by Hugo Huesca
Usually, a military crew only strapped to a g-seat during evasive maneuvers or when speed was critical to a mission’s success.
For a brief moment, Clarke could only hear silence on the channel. Then, Captain Navathe said:
“I’m an idiot. What an obvious point to make. I should have realized it the second those readouts came in.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, sir,” said Clarke, “it’s only obvious in hindsight. It’s harder to reason under threat of combat.”
“It didn’t seem to stop you,” Navathe said.
That’s the reason it was important to remain calm while taking decisions that put lives at risk, Clarke thought. People like Pascari, who went along with their first impressions, usually brought disaster to the unlucky men and women under their command.
“So, it’s just merchants, then?” Antonov muttered. “Maybe we should consider helping them, after all. We’re supposed to be the good guys here.”
“Wait one second, sir,” Clarke said again, “that’s not what I’m saying. That’s a freighter alright, but those are not merchants.”
Clarke wasn’t comfortable holding the upper hand to people above himself in the chain of command. In the Defense Fleet, information usually trickled down, not up, unless you worked in NavInt. He waited a couple seconds to let them figure it out for themselves.
But they said nothing, and the clock was ticking. Clarke spoke, trying to keep his voice neutral, the tone those same NavInt officers used to explain things to their superiors:
“Sirs, the radiation leakage isn’t just coming from the engines. As—” he was going to say “as you know” but that may have come off wrong—pretentious. He paused, then said, “Weapons systems leak heat too, and some types of weapon leak radiation. From the images, I’d say the freighter is equipped with six mounted turrets. Not unusual…but look at this hull’s section over here. That bright red spot means radiation.”
“Shit,” said Antonov, “a cannon tube?”
“Not big enough,” said Clarke, not bothering to hide the relief in his voice. “From the size, I’d bet a month’s wages it’s a rail Gatling gun. Depleted uranium shells, with a punch capable of puncturing Beowulf’s hull, port to starboard.”
“A railgun, then?” asked Captain Navathe. “That’s military equipment. Gotta be pirates with black market weapons.”
“My thoughts exactly, sir,” said Clarke.
“Reiner have mercy, we’re still fucked then,” said Antonov. Clarke’s gaze flashed at the channels, to make sure no one but the three of them had heard that statement. “Railguns out-range our turrets by far.”
It was a fair assessment. Railguns were restricted to navy use for a reason. They were the most powerful short-range kinetic weaponry available to the Edge. But, unlike torpedoes or a cannon’s lance barrage, bullets were pretty inaccurate when aimed at a moving target going at a fraction of the speed of light, .05c, to be exact.
“Sir, if we maintain our current vector and burn hard g’s to New Angeles, we could stay out of the railgun’s effective killing range. They won’t chase us into the planet’s space, the patrols would mop the floor with them in an instant.”
It would involve having the Beowulf do a 180 degrees turn and accelerating towards the planet instead of decelerating. The ship would either pass the planet or burn a lot more fuel than they had budgeted. If they weren’t careful, they could run out of reserves altogether.
Both options were better than getting raided.
Navathe dropped from the channel for a couple minutes. Clarke could see her sitting on her g-seat, speaking furiously at someone. Not far from her, Pascari glared at Clarke. No doubt, the man would’ve tried to fight him if they weren’t strapped to the g-seats. Navathe returned to the channel.
“Navigation says the freighter has an interception course with us on the current vector,” she said, her voice calm and collected but with an edge to it that was as expressive as if she’d started yelling curses. “They must’ve changed course while we spoke, burning a lot of fuel and abusing the couple light-minutes delay between our visuals. According to Navigation’s numbers, they’ll have us in their sight in five minutes if both our current courses are maintained.”
“They said their engines weren’t working!” said Antonov. “Have you threatened a violent response, yet?”
“Yes, sir, we threatened retaliation as soon as we found out. They called our bluff.”
At least we’re free to open fire now, thought Clarke. Not that it’d do much good.
