Silent Order_Master Hand

by Jonathan Moeller

  Kent? Not Lieutenant Alan?

  March cut away the last of the ropes and Northridge scrambled to her feet, backing into a corner of the room, her eyes wide, her chest heaving with her breath. Even beneath the layers of her jacket and blouse, March had to admit it was a nice chest.

  He rebuked himself and ripped away Alan’s gags.

  “God, that always stings,” said Alan. He had a resonant, commanding voice.

  “Beats the alternative,” said March, starting on the ropes.

  “Not going to argue,” said Alan. “Captain March, Mr. November, I’m Lieutenant Kent Alan. Damn glad to see you turn up.” He spoke with a rural Calaskaran accent. Over her years in the public eye, Adelaide had trained herself to speak with a cool, modulated middle-class Calaskaran accent, but when she got angry or frightened or excited, her original accent came back.

  “What happened?” said November.

  Northridge kept staring at March, her eyes wide.

  “Hell if I know,” said Alan. “Melissa and I were waiting for you here. We decided to get lunch at one of the nicer restaurants on the station, and after we got dressed, someone kicked in the door and shot us both with stun weapons. When we woke up, we were tied to those damn chairs.” March sliced the rope and Alan got to his feet. “From what they said, it seems like they were waiting for you. I was trying to figure out what to do when you came through the door.”

  “And you have no idea who they were or what they wanted?” said March.

  Alan shrugged and then rubbed his back. “Don’t know. I don’t think I’d ever seen any of them before.”

  March frowned. “You didn’t notice them following you?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Alan.

  March shared a look with November, remembering his earlier concerns about working with so many people on this mission. He knew November well enough to see the faint twitch of his lips. Siegfried and Northridge might have been experts in their fields, and Alan probably knew how to fight, but they didn’t have the skills of a covert operative and might be a liability on this kind of mission.

  Goddamned politics!

  “John,” said March. “Check them over.”

  “Let’s see if they have anything interesting for us,” said November, who started searching the stunned men.

  “I assume we’re going to station security next?” said Alan, still rubbing his back. “Cuirass Corporation does the security out here. They’re better than most. Only hire veterans. Though I suppose we’ll need to spend the day filling out forms…”

  “No,” said March. “We’re going to my ship right now, and we’re getting the hell out of here.”

  “But these muggers attacked us!” protested Northridge, her arms wrapped tight around herself. “We need to report it.”

  March shared another look with November and repressed a sigh. For his part, November only looked amused. Of course, he wasn’t the one who had to make Dr. Northridge and Lieutenant Alan see sense. Sometimes leadership was a pain in the ass.

  “They weren’t muggers,” said March. “They were after us, specifically. Which means they knew about our mission and wanted to stop us. And that means we need to get to my ship and get the hell out of here right now. I bet these men are hired muscle for a local Machinist cell, but they could be a hit squad from the Agotanni Pirates. Or someone else who’s interested in stopping our mission.” He pointed at the stunned man as November relieved him of his wallet and ID card. “They might have better-armed friends or a well-armed ship nearby. Either way, we need to be gone.”

  “No,” said Northridge. “We’re going to the security service. These men attacked us, and you don’t have the authority to tell us what to…”

  “Melissa,” said Alan, his voice soothing. “He’s right. I think in this kind of mission the usual rules don’t apply. We ought to listen to Captain March.”

  She glared at him, and Alan offered her a placating smile. Then she turned her glare in March’s direction, and he stared right back. He had seen far more frightening things in his life than a short biologist. At last Northridge scowled, looked away, and folded her arms again.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Get your bags and let’s go,” said March.

  “We’ll be ready in five minutes,” said Alan.

  ###

  “Solar system JQ9987H,” said November a half-hour later, settling himself in the co-pilot’s acceleration chair as the Tiger drove hard for deep space.

  “That’s where Burnchain Station will be?” said March, tapping the name into the navigation controls.

