Without Mercy

by Eric Thomson

  She eventually chose a table at an open-air cafe that gave them sight lines across the plaza and more importantly, a clear view of the administration building’s main entrance. Guthren and Vincenzo remained standing behind her, hands joined, eyes always on the move. They projected the menace of tough, deadly bodyguards from a piece of popular fiction. Saari dispersed his half-platoon in pairs around the area, creating a secure perimeter.

  Moments after Dunmoore sat, a hologram materialized over the table’s center and took her order for an outrageously priced cup of coffee. When a droid trundled up with it a few minutes later, Guthren paid using another bit of their rapidly dwindling precious metal stash. Like any good supply officer, Joelle Biros would go through private conniptions at seeing the secret fund dwindle so quickly, for so little tangible results. But it was in a good cause.

  They heard nothing more from the listening devices in Horgan’s office and what little came from the assistant business development manager was thoroughly innocuous, though she listed Persephone as a private military corporation looking for work.

  Dunmoore idly wondered whether someone would call her, offering a contract. And if so, whether she might take it on for appearances’ sake. A trio of Shrehari crossed the plaza’s far end, and she could almost feel her soldiers stiffen, though superficially, none seemed to react.

  She felt equally strange at seeing humanity’s enemy sharing a habitat with members of her own species, but wondered how they perceived the spin-induced gravity and the atmosphere’s rich oxygen content. Dunmoore even gave her old foe Brakal a thought. Did he return from Miranda as safely as she did? Or was his ship overwhelmed by the more primitive but more numerous Mirandans?

  She was halfway through her coffee when Horgan appeared from one of the side streets and crossed the plaza with a long, energetic stride. He gave no sign of spotting Dunmoore and her posse and vanished inside the pyramidal administration building.

  More time passed in idle contemplation while she savored a brew rich in more ways than one. But they couldn’t stay much longer. Ordering a second cup would cross from indulgence into fiscal irresponsibility. A mercenary looking for work couldn’t afford profligacy. At least not in public.

  “Look sharp,” Guthren unexpectedly growled. “Bald male, built like a brick wall just came around a corner on my two o’clock. He’s staring at the captain as if she’s made of precious stones.” A pause. “And coming here.”

  Saari’s voice came through her earbug.

  “Roger. Vallin, he’s yours.”

  “Roger that,” the corporal replied.

  Dunmoore watched Vallin and his wingman peel off to the right, toward the swarthy, muscular man in a well-cut black suit who had her in his sights. An obvious pair of gorillas drifted into view behind him, and Dunmoore briefly raised her hand.

  “Let them come. This might be business.”

  Vallin and his wingman checked their step though they kept watching the man and his escort with cold, hard eyes. The two gorillas halted just beyond Dunmoore’s inner guard ring, their postures showing respect for the armed mercenaries, but the bald man kept coming until he stopped a few paces from her table. His massive, shiny head dipped in a polite nod

  “Captain Shannon O’Donnell?”

  He had a rough voice that sounded as if it came from the depths of a gravel pit. Up close he seemed much older than she first assumed. Faint lines radiated from the corners of his icy blue eyes and thin-lipped mouth. Small diamond studs sparkled in both earlobes while a few lines of body art peeked over his tunic’s stiff, high collar.

  “My name is Enoc Tarrant. May I join you with the offer of another coffee, or perhaps something else?”

  Dunmoore waved at the chair across from her.

  “Certainly, Ser Tarrant. The coffee on offer is of high quality and I’ll gladly enjoy more.”

  Tarrant gestured over his shoulder and within moments, the droid returned, this time with two full cups. It left after carefully depositing them on the table. Dunmoore noticed Tarrant was neither asked for payment nor offered any.

  She raised her cup in salute.

  “And to what do I owe your largesse, Ser Tarrant?”

  “Consider it a welcome, and payment for your time. As you might have noticed, everything on Kilia has a price, even the air we’re breathing. We consider assuming someone will give you their time or anything else for free to be insulting.”

  “How practical.” She took a sip and let it warm her insides. “What can I do for you, Ser Tarrant?”

