Starcruiser Polaris: He Never Died

by Richard Tongue

   “I’d expect them to see an opportunity and reach for it, Spaceman. You think the Federation would pass up a chance to extract some payback from a group of rebels, or that the Commonwealth would sit back and wait while a planet they could grab fell apart? They’ve got the same access we have to local sensor and communications traffic, and...”

   “I don’t believe it!” the technician interrupted. “Sorry, sir.”

   “Something interesting?”

   “Not a thing, sir, and that’s the point. No trace of hostile activity anywhere on the planet, no sign of any damage to any of the cities. Our resolution’s nowhere near as good as the satellite network, so I wouldn’t expect to see any small-scale evidence of attack, but we ought to be picking up some evidence of the fighting in progress.”

   “Communications?” Mike asked. In response, the technician turned a dial, and a vaguely recognizable progressive soul track began to boom over the speakers. “Civilian broadcasting?”

   “All up and down the range, Commodore. I picked up a news broadcast, lots of debate about the peace conference and the new provisional administration, but no sign of any distress calls, war reports, shipping updates or anything I would have expected to hear in the circumstances. Everything seems quiet out there.”

   “Can you get a comm laser out that far?”

   “Just about, sir, but it’s at extreme range.”

   “Punch through a message anyway, Spaceman, and see what response you get. Don’t ask them about anything to do with this. Come up with some sort of mundane administrative trivia. Nothing that would attract any attention. Hell, say you’re doing a systems test if you want.”

   “Aye, sir. Working now.”

   “Faked,” Ortiz said, shaking his head. “I could have sworn...”

   “You were meant to,” he replied. “Someone’s trying to play us, and they damn near succeeded. If I’d been up here on the bridge when those distress calls came in, I might have reacted just as you did.”

   “I doubt that,” a blushing Petrova said. “We’d have had to send at least one ship out to handle the situation. Likely either Polaris or Regulus, assuming we didn’t dispatch the auxiliary squadron.”

   Nodding, Mike said, “I can’t help but think that would have taken us into strategic parity with the Commonwealth Fleet. It seems too convenient an excuse to get past. I have a feeling that we’ll suddenly have a much easier time getting through to the delegates now, as well.”

   “The trick couldn’t have worked for long, though. We’d have worked out what was happening soon enough, and...”

   “And the ships would have already been on their way, and we couldn’t have recalled them. Meaning that for the next nine hours or so, we’d have been vulnerable. Assuming there isn’t some sort of trap actually waiting for us at Mars, though I suspect we’ve rendered that particular possibility moot, at least.”

   “No sign of trouble in Martian orbital space, sir,” the sensor technician added. “Just a couple of freighters, all scheduled traffic. I’m picking up the beacons from the satellites as well, sir, so they’re still there.”

   “The big question is whether the sabotage took place at their end or ours,” Petrova replied. “If it’s at their end, then it really isn’t our problem. We simply disregard any messages coming in from Mars and let them handle the mess themselves.” Looking at Ortiz, she continued, “It’s the other possibility I find far more worrying.”

   “I concur,” Mike replied. “Could there be a security threat here, on the ship?”

   “I suppose it’s possible, but it doesn’t seem to make any sense. There have been ample opportunities for any saboteur to throw one battle or another to the Federation, and we haven’t had anyone new join the ship since before Hyperborea. Other than the Canopus contingent, of course, but I’d presume the same applied.”

   “We’re assuming it’s the Federation,” Petrova said. “What if it is the Commonwealth?”

   “Then we’re in a lot of trouble,” Mike replied. He looked down at the technician, and said, “Any thoughts, Spaceman? Any way we can determine where the malfunctions took place?”

   Frowning, the young crewman replied, “I’m not sure, sir, but there might be something.” He reached for the controls, and said, “It comes down to determining whether the signals were faked at their end, or at ours.” His hands danced across the controls, and he said, “There’s a possibility. Our systems are new, brand new, and we’ve got some of the latest upgrades to image enhancement software. No way they’d have been rolled out at Mars yet...”

   “How do you know that?” Petrova asked.

   “Because I had to steal them,” the spaceman replied, matter of factly. “They were sitting on the new updates at Strategic Headquarters, until a friend tipped me off about them. They haven’t been rolled out to the fleet because of a few systems instabilities, but I was able to correct them with a little work.”

   “Why are you here?” Ortiz asked. “With brains like that...”

   “My grandmother belonged to a proscribed political organization, sir.”

   “I see.”

   Mike shook his head, watching with admiration as the technician worked, wondering just how many other talented people had been condemned to a life of mediocrity because of the sins of their fathers, or because someone in the higher echelons had simply taken a dislike to them. As far as he was concerned, it was just one more reason why they had to fight and win.

   “Got it. The source is Mars, sir. Not here. Two reasons. One, the software, and two, the weather patterns.” Gesturing at the screen, he said, “There’s a dust storm raging over Cydonia right now. We’ve never had much luck modeling them, and if someone here was trying to simulate out of the correct time index, they’d have made a mistake, but those are perfect.”

