by Mel Keegan
Alexis Rusch had gone out to meet them, and gave Vidal an admonishing look. “Major Morrison might not be a cowboy quite like yourself, Michael, but I know his family, his politics. We needed a command corps we could rely on utterly, while we manage this three ring circus.” She gave her hand to Morrison. “It’s Colonel Vidal now, and the promotion was well earned. So, Brett. The code was Skynd. Time’s short? How?”
“The Omaru squadron destroyed the Myrmidon,” he began.
“So we heard.” She traded glances with Shapiro. “They’ve come close to the carrier?”
“Once or twice.” Rogan had returned to Morrison’s side. “The sooner we get this done, Colonel, the better. Anybody on this ship who’s feeling safe is deluding themselves.”
“Well, now.” Shapiro’s brows arched at Tarrant. “Perhaps you’d like to call off the dogs, at least long enough to get down to business.”
An unholy glitter lit Alec Tarrant’s eyes, making them look silver in the hangar lights. “Being taken care of even as we speak, Harrison. Zulika Garret will be trading signals with her brother and Avi Hersch. I can tell you, they’re on a ship in the vicinity of Rashid, but even I don’t know exactly where. They’ve survived this long, against the odds. They’re at the forefront of the Hydralis militia, as always, and I’ll be counting on them after Omaru’s declaration of sovereignty.” His face creased pleasantly as he looked at Rusch. “As you said, we need people we can trust implicitly. Shall we?” He gestured toward the door. “It’s damned cold in here.”
Travers was a pace ahead of them. “Hold up.” The Chiyoda 50 was in his right hand, primed, armed.
The private hangar was secure, but right outside that door was the body of the Kiev. Technically it was Confederate territory, and when this operation was planned Marin had stressed, they could not be too careful. Jo Queneau had underscored the problem. Murphy’s Second Law. “Disasters that can be foreseen,” Marin said soundlessly as he and Travers made their way into the passage, “will be underestimated.”
“Not by me,” Travers breathed. “Damnit, this feels weird.”
“Being back?” Marin’s eyes were wide, unblinking, and everywhere. “On the Kiev specifically?”
“On any Fleet ship, much less a carrier … looks clear,” Travers decided.
“We’re under surveillance.” Marin gestured at the vid pickups. “Colonel Rusch?”
She was a meter from his right hand. “We should be clear. My XO will be covering this.”
“Should be?” Travers echoed. “Make bloody sure, Colonel, or we’re going right back to the Trofeo, and out.”
Her face was sharp, hard. Marin wondered how long it was since she had seen any physical action, an exercise involving live ammunition and genuine risk. He guessed she had gone through the Academy with the corps of professional recruits, people who came to Fleet armed with triple-doctorates and science prizes. Fleet fast-tracked the program, and veteran instructors fired the live ammunition far over the heads of valuable professionals. Memories of a mudhole called Holdfast, Malteppe encroached on his mind for an instant before he thrust them away. Rusch would never have seen any such place.
Without a twitch of expression she touched her combug. “Talk to me, Major.” The carrier’s Executive Officer was there at once, and the lines of her face relaxed a fraction. “All right.” And then, to Travers and Marin, “We’re on plan. Step out, turn left; take the private elevator ten meters from this door. My keycode is alpha-alpha-191-zeta-zeta. The surveillance cameras in this passage are under Major Haugen’s control. None of us will appear on any archival recording … in the event that something, anything, sets this plan off course, we were never here.”
And the way back to the Trofeo was secure. Marin had committed every detail to memory and only then stepped aside to allow Shapiro and Tarrant to pass. Travers was breaking trail, three meters left and playing the handy over the elevator. Marin held the others back until he said,
“Clear. She’s not rigged.”
Gina Rogan made cynical noises. “You don’t trust us.”
The observation was acidly disparaging, making Marin almost chuckle. “Major, after the war you’re welcome to take us out and drink us under the table if you can, but till then – we don’t trust anybody.”
“We’re still alive,” Shapiro said pointedly.
“You’re wanted, General.” Carson’s voice was harsh. “I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced. Major Resa Carson, head of Personnel. And in my job, I get to see Fleet documents up to Level 4 clearance. Are you aware, sir, you’re wanted, dead or alive?”
