Remnant

by Dwayne A Thomason

  Vance didn’t even get to open his mouth before Zed was already responding. He gave a little chuckle, just three glottal taps and he was talking again. “Just kidding. All in good fun. Besides they seem like nice guys and I like those shades.” He slowed down for the last three syllables, offering them a heavy emphasis. Vance elbowed Sal and smiled. Sal groaned under his breath.

  “But anyway,” Zed continued. “Where was I? Threatening? No, did that. Did I say I was kidding? Yes. Compliment the face-wear? Done. Then we’re moving on. Not a simple matter, cracking the Alliance comm protocol codes but a simple incision of some of my own home-grown classes should do the trick. Then I have to determine the best way to virate the files on them and their ship. Virate? Virusize? Enviru... Never mind.”

  “How do you...” Salazar paused, expecting to be cut off. When he wasn’t he said, “How do you plan to fix us in the Alliance records?”

  “Hmm,” Zed said, rubbing his chin with one hand while tapping with the other. “Interesting problem, that. But not difficult. Like I said, with something akin to a virus. A smart-class whose functions will corrupt the sensitive data and then replicate through the Alliance’s communications network in order to pass on the corruption to other data storage devices. Will take time. Not only to code but also to execute. Given that Alliance communications standards travel at n-speed you will be safe in a few systems in a few days, many systems in, say, a few weeks and the whole Alliance in maybe a year or two. Only way to do this without bribing an in-house data analyst with level two security credentials. Can fail. Possible to detect the virus and expunge it locally, so I’ll need to program it to mutate its external functions enough to withstand detection.”

  “Have...” Vance said, also pausing in expectation of interruption. “Have you ever done this before?”

  “Not a good question to ask,” Zed said. “Stupid question. Why do they ask stupid questions?”

  By now Zed was focused on the main desk screen. It was laid out in a basic text-input format with a virtual keyboard and a blank space for the text to print.

  “Woah,” Vance said stepping up behind Zed. “You’re programming in the basecode?”

  Zed shrugged without pausing his hyperactive typing. “Of course,” he said. “Authorized shell classes aren’t going to have the code needed to bypass Alliance security protocols, now are they? Of course not.”

  As he worked he touch-swiped icons from one of the screens to the desktop. The icons opened into more of the plain text and Zed edited, altered and rearranged it into his growing column of basecode script.

  Programming was something Sal had never understood. He got some of the basics, but if you asked him to obtain a given effect in code he couldn’t do much better than scratch his head. It felt like recondite arcana to him, a witch’s fiat laden with complex and mystic commands. If he ever needed a program for something, he would ask the Jessamine to do it. Her computer systems were smart enough to develop even complex functionality by listening to his plain-language commands. If the Jessamine couldn’t do what he wanted, he asked Nat, who was a competent hack as well as engineer. But as they say, a jack of many trades is a master of none, and what Zed was suggesting was way beyond Nat’s abilities. That was fine. An exceptional engineer was far more valuable to his crew on a day-to-day basis than an exceptional programmer.

  “Will take time,” Zed said. “I will contact you when its ready.”

  “We haven’t discussed a price yet,” Sal said. Zed’s enthusiasm to meet the difficulties of cutting through Alliance communications security over getting paid could have been a chip in Sal’s favor, and one he could manipulate. But he didn’t do business that way.

  “Twenty-five thousand AAC,” Zed said, still not looking at either of them. “Due upon receipt.”

  Sal had expected to haggle. Then again, he had expected Zed’s initial offer to be four times as much.

  “Deal,” Salazar said. “Be in touch?”

  “Will.”

  Sal awoke to a chime on his link. He gasped at the fear...but couldn’t remember what his nightmare was about. His link still glowed on the table, casting a soft glow. Salazar sat up in bed and grabbed the link. A message came through the Jessamine’s comm suite routed through the Gazi system’s N-space comm array on Zuhi Station, routed through Lodebar’s array, and originating from an undetectable source on or near Eltar. Sal tapped the message, ran the decryption program Sooro had given him, and then read.

