Her Last Run

by Michael Penmore

  The Captain tilted his head and viewed the man from another angle. Could it be that the whole mutiny thing was just in his head? “Do you now?” He looked far ahead, to the fast-diminishing dot of the civilian ship. It brightened into a white spot and vanished, seemingly sucked in by an invisible hole in the black of space. “Higher Power’s safety and security are no longer under threat. Bigger things are hanging in the balance now. We’re following orders from up there,” he pointed up and wondered briefly what his crew would have to say if they knew the man pulling his string had a job with the enemy and treated him to personal blackmail. His team would probably forget what naval discipline was and tear the running freighter to pieces.

  “Civilian vessel has entered long space, sir,” the navigator reported the obvious from her position near the centre of the viewscreen.

  “Your orders, sir?” the XO repeated his previous question. It was clear the Commander wanted to ask his Captain more about the mysterious orders, but he bit his tongue. All in all, he sounded more friendly than the Captain assumed at first. Was paranoia a symptom of Parkinson’s? He’d have to ask Doc Halliday about that, but discreetly, without arousing the man’s suspicion.

  “All hands on instruments. Helm, bring us closer to the planet. Comms, keep me abreast of the surface situation. I wanna know how our people are doing. Number one, retarget our weapons to point at the battlefield. I’m taking every chance possible to help our brave boys and girls shred those darn Colons.”

  “Aye aye, sir. SigOps, scan Rockwall’s surface. Send our troop’s coordinates to my station. I want ground surveillance reports updated in real time,” said the XO. What a fine CO he’d make one day.

  The ship’s Captain smiled lightly. The bridge was a well-oiled machine once again. With some luck, his troops would break into some hidden vault and take prominent prisoners or seize valuable documents containing intel on the rebels’ undiscovered network. He needed hard currency of success to prop his promotion bid; those admiral stripes would ensure him a nice pension once the CMO had spoken to the chiefs and they made the call to put him out to pasture.

  But for now, he felt strong enough to bring his hand from behind and pat the pocket on his chest. The small stasis box was sitting there and weighing him down. He hadn’t secured the monkey. A bit of fur was the best he could do, but it would be enough, wouldn’t it? What was the worst thing some Fleet Admiral could do to him? Early retirement was already on the cards unless Doc Halliday had made a spectacular error. Now he was looking at a hero’s return versus a quiet and humiliating step-down.

  A dangerous hunch struck him in the gut and he swallowed hard. Why would Pace tell him to curb his curiosity? Was it from a desire to keep the box in working condition, like he said, or the reason was…

  The door to the bridge swished open behind him. The ship’s Captain spun, and his jaw dropped at the sight of a woman in the deep blue uniform of an EEF Naval Commander. She sashayed into his command centre like she belonged there. But she didn’t. His forehead creased in the expectation of an argument.

  “Commander Poole. You should be in sickbay.”

  The woman stopped right next to him, put one hand on the safety railing; the other hand brushed the spot on her nose where a scar formed a raw red line on her otherwise unblemished skin. She dropped the gesture as quickly as she started, and spoke back steadfastly, without a touch of smugness. “It’s Acting Captain, actually.”

  The ship’s Captain straightened to his full height and scanned the woman’s face and posture. Trying hard to detect hints of a lie and finding none, he pressed her on it. “Acting Captain? Outrageous. You’ve no right to glide into my bridge like a bull trampling the fence to the next enclosure. Explain yourself fast.”

  “You are NOT my Commanding Officer to demand explanations,” she brushed aside his authoritarian manner and continued in a low voice. “I am feeling much better, thank you for asking. I got my orders from upstairs. We should talk them over in private. Or do you want me to blast them now for everyone to hear?”

  The ship’s Captain pressed his lips tightly together. The woman was defiant. He had not known that about her when he volunteered to accept her transfer to his sickbay. He hadn’t known anything about her at all, except that her ship was totally destroyed and she needed urgent medical treatment. Taking on hitchhikers wasn’t his usual style, but he made a spur of the moment decision, and he felt it was quite cunning, too. Poole’s recovery had been an excellent cover for his daily meetings with the CMO. But now the Commander was up, and she was making herself troublesome.

