by J. L. Doty
“Well, Captain,” Andow said, breaking the spell. He stood. “Thank you for making time for us, Captain. We know how busy you are.”
He escorted York to the small cabin hatch. “I see no reason we can’t be of mutual benefit, so we should consider ourselves allies.”
Once York was gone and the cabin hatch closed, Andow returned to his seat while the old woman sat in silence. “Now that was interesting,” Andow said. “So he’s the whore’s brat. After all these years he’s turned up alive. Amazing! Who would have thought?”
The old woman added, “And he thinks Maczek was his father.”
“Yes,” Andow said. “But we know better, don’t we?”
The old woman turned on him. “What do you mean?”
Andow grinned and shrugged. “It’s obvious. You can see his father in his face, in the bone structure, in the eyes. I can see his brother in his face.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Andow frowned, clearly enjoying her discomfort. “Oh you don’t! Well all you have to do is look at how old he is, then remember who her lover was at that time. Add that to that face, and it’s obvious.”
The old woman stood and marched to the hatch. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snarled as she opened it.
“Just one thing,” Andow said quickly. She paused half way through the hatch and looked back at him angrily. “Don’t have him assassinated. At least not yet. Not until he gets us out of this mess.”
She said nothing, closed the hatch and was gone.
They floated York in on a grav stretcher, one arm, shoulder, and half his face blown away—the good half. The prosthetic eye was still intact, and the scars radiating out from the socket were unchanged, but the skin around it showed the pallor of death.
Alsa Yan leaned over him, shook her head sadly, mumbled something to one of her technicians about getting a body bag. The man left the examination room.
She peered into the side of York’s head, noted that a good portion of the skull had been torn away by some sort of shrapnel . . .
The alert Klaxon brought York awake almost instantly, and he felt far from bright and alert. The hull thrummed with a deep, eerie chime—one of the main transition turrets firing a shot. York got his legs into a one-piece coverall then stepped into his private lift. As he stumbled onto the bridge the yeoman barked, “Captain on the bridge.” He dropped down at the captain’s console with the coverall half on, activated the console, keyed in his implants.
Maggie had the watch, was seated at the first officer’s console barking orders into her com. “All stations stand by. Down-transition in two minutes and counting. Someone took a shot at us. We’re still analyzing the transition data—no fix on him yet—so be ready for anything . . .”
York left Maggie in command for the moment. She knew her stuff, had the situation under control, while he didn’t know enough yet to give a sound order. A damage control report was scrolling up on one of his screens: minor damage aft from a near miss. He glanced at the navigation summary: they were out in the middle of nowhere, cruising at about a third of what Cinesstar was capable, making only about two light-years a day, in the hope of keeping their transition wake down to a minimum and lessening the chance of discovery. It hadn’t done much good though. They were averaging better than one contact or false alarm per shift, four a day. They’d had to fight their way out of a corner five times, almost been hulled once, and York had lost count of the number of times some ship sitting in sublight had taken a shot at them as they passed by. No one on ship had gotten more than two or three hours sleep at a stretch for the past six days, and the strain was beginning to show on all of them.
“Down-transition in one minute and counting. Velocity is down to one hundred lights and slowing.”
It was time for York to take command. “Miss Gant, have we got a fix on that feddie yet?”
“Yes, sir, but our accuracy’s questionable. It was a long-shot; he was so far aft we were able to spot the wake of the incoming round.”
“Then belay transition,” York said. “Hold at one hundred lights. You had the watch, Maggie. What do you think?”
“I think everyone out here is really trigger-happy. That long shot was stupid. And I also think we’re running into too many contacts. The question is: are they after us, or is there something big going on in this sector—or both?”
York shrugged mentally. “Let’s don’t waste our time. That feddie is too far behind us to matter. Take her up to one thousand lights and stand down to Watch Condition Yellow. We’ll hold on Yellow until we put a little more distance between us.”