  “Correct,” said November.

  An interstellar map appeared on one of the holographic displays hovering over March’s console, and he studied it.

  “That’s way the hell out in the middle of nowhere,” said March, reading the metadata on the map. “No one claims that system, and no one claims any of the systems near it. The star is a white dwarf, a hot one. No rocky inner planets left, and only some ice giants and asteroids in the outer system, along with the usual Kuiper belt objects and comets. A whole lot of cold nothing.”

  “Which you will agree,” said November, “is the perfect place for the Masters of Burnchain Station to hold an auction for an ancient superweapon.”

  “Good place to dispose of any bodies, at least,” said March, starting Vigil on a hyperspace calculation. “Let’s see...should take us fifteen hyperjumps to get there. Combined with sublight transit times…we’re looking at a flight of two and a half days.”

  “Excellent,” said November. “That should get us there in plenty of time for the auction. Any ideas on how to proceed?”

  “Not yet,” said March, watching the status readout on the hyperspace calculation. “Like you said, it’s a mistake to make a plan without adequate information. Once we arrive, we’ll assess the situation and decide how to proceed from there. Oh, we’ll need that false transponder data.”

  “I already left it on my partition in the computer system,” said November. “Along with precise navigational data for Burnchain Station’s projected location and our invitation to the auction.”

  “Good,” said March.

  “What do you think of Dr. Northridge and Lieutenant Alan?” said November.

  March checked that the flight cabin door was locked, and then looked at his fellow Alpha Operative.

  “They’re probably going to be a problem,” said March.

  November nodded, his eerie blue eyes unblinking. It was some side effect of the medical protocol of the Sherlock Project that had turned his eyes that color. “I tend to agree.”

  “Northridge isn’t at all suited to this kind of mission,” said March. “Siegfried isn’t, but she at least got with the program after I talked with her…”

  “After you scared her,” said November.

  “Fear’s the best teacher of all,” said March, and November snorted. “Northridge seems proud enough that she will fight us every step of the way, and she might get us killed. I would say that Alan seems like a reliable man. Marines don’t make good covert operatives, but they’re steady in a fight. But…”

  “But he and Dr. Northridge are obviously sleeping together,” said November.

  “Yes,” said March. “The one hotel room, the one bed, and all their toiletries were in the same bathroom when they packed up. For that matter, Alan’s story? How they got dressed to go and get some lunch? They were obviously in the same room together to get dressed.”

  “Which means they engaged in intercourse beforehand,” said November. “Though that always sounds excessively formal. They copulated? They shagged? They screwed? I am unfamiliar with the current slang.”

  “Regardless,” said March, “according to Alan’s file, he’s married. Wife and two children back on Constantinople IV. Having an affair is grounds for a dishonorable discharge.”

  “We seem to be traveling,” said November, “with a great many liabilities.”

  “Yes,” said
March.

  Theodoric Stormreel had called March’s relationship with Adelaide Taren a liability, but at least Adelaide was competent. She might have written him that message saying how much she missed having him in her bed, but at least she had run it through multiple layers of encryption first. Only someone on the Tiger or in physical possession of Adelaide’s home computer could read it. For that matter, regarding security risks, there was a big difference between a widowed university professor having a lover and a married Royal Marine officer having an affair.

  Some liabilities were a lot bigger than others.

  “I finished checking the IDs I took from our attackers on Exarch Station,” said November.

  “Anything interesting?” said March.

  “There was only one feature of interest,” said November. “All the IDs were forged, obviously. Good jobs of it, but still forged. I ran the names through your computer’s databases and only found one hit.” He held up an ID card showing a scowling middle-aged man. He had been the first one March had stunned in the conference room.

  “Marco Skinner,” said March.

  “Obviously a false name,” said November, “but a Machinist operative used that name during some operations in the Antioch system three years ago. Some business with the Antioch Liberation Front, looks like.”

  “Hell,” said March. “Then that was a Machinist job on Exarch Station.”

