Apparent Catastrophe

by Michael Stackpole

“Spurs?”

  Ivan’s face closed for a moment, then he brought his head up. “Throughout this ordeal, Walter has been my Companion. Now you are all my companions. Thank you. We fight.”

  Walter patted him on the shoulder, then crossed to where Conason crouched beside Galarza. “What I wouldn’t give for a little SRM shoulder launcher. Hit the trigger, a couple of booms and . . .”

  As if Walter’s words had worked magic, a series of explosions rattled through the garage door. “What the . . .”

  Galarza laughed. “Looks like our transport brought an outrider.” He ran to the side door and peeked out the window. “Yeah, they have them on the run. Let’s move.”

  Walter followed the man through the door. A small hovertank painted in the Rangers colors, dust blowing up from beneath its skirts, fishtailed to a stop in front of the garage. Fire blossomed in the twinned short-range missile launchers on its turret. They corkscrewed into the riot proctors, further scattering them.

  Two panel vans purportedly from a carpet-cleaning company pulled in behind the hovercraft’s bulk. The rear doors slid up and two Rangers jumped down to help the prisoners mount up. “Conason, you’re in the lead vehicle with me. Spurs, you and your sister in the second one.”

  Ivan shook his head. “I’m with you.”

  “We don’t have time for this, Spurs.”

  “I’m here because I’m supposed to lead. People are willing to die for me. The very least I can do is actually lead.” Ivan moved past him to the lead vehicle. “You won’t stop me.”

  “Shit. Okay, but I call shotgun.” Walter hoped Ivan knew what that meant.

  Galarza slapped Walter on the shoulder. “I’ll be in the chase.”

  “Landing bay 27 Delta, right, Jim?”

  “27 Delta, affirmative. People will meet us.”

  Walter hauled himself into the truck and buckled up. “Spaceport, fast as you can.”

  The two trucks swung around and cut back the way they’d come. The hovertank used its medium laser to melt a couple of vehicles. When it broke off, it headed northeast instead of running with them all the way to the spaceport. Walter wondered why, then his truck cornered and he had his answer.

  Multiple explosions lit Rivergaard’s northeast quadrant. A few buildings burned. Red, green and blue beams glowed through billowing smoke clouds. Though it probably was his imagination, he thought he made out at least the head and shoulders of a BattleMech or two wading through the battlefield.

  “Damn.” Conason leaned forward. “Galarza reached out to Rangers friends and I guess they decided a diversion would help.”

  The driver laughed. “Don’t hear me complaining. As long as they slag some of the Collective, I’m happy.”

  Walter wondered if Galarza had passed along word about the identities of some of the escapees. No, if there was a leak, that would have doomed Ivan and Sophia. So the Rangers agreed to make this show just to help escapees they didn’t know. Could very well be that none of the folks fighting there will ever learn who they got to safety.

  The trucks moved through the city without notice, and only used an expressway on the way into the spaceport. The driver got them on the inner ring road and then turned down a cul-de-sac that served Bays 26 and 27, A through E. They pulled up at the terminal and the escapees alighted.

  A tall, athletically built woman with dark hair and darker eyes greeted them, offering her hand to Walter first. “Fantastic to see you, Lieutenant.”

  Walter pumped her hand firmly. “Now I understand why no effort to reach the Vulture’s Egg succeeded.”

  Captain Isolde MacDonald nodded and handed him a new identification card. “When things broke loose, I kept the ship on alert, in case I needed to pull any of our people out, but . . . I never got a call. Shortly thereafter, the Federated Suns offered me a contract, so I burned up to orbit and returned today for this run.”

  “You are a sight for sore eyes.” Walter flipped the new ID over, surveying front and back. It had his image and other biometric data, and tagged him with his true name. Seems like forever since I’ve been called that. “Your being here eases my mind a great deal.”

