The Gray Matter (Rebels and Patriots Book 3)

by A. G. Claymore

  Whatever colonial world he might have adopted to add to his mystique, she didn’t care. She simply wanted him off the ship before he tried talking to any of her crew.

  The door slid shut behind him and she dropped back onto the couch. “Daffyd…”

  “Out here, beyond the Rim,” Paul added, “and we would have heard from the Maegi if he’d come on a Fools’ Hope. That leaves the wormhole engine on the Sucker Punch.” He reached out to the tablet on the low table and turned it off.

  “The fact that he’s been nabbed by engineers could mean he used the Sucker Punch without their cooperation.” He stared down at the table, frowning.

  “So the question we need to ask,” Julia jumped in, “is where will Daffyd head, once he gives his captors the slip?”

  Paul nodded his agreement. It wasn’t a question of if but, rather, when Daffyd would escape from the engineers who currently held him.

  If they still had him at all.

  “He made a big splash at Masra,” Paul mused. “Engineers wouldn’t expect him to go back there but it’s the most likely place for us to find him.” He gave her a kiss. “I’ll go to the station and find a ship for Masra.”

  “Do you think he brought the unit with him?”

  Paul stopped at the door and looked back at her. “I think it’s likely. He wouldn’t come out here to the great unknown in a shuttle, not if he could help it, and the guys who grabbed him went deeper into Gray space once they had him, which tells me they’re still looking for someone.”

  She nodded. “Find them first.”

  Left in a Lurch

  “You’re about to redeem yourself,” General Windemere told Daffyd, “assuming your dragoons are there when we arrive.”

  Pulver couldn’t quite read the expression on ap Rhys’ face. It figured the man would be a little conflicted about betraying his unit, but he’d been pretty pissed off at them for leaving him behind on Masra.

  Either way, they were already at battle stations and they’d be dropping out in less than a centi. Once they’d secured the dragoons, Pulver could get on with the important business of wondering how he’d keep body and soul together when they got back to the Imperium. He had several thousand men and women depending on him and he had no concrete plan, as of yet.

  And he was reasonably certain Windemere didn’t have one either. If the man had had a plan, it probably involved a plea to his aristocratic allies and it would only be enough to save his own life.

  “If nobody minds,” Daffyd began quietly with a wave toward the exit portal, “I’ll sit this one out.”

  “Of course, of course,” Windemere responded bluffly, though a trifle sarcastically. “Why don’t you go back down and carry on organizing the equipment on the hangar deck?”

  Pulver was sure he’d caught a flicker of alarm on the prisoner’s face, but then the man shrugged and ambled off.

  He didn’t have time to dwell on the man’s odd behavior. They were about to confront a renegade unit, one with an aggressive reputation and a long track record of successful engagements. Pulver’s hopes were pinned on talking them down.

  He didn’t have a great deal of confidence in the garrison forces from Nidaveller Station if it came to a stand-up fight against 1GD. He even doubted it would be a stand-up fight to begin with. Urbica’s famous dragoons had taken to the concept of carrier warfare far more quickly than the Imperial Navy. He frowned down at the icon representing the LHV they’d brought along from Nidaveller.

  A few new LHV-class carriers were coming online, but they were more in response to economic factors than any strategic leadership from CentCom. With a shrunken budget, no new super-dreadnaughts had been built for centuries. The smaller LHVs were cheaper and so they were starting to supplant the massive SDNs, but that didn’t mean that the Imperium understood, in Pulver’s opinion, what they really had in their LHVs.

  Every engagement he could think of involving the LHVs was an up-close, pound-the-enemy-into-submission kind of fight. Perhaps it was his logical engineering background, but he firmly believed, and told anyone who would listen, that an LHVs primary batteries were not the 200mm guns built into her structure.

  An LHV’s primaries were her ship destroyer squadrons as well as, in the case of the Marine variant, her assault landing shuttles. There was no need to bring your fleet within range of an enemy formation, not when a ship destroyer squadron could cripple a SDN in a single pass (some luck required – see targeting models for weak-points).

