Lost Alliance (Dragonfire Station Books 1-3): A Galactic Empire series

by Zen DiPietro

  “I don’t want to invade your privacy, but any item stored in the security office must be catalogued with its exact value and size, along with images to be stored in the database. For verification purposes. Also, your handprint and retina scan will be necessary for both drop-off and pickup.”

  “Of course,” Kovitz agreed. He removed a small wooden box from a bag on his shoulder and laid it on the desk. “This is eighty-four-point-four-two grams of linnea root.” He opened the box and turned it around for her inspection.

  She saw three small brown lumps that looked anything but valuable. “Very good. And what is linnea root?”

  “A fungus, technically. The tiniest amount will transform a tasty dish into a feat of culinary wonder.”

  “So it’s like a truffle?” she asked.

  “An excellent analogy, in that linnea is so rare, and only grows wild under specific conditions. But in terms of quality and value, truffles and linnea are as much alike as a spoon and a class-four Kiramoto luxury cruiser. There’s just no comparison.”

  “I see.” She picked up her infoboard and began to enter the item into classified inventory. Then she retrieved a scanner from her desk and recorded precise measurements, weight, and images of the linnea root. She also ran a thorough diagnostic, ensuring that the item posed no threat to the station in terms of pathogens, explosives, radioactive isotopes, or the like. Scanners at the docking bay should have caught such things, but following protocol ensured that an attack on the security office was virtually impossible.

  “Eighty-four-point-four-two grams, just as you said,” she noted approvingly. The ambassador seemed to take this as praise, and gave her a charming smile. Which was fine. The last thing she needed was a disgruntled ambassador.

  She took Kovitz’s security data, then said, “Your item is logged in. I’ve assigned it number nine-nine-eight-eight-Tango-Charlie-six-five-three-seven. I will send that number to the voicecom in your quarters. When you wish to collect your item, you must give at least twelve hours of notice, and come to this office in person, unless you wish to designate a proxy at this time.”

  “No, not necessary.” Kovitz rose and made a slight bow. “I can tell you now that I will collect it at noon, the day after tomorrow, when I meet with my trade partner. I look forward to seeing you then.”

  Em and Arin stood as well and returned the small bow. “Please let us know if there’s anything else we can do for you, Ambassador,” Em said.

  “Thank you for your help, Chief Fallon,” Kovitz returned, just as politely. “I can always count on Dragonfire for the best security.”

  So that was why he chose Dragonfire over Blackthorn, she mused as Arin escorted the man out. The ambassador and his guest would certainly have enjoyed better entertainments on the other station. Interesting.

  Arin returned to his seat and grinned at her. “All in a day’s work, huh?”

  “If that’s the toughest issue that comes up today, we can call it a win,” she agreed.

  She studied her legate. Arin was thirty-two, though his boyish grin made him look like he was in his midtwenties. As an Atalan he had particularly smooth, tanned skin and facial symmetry and bone structure that made him remarkably attractive. He wore his light-brown hair short, and his eyes were a startlingly intense shade of bright blue. His height gave him an advantage when it came to security work, and his difficult background on Atalus probably had given him the fighting skills that had qualified him for the PAC officer training school. No doubt the OTS selection board had found the civil war on Arin’s homeworld a boon to its security program. Atalans lucky enough to escape were highly motivated to make a successful new life for themselves and their loved ones.

  She wondered how much she could trust Arin. She’d chosen her legate personally, of course. That meant she must have faith in his skills and his trustworthiness. Since the security staff of a ship or station had its own hierarchy separate from the overall command structure, and members had to rely on one another for survival, he would be more loyal to her than to anyone else on Dragonfire. Unless he had ulterior motives. As her second, he would have been in the ideal position to make her shuttle accident look like an accident. But if that were the case, who would he have been working for? Or might he have been motivated by a desire to take over her job?

  Either he was her man, no questions asked, and she could trust him implicitly, or he had some plan she needed to uncover. Whichever it was, her best course of action would be to draw him in. Keep him close.

  She smiled at him conspiratorially. “How’ve you been holding up, Arin? No doubt the past couple days have been rough on you.” With her briefly out of commission, he’d have been constantly on call or on duty.

  The crispness melted away from his posture, and he relaxed into the chair. Now they were talking as comrades. “I’m doing okay. You picked a busy time to take a time out. The Emerson delegation had a big shipment of grain, and you know how tedious they can be. Always nitpicking and looking for some advantage. So that kept me on my toes. And we had a Briveen ship dock, too. Only two of them, and only for a day, but—” he made a guttural sound of frustration, “—the rituals! Just saying hello and goodbye are a ten-minute ordeal.”

  Em laughed. It took her by surprise because she hadn’t heard her own laughter yet. She was no fan of the Briveen’s exacting social rituals, either. “I’m kind of glad I got to miss that,” she admitted.

  Arin snorted, but he wore a reluctant smirk. “How are you doing, then? Nevitt told me your memory…”

  Ah, of course he already knew. Just as well, as it saved her the trouble of explaining.

