I gotta think clearly, he said or maybe thought or sent to the doctor.
I know, she said/sent/whatever. It’s all I can do to keep you awake.
Great. He made himself focus—again, ignoring the probing feeling in the wounds, the great bursts of pain that shot through him at irregular intervals (okay, he couldn’t ignore that).
He called up a holographic image of the exterior so he could see what was going on.
The gigantic ship was swallowing the yacht, which meant if this damn second cockpit didn’t launch soon, it would launch inside the other ship, and the other ship probably had measures set up for that, which meant they had measures to handle his explosions, which meant he was caught no matter what he did—
And then he cursed.
He had planned for five steps, finished five steps, added the doctor, but he had been wrong from the start. He hadn’t needed five steps.
He needed six.
He had to release the torpedoes. If the yacht went inside the gigantic ship, he was screwed no matter what, and he couldn’t let that happen, so if he got caught in the blowback of his own explosions, so be it, he’d let that happen, he’d let it all happen—
Concentrate.
He fired the torpedoes, all of them, not caring if the bullet ship escaped.
Everything blacked out—including the doctor—and for a moment, he thought he had blacked out, and then he realized the blackout was the separation. He had separated, the second cockpit had separated, the bullet ship had separated and he needed the systems back online so it could move, move, move—
Lights, power, everything returned, including the doctor who told him she couldn’t work like that and he ignored her as best he could even though she was poking at his injured legs, and then the image showed up, the gigantic ship, the yacht, the bullet ship—and balloons of red hitting the hull of the gigantic ship, and the yacht got sucked inside.
But the bullet ship didn’t.
It caromed (okay, not caromed but hurried—moved, went at top speed—)
Concentrate.
It took more work this time. But he saw it. He saw the yacht disappear into the bay of the gigantic ship, and he counted—he made himself count down the time to the destruction of his beautiful yacht, even though nothing was happening, even though he was failing—
Big, gigantic explosion, rocking the giant ship. (Maybe a series of explosions, maybe the weapons and the explosives going off in sequence.)
He couldn’t focus on those details.
Because he didn’t have a lot of time.
That gigantic ship, that gigantic Alliance ship, would contact other Alliance ships unless they knew they were running an illegal op for Jarvis, unless they were only coming after the money to cover their respective asses.
And even then, they might just say that this little space yacht had attacked them out of the blue, and they needed to destroy the person who had destroyed their ship, and they might have convinced someone in the Alliance to come after him.
He needed to get the hell out of here.
And he needed help doing it.
He cursed himself again.
Not six steps.
Seven. Seven steps.
He needed to get to Armstrong, in a no-name ship, without identification.
He needed someone to help him enter Earth’s Moon—
In the center of the Alliance.
Right after a second major attack.
He’d escaped only to trap himself in Earth’s Solar System.
He was screwed, and he had no idea what to do.
FIFTY-EIGHT
THE UPPER LEVEL cargo deck smelled of fear. Babies wailed, little children watched everything with wide open eyes, and a handful of overwhelmed evacuees already slept on top of pillows someone had scrounged up.
The ten adults Koos's teams had brought on that first trip were the only full adults on this cargo vessel, although more had arrived on another, with the toddlers. He was grateful that the toddlers were on a different ship. The under-fives were tough enough, with their overwhelming energy and their fear.
That last group he’d brought had fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds, and he’d pressed them into babysitting service. He needed them to deal with the younger kids, at least until he could figure some of this out.
The adults wanted answers and he wasn’t giving any, except to say that they’d all been rescued.
He had instructed the staff not to give them answers, either. No one was to identify the name of the corporation running the ship or the parent company of that particular corporation.
Deshin didn’t want anyone to know he had taken the clones, and Koos’s job was to make sure no one would get any information.
Particularly since he was going to dump the adults at the nearest starbase. He already had staff there, hiring actual nannies and gathering supplies.
This was the largest operation he’d organized for Deshin in years, and they’d done it in less than twenty-four hours.
“You need to tell us what’s going on,” said one of the teenage boys Koos had rescued in the last group. That group still had a bit of bravado.
“Yeah,” a couple others said nearby.
“Why were we being bombed?”
“What did it mean?”
Koos looked at all of them, a sea of somewhat matching faces, and sighed heavily. He needed to say something. So he was going to tell them what he could.
He raised his hands above his head and clapped.
The room grew silent—except for the crying babies. Apparently, the sound covers on the carriers weren’t up to the task.
Then he realized that several of the crying babies were being held by adults and teenagers—probably not for the baby’s comfort, but for the adult’s comfort.
“I’m the person in charge here. I ran the operation, and I’ll tell you what I know. Please don’t ask questions until I’m done.” He cleared his throat. He had to raise his voice to speak over the crying.
All of the teenagers stood. A few put their arms around the younger kids, who were also watching him.
