by Mel Keegan
“Mourning the notorious playboy,” Vidal said dismissively. “I was stock in trade for their paparazzi, any time I was home on furlough. But they never talked about my Daku affiliations … or the fact I flew with the Delta Dragons,” he added, brows arching pragmatically. “I was wearing the unit badge on my face. I still am. Elstrom CityNet never bothered to notice it.”
“They could never have known you were the Daku spy on the blockade, and it’s probably better if we sweep that part of your career under the rug,” Alexis Rusch suggested. “Mine too. What’s history going to make of me? I was cursed to command the Kiev through much of the time when Hydralis was gradually reduced to rubble, and the best I could do was minimize the damage, slow it down.” She gave Tarrant a rueful look. “You gave us quite a run for our money. You forced my hand over and over. You were too good, Colonel Tarrant. In the end I had to hit Hydralis; I hit her as softly as I could manage. If I didn’t, I’d have been replaced by a hardline commander who’d have wiped your city and its people clean off the face of Omaru.”
An expression of pain raced across Tarrant’s face, swiftly hidden. “I realize all this. We did a lot of damage to Fleet. Created a lot of casualties, and in the blue light of day, after the dust settles, I’d say there’s going to be as much guilt as grief. Omaru is still fighting, Colonel. You’re expecting to meet twelve blockade ships today, but your battle group has been whittled down to ten.”
Her expression might have been carved from granite. “A skirmish?”
He shrugged. “Attrition. The Myrmidon flew into one of the mine fields laid down by Captain van Donne’s Mako. And yes, of course we posted beacons, but they seemed to issue invitations rather than warnings for the idiot commanding. She was gone in an instant, and every soul with her. Scientists from the Kiev collected data and I should imagine they’re working around the clock, trying to make sense of what happened. They have no Zunshu data, but they can hypothesize about new weapons, and I’d guess they’re doing it right now.” He sighed, a sound of frustration and regret. “One of your frigates, the Aldgate, took on the Mako and Captain van Donne led them one hell of chase through the smelters on the other side of the system. He raked her with a full spread of missiles, took out enough sensors to partially blind her, and she crippled herself in a collision with one of the dormant Goldman-Pataki installations. She got comm online, managed to call out for a tug, and they towed her back to the Fleet docks, over the pole of Omaru. No lives were lost, but the crew were given furlough on Borushek and the Aldgate won’t relaunch for another month.”
Rusch absorbed all this with the stoicism of a career officer. For a woman who had never harbored any ambition to command in a time of war, she handled the responsibility, the pressure, with composure Marin admired. “All right, ten ships. Which makes your job a little easier, Michael.”
“Your job?” Tarrant wondered.
“Not a part of this endeavor you need concern yourself about,” Shapiro said smoothly. “Leave our work to us, Colonel Tarrant.” He paused, frowned deeply. “You understand, don’t you, the danger you’re placing yourself in by being here?”
For a moment Tarrant seemed to hunt for words. “I’m the one authorized to speak for Omaru,” he said at last. “If anything happens to me there are scores of others who can take my place – I’m expendable, and wise enough to know it. My immediate replacement is my old comrade, Amanda Lo. She’s already been moved to a safe location, far from Hydralis. From there, she and the staff who are waiting to assume government will monitor events in the next day or two. If I’m captured or killed, it’ll be President Lo speaking for Omaru. The liberty of this system is our object, General, not my aggrandisement or hers.”
“Well said.” Shapiro was satisfied. “We’ll do everything we can to safeguard you. And I assume Omaru’s preparations for this event are complete?”
“This event,” Tarrant echoed with a lopsided smile. “Sounds like we’re throwing a party.”
“Oh, the party comes later,” Rusch assured him.
“I hope to be there. And yes, Omaru is well defended. Sergei van Donne and his crew finished seeding and configuring our minefields two days ago. The Mako left a short while ago. Until yesterday she was out by Shikoku, making final tests, but she signaled ten hours ago. She’s headed to Jagreth to field-test the minefields there.” Tarrant looked back at Garret, who nodded. “Wrangling of our defenses has passed to our own specialists. They took instruction from van Donne while the work was being done; they’re confident of their abilities, and so am I.”