  She shook her head. “Still gone. I know things about life. How to make blistercakes for breakfast, how to use the clothes processor. I know everything about the station. Specs, protocols, distance to Sarkan. I memorize information almost as soon as I see it, so clearly my memory is usually excellent. Not eidetic, but I don’t forget much of anything. But as far as who I am?” She shrugged. “I know what my personnel records told me. Otherwise, I’m stuck with what others tell me. It’s like the part of my brain that held all the parts of who I am and what I’ve done somehow managed to be the only part that got damaged.”

  He made a sympathetic noise. “That must be rough. I can’t imagine.”

  “Hopefully it will come back. Brannin said my brain may find a way to rewire itself, more or less, and regain its ability to access those memories.”

  “Yeah, we can hope.” He fell silent, then he grinned. “Otherwise, you’ll never remember that you owe me a thousand cubics.”

  “Hah!” A thousand cubics was far more than one person would loan another in any normal circumstances. When it formed, the PAC had a hard time standardizing money, but in time, all allies agreed to base currency on the thing they all valued equally—fuel. Everyone needed orellium to power their ships, and cubic units of the mineral had proved to be the ideal measure.

  “Damn. Should have gone for two hundred. I got greedy.” Arin affected a look of chagrin.

  “I wouldn’t have believed you then, either. Actually, my instincts tell me not to trust you at all.”

  He laughed. “You seem like the same Em to me, memories or not. Except for the hair. I like the change. What did Wren think?”

  “She seemed to like it.” Thinking of her wife, Em pressed her lips together.

  “Sore subject. Sorry.” Now Arin looked truly chagrined.

  “No. Not exactly. I just don’t know what to make of being married to someone I don’t remember. She seems great, though, as far as I can tell.”

  “She is. Everyone loves Wren. We always joke that Wren could make a space station out of a stick and a ball of wire.”

  “Mm,” she murmured.

  “Anyway, I was headed back to my quarters when the ambassador nabbed me. I need to get back for some food and some sleep.”

  “Right.” He’d been on the night shift, since she had the day shift. “I’ll see you later, then.”


  “Let me know if you need anything, okay? Really. Anything.”

  “Thanks, Arin.” She sensed nothing but sincerity. She watched him leave her office, thinking he might be someone she could really trust. As long as he hadn’t tried to kill her.

  Securing the linnea root in the priyanomine vault was almost an event all in itself. It took her ten minutes to get through the combination of identity and code checks, waiting each time for a predetermined duration. Priyanomine had a black, glassy appearance similar to obsidian’s, but its remarkable durability, light weight, and nonconductivity made it the ideal material for a safekeeping device. Priyanomine could endure extremely high temperatures, as well as low- to midlevel explosions.

  With the root secured, Em spent the next hour reviewing her work logs. She’d recorded detailed information about every duty shift for every day she’d been on the station. She began with the most recent one and worked her way backward. The logs were only accessible from within her office, which she found interesting. She paid particular attention to the weeks leading up to her shuttle accident but was disappointed to find nothing noteworthy. She’d need to organize all of the events into a database so she could analyze them more quantitatively.

  That would have to wait. Her logbook indicated that she was due on the outer concourse of Deck One for a daily tour. Deck One, the lowest on the station, housed Dragonfire’s shops and eateries on its outer concourse. This large area of abundant commerce was commonly called the boardwalk. Guest quarters were located on the interior of the inner concourse.

  She felt confident about visiting the area without letting on that, for her, it would be her first visit. She wondered, though, why she afforded that level of personal attention to the area. Surely, any one of her eighty-seven staff members could handle the task, just as they were handling the day’s arrivals and departures. Deck One even had its own security office, which always had a full complement of officers on duty. Besides, security feeds would show her most everything. She had no real reason to go down there.

  Yet she chose to walk the concourse with her own two legs. Clearly, the ritual was less about monitoring and more about something else. Showing her presence? Visiting the people entrusted to her care face-to-face? Interesting. Perhaps that spoke to her role here. Not just as security, but as a member of the community.

  After securing her office, she rode the lift down. Her logs had not indicated which direction she usually went, so she stepped off the lift and followed the concourse to the right. Not knowing why she was there, she strolled slowly, hands behind her back, trying to look official yet relaxed. She received some nods and smiles of acknowledgement, but for the most part people ignored her as they scurried about. She saw luggage-laden travelers struggle in from Docking Bay Two and make their way down one of the bisecting hallways—which were arranged like wagon-wheel spokes on each circular deck of the station—toward the guest quarters.

  A pair of giggling young children brushed against her as they ran down the boardwalk, jostling one another. A harried young father hurried to catch up to them, giving her an apologetic smile. She returned the smile and wished them a pleasant stay. Did she normally do that? It felt natural, and she decided to let those instincts guide her. If anyone reacted strangely, she’d re-evaluate that tactic.

  She smelled food. Rich, meaty aromas wafted her way long before she came into view of the Bennite restaurant. A sign outside the door promised a meal that would make her feel her very best. The claim must be an honest one. Bennite cuisine was known for its hearty, restorative properties. Not surprising, since the entire planet of Bennaris was devoted to healthcare. According to the arrival and departure logs, Dragonfire hosted a steady stream of Bennite hospi-ships that traveled from planet to planet, delivering medical supplies and care.

