Victory's Wake (Deception Fleet Book 1)

by Daniel Gibbs

  “I’m insulted you think I haven’t already done it.” Brant sighed.

  “And see what chatter you get about this incident. Put in a signal to Oxford too. I want a word with their new friend, Carlos DeSilva, the talkative one. He could be our next way in. Sparks?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Make sure Gina gets a full analysis of the bomb used, anything she and Brant haven’t already gotten from their scans. I want her to know what she’s looking for.”

  Gina smiled. “Ah. I finally get to take the tour.”

  “Right. As soon as possible. You’re looking for any physical proof the League proper is supporting operations here, and if you can pull records of their personnel stationed on Aphendrika, all the better. ESS likes to stock the diplomatic posts with so-called ‘cultural attachés.’ See what names we can dig up. Brant will cross-reference those with the faces we’ve already pulled from your surveillance. And speaking of which…” Jackson cocked an eyebrow as he glanced at Brant.

  “Still nothing back. Whoever’s running this show and providing the muscle in terms of League bodies, we haven’t seen them on our side of the border. Intel’s hard to come by from good old Sol, too, because their society is so heavily riddled with informants and commissars.”

  “Keep at it. Sev? Pick new targets. As soon as Demir retaliates, hit back hard. If we’re lucky, we can catch Leaguers in the mix.”

  Sev nudged Dwyer. “Drones.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Dwyer said. “I didn’t expect you to go through half a box at once. LT, you got any spare nav components I can sneak off with?”

  “I’ll check my kit.” Brant consulted his tablet. “We’ve got this location for the next twenty-four hours if anyone needs it.”

  “First thing’s first. Call Sinclair.” Jackson stood from the couch. He wobbled but brushed away Dwyer’s helpful hand. “I’m fine, Warrant. Let’s get the shuttle prepped, and let Colonel Sinclair know we’re coming to speak to his guest.”

  The first stop he made when arriving aboard Oxford was sick bay.

  “You’ll heal,” the corpsman, Vasquez, pronounced. “The regen treatment will take a few days—”

  “I don’t have the time.”

  Jackson was halfway off the bed when Colonel Sinclair entered sick bay. Jackson braced to attention but knew, between his sloppy appearance and the stiffness with which he moved, a first-year conscript would have done better.

  “I daresay I’ve seen you in better shape, Captain.” Sinclair waited, hands clasped behind his back. “Your man’s report did not inspire great optimism.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But your request to interview the prisoner has been granted.” Sinclair motioned for him to follow. Once they were out in the corridor, free of the listening ears in sick bay, Sinclair continued in hushed tones, “Captain Tamir and Warrant Eldred inform me they’ve intercepted more communiques utilizing the same frequency Lieutenant Guinto first identified, the same variety that led us to capture Lucy Lee. They give further assurance they’ll soon be able to crack the code itself, which needless to say, would be a tremendous boon.”

  “It would be, sir.” Jackson felt the first surge of optimism since the explosion blacked out his world. “Anything I need to know about the prisoner?”

  “First Mate Carlos DeSilva. Quite a pragmatic fellow. He’s already pointed us in the right direction when it comes to more drop-off points for illicit weapons. I have Major Mancini scouting those locations.”

  Jackson nodded, his mind a whirl of questions as a Marine private guarding the entrance to the interrogation rooms off the brig saluted them. The young man was armed with a pulse pistol. Another Marine, likewise armed, stood sentry inside the locked door, where a tall, slender Hispanic man in a pale-gray jumpsuit was shackled to the table.

  “Mr. DeSilva, good day.” Sinclair sat in one of the chairs. “I have someone who’d very much like to make your acquaintance.”

  “Sure, Colonel, but, uh, I don’t know what more I can tell him that you don’t already know.” DeSilva glanced at Jackson. “He’s CDF?”

  “I want inside Demir.” Jackson skipped whatever pleasantries were headed his way. “Can you get me there?”