Not really a false alarm—but still, he needed to get his crew off watch as soon as possible, get them back to their bunks. Twenty minutes later they stood down to Watch Condition Green.
Lynna looked odd in the beggar’s robes, though Rochefort had to admit the disguise worked rather well. The beggar fit right in among the patrons of the seedy, little bar where they sat at a small table in a nicely dark corner. Rochefort had chosen common attire, which fit nicely in the whore-houses and bars in this section of Luna.
“Abraxa and Bortha are both curious,” Lynna said.
A marine and a spacer on the far side of the establishment started a fight. One of the bouncers broke it up quickly and the normal din of the place returned.
“You chose this place well,” Lynna said.
“It’ll do for our purposes.” By unspoken agreement neither of them used names or ranks. “So they’re curious. What have they learned?”
“They know Aeya’s lark to Trinivan was just an excuse to get d’Hart there.”
“Any fool could surmise that. Tell me something that’s not obvious.”
“They’re worried. The presence of the whore’s brat bothers them. They’re wondering how you managed to locate him.”
Rochefort wondered who the hell the whore’s brat was, but he dare not ask outright. Lynna was fishing, had assumed this unknown person was part of their plot.
The back door to the bar opened and three figures stepped quietly into the establishment. Entrance via the back door wasn’t that uncommon, but in this instance it drew Rochefort’s attention because two of the three wore the black uniform of AI troops, and the third wore the scarlet and green livery of the Incalla, the church guard. The three stood at the door, blocking it.
Rochefort ignored Lynna and looked slowly toward the main entrance of the establishment. There were more Incalla and AI filing in, and as the rest of the patrons began to notice, an ever-expanding silence slowly replaced the din of the place. Rochefort looked at Lynna and growled, “Why you dirty, little sneak.”
Lynna had finally noticed the intruders, was staring at them wide eyed and mouth open, and Rochefort realized the man was terrified. “They’ll kill us both,” Lynna said.
Rochefort nodded and whispered, “Every man for himself.”
Without moving quickly he stood. The place was crowded and it was easy to blend into the crowd, to put distance between him and the churchman. It was probably just a simple raid of some sort, though the presence of the Incalla and AI made that unlikely. But still it was best to play it safe.
Lynna wasn’t so smart. He panicked, made a rush for the back door and pulled a gun. Several muzzle flashes lit up the dark, smoky haze of the place, accompanied by ear splitting shots. Rochefort thought he saw the Incalla officer at the back door drop, and Lynna too, but he couldn’t be sure because the crowd panicked and surged to the exits. Rochefort decided to help, pulled his own gun, raised it over his head, fired two shots into the ceiling and shouted, “They’re killing everyone”
The mob went insane. There were more shots, even a burst or two of automatic weapons fire. But the place was too crowded, the mob and the Incalla and the AI goons too tightly packed, and it all happened quickly. The mob burst from the exits into the streets, carrying Rochefort safely with them.
He controlled his adrenaline, didn’
t let it take hold. He was too old for this sort of thing, had to pace himself carefully, ran down the street for a good distance at an easy jog, then cut into a side street, taking care to avoid alleys. He slowed to a quick walk, turned down another street and slowed further to an easy walk. He was now just another of hundreds of people wandering the streets. He glanced up at the rock ceiling of the street, knew he had to get back up to higher levels before AI started a full sweep.
An armored AI carrier rolled up the street with its siren blaring. He stepped into the shadow of a doorway as it shot past headed in the direction of the riot. It was then that he noticed something odd about a man on the other side of the street. The fellow lifted one hand furtively to his mouth and rubbed his chin. But Rochefort could see his lips moving, knew he was using a small com, had to be either Incalla or AI, though he wore clothing appropriate for the area. That also lay to rest any doubts about why they’d raided the bar where Lynna and he were meeting.
