by Jim C. Hines
Alliance law didn’t matter. Only the law of the family. Anyone was welcome, even Prodryans, though Mops wasn’t sure how the family would feel about hosting potential bioterrorists. It probably depended on how much money those bioterrorists put into Coacalos coffers.
She glanced down at the Prodryan pistol she’d taken from the fighter. She’d forgotten to store it in a security locker. “Doc, what are the marksmanship ratings for the team?”
“Their ratings . . . oh, dear. Monroe has a sharpshooter rating with rifle and is listed as marksman with pistol, but he hasn’t been to a range since he left the infantry. The others passed minimum firearm certification—eventually—when they enlisted. Technician Wolf required three attempts to pass basic pistol certification.”
“What about Grom?”
“They are proficient with Glacidae small arms.”
“Good.”
“However, the Pufferfish does not stock Glacidae weaponry.”
To her right, Monroe whispered something inaudible. A moment later, a message from him appeared on Mops’ monocle. “Are you sure about all this?”
Mops responded in kind, speaking too quietly for anyone but her suit’s mic to pick up her words. “I’m not letting this crew die.”
“I’m with you a hundred percent,” said Monroe. “But bringing this team to Coacalos?”
“I’ve never been,” Mops admitted. “How bad is this going to be?”
“Rumor has it the Coacalos family was one of the backers of the Ventazos rebellion.”
Mops whistled softly. “I knew they preferred their independence, but I had no idea. . . .”
Thirty-six years ago, a Quetzalus colony called Ventazos had rebelled against their home world of Cuixique and the Alliance. Government officials with any suspected ties to Cuixique were imprisoned or killed. Alien diplomats suffered the same fate.
The Alliance sent the newly formed EMC to restore order. The Quetzalus had laughed and transmitted messages mocking the puny human police force.
The laughter, like the subsequent fighting, was short-lived.
While most Quetzalus these days supported the Alliance and dismissed the Ventazos rebels as misguided extremists, the species had never forgotten that humiliation at the hands—and guns—of the EMC. If the Coacalos family had been on the side of the rebels . . .
“I’m counting on you to help keep the team out of trouble,” Mops said quietly.
Monroe’s snort drew startled looks from the others.
“I think we’re ready,” said Kumar.
“Start the countdown and secure yourselves in your pods.” Mops watched their status on her monocle until both showed as ready for the jump. She double-checked the rest of the crew as well, making sure none of them had woken up or gotten loose from their pods.
“Funny thing,” Kumar said casually. “You’d think we were committing treason when we actually made the jump. But according to regulations, we crossed that stream the instant we modified the program from Command.”
“Good to know.” Mops sat back. “Monroe, don’t forget to spit out your gum.”
“How did you— Yes, sir.”
Strangely enough, it was comforting to know they’d already crossed the line and betrayed the Alliance. It took away some of the pressure and anxiety, allowing her to close her eyes and wait in relative peace. Given what lay ahead, she’d take any peace she could get.
They’d emerged more than a billion kilometers from the station, roughly two hundred million kilometers beneath the orbital plane. At this distance, Coacalos would have picked up their deceleration signature, but shouldn’t have been able to identify them as an EMC ship. That would change as they got within range of the security beacons and satellites scattered around the station.
Assuming they could get within range. For half a day now, they’d drifted in space while Kumar continued trying to figure out how to fly the ship.
Much as the delay gnawed at Mops’ patience, her team needed the break. She’d caught a nap herself before heading down to the target range to try to relax. After making sure the range had been fully sterilized, she went through several practice rounds, then called Wolf down to join her.
By the time Wolf arrived, Mops had reset the range to its default configuration: a rectangular room thirty meters in length, ten wide, and ten high, with black grooves crisscrossing every surface.
Wolf rushed to the weapons panel on the wall, eagerness sparking from her every move. From the rack of pistols and rifles, she grabbed one of each, slinging the rifle over her right shoulder.
“These are practice weapons, but treat them like they’re hot,” said Mops. “Safety on until you’re ready to shoot. Finger off the trigger unless you mean to pull it.”
“I know, I know.” She twirled the pistol on her finger.
“Do that again and I’ll shoot you myself,” Mops continued, her tone never changing. The Prodryan pistol on her hip made it a very real threat. Wolf swallowed and lowered her gun.
Mops checked her own EMC practice pistol. The weapons were identical in size, mass, and feel to the real thing. Three hexagonal barrels were stacked in a triangle. A series of thumb switches on the contoured grip controlled the safety and firing modes. “Basic firing range. One shooter—humanoid. Ten-meter distance.”
A wall dropped from the ceiling ten meters away. A single humanoid silhouette appeared at the center. A circle of light on the floor marked the firing position.
Wolf jumped into place, raised her pistol, and squeezed the trigger. Her face reddened. She turned off the safety and tried again. This time, the gun torqued in her hands, nearly twisting free. Wolf’s face tightened with frustration and embarrassment. She adjusted her stance and grip, aimed, and fired.
A green dot on the target showed she’d removed the enemy’s ear. She rolled her shoulders, snarled, and kept shooting until she’d emptied the weapon.
