By Darkness Forged (Seeker's Tales from the Golden Age of the Solar Clipper Book 3)

by Nathan Lowell

  “Placebo?” the chief asked.

  Kondur shrugged. “Possibly. More likely a solid PR campaign to keep the underlings in line and working. Auto-docs can help mitigate the damage. If the exposures are relatively minor, it could take decades for problems to emerge.”

  “It also means that whoever is building the devices isn’t doing a very good job of shielding,” the chief said.

  Kondur nodded. “I have no idea where they’re getting the bomb cores.”

  “Pravda?” I asked.

  Kondur gave a noncommittal shrug. “Possible, I suppose. They could be siphoning off some of Pravda’s cores and converting them to weapons grade.” He looked at the chief. “How hard would it be to do that?”

  The chief took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly.

  I could practically see the gears turning inside her head.

  “It’s not that simple. The cores don’t have the right grade of materials. It would take a lot of cores to get enough base material out of them to make even a small bomb, and then it has to be enriched to weapons grade.” She shook her head. “Not impossible, but time consuming.”

  “They’ve been at it for a long time,” Kondur pointed out.

  “There’s probably a compounding effect,” I said. “Each new device gives them more resources to produce the next one.”

  Kondur nodded. “They must have had access to a lot of material in the beginning, or they’ve got a relatively stable supplier. This isn’t something you can just dock up and buy from a chandlery.”

  “True,” the chief said. “But start with some decent uranium ore and a breeder reactor. It’s not a simple process but it’s a relatively well-known one. We’ve been doing it for centuries. Uranium’s not that rare either. Almost every belt in the galaxy has at least some.”

  “Is it as rare as tellurium?” I asked.

  The chief shook her head. “I don’t know if you can make that kind of assessment. Some systems have a lot of gold and very little iron. Some systems are basically rust with very little—say—tin.”

  “Some systems have a lot of tellurium,” I said. “What if the answer’s right next door?”

  “You think they’re getting the uranium from Telluride?” the chief asked.

  “What if one of the cans was filled with it?”

  “That’s a lot of uranium,” she said.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know the timing on it, but if the ship was loaded with uranium ore? That would make a hell of a lot of bombs, wouldn’t it?”

  She blew out a breath and thought for a moment. “It would depend on the quality of the ore and whether or not they shipped raw ore or the refined metal.”

  “Either way, a rich prize for somebody who claimed it,” Kondur said.

  “Are we sure that this is connected? Could it be just a bunch of squatters?” I asked.

  “They trade goods for supplies,” Kondur said. “Where are they getting the goods if not stealing them?”

  “You’re sure they’re not making them? Salvaging them from one of the cans?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No. There’s really only one way to be sure and I’ve never had the wherewithal to push the point. I have a contract with them for supply. They pay me in goods. It’s not an unusual arrangement for a small station.”

  The chief smiled and pressed back in her chair. “That’s why you picked us,” she said.

  Kondur lifted a “who me?” expression to the chief. “I have no idea what you’re suggesting, Maggie. You just happened to be inbound.”

  “Of course,” she said. “My mistake. Tell me, how many of these runs have you made?”

  “About one every six months. I usually use one of my own Barbells, but those damned girls turned me into a freight hauler.”

  “Damned girls?” the chief asked.

  “You haven’t run into them yet? Usoko and Regyri?”

  “Oh,” the chief said. “Yeah. I’ve run into them. I thought they were busy running freight themselves these days.”

  “They are, but when they first came out from the academy, they did a run for me over to Siren. Flushed out some problems in my operation. Once those got cleared up, I discovered I could actually make money hauling myself.”

  “I never understood why you didn’t keep them on the payroll,” the chief said.

  “Too stiff-necked.”

  “Who? You or them?”

  “Regyri was bound and determined to run that antique as a packet. Never did make it work but I’ll give her points for trying.”

  “UMS17 changed a lot of lives,” the chief said.

  “It did that,” Kondur agreed. He slid his plate back from the edge of the table and reached for his coffee cup. “So, yeah. I never intended to get into actually hauling freight. I kept a couple of Barbells around to haul a bit of ore and pick up some odds and ends.” He took a swig of coffee and shook his head. “Those two screwed everything up.”

  “How’s the hauling business going?” the chief asked.

  “I’ve got five ships now. Added a tanker and a couple of Unwin Eight clones. They’re killing it in terms of profitable runs.”

  “What’d you do differently?” I asked. “You must have made some changes if they weren’t working before.”

  “First, I hired somebody who understands freight as a consultant. Second, I brought on a guy whose only job is to oversee that operation. Actually it was one of the Barbell captains. I just pulled him off the bridge and gave him an office, an assistant, and a percentage of the profits.” He shook his head. “Damnedest thing. He’s hired on some extra people. Filled out the crew rosters and keeps those ships rolling in and out of here as fast as they can unload and load. Crews don’t bitch and the ships stay maintained.” He paused to take a sip of coffee. “Third, I listened to the first guy. Fourth, I got out of the way of the second.” He grinned at me. “You probably know all about getting out of the way.”