  “In my briefing room. Now.” He led her to the same airy compartment where his fight with Jacob Pace and subsequent intimidation took place half an hour earlier. The memory made him shudder like a wet shepherd dog.

  “You’re OK?” Poole asked. She had excellent eyesight.

  “I’m fine. You say sir when you address me.”

  “Lights up.” She dropped into the nearest chair. Not his chair, thankfully. The projection table looked blank and dull, with no holo projections scheduled. The transparent bulkhead was dim no longer. Ships of the EEF armada crawled across space behind the pane. “As I said, I am an Acting Captain now, so stuff your sirs. We’re equals.”

  The Captain dropped into his seat. It rolled back until he stopped it with his heels. “Not according to this,” he pointed to the commander’s insignia on her uniform.

  “Oh, this trinket?” she pulled a fistful of material on her upper chest, a small silver star and her name were in the middle. “Come on, Captain Ferdinand. You know I had no opportunity to change yet.”

  “It’s Ferdinard,” he whined. He hated when people mispronounced his name. It showed a deficit of attention that was disrespectful. “Acting Captain of what ship?”

  “EES Intrepid, of course.”

  “Ha! Congratulations. That’s a shot up pile of garbage.”

  “The last Intrepid, yes. Completely unsalvageable. But the new one will be the fastest cruiser in the Earth Expeditionary Forces if I can believe a word of what Admiral Stoyanov says.”

  The ship’s Captain grabbed both armrests to stop himself from falling from the chair and leaned forward to Poole with a deep frown lining his face. “You talked with Fleet Admiral Stoyanov?”

  “Who else would promote me?” Commander… Acting Captain Poole shrugged and then crossed her legs all businesslike. “Enough time wasting. I know everything about your job, George. From what I see around me, you didn’t get the creature.”

  The walls were closing in around the Captain. The room heated up. He cleared his throat and tugged at his suddenly stiff collar. “You… you told him that?”

  “Of course not,” she said, and his internal experience of free falling down a steep cliff was suspended. “Why would I tell him that? It’s bad enough that I’m forced to work with you. Burying you won’t help me do my job.”

  She was gonna tell Stoyanov as soon as it suited her, the Captain was sure of it. His lips quivered slightly and he buried his hands in pockets, in case the tremors came back. Luckily, they didn’t. He needed his wits about him for the rest of this talk. The admiralship was on the line. “What do you need from me?”

  Acting Captain Poole didn’t flinch as she made a bold call. “Give me your executive shuttle.”

  “That’s…” His lips moved together and apart several times without making a sound until the words came out, “That’s restricted for my own use.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m asking you. I need the fastest shuttle present on this old can.”

  “Why don’t you ask another ship in the fleet?”

  “It’s not that simple. Where I’m going, no other ship can follow. And I will need a couple of your men for my private protection.”

  “I don’t have anyone to spare,” he said readily.

  Poole twisted her lips and rolled her eyes. “George, work with me. The sooner I get what I want, the faster I’ll be gone.”

  “I
mean what I say. This is a troop transport. The troop’s gone to Rockwall. I don’t have one soul to-“ His communicator chirped, and chirped again, calling for his undivided attention. The ship’s Captain looked at it, and next at the woman.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it, Captain?” she asked in such a way that he wasn’t sure if her words were serious, or filled with ridicule.

  “Share,” he finished what he was trying to say just because. After three more chirps, he had to concede that the call wasn’t going away and accepted it in the Acting Captain’s presence, although he swivelled in the chair to put her behind his back. “What is it?”

  “Captain,” it was the XO speaking. “We’re picking up a disturbance in the main hangar bay.”

  “Main hangar bay? What disturbance? You got feed?” The XO grunted an affirmation. “Put it on screen in the briefing room.” The Captain pivoted back and took a peek. The projection table came to life, and an image shimmered in the air above it. He scowled. The view was from the security cams in the hangar bay. Two soldiers rolled on the floor, completely unaware that they were in the public eye. The bigger one managed to straddle on top of the small one. The small one flailed with his arms and legs as best he could, but it didn’t matter to the big one in the slightest. They both looked very clumsy, like a parody of a fight rather than the real thing.