  “Answer a few questions, Captain.” His cold eyes studied her as if she was a precious metal sample to be assayed, or a strange creature from the galaxy’s edge, and she immediately sensed he was adept at spotting falsehood or equivocation.

  “Ask away.”

  “Why has no one in this part of the galaxy ever come across the private military ship Persephone and the Varangian Company who I assume provides your guard detail? I know what you told Loris Horgan, but I want to hear it from your own lips.”

  “Ser Horgan must be a close friend if he’s already made you aware of us.”

  Tarrant shrugged. “A business associate who has Kilia’s best interests at heart.”

  “As I told him, we were operating on the other side of the Commonwealth until late last year, when an incident with the authorities caused contracts to dry up. We’ve been in this area for several months, but pickings are becoming rather slim.”

  It wasn’t the whole truth but accurate enough to fool most human lie detectors. Special Operations Command had ordered Iolanthe to a new area of operations after the Toboso incident that saw Dunmoore become a temporary colonial governor and gave her ship too much local notoriety for continued undercover missions.

  “What sort of incident?”

  “We found ourselves on the losing side of a colonial tiff. Not because of anything we did, but our employers overplayed their hand and were forced to fold. The Commonwealth Navy encouraged us to find another playground.”

  “Mind telling me where?”

  “The Cervantes system.”

  Tarrant nodded, although his soulless stare never left Dunmoore. “We caught a few faint echoes of that affair. Next question. You claim acquaintanceship with both Aurelia Fennon and Kotto Piris.”

  “I do.”

  “Funny. They don’t gravitate in the same circles.”

  She cocked a sardonic eyebrow at him.

  “No kidding. But then the circles we gravitate in overlap many others. You might say we’re at the center of our own Venn diagram.”

  Her quip didn’t raise so much as a twitch.

  “I find it interesting that two acquaintances mentioned Kilia. We’re not precisely a secret, but those we welcome understand the need to keep our existence, let alone our coordinates closely held, lest Imperial and Commonwealth authorities take exception to our business practices.”

  “Then I’m puzzled by the Shrehari corsair in orbit, Ser Tarrant. It’s a well-known fact that half, if not more of them are actually undercover Deep Space Fleet or Tai Kan intelligence-gathering units.”

  Tarrant’s face tightened briefly, the first sign of emotion he’d shown so far.

  “One of the many rules governing Kilia is that one visitor never asks questions about another visitor.”

  She dipped her head in contrition.

  “Of course, Ser Tarrant. My apologies.”

  “How did you come to first meet Fennon and Piris?”

  “Ships passing in the night of interstellar space, Ser Tarrant. The people I count as acquaintances expect me to keep them out of my business affairs. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Nevertheless, I wish to know.” His tone brooked no refusal.

  Dunmoore held his gaze in silence for a long count, then said, “I saved Kattegat Maru from an attempted act of piracy.”

  “Did you now? And where was that?”

  She waved a hand over her shoulder.

  “On the
fringes of the Commonwealth a few weeks ago.”

  “And Kotto Piris?”

  “I helped him out of a tight spot with Commonwealth authorities. Mind you, his social circle and mine overlap more than you might think.”

  “So as thanks, both pointed you toward Kilia.”

  “I always ask for referrals. It’s the best way to find my next contract.” She gave him a knowing smile. “No doubt you’re familiar with the method.”

  Tarrant’s stare didn’t soften, but Dunmoore fancied she saw an internal debate reflected in his eyes. Was her arrival here on the strength of claiming acquaintanceship with two of the actors involved in the Kattegat Maru affair a mere coincidence? Or did this glib mercenary with the menacing entourage represent trouble? If he already knew Piris vanished instead of bringing Kattegat Maru to Scandia, would he be acting any differently right now?

  The man’s jaw muscles worked for a moment.

  “Why are you really here, O’Donnell? If that’s your name.”

  “To find work, Ser Tarrant, nothing more.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t believe you. Everything you said is plausible, but I think it’s based on a lie.” He slipped a thin tablet from his pocket and held it up. The three-dimensional hologram of a lean, middle-aged woman’s face appeared. “Who is this?”