Koos felt like this was a tougher task than getting them out of the industrial park.
“I don’t know much about the mission, okay? I was contacted a day or so ago with the news that the industrial park was going to be attacked. My team was sent to rescue as many of you as possible—”
“Why didn’t someone tell us you were coming?” the adult woman who had turned a rifle on him demanded.
“Please,” Koos said, “no questions. I don’t know why this method was chosen. Probably expediency.”
He would have to be careful. His mixture of lies and the truth needed to sound convincing.
“We got as many of you out as we could. The attack started just as the last group left. We lost two rescue shuttles—and no, I don’t know who among your friends was on them.”
Two of the teenage girls wrapped their arms around each other. One of the boys stifled a sob. Apparently, they knew.
“We’re going to make a stop in a few hours to get supplies and some hired help for the younger children and babies.”
One of the adults let out an audible sigh. Koos took that as encouragement.
“You adults will have a choice at that moment. You can leave the ship. We will give you enough money to get back to your families in Hétique City. We can’t send you farther than that. I have no idea what condition the area will be in when you return. That’s your problem, not mine.”
He knew that sounded harsh, but he had no choice. A few of the adults put hands over their mouths.
“Can’t you find out what’s going on there?” that annoying woman asked.
“No,” Koos said. “It’s not my concern.”
He stared at them, willing someone else to challenge him. No one did.
“You need to let us know your decision when we arrive. If you decide to stay, you must remain on the ship.”
“Where will the ship go?
” one of the adult men asked.
“I’m not going to tell you until we’ve left the starbase.” And not even then, he thought but didn’t say. “We’re in the business of saving lives today, and the last thing we want is for one of the adults who leave us to tell the people who bombed your home tonight where we’re going.”
Some of the teenagers were nodding. Good.
“Then how can we make a decision as to whether or not to leave?” the annoying woman asked.
“I don’t care,” Koos said. “You will make your decision. Once we leave the starbase, we’ll have food and water for all of you, a comfortable place to sleep, and the right amount of care.”
“What happens when we get where we’re going?” one of the teenage boys asked.
“I have no idea,” Koos said. “My job was to rescue as many of you as I could as quickly as I could. I was told to start with the youngest and work my way to the older children. I did that. We saved as many of you as we could. I know expecting you to be grateful is probably a bit too much, but I will tell you one thing. Not one of you would be alive now, without us. Clear?”
The room was silent for a moment. Then the annoying woman spoke in a near whisper. “Not even the babies?”
“Not even the babies,” he said. Then he looked directly at her. “And you know why.”
He met as many eyes as he could. Then he nodded once and stepped back.
He left the cargo bay and waited until the doors closed before leaning against the wall of the corridor. He was exhausted, and he still had a lot to do.
He hadn’t lied about one thing: He had no idea what Deshin would do with all of these children.
The man had never taken children before, and he had an aversion to clones. This was completely atypical behavior.
But Koos had learned early in his career with Deshin not to question what the man did.
Koos would simply be glad when this assignment was over.
And he hoped nothing like it would ever come up again.
FIFTY-NINE
THE STUPID DOCTOR was forcing Zagrando to drink water. She’d hooked up some kind of solution into his arm, hydrating him, and replacing—oh, he didn’t know what. He didn’t care.
He needed to think.
Behind him, the gigantic space ship that had tried to destroy him was falling into pieces. More explosions racked it, and he wasn’t sure how that happened, but it had. The laser pistols? Stuff they carried?
He couldn’t think about it.
His next problem was what was waiting for him ahead as he careened toward Earth’s Moon.
His calculation was pretty simple: He’d get there in less than two hours. This damn bullet ship was well named. And once he got there, no one in authority would let him into the Port of Armstrong, or any other port.
The news reports he had seen said that the Peyti weren’t getting in, and that meant anyone suspicious wasn’t getting in, and he sure as hell was suspicious. In the old days, he would have asked to get onto the surface and then let them deal with him, but these weren’t the old days, this was post-Anniversary Day, post-Peyti Crisis, and he didn’t know anyone—
Except a Retrieval Artist.
Except Miles Flint.
God, Zagrando’s brain was working slowly. He had planned to contact Flint anyway.
He needed to do so now.
Flint had given him a back-up link long ago, when Detective Iniko Zagrando of the Valhalla Police Department had worked with Miles Flint, father, to adopt his clone daughter.
Zagrando had to pray that the link still worked.
He sent: Miles Flint, this is Detective Iniko Zagrando. I need your help.
Nothing. Of course there was nothing. Why would he expect anything? The universe was making this hard, and of course it needed to get harder. He needed—
He yelped. The pain that shot through him would have made his eyes water if there were any water left in his body.
Sorry, the doctor sent. You need real medical attention.
No kidding, he thought but didn’t say, at least he hoped he didn’t say it or think it or discuss it.
