by Trevor Wyatt
There’s a bead of perspiration standing out on his forehead, but he remains erect and after one glance down the valley of my breasts he keeps his eyes straight ahead.
I wait for it.
He murmurs, “Ma’am, I can’t.”
I move around behind him and step back into the airlock. The next ninety seconds are the longest in my life.
“Ma’am, I can’t.”
And there you have it. He’ll be stuck in that loop for another half hour, just a ramrod-straight young soldier standing obediently at his post, muttering “Ma’am, I can’t,” every so often. But there is no one close enough to hear.
Except Jenkins.
I quickly flash my eyes to Jenkins. My look is clear. Stand guard in case Mr. Nova Corp comes out of it.
I tuck my hair up under a short black wig, doff my tunic and put on a set of work clothes that I use to help Jeryl work on the shuttle at times, and duck out the door with my little set of tools.
Five minutes gone; twenty-five more before he comes back to his sense.
With the guard temporarily immobilized, I now have only the CCT cameras to worry about. This section of the Meiden space port’s grid, Pad 12, is not fenced off, which is fortunate for me, because I can see other maintenance personnel and pilots walking around on various errands. Some are female, so I know I won’t attract any undue attention with the guard still seemingly at his post. Most space workers have too much to do to pay attention to what’s happening on other pads anyway, as I well know. Still, I can’t dawdle. Carrying a clipboard for added authenticity, I leave the ship and walk as though with purpose toward the closest grid strut, looking it over carefully as I approach. Sure enough, there’s a cluster of CCT lenses, and below that a maintenance terminal.
As though making a report, I tap into the terminal. I don’t know the proper codes, of course, but my little Armada hand-held has more computing power than the entirety of the grid’s big iron, as well as a full freight of viruses, Trojans, and worms. I have to hard link it, but I’ve got patch cords for that, and it’s the work of less than a minute for me to be into their system and riffle through their files. Meiden cybersecurity will be having a cow about this soon, but it serves them right for not being up-to-date with their software. And in a spaceport, no less.
Fifteen minutes left. I risk a glance around the port grid. No one seems to have noticed me. That’s good, I’m just a boring little maintenance tech doing her job, nothing to see here.
Of course, even if their software was up to date I still have some goodies that let me crash right through their web defenses. My time in Armada Intelligence has left me with a legacy of interesting toys and techniques on using them.
I haven’t had to use anything like this during my entire time with Jeryl—and he doesn’t know that I used to work for Intelligence as a full-scale operative.
I’ve never told him about my missions after peace with the Sonali was achieved three years ago. As far as he knows, I take The Seeker out on missions on an ad hoc basis and then come back to shuttle him around as an Admiral. The fact that I captain an “Admiral’s ship” is what got Armada Intelligence attracted to me in the first place.
But I could never tell Jeryl. Not about what I’ve done in the field. My non-disclosure agreements with the Armada keeps me from ever telling anyone, and although I feel bad about it—a marriage doesn’t do well when partners keep secrets—I don’t dare break the NDA terms. I am not part of a cell or even of a unit; I am a solo operator, one of only five in the entire The Seeker. No one can know this except my immediate superior, whom I have had no contact with for several years and may, for all I know, never see again.
All this flashes through my head while my hand-held rips into the data fields. I affix the quick-suck stick to the side of the pad. Now I am sweating; it won’t be more than a minute or two before the port AI realizes something is copying information out of its storage banks. And, according to the timer, I have about five minutes to get back to the ship before the guard comes out of his temporal fugue state. “Come on, come on,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
I’m getting everything, I think: all the records in the port’s computers, every scrap of footage from the cameras, everything we need to prove collusion between the Tyreesians and the Omarians.
At last the upload is complete, and the stick flashes a green LED at me.
“About time,” I mutter, disconnecting the pad and sliding it into my pocket. As casually as I can, I step away from the terminal, and just for good measure I have a good stretch before walking back toward our shuttle. The guard is still standing there, muttering “Ma’am, I can’t” every so often.
One minute, forty-five seconds.
“You’re damn right you can’t,” I say as I pass by him and give Jenkins a thumbs up and duck into the airlock as soon as I’m sure no one is watching. There’s a wide grin on his face.
I rip off the maintenance clothes, remove the wig, fluff out my real hair, and step outside to position myself in front of him just as he says, “Ma’am, I can’t,” one last time and then snaps out of it.
“Oh, well, I understand,” I say sadly. “I’ll tell you what...if I can get it going I’ll bring you a cup, would that be okay?”
He doesn’t even look confused. “We can’t accept anything from off-worlders, I’m sorry,” he says.
“Oh, dear. So am I.” Yeah; except for all the stuff you accept from the frigging Tyreesians, right? “Well, excuse me, I’m going back in.”
“Ma’am.”
I suppress a desire to give Jenkins a wink. But I do give both men an extra wiggle of my ass as I walk back in.
They deserve it.
Jeryl
Trusting Ashley to take care of her end of the plan, I give my arm to Anja Bagawati—not an unpleasant task, I confess—and allow her to lead me away to the aircar. We’ve just stopped at the Sonali War Memorial Park.
