Silent Order_Master Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

  “At what?” said March.

  He expected November to say that he was surprised that March had a girlfriend. Truth be told, March himself was surprised. Before Adelaide, he hadn’t been with a woman for over eight years.

  “From my understanding,” said November, “you were an Iron Hand.”

  March gestured with his gloved left hand. “It’s a little hard to miss.”

  “I also believe the Machinist genetic alterations to Iron Hands include an increased testosterone level to help maintain muscle mass,” said November, “which also has the side effect of heightened libido.”

  “That’s right,” said March. He tapped some ash into November’s ashtray. “I assume there is a question coming.”

  “The brasserie was barely a B cup,” said November. “I had assumed you would have preferred a woman of more, shall we say, generous endowment.”

  March felt a wave of annoyance, sighed, and ground out his cigarette butt in the ashtray.

  “There are other attributes than the physical,” said March, holding out his hand.

  Though March did greatly appreciate Adelaide’s physical attributes, but he damned well wasn’t going to discuss that with November or with anyone else.

  November produced another cigarette, lit it, and passed it to March. “I’ve offended you.”

  “Only a little,” said March. “I know you too well. And it’s something important I’ve learned.” He thought about Theodoric Stormreel and his little tests, how March had been willing to challenge him when he had feigned an insult to Adelaide. “I don’t always think clearly when she is concerned.”

  “While I admit I do not fully understand such things,” said November, “I understand that a man in love is obliged to defend the woman of his affections. The social convention is common across multiple societies.” He lit a fresh cigarette. “Which means you are in love.”

  “Yes,” said March.

  “Fascinating,” said November, lifting his cigarette. “I always suspected that you were something of a romantic.”

  “Well,” said March. “We cannot always be as logical as you.”

  November smiled, his teeth flashing white in his dark face. “Mankind would be the better for it.”

  “Yes,” said March. “We can’t all spend our time fleecing freighter crewers at poker.”

  November blinked, and then laughed. “Indeed not. You are a rare man, Captain March. Very few people appreciate my candor.”

  “It’s an acquired taste,” said March. “But we’ve both been in this business long enough to know that a man who will tell the truth to your face is rare enough.”

  November snorted. “Even if the honesty is the result of genetic experimentation?”

  March grunted and gestured with his cigarette. “You can tell me the truth, and I can punch through a door. Neither one of asked to be what we are, but it is useless to wish otherwise.”

  “Indeed,” said November. “To business, then. What do you think is the best course of action at Burnchain Station?”

  “To steal the canisters of biomorphic fungi,” said March. “That’s the best course if we can manage it.”

  November shrugged. “It will be tricky. The Masters do not neglect their security.”

  “No,” said March. “We’ll have to see how matters stand before we can decide how to proceed.”

  “Mmm,” said November. “Agreed. Speculating without accurate data is frequently a serious mistake.” He blew out a cloud of smoke. “I wonder if Dr. Siegfried wants company.”

  March sighed. “Do me a favor. If you’re going to attempt to seduce her, don’t do it until after the mission.”

  “Well,” said November. “She’s a little old for my taste, true…”

  March sighed again. The fact of the matter was that between his eidetic memory, his complete lack of fear and shame, and his difficulty forming emotional connections, November was a remarkably effective seducer on the infrequent occasions when he felt like physical intimacy. Women usually liked him until he opened his mouth…but if he felt like it, he could talk them around again.

  And into his bed.

  “Oh, very well,” said November. “You’re right. It would be an irritating complication just now. And this mission is going to be complicated enough as it is.”

  He wasn’t wrong about that.

  ###

  The next morning and two hyperspace jumps later, March went to the Tiger’s gym.

  There was nothing else for him to do. The hyperdrive, the dark matter reactor, and the resonator were all functioning properly. He had replaced the air filters in the galley, the engine room, and the cargo hold, and all the Tiger’s systems were green.