Of the thirty-six shots, thirty-two had hit the target. Wolf slid the practice magazine free and reinserted it, simulating a reload.
“Not bad,” said Mops. “Doc, give us mobile targets. Hostiles and friendlies, random species. Fifteen meters.”
The range reconfigured, and a new set of silhouettes began moving to and fro. As they crossed the range, about one in four would randomly turn green, indicating an enemy target.
That was when the slaughter began. To her credit, Wolf shot every hostile, scoring enough hits to “kill” more than ninety percent of her enemies. She also killed eighty percent of the friendlies, including six shots to a Glacidae silhouette who’d been scampering along, minding their own business.
Mops waited for the simulation to finish, and for Wolf to safety and holster her weapon. Wolf stared at the floor. “Yeah, I know.”
“You didn’t shoot me,” said Mops. “That’s something.”
“I’m out of practice.” Wolf shrugged. “Too busy unclogging drains and mopping up alien shit.”
“Out of practice,” repeated Mops. “Whose fault is that? The range is open to anyone during off-duty hours.”
“Who has time for that?”
Mops drew her pistol. The ammo count appeared on her monocle, along with a crosshair that moved wherever the barrel was pointed. Since she currently had the gun aimed at the floor, the crosshair hovered at the bottom of her monocle with an arrow pointing downward.
She switched to gun’s-eye view, and the view through her monocle changed, showing her a patch of floor by her right foot with the crosshair dead center. The split in visual input to the eyes could be disconcerting. Mops had earned herself a migraine the first time she tried it. But it meant she’d always see what she was shooting at. She could even shoot around corners or over barriers, keeping her body safe behind cover.
“Rerun program.” She raised the gun and started shooting . . . never looking away from Wolf.
Her accuracy was a little low—33 hits out of 36 shots—but all 33 hits were on hostile targets. She turned to leave.
“That’s it?” asked Wolf. “You’re just going to show off and walk away?”
“Pretty much.” Mops returned her weapon to the rack, then stopped in the doorway. “You have as much time in a day as I do. Hell, you have time right now. What are you going to do with it?”
For the next four and a half hours, Doc provided ongoing updates of Wolf’s scores as she went through one scenario after another. By the end, her scores had improved somewhat, though she was still killing too many civilians.
After Wolf finished, Mops spent the day assessing the rest of her team’s skills. It did not improve her confidence.
Kumar was an excellent shot, as long as the enemy didn’t mind waiting for him to double-check his stance, steady his weapon, take three painfully slow breaths, and ever-so-carefully squeeze the trigger.
He tracked moving targets with equal care, up until Mops programmed those targets to return simulated fire. At that point, Kumar was repeatedly “killed” without ever getting a shot off.
Grom was able to use two of their digging limbs to brace the EMC pistol like a tiny rifle, holding it against their lower jaw. They turned out to be a surprisingly adequate shot, despite their odd habit of humming and making “pew, pew” sound effects the entire time.
She’d saved Monroe for last. If things went to hell, she was counting on his experience and expertise to save their asses.
Monroe entered the empty range like a man attending his own court-martial. He glanced around the empty range, the fingers of his artificial hand twitching nervously.
“Everything all right, JG?”
He walked to the weapons rack and pulled out a practice rifle. His hands moved automatically through the process of inspecting it, first clearing the magazine and disconnecting the firing mechanism. The hilt and trigger guard slid free. He squeezed the trigger with his mechanical hand. “Trigger pull’s a little light.”
“I’ll be sure to report that to the small arms tech,” Mops said dryly.
“Arm says it’s only off by a quarter of a kilogram.” He flexed his white fingers. Difficult as the assistive intelligence in his arm could be about some things, it was obviously familiar with weapons maintenance. Monroe reassembled the rifle and reloaded, then synched it with his monocle. “I haven’t touched a gun since I left infantry.”
It was the last thing Mops had expected. “Why not?”
He shouldered the rifle and took a pistol from the weapons rack, inspecting it with the same speed and efficiency he had the rifle. “Infantry training isn’t just guns and combat batons and tactics. You learn an attitude. They train you to fight without hesitation. It becomes instinctive, until you’re ready to take a swing at someone for bumping you in line or looking at you sideways.
“By the time they send you out, you’ve learned to rein things in a bit. I’ve never once slugged a superior officer, despite serving under several who needed it.”
“I appreciate your restraint,” Mops said dryly.
“It hasn’t usually been a problem with you,” he replied in the same tone. “And I get it. When you’re a soldier being sent out to fight, those instincts can save your life. In other situations . . .”
Mops was starting to understand. “You’re worried if you pick up a gun, you’ll be too quick to use it.”
“I’m worried I’ll stop searching for alternatives,” he said. “I worry the EMC has developed the same tunnel vision. We’ve always been quick to escalate to lethal force. Sometimes that’s effective. Swift action can bring a swift end to a conflict. By preventing a drawn-out fight, you end up saving lives in the long run.”
He tested the pistol’s barrel light, twisting the switch from narrow to wide-beam. “But you’re more likely to make mistakes. To miss other options and kill innocent people.”