For a moment Shapiro paused, and then he gave Rusch a wry look. “Dead or alive, is it? I wasn’t aware about the dead clause, but I’ll quote an old truism, Major. They only tackle the one with the ball.”
“And the harder they tackle,” Tarrant added, “the more afraid of you they are. Congratulations, General. You appear to have key officers at Fleet Quadrant command in urgent need of fresh trousers.”
The keycode punched in and the door slid open to reveal a plush little private elevator car hardly large enough to accommodate the company. Rogan and Carson were hanging back, and Marin guessed they were about to say they would wait, and follow. He beckoned them sharply. “All in or all out. No loose ends. It’ll be a squeeze – tough. Get friendly.”
He and Travers were the last in, and Travers’s hand hovered over the panel. “Where to, Colonel?”
“Punch deck 2,” she said quietly. “They’re waiting for us.”
“They?” Marin already knew the answer, but the question was fired at Carson, who was close to his right shoulder. “Who’ll be there, Resa?”
“The XO, Major Haugen, and Major Jake Simoda, the head of Archives – you know him. You played folgen with him. And Major Gavaskar, the Arago specialist.”
“We played folgen with him, too,” Travers remembered. “Who else is privy to this, Colonel?”
Rusch was so dry mouthed, her voice was rough. She licked her lips to moisten them and cleared her throat. “Major Belayev, the head of Data Processing. Major Lau, head of Tactical. Doctor Hernandez, my Chief Medical Officer. Captain of Engineers Hoyle, who was my Weimann specialist for over six years.”
The elevator came gliding to a stop, and as the door opened Marin took a shallow breath, held it. The Chiyoda was warm in his right hand and he deliberately held the barrel high so as not to panic the trio directly outside. Directly opposite was a doorway he knew; inside was the auditorium where he and Travers had met Alexis Rusch for the first time, in the wake of the CL-389 incident. They knew Gavaskar and Simoda from the folgen table but Haugen was merely a name, a face glimpsed in Rusch’s files. Marin was intent on Vidal as Mick stepped out into the brighter light and held out his hand.
“Pat, I saw the Sukaiburēdo – I’m envious.” He offered the hand again. “It’s been a long time … and yeah, I know. I’m supposed to be dead.”
She froze only for a moment before taking the hand carefully, as if she thought she might break it. Perhaps she had a little more experience with covert ops, Marin thought; she had helped to fake Alexis Rusch’s medical files and covered for her when she left the carrier, so she knew the value of a death certificate. She was Rusch’s age, but not carrying the years as well; her skin was the uniform shade of brown one acquired under sunlamps, the traditional spacer’s tan, and her hands were thick, roped with veins betraying the gym time she invested in her body.
“Michael, you look … alive,” she said abortively.
“I look like hell, like shit, like a ghost?” he guessed. “You should have seen me a month ago. Or not,” he added acidly.
Behind Haugen, Simoda and Gavaskar seemed to loiter, fidgeting, ill at ease. Their anxiety was catching and Travers traded a sharp glance with Marin before he asked, “Something wrong?”
“No – Jesus!” Gavaskar rubbed his face hard enough to bruise. “It’s happening, Travers. It’s now, and I can’t believe what we’re doi
ng.” He looked from Travers to Marin, saw the weapon and dragged in a ragged breath. “You, uh, never were replacements for Delta, were you?”
“We never were,” Marin affirmed.
“Undercover,” Belayev concluded. “Agents. I bloody knew it. There was something about you two.”
“They had me fooled,” Carson muttered darkly. “Pat, how are we for time?”
Haugen did not have to consult her chrono. “There’s none to waste, if we’re going to make this quick and clean. As in, bloodless. General, Colonel, if you’d like to come this way, I’ll call the others.”
“The auditorium’s secure?” Marin asked. “You want us to sweep it?”
“It’s secure,” Haugen told him.
“Sweep it anyway.” Shapiro’s voice was soft but the words cut like a knife.
