The Ghost Fleet

by Trevor Wyatt

  By the time I return to the CNC, all the workstations have been repaired and are back online, drawing power from the backup generators. Soon after I return to CNC, the main power comes on along with news that the thrusters and sublight drives are back online.

  “Admiral, engineering reports that the FTL will not be back online for another two hours,” says the operations officer shortly after.

  “Take us out of high alert,” I say.

  “Aye, sir,” says the tactical officer.

  The red tint disappears and the lights come back on in CNC.

  Captain Ashley walks into the CNC about an hour later.

  “We need to go down to the planet,” she says to me. “The freighter may have dropped them there.”

  “It’s worth a shot,” I say. “We’ll take a shuttle and security personnel this time.”

  Ashley nods.

  “Ma’am, do you want me to contact the colony government and inform them of your coming?”

  “No,” she replies. “The less people know that we are coming, the better.”

  I nod grimly.

  The fewer the people who knows we’re going, the fewer the questions.

  And bodies.

  Jeryl

  Once we’re safely aboard the shuttle and away from anyone who could overhear any conversation, I talk over my shoulder to Ashley as I pilot us out of The Seeker’s hangar bay and into space. “You’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking,” I say.

  “Yes. The Omarians are working with the Tyreesians.”

  “That would be it. I don’t know why, or for how long, but I’d bet my ass on it.”

  She grins. “Fortunately for your ass, and my enjoyment thereof, I think that’s a safe bet.” The grin vanishes. “What are we going to do about it?”

  I think about it for a few minutes while we descend through the planet’s atmosphere. Omarias II is a beautiful world, mid-way in size between Earth and Mars, with a pleasant if chilly climate. The northernmost continent is coming out an ice age, and many native animals have thick coats of hair. We’ll be landing just outside the planet’s biggest city, Meiden, on the southeastern tip of the continent in a temperate zone. “They’re going to have people to meet us. So here’s what: I’ll keep them occupied while you remain aboard the shuttle. We’ll say that you’ve got to stay here to coordinate repairs to The Seeker. With any luck, you’ll be able to look around after we leave their landing grid, and see what you can learn.”

  Her gaze slides away from mine. “It’s not going to be easy,” she says.

  “I know that. But we’ve got to try it.” I reply. She agrees.

  “This is Meiden Control,” says a voice over the commlink. No visual. “May I have your credentials, please?”

  I give Ashley a wry look. As if they don’t know who we are! We just vaporized a Tyreesian starship in orbit around their planet! But I give her our names and the ship’s ID specs and in return receive official recognition from the dockmaster.

  “You are cleared to land,” she says. “Pad 12 is vacant.” Is it my imagination, or does she sound a little nervous? I raise my eyebrows on Ashley, who nods once. A set of coordinates flash on our screens. “Standard berth linkages available, if you have Nova Corp adaptors.”

  “We can adjust for them,” I say. “Thank you, Meiden.”

  She cuts off without acknowledgement.

  “Not very polite,” Ashley mutters.

  I bring the shuttle in for a perfect landing in the local grid, and while Ashley oversees connections to the Omarian data network I take a moment to brush off my uniform and make myself as presentable as possible.

  “You’re as bad as a woman,” Ashley says with a grin when she joins me in the airlock a moment later, having finalized the interface.

  I return the grin as the airlock cycles. With so much death and destruction, it might seem odd that we’re so easy going. But it helps the tension. And there’s a sense of gallows humor undercurrent.

  The product of five years of war and seeing too much death.

  We step out onto the landing tower. Awaiting us is a ramrod-straight female wearing a business suit. She’s very pretty and has long dark hair, and though she is pale of skin she has an Indian cast to her features. Behind her stands two beefy men. They aren’t in uniform, but I know security goons when I see them. I don’t see any immediately obvious weapons, but I assume they’re well-armed. I feel Ashley stiffen slightly at my side. We brought one security personnel of our own, and, as a gesture of good faith, I have him accompany me. No need to hide him away. As with all people who have something to hide, we want it to be obvious that we have nothing to hide.

