Captains Malicious (The Liberation Series Book 1)

by T. R. Harris

  “Same to you, Mister Steele.”

  “I guess we can learn something from this little mishap, like make sure we know what we’re up against before committing to an engagement.”

  “What, and take all the fun out of pirating? No way! But our job here isn’t done, not yet.”

  Steele frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “That,” Kincaid pointed at the viewscreen. The Vixx’r ship still struggled on the edge of the Drift Current, appearing as though she might break free at any moment. Somewhere aboard the dying ship there was a Vixxie at his post, working earnestly to get the ship to clear space.

  “What about it?” Steele said. “Done deal.”

  “If we leave them they’ll eventually make their way out of the Current. We have to go mop up the mess we’ve made. And for our trouble, I think a six-master should be a fair trade.”

  “Make that a five-master now, Captain…for what good it will do. We barely have enough crew for the Malicious.”

  Kincaid frowned and pursed his lips. “That is a problem; a fancy new starship and with no one to drive her.”

  “She’s not so new, not anymore.” Steele now mirrored Robert’s furrowed forehead. “You know every time you make a pitch for new recruits you run the risk of being found out. And then what would we do if the Vixxie have you for dinner?”

  “Hopefully I’d give them indigestion.”

  “Robert—”

  Kincaid raised his hand. “I know, Javon, and thanks for your concern, but we both know the time would come eventually.”

  Steele grimaced. “I’m your friend and shipmate, but that thing there—the dreadnaught—could be a lot more serious than the revelation that you’re the infamous Captain Malicious. It could have some very dire consequences for the rest of the Human population in the Reaches.”

  Kincaid nodded. “Rest assured, Commander, plans have been made to prevent that from happening. We just have to trust the UPE when that time comes.”

  Steele’s frown turned into a sour smirk. “Trust the government to do the right thing, like defend the Reaches against the Sludgers? We all know how that turned out.”

  “That was different, Javon, and you know it.” And then he smiled. “Besides, all they have to do in this case is betray one person—me! I’m sure even the government of the UPE can’t screw that up!”

  *****

  IT was a young graduate student in the mid-21st century named Holland Norvell who first came up with the formula for faster-than-light travel.

  While working on his doctoral thesis in quantum mechanics, Norvell kept hitting the brick wall of a mysterious thing called “gravity,” something that had never been previously well-defined. From not long after the time of Sir Isaac Newton, gravity had been labeled as “the weakest of the nuclear forces,” the implication being that gravity had something to do with the atom and with the laws of cohesion and adhesion. But nothing seemed to fit the model of the universe the young, eccentric genius envisioned—that of mankind traveling throughout the stars in real-time and not over centuries as was the present level of technology.

  As the historians record, in the wee hours of the morning, a week before his thesis defense, Norvell picked up his yogurt spoon and dropped it. He picked it up again, and once more let it fall to the table. Again and again he repeated the process. Lift the spoon. Drop the spoon.

  It’s then believed he asked the empty room, “What am I looking at?”

  His own voice answered: “Gravity.”

  Norvell’s mind must have then gone off into a fugue state or a black hole or something—the other side of the universe perhaps—because he was soon asking aloud, “But what would it be like if I dropped the spoon on the surface of something other than a gigantic electromagnet spinning in space?”

  It dawned on him that no one in recorded history had ever asked that question, and as the mythology goes, Norvell then opened his computer and erased the title of his thesis and replaced it with large block letters that read: GRAVITY IS DEAD.

  He then began to reconstruct the universe based upon the supposition that there was no such thing as gravity, that there was only electromagnetism.

  The day of Norvell’s thesis defense came and went, and nobody saw him and he wouldn’t answer his pad. He emerged from his room three weeks later, much thinner, yet with the answer to his question. Within that time he had figured out how galaxies adhere and why they pool into squashed spirals. It was so obvious to him now. So-called gravity was instantaneous.

  Einstein must have turned over in his grave so fast that he blurred to invisibility.