  So, he exercised instead. On past trips, his guests had sometimes wandered into the gym while he had been exercising, which had varied between annoying and inconvenient. This time, he made sure to lock the door, then he increased the gravity to 1.5 normal and worked through his usual strength exercises. Then turned the gravity back to normal and ran seven kilometers on the treadmill.

  He had finished and was wiping his face with a towel when a tentative knock came at the door.

  “Yes?” called March.

  “It’s Anna Siegfried,” came the faint voice. “May I come inside?”

  March unlocked the door, and Siegfried stepped into the gym. She was wearing a black exercise tank top and pants that used to be close-fitting, but she had lost enough weight that they no longer fit well.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” said Siegfried, flicking an eye over his sweat-drenched shirt and shorts.

  March shook his head. “I was just finished. The gym’s all yours.” He stepped back. “If you’re sure you’re up to it. Plasma wounds and a cloned organ replacement are no joke.”

  “No,” said Siegfried. “But the doctors said I need to start doing at least some light exercise to rebuild core strength. I imagine it’s like falling off your bicycle as a child.” She took a deep, ragged breath. “Best to just get on with it.”

  “Yes,” said March. “I doubt November will be up for another few hours. You’ll have the gym to yourself.”

  “November,” said Siegfried with a grimace. “Can I ask you something about him?”

  “If you want,” said March.

  “What’s wrong with him?” said Siegfried.

  March shrugged. “Ask him yourself. He’ll be happy to tell you.”

  “I would rather not,” said Siegfried. She gave him an arch little smile. “But as you established, you’re in charge of this mission. Which means that if I have my doubts about working with an ill-mannered card shark, then I need to take them to you.”

  “True,” said March. “All right. John November is from the Falcon Republic. The Falcon Republic, as you know, is not actually a republic. The forms of government are there, but the Falcons, the military, dominate the state. The Falcons are not as ruthless as the Machinists, but ruthless enough. One of their favorite pastimes is human experimentation, trying to use genetic engineering and bio-augmentation to create super soldiers. Rather like the Fifth Empire, I suppose.” Siegfried scowled at that. “One of those experiments was something called the Sherlock project.”

  “Sherlock?” said Siegfried.

  “Some character or another from ancient literature,” said March.

  “Oh!” said Siegfried. “Sherlock Holmes. I remember now.”

  “Yes,” said March, who still wasn’t entirely sure who Sherlock Holmes was and did not care. “The scientists of the Falcon Republic had the bright idea of creating a genetically engineered human with an eidetic memory, enhanced logic capabilities, and reduced emotional capacity. The idea was to create a covert operative that would have the perfect memory and capabilities of a computer-enhanced cyborg but be otherwise undetectable.”

  “But the experiment didn’t work,” said Siegfried.

  “It worked,” said March. “It worked too well. Most of the subjects of the experiment gained
the eidetic memory and the enhanced logic capabilities but descended into criminal insanity. The emotional repression had worked too well. They became sociopaths, or in some cases outright psychopathic. Some of them built criminal empires, others became terrorists for the fun of it, and a few of them banded together and tried to overthrow the Falcon Republic. They would have succeeded if they hadn’t turned on each other.”

  “And your friend Mr. November?” said Siegfried, her uneasiness plain. “Is he a sociopath?”

  “No,” said March. “A sociopath has no moral conscience. He has one. He simply doesn’t care about people or their feelings, but he will not hurt anyone unless they attack him first. The Falcon Republic started hunting down the members of the Sherlock Project and killing them one by one. Once November realized what was happening, he fled the Republic for the Kingdom, and has remained here ever since.”

  “Do you trust him?” said Siegfried.

  “Yes,” said March. “Would you rather have the help of a man who smiles as he lies to you or a man who tells you a harsh truth to your face?”

  Siegfried shrugged. “That is a good argument. Whatever helps us to get the biomorphic fungi back.”

  March nodded. “The gym’s all yours. If you feel faint or ill, tell Vigil, and she’ll notify me.”