  “Aurelia Fennon.” Another face appeared. “Kotto Piris.”

  “And this?”

  Carrie Fennon’s youthful features replaced the hardened spacer’s ugly mug. The image wasn’t recent, leading Dunmoore to wonder whether it came from a Kilia surveillance video dating back to one of Kattegat Maru’s earlier visits.

  Acting on sheer instinct, Dunmoore shrugged.

  “I don’t know. A child. We don’t come across many in our line of business.”

  The skin around Tarrant’s eyes tightened.

  “This is Aurelia Fennon’s daughter. Surely you met her when you became acquainted with Fennon. She is part of Kattegat Maru’s crew.”

  Dunmoore shook her head.

  “I wasn’t aware Aurelia had a child, let alone raised her on a starship. How old is she? Fourteen? Fifteen? Since the Rules of War don’t allow private military corporations to carry minors aboard our vessels, meeting the girl would have surprised me.”

  “Now I know you’re lying. Fennon is rather proud of her offspring although a tad overprotective.” Tarrant put away the tablet and climbed to his feet. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave Kilia now and never return. There’s nothing here for you. We will reimburse the fees you paid. Precious metals, was it? They’ll be waiting by the docks.”

  “What gives you the power to throw us out, Ser Tarrant? I wasn’t aware you belong to Kilia’s administration.”

  “I am Kilia, and my word is law. Farewell, Captain O’Donnell. We won’t meet again.”

  Tarrant turned and walked away, trailed by his guards.

  “Wasn’t that special,” Dunmoore murmured, mildly stunned by his unexpected eviction order. She gulped down the dregs of her coffee and stood in turn. “Back to the docks, people. We’re no longer welcome.”

  — Seventeen —

  As promised, a runner from the station’s administration was waiting by their assigned airlock with a bag containing precious metal ingots. Guthren and Vincenzo carried out a quick check, then the coxswain dismissed the runner with a nod.

  Moments later, the landing party was back aboard and, at Dunmoore’s order, Petty Officer Knowles sealed the hatches. The gangway tube broke free from their shuttle’s hull and pulled back into the wall.

  Knowles gently turned her craft around and found a traffic control droid, perhaps the same one as before, waiting to guide them. When Saari opened his mouth to speak, Dunmoore raised a hand and pointed at her ear, the universal sign for ‘someone might be listening.’ After that, no one said a word while Knowles threaded them back through the cavern and out into space where Iolanthe, patiently orbiting Kilia, waited for their return.

  As soon as they were aboard and the Q-ship’s hangar deck once more secure, Dunmoore motioned at Guthren and Vincenzo to abandon their bags in the shuttle and follow her. Then, she dismissed Sergeant Saari with a promise to talk later.

  Once in the hangar deck control room, she said, “Quarantine what that runner gave us and see it’s analyzed, Chief.”

  “Aye, sir. Vincenzo can bring the lot to Harry Simms right away.” Simms was the supply department’s chief petty officer and Lieutenant Biros’ right hand. Guthren nodded at the leading spacer who immediately jogged off. “Do you expect foul play?”

  “Tarrant was rather eager to refund everything we paid.” She turned to Petty Officer Harkon, the man in charge of Iolanthe’s shuttles. “Scan our craft for subspace trackers or anything else suspicious. We might well have brought home hitchhikers, which is how the bad guys tracked Kattegat Maru. If you find something, leave it and tell Mister Holt or me right away.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  She found her first officer on the bridge, lounging in the command chair and chatting with Carrie Fennon. He jumped to his feet at her arrival.

  “The thunderous expression on your face does not augur well, Skipper.”

  “We were tossed out on our ear, Zeke. Leave and don’t let the doorknob hit you in the ass. I’d rather not repeat myself several times, so round up the department heads and see if we can open an untraceable tight-beam link with Kattegat Maru.”

  “In say, ten minutes? That’ll give you time for a cup of coffee.”

  “I’m swimming in caffeine already, but ten minutes is good.” She finally noticed the anxious expression on Carrie’s face. “I’m afraid I didn’t make much progress, but our eviction might set things in motion. Why don’t you attend the department heads’ meeting too?”