Maybe he could contact that lawyer, Celestine Gonzalez, if she were still alive. Lots of lawyers died during the Peyti Crisis, all in meetings with the Peyti, and for all he knew, she was one of them—
My sources tell me Iniko Zagrando is dead.
Zagrando let out a shuddery breath. A happy, shuddery breath. He had gotten a response. On these back links.
Detective Iniko Zagrando is dead, he sent. But Iniko Zagrando isn’t. I was working undercover for Earth Alliance Intelligence. You can check that with Celestine Gonzalez, but do so fast, because I’m coming in hot, and I need some serious help…
Zagrando realized that Flint had checked out in the middle of that contact, that he hadn’t heard the entire message. It echoed, like unsent messages often did. Maybe Gonzalez was dead. Maybe he couldn’t contact her.
Maybe Zagrando had made a huge error, contacting Flint.
Maybe the authorities were already listening in and—
What do you need?
Flint was back. The man was nothing if not efficient. And Zagrando blessed him for it.
He yelped again, hoped that sound didn’t go through the links, and made himself breathe one more time. He was dizzy. He didn’t want to be dizzy.
Please get me clearance with Space Traffic Control. I have information you need.
He had no idea why he thought Flint could help him with something that official, but a whisper of a memory told him it was okay to ask.
That won’t be easy, Flint sent back. We’ve had some serious—
I’m coming in hot, Zagrando sent. There are factions in the Earth Alliance who don’t want me to talk to you people. Please, do what you can. Please.
God, he was begging now. He’d never been a begging man.
Send me the relevant information, Flint sent. I’ll see what I can do.
It wasn’t much of a promise, but it would have to do.
Thank you, Zagrando sent. He gripped the edge of the console to keep from passing out. Thank you so very much.
SIXTY
DESHIN SANK INTO a chair in his suite. He had taken one of the newer space yachts from Garner’s Moon and brought most of his team. He was heading to one of his compounds near the Frontier. It would take nearly a month to get there, especially since he had to stop to pick up a few experts and an entire cadre of lawyers and accountants.
Koos had rescued about four hundred children, of all ages, more than Deshin had been told were even on the property. Not all of the children were young; some were teenagers, which would be a problem.
Deshin had already drawn up a plan, which he would need his people to implement. He was going to adopt out the children. He would give them legitimate birth certificates, and he would make certain they would go to human families scattered around the Alliance. No children with the same DNA profile would go to the same area.
The adoption service would be for-profit, but mostly to cover expenses. Or maybe it would be non-profit—some kind of war orphan thing. He would leave that to the lawyers and accountants.
He didn’t want to lose money on this venture, but he didn’t want to make money, either. He didn’t believe in trafficking in human beings.
He realized that, under Alliance law, these children weren’t human beings, but he didn’t care. They were to him. If he had thought of them as property, he wouldn’t have gone to all the expense to save them.
Expense and loss of life. Two downed shuttles, with at least six people on each, maybe more.
He hadn’t known anyone who had died—his organization was so big he couldn’t know everyone—but he felt it.
No one would have died if he had known that the Alliance had been raising slow-grow clones on site.
If he had done his research.
And if he hadn’t felt like he needed to do something, anything, to deal with the clones attacking the Moon. He ha
d figured that finding where the Alliance made clones would help.
And he had figured that going after the secret clones based on criminals would be best. It would stop everything.
He wasn’t sure now if it would stop anything. He had been bent on vengeance, and in the process, he had made the kind of mistake he hadn’t made since he met Gerda.
Of course, he hadn’t consulted with Gerda on this, and he wouldn’t tell her now.
He would clean up his mistake—as best he could, anyway.
He ran a hand over his face. He hadn’t slept in more than a day. He’d managed to choke down some food before the mission. He knew he needed more.
Gerda would yell at him for not taking care of himself.
She would be appalled at what he had done.
He wasn’t entirely appalled. He knew that two different groups inside the Alliance would understand why Hétique City and the clone factory were destroyed.
The Security forces would know that the clone factory was targeted by some of the larger criminal organizations, working together, and maybe this would finally stop their infiltration of the families.
But he hoped that the masterminds behind the attacks on the Moon would understand why this factory had been chosen and not some other Alliance clone factory. Those masterminds had to assume that someone knew about the Peyti clones being grown here, all those decades ago.
Deshin toyed with sending a message to Miles Flint. But any message Deshin could think of was one that admitted guilt.
And while Deshin was bothered by what he had done, he wasn’t about to admit guilt. He had survived a long time by avoiding any admission of anything.
He was going to avoid this, as well.
He’d left Flint with enough information to track those clones, and maybe he had diverted the attention of the masterminds away from the Moon.
Deshin leaned his head back. He needed that sleep. And that meant he couldn’t think about the Moon any longer.
His family was off the Moon until the crisis was over. And he had a new business to start that would take all of his attention.
Starbase Human Page 29