  “Thank you, Captain March,” said Siegfried. “Can I ask you one last question?”

  “If you want.”

  “Why do you trust November?” said Siegfried.

  “He saved my life once,” said March, “and I saved his.”

  And, truth be told, November was right. They were both anomalies, the former Iron Hand and one of the last survivors of the Sherlock Project. And someone who told you the truth was rare indeed.

  And March trusted November far more than he trusted Siegfried.

  He left the gym as she took a deep breath and climbed onto the elliptical machine.

  Chapter 3: Specialists

  Two days later, the Tiger exited hyperspace and entered the Exarch system.

  “Welcome to Exarch Station,” announced November from the co-pilot’s seat. “Something of a dump.”

  “For once,” said Siegfried from the tactical station behind the co-pilot’s seat, “I am in full agreement.”

  March said nothing, his attention on the controls as he guided the Tiger towards the asteroid mine half a million kilometers away.

  The Exarch system was on the outer edges of the solar systems claimed by the Kingdom of Calaskar. The system had four rocky inner planets and eight gas giants. One of the rocky inner planets was habitable by humans, but just barely, and no one had ever attempted a colony there. The system’s asteroids had several rare ores, and various Calaskaran mining companies had set up facilities to extract and refine the ores for sale.

  Exarch Station itself was one such station, owned and operated by the Grand Ducal Mining Company of Alexandria. The station had been built into a large potato-shaped asteroid about seventy kilometers in diameter, mostly clustered at the asteroid’s southern pole, with a dozen habitat domes and half a hundred docking bays built around the mine shafts. Most asteroid mines were abandoned once their ores were depleted, but the owners of the Grand Ducal Mining Company had more foresight. Once the mines on Exarch Station played out, the owners intended to convert the mine into a proper station, a hub for business and commerce and interstellar traffic. March thought the Grand Ducal Mining Company had a fair shot at achieving their goals.

  Though it would never be the sort of place that someone like Anna Siegfried, tenured professor of the University of Mercator, would visit of her own will.

  “I am pleased we are in accord,” said November.

  “It rather reminds me of some of the outer asteroid mines in the Mercator system,” said Siegfried.

  “Indeed, madam,” said November. “Or the asteroid mines in the uninhabitable systems. There is always money to be made in asteroid mining, and at the very least, they make for excellent pirate bases.”

  Siegfried raised her pale eyebrows. “And what do you know about pirate bases, Mr. November?”

  “Quite a lot, actually,” said November. “You see, pirates need to launder their money like any other criminals, and that creates anomalies. Tracking the anomalies through the maze of modern banking software is both enjoyable and highly profitable. The pirates enjoy it rather less.”

  “The banks of Mercator are utterly impregnable,” announced Siegfried with a flicker of patriotic pride.

  “I have yet to encounter anything truly impregnable in this life, Dr. Siegfried,” said November.

  “What do you think, Captain March?” said Siegfried.

  “I think I’ve been to worse places,” said March, watching the communication panel for a response from station control.

  November and Siegfried turned back to their conversation, and March listened with half an ear as he piloted the ship towards Exarch Station. November and Siegfried had spent the last two days engaged in a conversation that was not quite an argument. It was quite clear that Siegfried found November rude, and that November found Siegfried tedious. Yet November, thanks to his eidetic memory, could converse upon practically any topic, and Siegfried like to talk.

  College professors always seemed to have that weakness. Adelaide certainly liked to talk.

  March tried to put away the thoughts of how much he missed Adelaide. For once, he succeeded. The prospect of crashing into an asteroid because he was daydreaming about his girlfriend had a marvelous way of focusing the mind.