Shapiro summoned a smile and gave Rusch a speculative look. “It appears we’ve rented the hall and hired the band … again.”
“Time,” she said grimly “to find out if we can dance.”
It was typical of Alec Tarrant to issue a snort of ribald humor. “Well, it’s too bloody late now to find out we can’t!”
From across the Ops room, Vaurien’s voice said levelly, “Alexis, we’ll be dropping out at the arranged coordinates in ten minutes.”
She stirred forcibly and Marin watched her pull her shoulders back, take a deep breath, before she went to join him. “Etienne has the frequency and the IFF code, of course?”
A code known only to the nameless military AI at the core of the Kiev, and to the command corps itself. It would identify the Wastrel, and a handful of the ship’s vast complement who had been waiting days to hear it would respond.
The atmosphere in the Ops room was electric. Marin was intent on Vidal now, watching him pace to and fro near the workstation from which he controlled Tactical, where the need arose. Did his fingers itch to bring the Wastrel’s weapons online, power up the geocannon and the dense Arago fields? Marin knew Travers was feeling the same instinct, but it would have been a bad mistake. The last thing they wanted to do was set a ship the size of the tug onto an intercept course with the Kiev, with live weapons systems – the Kiev would be on battle alert in moments.
A pulse beat in Marin’s temple as he joined Travers by the dormant Tactical workstation. Vidal dropped into the chair there and laced his fingers at his middle to stop their fidgeting. He was clad in dark blue, and the color made him seem paler, more gaunt, in the backwash of light from multiple screens and threedees. Of them all, Vaurien and Tarrant seemed the least apprehensive as the big ship dropped gently out of e-space and the highband began to transmit.
At this distance the yellow star of Omaru was big enough to appear as a small disk in the navtank, while Omaru itself was a blue-white orb attended by its two moons, Rashid and Bahrain. The fourth planet, Shikoku – a pocket-sized gas giant with a core of liquid metallic hydrogen buried deep beneath swirling layers of methane and ammonia – was far on the other side of the sun, its eight moons flitting like sparks around it. Assorted smelters, dockyards, transit platforms, freight logistics pens, were marked with their beacon numbers; and before them all, ranged between the Wastrel and Omaru itself, were the ships of the Fleet blockade. Ten cruisers and frigates, a flurry of non-combatant barges and transports plus the unarmed Fleet tender Solapur and, looming over them like a blue whale, the super-carrier itself.
“Etienne, confirm we are transmitting,” Vaurien said softly.
“Transmitting IFF on designated frequency,” the AI assured him. “The Kiev is tracking us. Standby.”
“Christ, I don’t believe this,” Travers murmured. “We must be crazy.”
Marin took a step closer, so his shoulder was hard, warm, against Travers’s chest. Neil’s hand closed about his upper arm and Marin looked along at Rusch, who had slipped in a combug and was listening intently. Deliberately, he did not ask the question. You’re sure about this?
From the engine deck Ingersol’s voice said tersely, “We’re at Weimann ignition minus eight seconds … your call, Richard, but make it soon. We’re about one skinny half minute outside the Weimann exclusion zone, and we don’t want to be making a run for it on sublight!”
“All right.” Vaurien’s f
ace was immobile as he watched the tank.
And then Etienne: “Kiev acknowledges IFF. Standby.”
Rusch let out a soft sound of gratitude, and Tarrant leaned both palms on the side of the tank, the only expression of relief he would permit. No flicker of expression crossed his face. Marin was aware of the pulse drumming in his ears as they waited, and moments later the comm said, with the measured voice of a woman whose calm was surreal,
“Skygge soldat, this is slottet gate.”
“Code.” Travers’s tonguetip moistened his lips.
“It’s ancestral Norwegian,” Jazinsky whispered. “Way back, my family came out from Scandinavia. They were Danish, but the languages were close as cousins.”
“Velkommen solskinn,” Rusch responded. “Status?”
“Waiting for you. Condition is Skynd. Scan for your acquisition signal.”