  I won’t give you my name or rank yet. The local Alliance command thinks I’m dead and I wouldn’t mind keeping it that way, and this message has to pass a lot of points to get to you, a lot of opportunities for someone to listen in.

  I will tell you there are a lot of fighting men and women who remain unwilling to let the Alliance sweep this takeover under the rug. The thing is, I’m not interested in sacrificing their lives and families to fight a guerilla war against the whole Alliance. I am interested in making a decisive strike against the Alliance military command on Eltar so the Antarii parliament has a chance to name a new governor before the Alliance can counter attack.

  Our friend in common has suggested you might be able to help us out in that and in a big way. If this is true, I would love to know how and what you expect in return. Let me know. The clock is ticking, and the window won’t be open for long.

  Salazar re-read the message. He could almost hear the originator’s voice, dry and grave with a sharp military clip to the words. Salazar wanted to respond right away but realized that wouldn’t be fair. He needed to talk to someone else first. He sent out a message to the crew and put a timer on it, so it wouldn’t wake anyone up.

  I need all officers and crew to meet in the galley today at 0930. No exceptions.

  The Captain

  Once that was done he sent a message to the passengers, asking them to keep out of the galley between 0930 and 1030. An hour was far more than Sal would need, which was a disheartening thought.

  Sending the two messages took almost no time at all and it was still the middle of the night for him, even though his link told him it was daytime on his side of the planet. He tried going back to bed, but he felt restless, nervous. He tossed and turned, catching occasional dozes filled with strange and unsettling dreams. Finally, he gave up at 0640.

  He showered, wishing he had opted to stay at a nice hotel where he could get a fancy room with a real-water tub. He could use a good soak, and it would have killed more of the time he had. Instead he showered and dressed. He sat at his desk for a while, reviewing the crew’s notes regarding the repairs and then going over some figures. The Jessamine was a prosperous ship and he a prosperous Captain. But if they didn’t get some work eventually, he’d have a problem keeping her going. Dealing with Sooro was expensive. Dealing with Zed was expensive. Repairing the damage to the Jessamine was expensive.

  The crew’s pay came from jobs. Everyone got a cut of the business and they expected to have to squirrel away some of it for when the ship had to be in for repairs or something like that. But they had been almost a full week without a job and if he asked them to go back to Antarus for his revenge he feared the response he would get.

  Salazar made a connection request to one of his unlisted savings accounts. He checked the balance, nodded, and then cancelled it, pushing the funds to a local institution that carried enough CAS capital, so he could make a hard currency withdrawal. That, he figured should do it.

  At 0840 local time Salazar had done what he could think to. He grabbed his link, checked his reflection in the mirror of his bureau and headed out for the galley. By now his crew would have gotten the message. Those who had stayed off the ship during their brief stay would be coming aboard, at least if they still wanted to work with Salazar. Some who slept aboard might have gotten his message and then went back to sleep since the walk from their quarters to the galley was so short.

  When Salazar walked into the galley almost an hour before the allotted meeting time his entire crew w
as already there. Half of them had links or tablets sitting in front of them so they could monitor tests or ship functions. Many had a plate of food or a drink sitting before them as well. They were silent and when Salazar entered they all looked up at him.

  Salazar turned to the door control and locked access to the galley. He might have to apologize to Naboris and the others later, but the fact his whole crew was there made him feel like he couldn’t put off this conversation any longer.

  “Good morning,” he said, then cleared his throat. For the first time in his adult life, his sterling voice cracked, and his words failed. “Good morning,” he said again, audibly this time and his crew responded in turn. “I’ve been putting this conversation off for a while, but I can’t put it off any longer. I’ve been acting a little crazy as of late. I led us on a revenge mission that made sure we could never work with Renzo again. I led us to Lodebar Station, further seeking revenge. I led us out of the station, guns blazing, all for an un-paying customer, screwing us over with the Alliance, and getting Olo killed in the process.”

