“Fine. It’s just damned hard to believe that he sold me and my crew out, just so he could afford an early retirement”
“With what, this?” Tally reached into a pocket, flipped out one of the Spanish doubloons. Drake caught it out of the air. “Keep it if you want. I have four or five left. It’s only worth a couple hundred credits.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“I wish I was,” she said. “I just finished dating what was left of my haul yesterday. There’s too much carbon-14 in the gold to be from the sixteenth century. They’re forgeries. Good ones, about a hundred years old, but forgeries nonetheless.”
He held the coin up to the light and squinted into its dazzling golden glitter.
“Fakes. Five people dead, a half-dozen injured. Just for a few worthless coins.” Drake stopped for a moment. Nodded to himself, as if he’d made a decision. “But regardless of the treasure’s worth, I want Ruger nailed for this. He belongs in a jail cell, not in a Fleet Commander’s seat.”
“What are you planning to do about it?”
“Ruger just ‘condemned’ my crew to head back out to the Kuiper Belt, even when we’re under repair and under-manned. I’m thinking of picking up one of the sensor net’s drone satellites. See if we can pull the same data you got, only right from the source.”
“If you’re going to do that, you’ll need someone who’s qualified to do a spacewalk in order to physically access the satellite’s computer core. And you’ll need the right equipment to get into the mechanism.”
He gave her a wry look. “I can guess who you’ll be nominating for the job. Why? What business is this of yours now?”
She met Drake’s questioning look with a steely gaze. “Because Ruger’s meddling got my friends killed. And because no one gets away with double crossing me.”
“Then it’s settled,” Drake said with an air of finality. “Come along with me. It’s time you met my crew.”
Chapter Seven
“...and you take care of yourself, tough guy,” said the pretty young woman on the tiny screen. “Remember, I love you.”
Lieutenant Armano Sebastiàn sighed and leaned back against the dock railing. He listened to the whine of heavy machinery as the cargo cranes labored to load equipment on board the Ranger. The spaceship floated in its watery dock like any earthbound sailing vessel, and the water line on the hull slowly crept up the side.
To the young officer’s eyes, the Ranger definitely fell on the small side. An eighteen-person patrol vessel rarely massed over a thousand tons to begin with. What’s more, this one looked like it had gone on a serious diet. The ship’s snub nose looked out of proportion to the smooth wedge shape of the hull compartments. The swept-back wings that extended for atmospheric flight seemed too thin for the steel frame to support.
As for the frame itself?
The vessel’s hull looked like it had been taken care of. But only after it had been whacked with a sledgehammer and then smoothed out by a power sander. Sebastiàn tried to look at it philosophically: whatever a ship looked like, it was still nothing more than an upgraded, airtight coffee can designed to cart frail organic bodies around the deeps of space.
But would this can spring a leak if he tried to pull a five-gee turn?
He heard a voice from behind him. “Not much to look at, is she?”
Sebastiàn turned to see an older, gray-haired man in a medtech’s outfit walking down the dock towards him. The man smiled, but he had a spare, hungry look.
Sebastiàn grimaced. “When you come down to it, I’ve piloted garbage scows that looked better than this ship.” He nodded towards the sleek, arrowhead-shaped cruiser that sat docked in the berth across the bay. “Now if I had that baby under my fingertips…”
“Then you’d have to breathe Ruger’s noxious fumes,” said his companion. “That’s the Fleet Commander’s ship, the Implacable. We’re cutting our repair schedule to the bone so she can have this berth tomorrow for her yearly wax job.”
“Really cares about his people, that pendejo,” Sebastiàn muttered. “You part of this outfit?”
“Drake’s Devastators? I bloody well am, lad. I’m Doc Kincaid, the local cutter.” The man extended a hand, and the two shook. Sebastiàn saw that like most medtechs, the man’s fingernails were manicured to be short, smooth and clean. “Hope you brought something to drink for the trip, as we usually run short of anesthetic.”