  “Inside…? Wow.” DeSilva’s shoes shuffled, clattering his binders against the legs of his chair. “That’s, uh, that’s who we were delivering through. I don’t know the to, you see—already told Colonel Sinclair as much.”

  “But Demir is overseeing these purchases?”

  “For a third party—or fourth. Whatever. The same people who are moving Orbita down on Aphendrika are giving us the coordinates for the shipment drops. Sinclair has those too.”

  Jackson saw Sinclair’s subtle nod out of the corner of his eye. “You don’t know who’s giving orders from the top?”

  “Nope. Only Demir’s top guns would have that.” DeSilva licked his lips. “You guys are keeping your word, right? You’ll get me relocated? New identity?”

  “CBI handles those aspects in exchange for your sworn testimony,” Sinclair said. “Affidavits of which we have plenty. I would answer more of the good man’s questions, to the best of your abilities.”

  Jackson leaned forward, hands on the table. “Who did your captain contact with Demir to get the information?”

  “Captain Akai?” DeSilva snorted. “He didn’t call them. They called him. I met a contact once, when Akai had me lead the crew offloading a shipment on one of the bazillion rocks in orbit. Big, burly blond guy, size of a carrier.”

  Jackson’s heart skipped. He hoped it was anticipation, not a side effect of the medicines coursing through him. “Goes by Arvid?”

  “Arvid? No. Haakon.”

  “Bearded? Bald?”

  “Two more strikes, man. Curly locks. Five-o’clock shadow, maybe, but no beard.”

  Jackson called up images on his wrist unit. “Borrow your tablet, Colonel?”

  “Of course.” Sinclair slid it over.

  A tap of commands, and Arvid’s glowering face filled the rectangle.

  DeSilva whistled. “Honest-to-God twin right there. Same expression as Haakon, right down to the eyes—even the same color. Haakon’s got a burnt left ear though. Looks like plasma damage.”

  Enough for a composite sketch. I’ll get it to Brant. “Mr. DeSilva, have you made any substantial contact with this Haakon? Enough so he’d know who you were?”

  DeSilva shrugged. “Enough I could talk him up. Not that he was outgoing.”

  “What’s on your mind?” Sinclair asked Jackson.

  “There’s been no word from Lucy Lee since Tuscon took her,” Jackson murmured. “If I can make contact with Arvid again, through Haakon—leveraging what DeSilva here knows about them—”

  “You could work your way into the Demir cartel and get us closer to their League backers.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jackson frowned. “The problem is time. The League’s taking bigger risks. And the shipments—how many have there been?”

  “Unknown, but Mr. DeSilva claims Lucy Lee was on her third when it was caught, and we know of at least one other smuggler destroyed by TCFE in the attempt.”

  No, a second infiltration would take too long. He would need weeks to earn their trust, like he had all the way back on Hebrides. Salvatore’s had been a lucky break, a result of Brant’s research combined with falling in with the right person. To replicate—wait. The ships.

  “Command and control linkages,” Jackson said. “That was the cargo, right?”

  “Indeed,” Sinclair replied. “Though Mr. DeSilva does not know for what vessel they were intended. Do you?”

  DeSilva cleared his throat. “Well, no, we never heard, but Haakon did say he was tired of hiding inside rocks. I assumed he meant the tiny crater he had his ship crammed into—the one we transferred our stuff onto.”

  “What if Carlos, here, escaped?” Jackson asked. “I could pass word to Arvid, say Carlos is an old friend of mine—that’s how I wound up on Aphendrika in the first
place for the job at Salvatore’s. I could promise him the retrieval of the illicit parts Lucy Lee was carrying.”

  “You and Carlos?” Sinclair pondered the situation. “Risky, given Mr. DeSilva’s novice nature and your recent injuries—as in, the ones from which you’ve not yet healed.”

  “That sells it even more. I make Euke out to be the snitch they already view him as—bring in Carlos and the parts as a peace offering. Hopefully, it’ll get us to wherever the League is doing their refit.”