  I caught a sharp glance from the chief out of the corner of my eye but I nodded. “It’s a lesson I keep having to refine.”

  “I’m ready for dessert,” the chief said. “Verkol?”

  He nodded. “And I think this carafe is nearly dead.” He demonstrated by emptying it into his cup.

  I signaled Ms. Adams. She cleared, took the empty carafe, and whisked it all away. “Be right back, sars.”

  “So, yes. This is not the first trip I’ve made with supplies,” Kondur said. “My ships are all out and here comes the Chernyakova. I trust our arrangement will be sufficiently rewarding for you, Captain.”

  “You could have just asked,” I said.

  Kondur shrugged. “We have no history. I couldn’t count on having a simple request being met with the affirmative.” I caught the glance he gave the chief.

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Next time, ask? I may not be able to carry your freight but I’m more likely to say yes when I’m not being arm-wrestled over a barrel of knives.”

  He laughed as Ms. Adams returned with a carafe of fresh coffee and a tray of assorted desserts. “Here you go, sars.” She disappeared again and closed the door.

  Kondur helped himself from a plate of brownies while the chief snagged one of Ms. Sharps’s crèmes brûlées from the tray.

  “Captain?” the chief asked, starting to lift the tray of desserts.

  “None for me, thanks, but I wouldn’t turn down a return of the carafe.”

  She grinned and passed it my way.

  Kondur finished his first brownie and washed it down with a swig of coffee. “Coffee and chocolate,” he said. “Are there any more heavenly pairings?”

  I laughed. “Glad we could indulge you.”

  He took another sip from his mug and looked back and forth between the chief and me. “Now, have I convinced you that I’m not trying to kill you? That I’m not sending you on a one-way trip?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  The chief looked at me like I’d poked her but Kondur laughed.

  “Goo
d,” he said. “Cautious captains live longer.” He looked me in the eye. “I understand your perspective, Captain. In your shoes, I might share your fears. I make no bones about it. These people can be dangerous. I suspect they are dangerous. I’ve been doing business with them for rather a long time, but it’s not because they have hidden a bomb in my station.”

  “What’s changed?” I asked.

  “Changed?”

  “Yes. Why are you changing a long-standing business arrangement to send us instead of waiting for one of your own Barbells to return from wherever it is now?”

  He settled back in his chair and fiddled with his coffee cup. “A couple of stanyers ago. A station went dark. Rawlston. Small place, barely getting started. Some good belts. Lots of potential.” He shook his head and took a sip. “My grandson worked on that station. He really liked the idea that he was helping to build something.” He shrugged. “Small stations. Small crews. Questionable funding. They disappear almost as frequently as they pop up.

  “I kept thinking I’d hear from him. That the station had failed financially or something and he was on Mel’s or at The Ranch. Even working for High Tortuga.” He shrugged. “I started digging around and every new lead pointed to this group. The same group I’d been working with. At first I thought it was a mistake. The more I looked, the more the evidence piled up.” He looked at the chief. “I could have killed them. Put my own bomb in the supply can. Delivered it. Flown away.”

  “Why didn’t you?” she asked.

  “I wanted to at first.” He took a deep breath and a sip of coffee. “Then I realized that if I did that, I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror. I don’t want revenge.” He gave a short laugh. “Well, yes, I suppose I do. But that’s no real answer.”

  “What is it you want?” the chief asked.

  “I want them to spend the rest of their—hopefully long—lives understanding that what they’re doing is a crime against all of us, not just me. Not just the people at Rawlston. Not just the people who died at UMS17 and all the people who loved them. All of us who need to get along to survive out here. All of us who have so much more in common than we have different. I want those bastards stopped and I want them to live in cages like the animals they are for the next century.”

  He lifted his mug and put it down again. He stared at it, his hand trembling just the slightest bit on the white china handle.

  “I can’t promise anything,” the chief said.

  “I haven’t asked you for anything,” he said, some of his composure returning. “I’m just telling you a story about my grandson.”

  He took a deep breath and stood. “I’m due back at the office. Sorry to eat and run, but a station owner’s life is no more his own than a captain’s is.”

  We all stood and I led him down the passage, stopping to wave at Ms. Sharps. “We’re done, Ms. Sharps. Thank you and my compliments to Ms. Adams for a job well done.”

  She waved back. “Thank you, Skipper.”

  I turned to find Kondur observing me with a small smile on his lips.

  “If you find yourself in need of employment, Captain. I can use a man like you.”

  I laughed as we continued down the passageway toward the brow. “Thank you, Mr. Kondur—”

  “Verkol, please.”

  “Thank you, Verkol,” I said. “But as part owner in this ship, I’ve got my hands full.”

  He nodded as Mr. Bentley logged him off the ship. “I understand, Captain—”

  “Please, Verkol. Call me Ishmael.”

  He laughed. “Does anybody ever get that reference?”

  “Sometimes.” I offered my hand as the lock levered open. “We’ll be underway by this time tomorrow, I think.”

  He shook the hand and nodded. “Next time you’re docked at Dark Knight Station, dinner’s on me.”

  Chief Stevens stepped up and gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, Verkol. I take comfort knowing you’re here.”