Nothing in the auditorium had changed, from the podium to the lighting and the portrait of Ernst Rabelais, but this time as Marin looked into the face of the legend, he knew it so well. Vidal walked the length of the hall and came to a halt, hands on hips, head canted at the picture. Marin heard him chuckle.
“What amuses you?” Gina Rogan wanted to know.
“It’s … classified,” Vidal said cryptically. “You’ll get to know after the war, and please gods, let that be soon.” He turned his back on the portrait and watched as Rusch mounted the podium and called the company to order. Shapiro and Tarrant, Belayev, Lau, Hoyle and the senior, almost elderly Catherine Hernandez took seats in the front row. Gavaskar, Morrison, Haugen, Simoda and Carson sat behind them while Marin, Travers and Vidal paced the hall.
“There’s a number of faces I’m not seeing,” Travers said pointedly.
Haugen twisted in her seat. “The rest of us are covering, making this work. Cosgrove, Kitano, Frezza and Halliday are monitoring security, surveillance, comm … and the two guys we’ve always known we can’t trust – or, we can trust them to make trouble.”
From the podium Rusch said quietly, “Gould and Watanabe. Patricia, do we know their whereabouts?”
A chuckle rumbled from CMO Hernandez. “I called them into the Infirmary for tests. Apparently there was some confusion with their blood work, in the last routine physicals. Both of them seem to be showing the markers for serious and contagious disease – it’ll all turn out to be about contaminated samples, of course, but right now, would they please return to the Infirmary for tests?” She made dismissive gestures. “They’re mildly sedated, in Quarantine. They won’t get any chance to make trouble. You’re welcome.”
Marin was impressed, and he began to relax a little. These people were professionals, and they had done their planning. Rusch wore a smug look as she surveyed her people. “And here we are. It’s happening, right now. I’d like to introduce you to the imminent President of the Republic of Omaru, Mr. Alec Tarrant, formerly the commander of the Hydralis Militia. And of course you know General Harrison Shapiro, whose genius and vision have brought us to a moment which has been called one of the pivot points of history.” She surveyed the assembly over the lectern. “If any factor in our initiative has changed since I was last informed, this is your opportunity to brief me. Ladies and gentlemen…?”
But no one spoke, though every face Marin glanced at was grim. He joined Travers at the auditorium’s closed doors and spoke in a bare murmur. “This is going to work.”
“It had better,” Travers whispered. “Sure, you’ve got the department heads covered – we’ve got the command corps in a basket. But there’s four thousand crew on this ship.”
“Conscripted,” Marin added. “Shanghaied. You think they’ll hesitate to take this offer? You remember the time you put it to the survivors on the Intrepid?”
It was obvious Travers did. He took a long deep breath and leaned back on the door to watch, listen, as Rusch addressed her senior staff.
“Effective immediately,” she was saying, “the Kiev is on alert. For the moment, let the crew believe we suspect an assault from Omaru. Colonel Tarrant, I’ll call on you to formally confirm that this system is defended. Captain van Donne and his people have completed the work, and Omaru stands ready to repulse a battle group – this battle group, if needs be – on your order.”
In the front row, Tarrant stood and turned to the body of the hall. “The work was completed several days ago. The truth is, my friends, since then we could have destroyed every ship on the blockade, including the Kiev, on a whim.”
“Then, thank gods the people of Omaru have enough decency to place a premium on human lives,” Rusch said in an odd, taut voice.
“Conscripts,” Tarrant said, echoing what Marin had said only moments before. “Half the population of Hydralis went through the process of conscription, service, manumission. Many of us have friends and family on these ships. We’ve fought – hard, and bitterly. We’ve done what’s been necessary, but … time to make an end of it, yes?”
“Yes,” Rusch agreed. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to formally place this ship and her crew at the disposal of the Nine Worlds Commonwealth. You speak for your departments, your staff, and if there are objections, issues, this is the time to voice them.”
Surgeon Captain Hernandez stood. “I’m going to keep Gould and Watanabe confined to the Quarantine bay, and mildly sedated. I’m also going to power up the Infirmary. This coup ought to be bloodless, but there’s a wise old saying about best-laid plans. I’d have briefed you on this minor change of plans a couple of days ago, but you were out of comm range.”
“Very good.” Rusch looked next at Resa Carson. “You’re liaising with Security, correct?”