  Sinclair nodded slowly. “Let’s make the necessary arrangements. We can set Lucy adrift. Mr. DeSilva can take the proper steps to alert the contacts, tell them they were jumped by pirates or rival smugglers, or some such, from whom he was able to escape. Captain Akai and all hands were killed.” He smiled at DeSilva. “I’m afraid, good chap, we shall have to rough up your vessel a bit to sell the story.”

  “Do what you have to. It’s better than being blown to bits.”

  “Anything else you’ll need, Captain?” Sinclair asked.

  “Yes. A TCFE shuttle. No pilot—Sparks will handle the controls.”

  “What about me?” DeSilva asked. “You’re not going to dump me, are you?”

  “Definitely not,” Jackson said. “I’ll be at your side, so don’t worry—if this goes wrong, Demir will kill us both.”

  17

  League Consulate

  Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

  25 July 2464

  Twenty thirty hours. Gina crouched on the rooftop of the building next to the League consulate. As she looked up at the sixth story, two floors above her, a light mist beaded on her goggles. Streetlamps turned the night sky a dull red fading to black.

  “Echo Two, Echo Home. Thirty seconds to dark.”

  She triggered the appropriate response. Gina could see a couple of figures moving past the glowing rectangles of consulate offices. The wrist unit glowed with the details of a small map, marking her position in relation to nearby buildings. The databanks contained schematics for all six floors, in miniature but easily accessible.

  The seconds ticked by, highlighted in dull red above the map. Gina concentrated on her breathing. Her break-in at Salvatore’s had been a simulation by comparison. This was a secure League facility, not militarized by any means, but one into which people couldn’t stroll. There were multiple obstacles to overcome.

  Gina clipped the grav harness straps around her waist and made sure the shoulders were snug. She smiled underneath her mask. Obstacles mean this will be a lot more fun.

  The timer expired right as Brant intoned, “Mark.”

  The city lights up and down an eight-block stretch went out for three or four blocks on either side. A jigsaw-shaped pattern outlined the blackout in gold on her map. Here and there, orange emergency beacons sprang to life in apartment windows. And in the consulate windows.

  Gina dropped her goggles, the night vision bathing everything she saw in sharp amber representation. She took four strides to the edge of the roof and stepped off, her hand pressed to the harness control mounted on her left shoulder.

  Her stomach lurched as she dropped a meter. The antigravity field, tenuous as it was, kicked in, lifting her swiftly up the two floors to the consulate’s roof. She waited until her head was at the same level as the metal slats camouflaging the heating and ventilation equipment stacked behind them—building code requirements, the files claimed, a handy screen for surveillance equipment too.

  She tucked her shoes against the rough concrete, finding purchase against a decorative lip, then grabbed a slat with one hand. She killed the antigravity with the other.

  “Four drones.” Brant monitored the rooftop view with his own bot, cruising in a broad circle over Kolossi, about five hundred meters above. “Stand by for targeting. I’m scanning for their communications frequency.”

  Gina held onto the slats. She could see the bots floating on standby, simple motion-detector sensors with the trigger set for humanoids. A sparrow wouldn’t set them off, or the bigger winged lizards that enjoyed snacking on the former. Assuming, of course, they functioned properly.

  Her wrist unit vibrated. Signal received. Gina pulled the dispenser from her belt and poked it slowly between the slats. Playtime, ladies.

  She squeezed the release. A swarm of glittering microbots, each one no bigger than a pebble, floated free, drifting on miniscule, diaphanous wings. They split into four clusters, easing up behind the primary antennae the security drones used for data transmission and communication. Once there, they extended tendrils into the gaps, connecting with the circuitry. The pulses they sent deep into the security drones registered as green dots on Gina’s wrist device.

  “Okay, you’re good, Echo Two. The drones think they’re in diagnostic mode, and they’ve refrained from reporting in.”

  “Roger, Echo Home. I’d blow you a kiss but for the mask and the kilometers of distance.” Gina pulled herself up the slats, spared a quick glance at the dormant drones, then flipped over. She landed on the roof, crouched, waiting.