  From Norvell’s early theories came many more, including the equation that permitted travel to the stars.

  In the Captain’s lounge aboard the Malicious, Steele raised a glass of rare specialty port and toasted, “To Norvell!”

  “To Norvell!” Kincaid replied. After draining the glass of its potent contents, Robert got down to business. “As soon as we get the tow lines secured, let’s make best speed back to base. Then we’ll take my flitter back to Ione. We should be home by late afternoon the day after tomorrow.”

  “So you’re still going through with it?” Steele asked.

  “I don’t have a choice. You said it yourself: we barely have enough crew for the Malicious. I need bodies, and I need them now. And after that, there’s a meeting scheduled at KST that I don’t want to miss. Gaolic’s going to be there, I believe.”

  “You need to be careful, Robert. That old Vixxie is a patient son-of-a-bitch, while you’re the most impatient man I know. That’s not a good combination. Also, I wouldn’t expect much out of your friends at the Duck. It takes a special breed of fool to do what we do.”

  Kincaid smiled. “I hear that. But I’ve only invited the ones I believe have what it takes.”

  “What’s that—a terminal illness and with nothing left to lose?”

  “You are one sour cynic, aren’t you, Commander? I’m expecting you to make the meeting. I’m going to need your back-up.”

  “I’ll be there. In fact I think it might be quite entertaining watching you explain our mission to a bunch of landlubbers.” Steele them lifted his glass and observed the dark burgundy color through the light. “Good stuff this port of yours. Beats the hell out of the swill they’re brewing in the Reaches these days.”

  “The recipe’s been in my family for hundreds of years. A distant branch of the family still owns a winery back on Earth—or so I’ve been told. I’ve never been there myself.”

  “You could go, you know?”

  “To Earth?” Kincaid shook his head. “No way, I have to stay here and nursemaid this glorious revolution we have going against the Vixx’r Occupation of the Reaches.”

  “I don’t know that it’s technically a revolution yet, not until....”

  “Until what?”

  “Until the people rise up. That’s why they call it an uprising. It seems to me everyone is settling down for the long run, everyone except us.”

  “That’s why I can’t go to Earth. Someone needs to light a fire under them. Too many are accepting the current situation as a permanent state of affairs.”

  Javon Steele nodded.

  At that moment Sinclair’s voice intruded over the comm. “Captain, tow lines are secure. We’ve got the ship.”

  “Very good, Mister Sinclair. Captain out.”

  “I still say you should cancel the meeting at the Duck,” Steele said. “We can find recruits in a less public way, more one-on-one.”

  “I have to go, Javon. Besides, I know all these people; have my whole life. I’ll be fine.” Robert Kincaid was tired, and he wore his exhaustion on his face and in his every movement. He set the empty glass on the coffee table. “Give the word Mister Steele: Best speed back to base. Our destiny awaits.”

  2

  ROBERT Kincaid’s old four-door Trammer made it up the slope and settled out onto Klondike Avenue with only a modest protest. This was Old Town Anchorage, built alo
ng the foothills of the Saw Teeth Range over seventy years ago. Most of the buildings in this neighborhood dated back to that time, with many having been restored to their past glory when the economy of the Reaches was booming. Since that time, many had fallen back into decay, and if the past six years was an indicator, they would remain so for a very long time to come.

  Robert had chosen the least pretentious car from the inventory of vehicles available at the Kincaid Estate, not wanting to come off as too flashy to the men he would be meeting tonight. It was a battle he’d fought constantly throughout his life—the dichotomy between the privileged rich kid and the humble military officer. Even then, the Trammer XKL was the top-of-the-line for this particular model.

  He abruptly pulled over and parked the vehicle down the road from the tavern. There was no need pushing the issue. Besides, the short walk in the chill evening air would help shock him out the weariness he was feeling.

  It was winter in the Southern Hemisphere of Ione, and the city of Anchorage was blanketed with a light layer of snow. As evening approached the skies had cleared and a breathtaking display of brilliant stars began winking on; however, a frigid wind still drifted down from The Saw Teeth, bringing with it the promise of plummeting temperatures throughout the night.