Unless…
“Any other ideas, Clarke?” asked Antonov.
“Sir, we pull a Pascari,” said Clarke, letting a wolfish smile draw on his lips. “We keep our plan, but we open fire right now.”
“Clarke, have you lost your mind?” Antonov said. “You just told us the railgun out-ranges our turrets, and we’re still too far away from them to shoot us! We’ll never hit them, at all!”
“We don’t need to score a hit, sir,” said Clarke, “we just need to make them dodge.”
Antonov cursed in frustration. Clarke cursed himself for being so vague, but he’d forgotten that Antonov was a planet-side leader, not a sailor. Navathe, who had experience with space mechanics, caught his meaning and said:
“If they go into evasive maneuvers, that’ll change their current vector enough that they’ll lose their window…but why should they? At this range, hitting them will be like trying to hit a fly across a room by throwing a grain of sand at it. The only thing they have to do is not react.”
“If,” Clarke said, “they stop to think, they’ll see they’re safe from us. But it’s hard to keep a level head while people are shooting at you, and that’s a pirate pilot we’re dealing with, sir. They’re not famous for remaining calm under pressure.”
A tiny change of vector was all they needed to rob the pirates of their kill-zone. If the pilot pointed the freighter’s nose away while accelerating, just for a couple seconds, it would be enough. That kind of reflex, in the Defense Fleet, was drilled away from the pilot’s heads until they wouldn’t fart without direct permission from the ship’s commander. Clarke hoped their pilot friends lacked a navy background.
“Navathe?” asked Antonov. “What’s your assessment?”
“Any other alternative is too far-fetched, sir,” she said. “I say we do it. At the very least, Mister Pascari will get his wish.”
“Go ahead, then, before they get too emboldened.”
“Captain Navathe, one more thing, sir,” said Clarke. His fingers flew over his holographic keyboard as he typed a series of numbers and quick commands. “This is a firing pattern algorithm I designed a long time ago. Just have Navigation feed it to the computer. The pattern is even less accurate than normal, but it’ll sure as hell look impressive for the first couple seconds, until they figure it out. I recommend you fire first and accelerate afterward, so the first thing they see is the bullets coming at them.”
Once again, the weight of the decision loomed over his shoulders, a force that dwarfed the acceleration that dragged him into his g-seat. If he was wrong, at any point, people could die. Innocent contractors like Gutierrez, Mann, or Lambert, who fought hard every day to make a living. The risk of death by accident during a trip was high enough. To have pirates killing everyone aboard was the cherry on a shit-cake.
Clarke could hear the faint blare of the alarms down in the lower decks. He could imagine the fear and frustration the crew must be feeling, strapped to their seats, unable to move, reduced to waiting until the Captain deigned to tell them what was going on.
Nothing I can do about it. In a way, Clarke both envied and pitied Navathe for her position. He could almost read her lips as she ordered her bridge crew around and waited for Navigation to give her a firing solution.
If something went wrong, many would turn to Captain Navathe when it was time to assign the blame.
But at least she gets to do something, Clarke thought. To wait to live or d
ie on others’ decisions, while tied to a g-seat he couldn’t leave without breaking every bone in his body…it was like having his mortality shoved straight to his face, every second, over and over again. Death didn’t care about heroism, cunning, or cowardice. It was a random dice throw in the uncaring cold of the universe, and when your number came, it accepted no re-rolls. Only one game per person.
Clarke himself wasn’t far removed from the crew down below. He got to have his suggestions heard, yes, but the actual fighting was in the hands of Navathe and her people. His blood boiled with the desire to be next to them, to have his destiny in his own hands, to at least have a say in the way he lived or died.
It had been that desire, in the first place, which had driven him to rise through the ranks of the Defense Fleet. And now, here it was again, burning like a beacon inside his chest. Broken Sky and the follow-up trial hadn’t been enough to extinguish it, even after all this time.