  Em enjoyed a deep lungful of enticing, savory aroma, and she made a mental note to return at lunchtime, or at least have an order delivered to her office. Her records had indicated that she ate the Bennite restaurant’s food as often as not. The next establishment was a tea parlor, no doubt offering a multitude of hot beverages and pastries. She passed several clothing and supply stores, a pub, and more restaurants before she even got halfway around the concourse. She noticed an unoccupied bench across from Docking Bay Four, and took a seat to observe, checking her comport for the time.

  Though many people carried personal infoboards, few carried portable voicecoms, known as comports. Conducting electronic conversations in public was considered offensively rude, unless it was time-sensitive official business. All of her security staff wore comports on their belts, along with their registered weapons. Command officers and medical staff also wore them. Very few others ever did, given the social taboo. Voicecom terminals and displays were hardly difficult to come by on a PAC station.

  Em kept her eye on a cargo bay. Right on schedule, the bay doors opened and three Rescan traders stepped out, accompanied by one of her security officers. He was young and low-ranking, but wore a serious, steely expression. Em resisted a smile. No doubt the officer was determined to ensure that the traders got up to no mischief on his watch. Rescans had a reputation for a particularly cutthroat business acumen, and were often the ones that people turned to when they needed to procure goods without too many questions being asked. Oh, they certainly did their share of legitimate trade, and they were as likely to be good people as those from any other planet. But if a security chief wasn’t careful, she’d soon find her station flooded with contraband and stolen goods. Not only from Rescans, but from any traders willing to take big risks for big rewards.

  The steely-eyed young officer nodded at her as he passed, on his way to show the traders to their quarters. And let them know that he’d be watching them, no doubt. She chuckled to herself once they’d gone by.

  Feeling lighter, she stood, only to turn when she heard a voice call, “There you are!”

  She couldn’t identify the man. His high-quality utilitarian pants and shirt marked him as a merchant of some sort, most likely. He was Rescan, which put her on her guard despite his friendly smile. She had nothing against Rescans per se, but their shrewd business dealings and frequently not-quite-legal methods of acquiring merchandise stood in diametric opposition to her own purposes. She had no idea if this particular Rescan was one she could trust, or not.

  The Rescans simply had a different way of looking at trade than the PAC did. They weren’t much for regulations, and adopted a widely laissez-faire approach to life in general. It was always wise to double- and triple-check the provenance of any items acquired from Rescan traders. Provided everything had been verified, they could pull off some amazing feats of procurement. The PAC frequently dealt with them. But carefully.

  This particular fellow seemed relaxed and genuine. She stood where she was, letting him approach. Nothing about him raised her suspicion.

  “Glad to see you back. We all missed seeing you the last couple days,” he said.

  Em judged him to be middle-aged, with average looks and physical condition. Rescans looked mostly like humans, though they had a thicker, more rugged build. Their fashions tended to be much more elaborate, though the person in front of her showed no evidence of that. He was simply dressed and groomed. His long, light-brown hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and he regarded her warmly.

  “Thank you.” She waited for him to say more.

  “You seem none the worse for wear, so I assume you’re back to your regular self?” His blue-gray eyes seemed to convey genuine concern.

  “Yes, Dr. Brash took excellent care of me. I’m good as new.”

  “Excellent. Any idea what caused the accident?”

  Was this idle curiosity or did he have a reason to want to know? “Still under investigation, but it appears to be a simple malfunction.”

  In fact, the mechanical team, led by Wren, had come to no conclusions so far. But it was a safe story to circulate for the time being.

  “A shame. Good thing it wasn’t worse th
ough,” the man said.

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  “Do you have a minute? Or were you off to somewhere specific?”

  Em paused. Based on the question and his familiar attitude, it seemed she had some sort of relationship with him. Better to play along and figure it out. “I’m in no particular hurry.”

  He brightened, and the earnestness in his expression made her feel that perhaps he’d been someone that she’d trusted to some degree. There was something about him, an expectation of familiarity that suggested she’d had a friendly relationship with him.

  “Glad to hear it. I have something I’ve been saving for you.” He hitched his head back toward the way she’d come and began walking. She followed. “It came in with a shipment from the Briveen. Tools. Knives, laser cutters, and the like. But for some reason, someone had tossed this item in as well. Someone who had no idea what it was.” He chortled. “You’d be amazed by the things that come to me by mistake.”

  He led her into a tidy storefront. Inside, the well-lit shop displayed a wide variety of curiosities and collector’s items. Artwork hung from the walls and stood on shelves and pillars. The kinds of things that a person bought individually, rather than as part of a large shipment. Apparently this man handled both types of trade.

  He gestured for her to sit at a small table, then moved behind the counter. He bent down, stood, and returned carrying a small, nondescript box. He sat down across from her. Opening the box, he reached in, then offered the contents to her.

  “Ahh.” She gently took the knife from his hand, admiring the masterfully forged little blade and the engraved handle. “An ancient Briveen protector’s knife.” Such knives had been custom-made and presented to a member of the protector caste once he or she came of age. Normally they were passed down generation to generation in a family as an heirloom. It was rare to find them for sale.