  Despite the hazards brought on by the weather, the hardy inhabitants of this frontier settlement went about their business as best they could, navigating slippery roads in their cars or huddled together in groups awaiting transit buses to take them to their homes. Fires would be ablaze tonight and throws wrapped around the children to keep them warm. It was the most they could do on ration nights, since the natural gas and electric utility was only operating every other day. And this night wasn’t one of them.

  Life had become progressively harder for the natives of Ione over the previous year, and the grumblings of the discontented were everywhere, if only expressed in private. Public Disruption—as it was called—could be lethal on Vixx’r-occupied Ione. The aliens had yet to figure out a way to regulate private thought.

  Robert stopped outside the door of the tavern, doffed the hood of his parka and removed his gloves. He ran his hands through his coarse black hair as he scanned the road for anything unusual. Everything appeared to be okay. He took a moment and regarded the sparse lights of his home town as they popped on sporadically, and often with dancing shadows giving away their source. It would be candles or battery-operated illumination tonight…or early to bed—which was the option his weary body would choose. Yet that was not to be; there was still a lot of work to do before he could rest.

  Robert counted the mere smattering of vehicles parked nearby. They would have come in two and threes. Ten, maybe…possibly twelve? Not many for such a need.

  He took in a deep, chilling breath and then stepped inside the tavern.

  *****

  UPON entering, Robert Kincaid was greeted by a dimly-lit, wood-paneled room with a dozen tables scattered haphazardly about and with worn leather booths lining the walls. The twenty-foot-long, glass-top bar was off to the left, and with it an ornately-framed a six-foot-high mirror stationed above a jagged skyline of half full liquor bottles.

  A crackling fire blazed in a massive stone hearth, bathing the room in soothing warmth while casting dancing flickers of light throughout. The only other lighting on ration nights came from table candles, a large oil-lamp chandelier near the pool tables and a battery-operated fluorescent lamp that Freddy Jarvis, the owner, had hung above the bar.

  Immediately, Robert’s stomach began to rumble. The allure and charm of The Rusty Duck was capped off by the incredibly intoxicating aroma of the best French-dip sandwiches to be found in all of Anchorage, and Kincaid wasn’t immune to the effect. Freddy’s Dipper was the primary reason he had chosen The Duck for the meeting. If all else failed, at least he’d have a good meal before departing.

  “They’re all waiting for you, Robert, and I’d get to talkin’ mighty fast if I was you,” Freddy said from behind the bar. “Got a restless bunch in there.” The tall, impossibly thin man then followed Robert into the meeting room.

  Kincaid wasn’t much of a public speaker—decision and action were his forte—and for a moment he felt like a snot-nosed college kid at his first public debate. During the long drive to The Duck, the words he might say tonight had drifted in and out of his thoughts, revealing something profound and meaningful. But here, in front of the men, the elusive thought abandoned him. He opened his mouth and the words he now spoke came as strangers.

  “Who here wants to do something about the Vixx’r, both here on Ione and throughout the Reaches?”

  One man chuckled. “Do something, he says. Against the aliens?”

  “That’s what I said: Do something. Something is better than nothing.”

  The moment the words came out he realized his mistake. It was an insult, the direct implication of which was that thus far the men seated here had done...well, nothing.

  He raised his hand to quell the rising protest.

  “You know what I’m saying. It’s that I believe you, Mercer,” he pointed, “and Kim and Drake—all of you—could do better as a team.”

  “Don’t you mean a crew?” Freddy Jarvis said. Robert knew Freddy wasn’t going anywhere, now or ever. He was too old and he had the tavern to look after. Also, from Freddy’s point of view, this meeting meant losing some of his best customers. It was now obvious why he had followed Robert into the back room.

