by Leo Champion
“I’m low on assets,” Fleming said. “Blinded and crippled. Under normal circumstances I would never do this.”
“You have a deal to make, Deputy Director Fleming. If it involves saving my officers, if it involves hurting whoever murdered my crew, I'm listening.”
“Find Theron Marko. I do not know what he is doing on the Plains. Find that out. I know that the Russians would not activate him – I didn’t realize he was still alive! – unless it were something important. He now has a warship and, apparently, a full reconnaissance of Hugoton.”
Fleming sipped his drink. Then drained it, in one long chug.
He is not seriously offering her amnesty, Perry thought. Let alone…
“You'll work with Perry, who has already been assigned to the recovery of 4-106. You'll complement each other. Perry, do you have any objections to the recovery of 4-106 in this manner?”
You sneaky bastard. How can I say no?
“I have objections to working with a pirate. Sir.”
“Overruled. You'll have worked with pirates anyhow, dealt with them as an undercover arms dealer. Do you want 4-106 back or not? Do you want to do your duty or not? You have been seconded to me. Your duty consists of what I say it is. Vice-Commodore, is that understood?”
“Sir. Yes sir.”
“Very well. On the successful apprehension or confirmed death – I want his head physically in my hands, Ahle – of Theron Marko, I will have these pardons countersigned. For you and your officers. Otherwise, they will be tried, found guilty and hung.”
“I’ll cooperate. He murdered my crew.”
Fleming looked at Perry.
You can't make me work with this pirate.
Fleming glared at Perry.
“Sir. I will do my duty. Sir.”
Chapter Nine
“It continues to be the consensus of both the Royal and Imperial Academies of Science that powered, heavier-than-air flight is a physical impossibility. The laws of physics do not allow an engine to be built that will sustain its own weight to the necessary degree.
The aforementioned group of experimental physicists and rocketeers led by Sir Wernher Braun insist that one may in theory be developed, likely involving Sir Wernher’s ‘air jet’ principle.
However, the members of both Academies stand in full unanimous consensus that actual powered heavier-than-air craft are, and will be, physically impossible.”
- Conclusion of report to Parliament by Royal Commission 131; January, 1963.
The civilian clothes felt uncomfortable on Perry as he sat across from Ahle in a small booth of one of Hugoton's civilian restaurants. For her part, the pirate seemed at ease – although still upset, he gathered.
Losing all your crew will do that to you, he thought.
Then: She's a pirate. Don't pity her. She chose to live by the sword. So did her people.
“So, Vice-Commodore. Or are you now Agent Perry? Do we have a plan?”
“The airship went west,” said Perry. “Rationally, I suppose we'd follow it. They'll have to put in for supplies somewhere.”
“Have you been out there, past the Front Range?”
“A few times.” Perry took a forkful of his omelette. It tasted as sour as this whole assignment had become. “Punitive jobs. Against pirates.”
“You'd have only scratched the surface. There are a million places they can hide airships. There are more people than you think. Ranching and a lot of mining, and the support infrastructure's there. Dispersed but present.”
“You sound as though you've spent some time out there.”
“Desert Navy. Don't tell me you haven't read Fleming's file. And since then. They mine gold out there.” Ahle made a smile – or rather, forced one, and Perry realized that she must be as bitter about the last couple of days as he was. “Pirates like gold, you know.”
“So do the people you steal it from. You don't like my plan.”
Ahle raised a hand and began counting off fingers.
“One. We have an identity on the primary suspect. Two. I doubt he arrived in Hugoton with the crew he'd have needed to operate an airship; why bother, when he could easily hire the men here? Three. He would have hired the men here. He'd have talked to them. Some might have turned down the job.”
“Especially if he'd told them the plan was to fly over Hugoton,” Perry growled. “That kind of trash aren't for the most part crazy, in my experience.”
“If he told them beforehand. You're assuming everyone's as reputable as I am.”