“The turrets are about to open fire,” Navathe told Clarke and Antonov, and then made a similar announcement, but more official, at the public channel that everyone aboard the ship could hear.
The floor under Clarke’s boots rattled with a soft buzz, the only proof he’d get of Navathe’s words.
He knew what that soft buzz could do to a ship—or to a man—because he’d lived it.
The buzz went on for a minute and then died. Outside the ship, Clarke imagined the turrets as they fired, circling their barrels in tight, angular movements. The algorithm he made would make the bullets fire like a spiral barreling toward the pirate ship. There was no way anyone could ever hit a thing with that pattern, but if the pirates didn’t look closely at the incoming fire, it’d look like the Beowulf had sprouted a dozen extra turrets out of nowhere.
The vibrations stopped. “We’re entering emergency acceleration. Prepare for incoming 7g.”
Clarke resisted the impulse to ask her what could they actually do to prepare. Then the engine roared to life, and the ship strained all around him while his body was shoved into his g-seat by an invisible hand whose fingers rested on Clarke’s chest, testicles, and eyeballs. He kept his jaw clenched tight. The g-seat display showed the acceleration’s numbers rise and rise as the Beowulf put everything it got into a fast retreat.
Reality diminished, engulfed by a black tunnel at the corner of Clarke’s vision.
Either I’m getting old, or I’m too out of shape, he thought. In the Defense Fleet, all the bridge officers had to remain conscious and functional at up to 10g, and received vigorous training for it.
If he lived through the cycle, Clarke swore he’d regain his old stamina.
Navathe’s voice strained through the public channel, though that may be because of the acceleration. “Navigation says the pirates veered off course for thirty seconds. Enough to make them miss our mark by twelve minutes. They’re still chasing, though, so remain on high alert,” she said.
“Excellent work, Clarke,” came Antonov’s tired voice over a private com-link between the two of them. “You just saved our mission from disaster.”
Clarke allowed himself a strained smile. The men and women around the bridge had the same half-pained, half-jubilant expressions. Many, perhaps, were thinking of their families, and the fact they’d live to see them again.
“On the other hand,” Captain Navathe went on, “we won’t have enough fuel to stop in time for a safe approach to New Angeles. We’re changing course to avoid getting shot down by planetary defenses.”
Crap. Without New Angeles, the Beowulf would lack the oryza to reach the Independent fleet hiding in deep space. Worse, they’d be stranded for God-knew how long, maybe even weeks, until a New Angelician towing ship reached them, burning fuel to match their speed, and dragged them to planetary orbit.
And during all that time, Defense Fleet Sentinel approached planet Dione and Isabella Reiner.
13
Chapter Thirteen
Delagarza
“You’ve got the wrong guy,” said Delagarza. He looked away, like a trapped animal, for any route of escape. But he was naked and vulnerable, in a Taiga Town’s safe house, at the mercy of the old lady in front of him. He realized he was clutching at the bedsheets, like a kid protecting himself against the monsters under the bed. He hated himself for it and forced his body to relax. Naked or not, he still had his dignity. Or so he told himself. And since he still had his dignity, he also forced himself to approach the situation rationally.
Kayoko must be mistaken. All her anti-aging procedures must’ve taken a toll in her mind. He’d have to be very kind and careful in helping her realize this.
“Yes, Samuel, that’s exactly the problem,” Kayoko said. “You’re the wrong guy, and Isabella is running out of time.”
“Reiner’s kid,” Delagarza said. “If she’s alive today, she’s an adult woman. Shouldn’t she take care of herself?”
“We don’t know who she is, or where,” said Kayoko. “If we knew, we wouldn’t need Daneel Hirsen—you—to tell us.”
“You know me, Nanny,” said Sam, “we met while waiting in line. We had tea. We did business together.”
“Oh, Sam,” said Kayoko, “I have no need for lines, I’ve people to stand in them for me, and I own private transports. Our meeting wasn’t at random. Hirsen asked me to keep an eye on you, after a certain amount of time passed, in case the Quail meditation went wrong.”
