Daffyd didn’t have a great deal of faith in Pulver’s promises – not so much an issue of trust but, rather, from an understanding of what kind of trouble the research engineer had waiting for him on his return.
The young engineering lieutenant at the tactical station shook his head, ever so slightly, his lips drawn tight. Clearly the crew understood the politically sensitive nature of their assignment… their actual assignment.
Being tasked with the reverse engineering of an alien jump drive, at a time when the Imperial Engineering Corps was having trouble keeping their own jumpgate system running, was a nearly impossible task.
Admitting that aliens had built something that Humans couldn’t figure out ran counter to the Human assumption of superiority over their neighbors. An entire team of engineers that possessed such damaging knowledge would be a serious threat to Imperial prestige.
“Believe me, Commander,” Daffyd replied, “I know how to find the feckless bastards.”
He noticed the officers from the next shift filing into the bridge. Each one leaned over the shoulder of his counterpart, getting a quick rundown on what had transpired on the previous shift before taking over the seat.
“You’d better,” General Windemere growled. “If you don’t, I might just leave you behind when we head home.” His grin raised the hairs on the back of Daffyd’s neck. “Whether we leave you somewhere with an atmosphere remains to be seen…”
Daffyd had no intention of being among these gray-bellies long enough to find out if Windemere was merely posturing, but he had a role to play and so he gave the threat a nervous, dismissive wave. He broke eye contact, affecting an interest in the departing bridge shift.
He realized, with mild amusement, that his interest wasn’t entirely faked. He turned back to Windemere. “I’ll just, ummm…” he nodded at the portside bridge hatch, raising his fist to his mouth. “S’cuse me! I’ll just be…” He grimaced, tried to force a smile, failed and then simply turned and left.
He knew the crew were under tremendous pressure and they had little hope of surviving their return to the Imperium. He knew where he’d be heading in their shoes. When 1GD had seized the Sucker Punch from the Grays, one of his first orders of business had been setting up an all-ranks mess in one of the storage holds.
He doubted his brother engineers would have re-purposed the room. He followed them down the companionway and most of them seemed to be heading in the right direction. More than half of the bridge shift made a direct path to the mess and Daffyd walked in behind them, heading straight for the bar.
He walked behind the counter and shooed the NCO bartender back with a few flicks of his hands. As soon as the man had stepped back far enough, Daffyd crouched down to pull up one of the deck plates. Sure enough, six bottles of quality bourbon were still down there, undiscovered by the engineers.
He pulled one out and set it on the counter, noting the surprise on everyone’s faces. He grinned. It was ok for him to appear competent where alcohol was involved. He turned to the bartender. “Grab those shot glasses, will you?” He nodded at an access panel next to the cargo scanning station. “Yep, that’s the one,” Daffyd assured the man. “Should be at least a couple dozen in there.”
“Hells,” the navigation officer muttered. “We’ve been sitting on that stuff all this time?”
“Well, actually…” Daffyd pointed at the bartender. “… He’s been standing on it.” He looked at the navigator. “You’ve been sitting on…” He frowned for a moment. “The Mumbai Pale Ale, if I recall correctly.”
The navigator looked over his shoulder at the damage controller. Without a single word, both got off their stools and pushed them aside to get at the release for the deck plate that was under them.
“Zhēnde shì tiāncái!” the damage controller muttered, staring down at the stash.
“I don’t know if I’d go so far as that,” Daffyd demurred modestly.
She looked up at Daffyd. “Packing them around the secondary entropic bypass qualifies as tiāncái in my book! It’s the perfect temperature. The only cooling unit we have on this gǒushǐ Gray ship is five decks down. Any beer we bring up gets warm pretty damned quick.”
“Not to mention it’s the standard ration issue,” the navigator added.
“Oh!” Daffyd didn’t have to put on a fake grimace. “Not that Old Gray that the Navy hands out?” He shuddered. “I’ve had it cold. I can’t imagine how much worse it would be warm.” He motioned for the damage controller to pull a few out.
