gaian consortium 03 - the gaia gambit

by Pope, Christine

  As he stared at those sleek dart-shaped ships, an idea began to form in his mind. He’d piloted earlier versions of those same vessels as part of his training, but he knew they’d been given much greater flight capabilities during the past few years. Some even had a cruder version of the subspace drive that powered the Mistral, though nowhere near as fast.

  Still…

  He schooled his face to calm as the shuttle came to a stop and the guards once again took their positions around him and the admiral. They moved on into the corridors of the ship, meeting with a younger officer wearing a lieutenant’s starbursts on the sleeves of his jacket. He saluted the admiral at once, gave a quizzical glance at Rast, and then saluted anyway, as if deciding that anyone in the admiral’s august presence must be worthy of some sort of honor.

  “Very good, Lieutenant,” said sen Trannick. “See that Captain sen Drenthan is shown to the guest quarters on deck five.”

  The lieutenant saluted again, and the admiral turned to Rast. “You’ll find a new uniform waiting for you there. Get yourself properly outfitted, and then meet me in my ready room in twenty standard.”

  “Of course, Admiral.” He saluted as well, then followed the lieutenant down the corridor to a bank of lifts. The younger man kept shooting furtive looks at Rast’s civilian clothing, although every time Rast tried to catch him at it, the lieutenant would shift his gaze forward again, obviously discomfited at being caught.

  If the situation hadn’t been so desperate, Rast might have laughed at the young man’s behavior. As it was, it took all his energy just to keep a carefully neutral expression on his face, one he hoped betrayed nothing of his inner turmoil, of the desperate plan he was formulating even as the lieutenant led him to one of the guest cabins and then left him there after giving him yet another salute.

  Although this was the first time Rast had ever stayed in one of these cabins, he knew their appointments well enough, since of course his own ship had possessed its own complement, although fewer and less lavish than on the admiral’s flagship. As they were intended for visiting dignitaries, they were outfitted with every comfort possible in such small quarters, with real shower facilities and luxurious fabrics and a galaxy’s worth of entertainment available at the tap of a finger.

  Of course, he cared nothing for any of these amenities. No, all he cared about was the uniform hanging in the small wardrobe, the one item which might allow him to execute his plan.

  If there was one thing he could count on, it was the Stacian appreciation for rank. While he wore that captain’s uniform, no one would question him, or ask why he was in a certain section of the ship. If a Stacian attained so lofty a rank as captain, it meant his loyalty was unimpeachable, something as certain as the rising of the sun each morning.

  It was that blindness he’d have to count on.

  Hastily he stripped off the civilian suit he wore and hung it up, then pulled on the uniform, fingers working the buttons of the jacket with lightning speed. A quick glance at his chronometer told him that he had only fifteen standard minutes before the admiral began to wonder what his subordinate was up to.

  It would have to be enough.

  Rast fastened the belt and then slipped into the boots that had been provided for him. They pinched a little, but of course he wasn’t going to concern himself with a petty detail such as that.

  He’d been aboard this ship several times and so knew it well enough that he could easily retrace his steps to the lifts and then down to the hangar bay where the fighters were housed. That took another five minutes, and he told himself to stop looking at the chronometer, or he’d be sure to attract unwanted attention.

  A quick scan of the hangar’s contents told him that the ships he was interested in, the newest and therefore most up-to-date models, were off to his left, closest to the enormous doors that allowed the fighters to enter and exit. The stars beyond shimmered, the atmosphere held in by a field of Eridani design, one which allowed ships and their pilots to leave, but kept the air trapped within the hangar bay. Rast didn’t pretend to understand how it worked; he just knew it did.

  Shoulders squared, he marched toward one of the fighter craft as if he had every right in the world to be there. A few seconds later, a junior officer hurried over to him, trotting along in his wake. Her expression told him she wished it had been anyone but her who’d been on duty at that moment.

  Even so, her salute was brisk as she said, “Captain. May I help you with something, sir?”

  “This ship,” he said, glad it was someone relatively young and inexperienced who faced him. “Is this the new Avari class?”

  “Yes, sir,” she responded, obviously glad to be asked such a factual question, one that was easy to answer. “We just received the ships two standard months ago. Beautiful, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.” He ran a hand over the sleek underside of the fighter. “I’m supposed to be getting five in the next month, but this is the first time I’ve seen one in person.” A pause, and he flashed her a smile, one he hoped she would find disarming.

  Apparently she did, for a dark flush spread along her high cheekbones, and she seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes. “We were very excited to get them, sir.”

  “I can imagine.” He glanced up at the ship, and asked in an off-hand tone, “Mind if I climb in and take a look?”

  “Sir?”

  “Can’t very well send my pilots out in these if I haven’t checked one out first, can I?’

  “Well, sir, I — ” She floundered for a second or two, then said, “I suppose — that is, I see your point, sir.”

  “Excellent.” Rast pulled the handle to extend the little mechanical ladder that would allow him to climb up into the cockpit; it dropped to the ground, powered by gears so smooth he couldn’t even hear them working. He didn’t dare look over at the ensign as he hurried up those metal rungs, then lowered himself into the pilot’s seat. It was cramped, and he didn’t want to think what eighteen or twenty standard hours in that position would do to him. Discomfort he could manage. What he could never live with was the fear that he had not done enough to rescue Lira.