  After I introduce myself and Ashley, the woman steps lightly forward and presents a slender hand. Gripping mine with surprising strength, she says, “My name is Anjali Bagawati. Do call me Anja. I want to extend our sincerest thanks for saving us from that privateer ship.”

  “Privateer?” Ashley says.

  “Yes, of course,” Bagawati replies. “They’ve been in orbit here for several days, trying to force us to enter into a trade agreement, and jamming our slipstream communications so that we couldn’t call for help.”

  What a load of balls, I am thinking. It’s just barely possible that a pirate freighter might have a damn warship lurking out-system to supply muscle, but only just. Something like this isn’t the Tyreesian style. A deal’s been cut here, and this Nova rep is lying her ass about it. But I play along.

  “I’m glad we showed up when we did, then,” says Ashley. “What were they after?”

  “Our agricultural scientists are developing strains of disease-resistant wheat,” she tells us. “The Tyreesians got wind of our work somehow, and showed up unannounced.”

  I clench my jaw. This is exactly the sort of thing the Galactic Council would be interested in—if there was a Galactic Council. And if Bagawati’s story were true.

  “I’d like to offer you a tour of our facility,” she now says. “It’s not every day that a genuine war hero visits our humble world.”

  “Splendid,” I tell her heartily, as if deference to my celebrity is nothing less than my due.

  Ashley says, “I’m so sorry to have to miss the tour, Anja, but I must stay aboard the shuttle to coordinate repairs to The Seeker.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, that will be fine.” She gives a brief nod and says to one of the guards, “Stay here and make sure no one disturbs the captain as she works.”

  “Ma’am,” he says.

  Well, that’s a spanner in the works.

  “Jenkins,” I say to the security officer. “Make sure that this Nova Security gentleman has your help if you need it.”

  Jenkins nods and Anjali looks at me with a sideways glance. If she wants to leave a man near our shuttle, I sure as hell am not leaving Ash unguarded.

  As I accompany Anja Bagawati toward the elevator (no drop-tubes here; modern technology hasn’t quite caught up with Omarias II), I am mentally kicking myself. We should have foreseen something like this. We want Ashley to be able to come and go without being watched. However, there’s nothing for it. Ashley is resourceful, and if anyone can wrangle a way out of this problem, she can. In any case, there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  “So, ‘Bagawati,’” I say. “Is that Assamese?”

  She is taken aback. “Yes, but how could you know that?”

  “A cousin of mine married a girl whose family migrated to that state from Bangladesh in the late 1900s,” I say. “I visited there a dozen times of more. Great food,” I add, flashing my best grin. I can almost hear Ashley roll her eyes. “And many people there with your surname.”

  Bagawati blinks, but quickly recovers from her surprise. A good corporate representative is never at a loss. “Indeed. We must have a conversation about that. Meanwhile, I’d like to offer you a tour of our facility here.”

  We descend the elevator and I am escorted into a ground car that whisks us away on a tour of the Nova Corporation facil
ity outside of Meiden. As we drive, I regale Anja Bagawati with tales from the war, to give her an impression that I’m really nothing more than a glorified grunt who’s impressed by his rise into the ranks of power as a Vice Admiral and is inclined to brag about it. When I ask an offhand question about a large, windowless building off to one side of the grounds, Anja smiles and says it’s just a warehouse.

  “There are containers of wheat inside there that are waiting for shipment to a dozen worlds for further testing in exo-environments.”

  “I see.” I nod wisely and drop the subject, as if I am not interested. But I would like to know what’s really in that building...as well as in a few other buildings whose contents are not described. I’m being shown what they want me to see, and they’re not even being particularly sly about it.

  “I do hope your ship was not badly damaged in the battle,” Bagawati says. I know she’s pumping me for information, so I spin a tale about how we’re operating at half power in some sections, and how we’ll need to put into drydock as soon as we can so that final repairs can be made. It’s not true, of course; The Seeker’s computer and engine systems can make almost all the necessary repairs from what we have aboard, and the machine shop can fashion the few components that aren’t in stock by diverting power to the resequensors. We wouldn’t be much of a starship if we couldn’t handle just about any sort of mechanical emergency. We’re not a shoestring operation; and ships have been handling in-flight repairs ever since the days of Apollo 13. It’s true that The Seeker will need some drydock work, but she’ll be 90% operational in a very short time.