“Lieutenant Armano Sebastiàn,” he replied. Inside, Sebastiàn devoutly hoped that Kincaid was joking about the anesthetic. Something about the man told him it wasn’t all kidding around. “Just Sebastiàn, off duty.”
“That we are, until we load up.” Kincaid motioned to the tiny screen that Sebastiàn was holding. “I heard you playing that gadget a second ago. Girlfriend of yours?”
“My niece, actually. She heard I was shipping out and sent me an early birthday present.”
“Niece, eh? She married?”
“That’s privileged information, medico. It’ll cost you,” Sebastiàn replied. “But if I ever decided you were worthy, you could call her up from the opposite side of the galactic arm.”
Kincaid looked impressed. “You’ve got one of those new comm pads?”
Sebastiàn patting the device affectionately. “Just released, and it cost a nice chunk of change. With the built-in nullspace transmitter, I can send or receive calls or news service with no time lag, whichever star system I’m in.”
“Now that’s a nice piece of engineering,” Kincaid intoned approvingly. He called over to the woman who was approaching them. “Wish we had some decent technicians to run stuff like this. We’ve got damned awful ones on this ship.”
“I had some decent technicians,” Lieutenant Ferra shot back, “but they all kept dying of gangrene when I sent them over to your medlab.” She stage whispered to Sebastiàn. “Mark my words, kid. You so much as scratch yourself, and he’ll have you in medlab, being bled by his pet leeches.”
“Good help is tough to find, and I was all out of straws—”
The woman extended a callused hand. When he took it, her grip was as tight as a steel vise.
“I’m Lieutenant Ferra, engineering. You’re the new kid on the bridge, eh?” She sized him up. “You ought to eat more. You’re kind of scrawny.”
“Ah, yeah. I’m the new navtech, Lieutenant Sebastiàn.” Massaging the life back into his palm, he asked, “What’s with all this last minute loading?”
Ferra and Kincaid exchanged a look. Sebastiàn got the idea; they weren’t about to let him in on the secret yet.
The medtech shrugged. “We’ve been busy.”
“Yeah,” Ferra added, “we had to spend an hour getting our sensor gear into shape for the coming mission.”
“I thought we were on deep space patrol,” said Sebastiàn. “Not much out there to look at except vacuum.”
Ferra was about to reply when a groundcar pulled up by the docks and came to a stop. Sebastiàn and Kincaid looked out with more than casual interest as Tally stepped out, clad in heeled leather boots, tight blue jeans, and a neon orange shirt topped with a wide brimmed cowboy hat.
“Now that is easy on the eyes,” Sebastiàn murmured, and Ferra gave him a sharp glance.
Kincaid chuckled as Captain Drake stepped out from the driver’s side. “I was wondering where he was last night. Our Captain’s getting luckier all the time.”
“Everyone,” Drake announced, “I believe you all know Miss Talitha Taylor, aka ‘Tally’, the owner and operator Tallyho Salvage Operations.”
Captain Drake got a round of nods and sounds of assent in reply. He continued by indicating each officer in turn.
“Lieutenant Sebastiàn, our new navtech.” Sebastiàn made a little bow, ending it with a quick wink. “Lieutenant Ferra, our chief engineer.” She nodded brusquely. “And, of course, I want you to meet Kincaid, our resident medtech and notorious pessimist.”
“Charmed,” Tally observed.
“Oh, only until you get t
o know me,” Kincaid replied gloomily.
“I’ve called you down here to share some new information about our upcoming mission,” Drake stated. “And it’s not the kind of conversation I want out in the open.”
The Captain led the way around to the ship’s front loading area. The group slipped past the masses of fuel cells waiting to be hoisted aboard and then made their way to the Ranger’s bridge.
Tally looked about curiously, as this was the first time she’d been aboard a military ship. The room wasn’t splitting at the seams with five people in it, but only World War Two submariners would have called it spacious. She settled into the communications chair as Drake switched on one of the computers and fed its readout through to the main screen.