She laughed, standing up with four bottles. “Give me a half-centi and I’ll turn this into a passable imitation of warm Old Gray.”
Daffyd chuckled. “I’ll take your word for it.” He poured shots of bourbon and handed them around. “Vsego khoroshego!” He knocked back the shot.
The damage controller took a drink from her ale and pinned him with a stare. “You planning on leaving us, then?”
Daffyd shrugged to conceal his surprise. He knew he was being a little too clever for his own good. “Not at all. Just wishing us all the best.” He figured a change in tack was in order. The atmosphere in the room had been vastly improved by the appearance of quality beverages and he judged he might be able to steer the conversation in the right direction now.
“Your boy Pulver seems to have all the angles figured out,” he ventured, leaning on the bar from the tender’s side.
The navigator held out his glass and the tender refilled it for him. “He’s not a bad guy to work for,” he began defensively, “he’s just trying to put the best face on a bad situation.”
Daffyd nodded. “I’ve seen leaders fall apart under far less stress. Considering what all of you have hanging over your heads…”
“You mean liquidation, if we fail,” the engineer serving as navigator cut in, “and possibly liquidation, even if we manage to figure out this drive?”
“It is a pretty juicy secret for hundreds of engineers and techs to keep,” Daffyd admitted. “You have to hope CentCom sees the strategic value in a source-directed wormhole generator. They might be willing to admit it’s alien tech, if they can say we stole it out from under their noses, but we’d still have to say we can understand how it works.”
“If expecting CentCom to see sense is our Plan A,” the damage controller growled, “then the gene pool is probably better off without us!”
Daffyd knocked back a shot of bourbon. “I’m in the same boat, figuratively and literally. As the guy who supposedly invented the damn thing, they can’t leave me running around, whether you figure it out or not.”
The bartender nodded. “So you’re going back to a certain death.”
“If I go back,” Daffyd allowed. “It sounds like there’s a lot of places where a fella could settle down out here.”
“Leave the Imperium?” The damage controller stared at him, her eyes wide. “Are you crazy?”
A shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. Taxes are light out here, set by each colony world, and the folks I’ve talked to don’t even believe me when I tell them my apartment on Irricana only had a five foot high ceiling.”
“Really?” The navigator stared at him. “What kind of cost per cube do they pay out here for rent?”
Daffyd grinned at him. “The rents out here are in cost per square. Oh, sure, some places with high ceilings probably come with a premium, but most planetary building codes state a two meter minimum height.” He shrugged. “Bought a fella on Trondheim a few drinks day before yesterday. Turned out he was a civil engineer.”
“Monty’s hairy arse!” the damage controller said in surprise. She looked at her crewmates. “We should just scuttle the damn ship and take our chances out here.” She’d used a joking tone, but just barely.
Daffyd joined in the laughter, but he knew he’d struck the right nerve. “Stay clear of hot places like Masra,” he offered, affecting a sarcastic tone as though he didn’t take the conversation seriously. “Lots of Serp raids on worlds like that. Place like Trondheim, a f
ella could settle down without worrying about scaly visitors…”
The Serps, or Serpentia Sapiens, were active in this region of space. Called snakes in the Imperium, the reptilian aliens were ectotherms and quickly slowed down in cold climates.
The damage controller shook her head, but her reply was interrupted.
A klaxon sounded from speakers in the ceiling.
Daffyd, as a passenger or perhaps a prisoner, had no duty station to report to during a general-quarters alarm and so he followed the bridge officers. He arrived on the bridge just as the alarm cut out.
Pulver stared at the tactical holo, his lips drawn tight. General Windemere was beside him and he’d definitely lost some of the color in his face. Daffyd followed their gaze to where the holo showed a medium-sized moon in orbit around a gas giant.
Orbiting the moon was a Gray heavy cruiser.