  “What in hock is this, number one?” The Captain demanded.

  “I matched them with the roster, sir. The taller man is Jeffrey Moon and the one below him is Ramsey She-che… lish? Shkeh-sell… Sorry, sir, this is hard to read. She-che-leech… kiwi-wocky? No, this can’t be right. Must be one of those dreadful Slavic names.”

  “Get to the point!”

  “Aye, sir. Both are Privates First Class with the Alpha company.” The Captain made no response and the XO moved on. “Sir, they were ordered to board a transport to the surface. They’re AWOL from their company under direct engagement scenario. I deployed security to arrest them, but I thought you’d want to address this yourself.”

  A slow smile crept on the Captain’s lips. Then it grew into a seedy grin. The men on the holo looked like two of the most pathetic excuses for soldiers he had ever witnessed in his long military career. “Excellent work, number one. Have them brought to my executive shuttle.”

  After a momentary hesitation, the XO thought better than asking redundant questions and said, “Aye, sir.”

  “CO out.” The Captain closed the link and turned his attention to Acting Captain Poole who had been watching the ineffectual scuffle without saying a word. “Looks like you’ll get your escort, after all.”

  The woman stood up, resting one hand on the table’s edge. “I see what you’re doing. Don’t worry, I’ll clean up your mess for you. But the two trolls better know how to uncock a plasma rifle, or they may not be coming back.”

  “They look like they’d sooner shoot themselves than anyone else.” He didn’t even try to conceal the smile on his face. Poole was getting the burnt scrapes from the bottom of the pan, and he didn’t have to listen to the goofballs making some pathetic excuse or file reports of misconduct.

  The woman knocked on the table twice. “For luck. I’ll be going. Need to catch my shuttle before the two goofs blow a fuse. Try not to die of laughter while I’m gone.”

  “Good luck, Poole. You’re gonna need it.” He chuckled in his hand as she walked out, not because he tried to hide his levity, but because that looked even worse from her perspective.

  The Acting Captain vacated the room, and the ship’s Captain stretched out in the chair. One or two things out of his hair improved his mood. He searched his pockets for the plastic bracelet his daughter gave him on the day he shipped off back to war. His grasp instead found the stasis box. That thing again. Doubts he had before the Poole distraction came back in spades.

  He brought out the black casing. Such a small thing, yet the sight of it almost paralysed him. He loved the navy. It was his life, and he would make a great admiral, even if the illness forced him out in days. The train of thought took him to different places. Retirement wouldn’t be so bad, would it? The time he’d find for his family should more than make up for the death of his career. He’d finally be the father and husband they deserved; he’d look after them, fix that faulty central heating, and look up his brother. It was high time he convinced Andrew to give up biking. He’d just heard it was a perilous pastime.

  But first, the promotion. Stoyanov would eat him for breakfast if he didn’t deliver. Sucking his lower lip, Captain George Ferdinard opened the stasis box with one flick. He looked in, kept starting at it for a good while, then closed the lid. The box was empty; the chamonkey hair was missing; Stoyanov’s mole had played him like a two-string guitar.

  Goodbye, admiral stripes. He was heading home in disgrace.

  * 2 *

  The Anvil, in transit through space

  Half an hour after Pace left her alone, Isabel shuffled out of the cockpit with a heavy head and heart. She needed to grab a good shower, some good sleep and a change of clothes. Rummaging through the Anvil’s records left her wanting. She found out a dozen new things, but nothing explaining the mystery of the Origo Nebula. More importantly, she had a dilemma: should she tell Nadie about Pace’s hidden agenda or not?

  No, she decided. She worked best alone. Sooner or later, she would find a way to shake the spook off her back. But first, Libertalia. She had signed up for taking him there. Once the Colons set foot on the hidden colony, nothing would stop her from casting off and choosing her own path out of there. If it meant stranding Nadine Chu, so be it. The girl made her choice.