“I'm not assuming you're reputable. Go on.”
“Some might have turned the job down, and be around. Others might have overheard.”
“We're relying on the word of itinerant pirate scum.”
“You're relying on the assistance of itinerant pirate scum,” Ahle said, gesturing at herself with the three raised fingers.
“Another problem crosses my mind,” said Ahle.
“I'm listening.”
“You weren't exactly subtle about your capture-Karen operation last night. By now, word all over town is that my officers and I are in Imperial custody. How do you think people are going to react if I suddenly appear, without my officers?”
Perry shrugged. “I doubt they'd recognize me.”
"They wouldn't, but that's not my point. What do you think the Dodge undercity is going to do when they knew my officers and I were captured, my crew killed, and here am I running free?”
“Probably that you sold them out.”
“There's a sense of honor among pirates, however little you want to believe it. Among some of us. All of my officers have friends. So do I, although they'd turn their backs if they had good reason to think I'd betrayed my people. So we need an explanation for that.”
Fleming had reviewed the proposal an hour earlier. Now he called Perry in.
“An escape. Good plan. What I'd have thought of, but you're missing a few details.”
He picked up a buzzer, spoke into it.
Admiral Richardson came into the room. Clearly having been prepared in the anteroom. She didn't sit down.
Fear rose in Perry's throat. Fleming hadn't offered him a drink this time, either. This can only be bad...
“She wouldn't have escaped without assistance,” Fleming said. “Such as the assistance that a Vice-Commodore of the Air Service could provide.”
Perry looked desperately up at his commanding officer. Her face was expressionless, but Richardson's face was always expressionless.
“But a Vice-Commodore of the Air Service would not just randomly provide such assistance,” Fleming went on. “Why risk his career to save one pirate, even one he'd fallen for? However, a disgraced Vice-Commodore?”
“I'm sorry,” said Richardson, her eyes avoiding Perry’s. She handed him a printed form.
He didn't want to read it. He forced himself to.
Notice of Military Court-Martial, it said. Suspicious loss of Airship DN 4-106.
“This implies that I was in league with her for my ship to be stolen in the first place!” Perry exploded. “Fake or not, this is… ma’am!”
“Down, Marcus,” Richardson said coldly. “Of course it's fake, but we're going to have to proceed as though it's real. The escape will be staged tonight. You will, unfortunately, have to be pursued. Some very real alert notices will be put out for you. This, for that matter, is a real charge as far as anyone below the level of Governor's Advocate knows.”
“Ma'am. This is–”
“Not what you signed up for when you asked to be reassigned to covert? You should have thought ahead. You got what you asked for.”
“I told you we should have offered him a drink first,” Fleming observed.
“Ma'am–” Perry began.
“You're going to request to be reassigned back to your squadron,” Richardson said, and Perry's heart sank. This is insane!
“And you can guess my answer. You asked for this. It was important and essential to your duty, you said, and
I agreed. Deputy Director Fleming has since convinced me – and the Governor's office – that the loss of 4-106 to a known high-level Russian agent represents a potentially serious threat to the security of Hugoton. This has gone from being a personal indulgence with the hope of a favorable outcome, to an essential duty.”
She lowered her voice.
“Vice-Commodore Perry, you would not have risen to your present rank at your present age, without substantial ability. Nor substantial duty. The watchword of the Service is duty, Marcus. I could order you; I have ordered you. I am also reminding you that you should know to do this.”
“You will be doing a duty to the Empire,” Fleming agreed. He was pouring drinks now, from a bottle that must have been in his desk. “It'll go into your official files, of course. I understand that this sort of detached duty is viewed-upon very favorably by Service promotion boards.”
“I have a reputation,” Perry said. “I am not a criminal!”
“Your duty to the Empire exceeds personal vanity. We know you are not a criminal,” said Fleming. “Your commander ordered you, but I'm appealing to your better nature and your professional self-interest.”