Sebastiàn sat at the forward navtech position, silently noting the position of the weapons and the navigation panels. The layout was straightforward, though in his eyes, hopelessly outdated. His nose detected different smells here than on other vessels. The air was bone dry on most spaceships, and free of scent. On the Ranger, there was a subtle density to the atmosphere, a mixture of hot steel and dark machine oil.
“It looks like Fleet Commander Ruger’s been playing an interesting game with us,” Drake said, without preamble. “You all need to know about this, as it’s already lead to deaths on Tally’s ships and injuries on ours.”
He filled his crew in about the Kuiper Belt sensor grid data. His crew’s reaction was not what he expected. Sebastiàn alone seemed shocked at the idea that the commanding officer of the Terran Home Guard would so casually sell them out. But Drake noticed that Ferra and Kincaid traded a glance, and then remained silent and troubled.
Drake decided that he’d better root out the problem now.
“Kincaid.” It was not a question.
“Yes?”
“Something tells me that you and Ferra knew what I was going to say before I got out of that groundcar.”
Kincaid crossed his arms and gave a low whistle. “Captain, we go back a-ways, but you never fail to impress me. You’re as sharp as a fresh scalpel.”
“Never mind the compliments. What do you know?”
Kincaid cleared his throat. “Ferra and I were going to let you know in private and such, but as it is...we might as well come clean.”
Ferra broke in and took over. “Since we had to tow the Margarita back in with us, I got stuck with repairing their systems as well as ours. Kincaid came on board the sloop to help me sync up our system with theirs.”
“And what was on that ship!” Kincaid exclaimed. “There’s some top-notch tech that Tallyho has installed there. Scanning microscopes, chemical analyzers, you name it – there it was.”
“That’s all my archaeological equipment,” Tally said, with a note of pride. “Knowing how to date and locate is the name of my game.”
“That it is.” Kincaid coughed, then added, “To be short, Ferra and I got curious. We brought over some hull and missile fragments and took a good, long look.”
Drake got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Well?”
“Whatever’s going on, we think it’s above and beyond Ruger’s thick head.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have signed on with this crew,” Sebastiàn grumbled.
Ferra elbowed him. “You mean you got a choice?”
“The hull fragments didn’t tell us anything interesting,” Kincaid said. “But the missile fragments…they’re laced with NTX explosive.”
Drake frowned. “NTX? That’s expensive stuff. Hard to synthesize without a full-scale industrial plant.”
“Not hard,” Ferra put in. “Impossible.”
“She’s right,” Kincaid confirmed. “We don’t see this stuff here in the Home Guard, since we get the outdated material. NTX is cutting edge. Only elite military units use it.”
“NTX is easy to keep track of,” Kincaid continued. “The different variations leave specific organic films behind. This stuff didn’t come from the Terran Home Guard. Or the regular military. That missile was launched by a ship sent by the Terran Security Council. Black Ops, in other words.”
“Our own Intelligence branch,” Drake breathed. A realization came to him. “That would explain how they were able to target our power coupling. They’d have our ship designs on file, regardless how old they are.”
“So this isn’t about money,” Tally said, with an intensity Drake hadn’t heard from her before. “They didn’t want us at that crash site. And if so, that’s exactly where I want to be, Captain.”
“That ship of yours won’t be spaceworthy for another week,” Ferra interjected.
“I can put her in dry dock for as long as necessary. I’m coming along with you.”
Drake gave her a hard look. “Are you sure you still want to do this? This just got a whole lot more dangerous.”
“I only play full sets, Captain. I’m seeing this one through.” Tally turned to Ferra. “I know you’re under a tight deadline. But can you fit any of my equipment on board the Ranger?”
The larger woman considered. “I think so. It’ll be tight, but I think we can make it. Patching it into the bridge computer’s going to take longer, though.”
“You can do that en route,” Drake declared. He looked at Tally, a wisp of a smile playing on his face. “Gather up whatever baggage you’re going to need. We’re departing at 1800 hours.”
“Sir,” Sebastiàn said tentatively, “not that I’m objecting, but…isn’t taking along a civilian against some regulation of ours, somewhere?”