“For all those sons of Omarias II that fell during the war,” Anja says as she leads me back. They’ve kept this fake tour going for a while now as I play my part of a semi-clueless military man who is rather full of himself. I pretend not to care about more of the buildings we pass on the carefully orchestrated little tour she’s arranged for me, and blather on about the damage our ship supposedly sustained, making sure to make it sound worse than it in truth is.
Meanwhile I am gathering as much information as I can from her conversation, but she’s a pro—she’s careful not to let too much slip. Nonetheless, I make mental notes as we proceed, in case there’s any chance I’ll find an opportunity to dig a little deeper into what Nova Corporation is up to here.
What Anja says is perfectly legitimate: Nova has been working to develop genetically engineered, pest-resistant strains of wheat that can be used on colony worlds. I know she’s being truthful about this because through my position in Armada Command and seeing reports from various institutions in the Terran Union I’m privy to documents and records that the public usually doesn’t get to see.
Nova is highly regarded on many worlds for their efforts promoting human expansion, but for the very same reason they are despised on certain other worlds. Anja works hard to make certain that I see Nova and the Omarians as victims at the mercy of the Tyreesian privateers we cleaned out.
“We had no idea that that warship was lurking in the vicinity,” she says.
“These things happen,” I say. “Doubtless, they must have been working on their own between the warship and the freighter. The merchant ship approaches an unsuspecting mark with trade deals. If all goes well, there’s no need to call in the muscle. But if the target planet doesn’t like the proposed arrangement or has no interest in doing any deals, the freighter jams communications and yells for help. The warship comes in, parks in orbit, and makes a very convincing argument for the planet to come to terms.” I shrug. “After which, of course, the warship moves off followed by the freighter, and they head for their next target.”
�
�It’s very fortunate for us that you happened along when you did,” she says, but I can tell that there’s tension in her tone. She is not happy at all. “We’ve had no problem with the Tyreesians until now, even though the border is so close to us. Trading partners arrive here fairly regularly, you see, and we’ve had no reason not to make them welcome.”
Again, Union records bear her out. Until recently, Omarias II was in the middle of nowhere, figuratively speaking. It was off the normal trade routes, and was considered something of a backwater; a place to be from, as opposed to a place to go. It’s a perfectly fine planet with nothing at all that could attract any tourist trade. The entirety of the Omarian system, in fact, has nothing whatsoever in the way of distinguishing characteristics. There are no beautiful ringer worlds like Saturn, no jungle worlds to attract hunters, no water worlds to attract anyone who might be attracted to water worlds (without beaches, what is the point of such planets?), and no worlds with intelligent life. Aside from Omarias II, there are two other rocky, airless worlds closer in to the primary, and three gas giants further out. Aside from a few long-period comets, that’s it.
The Omarians developed a reputation for keeping to themselves, and minding their own business. That all changed after First Contact with the Sonali. Every human-inhabited system drew new attention as nearby stars were examined for any traces of life whether or not they had Earth-type planets. Lo and behold, soon a Tyreesian training camp was discovered on a desolate moon in a star system about two light years away from Omarias II. The closest actual settlement was four light years farther on.
“And it’s that settlement with which we have been trading,” Anja says, leaning a little closer to in the back seat of the chauffeured aircar in which we are touring Meiden. “There’s never been a lick of trouble until now.”
“Ah,” I say knowingly. “But surely there have been pirate raids?”
“Attempted raids, yes,” she says. “But we have defenses. Because we are the only inhabited world in this system, there is no interplanetary commerce. And because of that, there are no mercantile vessels to attract avaricious interest. Furthermore, Vice Admiral, there’s so little in the way of cover as ships travel toward Omarias II—no asteroids, few comets—that we can see their drive plumes almost as soon as they drop out of FTL. Anyone who doesn’t answer our hails is fired upon, and we signal the Armada to alert their forces.”
I know these things to be true, as well. Armada and Terran Union records indicate that there have been three incidents of attempted piracy over the past five years, all successfully beaten off by the alert Omarians.
All of which makes me even more suspicious about the visit of the supposed “pirates.”
“We’ve simply never had this sort of trouble before,” Anja is saying, wide-eyed. “All we grow here, besides our own food crops, is experimental wheat.”
“And what of Nova’s fleet?” I ask. “Surely the past incidents would have been enough to convince the corporation to assign a few ships here to keep guard. I’d think they’d be anxious to protect their investment in the wheat.”
“There are no fleet vessels assigned here,” Anja says. “The corporation doesn’t feel that it would be worth their while to locate defensive assets to Omarias II.”
“I see.” Nova’s attitude seems a little odd to me, given that the Union has likewise not had the Armada set up any patrols for this planet. “Would you like to talk to someone in the chain of command?” I ask. “I’m sure I could have an Armada ship or two posted here for your safety.”
“I’m afraid that would be very inconvenient for them, wouldn’t it?” she asks.
Inconvenient for you, you mean. I think. “Not at all, my dear, not at all; it’s the Armada’s duty to protect all citizens of the Union. I assure you, I can have ships stationed here within a fortnight, and you will face no further threats from pirate incursions.” I say.