I should refuse further, Perry thought, because this had gone from ‘uncomfortable’ to ‘nightmarish.’ Officially a fugitive? His name on watch lists?!
But what would be the point?
Orders were correct; the book existed for a reason.
How can this be correct!?
Stiff upper-lip. Think later. Orders are orders.
“Very well. Sir. Ma'am. I apologize for my outburst, Admiral Richardson. And beg your pardon, ma’am. And Deputy Director Fleming, the same. Sir.”
“Easily granted,” Richardson said. She put a hand on his shoulder. “This will be favorable to your career, Vice-Commodore.”
“Career be damned,” Perry muttered. “It's not that I'm concerned about.”
“Your reputation as well.”
“Especially if he's successful,” said Fleming. He looked at Perry. “Be successful. I have a bad feeling. If Theron Marko is involved, it is serious business and no mistake. Damn those DIS idiots for kicking off this war and blinding me right now, of all times!”
“You poured the Vice-Commodore a drink,” said Richardson. “I think he needs it.”
“I’m fine,” Perry said. Shocked and horrified and disgusted, but – duty was duty.
That was the only rationale. Even when duty was –
He’d never imagined this. He’d never imagined the Service, the Crown, requiring that he sacrifice his reputation. His morals.
How can this be right?
His commanding officer, and a very senior Intelligence man, were saying it was. The people who defined his duty.
It’s wrong and I hate it.
He swallowed. Hard, and again. There were thoughts he did not want to voice. There were appropriate words for this.
“Yes, ma’am,” he repeated. “I’m fine. Ma’am.” A look at Fleming, hoping it didn’t show the shocked hatred he was scared he might be feeling toward the man right now. “And sir.”
"Knew you'd come around,” Fleming said. “Have a drink to that, then.”
“To that, sir,” Perry agreed. Took the Scotch, knocked it against Fleming's and the glass Ahle had been offered, and tipped the glass back.
It burned down his throat, but he needed it.
Two o'clock. Perry had been over the plan, step by step, with Moore. It had to look real. That meant, because enlisted men did go to Dodge City and talk, that the plan had to be real.
I hate this. Words cannot begin to describe how much I loathe this idea.
Deputy Director Fleming had said it was necessary. Richardson had made it an order, although he was under Fleming's authority now. The personal tastes of one Vice-Commodore were not relevant to the equation, it had been made clear.
I have to do it. I don't have to like it.
Step one. Go into the cells. Visit Ahle.
He felt the pressure-loaded gel gun in a shoulder-holster under his coat. A fine-tuned item from Fleming's personal armory. Intended for exactly this sort of purpose.
I hate this. In everything but reality, I'm committing mutiny and treason.
Ahle sat at the door of her her cell, eyes focused on the clock at the end of the hallway. This was a small block of secure cells; the barracks-room drunk types were held on the floor above. Clean but Spartan; a cot, a sink, a toilet and a box for personal property. Almost all of which had been taken away, with the exception of her clothes, and those had been very very carefully searched before being returned to her.
At least you could request books. That was one of the privileges they could take away for misbehavior. Ahle’s officers wouldn’t be too uncomfortable.
Aside from the whole being-in-prison thing. With nooses practically hanging around their necks. If she failed to deliver, they’d all die. At least if that uptight son of a bitch Perry had anything to say about it, although she supposed that if she failed to deliver, he’d be dead himself.
2:05 am, the clock said. 2:06. Behind schedule. She wanted to get up and pace, to the limits that the small cell allowed pacing, but that would have meant taking her eyes from the clock.
A pair of young Army MPs showed up, dressed in neat khaki. One of them had the usual heavy gel gun; both had holstered pistols. The one without the gel gun put a key into the lock.
“Captain Ahle. I see you’re awake,” said the other one. A lance corporal.
“Yes, Lance Corporal. Thoughts of the noose tend to make sleep difficult,” Ahle said acidly.