  He knew ‘Windy Bag’ was one of the old-school officers, old school in the Imperial Navy meaning anything from a gray-hair like the general to half the new grads from this year’s academy crop. He’d want to get in nice and close so everybody’s secondary batteries could be brought to bear on the target.

  If they managed to take the Rope a Dope by surprise, it might work.

  He knew 1GD had yet to be taken by surprise, so he very much doubted a gaggle of garrison forces led by an engineering administrator would fare any better than all the dead people who’d already tried. His shoulders drooped a fraction.

  Maybe it would be for the best. A quick death out here, in a fair fight, was a much better way to go than a bullet in the back of the head from some CentCom goon.

  He’d studied the schematics of the ship they pursued. The Rope a Dope was an old luxury passenger liner converted into a carrier by none other than prisoner ap Rhys, who was currently puttering around on the hangar deck to avoid watching the pending fight.

  Half her passenger staterooms had been pulled out to create quick-launch slots. Pulver had to admit a certain admiration for Daffyd. He’d created a carrier that could launch two entire squadrons on a heartbeat’s notice. Even if this force could catch them unaware, they’d still start launching their third squadron while their pursuers were getting started on their second.

  His stomach suddenly protested violently and, before he could even wonder at the cause, he went lurching forward, through the tactical hologram, and slammed face first onto the decking. Alarm chimes sounded soothingly, reminding him, uselessly, that they were on a Gray ship.

  He shook his head to clear the fuzzy thoughts. “Launch all squadrons!” he shouted as he climbed back to his feet. All around him, the bridge crew were pulling themselves back up to their duty stations and Windemere sat against the forward viewport, a trickle of blood running freely down over his right eye from his scalp.

  “What wash it?” the general slurred. “Arti-Sing?”

  Pulver’s blood ran cold. If the dragoons had left an artificial singularity in their path, it meant they were the ones springing the surprise.

  A host of soothing tones told him something was going terribly wrong. He staggered over to the ops station. “Why the hell are our squadrons still in the hangar?” he demanded.

  “Sir, their engines can’t reach critical,” the near-panicked engineer serving as the ops officer replied. “Not a single one on our ship or over on the Intrepid.”

  “Same with our own engines,” the helmsman added. “The pitch field has collapsed and we’re reading no energy at all in the jump drives.” He looked calm enough, when Pulver turned to glare at him, though he still showed a healthy amount of concern. “Sir, we’re dead in the black.”

  “Tchyo za ga`lima?” the sensor officer exclaimed. He pre-empted the central holo image with a new projection. “It’s a pulsar – a big one. Damn thing’s supressing the fields in our engines. We’re going to have to restart them but I don’t know if we’ll have enough time to get ‘em running before the effect hits us again. We sure as hell don’t have the time to get the jump drives up, so if we do get propulsion, it’ll only take us a short distance before we’re shut down again.”

  “Security,” Pulver shouted, his face nearly crimson, “secure prisoner ap Rhys immediately.” They’d been led into a trap like a pack of idiots, but he’d be damned if he let ap Rhys get away with it.

  “What do we have that isn’t affected by the pulsar?” he d
emanded.

  “Sir, there’s a rocket sledge,” the damage control officer offered. “It was aboard when the dragoons seized this ship from the Grays and we never bothered to offload it at Nidaveller. She can carry ten men and runs on liquid fuel.”

  “Good!” Windemere staggered over to the center of the bridge. “We’ll tow this ship out and head back to Nidaveller for help.”

  Pulver turned to Windemere in amazement. He felt certain the man would simply forget about the ships left behind if he managed to get back to the Imperium. He’d gotten himself in way over his head and he probably just wanted to concentrate on saving his own hide.

  “Oh!” Windemere brightened considerably as he gazed out the forward viewport. “Good job, that man!”

  Pulver looked out at the rocket sledge pulling ahead of the Sucker Punch. He was quick to analyse the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach this time. He turned to the damage control officer. “That sledge,” he asked, wishing he could avoid the answer, “was it in the main hangar or the transit bay?”

  “Main hangar.”