His right hand twitched, the index finger convulsing as if it were pulling a trigger. He scowled, and the hand slowly relaxed.
“I was counting on you to be the one who knew how to use these things,” Mops said.
“Oh, I do. Trouble is, I will use them. If things go hot, I’ll start shooting until the threat’s down, or I am. Given that we’re trying to get information, and to do it without attracting attention, it might be better if I’m not walking around primed to kill.” He handed both weapons to her. “I’m pretty good with a combat baton. That usually leaves everyone alive to answer questions.”
Mops pursed her lips. “Combat baton it is. Under one condition.”
“And that is?”
“If we end up in a firefight, you use that baton to knock Kumar the hell out and take his weapon.”
By the end of the day, it was clear Kumar wouldn’t be flying the Pufferfish to Coacalos Station. True, he was getting better. His simulator scores now gave him an almost one-in-three chance of reaching the station without blowing them all up or otherwise breaking the ship. Needless to say, nobody was happy with those odds.
Mops gathered everyone on the bridge to discuss options.
“A shuttle is easier to fly and to dock once we get there,” said Monroe. “They’ve got more than enough fuel for the trip.”
“Shuttle armor and weapons are crap,” said Wolf. “And they’re slow. Do you know how long we’d be packed together, practically stacked on top of each other?”
Kumar glanced at the main screen. “Twenty-two hours, at the shuttle’s top speed. At regulation-approved speeds, closer to thirty-six.”
“Someone would need to stay behind to monitor things on the Pufferfish,” said Monroe.
Grom lunged forward, rising to their full height. “I volunteer to not go with Wolf!”
“Fine,” said Mops, before Wolf could respond. “In addition to keeping the ship ready for our return, you’ll be responsible for tending to the rest of the crew.”
The Glacidae dropped low. “Pardon?”
“For now, we can probably keep them sedated, but they’ll need to be fed. Small portions, since they’re not using much energy.”
Wolf’s expression had done a one-eighty from annoyance to amusement. “What about sanitation needs, sir?”
Mops fought to keep a straight face. “Their uniforms will absorb and wick away most excretions for now, but if we’re gone more than five days, you’ll need to start changing and cleaning them. Are you familiar with the ship’s laundry systems?” When Grom didn’t answer, she waved a hand. “Don’t worry, there’s a tutorial.”
Grom looked unhappy, but didn’t argue. Not unless you counted the low, drawn-out belch.
“We’ll take shuttle two,” she decided. “Wolf, Monroe, get it ready for departure. Doc will send you a copy of the preflight checklist. Double-check everything. Kumar, switch over to shuttle training. Grom, you might as well get to work feeding the crew. Better to start now while we’re here to answer any questions.”
Once everyone else had left the bridge, Mops moved into the Captain’s Cove. They’d drained the water and sanitized the room, but the faint brine smell remained. She shut the door behind her. “Doc, how’s the rest of the crew?”
“Still napping. Given human endurance, we can probably keep most of them sedated for at least a month with no permanent ill effects.”
“Most?”
“You should probably have Grom keep an eye on Private Chaplin. When everyone was shambling about, she tried to eat the contents of chem lab one. It looks like the A-ring jump made her vomit, which got a lot of that junk out of her system, but her skin’s a bit flushed, and her breathing’s quicker than normal.”
“Good to know. Anyone else I should flag?”
“Some cuts and bruises. A few fractures. A crewman from infantry tried to tear off his uniform and nearly strangled himself. Kumar got him taken care of.”
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Mops circled the room, studying various items Captain Brandenburg had kept in small niches and recesses in the rough stone walls. A coiled black shell with rainbow edges from her home world. A set of entertainment slices, with each wafer of crystal neatly labeled along the outer edge. A collection of water samples from every world the Pufferfish had visited while under her command.
She picked up a vial of amethyst water from a Glacidae colony and held it to the light. “Doc, have you had any luck getting us into the armory?”
“Not yet. Standard welding and repair equipment won’t cut through those doors, and access is restricted to Krakau officers.”
More Krakau safeguards. More evidence of their true feelings about humans. Mops considered bringing one of the bodies out of storage and trying to use it to access the armory, but after the level one decontamination, she wasn’t sure the computer would recognize the remains as Krakau. Even if it did, the Pufferfish’s security systems knew the entire command crew was dead. Their access would have been locked down automatically.
She looked toward the door. “When Lieutenant Khan reported to the captain, she had her sidearm and combat baton with her. What happened to those?”
“Khan was taken to Medical. Her personal items would have been placed into one of the storage lockers. And before you ask, yes, as acting captain of the ship, you can access those storage lockers.”
“Good. Check to see—”
“How many other infantry personnel were taken to Medical before they could stow their weapons? Looking at the records, six.”
“Were those storage lockers decontaminated with the rest of the ship?”
“Normally, lockers are airtight. But they open automatically during a level one decontamination.”
“We’ll need to test to make sure the guns’ electronics weren’t damaged.” Mops headed for the door. “One last thing. Make sure you’ve synched my library to the monocle. I have the feeling I’ll need the distraction during the trip.”
