He lifted a finger, intending to delete the silly addition, but he couldn’t. It was important. He wanted to talk with Calendula in a manner that would allow her to get to know him, to understand him. To not hate him. Actually, he wanted her to crawl into his lap and kiss him, but he couldn’t imagine what words might take their relationship from its current level to that lofty pinnacle. Something along the lines of we’re the last human beings in the galaxy, and it’s up to us to ensure the species survives, most likely. Even then, she might insist on in vitro fertilization.
Gregor scoffed at this line of thinking. His only goal for now should be to converse normally with her and put her at ease in his presence. Perhaps he should ask her questions that invited her to talk about herself. Some people liked to talk about themselves. Constantly. But he knew little about her. What would he ask? The captain had inquired about her homeland, her family. Her brother. Perhaps he could ask about that? Or would that be considered prying? He would be more comfortable talking about his own interests—he had always found it difficult to care about other people’s lives—but Calendula would probably not appreciate it if he blathered on about himself. In fact, Gregor had specifically been told that women did not find self-centered narcissism, as one lady had put it, appealing in a man.
“Sir?” came Calendula’s voice from outside the shuttle.
Damn, he had taken too long to finish his checklist. He hastily scribbled brother in the air above the tablet, then deleted it just as hastily. He did not want to make her uncomfortable by prying, so he wrote Basics of Space Flight Quiz instead. Yes, she could not fail to find a knowledge test useful. And it would serve the dual purpose of ensuring she was fit for this piloting assignment.
Gregor made a final check mark, closed his tablet, and responded, “In here, Cadet.”
Calendula walked in carrying her duffel over one shoulder and wearing a belt with a laser pistol, utility knife, and tablet pouch, as suggested per the Mandrake Company armament code. Gregor had a similar belt, and there were charged laser rifles in a rack in the shuttle too. In addition, Calendula wore tight trousers and the blouse he had commented on during their first meeting, even fewer of the buttons fastened than had been then. She had added a beige jacket, but it hung open, and he caught himself looking at her cleavage. She was tossing her duffel into a bin, so he hoped she didn’t notice.
He sat in the main pilot’s chair and faced the controls so his eyes wouldn’t find it easy to wander. He thumbed the door-close button, and after running a pre-flight systems check, he called the bridge for permission to depart.
Calendula headed for the co-pilot’s seat, but he slid out of his and offered it to her instead. “We have been approved for departure.” A soft clunk-thunk came from outside, and an orange light alerted them to the depressurization of the shuttle bay. “You will pilot us to the space station for practice while I observe.”
“Joy.” She sat in his chair, caught him frowning at her, and added, “Sir.”
A desire for an honorific had not been his reason for the frown. He had been trying to deduce if her reply had represented sarcasm and then, after deciding in the affirmative, had been reviewing what he might have said to cause the reaction.
Gregor was still struggling with that when the shuttle glided out of the bay, heading into the stark stretch of space beyond the Albatross. Icesphere, and its moon Crystal, were at the far reaches of the habitable belt of the system, and both had the white hue of glaciers. A few clusters of opaque domes dotted the two major continents of the planet, and based on them alone, one might guess the population less than fifty thousand, but millions of miles of tunnels wound about beneath the surface of the continents, with geothermal heat powering mining equipment and providing energy for lights, transportation, and food-growing needs. And war. Patrol ships already floated through the atmosphere, and the Albatross would head there soon.
The shuttle’s destination, an old, three-wheeled station orbiting the moon and rotating to produce a semblance of gravity within, should be less dangerous than the planet. It wasn’t until after they picked up their passenger that the captain anticipated they would see trouble, or at least have a need for evasive flying to ensure the admiral reached the drop-off point.
“Is our destination the space station?” Calendula asked. “Or the moon?”
A group of domes similar to those on the planet rested on the light side of the moon, along with a massive shipyard. No ships dared molest the GalCon-owned ship building facility, but if this was like the last time Gregor had visited the area, a number of scruffy smugglers, poorly disguised as legitimate freighters, would occupy the moon base.
“The station,” he said. “We’re scheduled to pick up our passenger in eight hours and thirty-seven minutes.”
“No seconds?” Calendula lifted her brows.
Gregor glanced at the clock and almost answered, but realized this was once again sarcasm. Instead, he slid into the co-pilot’s seat to render the observations he had promised. Calendula grimaced, but didn’t say anything else. Perhaps she would prefer silence to tests. He found silence restful, but had observed that many people felt a need to fill a noiseless situation with chitchat, however mundane and unnecessary.
For a time, Calendula focused only on guiding the craft away from the ship and onto the trajectory suggested by the navigation computer. Once there was little for her to do but sit back and keep an eye on the instruments, she glanced at him a couple of times.
“Do you wish to engage in conversation?” Gregor asked.
“Actually, I was wondering if you would find it irresponsible if I read a book.” She tapped the tablet case at her belt. “As you said, we have several hours, and it doesn’t look like any asteroids or other space debris are scheduled to wander through and make things interesting.”