The man was calling for help, so Rochefort had to move. He stepped out of the shadow into the street and crossed the street at a brisk walk. His tail followed at a discrete distance.
Rochefort walked past several alleys until he found just the right one, a dark tunnel with only the far exit visible because of the streetlights there. He stepped into it, moved a few paces down the alley, slipped into the darkness along its sides and thumbed the safety on his gun. This had to be quick and clean.
He waited, waited far too long, then three figures stepped into the alley, pressed themselves into the same darkness at its sides. At the far end of the alley more of them stepped into the light there, using lamps to light up every shadow. Damn, he thought. His tail had been smart, had waited for reinforcements.
Rochefort sprinted for the nearest end of the alley, squeezed the trigger on his gun, firing rounds into the darkness where the three had hidden. His only chance was to get them to react instinctively for just an instant, get them to duck first before firing back. And in that instant he had to be out of the alley. But as the first bullet struck him in the back all he could think about was that he was just too old for this. He slammed into the pavement thinking he would have made it a few decades ago.
He rolled over quickly, feeling no real pain, fired two more rounds, never really felt the grav-gun shell that blew away most of his upper torso.
“Five lights and holding,” Tac’tac’ah hissed breathlessly.
Jewel tried to sound calm. “Steady as she goes, Mr. Tac’tac’ah. Drop back to four lights. Mister Soe, what’s our range?”
“Point-oh-one light-year, ma’am.”
“Four lights and holding.”
Jewel took a good look at her screens. They were approaching Sarasan farspace and she could feel the tension on the bridge. Below ten lights the Pride should broadcast almost no wake, but there was always a chance they might drive right over the top of an imper picket. “Three lights, Mr. Tac’tac’ah.”
Tac’tac’ah looked at her nervously. He was always nervous during a close approach, but was also just plain, damn good—maybe because he was nervous. “Three lights and holding.”
“Range, Mister Soe?”
“Five hundred and sixty thousand astronomical units, ma’am.”
This was looking good. “Hold steady to five hundred thousand AUs.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Jewel leaned back, watched her screens, watched the minutes tick by.
“Ranging at five hundred thousand AUs, ma’am.”
Jewel sat up straight. “Mr. Tac’tac’ah, two lights.”
“Two lights, ma’am. She’s starting to show some instability.”
Jewel switched her pickup to allship. “All hands, stand by for transition.” She switched back to the bridge circuit. “Mr. Tac’tac’ah, down-transit.”
There was a momentary delay, then Tac’tac’ah shouted, “Sublight! Point-eight lights.”
They waited and the tension built. Then Innay spoke calmly, “Clear to one thousand kliks.”
“Drones out.”
Pride of Altalane’s hull reverberated with the hollow sound of the drone launch. “Drones out, ma’am.”
It took a few minutes, but as the drones began to fill in details on the Sarasan system the tension died. They were a bit under five hundred thousand AUs out from the Sarasan primary, coasting inward at point-eight lights, running silent and no sign they’d been detected. It would take them three and a half days to coast into the middle of the system.
That was cutting it close, but it had worked. Ordinarily a hunter-killer like the Pride would play it a lot safer, perhaps take up to a month to set up such an approach. But under the circumstances they had to take chances.
“I’ve got an approach plan, ma’am.”
Jewel looked at her screens where Innay was displaying a summary plan for close approach—a slight course correction now would bring them closer to Sarasan’s primary. To avoid detection they’d use just the smallest amount of drive power, then use the star’s gravity to divert them into the plane of the ecliptic and out to a large planet on the edge of the system. There, a swing around the planet would help by killing some velocity and aiming them back at the primary. After two or three such cycles they could then swing toward Sarasan at a much more workable velocity. And then they would wait.
“Excellent, chief. Thank you.
“Mister Soe. Is there a relay transceiver anywhere in this sector? We’re far enough out—we ought to be able to transmit without being detected, if we’re careful. I should report this to DCO.”