  He sighed and smoothed his hair. His scalp felt itchy. For the first time ever, he had a hard time looking his crew in the eye. He forced himself and found Nat’s eyes. They were narrowed, thin brows furrowed and several of her curly locks fell across one side of her face, free of her bright bandana. But Sal saw more than suspicion and mistrust. If Salazar didn’t know better, he would have guessed it was amusement.

  “But I have to be honest,” he continued. “I am still obsessed with revenge. Not just for my friend Lekem, but for Olo too, now. But I won’t lead you on a fruitless course of revenge without offering something else in return.”

  He waited, expecting a response. The room remained silent, nothing but airflow keeping him from hearing his own heart racing.

  “So, I’m prepared to offer each of you thirteen thousand Alliance Authorized Credits if you will crew my ship with me back to Antarus to join a united strike with the Antarii local forces on the Meritine Palace.”

  He wanted to pause and see their faces, hear their reactions. His anxiety drove him forward even as it appeared some might speak out.

  “I think we have a good plan forming,” he said. “Naboris is going to drop in undetected and wreck their communications, for one, and the insurrection is still alive and well there, and looking to mount a massive attack. I’m in talks with their leader. None of you would have to leave the ship, just crew it to the palace.”

  He could say more. He could go through his whole plan with them, discuss all the possibilities he saw for a quick and decisive success. He could try to put in words the image he’d had in his own head of this man, this defense minister, finally meeting with justice. And not in a courtroom where there were a million opportunities for him to buy his way to freedom. Sal figured he’d take him onto the Jessamine, fly up out of Eltar’s atmo, then space him in low orbit and watch him suffocate and then burn up on reentry.

  Instead he sat down for the first time and waited for the response he most feared, that they were done with him, maybe pissed enough to do to him what he planned to do to Anatheret.

  “Sawk it,” Yuki said, ending the long silence. “I’m with you, Captain. As far as I understand it, this jagbrood piece of scuff double-crossed us. He’s as guilty for Olo’s death as the marine that laxed him. The worst thing is, he probably doesn’t even know our names. I say we write ‘em on his forehead before we space him.”

  The rest of the deck hands all spoke at once after him with statements like “Void yeah,” “Burn him down,” “Space the sawking jagbrood,” and “For Olo.”

  Lanjer’s black nictitating membranes receded and Salazar realized they’d been closed the whole meeting until now. “I don’t see any reason not to. Nobody screws with the Jessamine. Let it be a reminder to the galaxy.” He smiled as he spoke.

  This was followed by a few more jocular, explicit epithets, all from the men, though. Sal turned to the women, to Sabella. “What do you have to say about it?”

  Sabella’s teeth were gritted behind her full red lips. Her eyes were a mix of emotions: fear, sadness, anger, and something else Salazar might have taken for hope. But she wasn’t the next person to talk.

  “I’m with you too,” Kahula said in her strange accent, over-enunciating each word. She didn’t smile. She never smiled. But her sharp, proud frown stood in for one.

  “Me too,” Nat said.

  “I don’t know,” Fish said and then Nat slapped him upside his head and he said, “I was just kidding, I’m in!”

  Everyone agreed to go, everyone but Sabella. She kept her eyes on Salazar, while the emotions played in her eyes like a fireworks display. At last she sighed. She broke eye contact for the first time, then met his gaze again.

  “Okay,” she said. And that was all it took. The whole crew celebrated in their own way. The deckhands whooped, Kahula made some kind of gesture that looked religious, warding herself from Jin, maybe.

  “Sounds like you guys are into this,” Salazar said, trying to keep the relief off his face. “Interested enough to do it for free?”

  The crew laughed. It was a good sound even though it was at his expense. He laughed with them.