  “Most probably,” said November. “I wonder what they wanted.”

  March shrugged. “Take your pick. They might have realized that this was a Silent Order operation and wanted to disrupt it on general principles. They might have wanted to kidnap either Northridge or Alan.” He sighed. “Or they realized we’re going to Burnchain Station and wanted to remove one less bidder for the biomorphic fungi.”

  “Calculation complete,” announced Vigil.

  “Hang on a moment,” said March, and November nodded. March did one last system check, and then drew back the hyperdrive power levers. The Tiger leaped into hyperspace, and Vigil announced that the ship would reach the next solar system in two hours and seventeen minutes.

  “The others all in the galley?” said March.

  “They are.”

  March nodded and got to his feet, and November followed suit. “I suppose it’s time to share the plan with them.”

  “And to lay down the law?” said November.

  “If necessary.”

  “Might want to change your glove, too,” said November. “It’s about to fall off your hand.”

  March nodded, pulled off the ruined glove, and shoved it into a pocket of his coat. He thought about getting another one but decided not to bother. Siegfried knew that he had a cybernetic hand, and both Northridge and Alan had seen him get stabbed in the hand with no ill effect. No use in hiding it now.

  The door to the galley hissed open, and March and November stepped inside. Alan leaned against the far wall, holding a cup of coffee. Siegfried and Northridge sat across from each other, both smiling the bright smiles of women who had decided not to like each other but nonetheless needed to remain polite.

  “Technically,” said Northridge, “they ought to be called memory disks. The control programs for the canisters of biomorphic fungi were always loaded on data storage devices that were round. Like medallions or large coins.”

  “The shape is irrelevant,” said Siegfried. “The documentation from the Fifth Empire always referred to them as memory cards, and…”

  All three of them looked up as March and November entered.

  “We’ve entered hyperspace,” said March, “and we’re on our way to our destination. It’s time we made sure we were all on the same page with the mission…”

  “Jesus Christ!” said Northridge.

  She surged up from the table and slammed back against the wall with such force that she almost turned an ankle in her high heels. Alan and Siegfried looked at her in surprise, and March’s initial reaction was exasperation. What was it now?

  Then he saw the alarm on her face, and his combat instincts took over. Was there a threat? A malfunction with the ship?

  No. Northridge was staring at him.

  More specifically, at the dull gray metal of his left hand.

  “What is it, Melissa?” said Alan. He started to put his arm around her and stopped himself.

  “Look at his hand,” said Northridge.

  “It’s cybernetic, obviously,” said Siegfried with some of her customary condescension. “It’s hardly uncommon, dear. Some people’s bodies simply reject cloned replacements.”

  “No,” said Northridge. “It’s a Machinist prosthesis.”

  Alan blinked several times.

  “I’d recognize it anywhere,” said Northridge, fear and hate on her face. “He’s an Iron Hand. He’s a goddamn Machinist Iron Hand, and we’re trapped on the ship with him.”

  Chapter 4: Poor Decisions

  “Kill him,” said Northridge, her expression pleading as she looked at Alan. “If you don’t kill him first, he’ll kill us all.”

  Alan frowned. “I think you might be overreacting.”

  Northridge’s expression turned thunderous. “Do not tell me I am overreacting!”

  “An Iron Hand?” said Siegfried. She looked more startled than alarmed. “The elite commandos of the Final Consciousness?”

  “I was an Iron Hand,” said March. “For years. Then I left and joined the Kingdom of Calaskar.”

  “An Iron Hand just can’t leave the Final Consciousness,” said Northridge. “They can’t.”

  “Yes, they can,” said November. “So long as the hive implant is removed, a former Machinist drone is permanently severed from the Final Consciousness. I have met and spoken with several people who were formerly part of the Final Consciousness. Captain March is but one such individual.”

  “Then he’s still a murderer,” spat Northridge, glaring her hatred at March. “The Iron Hands are all murderers.”