  In turn Captain MacDonald greeted the escapees and gave them their new identity cards. The escapees filtered into the terminal and proceeded to the exit check. A bored Municipal Rivergaard Spaceport Authority clerk scanned each ID and mechanically charged each escapee with a duty to “travel safely.” Walter went through right after Conason, Ivan and Sophia, thanking the MRSA clerk for his service.

  On the other side, in the shadow of the egg-shaped DropShip, Ambassador Allard shook hands with James Conason. “Glad to have you with us, Captain.”

  Conason frowned. “I noticed that on the ID, sir. I was never in a captain in the Armed Forces Federated Suns.”

  Allard canted his head. “About that. The AFFS agreed with my request to appoint you as my military advisor. That post requires someone ranked captain or higher. And, as a captain, you have your intelligence staff, whom we are bringing aboard right now.”

  Conason gave him a thumb’s-up. “I’ll get them squared up, shall I?”

  “Please, Captain.”

  Walter flashed his ID. “Nice job.”

  Allard shrugged. “The Capellan Confederation isn’t the only nation-state with people who can manipulate data.” He turned to Sophia and Ivan. “It is a joy to see you again and to be of service to your family.”

  Ivan shook his hand, and Sophia gave him a big hug. As she pulled back, she glanced at the DropShip. “Is your family on board?”

  “No, I sent them ahead in a Leopard. They’re safely headed toward the jump point, two days ahead of us.”

  “I can’t wait to see them again.” Sophia patted his shoulder.

  Ivan bowed his head in Allard’s direction. “Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

  “Thank you, Chairman.”

  “Stop them! No one boards that ship.” A small man with a pencil-thin mustache came running through the checkpoint, followed by a squad of six men carrying laser carbines. “In the name of the Municipal Rivergaard Spaceport Authority, I order you to stop boarding, and for everyone on that ship to return to the terminal.”

  Ambassador Allard pushed past Ivan, propelling him toward the ship. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I am Captain Theodore Percival Carnarvon of the Municipal Rivergaard Spaceport Authority. This facility is mine to administer. Because of reports of an incident in the city—” He paused as a staccato series of explosions rippled through the night. “I am shutting down all traffic in and out of the spaceport until I have a clear report on what is happening.”

  Walter nudged Sophia. “Get your brother on board.”

  “Do not move.” Carnarvon’s lip curled up. “My men will shoot anyone who moves.”

  Quintus Allard held his open hands up. “Captain, I believe you know that because of treaties and conventions, the presence of this ship, which is chartered to the Federated Suns Diplomatic Corps, makes this spaceport landing bay sovereign Federated Suns territory. For all intents and purposes, you might as well be standing on New Avalon.”

  “I know nothing of the sort, sir. Those treaties were agreed to by the previous, wholly corrupt and toxic government. The Collective has not ratified them, nor is it likely to ratify them. I am well within my authority to take this action, and I have taken it. Now, all of you will get into a—”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Calvin Galarza, fury in his voice, stalked through the line of armed MRSA agents and bore down on Carnarvon. “Your action is creating an international incident with repercussions and consequences so serious and injurious to the Collective that you cannot begin to imagine how much trouble you are causing.”

  Carnarvon looked Galarza up and down, then dismissed him with a wave. “You hav
e no authority here. I am the authority here. Here, I am the Collective. Step back before I arrest you.”

  Galarza raised himself to his full height and stared down at the smaller man. “Your continued and excessive use of the pronoun ‘I’ is most disturbing, Captain. We who serve the Collective as part of the Reconciliation and Reeducation Directorate have long had our eyes on MRSA. You cling to old titles. You cling to old ways. You claim you have authority which is a legacy of the damned Litzau regime, thus tainting yourselves by claiming a tradition which nauseates all right-thinking people.”