  Chapter Forty-Six:

  Teaches My Hands to War

  Nix stood outside the Jessamine’s galley listening to the conversation happening inside it. Most everyone knew he was there, and nobody seemed to care. They didn’t want him in the galley listening into their plans but being outside seemed okay. Dothin was inside, even Ashla. Nix was the odd man out. He was the one who had no value in their plans.

  They had left the hot and oppressive and monochrome and wonderful planet of Gazi Sho behind. The Jessamine was once again rolling through N-space, barreling towards Antarus at hundreds of times the speed of light.

  “This,” Gan said, “is a rough facsimile of a Shaumri personal re-entry kit. With it I can drop into the atmosphere from orbit and glide to the palace without arousing any suspicion.”

  One of Salazar’s crewman, Nix didn’t know which, made a lude comment riffing off of Gan’s use of the word “arousing.” A few of the other men chuckled. They were acting like the big muscle-bound men in the adult-rated action vids Dothin didn’t allow him to watch, but that Nix managed to watch anyway.

  Nix could imagine them all, even though he couldn’t see them. In his mind’s eye he saw Gan holding the completed PRK in his hands, which he could since the Captain had secured him the strong, flexible material he needed for the glider component.

  “His objective,” Ashla said, “should be the main communications tower, here.” Nix imagined her pointing at the holoprojection of the Meritine Palace and surroundings.

  “There,” Gan said, “I can hijack their comms, and confuse the Alliance’s ability to mobilize and communicate. I can also use it to hack into their system and find out where Remnant is.”

  “And my friends,” Ashla said, her voice a warning.

  “Of course,” Gan said. “I’ll do everything in my power to rescue them.”

  An awkward silence filled the galley for a moment.

  “Right,” Sal said. “At the same time, we’ll have the insurrectionists mount a widespread attack on the palace town down here.”

  Nix had seen the map of the Meritine Palace while Ashla was developing it. The town radiated from the base of a wide cliff in a big semi-circle of buildings, most of them low, two or three stories tall. Several landing bays of various sizes penetrated the cliff face. Ashla had drawn the network of tunnels and lift shafts that connected the town to the bays into the three-dimensional map. At the top of the cliff stood the palace proper, wide and tall and surrounded by several hardened layers of defense.

  “Once the insurrection has the APC’s attention,” the Captain continued, “we will fly in behind the palace’s defenses with a platoon of their best men and take the palace.”

  There were several wordless sounds of agreement.

  “So what time
of day are we planning this attack?” asked Captain Kol’s first mate.

  “Timing is important,” Gan said. “I’ll need the cover of darkness to do my part.”

  “I expect a daytime battle will minimize civilian casualties, though,” Dothin said. Nix screwed up his face in confusion. How would Dothin know that? “That’s something you should consider.”

  Nix noticed the pronoun, “You.” Not just because Dothin didn’t have a big say in the plan, but because he had no interest in getting involved in the attack. And Dothin didn’t want him involved either. They would have to agree to disagree on that.

  “Agreed,” Salazar said. “We don’t want to add any civilian casualties on the altar of our revenge. Naboris and I have been talking and we’re intending for him to drop at somewhere around 0330 local time. He should reach the palace then at right around 0500. Sunrise should hit at around 0615 so he should have plenty of time to hijack the comm tower before it gets too bright. The big attack will take place right before sunrise, say 0600. The Jessamine will land at the palace at 0700.

  “Woah,” one of Captain Kol’s men said, Kapa. “We’re just going to fly in? Doesn’t the palace have any air defenses?”

  “It does,” Salazar said. “But our friends are going to launch a massive air strike against the palace using the remainder of their aerosol assets.”

  Assets, Nix thought. He was talking about people, soldiers going off to fight and die.

  “That information,” the Captain continued, “will be leaked to the Alliance forces before they arrive. It should draw most of the APC’s air power away, leaving only the palace’s stationary defenses.”

  “Ahh,” Kapa said. “Devious.”

  “Ms. Vares,” the Captain said. “Did you get the footage I sent you from the newsfeeds? We’re looking for a best guess on where the defense minister might be.”