  “That’s right, Freddy, I do need crew, fighting men and women who want to make a difference in the Reaches.” Robert said. He placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Do me a favor, Freddy, fix me one of those Dippers of yours. I’ve worked up quite an appetite on the way here and you’d be insulted if I didn’t order one.”

  The tavern-keeper grumbled something under his breath as he placed his towel on his shoulder and left the room.

  “Cut the crap, Kincaid,” Bondel Drake blurted. “We all know why we’re here. You want us to join your fledgling rebellion and head off into space to risk our lives on a hopeless cause.”

  The door to the small meeting room suddenly opened and Javon Steele entered, removing his thick coat as he did so.

  “Sorry I’m late, Captain, but traffic is a friggin’ mess out there.”

  “Glad you could make it, Javon. I was just getting started.”

  Robert Kincaid turned back to the assembled men.

  “As most of you know, I’ve been in touch with the UPE, and I’ve been offered certain guarantees that if you’ll fight for Earth—”

  “Earth! Why should we fight for Earth? They didn’t fight for us!” Drake’s comment produced a series of emphatic nods and a chorus of agreement from most of the others in the room. Buoyed by their support, the bombastic Merchant-Pilot 1st Class continued. “All those bastards ever did was abandon us, leaving us to the mercy of the Sludgers. And now you want us to leave our homes and families and go off in your cobbled-together starship on what amounts to a suicide mission, and all in the name of Mother Earth. Sorry, bud, but we ain’t that stupid.”

  Kincaid knew Bondel Drake would be a problem, yet he was one of the most-accomplished pilots in the Reaches—and he did have his own starship, the Kai Shek, a cargo vessel. Even with that, inviting him to the meeting was turning into a disaster, and if his argument wasn’t countered soon, then any hope of finding new recruits this evening would be lost. As it stood, his pickings appeared to be pretty slim to begin with.

  “The UPE didn’t have a choice, and you know it,” Robert said above the din of Drake’s enthusiastic entourage. “We’re so far out from Earth that defending the Reaches was impossible. But they haven’t given up on us; that’s why I’m here tonight. We can still make a difference—”

  “By raiding Vixxie ships?” Drake interrupted. “That’s like a flea on an elephant’s ass, Kincaid. How do you expect to hamper their operations in this sector with a couple of broken down starships manned by rookie crews? I think you missed
your calling, Kincaid. After listening to this I think you should be writing fantasy novels rather than trying to lead a rebellion.”

  Kincaid stared at the square-jawed, bearded face of his adversary and envisioned a strategically-placed right-cross as punctuating his last statement. Yet no matter how satisfying that would be for Robert, it wouldn’t win over the others in the room. Words alone would rule the day.

  “Sure, we only have a couple of vessels now, but the more Vixx’r ships we commandeer, the stronger we’ll become. And with the six-master we just got we now have the fastest, most-powerful warship in the Reaches. But beyond the firepower we can bring to a fight, who else knows these currents better than we do? The alien ships will be easy prey.”

  “Says the man who nearly got his ship and crew blasted into stardust during his last reckless mission.”

  “We got the dreadnaught out of that, Drake,” said Javon Steele, coming to Kincaid’s defense. “There’s no one else in the Reaches who could have pulled that off.”

  “Knock off the hero worship, Steele, it’s getting old.”

  Robert had to place a hand on the arm of his XO to keep him from pouncing on Drake. The last thing he needed was for an all-out brawl to erupt in the small room. Besides, if anyone was going to have a go at Bondel Drake, it would be himself and not Steele.

  “See, that just proves my point,” Robert said. “The only reason we survived was because of our knowledge of the local terrain. We were all born and raised here, and most of us cut our teeth learning to navigate the crazy currents of the Reaches. The Vixxie, on the other hand, have only been here for six years, and it’s obvious their charts aren’t up-to-date. Sure, we got lucky with the six-master, but there aren’t that many of them around. Most of the Vixxie ships in the region are either light destroyers or cargo ships.”

  “So why don’t you just attack the haulers?” a voice asked from within the crowd. “Why take on warships at all?”