  We learned to repair a lot during the war with the Sonali.

  I know the Omarians will have their ground-based telescopes on The Seeker, so the real problem will be to patch her up without the extent of the repairs being obvious. We want them to think she’s barely able to limp back home from here.

  Bagawati believes me—who wouldn’t believe a war hero? And I have a reputation for probity that serves me well when I need to hand out a line of bullshit, as I do now. Being a diplomat has taught me a great deal about how to say nothing in a lot of words, and how to lie to someone’s face in utmost sincerity.

  All the while I spin my yarns, though, I am worrying about Ashley. How is she going to get the information we need with a guard on duty outside the shuttle?

  Ashley

  I watch Jeryl saunter away with that slinky Anja Bagawati on his arm and suppress a twinge of jealousy. He’s always good with the ladies, charming when he wants to be—and we need all his charm today. I tell the jealousy to go take a nap and turn to a more pressing problem: what to do about the guard stationed outside the shuttle?

  Right now, our Security officer, Jenkins, is engaged in a stare down with the Nova Corporation guard.

  They’re locked on each other, but if I try to make a move away from the shuttle, I know the guard will look towards me.

  I’m not without some charm of my own, however, as well as other assets. I set to work on the shuttle’s instrument panel, loosening a control module inside of which I have stashed a small pack of things no girl should be without: an electronic lock pick, a quick-suck datastick, and a miniature pharmacopeia. I have even have several of these items hidden at strategic points around The Seeker, as well as one aboard each of the shuttlecraft.

  Be prepared, I always say.

  I once saw an old flat-film about a fellow who was stuck in a loop of time. Every day when he woke up, he had to live the exact same day again. There’s also a medical condition called “transient global amnesia” that has the same effect: someone who has suffered one of these events can’t create short-term memories.

  What most people—including my husband—don’t know is that Union medical science has developed a drug that perfectly replicates this effect. It’s currently available in several “strengths”: two minutes, five minutes, and fifteen minutes. I have a dose of each in each one of my kits.

  I tousle my hair, unzip the top of my tunic a little, and step over to the airlock, which is open. Clearing my throat and making my voice breathy, I say, “Excuse me sir,” to the guard standing outside at his post.

  Both men look over at me, but my eyes are only for Nova Corp right now.

  “What is it?” He’s all business, but when I lean out of the airlock his eyes just naturally go down.

  “I’m wanting a cup of coffee, but my resequensor seems to be out of whack. Do you know anything about them?” I give him the big eyes, which he doesn’t notice for a moment because his gaze is elsewhere.

  “We’re not supposed to—”

  “I’ll come out and explain it to you,” I say, thrusting a leg out. God, aren’t I glad I had a leg day at the gym yesterday.” His eyes go there, too, and by the time he recovers his poise I am outside, standing in front of him.

  “My goodness,” I say admiringly, “they do grow them big on Omarias II, don’t they.”

  He can’t help it: he puffs out his chest and stands up straighter. I can see Jenkins close his eyes in a scowl, feeling proprietary about his Captain flaunting herself in front of a stranger.

  But the Nova Corp guard loves it. He’s now openly staring at my body and I don’t doubt that he’s only had the Trinidec sexbots to keep him company for quite some time. I can tell it’s working. And that’s when I hit him with a two-minute dose from the little dispenser I have hidden in my left hand. He doesn’t notice the spray as it settles on his clothing and sinks in. “I promise that the repair won’t take more than a couple of minutes,” I say. “It’s happened before.”

  “Ma’am, I can’t,” he mutters. He knows that he shouldn’t leave his post, and so he stands there with his libido warring against his sense of duty. I walk a few steps in either direction while he struggles with himself, letting him see the goods. Oh, maybe I unzip my tunic top just a teeny, tiny bit more.

  “I admire your dedication,” I purr. “It must get awfully uncomfortable in that uniform. It looks so scratchy.”

  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 w
orms. 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.