Only pure will held Diego Bach from screaming a slew of curses in every language he spoke. He had managed to get this far, to make it into the Rat and farther out of the territory, only to get pets for the richest man in the Alliance. As the bos’n turned, Diego pounded a fist against the bulkhead. If it weren’t for his protective gloves, he might have broken a knuckle. As it was, even that action didn’t give him any satisfaction.
That’s why you had to come. Sometimes hunches don’t work out. The logical portion of his mind gloated while the rest of him wondered furiously how he could have been so wrong. And something inside kept screaming that he wasn’t really wrong, just not looking in the right place.
“Problem?”
Diego cursed again. He hadn’t heard Tai come up behind him, hadn’t even bothered to check the corridor before he tried to vent his rage. “No. No problem at all. That’s the problem,” he hissed.
Tai studied him very carefully for what seemed to be forever, but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds. Then, carefully, she slipped something from her belt into the palm of his hand, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him quickly. “Too bad. I was getting to like you,” she whispered.
Diego blinked in confusion, and by then Tai was gone. He turned back to the stranger ship, knowing that the Matilda held no more promises. Maybe these strangers, though, maybe, if only he could figure out how to make it all work. Somebody around here was involved in empire technology transfer. It was just a matter of who and where.
He looked at what Tai had given him, and this time managed to restrain a whistle of surprise. It was a jamcaster. He’d seen only two of them before, both of them prototypes sitting on Sein’s desk. A new kind of space-signaling device that couldn’t be traced by the Weasels, but locked right in on Fleet ident beams, the jamcaster was the perfect Intel toy. He wondered briefly where Tai had gotten hold of one and decided he’d rather not know.
He slipped the jamcaster into his pocket and made his way back to the cargo holds on the Hansa, Pure guesswork, now. He wasn’t even sure if he recognized the door that led to the animals. If he were found out, the excuse would be perfectly genuine. Two humans, both dressed in what appeared to be some kind of crew overalls, were talking at the end of the hall. Neither of them spared a glance in his direction. He ducked in the first door he found.
And Diego Bach really smiled for the first time since Sein had tasked him. Pay dirt, all right, and right here. This cavernous storage bay made the whole Matilda look like an afterthought. Crates were stacked as far as he could see, huge ones in sealed wrappings and stamped in red. He couldn’t read whatever was written, but so far the size at least was right.
Heart pounding from sheer elation, Diego slipped behind one of the piles of crates and past another. When he was sure he was covered, he tried to pry the heat seal on one of crates. His fingers didn’t even make an impression on the hardened plastic. Licking his lips and feeling mightily superior, Diego unclipped his Swiss Army knife from his utility belt. It had been a present from his father when he had completed his wilderness merit badge in the Scouts more than ten years ago.
Now the memory of that warmed him. “Be prepared,” wasn’t it? And his father had insisted that with the best knife with the most gadgets in the universe he would be prepared for anything. Exactly what anything would entail had never entered anyone’s mind at that time, but then that’s what being prepared was all about. Diego flicked the knife open to the micro laser blade and sliced a neat panel out of the heavy-gauge packing.
This time there was no surprise. Inside, exactly as he had envisioned it, was a prefab unit. All ready to plug a repair hole. Standardization. Henry Ford would have been real proud of these folks, Diego thought with contempt.
Evidence. And not quite what he had expected, either. It wasn’t so much that his hunches were off, but that they didn’t piece together the way he thought they did. And still there was not enough evidence. Diego replaced the panel and used the laser again, this time on a lower setting to fuse the plastic. The seam was ugly and obvious, but he didn’t have the tools to do better. With any luck they’d believe that it was a factory problem.
Only knowing what he knew wasn’t enough. These were humans, but he didn’t know from where. Who was supplying the Khalians, and could he in fact prove that they were? What if they had simply stolen a shipment meant for the Weasels? or were buying from the same source? The possibilities multiplied in his head, feeding a curiosity that got the better of his sense.