Daffyd resisted the urge to comment. Windemere had brought sufficient force to deal with a single cruiser but he seemed unsure of what to do next.
“We’d better hail the bastards,” Windemere finally announced. “Wouldn’t do to start a war if we can avoid it.”
A Human figure with a long welt on his forehead replaced the hologram of the moon and ship. Pulver’s eyes narrowed and Windemere took an involuntary step back in surprise.
“This is Commander Pulver of His Imperial Majesty’s vessel the… Sucker Punch,” Pulver didn’t seem to share General Urbica’s sense of humor in ship names. “Identify yourself.”
The hologram nodded politely. “Hi Commander. I’m Beam.”
Daffyd supressed a grin as he watched the skin on the back of Pulver’s neck grow red.
“Well, Beam,” Pulver replied acidly, “perhaps you could tell me what you’re doing on a Gray cruiser?”
Beam shrugged. “I was a loadmaster aboard the Pony Express but we were captured by the Grays. They brought us aboard this ship and shoved us all into pods, down in the cargo bays.”
Beam’s attention seemed to wander for a moment and then he snapped his eyes back to Pulver. “Some kind of brain-washing setup, we think. But my friend and I turned out to be un-washable. I managed to get the drop on a Marine and…”
“Grays don’t have infantry,” Pulver interrupted. “Try again…”
“They have Human infantry,” Beam insisted. “Imperial Marines with gods-damned hand cannons.” He gestured at the scar on his forehead. “Recoil caught me off guard when I shot the first one and nearly knocked me unconscious”
“Right.” Pulver nodded, dragging out the word. “You single-handedly took out a ship full of Marines and…”
“Three Marines,” Beam corrected, “and only two of ‘em were armed. I managed to stitch two of them with the first volley, thank the gods for dumb luck, and the unarmed one became very cooperative after that. He helped us release the rest of our crew. They’re down on the surface, looking for the Pony. The Grays have some kind of breaking yard down there.”
Pulver made a cutting motion across his throat and turned to Windemere. “I bet the crew left them behind to maintain their salvage claim while they try to get their original ship back. I doubt this guy’s even able to conn a ship that large…”
“Y’know,” Beam cut in, “I can still hear you, and of course we were left here to maintain our claim on this ship. I’m just a loadmaster so, no, I can’t conn a ship.” The hologram sighed. “It seems that a loadmaster’s chief duty on a ship like ours is to know as little as possible.”
Pulver glared at the communications operator before looking to meet Windemere’s gaze. The general clearly had no better idea what the young man was talking about.
Daffyd stepped forward. “If I might put my three credits in here, I’ve seen the Pony Express a few times. She’s a regular at Irricana – shows up every couple of months.”
“So what’s he talking about?” Windemere demanded.
Daffyd inclined his head a bit to the right. “Can you think of no reason why it might be advantageous to have a loadmaster with no clue what’s going on in his own ship?”
He got the distinct impression Windemere wasn’t a fan of puzzles. “When they call in at an Imperial possession, they have to give the standard electro-encephalographic declaration…”
The cloud front cleared from the general’s expression. “Smugglers!” He shot a predatory glance at the holographic Beam.
“Now hold on a second, your generalship.” Daffyd stepped between Windemere and the projected Human. “You’re not thinking of arresting them, are you? Where the hells would we stick them all, not to mention the obvious jurisdictional issues.”
“The Emperor’s Regulations and Orders are clear on the matter of smugglers,” Windemere replied darkly.
It was entirely possible that this one mundane issue was drawing the general’s attention simply because it was more within his comfort zone than his other problems.
“And what do the ER&O’s have to say about pursuing a renegade dragoon unit while carting a few hundred prisoners along with us and trying to keep them supplied with water and food?” Daffyd wanted to make the general realise just how much trouble he’d be making for himself if he decided to start making arrests.
Having the Sucker Punch full of prisoners would complicate things, requiring a serious change in Daffyd’s plans. Still, he could offer the general a small bit of ordinary trouble, just to make him happy.