“An Air Service Vice-Commodore wants to see you. He says he has questions to ask. Come with us.”
“It’s past two in the morning,” Ahle muttered.
“Sorry, Captain. Important. You can come nicely or we can put chains on.”
“I’ll come nicely. What does the son of a bitch want now?”
The cell door opened. Hollis, in the one next to hers, gave her a wink. He knew; somebody had to, to give the others an idea in case she didn’t come back. May as well know why they were dying.
She shrugged to herself. This happened, when you were a pirate. Part of the deal. You lived or died by it, it and the Code. She’d help Fleming and get that ship back for Perry, if that was what it took. The crew – the officers, anyway, the crew was already dead and she very much had her own motivation for avenging them anyway – would live.
Perry was in a small briefing room on the other side of a pair of secure doors. He sat nervously behind a steel desk, focused on his watch. Wearing uniform under a long civilian coat.
Dirt-poor actor, Ahle thought. But the MPs didn’t seem to realize anything was up.
“Private Gardner will stay here with you,” said the lance.
“I can take care of myself, Lance,” said Perry. He touched the automatic on his hip. “And Private Gardner isn’t cleared for this conversation. Neither are you.”
“She’s a dangerous woman, sir. We have orders.”
“You also have a security clearance. That does not cover this conversation. You can monitor her perfectly well from the other side of that door.” Perry’s tone was command; he is a vice-commodore, Ahle thought.
Yeah, don’t forget that. Senior officer, squadron commander. Mid-thirties; young for his rank, too. This isn’t some regular Imperial grunt we’re dealing with, Ahle forced herself to remember. This man has seen action, and the son of a bitch would not have his present rank if he wasn’t good.
“Don’t try anything, Ahle. I’d love to kill you,” said Perry, as the two MPs left. The door had a small observation window, and young Private Gardner’s face was clear on the other side.
“Soundproofed door,” said Perry. “And the monitoring is turned off. We can speak freely.”
“Are you ready to go?” Ahle asked. A little nervous, although not as nervous as the Imperial.
Perry handed her a notepad. Taped to the underside of it was a two-shot ga
s gun, a sprayer. Ahle took the attached pencil and began drawing random designs; sketching something for Private Gardner’s benefit, schematics or whatever he wanted to imagine. Palmed the gas gun with her other hand and slipped it into a pocket.
Perry drew a sprayer of his own. The things fired a concentrated irritant that set the victim to sneezing and tears. Incapacited for a bit, fine half an hour later. Focused on his watch, they mouthed words back and forth for a couple of minutes.
He’s tense, Ahle thought. Out of his element. Well, that was her job, to help him with that shit. He’s more competent than he looks.
“We have thirty seconds,” said Perry. “Ready?”
Ahle gave a nod.
Perry signaled the man at the door. The two of them got up.
“We’re done here,” Perry said to the two MPs, as the door opened.
“I told you, I’m not betraying my people.”
“Then you’ll hang,” said Perry. Still focused on his watch.
Suddenly he looked up. Raised the spray gun and blasted first the lance corporal, then a dumbfounded Private Gardner, in the face. Both men began choking and sneezing, the lance-corporal doubling over.
A dull boom, somewhere not far away. Almost instantly, the lights went out.
Perry had an electrical flashlight in his other hand. He turned it on.
“Come on. Spray and run.”
The two of them headed out, Perry pausing to bolt the door of the interrogation room with the two MPs inside. Up a corridor, then a flight of stairs. Another checkpoint.
Flashlight beam shone into Ahle’s face, blinding her.
“Vice-Commodore Perry, god damn it. Urgent!”
The door opened.
Ahle sprayed the man on the other side in the face. He went down, fighting for breath like the other two MPs.
Down a corridor. Shouts. This was where the petty miscreants were kept, soldiers and airshipmen on seven-, fifteen- or thirty-day confinement.