  The high proctor raised his voice and slowly stared at Carnarvon’s squad. “As we teach at Golden Prosperity, ‘The i in Collective is subordinate to the C, which stands for Community and Consensus and Commitment and Communion.’ I see none of those things here. You and your agents here, clearly, all of you need to visit Golden Prosperity for a reorientation course. Two months at a minimum, I think. You, Captain, will require a longer stay.”

  Blood began to drain from Carnarvon’s face. “I will not succumb to threats.”

  “Again, the pronoun. Revelatory of your arrogance.” Galarza pulled out his communicator. “Shall I call Commissar Levine now? Shall I have him speak with you right now? With this attitude, you need at least six months with us. Your followers likely will stay that long, if they continue to subvert the will of the people.”

  The MRSA agents looked at each other, then lowered their carbines.

  Carnarvon’s nostrils flared. “I’m putting all of you on report.”

  “You are positively steeped in arrogance, aren’t you, Captain?” Galarza shook his head. “Commissar Levine has sent me personally to guarantee that these citizens of the Federated Suns are repatriated, at the request of Ambassador Allard. In delaying this process you are threatening our diplomatic relations with the Federated Suns. Our economy and our future are going to be sacrificed on an altar to Captain Carnarvon’s ego. If you don’t wish to share his fate, walk away now.”

  The MRSA agents moved back and refused to even look in Carnarvon’s direction.

  The little man’s hands balled into fists. “There will be consequences to your actions, High Proctor. I guarantee—”

  Walter winked at Carnarvon. “Old saying is, ‘when you’ve reached bottom, stop digging.’”

  Galarza rounded on Walter. “And that is enough out of you. You should know that your release was not without opposition. Were you not a citizen of the Federated Suns, you would have been buried so deeply, paleontologists would be the only people capable of finding you. You are contrary, disruptive and annoying—dangerously so. Get off this planet before grounds are found for keeping you. If I ever set my eyes upon you again, I’ll know you for a fool, and a suicidal one at that.”

  Walter’s guts began to knot up. “Maybe you better board the ship here and make sure I don’t EVA back to the surface before we jump out of the system.”

  “There are enough problems for me to deal with here.” Galarza jerked a thumb at the knot of MRSA agents Carnarvon was chewing out. “Not the least of which will be reporting to Commissar Levine.”

  “You’ll discover we’re a dead issue with him, I believe.” Walter frowned. “You know that someday the revolution will turn on you, right? There’s no escaping that.”

  Galarza nodded, then looked past Walter at Ivan and Sophia. “You, being a mercenary, may never truly understand it, but the greatest service one can do in life is to serve your world and your nation and your government without concern for your personal safety. Regardless of mistakes made, regrets you may have, there is a virtue in service to others. If the Collective decides that my service is no longer required, then I shall be happy to know that for however brief a moment, I made a difference.”

  He knows he’s going to die. Walter offered the man his hand. “I have not always agreed with you, but I can concur on that point.”

  Galarza shook his hand. “Then perhaps your time at Golden Prosperity was not a complete loss.”

  They parted, and the escapees boarded the Vulture’s Egg. Captain MacDonald slipped past and headed for the bridge. Walter, Ivan, Sophia and Captain Conason joined Ambassador Allard in one of the launch rooms. They strapped themselves onto couches that rotated down and out from the wall.

  Sophia slid her hand over and grasped Walter’s hand. “We’re never going to see Calvin Galarza again, are we?”

  “Doesn’t seem likely.”

  “Yes, we will.” Ivan tightened down the cross straps on his couch. “I don’t care where we go now, what we do or how long it takes. We’re coming back for him. He was willing to sacrifice all for us, and for our world. How can I do less?”

  About the Author

  Michael A. Stackpole is an award-winning writer, game designer, computer game designer, podcaster, screenwriter and graphic novelist who is best known for his New York Times bestselling novels I, Jedi and Rogue Squadron. He is currently the Distinguished Visiting Writer in Residence at the Virginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing at Arizona State University. When not writing or teaching, he spends too much time playing games and figuring out how to cook things that taste good.