  Pulver nodded, his lips drawn tight. He looked out the forward viewport at the sledge as it continued to grow smaller in the distance. “The main hangar, where the prisoner was organizing the loose equipment…”

  He sighed. “Secure from general quarters.”

  His hatred and respect for Daffyd ap Rhys were increasing in equal measure.

  The Old Gang

  It’s a Trap!

  It was an ambush; Paul had absolutely no doubt. Still, he followed the old Masran through the cool breeze in the alleyways of the fourth level down from the surface. The old gaffer had shown no interest in his search for a missing friend until he’d heard Daffyd’s name.

  Suddenly, the elderly gent had become the font of all knowledge, all grins, nods and assurances that he’d take Paul to meet Daffyd. Robbery was unlikely, as he’d changed his tune only after hearing who Paul was searching for. If he were simply rounding up rubes for his pals to rob, he’d have shown more interest from the start.

  That told Paul the man knew something about Daffyd and so he was following him down into the bowels of Masra. The rumble of cargo vehicles, three levels above, sounded like distant thunder but he could see why some people preferred it down here. Despite the relative cool of the surface level, it was almost cold down here.

  The man who’d been signaled by the old fella was somewhere ahead of them. Despite their circumspection, Paul’s years as a cop and his numerous physical enhancements let him see what most others missed. The runner had exhibited signs of apprehension and Paul’s trusty guide was also exhibiting elevated stress levels.

  They were preparing a surprise for him and it wasn’t a baklava platter.

  Not that he had much of an appetite. This level clearly hadn’t been designed with habitation in mind, or perhaps the system had simply broken down, because the homes and businesses here used a modular sewage system. Paul and his guide had to wait for a moment while a ‘honey cart’ backed its carrousel up to the module on the front of a bar, picking up the full canister and inserting an empty.

  The faint odor of sewage was everywhere but definitely stronger behind this vehicle. Fortunately, the guide turned down an even smaller alley and they got away from the honey wagon’s contribution to the local atmosphere.

  Despite the smell, Paul was impressed by the cleanliness. The homes and establishments down here must be owned by the inhabitants because they took care of their neighborhoods in a way the denizens of an Imperial rezza never would have.

  The old man ducked in the door of a coffee house, waving for Paul to follow. Several of the men inside gave the man a nod of recognition and a quick once-over for Paul. He caught several tics that indicated curiosity, but none of them appeared apprehensive.

  Either the runner had had an accident or this wasn’t where he’d gone with his warning. Then again, a hasty nod and twitch of the eyes can be a pretty vague way to signal an accomplice. It could mean ‘Get over to O’Zorgnax’s Pub and warn them I’m bringing in a troublemaker’ or ‘We’ve got trouble; run for it!’

  Any way you sliced it, nobody was trying to add new holes to Paul’s body, at the moment, and so he moved to the far left corner before the old fella could pick out a seat. Paul dropped into a chair that kept his back to the wall, letting him see the front entrance as well as the back door to his left.

  The old man sat across from him, motioning to an attractive, dark-haired young woman who nodded and slipped behind the bar to do battle with the barista equipment. From the cordura strap showing through the slit in the side of her dress, she was carrying a small-caliber automatic on the inside of her thigh. The slight bulge in her left sleeve told him she also had a molecular stiletto.

  “Now,” the man began, “you’re looking for this Daffyd but what kind of cut will you give us?”

  Four men got up from their tables and sauntered over, hands resting on the butts of their pistols. They stood flanking their seated comrade, faces devoid of expression.

  Paul kept his hands flat on the table. “Cut?”

  “Of the bounty, of course. If you want him, you need to pay our cut before we let you take him.”

  “You think there’s a bounty?”

  “Oh, yes.” He stroked his beard. “A very large one.” He leaned forward, pointing at Paul. “But you know that, don’t you?”

  Paul noticed a slight pause preceding the answer. His augmented senses picked up a temperature drop in the man’s ears, nose and lips and the pointing was an attempt to turn attention away from his statement. They didn’t think there was a bounty, so why even mention one, unless they were trying to test him?