A soft chime from Etienne acknowledged the guidance beacon. “Got it,” Rusch said at once. “We’re on our way in.” She turned back from the navtank and took a long deep breath, perhaps to calm nerves that were harping like steel strings. She was looking at Vidal now. “We’re on. Skynd means, make it quick.”
“Showtime,” Marin said with a look at Travers that mocked them both – for the audacity, the ambition, and the healthy dread underlying both.
Vidal stood and stretched his shoulders. “Hangar 2.”
And Gillian Perlman: “We’re hot. And I’m seeing the landing signal.”
“Colonel Tarrant?” Vidal gestured back toward the executive elevator which had brought the party up. “Any time.”
Both palms smoothed the breast of the impeccable jacket; his eyes closed for a moment. Then Alec Tarrant was as poker faced as Garret, and gave Rusch a formal half-bow. “She was your ship, Colonel. In many ways she still is. After you.”
The Trofeo had been serviced only hours earlier. The engines still shimmered and the cockpit lights were dimmed to flight readiness. The hatch was open, the ramp extended, and Judith Fargo stood beside it. Like Perlman, she was in blue service fatigues with no unit or ship badge to identify them. Her face was grim as she greeted Travers, and Marin heard her whisper, “I hope you know what you’re doing, boss.”
“Have a little faith, Jude,” Travers told her as he and Marin stepped aside to let the others go aboard. Tarrant, Shapiro, Vidal and Rusch sat in the back of the aircraft, and Travers gestured for Marin to go ahead of him, let him close the hatch.
With eight aboard she was loaded beyond any capacity offering comfort, but the flight was so brief, Marin was unconcerned. From his seat, he had a view of the pilot’s systems, and he saw that Perlman had already handed over to the automatics. A hangar gaped open in the belly of the Kiev, waiting for them.
“The hangar is – or was – my own,” Rusch was saying. “My private hangar, the most secure on the ship. Technically, she’s still waiting for a new commander to take my place. In fact, my information is that Fleet is still trying to locate me in various medical institutions on Velcastra. They’re due to be issued the death certificate! At this time, my Executive Officer remains in command, and before any of you asks the question – yes, you can trust her implicitly.”
As she spoke the hangar blew down to a few percent pressure, and with a lightstorm of spinners the hatch slid open. The Trofeo lifted with a bass growl of engines, and Marin ducked his head to see through the side ’ports, watch the carrier come up out of the night of space.
“Wastrel,” Vaurien’s voice whispered over the encrypted comm. “We’re pulling out, on schedule. Good luck.”
“Luck?” Rusch echoed. “Oh, I hope not.”
“Luck,” Shapiro said darkly, “has no place where we’re going.”
The leviathan shape of the carrier loomed up like a shadow cast on the star-bright backdrop of this quadrant. The Trofeo rolled over to approach the waiting hangar, and Marin murmured a curse as he saw the Kiev from way below the keel and a thousand meters aft. The engines were idling, a dull cherry red, and a thousand lights were scattered across the vast hull. Four thousand men and women worked aboard; and almost every one of them, with the exception of the officer corps, was a conscript from the Middle Heavens and the Deep Sky itself. Therein lay the magic, and Shapiro was right. Luck should be irrelevant.
A scant half minute after the lift engines ramped up aboard the Wastrel, the Trofeo thrust her blunt nose into the blue-white lights of a small hangar. Two private planes had been stack-parked on the aft wall, in Arago clamps, to make space. Marin recognized Rusch’s aircraft, but the other was new, an electric blue Murchison Sukaiburēdo with silver scallops, a high vee tail and the big, curved cockpit canopy of a civilian ‘joy toy.’
“Damn, Patricia took delivery,” Rusch said with wry admiration. “She used to talk about that plane every day.”
“Where’s she going to fly it to, off the carrier?” Travers was unimpressed.
“That’s not the point, is it?” Marin leaned back as the Torpheo turned to fit the tight available space and dropped onto its landing struts. “The point is, it’s here, and you sit in it, and polish it, and dream about not being here.”
“Therapy,” Shapiro decided.