“You keep mentioning that meditation deal like it’s supposed to explain things.”
“I barely understand it myself,” said Kayoko. “It’s an agent ability, born from a mixture of Newgen’s genetic engineering and modern training based on the ancient traditions of the Caoshi monks. The Quail meditation replaces the personality of the agent with a fake one, unaware of its nature. Since the new personality doesn’t know he’s fake, he can remain hidden among a local population without drawing suspicion from the authorities…and if needed, pass a loyalty test without triggering the nanobots.”
An ice cold shower descended on Delagarza’s attempt to remain calm.
Someone told her about the loyalty test, he told himself. It had to be some kind of game for Kayoko, because there was no way he was a fake. He knew himself. He had a mother, a grandmother, a job, lovers, and friends. He had a background, for fuck’s sake.
“The meditation is supposed to fade on its own, according to your own explanations,” Kayoko said, “or reverse itself when exposed to certain circumstances, like a mental trauma…such as the memetic virus you barely survived. But this didn’t happen.”
“Because I’m not a fake personality, Nanny,” said Delagarza.
“Because something went wrong,” she shot back, “and whatever it is, we need to reverse it. Hirsen is the last person alive who can point my group in Reiner’s direction. He has to come back, Sam. Before the enforcers find her first.”
“I can’t help you,” said Delagarza. He left the bed, throwing the sheets away. He could see his clothes and reg-suit waiting for him by a corner of the room. He made his way to them, ignoring the bite of the ice-cold floor. “Sorry, Kayoko, but I have to leave.”
“You could stay here,” Kayoko offered. “We could look after you, try to figure out how to reverse the meditation. Keep you safe in the meantime. The enforcers don’t like open threads hanging around, they’re sure to send down a mopping crew to deal with you.”
Delagarza clothed himself as quickly as he could, ignoring Kayoko’s stares at his scarred body. As he did so, he considered her offer. The enforcers mopping him may be true. They really didn’t enjoy failure, and he’d botched their Shota-M project by toying with it a little too hard, too quick. If they suspected he’d seen the information in there…
But if that was true, and he stayed, he’d be a rat in a cage, slowly starving. What protection could Taiga Town offer him? The enforcers owned the skies and the orbit, and whoever owned the orbitals was God to its planet’s inhabitants.
A railgun could lay waste to Alwinter with the
push of a button.
There was a clear winner in this risk versus benefit analysis.
No, remaining with Kayoko wasn’t an option. His only shot at survival was to make things right.
“I’ll take my chances out there,” he told Kayoko.
Nanny Kayoko smiled, the very image of a kind old lady. Mental alarms shot up in Delagarza’s mind. She went to him and helped him with the reg-suit.
“Well then, nothing I can do,” Kayoko said. “Let me help you survive the day.”
She clapped and a second later, the door opened and Cronos walked into the room. His eyes flickered between Kayoko and Delagarza, like he’d interrupted a private moment. He handed Delagarza a closed plastic container. He opened it and found his own wristband, a pistol (metal, not plastic) and a loaded clip next to it.
“I can’t do more than this,” Kayoko said, “without risking exposing my group to the enforcers.”
“I’ve never handled a gun before,” said Delagarza. He grabbed the pistol, checked the safety lock, cleared the chamber, loaded the clip and stored the pistol in his reg-suit’s harness.
“Whatever you say, Samuel,” said Kayoko. “Good luck. Go find Isabella Reiner for us.”
Taiga Town’s inhabitants were nowhere to be seen, and its tourists were leaving town like rats out of a sinking ship.
Delagarza matched the hurried pace and set out straight for the trolleys to the surface. The weight of the metal gun on his waist dragged him down with every step. In Dione’s reduced gravity, the gun was as light as a small pillow, but that wasn’t how he felt about it.
Most of his life, he’d survived without resorting to violence. He wasn’t a violent man, he had no need to be. And yet, he had accepted Kayoko’s weapon without hesitation.
