclined to help us.”
“Right enough.” He nodded at the chip. “What do you think’s on it?”
“Something important enough for Page to break cover and make a pass. I trust him not to waste our time. Let’s find out.” Trust was the cornerstone of their team. You didn’t have that, you didn’t have anything. His stomach roiled at the thought, but he pushed it down. Now wasn’t the time. Swiveling towards the terminal, he plugged in the chip; at the password prompt, he plugged in Page’s operational security cipher.
There were a handful of documents on the chip, most of them financial records that seemed to be related to some sort of corporation, The Peregrine Group, which had a variety of accounts on Bayern. The company wasn’t doing terribly well, from what Kovalic could glean from the balance sheets. Lots of debt tied up in large assets – really large, expensive assets, he realized as he glanced at the numbers – and not a lot of income.
Besides those records, there was only one other document on the chip: a memo regarding the Peregrine Group’s somewhat tenuous financial state. Kovalic’s eyebrows raised as he noted that it had originated from the office of Senior Vice President Zaina Vallejo herself and was replete with scary phrases like “no additional credit will be extended” and “any further missed payments will result in penalties.”
But it was the name in the “To” line that clicked everything into place.
“There it is,” he breathed, leaning back and staring at the terminal.
“Boss?” said Tapper, frowning and peering over his shoulder.
Kovalic’s brain was whirring away. Whatever weariness he’d felt a moment before had vanished, subsumed as blood started to pump faster through his veins.
“What the…” Tapper muttered, his eyes shining with the reflected light of the terminal screen. “From Vallejo to Bleiden?”
Bleiden. Albert Bleiden. The Imperium’s Permanent Undersecretary for Trade and Commerce. Who had wanted to pass along sensitive information to Kovalic and his team on Sevastapol, but had ended up poisoned for his troubles.
“Important… meeting. Bayern. Three… days. Per–” Bleiden had said before dying. Kovalic had wondered about that last syllable, but it could have meant any number of things, so in the end, he’d let it go rather than drive himself crazy trying to figure it out. But Bleiden had still been trying to tell them something: Peregrine.
Kovalic rubbed a hand over his mouth. Given Bleiden’s name on the memo, either the permanent undersecretary had been running his own game or, far more likely, the Peregrine Group was a holding corporation for the Illyrican Empire.
And that meant the Imperium was in serious trouble.
Hand still on his mouth, Kovalic parted his fingers wide enough to speak. “They’re broke.”
“Broke?” echoed Tapper.
Kovalic leaned back in his chair. “Think about it, sergeant. Bleiden wants to meet with us to pass along sensitive information, then dies – probably at the hands of Eyes. So the prince is dispatched as the envoy to the Imperium to meet with Vallejo in his stead. Probably to buy more time, maybe beg for a new loan.” Which, based on the above memos, there was no way Vallejo was going to agree to – not without some serious collateral that the Imperium didn’t have.
Tapper shook hi
s head. “What does this mean? Somebody doesn’t want the Imperium getting its financial sea legs back? Still sounds a lot like we’d be the prime suspects.”
It did, didn’t it? But that still didn’t sit right with Kovalic. Even if the goal was to keep the whole thing deniable by not informing either the general or the local CID station, it just didn’t read like a Commonwealth operation. Again, just too aggressive.
“All right, gentlemen, look alive.” M’basa had strode into the room, holding a tablet. “Vallejo came through. You could knock me over with a feather.”
Tapper and Kovalic exchanged a glance as they made room for M’basa, who settled down between them and keyed on the tablet. A spartan room, containing a sliding glass door and a row of kiosks, was shown from a high angle.
“This is the footage from the spaceport rental,” said M’basa. She pointed a finger at the timestamp in the top right corner. “We crossreferenced the time that the rental was made with the video footage.”
A figure entered, his head down, and turned towards the kiosks. From the angle, Kovalic couldn’t get much: average height and build, a hat covering his head.
“Great,” said Tapper dryly. “We’ll just run that hat through facial recognition.”
M’basa held up a finger. “The Corporation is a step ahead of you. They’ve been working on indirect manipulation for years; look what happens when he goes to leave.”
The angle on the video changed, this time looking into the room from the doorway. Sure enough, as the figure turned to exit, he glanced up at the camera, head on.
“Wow,” muttered Kovalic. “How do they manage that?”