  “How is it, sir?” the ensign asked, her tone tight with anxiety. It seemed clear she’d begun to realize something didn’t smell quite right about the situation, even if she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

  “Perfect, Ensign. My thanks for your assistance.” And he pushed the button to drop the canopy over the cockpit, even as he reached with his other hand to flip the switches that would bring the engines online. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the ensign take a step back, then shake her head, although he didn’t know if that was her way of communicating that he needed to stop, or whether she was actually expressing her disbelief at what apparently was happening.

  No time to worry about that, though. He could only hope that she wouldn’t get in too much trouble.

  Some of the controls were in slightly different positions, but even so it only took him a few seconds to tap in the commands to have the fighter’s computer calculating the course for Iradia. He engaged the anti-grav and folded in the ship’s landing gear, and then he was moving toward the atmospheric shield, gaining speed, the astonished ensign dropping behind him.

  A shimmer of energy, and he was out in space, engines really kicking in now. He goosed them a little more, knowing his only hope was in the element of surprise, of getting away quickly enough and making the subspace hop before any of the other fighters could scramble and come after him. Good thing that they had been orbiting Eridani, a peaceful world, and so the admiral’s flagship was not as heavily guarded as it might normally have been.

  Even so, two of the dart-shaped ships came up from under the belly of the flagship, heading straight for Rast and his stolen craft. He pushed yet more power to the engines, tearing away from Eridani as quickly as he could go, counting down the precious seconds until he could drop out of realspace and be safe from any pursuit.

  The screens in front of him
showed the pursuing fighters had attacked, yet they were far enough behind that he knew those shots had been fired more for show than anything else, since he was out of range. If he could just hold that lead for a second or two more…

  A bolt flared behind him, dispersing harmlessly as it hit his shields. A red light flashed on the control board in front of him, indicating that he’d lost approximately twenty-five percent of the rear shield from that one hit.

  The black of space dissolved into a swirl of colors that were somehow beyond color, rippling hues he couldn’t begin to name. Subspace always unnerved him, but he was glad to see it now. He was away. He was safe.

  I’m coming, Lira.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  They’d hit her with a stun bolt again, so Lira didn’t know exactly how she’d ended up back in the Mistral. Shipped over in the back of one of Daos Senn’s ’cars, she guessed. Not that it really mattered how she’d gotten here. What mattered was where she was going.

  Iradia. Gared Tomas.

  She sat up slowly and put a hand to her head, which ached more than ever after that second stunning. In that moment she realized she wasn’t bound, and wondered why they would leave her hands and feet free. Then again, where exactly could she go? The screen over the viewport had been pulled back, showing the pulsing ribbons of light that signaled they were in subspace, bending the very fabric of the universe to arrive at Iradia in hours instead of lifetimes.

  The cabin she recognized immediately — it was the smaller chamber she used when Gared Tomas’s travels had required a trip of more than a few hours. The mattress on the cot was as lumpy as ever, and she tried not to think of the luxurious bed in the larger cabin, the one that had belonged to Tomas. Now she could only think of it as the place where she and Rast had made love…had come to love one another.

  Where he was now, she had no idea. Would he come for her, try to save her? Or would he dismiss the whole episode as temporary insanity, try to salvage something of his life and career, make himself forget her and the trouble she brought with her?

  No, she would never believe that. Daos Senn had lied to her, tried to make her believe that Rast had been in on the plot all along, but she knew that couldn’t be true. She’d seen how he looked at her, felt his lips on hers, and she knew he loved her as she loved him, insane as that notion might be.

  But knowing he loved her was not the same as being certain he could come to rescue her. She had no idea what had even happened to him after she’d been knocked out and then — well, “questioned” was too polite a word, so she’d go with “gloated over” for now — by Daos Senn. For all she knew, Rast had been shipped back to Stacia to await execution for his apparent defection.

  So she would have to rely on herself, although she had no idea how in the galaxy she’d ever be able to extricate herself from this situation. She might not be in handcuffs or tied to the cot, but she might as well be. Whoever was piloting this ship, she doubted he was alone…and she doubted any of them would be stupid enough to allow her a single opportunity to escape.

  Which meant she was going to have to confront Gared Tomas, no matter what happened.

  She’d been trained to subordinate her fear, to never let it control her. An officer controlled by fear could not make good command decisions. But all she’d ever had to worry about was the impersonal death of having her ship destroyed by an enemy, not the far more intimate demise she was sure Tomas had in store for her.

  After he’d used her however he wanted, of course. Lira was not naïve enough to believe he would simply kill her outright. He’d wanted her before. Now he could indulge that desire in any way he wished, and she would be powerless to fight back.

  Bile rose in her throat then, despite her empty stomach. The thought of anyone touching her after what she’d shared with Rast was bad enough, but a man like Gared Tomas…

  She shuddered, and clasped her hands between her knees to keep them from shaking. As much as she tried to tell herself to not give up hope, some part of her realized that hope was quite possibly unfounded. She couldn’t rely on a rescue, and she didn’t know if she had the resources to come up with any effective way of escaping her captors.