  She already knew there were no alarms up here. The League relied on the drones to watch the surroundings. And the power outage had killed the external cameras for the seconds it took her to gain the rooftop.

  “No alarms triggered,” Brant said. “I’ve got heat signatures on the move, one in the stairwell—fourth floor—on the way up.”

  Gina ran for the roof-access door. She leapt up onto a nearby air conditioning column before jumping again to the overhang shadowing the door. There she waited, prone, fingers gripping the edge.

  “Fifth floor. Internal cameras are down. Scanners still up, but I’m feeding enough interference through the drones via their command links that the techs downstairs will be swearing clear through until daylight.”

  Gina heard the echo of footsteps on metal.

  A slim young man in a security uniform stepped out, his hand beacon sweeping the area. The beam settled on the drones. “What’re they doing?” he muttered, then, more loudly into his communication, “Security, this is Balkus. The drones are stuck in a dormant state. Did someone decide this was a good time for diagnostics?”

  Gina didn’t wait for the rest of the conversation. She flipped over, swinging herself down through the gap as the door shut. She drew her pistol in one fluid motion, training it first on the inside of the door before covering the stairwell down.

  “Scanners marked on your map. First round of flitters disengaged.”

  Sadly, that meant the microbots were dissolving. The drones would be back to their patrol in moments, which made no difference because, of her possible exit routes, the roof was not one. Gina examined the scanner placement as she descended the steps. She hated the idea of expending all the flitters on this op. At the same time, it was silly to become emotionally invested. But given their limited AI, and ability to execute basic commands, they were to her like members of the team.

  Ah, well. Gina deployed the next batch.

  They whipped free from the container, moving at a blistering speed compared to their slower upstairs comrades. Their wings skittered along the walls. She watched her map as, one by one, scanners began failing at a greater rate—aiding Brant’s work introduced by the first swarm. Gina tapped a swarm of five to detour at the third floor and head into the data center. They would destruct at the first sign of interference if anyone was on duty or safeguarding the consulate’s records.

  Gina passed the door to the fourth floor, where the guard had originated, and kept going.

  Brant hadn’t taken the scanners completely offline nor was he totally successful at knocking down their capabilities. The redundancies built into the network prevented total collapse. But that was where her jumpsuit came into play. It muted her biosigns, scattered thermal detection, even soundproofed much of her ambient noise. She was a ghost—though, not invisible.

  The stairwell ended at the ground level. Gina paused by the door, sidearm raised. The miniature map on her wrist showed two heat signatures
stationed in the lobby—more guards. She flicked off the safety.

  “The garage is through the lobby, third hallway, straight back. Locked. Both guards should have card access.”

  Hmm. If they didn’t, she would have to resort to the lockbreaker again. The specialized disruptor rounds she carried would buy her less than a minute to gain entry—and she’d better not miss because while they were designed to leave little to no trace, they were hideously expensive.

  Murmured conversation. A long ramble with interspersed arguments. A pause. It started up again, longer. Gina pushed through the door. The conversation continued as she made her way down the hall, sticking to the shadows.

  “And if I get posted to another bullshit planet like Aphendrika, I don’t care how many commissars are listening in.”

  “Hey, seal it. You may not care, but I don’t wanna be standing next to you when they drop you into a dark mining hole so you can dig up precious metals until you’re eighty.”

  Two men stood by the lobby, heat signatures confirming their location. It was a broad, roughly oval space, reaching up four of the eight stories, no lights except a few emergency bulbs.

  The guards’ voices dripped boredom, condescension, but they were physically restless, shuffling out of position every few seconds. Gina crept to the corner of the lobby. She slowed her breathing, letting her senses absorb every detail of the moment around her—the stale, recycled air, the hum of bulbs near failing, the squeak of the guards’ boots on the floor.

  “Who cares? We’re stuck on this dirtball in a leaky building that can’t even afford security upgrades. And these power outages! All the power outages.” The taller of the two shook his head.