   “Thanks for the reassurance, Spaceman,” Mike said, moving away from the station. He looked at Ortiz, and continued, “I’m almost disappointed. If it had been someone on this ship, we’d have had a fighting chance of catching them and getting them into interrogation. This way they’re stuck on Mars, safe and sound, and we don’t have the first idea who did it.” Turning to the screen, he added, “All we know is that someone out there decided to try and significantly reduce our fleet strength, planning for something to happen in the next nine hours.” He paused, then asked, “How’s the conference doing? Running to schedule?”

   “The last speaker just began his personal statement,” Petrova said. “After which they’re scheduled to stop for the day. I guess the real work will be done at the dinner table. That’s normally how meetings like this turn out.”

   “Tonight, then,” Mike said. Turning to Ortiz, he said, “Bill, your crew isn’t going to like this one little bit, but I’ll canceling all leave. I want everyone back on board tonight.”

   “From the whole fleet?”

   “No,” he said, shaking his head. “We can’t make too big a show out of this, or they’ll know we’re onto them. That’s why I’m sending Hoxha to Mars, with orders...”

   “What?”

   “We need to play their game for a little while longer, Bill. Losing one auxiliary cruiser won’t hurt. Especially if we make sure Castro and Trotsky are ready for the fight.”

  Chapter 15

   Cordova led the way along the dome-side street, gagging at the trace gases that had forced their way through the creaking, aged hull. Schmidt was disgusted at the squalid condition of the settlement, shaking her head in disbelief at the condition of the dome. The jubilation which had overtaken the rest of the colony had failed to make it this far out, and the same depressed misery persisted even now, a few weary settlers running errands as the overhead lights flickered, just one more example of the poor maintenance routine placing lives at risk. She peered into the gloom, and saw a figure lying on the ground, bottle in hand.

   “I didn’t realize it was this bad out here
,” Schmidt said.

   “That’s what happens when you spend all your time on military facilities. Someone actually gave a damn about you. Nobody but us ever cared about them.” Turning to her, she added, “This is nothing compared to some of the worlds I’ve seen. In Caledonia they have their homeless living in the sewers. And on Ares, the life expectancy of the native-born is twenty-nine. At least they keep some sort of pretense of civilization here.” Turning back to the street, she continued, “If you ever wondered just what we were fighting for, I think you’ve got your answer right here.”

   “How did it ever get this bad?”

   “One day at a time, Commander. One day at a time. It’s slow, steady, and it gets worse so gradually that sometimes you just can’t tell that it’s happening, but it does, and people die as a result.” Looking at a child limping down the street, a makeshift crutch under her arm, she continued, “This place should be the wealthiest colony in space. It was bad enough in the days of the Oligarchy, but at least they occasionally spent some money on the place.”

   “We’ve got to do something,” Schmidt pressed. “Let me call the ship. I can have engineering teams down from Trotsky in half an hour. They can start to get the air filtration sorted out at the very least...”

   “It’d take them months, years to even begin to solve the problems down here. Do they have the time to do that? As much as it hurts, we’ve got to finish what we started, and that means that we’ve got to find Murchison. If the peace conference fails, things will get a lot worse very quickly.”

   Schmidt glanced behind her, and said, “You know we’re being followed?”

   “By at least two people.”

   “Two?”

   “The person you can see is providing cover for the person you can’t. The only question is whether it’s someone from the Commonwealth, someone from ColSec, or one of the local criminal gangs keeping an eye on us. Frankly, I’m hoping for the criminals. They at least practice live and let live, and as long as we stay out of their way, they’ll stay out of ours.” Turning to her again with a smile, she continued, “Pragmatism is something of a way of life out here.”

   “I’ve noticed.” Schmidt’s hand slid down to her concealed holster, and she continued, “I could take him down with one shot, in less than five seconds.”

   “And the snipers all around us would open up in ten. It’s mutually-assured destruction, just like on Earth during the Superpower Wars. On a smaller scale, of course, but deterrence strategy works out here. There’s still time for you get back to the ship if you’re worried. Once you’re on your way back to the starport, everyone will leave you alone. My personal guarantee.”

   “And have you running around down here by yourself?”

   “You’re never going to get around to trusting me, are you?”

   “Would you, in my place?”

   “Probably not, but I’d rather hoped that you were a better person than I am. This way.”

   She turned down a side street, grateful to get away from the oppressive wall of the dome, but still all too aware of the countless pairs of eyes watching her every move, tracking her at every approach. She’d walked streets like these since she was a girl, and normally they held no fear for her, but somehow today was different.

   Behind her, Schmidt followed, her face betraying her anxiety, bringing a flicker of a smile to Cordova’s face at the image of the fearless space captain afraid of a few vagrants on the street. Not that she might not have good reasons for her fear, but under the circumstances, the domeside gangs were the least of their problems.

   She turned another corner, quickening her pace and glancing at her watch. She didn’t like being out of contact for this long, not knowing what was taking place back at the conference or up in orbit, but she didn’t dare turn on her communicator either, knowing that far too many people could be listening in. Finally, she found what she was looking for, a back street tabac bar, clouds of chemical smoke billowing out into the street. At Schmidt’s expression, she reached into her pocket, pulling out a pair of nose plugs and passing them to her, sliding another pair into position herself.