But he had been so quick to assume that now he hesitated. Diego Bach hated only one thing that he counted less than dishonor. He hated to be wrong. And, most of all, he hated to look young and foolish.
If he had any brains at all, he would report back to the Matilda at once and report directly to Sein as soon as possible. Maybe the Indies were still worth pursuing, but there were these other humans as well. Someone else would take the job, or maybe Sein would task him again in three months after he’d had a reasonable vacation.
But that wouldn’t do his personnel file any good, wouldn’t win him any medals or commendations from the Big Board, wouldn’t enhance his career or life or self-respect one iota. And, after all, that was what the game was all about—winning. And Diego Bach meant to win at all costs. If the risks were higher, the rewards were well worth the price. And, besides, he couldn’t afford to be less than perfect whatever the cost. The most likely to succeed from the academy, Cheng notwithstanding, he had his reputation and the reputation of his whole family on the line. What would the Fuentes have done, those righteous iron-fisted ancestors who had first established freedom on one continent of Earth before branching out to the Fleet and all of space? No matter what, he would make those ancestors proud,
Besides, the Hansa was just asking for it, lying open and begging. Here was a nice big cargo bay filled with cartons and packing materials. He could hardly ask for a better place to hide. And there was the old saw about not being found if no one was looking. Quickly Diego toyed with the idea of taking a pair of overalls and trying to pass as one of the crew, but he dismissed the idea just as rapidly. He didn’t speak their language, and besides, they probably all knew each other at least well enough to spot a stranger. Still, the cargo bay was pretty well equipped to keep him hidden for a good long time, so long as he could find food and sanitary facilities.
Besides, he had the jamcaster. The thought warmed him, and Diego made a nest in the packing materials and settled down to sleep.
* * *
He had lost track of the day when the red docking lights started flashing again. It couldn’t have been too long, not when he’d managed on a couple of fish sandwiches and cold fried potatoes he had stolen when two crew members interrupted their lunch to entertain themselves in a manner that those who had assigned a man and a woman to a task on an isolated part of the ship might have foreseen.
Whoever these people were, they certainly were efficient. The head and water fountain were convenient, and Diego ascertained from the plumbing structure that there were similar facilities on every level. He didn’t risk an investigation, though. Enough time for that when he found out their destination with the prefabs. Besides, he thought the two tapes he had lifted from the corridor control (also during the convenient diversion that had yielded dinner) might give the self-appointed demigods over in Analysis something to do instead of gossiping over the coffee machine.
He had spent most of his time in the bay, although he had opened a panel in a carton containing a control unit. It had taken several tries, and more than one plastic container held the scars of his Swiss Army knife. There should still be enough charge left for him to seal this one last carton behind him when he climbed into the crew couch. Good thing that the knife was the genuine article and not some cheap knockdown that wouldn’t hold a full charge for more than a couple of years.
Then the red light came on, just as it had flas
hed when the Matilda docked. Diego had practiced his movements mentally hundreds of times and had even folded himself into the control unit’s acceleration couch more than once to make sure he could stand it for more than a few moments. Still, he was almost surprised at his rational calm in the presence of the docking light and at his own ability to dispose of all traces of his presence before entering the unit and sealing the panel back shut, leaving a few openings for air.
Now, in the dark, all he had to do was pray that the cartons would be transshipped inside. Maybe the packing would hold and the air holes were small enough that he could survive a two-second vacuum transfer, but he’d prefer not to chance it.
Diego tried to listen, waiting tensed and ready for the off-loading. The inside of the carton was dark, darker than eternity, darker than even his worst nightmares. Dark and dull, and the packing material muffled whatever was happening outside. Tension could hold only so long before boredom set in, and to his eternal chagrin Diego Bach fell asleep.