  Dunmoore glanced at Holt who nodded in agreement.

  “Excellent idea, Skipper.”

  **

  “Commander?”

  “What?”

  Brakal’s angular head snapped up to shoot an angry stare at the officer standing by his open door. The thrice-damned Strike Group Khorsan chief of staff, Gra’k, was still inundating him with barely decipherable reports, no doubt hoping to drown his acting commander in a sea of minutiae. As a result, Brakal was as irritable as a venomous serpent denied the opportunity to bite.

  For once, Regar’s habitual air of cynical disdain at the universe didn’t relieve Brakal’s vexation.

  “I heard from Chorlak. A human starship calling itself Persephone and bearing a superficial resemblance to our ghost showed up at Kilia Station.” Regar’s Shrehari vocal chords struggled with the unfamiliar name. “Its captain is a female by the name Shannon O’Donnell.” Dunmoore’s cover name also came out as a set of mangled syllables. “She claims to be the human version of our corsairs — a privateer.” The Tai Kan officer fought human sounds and lost again.

  “Kilia, hmm?” Brakal rubbed his massive jaw with a hand powerful enough to break bones. “Perhaps the Admiralty’s insistence we use it as a spot to gather intelligence instead of seizing the place or destroying it was one of the better decisions to come from those diseased cretins in robes. Even if they gave responsibility for oversight to the Tai Kan. Better yet, although it’s not within our formally assigned area of operations, that filthy nest of putrefying vermin is within a short otherspace leap of our current position. I suddenly feel the urge to offer our brave Tai Kan pretend-corsair comradely assistance and at the same time see if we can spot our ghost.”

  “Violating our boundaries without being in pursuit of the enemy? That would give Gra’k a justification for knifing you in the back, bureaucratically speaking. Not that he has the courage to use a real blade.” Regar’s sardonic grin grew wide enough to expose his fangs. “Yet his sort can commit every manner of injury.”

  “Commit?” Brakal’s massive fist slammed down on the metal desktop. “Gra’k can barely defecate on his own because he’s scared of violating a general order or regulation. The wor
st he will do is sit on anything coming from the Admiralty and wait until it’s too late before showing me. Not that it matters. Nothing worthwhile comes from Shrehari Prime anymore. Our betters no longer see their way to victory and meanwhile, indecision paralyzes half of the fleet. That’s what we’ve come to, Regar. An Imperial Deep Space Fleet where inaction is deemed a lesser sin than independent action which might displease the leadership. I can think of worse things to do than annoy Gra’k and his vipers while I consort with rogues and outlaws. And find that damned ghost. A female captain, you said? Any description?”

  “Flame-haired. That’s the only thing Chorlak’s commander said.”

  A slow smile transformed Brakal’s face into that of a gargoyle.

  A flame-haired female commander? What are the odds there’s more than one in the human fleet? The color is said to be rare among that ridiculously persistent species.”

  Regar frowned, lost in thought, then he grunted.

  “Dunmoore. The one who gave us a merry chase to the star system of the lost humans. We were fortunate to return unscathed. That branch of the species wasn’t just persistent, it was vicious beyond reckoning. A bit like our Arkanna neighbors.”

  “It’s a good thing they don’t know the secrets of otherspace travel or we might find them nipping at our heels. But back to what concerns us, you miserable spy. Kilia, the spacecraft Chorlak saw, and its flame-haired captain.” Brakal stabbed his communicator with a thick, bony finger. “Urag.”

  “Lord?”

  Tol Vehar’s acting captain responded with commendable alacrity.

  “It’s still commander, not lord, you miscreant. Prepare a course for Kilia Station, best speed and when all ships are ready, leap into otherspace.”

  Urag made a strangled noise Brakal recognized as a subtle expression of doubt.

  “It’s not in our area of operations. Orders reserve it for the Tai Kan.”

  “Indeed, but I decided the Tai Kan requires friendly forces, namely us, to help it. Regar tells me his colleagues might have spotted the human ghost who’s been devastating our shipping.”