“Probably. But there’s at least one loophole in there: if we’re proceeding into a hostile engagement, a military vessel is allowed to carry an official ‘observer’. Any more questions?”
The young officer let out a resigned sigh. “None. It does look like things might get a little ‘hostile’ from here on.”
“Now, we have orders from Ruger to head back out to the Kuiper Belt,” Drake finished. “I think a convenient place to start our tour of duty is back at that asteroid where we found the Dutchman. So let’s get a move-on, people. We don’t want to keep our dear commander waiting for his parking spot.”
Chapter Eight
Fleet Commander Vernon Ruger never slept well anymore. Mostly, it was due to his inability to block his memories. Alcohol and drugs could only do so much. So the naps that stole upon him on lonely, warm afternoons didn’t find a great deal of resistance. Alone in his office, Ruger nodded off in his commander’s chair.
His mind sought the serenity of deep space. But all it found was the past.
Vernon Ruger watched as a younger version of himself, one who had only a Captain’s bar on his shoulder, shouted into the comm.
“Are you questioning my authority, Lieutenant?”
Captain Ruger was in command of a squadron of starships during the last years of the Colonial Uprising. His star had risen high on waves of adulation. A hard-driving officer, he’d whipped his people into shape and then beaten the Colonials at every turn. He’d captured the public eye along the way. As well he should! For Ruger’s ambitions knew no bounds. He dreamt now of rising to the top ranks of the Interstellar Marine Corps.
And now this upstart lieutenant was trying to dissuade him from yet another feat of brilliance.
“Captain, hear me out,” Lieutenant Drake reasoned. “Our squadron is in serious shape. The Colonials were waiting for us when we came through the gate. We’ve been badly mauled. How can I properly support your attack with only six ships?”
“Make all the excuses you want, Drake. But if I have to make the main effort without your support, so be it. I have two fresh squadrons and four battle cruisers. That’ll be more than enough firepower to do the job.”
“Damn it all, are you listening to me?” Drake protested. “They were waiting for us! They’re on to your plan. The Colonials will be waiting for you on the other side of the gate point, and I won’t be there in time to do anything but sweep up the ashes.”
Something in Ruger snapped.
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Ruger felt the heat rush to his face. Nobody could have come up with a plan like his. He had the edge. He had figured out new ways to extend his squadron’s range. And his plans had been put irrevocably into motion.
“You and I are going to have words about this, Drake,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “I am expecting you to follow your orders. When will you be through the jump point?”
Drake bit back his reply and then checked his readouts. “Three hours.”
“We don’t have that time. Leave your captives and wounded behind.”
“Sir, that is expressly forbidden under the Articles of War. I have no intention of leaving anyone to die in vacuum.”
“This is a war, Drake, not a game. I want you in position in less than sixty minutes. Ruger out.” He snapped off the connection and spoke to his ship’s navtech. “Confirm that the lead squadrons are in position.”
The reply was crisp. “Attack pattern Delta, confirmed.”
“Distance to Chandrakasar gate?”
“Five thousand meters.”
“All right then,” he said, settling into his chair. “Let’s play our hand.”
With a blaze of whiteness that tore normal space asunder, Ruger’s two squadrons flung themselves into the nullspace gap, crossing light years in a few seconds.
The rushing, crashing sound of nullspace coalesced into the chime of a vidphone.
Ruger’s mind rushed back to the present.
The Fleet Commander came awake even before he had finished straightening up in his chair. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if the gesture would wipe away the last of his memories.
With a curt wave of his hand, he accepted the call from his outside office.
“Sir, you’ve got a visitor,” Captain Sindal announced. The young woman was one of Ruger’s favorite officers; she followed orders to the letter and didn’t question things too much.
“Don’t keep me in suspense. Who is it?”
“She says she’s an agent of the Terran Security Council.”
“She says?” Ruger looked more closely at the monitor. “Have her verified.”
Treasure of the Silver Star Page 5