“Every minute since the General’s party was on approach,” Carson assured her. “Major Halliday has handpicked his staff and trusts them implicitly.”
The Security contingent on a super-carrier was around one hundred, Marin knew – a hundred Tactical officers to oversee and control a ship and crew so vast, in the event of mutiny, they would be overwhelmed in seconds. On the crewdeck was the Marines complement, numbering three to five hundred more, every one a soldier, and almost entirely conscripted. Marin could imagine the fear down in the belly decks. As long ago as the assignment he and Travers had flown with Delta, the fear was tangible, and since then the situation on the blockade had worsened immeasurably.
“All right,” Rusch said levelly. “The ship is already on alert; our first move is a comm blackout. Lock everything down, Major Morrison, according to plan.”
He stood, hands clasped at his back, perhaps to stop them twitching. “My team has set the ship-wide system to crash on your order, ma’am. It’ll crash so comprehensively, it’ll be a twenty minute reboot.”
Which was more than enough time. Marin had gone over the initiative in minute detail, as if it were the most delicate of Dendra Shemiji assignments. The fine art of mutiny had a history of horrific disaster, because it was rarely planned well and almost never factored in every risk. In the rare event when mutiny was planned down to the level of minutiae –
“AI overrides,” Rusch prompted.
Morrison remained on his feet. “I’m liaising with Dom Frezza and his team. The AI specialists will scram the AI, coinciding with the comm blackout. When it comes back up, we’ll own its soul.”
Rusch was satisfied. “Then it’s down to our conscripts, individually, to decide where they want to be, where they want to go. Major Carson, it’s the business of Personnel to know the sentiment of the crew.”
Again, Carson stood as Morrison returned to his seat. “Nothing’s changed since the last time we traded data, ma’am. On the crewdeck people want out. They’ll take anywhere but here, the blockade. Most say they want to go home, but they’ll accept any scheme that gets them out of the firing line.”
“Which is something we can offer.” Rusch was satisfied. “Mr. Tarrant has assured me, every crew position aboard the Kiev can be filled by highly qualified specialists from Omaru. The Confederacy forced every young colonial into uniform and trained them – in fact, they�
��ve done half our job for us. Whichever elements of our crew want to leave can be accommodated … well out of the firing line. Mr. Tarrant?”
He came to his feet and addressed the assembly with all due gravity. “We’ve prepared facilities on an island in the south, quite similar to the provisions made for the crew of the Chicago who chose to remain loyal to the Confederacy. Here on Omaru, the facility is much larger because we fully expect most of your crew to opt to get out alive. They’ll certainly expect the DeepSky Fleet to engage this ship in the Battle of Omaru, and they rightly see no difference between becoming a statistic in front of Fleet guns or those of the Omaru Militia … dead is dead.
“Your crewmen don’t know, and can’t know, this system is defended. Even the Kiev command corps knows only a suggestion of our business – enough to commit yourselves and your departments to this initiative. You know what happened at Velcastra. You don’t need to know the details. This crew will certainly accept the offer of safety, off the old blockade. Their own transports will be used to ferry them to Omaru and bring out their replacements. As soon as the Battle of Omaru has been concluded, the Kiev complement can either return to service on the Sark or they can choose their own ground, citizens of the Deep Sky and Middle Heavens.” Tarrant sat and returned the question to the floor.
“Most of our people will stay out here, neutral,” Carson judged. “If they show their faces back in the Middle Heavens too soon, Fleet won’t send them home. They’ll be assigned to new warships and in a month they’ll be right back here.”
The same decisions had been thrashed out on the Intrepid. Marin’s memories were razor-edged. He knew intimately what scenes would be played out on the Kiev’s lower decks, and from the look on Carson’s face, she had spent weeks refining the logistics of the shift in power.
“The aspect concerning most of us, Colonel,” she was saying almost reluctantly, “is the battle group. It’s, uh, going to get nasty.”
None of this surprised Rusch. “The scenario has been analyzed in great depth by a team headed by myself, General Shapiro and Mr. Tarrant. At this point I can also tell you my own team will be taking Tactical, and will … neutralize the battle group.”