  She wasn’t wrong.

  But March’s brain had caught up with his surprise, and he realized what had happened. The Iron Hands did covert operations in the Kingdom of Calaskar from time to time, usually assassinations. Likely Melissa Northridge had seen a family member killed in front of her by an Iron Hand.

  A wave of irritation rolled through March. Why the hell had Censor sent him to work with a woman who likely had good reason to hate a former Iron Hand? No doubt the Ministry of Defense had forced her on Censor, but couldn’t they have picked a scientist with a different background?

  “I rather doubt that,” said Siegfried. “Or perhaps it was true in the past, but it isn’t now. Captain March saved my life at considerable risk and difficulty to himself. To be blunt, it would have been easier for him to let me die. No one would have known.”

  She smiled at him, and March was surprised. He had indeed saved her life, and as condescending and arrogant as she was, she still hadn’t forgotten it.

  “I’m sure,” said Northridge, her disdain plain.

  “That explains how you dealt with our attackers on Exarch Station so quickly,” said Alan. “I’ve seen a few men fight that effectively, but not many.”

  “This is a travesty,” said Northridge. “An absolute travesty. At our next stop, I am going to complain to the Ministry of Defense. I…”

  “No,” said March.

  She scowled at him. “What did you say to me?”

  “Our next stop is going to be Burnchain Station itself,” said March. “We have a mission to accomplish, and you know what’s at stake. Else you wouldn’t be here. We are going to Burnchain Station, and we are going to obtain and destroy the biomorphic fungi. I suggest you, and everyone else here, put aside their personal feelings and focus on the business at hand. Else our mission will fail, and we’ll all be killed. Or we’ll escape, and when someone uses the biomorphic fungi to wipe out a planetary population, Dr. Northridge, you can explain to your superiors in the Ministry of Defense why you allowed your emotions to override your j
udgment.”

  His voice was hard, but he wanted to see how Northridge would react. She trembled like an angry cat, and for a moment he thought she might actually try to throttle him. But she mastered herself, her emotions retreating behind a cold mask.

  “Melissa,” said Alan. “I think he’s right.”

  “Fine,” said Northridge, returning to her previous place at the table. “But once this is over, I am lodging a formal complaint with my superiors at the Ministry of Defense.”

  March doubted that. If they were still alive when this was all over, the entire business would be so highly classified that only the King, Censor, the Prime Minister, and the Lord Admirals would even know about it.

  “If anyone else has any personal grievances to air,” said March, “now is the time.”

  No one said anything. Northridge kept glaring at him but remained silent.

  “Good,” said March. “We are now traveling to Burnchain Station. You know why you’re all here. Dr. Northridge, the Ministry of Defense sent you to ensure that the biomorphic fungi was safely destroyed. Dr. Siegfried, you have the same mission from your government. Lieutenant Alan, you are here to safeguard Dr. Northridge.” Though evidently, he had decided to guard her in bed as well. “Mr. November and I have been hired to see you safely to Burnchain Station and back.”

  Northridge sniffed with disdain. “Why they hired a privateer and…and whatever the hell you are, Mr. November…”

  “A financial consultant,” said November.

  “A financial consultant,” said Northridge. “It’s beyond me. We should be going to Burnchain Station with a couple of destroyers and a heavy cruiser from the Royal Navy, not some seedy privateer ship.”

  “There’s a good reason for that,” said March. “Mr. November knows more about Burnchain Station than any of us.”

  Alan snorted. “And how does an accountant wind up knowing about a place like Burnchain Station?”

  “A financial consultant, Lieutenant Alan,” said November. His smile had a lot of teeth. “While I realize this may come as a shock to you, criminals are in it for the money. Money must be moved, invested, and banked. Or laundered, as the case might be. A great deal of my consulting work involves tracking the source and ownership of illegally obtained funds. And a vast quantity of illicit money flows through Burnchain Station. Captain March, may I?”