  He smiled and patted her cheek. “While I’m glad you’re out there.” He paused and looked into her eyes. “Thank you, Maggie.”

  With that he strode down the ramp, picking up his bodyguard outside, and turned toward Main Street and his office, tablet in one hand, his head down.

  “Interesting guy,” I said.

  The chief nodded. “At least we didn’t waste time trying to sort through all that abandoned cargo.”

  I laughed and keyed the lock closed.

  Chapter 24

  Dark Knight Station: 2376, March 11

  The chief and I went back to the cabin. “Where are we?” I asked, settling into my chair and leaning back as far as it would go. “The question is veracity. Do we believe Kondur, or was that an award-winning snow job?”

  The chief grunted. “I need to do some research. I should know some answers by morning. Certainly before we jump out.”

  “Can you confirm any of his story?”

  “I think so,” she said. “We’ve got pretty good data on stations going silent thanks to our friends at High Tortuga. I can see if Rawlston appears on the list and, if it does, what date.”

  “Where are we on the mega’s dates? Do we know if this whole thing started before the mega took its last voyage?”

  “I know when the mega left Telluride Station and headed for the Burleson limit. I can guess the date it reached it—months later—and there’s probably a few more weeks in there while it tried to slow down and change vectors for an orbital insertion.”

  “Months, more like,” I said. “If we were outbound and the Burleson didn’t fire, we’d be a damn long time changing our vector.”

  “The mega was never going to be a speed demon,” she said.

  “I’m not familiar with it but just from what I’ve seen, this was a ship in search of a market,” I said.

  “You don’t think there’s a market for a hauler that can jump a million metric kilotons?” she asked.

  “There probably is, but not if a single Barbell can make the round trip five times over the same period. Months to get out of Telluride? That’s just not viable. I’m trying to imagine a ship like that trying to operate on the High Line.” I sighed and straightened up to look at her across the desk. “The Chernyakova could carry a million tons between here and Mel’s in the time it would take that monster to reach the Burleson limit so it could jump at all.” I shook my head. “Either it could actually jump a lot farther, or they never planned for it to get into a gravity well in the first place. The economics of that balancing act makes me think it was a prototype that failed to prove out its concept. Brill said that they didn’t lose steam when the ship failed its first space trials. They just took what they’d learned and moved on.”

  The chief sat up. “Brill said what?”

  “It failed its first space trials.”

  The chief pulled out her tablet and started paging through it. She must have found what she was looking for because she stopped paging and worked down the line on some display I couldn’t see. “Those lying bastards.”

  “Something not lining up?” I asked.

  “According to the documentation we got from Manchester, the ship passed its first and second space trials. It failed on what was supposed to be the first leg of the big PR voyage.” She shook her head. “If Brill is correct—and I have no reason to believe she’s not—that first space trial was in ’64.”

  “Meaning it was loose in space a lot longer than Manchester wants you to believe?”

  “Exactly,” she said. “Our earliest cases of blown stations started up half-past ’65.”

  “Time enough to get the ship under control, insert it into orbit. Is it enough time to make a bomb and blow up a station?”

  “It is if they already had a bomb and the breeder reactor to make more,” she said.

  “So, we’re back to where did they get the uranium? I can’t imagine they’d load a few billion credits worth of radioactives into a ship that had never been in space,” I sai
d.

  “Good point. They have a problem with using Barbells, too,” she said. “They can’t fly a can out and return without a can to bring back.”

  “Well, they started with at least four cans, if I understand the construction model.”

  “Where’d you get that number?”

  “Something Brill said. They used four standard two-hundred-metric-kiloton cans for the cargo so they wouldn’t have to come up with a new trans-shipment container.”

  “So it didn’t actually carry a million?”

  “Not according to Brill.”

  “So, fly a can out, take a can from the ship and move on,” the chief said.

  “Tedious process without a way to unload the cans. Or load them, for that matter.”

  “So, we’re taking them a can, getting a can. Where are they getting the uranium and how are they processing it?” she asked.

  “Add the question of how are they loading and unloading cans. You don’t just open a hatch and shovel stuff out of those suckers.” I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “They must have a station.”

  “Why?” the chief asked.

  “Well, the mega is a great place to hide stuff you want hidden. It’s a terrible place to do anything that requires cargo handling. It’s a hull in space. Granted, it’s a big hull, but they’d have to strip out the engineering space, figure out a way to expand the living quarters. Deal with the issue of loading and unloading cans. If they’re making their own plutonium, they need a breeder. Even if they’re making dirty bombs because they’re easier, they still need a fairly sophisticated set up.”

  A thought grenade went off in my head and I had to close my mouth for a moment to catch my breath and examine the damage.

  “I know where their reactor is,” I said.

  The chief stared at me. “You do?”

  “In one of the cans.”

  “In a can?” she asked.

  “Yup. I’ll bet you a bottle of rum that’s where it is. I kept trying to figure out how they’d deal with all the heavy equipment they’d need and how little space there is in the ship. Even accounting for the larger nacelles. Four cans, probably empty. They can be made airtight easily enough. Would the equipment needed to run full industrial operations to create the enriched uranium fit in a can?”