  The communication panel chimed, and March opened the channel. He spoke with a young traffic control officer, received the use of a landing bay, and steered the Tiger towards the asteroid as November and Siegfried started a polite argument about the effectiveness of Mercatorian banking methods. March cut the fusion drive, brought the Tiger the rest of way on ion thrusters, and guided the ship into the landing pit. There was a shudder as the ship passed through the static atmosphere barrier, a queasy jolt as they shifted from the Tiger’s gravitics to the station’s artificial gravity, and then March put the ship down.

  “Good landing,” said Siegfried.

  “Not really,” said November. “I have traveled with Captain March many times, and he has made numerous cleaner landings than this. But several worse ones. I would rate this landing on the lower edge of average.”

  “Thanks,” grunted March, setting the ship’s systems to standby. “You know where Dr. Northridge and Lieutenant Alan are awaiting us?”

  “A hotel in Habitat Dome 6,” said November, getting to his feet.

  “Right,” said March, locking the flight cabin’s consoles and standing. “Let’s go meet them.”

  Siegfried hesitated. “Do you need me to come with you?”

  “Not unless you want to do so,” said March. “Otherwise, you can stay here until we return. I want to leave Exarch Station in another four hours if possible.”

  “Very well,” said Siegfried. “I think I will use your gym, and then take a nap.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said March.

  “Might I borrow a gun?” said November. “I’m afraid I was unable to bring one through customs on Alexandria Station.”

  “Sure,” said March. “Dr. Siegfried, see you in four hours.”

  Siegfried rose and walked past them down the dorsal corridor, disappearing into her cabin, and March opened the door to the armory. He took a gun belt and wrapped it around his waist, a plasma pistol in the holster and several spare power packs in the belt's pockets, and a pair of knives into the hidden sheaths up the sleeves of his coat.

  “You’ve added twenty-three guns since the last time I was on your ship,” said November.

  “A man can never have too many guns,” said March, thinking of Adelaide quoting her father.

  “There have been several times in my life when I wished for one more gun,” said November, taking one of the gun belts.

  “Then take one more gun,” said March, handing hi
m a pistol and a set of power packs. “This was your preferred model, as I recall.”

  “It is,” said November. “Shall we?”

  They exited the ship and entered the docking bay. The Tiger filled most of the bay, with only a few meters of clearance on either side. March would have to use the antigravs and the ion thrusters to take the ship out in a straight vertical line.

  “My judgment may have been hasty,” said November. “Given the space constraints, that was an admirable landing."

  “Considering that neither you nor Dr. Siegfried actually knows how to pilot a starship,” said March, “you were both full of helpful commentary.”

  The bay doors slid open at their approach, revealing a wide cargo corridor carved through the rock of the asteroid. At the moment the corridor was deserted. Most of Exarch Station’s starship traffic moved through the landing bays closer to the mining facilities.

  “Do you trust her?” said November.

  “I trust her not to steal the ship or to make trouble while we’re gone,” said March, drawing out his phone and connecting it to the station’s local network. He pulled up a map of the station, oriented himself, and nodded. It would be a walk of about three kilometers to Habitat Dome 6 from here.

  “That’s because she doesn’t know how to pilot a starship or even how to sabotage one,” said November.

  “She doesn’t,” said March, returning his phone to his jacket pocket. “As for trust…to a point. Once we get our hands on the biomorphic fungi, I’m not sure how she’ll react. She says she wants to destroy it, to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. She might try to take it back with her to Mercator for study.”

  “Or,” said November, “she sells it herself. An irresistible weapon of mass destruction has many willing buyers.”

  “You think she’s that dumb?” said March. They turned a corner and came to a lift car lobby. March and November entered the lift car, which was large and rectangular and thankfully empty. He hit the button for Habitat Dome 6, and the doors hissed closed, and the car whirred into life.

  “Maybe,” said November. “Selling the weapon herself would, of course, result in her death. Anyone who had the money to purchase a weapon of that potency would find it more expedient to kill her and take the fungi. She would be in over her head. Likely she is smart enough to realize that, which is why she is following your lead.” He paused. “But the prospect of enough money to buy your own moon has a way of turning people into idiots.”