I can see from the flash of dismay in her eyes that the last thing she wants is to have a couple of ships full of incorruptible Armada Marines circling her planet, cutting off what much be a lucrative revenue stream. No doubt it’s serving to fill the pockets of the upper echelons of the Omarian government; graft is the same no matter where you go. The rich and powerful benefit, while the man in the street gets nothing.
“We would be endlessly grateful to you, Vice Admiral,” she says, affording me some secret amusement.
Anja’s heart isn’t in the remainder of the tour, and for my part I’m finding her company tiresome but I must spin this out as long as I can to give Ashley the time she needs to dig information out of the Omarian databanks.
But at last Anja ends the tour after her pad beeps and someone in her office says a meeting has been called. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Anja says. This of course is bullshit; no doubt she has arranged to receive the call as a pretext to wrap up this ridiculous tour. She pretends regret, I pretend solicitude, and we head back to the shuttle.
As the aircar pulls up outside the landing grid, I can see the guard still standing at his post. I frown as he seems to mutter something to himself, but then Ashley steps out of the craft and he shakes his head as though clearing it. What has been going on here? Oh, well, Ashley will let me know. In any event, she seems to have accomplished her goal; she has a broad smile on her lovely face.
“Ah, Captain,” I say. “How are the repairs progressing?”
“Quite well, sir,” she says. “I trust you found the tour entertaining?” She glares at Anja, who maintains a bland expression. I restrain a grin.
“Most enlightening,” I say. Her quote well is a code phrase that lets me know she’s been successful and that we should get the hell out of here and back to The Seeker as quickly as we can.
This suits me perfectly well. I take Anja’s hand and bow over it. “Thank you for a wonderful time,” I say.
“The pleasure was all mine,” she says. We’re both lying. She sketches a salute to Ashley, gets into the limo, and is driven away.
“She’s very attractive, don’t you think?” Ashley asks me as we enter the shuttle.
“Oh, do you think so? I hadn’t noticed.”
She elbows me in the ribs, and I burst out laughing. To her credit, so does she.
Ashley
We are at the shuttle’s control panels, awaiting permission from Meiden Control to lift off. “What’s taking them so long?” Jeryl grouses. “This delay makes me nervous. Are you sure you’ve covered your tracks well enough?”
I give him a pained look. “Don’t you trust me to get the job done?”
“Of course I do.” He drums his fingers on the arm of his acceleration chair. “I just want to get off this planet, is all. I may represent the Terran Armada, but if they think we’ve cracked their security...”
“It’s true they may have had a little computer trouble,” I say.
“Yeah, no kidding. You’re the trouble.”
“I think they’ve suffered some sort of data incursion and are trying to pin down the source.”
“Tell me they won’t be able to do that,” he says.
“They won’t be able to do that,” I say, deadpanning.
“That’s what I like to hear,” he says with a wry smile.
“I’m fairly sure a few Trojans got into the system, uh, somehow...and wiped out all traces of the entry point.” I explain.
“A pity.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
At last Meiden Control comes through with our permissions. They may suspect us, but there’s no proof, and they know they can’t keep us here indefinitely. Jeryl, of course, has a perfect alibi, being with Miss Slinky the whole time. The guard will have assured his superiors that I never left the shuttle, and I was very careful to edit the security video records. There’s no trace of me leaving or re-entering the landing grid.
We lift off from the grid. “This is a relief,” says Jeryl, and I agree with him. On the other hand, I haven’t done any work “on the ground” like that
in a while, and it was nice to use some of my old skills. I was very happy to see that I can still handle that sort of thing, not that I had any doubts.
Shortly we’re approaching The Seeker on a standard entry. Once we dock, Jeryl and I head for our quarters where we can go over the data I have stolen.
Putting up a DO NOT DISTURB flag on my channel, I get down to work uploading the information off the data stick.
“I still don’t see how you were able to do this,” Jeryl says as we watch the transfer indicator slowly approach 100%. There’s a lot of encoded stuff in there that will take time to unravel. “I wouldn’t have let you do it except that your file has a mention lately that you’re able to perform covert missions if the situation warrants.”
“Honey,” I say laying a hand on his arm, “I have to confess something to you.”
He gives me a suspicious look. “What do you mean? Confess what?”
“Well, you remember after the war...you went to work for the Diplomatic Corps within the Armada. You were so totally focused on breathing life into your Galactic Council concept.”
He shrugs. “Sure, so what?”
“And I told you I was busy with my duties as a captain, helming various missions, when I wasn’t shuttling you around?”
“Well, Admirals do get to pick their ship, and I thought we spoke—” he starts, but I cut him off.
“But that’s not all I was doing,” I say pointedly.
“Sure, you were...wait a minute. You told me; you mean you were doing other things that you weren’t telling me?”
“I’m afraid that’s so.”
“Wait—while we were married?”
“Yes.”
He glances around the room as though he were looking for help. “Okay. What were you doing?”
“I worked for Armada Intelligence for three years.”
“You what?”
I repeat it.