The Weasel barks woke him to full awareness. They sounded very far off, and even if he had been able to understand Khalian, he couldn’t have made out any words. Not that he needed to. Now he had enough evidence. Just the sound of that harsh inhuman voice gave him all the information he needed. Whoever these folks were, they were responsible for the Weasel ships. They had brought them, maybe manufactured them, it meant humans were indirectly fighting against their own. Indignation mingled with contempt in Diego’s cramped chest as he considered the situation.
Then the carton moved. Jolted by the sudden lift of what he surmised must be a crane, Diego hit his head soundly on the back panel behind the headset before he managed to brace against the prefab sheeting. The couch had been designed for a Khalian and was only about half as long as Bach, and the safety straps were equally useless and more dangerous, swinging around in the confined space with their clasp-weighted ends. He tried to gather the straps in his hands, missed one, and tensed as the carton was placed somewhere else.
This time the movement was smooth. Diego swallowed the panic that knotted in the back of his throat. Leaving the Hansa, he thought, and entering Khalian territory. He heard more muffled barks, more than one voice, and the low-pitched sound of human speech. Then there were two more hard jerks, and the. straps flailed around him. He never did know whether it was one of the safety clasps or his own hands vainly grabbing to hold them that turned the jamcaster on.
There was an island of stability. Diego couldn’t tell if he was still in transit or had been transferred to a Khalian vessel or base. One thing was for certain. He had heard a lot of Weasel barking and not much that sounded human for a long time. Things settled and time stretched again. Diego began to consider seriously exactly how he was going to extricate himself and, incidentally, his information from the carton and get back to friendly space.
The carton began to tumble violently. Diego had no idea what was happening. He was aware of voices, of things hitting the packing crate, and of himself helplessly trapped inside. The spinning grew crazier, stopped, began again. Bach was sick, He was glad that he hadn’t eaten in so long that his uncontrollable heaves brought up only pain. That he could live with. Anything else in this closed environment would have choked him.
Then blessed stillness. Diego gulped air convulsively, trying to steady himself, when he smelled plastic burn. Fumes filled the small space. Diego held his breath and fingered his knife. One more charge, he hoped and prayed, one more. It was amazing how calm he felt, clear and cold holding the small red knife near his chest. He knew with perfect serenity that he was about to die. What was important was to go with honor, to show no fear, to make at least an attempt to defend himself so that his people would not be humiliated. Strangely, he felt very distant from it all, as if the whole lacked solidity. And he knew with complete certitude that it was more than real and that he was not going to survive.
Suddenly the fumes lessened, and a patch of light showed. Diego readied himself and tried to spring out, laser knife held aggressively the way he had been taught as a child. No matter how bad he looked, no matter how hopeless, the point was not to concede. He focused on that thought alone and lunged.
Only to be caught by two oversized humans in marine uniforms.
“I damn well hope what you’ve got is worth this,” the one with a lieutenant’s bar spat at him.
Diego said nothing. For the first time in his entire life, he was speechless.
* * *
He was on the Haig. That was as much as the destroyer’s Intel officer, Manning, would tell him when he reported to the situation room. “Is that it?” she asked after he had finished debriefing. “Just that you saw the prefabs, heard Khalian voices, and can’t identify the humans involved?”
“And the tapes,” he reminded her. “At least we’ve got a lead on where the Weasels are getting their ships. It’s better than what you had twenty minutes ago.”
He wanted to ask again how the Haig just happened to be in the region and monitored the jamcaster and sent a marine rescue squad in after him. He really wanted to know. But Manning hadn’t answered the first time and wasn’t the sort to take kindly to being asked again. Instead, she fingered the tapes lightly before locking them into her porta-base.
“I’ll get on the stick to Sein on this,” she informed him. “And we’ll try to get you on something home. Although there is a war going on out there.” She gave him an unpleasant look and opened her mouth to speak when Jason Padova, the commander of the Haig, walked in.
Diego stood and saluted in perfect academy form before Manning had time to react. It never occurred to Bach that, dressed in his Indie overalls with his long Chola-streaked hair and the violet snake visible on his shoulder, he might look just a little out of place.