“That cruiser’s in a very shaky orbit,” he added. “They probably know enough glyphs to figure out the broad strokes but you need a deeper understanding of their systems to set up a stable orbit. I can help them with that.”
He waved at the spot where the moon had been projected. “Even if the Pony Express hasn’t been broken up yet, they’d still need help getting their reactors back online.” He raised an eyebrow. “First rule of spacefaring…”
“Don’t quote the Rule-of-Assistance to an engineer, Mr. Ap Rhys,” Windemere cut him off, his tone a warning in itself. “Of course we aren’t just leaving Humans to the whim of fate.” He looked over to Pulver. “Commander, take a damage control team and a full security detail over to that ship, give them what aid you can and then find the crew on the surface.”
He waved at Daffyd. “Take our guest with you. He’s familiar with their ship, so he may be of use.”
Humint
Edgar Prestonby stared at the middle aged Masran man, his coffee held halfway to his mouth where he’d stopped it in feigned surprise.
Truth be told, Edgar was surprised but, being a highly trained Maegi, he’d suppressed his initial surprise before deciding the man across the conversation pit from him would be more inclined to talk freely if he felt his words were having an impact.
“And he said he was Daffyd ap Rhys?” Edgar demanded. “The same Daffyd ap Rhys who belongs to the 1st Gliessan Dragoons?”
The man raised one eyebrow. “Would there be several men called Daffyd ap Rhys looking for the commanding officer of 1GD?”
“It is unlikely,” Edgar admitted, finally having a sip of the brown liquid. “And where did he go from here?”
The man grinned nastily. “They.”
“They?”
A nod. “Captured by gray-bellies, right in front of my eyes.”
Edgar supressed a shudder but such was his shock that he failed to substitute a fake one. Imperials here in the colonies ran counter to everything he stood for.
He tried to work out the implications. The Imperium recognized this region as the property of the Gray Quorum, so they’d be unlikely to send an expedition that might start a war. The Imperial military was a rotting dragon, more than able to destroy any enemy, but too conscious of its own decline to have any real confidence.
That meant a rogue element or a clandestine unit that could easily be disavowed and forgotten. He devoutly hoped it was the former. A clandestine unit meant a direct Imperial interest in this region.
He drained his coffee, nodded politely to the man and took his leave.
“You play the pintarel?” Edgar asked, nodding down at the traditional stringed instrument in the young man’s hands. “Interesting choice of instrument for a Human.”
The young man frowned. The pintarel was a Human instrument and he said as much to Edgar.
“Oh, certainly,” Edgar replied cheerfully, “but you have to admit that with so many aliens not playing it, one can get the wrong idea…”
The pintarel player opened his mouth to reply but then shut it again as there seemed to be no sensible answer to such a statement.
Edgar plowed on, peppering his patter with ever more contradictory statements and the young man continued to let them pass unremarked, becoming an unwitting participant in his own hypnotic induction.
By the time the shuttle landed in the forward hangar of the Mot Juste, the young musician was ready to find Julia Urbica and her merry band. He’d be getting off at the next stop to find a ship heading the other way. The trigger phrases planted in his mind would ensure that Mullins or one of his subordinates would discover him and the message he carried.
He walked into the refectory and filled a tray with what the crew jokingly referred to as food. He looked around the room for his next target. He’d need a second messenger to ensure the news got through. He spotted the man with ease, having already marked him for use.
The Roanokan was heading nowhere in particular. He was taking a recent breakup with his girlfriend badly and had simply left his world with no real plan in mind. Edgar supressed any visible evidence of the sadness that suddenly washed over him.
He understood the man’s loss.
He walked over and sat next to him. “Food…” he said sarcastically, waving a hand at the man’s plate. It was a pretty good example of contradiction, if he did say so himself.
The Gray Matter (Rebels and Patriots Book 3) Page 6