“Unfortunate. Debris could prove a fortuitous test for you.”
“Yeah.”
“Is the book related to interplanetary navigation or ship specs?” Gregor had been pleased to stumble across her reading the manual for the Class-3 Falcon, the Albatross’s ship model, though it had puzzled him that she was doing it from the corridor outside of her cabin at midnight. After giving up on deciphering her statement that her roommate was a vigorous sleeper, he had directed her to the mess hall or the grow room as likely places for study.
“I already read the technical manuals for the Albatross and the combat shuttles,” Calendula said.
“And you seek other educational reading material? May I suggest Bartlet’s Updated Compendium of Trajectory Correction and Orbit Trim Maneuvers? You may find it applicable to this week’s work.”
“I was thinking of something lighter. With a plot, characters, and dialogue.”
A fictional narrative? A strange choice. That would not help her improve her piloting skills. “If you prefer to learn through an exchange of dialogue, I’ve prepared a quiz that could demonstrate your knowledge of space navigation and may also be an educational experience.”
“Uh.”
“For instance, what are the six orbital elements that must be calculated to determine orbit mathematically?” Gregor asked.
Her shoulders slumped.
“You do not recall the answer? Or you do not wish to engage in a quiz?”
“Semi-major axis, eccentricity, inclination, argument of periapsis, time of periapsis passage, celestial longitude of the ascending node, and no, I don’t wish to engage in a quiz.”
Gregor was pleased that she had answered correctly, but disappointed that she did not want to continue the discussion. “I am always content to share space in silence.”
“Good. Me too.”
He wasn’t sure whether that was more sarcasm or a truth. If truth, he found it encouraging. To be able to occupy oneself without the input of others always seemed an admirable quality. When she started reading her book, he chose a history of airplanes for himself, and two hours passed quite comfortably. At least he felt so. After a time, s
he closed her tablet and frowned over at him as if something had been agitating her for a while.
“All right, I have to ask.”
“Yes?” Gregor asked.
“What brought you to Mandrake Company? You don’t fit in with a bunch of brawny, gun-toting mercenaries. Not that there weren’t brawny, gun-toting soldiers in the military, but nobody expected a pilot officer to get dirty or be able to twist the head off another man.”
Gregor almost pointed out that he had never been required to twist off a head here, either, but he understood what she meant. He had killed here, not simply in aerial combat but in ground fighting. In Mandrake Company, everyone had to be able to defend him or herself, and it was less academic than it had been in the military, at least for the officers in the more cerebral non-combat units.
“I resigned my commission after GalCon destroyed Grenavine,” Gregor said. He was tempted to mention that his suspicions related to that attack had been the main reason he had tried to encourage Calendula to leave the academy and train in a civilian flight school, but he didn’t know if she remembered their brief discussions from back then.
“But you’re not Grenavinian.”
“I disagree with the notion that world-destroying is a viable solution to ending insurgency.” Gregor spread his hand, wishing he had a better way to share the sense of betrayal he had felt at being a part of an organization that had so little regard for plant, animal, and human life, but he was much better at describing the elements of an ion engine than at describing his feelings. Besides, he struggled to qualify why he would join a group of mercenaries, who also took lives, when he had refused to remain in the fleet. A matter of scale, he might argue, but when he was honest with himself, he admitted he hadn’t been able to give up flying. Real flying. In combat, pitting himself against another human being or a computer, and coming out ahead—knowing he and others would die if he didn’t. He had almost returned to the fleet to ask that his commission be reinstated, but then he had chanced into a meeting with Captain Mandrake and found his organization less deplorable than expected for mercenaries. “I spent a couple of years piloting star yachts for finance lords and freighters for those who wished they were finance lords, but it seemed a waste of my skills. I was not ready to retire.”
The comm beeped, cutting off whatever Calendula’s response might have been.
“Thatcher here,” Gregor said.
“Mandrake. Summers’s contact on the space station reports that he’s not at the meeting point, and he’s not answering his comm. He’s believed to still be down on the moon base, possibly in unfriendly hands.”
“I see. Abort the pickup?”
“I need you to find him, Thatcher. The company is already on the way to Icesphere, making plans to engage with the enemy. We’ll buy you the time you need, but don’t dawdle. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gregor looked over at Calendula, wishing he had a couple of fighters along, as well. He could have taken them—the captain had offered—but he hadn’t wished to deny the rest of the company any manpower, given what they would be up against. It certainly hadn’t seemed necessary to take security for what had been described as a simple pickup at a neutral location.
“It sounds like more than my piloting skills are going to be tested today,” Calendula said.
“It may be so.” He could leave her in the shuttle—given the dubious nature of the base’s reputation, that might be wise—but she would have had basic weapons training back at the academy, and it might be useful to have another gun at his back.
“Who is this Summers we’re picking up, anyway? Nobody ever told me.”
“Admiral Douglas Summers. Have you heard of him?”
“Sounds familiar. Strategist?”