“We were just about finished, sir,” Manning informed the commander.
Padova looked over Diego as if he were some alien art form and then took a seat. “You’re free to go if you want to, Johanna,” he said to the harried-seeming woman. “I hope it’s good news.”
Johanna Manning hesitated, considering. “I’m not sure what it is, sir, or what it means. And if we’re very lucky, Analysis will have some real data by the time we win the war.”
Padova snorted. “Might as well give them a head start on it, then.”
Manning nodded and left. The commander turned his attention to Diego, who maintained an attitude of midshipman’s formality.
“Sit down, Bach, and stop playing tin soldier,” Padova said softly. “You did your job and the marines did theirs. And you got to field-test one of our newest toys. Not bad.”
Diego sat stiffly and struggled to keep the surprise off his face. “I don’t understand, sir,” he finally said.
“There isn’t anything to understand.” Padova waved a hand. “The cavalry came over the hill on time. Just like in all those fun flicks. I just wanted to meet the infamous Bach junior. Having heard some scuttlebutt on the fit your folks pulled when you went Intel, that is.”
Diego blinked once. “Excuse me, sir, but this is real life. I think. And the cavalry doesn’t come over the hill, and I had planned an escape route. But it seems like a whole lot of coincidences that you’re in the area and monitoring the jamcaster and everything. It sort of strains the odds, sir.”
Padova’s eyebrows went up, then he smiled. “If it were only coincidence, probably. But then, Gar Commers told me that he had set up a meet with the Hansa, and he’d been suspicious for a long time. And that little nonreg toy, well, we did have to test it out under authentic conditions. Not that Commers had you fingered particularly. He just hoped there’d be one of Sein’s professional spooks around to do the job. Otherwise he might have to ask the bos’n to take on the task, and somehow I got the impression that wouldn’t exactly fly.”
This time Bach did smile, shaking his head in response. “Right, sir. Too big to fit inside, anyway. And he ha
dn’t been a Boy Scout. But you know Commers, sir? Was he a Fleet officer? And how did the marines manage to get me out of that Weasel trap, anyway?”
“Ensign, it’s a good thing that you are in intelligence, otherwise your curiosity would get you into serious deep shit rather than just plain killed. You ever hear the story of the man who was too pissed to die? That’s Commers. As for the last, well, let’s just say I’ve got more than one trick in my bag.” With that the commander stood and grinned and turned to leave.
“Excuse me, sir,” Diego called before Padova disappeared out the door. “Excuse me. I have one question.” The commander turned to face him, and Diego’s voice dropped. “Does it matter? Did this mean anything?”
Commander Jay Padova raked Diego Bach with his ice-blue eyes. “I don’t know. What I do know is that how you do it counts. Winning counts. You done good. The rest you just have to take on faith.”
Diego Bach watched Padova go and in the silence, reached for the medal around his neck. Faith. His parents would only think that he had humiliated himself and them, having to be rescued by Padova’s marines. But not only had the commander told him, but he knew it was true in his heart, that there was no shame. He had done it right. Diego Carlos Sergio Fuentes y Gomez, I think you would understand.
FAMILY SHOWS, commonly referred to by omni insiders as famcoms, have long been standard fare on all omni channels. Considering the variety of forms that have evolved for the family itself, some of these shows can be quite exciting. The sexual activities of the feline Morrisons are considered suitable for younger viewers only on ten of the several hundred inhabited worlds of the Alliance. One more acceptable popular show, “The Claremorts,” is based upon the permutations of the eight member marriages found on Altair prime. This famcom being known for its innovative programming in an era when everything has been done before. Billions waited in anticipation to see who had actually shot J. B. Even more popular on the inner worlds is “Banemere,” the adventures of a detective whose eighteen wives actually solve the crimes.
The Fleet Book Three: Break Through Page 21