The night before they were due to transit into Aagerbanne York and the crew got a good night’s sleep. There had been no contacts or alerts for more than a day, and Aagerbanne suddenly seemed within reach.
That morning he took his time showering, was a bit extravagant with his water ration—a prerogative of the captain. He ate a nice leisurely breakfast in the main mess where he noticed everyone’s spirits were up. So close to their objective it was impossible not to be optimistic. He then made his way up to the bridge about two hours before they were due to down-transit into Aagerbanne farspace.
“Captain on the bridge.”
York sat down at his console, logged in and started reviewing a status summary. The mood on the bridge was almost festive. They were about a fifth of a light-year out from Aagerbanne, driving cautiously at six hundred lights and decelerating slowly. In another hour they should encounter Aagerbanne’s pickets: challenge, reply and counter challenge. Since their recognition codes were clearly out of date they would be instructed to down-transit for boarding and verification. And then, with the passengers they were carrying, they’d undoubtedly get a high priority for docking at Aagerbanne Station. It would all be over.
York wondered what ship Fleet would assign him to this time. At a major facility like Aagerbanne there should be plenty of available posts on outbound vessels. He wondered if he could influence the selection any by signing on to a good ship before the computers spit out their choice.
“There’s a lot of transition activity near Aagerbanne,” Olin Rame said.
Rame had the watch. York glanced his way, could just see him between fire control and navigation. Rame didn’t seem to share the happy mood of the rest of the crew. Jondee took the bait. “Sector headquarters—big facility—should be lots of activity.”
Rame nodded slowly. “Lot of clustering in the transitions too. I suppose traffic control might be getting a little sloppy.”
“Those boys and girls are always sloppy,” Jondee said.
York expanded his navigation summary for a detailed report, and keeping one eye on the live data flowing in he began playing back the navigation log.
In transition they were fairly near-sighted, couldn’t really see anything until they were within about one light-year of the source, and then they were only able to pick up gross phenomena like the transition flare of a large ship. As expected, starting from about one light-year out, the navigation log sho
wed a history of fairly dim and indistinct data. And as they’d gotten closer the data had grown stronger and clearer until they were finally able to distinguish just about any transition flare in Aagerbanne nearspace.
When several ships traveled in a group it was customary to make transition a few minutes apart, spread out and avoid any possible side effects from the flares of nearby ships. But avoiding clustered transitions was really just a precaution, and not practical under certain circumstances; like under hot pursuit, or in really large convoys. Still, some effort was usually made to break up the clustering. But, as Rame had observed, the Aagerbanne traffic control operators were getting sloppy.
Gant interrupted York’s thoughts. “We’re point-oh-eight light-year out, sir. About one hour at our present velocity.”
York nodded, commented to no one in particular. “Should be challenged any minute now.” He thought about down-transiting, taking a good look from a distance, but a flare out there all by themselves might make them too good of a target if there was a feddie nearby stalking the shipping lanes into Aagerbanne. And as long as they kept their transition velocity down their transition wake was minimal. A little more caution might be wise. “No exterior transmissions without my authorization. Passive scan and navigation only.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Gant said.
Jondee couldn’t help a comment. “Getting awfully cautious, aren’t we?”
“Captain,” Rame said tentatively. “I’m picking up some interesting data here.”
York was looking at the same data: raw traces from their navigational scans. There was something odd about it. He looked up from his console, saw that Rame had moved over to the navigation console, decided to join him there. Looking over Rame’s shoulder he stared at the traces while Rame began trying to clean up the data.
It was an odd sort of data, small, randomly spaced pulses of noise in the transition spectra. Rame tried to isolate it, pull it up out of the noise, while York leaned back and just stared at it. It had the oddest ring of familiarity, and he struggled to recall some phantom memory. He watched the odd pulses of data grow stronger as they got closer and it made him uneasy. “What’s our ETT?” he demanded, sounding more concerned than he’d meant to.