“Yes, a famous and well-respected GalCon fleet commander and master tactician. He originally came from Icesphere, the Malbakian continent, and he decided to take extended leave to come back and help his people thwart the invading Orenkan army.”
“Ah. So getting him could turn the tide down there? For the good guys? Or at least the side we’ve chosen to back?”
“Very likely.”
“Not to sound overly greedy and, er, mercenary, but is there any chance I’ll get a combat bonus for helping?” Calendula asked.
Her interest in money surprised him, or at least the fact that she was bringing it up. Would she be unwilling to go on the mission if there wasn’t a combat bonus? He found that slightly disappointing but reminded himself that mercenaries, even trainee mercenaries, did expect to be paid for risking their lives. It was possible some debt loomed over her head, requiring a payoff. Yes, given that she had mentioned money before, that seemed likely. Maybe he should have put finances on his checklist of things to talk with her about.
“I cannot guarantee that,” Gregor said, “but that generally happens when men are selected for special missions that end up being more dangerous than average duty.”
“Good. Let’s find this admiral, shall we?”
4
Val lifted her hands and leaned back in the chair. “We’re clamped down, and the airlock tube is attached.” The moon’s gravity was negligible but enough to affect maneuvering, and she had found the docking task difficult. It hadn’t helped that Thatcher had watched her every move. He was probably already preparing a quiz on docking maneuvers to give her later.
“Good.” A soft rasp sounded, Thatcher removing his Mandrake Company patch from the shoulder of his jacket. “This shuttlecraft may be recognizable to those who track by serial numbers, but we shouldn’t blatantly announce our identity on the base, especially now that the mission has gone awry.”
“My comm-patch is in my pocket,” Val said. “I was waiting until I officially became a mercenary before presuming to wear it.” Presuming to wear it, that sounded plausible, right? Better than the excuse that she had been too busy to attach the patches to her clothes. “I imagine I look more like a random traveler than an elite mercenary, anyway, even with the pistol.”
Thatcher considered her briefly. “Yes.”
Val decided not to take that as an insult. She grabbed some ration bars and two compact laser pistols from her duffel, stuffing them in a purse, and stood by the airlock, expecting Thatcher to join her. But he remained at the controls, the computer system interface hovering in the air in front of him, his fingers swiping in and out of the hologram.
“The airlock is now keyed to us,” he said. “Nobody should be able to get in or start the craft except for us. I ran a security check, and no less than four separate computer entities on the base have noted our presence. One is the port master. The others are less open about their identities.”
“Sounds like what you’d expect from this place.” Val’s travels had never brought her to this moon—one had to deal with pirates and the like out here among the outer planets, and she’d rarely encountered employers who wanted to take such risks—but she’d heard plenty about the base. A few small companies ran the corporation owners’ association, and most of them weren’t legal businesses. “I think your idea to go in incognito is a good one, sir, though I’d guess people will peg you as someone’s officer no matter what you wear.”
Thatcher’s brows rose.
“You have that bright but expendable look about you.”
“I… see.” He looked like he wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not.
Maybe she shouldn’t be teasing him, especially if he didn’t recognize it as such. She felt more kindly disposed toward him since he had told her he left the fleet over Grenavine. A lot of people had objected to that atrocity, but not many had walked away from their safe, secure government jobs over it.
“I’m rarely sent out on independent missions, so my visage isn’t usually an issue,” Thatcher added.
Val wanted to explain that it was more the way he carried himself than his “visage,” but he finished programming the security system and stood up. He stuffed a laser knife and a couple of small de
vices into his jacket pockets. She didn’t get a good look, but thought one might be an electronic lock picker. Maybe he wouldn’t be as useless at snooping around a base as she would have guessed.
“Ready to depart?” he asked.
“After you, sir.”
Before either of them could head out, a bleep came from the console, demanding attention. Thatcher walked back and read a message that scrolled past.
“A golden alert has been placed on the base,” he announced. “All laser and projectile weapons must be left on board a person’s ship or checked into a locker in the console until departure.”
Val touched her purse. She hadn’t been that enthused about wandering around on the smarmy base before, and the idea of doing so without weapons enthused her even less. “Should we disobey?”
“The announcement promises there are scanners at the airlocks to ensure compliance. One might assume it’s a safety precaution since the planet below is engaged in war, but this alert was recently issued. Less than twelve hours ago.”
“Maybe our missing admiral has been taken by the station authorities, such as they are, and those authorities don’t want anyone trying to break him out.”
“Perhaps.” Thatcher removed his pistol and laser knife and tucked them in a storage compartment. “Or perhaps someone paid the station authorities to issue this alert.”
Val stuck her firearms back into her duffel and headed for the airlock with only her knife on her belt. Maybe Thatcher would consider hiring some brawny bodyguards to trail them around. A real mercenary might be too embarrassed to go for something like that, but she wouldn’t be.
An unmanned scanner at the end of the tube flashed red, then green as they walked out, their weapons check, presumably. They must have passed, because no squad of security guards or robots descended upon them.
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