   “The stuff’s harmless, just enough to give you a buzz,” she explained, “but probably better that we don’t get tranqued out unless we don’t actually have a choice.” With a smile, she continued, “I’m one of those people the instructors at the Academy told you to stay away from, right?”

   “Arrest, actually, but you’re in the ball park.”

   “Our mook’s in there most of the time. Spends most of his money in there, drugged out of his mind.” She glanced around, then added, “The bartender’s an old friend of mine. As long as we’re discrete, he’ll look the other way and let us do what we have to do.”

   “And that is, exactly? You were vague on the details.”

   “One injection to clear his head, another to empty it while you stand guard.”

   “Wait a damned minute. Drugs like that...”

   Her eyes narrowing, Cordova replied, “The Federation used them quite happily, Commander, and a lot of my friends ended up brain-burned as a result. This guy’s a murderer, eighteen times over, and the death penalty is still on the books for that crime. Assuming there was any actual law and order down here, which there isn’t. We haven’t got time to play nice, and we haven’t got time to play by the rules, and it’s damned dirty down here as it is!” Gesturing at the dome, she added, “The next explosion might crack the roof and kill a million people. I’ll happily add killing a murderer to my conscience, but if you don’t think you have it in you, just wait outside and stay out of the way.”

   “You’re a monster,” Schmidt said, her lips curled into a sneer. “You’re a savage monster no better than the people you’ve been fighting.”

   “We look into the abyss and it looks back. I am what the Federation made me, but I’m damned good at my job.” Looking at the street, she noted that their shadow had held position, loitering in conversation with a street vendor waving smoked near-meat into the air. “Either come with me, or get the hell out of here. I haven’t got time for an argument, not with this many lives on the line.” Ignoring Schmidt’s glare, she stepped into the bar, looking around for their man. As she’d expected, Murchison was at the other side of the room, face buried in a mask, his eyes glazed with the normal look of a dopehead in the middle of his latest fix.

   She didn’t feel any compunction about what she was going to do to him. One look at his face suggested that someone had given him far too much money, and he’d already drained most of it on stimulants. He was a dead man walking, rotting from the inside out. Advancing the moment of his demise by a few weeks or months wouldn’t hurt him, but would save a lot of lives.

   Schmidt had followed her into the bar, standing by the door, her hand close to the pistol. She was going to help her, but keep her hands as clean as possible, and a tiny voice somewhere inside her was envious. Not that it made much difference at this point. There were enough deaths on her conscience already that one more hardly seemed to make a difference. That thought froze her in place for a moment, the stark reality of her existence a horrifying glimpse into her future.

   There really was nothing inside her, nothing at all. Just cold determination and a black hole where her soul had once lain. She’d died years ago, without even realizing it, her body still walking around through sheer determination if nothing else. And Schmidt was right about something else. She had turned into precisely the sort of monster she had pledged to fight, without really realizing it. A decade ago, she’d have been willing to die to stop someone like her. In a sense, she had, though she’d failed in her efforts.

   None of that mattered. Not now. She had a mission to accomplish, one last mission, and she was going to do it, no matter where the trail took her. After that, she’d have the leisure to work out something else. Though one thing she knew was that there were always opportunities for someone to commit s
uicide in pursuit of a greater cause. She’d seen it often enough in the Resistance. Maybe she’d have a chance to find it when their war was won.

   With a glance at the familiar barman, she walked up to Murchison, the dazed figure offering no resistance as she pulled him from the mask, planting a kiss on his greasy cheek before dragging him out into the alley behind the bar through the rear exit, the door sliding shut as she emerged. Without waiting to check, she stabbed the first injection into his neck, his eyes bulging from the effects, then slammed the second shot home, letting him slump to the ground.

   She pulled out a recorder, held it close to the dying man’s mouth, and asked, “Who hired you?”

   He looked up at her, horror in his eyes that mirrored hers, and replied, “Green Man. The Green Man hired me.” A horrible chuckle filled his voice, and he said, “Wanted one of...”

   A loud crack filled the air, a bullet slamming into Murchison’s chest. On instinct, Cordova pulled out her pistol, looking for the assailant, only for a second bullet to miss her by inches. She took the hint, sprinting down the alley in what she hoped was the right direction, and saw Schmidt standing in front of her, pistol raised and pointed towards her. Cordova froze as Schmidt fired, and a loud scream filled the air behind her, a figure falling from one of the windows overlooking the alley, crashing into a pile of empty crates on the street.

   “I thought…,” Cordova said.

   “If I was going to kill you, Major, you’d have died hours ago.” She ran forward, making her way to the corpse, and looked at the weapon, saying, “Homemade. Printed. Not very good, which is presumably why he missed with the second shot.” Turning to her, she asked, “Did Murchison say anything before he died?”

   “The Green Man. That’s all I got.”

   Frowning, she rifled through the dead gunman’s pockets, and said, “Lots of credit chits, recently printed. Means nothing.” She pulled out a ticket, and said, “Lottery tickets, from last week’s run.”