  Barely two steps into the passageway she saw the tall frame of Rhys Dreyfus peeling off the bulkhead on her right. She soured, partly because he’d been walking her ship on his own, but mostly because he had already washed and changed back into his nondescript clothes, while she was still impersonating a freaking EEFer.

  “Rocarion. A word.”

  “No time to stop for dredge fuzz,” she forced the words out and brushed past him.

  “I’ll walk with you,” he tagged along her side, making Isabel sigh on the inside.

  “Where’s the comic relief?”

  “Funny,” Dreyfus nodded, but didn’t smile. “Crawley’s cleaned, clothed, and stuffing his belly full of cheese in the mess compartment with the rest of the passengers.”

  Isabel looked at him sharply, “I call it a kitchen. Who told them to take food off my table?”

  “Food and drinks,” Dreyfus pointed out to increase her annoyance. “You expected them to freeze on the hard floor in the broom closet for the whole flight?”

  “Guns never complained.” Isabel fixed her gaze up ahead. Her boots pounded the floor. She hadn’t thought through the logistics of taking a circus aboard. Dreyfus was the first to break into her larder, she was sure of that. But having a crack at him for feeding people felt wrong. And that incensed her even further. “You came all this way just to taunt me?”

  “No.”

  “Well? Spit it out, dredge fuzz.”

  He paused. Isabel enjoyed five seconds of silence broken by their footsteps.

  “What will you do with the casualties?”

  That stopped the gunrunner in her tracks. She backed into the port bulkhead and eyed the man. He was referring to a stack of dead bodies in the closet at her quarters which she had managed to forget all about. “You wanna throw them out for me?”

  “Throw them out?!” Dreyfus cried out, arms raised, eyes bulging, teeth showing. He took two big breaths, steadied the rocking back and forth, and clapped his hands. “OK, crash course in humanity. People don’t get thrown out. They get something called a funeral.

  Isabel observed him. He wasn’t joking. A funeral in freaking space, for the guys who wouldn’t do them the same favour if things worked the other way round. “All right, fuzzy. Take some crates from Cargo Bay A and send them off in style. Don’t take all day.” She pushed herself off the wall and
walked.

  His extended arm barred her way. “I need more than crates. You’re gonna help me.”

  Isabel’s face broke into a faint smile. She knew what was gonna happen next: she’d say no, and he’d pester her until she had had enough of his carping and said yes. Better save some time and agree from the outset. “You’re a right gonzo. All right. What do you need?”

  Rhys looked into the two black mirrors of her glasses and nodded solemnly. “I’ll make you a shopping list.”

  **

  “Did... you... have to... choose this place?” Rhys shoved a large greenish crate into place. Turning around, his boot caught on a solid piece of dried muck. The Marine nearly fell but managed to keep upright by grabbing one of four rubber tubes hanging off the wall. Its open end was suspended several inches over the ground; a steady dose of the same unappealing stuff that covered the floor dripped from it drop by drop. Rhys’ foot landed in the murky slush. The splash painted the front of his clothes with a brown spray; it reached all the way to his chin. He tried to wipe the stuff away, and a sticky smear settled permanently on his fingers. “Owwww! What is this?”

  “Looks like radiator coolant mixed with laundry water.” Nadie chuckled from her position next to a portion of the stained circular wall.

  “Close enough,” Isabel said. Like all of them, she had changed back into her old clothes at last. Her hair was back to blue to boot. “We’re in the core emergency ejection chute.”

  Rhys cringed and said, “Reminds me more of a waste dump.”

  “That’s because I repurposed it.”

  A series of winces and pouts went through Rhys’ face. He smelled his dirty hand and choked. “Is this stuff radioactive?”

  “No more than your daily milkshake. Come on, help me out here.” Isabel opened a plastic bag and started to remove a dirty-white tarp. Nadie made it amply clear she wouldn’t lift a finger after she’d finished helping to float some of the four makeshift coffins across the ship on levitators. Isabel wondered why she was doing any of this herself.