  Did they think he might be willing to pay them or were they up to something else? Either way, Paul didn’t want them knowing who he was. With the Purists almost completely beaten by the Gray Quorum, Julia needed a way to keep them out of the colonies and Daffyd’s arrival had given him the nucleus of an idea. It wouldn’t work, though, if the Grays found out how he’d found the engineer from 1GD.

  Best to use the truth or, at least, selected elements of the truth.

  “I know nothing about any bounty,” he told the man as the young woman set three mugs of coffee on the table. He picked up a mug, enjoying the earthy scent before looking back to the man across from him. “Even if there was one, I wouldn’t want to earn it by betraying an old friend.”

  “A friend, you say?”

  Paul nodded. “I know him from the 1st Gliessan Dragoons.”

  “Then you’ll already know they’re all out here as well…”

  “Look at his eyes, Garum,” one of the men standing by the guide’s chair exclaimed. “Shocked all to hells. He has no idea about 1GD!”

  “He’s just another one of those damned gray-bellies,” another growled. “Snuck back here in civvies this time to look for him. I say we just dump his corpse out in the bled. Let the sand have him.”

  “Niffleheim!” a new voice sounded from behind the large and angry men. “At least let the man finish his drink first.” Daffyd, in local garb, stepped from behind the small group and dropped into an empty chair at the table.

  Before, when they’d been fighting to stop Seneca and his catspaw, Kinsey, from destroying the Imperium, Daffyd had just been one of Julia’s many dragoons. They’d rarely spoken and, when they did, Paul was always ‘Inspector Grimm’.

  Here on Masra, Daffyd was a welcome face from home.

  “Good to see you again, Paul!” Daffyd picked up the third mug and peered into it before leaning back to look behind the bar.

  The young woman brought a sugar bowl. “Just one spoonful,” she scolded.

  Daffyd nodded meekly, to the chuckles of the other men. His one spoonful was piled as high as he could get it when it came out of the bowl. “They weren’t kidding about dumping you out in the desert, by the way.” He took a sip and let out a sigh.

  “Didn’t know there was such a thing as coffee beans,
” he admitted to Paul. “You know the locals insist this stuff is garbage, compared to the pricey stuff you get on some of the wetter worlds?”

  Paul grinned. He’d already sampled the culinary wonders of the colonial worlds. “Damn good to see you, Daffyd, though I’d only expected to pick up your trail here.” He tilted a head toward their companions. “Why are they so protective of you?”

  “Old friends,” Daffyd said simply before taking another drink. He grinned at Paul. “Well,” he pointed to the two large men to the older man’s left, “these two used to beat me up when we were kids back in Vermillion and Garum, here,” he indicated the older man, “is their dad.”

  “You came out her on a Fool’s Hope?” Paul asked.

  “Years ago,” Daffyd confirmed, reaching for the spoon, but the young woman had returned, shifting the sugar bowl to another table before sitting down in the fourth seat. “She’s concerned about my diet,” he explained.

  “Garum’s daughter?” Paul inquired.

  “Elsa Garumsdottir,” she confirmed. She smiled at Daffyd. “You can imagine my surprise at seeing this fool in the market square. When I heard you were looking for him, I asked my father to bring you in.”

  “Elsa’s coffee house is a real business,” Daffyd told him, “but it’s more a means to an end. She collects information.” He smiled at her. “A freelance intelligence service, if you will.”

  Elsa shrugged. “The Serps keep us on our toes,” she explained, “but you can tell when a raid is coming, if you know what to look for.” She leaned in. “So what’s your interest in Daffyd? Does this have something to do with the imminent collapse of the Gray Purists?”

  Paul took a drink to cover his surprise.

  She raised a hand in a negligent wave. “I’m probably not the only one making the connection between the arrival of Commodore Urbica and the sudden outbreak of civil conflict among the Grays. Frankly, I doubt the Grays acknowledge what’s really going on.”

  It was a strange choice of wording but Paul thought he understood her reasons. The Grays felt they were vastly superior to Humans, a feeling that was reciprocated, for the most part. They wouldn’t want to believe Humans had been able to manipulate them into a full-blown civil war, even if the evidence was there, waiting to be found.