“Healthy.” Vidal was cramped into the corner by the hatch. If he had been any less underweight, he would not have fit there. “Pat always did have her head screwed on the right way around.” He looked over at Travers and Marin. “You didn’t get the chance to meet many of the command corps, the last time you were here. Major Patricia Haugen, the XO – and if anyone was going to step into Alexis’s place, Pat would be my choice.” He looked along at Tarrant. “Feet planted firmly in reality, Colonial family back through five generations, and a burning desire for this war to be over.”
“Hence, the plane,” Marin concluded as Travers disarmed the hatch.
It swung out and up while the ramp extended, and Neil held up a hand to stop the others. “Stay where you are. Perlman, keep her on standby. Curtis?”
They stepped out together. Marin’s sinuses prickled on the cold air and sharp tang of machines, the chemistry of working spaceplanes. The hangar was empty. The only movement was a little drone which lifted its scanner-head to see if it was needed, and then folded back out of sight. Marin’s hands rode close to his weapons, but he drew neither as he and Travers walked the hangar.
Travers was busy with a handy, and after a second sweep he touched his combug. “We’re clean. Colonel Rusch, proceed.”
She had been waiting for the signal and over the comm, warbling and distorting with encryption, she said, “Skygge for å fortsette.”
The ancestral Norwegian was like words of high magic. The inner hatch growled open at once, though it stopped a meter through its track. Beyond, in a wash of warm-toned illumination from the passage, Marin saw three faces. Since he and Travers had spent so brief a time on this ship’s upper deck’s – officer country – he was astonished to recognize two of them.
One belonged to Theresa Carson, the Personnel Officer who had welcomed him and Neil aboard, on the assignment where they flew with the Delta Dragons. She was as pale and anxious as he remembered, still ash blond with shadowed eyes and restless hands. At her shoulder was one of the Dragons themselves, and as he saw Gina Rogan he began to relax.
“Hey, Gee.” Vidal had just made his way from the Trofeo and was chafing his hands against the lingering cold. “Long time, no see, kiddo.”
For a moment it seemed Rogan might be looking at a ghost. Marin saw sheer disbelief on her dark face, and her head shook minutely. She spoke with the accent of Louverne, and her tone was sharp. “Mick? It can’t be. Fuckitall, you were – they told us you were dead. We saw your memorial service, from Velcastra!”
He held out both arms and looked down at himself, still so thin, with hair that had only just begun to grow back, the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes where harsh hangar lights played cruel tricks. “The reports were close to right. It’s a long story, but I survived. Tell you about it later. Let me
guess, they bumped you up to CAT leader when I vamoosed?”
“I was the next in line, and not too shot up to do the job.” Rogan stepped into the hangar.
The new Carrier Air Taskforce commander was just as Marin recalled, a tall woman about his own age, with cropped copper hair and diamond stud earrings, the big hands of an artisan and the long bones of an athlete. Brown eyes roved on, over Marin and Travers, and she was silent until the rest of the party had stepped down from the plane. “Curtis, Neil,” she said in a rasp as Harrison Shapiro appeared. “I always knew there was more to you two than just a couple of replacement bodies for the Close Defense Squadron, one of them with a damn’ nasty habit.”
“Yeah, sorry about all that,” Marin said without much real regret. “Game addiction – it was a good cover story, and it got us where we needed to be.”
Her eyes had already passed on to Shapiro, and both she and Carson knew the face. Behind them was a third officer Marin and Travers did not recognize, but Vidal did.
“Hello, Brett.” He considered the slim, fair haired young man with a frown. “You still here? I thought they’d’ve shipped you out to the funny farm by now. Or busted you right back to the ranks.” He glanced at Travers, who was a pace to his left. “Lieutenant Brett Morrison. You remember the name, if not the face?”
“The Comm specialist,” Travers recalled. “He was the duty Ops room director when Delta took out the CL-389 ore hauler.”
“It’s Major Morrison now,” Carson told him. “There’s been a … a slow, steady shakeup.” She was looking at Rusch.
“They bumped me up to head of the Communications department,” Morrison told Vidal. “And I know you don’t have a lot of respect for me – I play by the rules, go by the numbers, like I did when I had Ops and you guys were chasing the ore hauler. But I’m as republican as you are, Major Vidal, which is why I’m still here, and I was raised to the command corps when one of the hardliners was rotated out to another ship.”