  All right, then. If the worst happened, and she was in Tomas’s hands, could she endure it? Could she make herself submit to him, if it meant another day of life, another chance to escape, or, failing that, murder him in his sleep?

  Once upon a time she’d thought she could never kill another sentient being, unless it was in armed combat. But that was before she knew men like Gared Tomas existed. Now she was fairly certain she could kill him, if given the opportunity. The problem was, she doubted she would ever get that opportunity. He hadn’t lasted this long by being sloppy, or foolish.

  Probably the best she could hope for was that he would kill her quickly.

  She felt a slight bump then, and the skies outside the viewport shifted from the roiling colors of subspace to the velvet black of the real universe, stars twinkling here and there. No chance to try to focus on those constellations, because the Mistral shifted course, and ahead she could see the baleful ochre disk of Iradia growing before them, expanding to fill the sky. Then they were falling into its gravity well, the sensation somehow feeling as if she were picking up speed, although Lira knew in reality they were slowing, the shields tuning themselves to protect the ship and its occupants from the enormous heat of re-entry.

  Then all she could see was the planet’s orange-red sands whipping past, along with a dark beige blur that might have been Aldis Nova, but it was here and gone so quickly that if she’d blinked, she would have missed it. They were following the shadow of Iradia’s terminus, moving over to the night side.

  That made sense. Whatever was about to happen, she had a feeling it was better suited to the darker watches of the night.

  It was black as pitch out there. Lira got up from the cot and went to the viewport, stared out as they coasted lower and lower, through darkness unrelieved by a single light. She knew Iradia was like that — miles and miles of emptiness with only a few population centers clustered around the planet’s oases — but she had never made an approach like this before, and it was unnerving. Of course the pilot was flying on all instruments; there were no visuals here to key on.

  But they were headed somewhere specific, that was certain. And finally she saw a faint glow of reddish lights marking a landing area, just sufficient to show its outlines but certainly not enough for anyone more than a hundred meters or so away to see. The Mistral finished its descent there, landing with barely a thump. Whoever was piloting the ship, they knew what they were doing.

  She turned away from the viewport, trying to still the sudden beating of her heart, to will herself to calm. Whatever happened, she would not plead and cry. She would not beg. They might have stripped her rank from her, but she was still a captain of the fleet.

  The door opened. Two men she didn’t recognize, both Gaian and both outweighing her by about fifty kilos, stood there with pistols trained on her. “Out,” one of them said as they both stepped aside to give her room to exit the cabin.

  Nothing for it. Perversely, she was glad of the expensive suit she wore, the heels that clicked on the metal floor as she moved past them. She might be a little rumpled, but she certainly didn’t look like a whore, even if that was what Tomas intended to make of her. What had Rast called her?

  Intimidatingly beautiful. She doubted she could intimidate Gared Tomas. Still, perhaps her appearance might give him pause, might make him re-evaluate his plans for her.

  Well, she could hope so, anyway.

  Once she was in the corridor, the man who had spoken said, “Move,” and pointed his pistol toward the open hatch and the gangplank beyond it.

  Obviously he was a man of few words. She did as he had instructed, walking calmly out of the Mistral and into the dry night air, which still seemed to shimmer with the heat of the day. Sweat began to drip down the high collar of her suit jacket, although Lira wou
ld have been hard-pressed to say whether the the stifling atmosphere of Iradia was really to blame for that.

  They guided her into a low, sprawling building. As soon as they were inside, highly cooled air blasted in from all sides, and she had to keep herself from shivering at the sudden shift in temperature. The floor below was polished red rock, native to Iradia, and the walls on either side were decorated with sconces of intricate dark bronze and stained glass. Very elegant, and not what she would have expected of a structure so clearly out in the middle of nowhere.

  Then she realized where she must be, even though this was the one place of Tomas’s he had never brought her.

  His home.

  She swallowed. Gared Tomas kept the location of his actual residence a secret from almost everyone. Of course she’d heard rumors — that it was a near-impregnable fortress located in one of Iradia’s most remote deserts, that those of his employees who were trusted with its whereabouts knew that death would be their reward if they breathed even a hint of its location.

  If she had been brought to his home now…well, it was a fairly good indication that Tomas intended to keep her here. Permanently.

  The two enforcers with her continued to direct her from corridor to corridor, all of which were well-appointed without being garish. Funny that the crime lord appeared to possess some actual taste. Then again, his cabin on the Mistral, while luxurious, hadn’t bordered on the garish, either.

  Well, that’s just wonderful, she thought. Maybe he can chat with you about interior decoration before he rapes and murders you.

  At last they stopped in front of a door that was flanked by more hired muscle, this time a pair of Bathshevan mercs, heads shaved and tattooed according to their custom. Without a word they opened the door and stepped aside.

  “He’s waiting,” said the chatty enforcer, and pushed Lira through the open door before hitting the controls so it closed immediately, barring the pathway to escape — not that she would have been able to get past even one of those men, let alone four.