The Hidden World

by Melinda Snodgrass

  Shaniqua tucked the case away in her purse. “No problem. We’ve got enough to trade in League space, and we’re close to being able to afford to buy a freighter with League registration.”

  “We’ve got contacts on the San Pedro station. We can help with that,” Jahan said as waiters began delivering the side dishes.

  “With the usual seven percent commission,” Jax added. The two Freeholders nodded.

  “So, what’s the word out there, Oliver?” Walter asked.

  “The corsarios have captured three military vessels,” Tracy said.

  Dalea leaned in to Shaniqua. “Our captain is rather fixated on this.”

  “Well, I can see why; that’s rather alarming,” Walter said.

  “And the Infanta is leading a strike force to take them out,” Luis added.

  Walter and Shaniqua exchanged a glance that Tracy couldn’t quite interpret. “Will she succeed?” Shaniqua asked a bit too casually.

  Jahan shrugged, extended her claws, and speared a piece of bread. “Hard to say. Space is big.”

  “They’ll have to try and turn people who deal with the corsairs,” Graarack added.

  Tracy dipped a piece of bread in the thick soup. He felt awkward eating without utensils. “Maybe someone will talk, but those of us living on the fringes… well, they’re not inclined to be helpful despite the big reward we’re… they’re offering.” He wiped his fingers on the long napkin he had flung over his shoulder.

  “That’s like the understatement of all time,” Luis said. A chuckle ran through the group.

  Shaniqua leaned in close to Tracy and dabbed a drop of soup off his chin with her napkin. “I sense an interesting internal struggle,” she whispered.

  “What? No. What do you mean?”

  “Us and they’re and we’re,” Shaniqua said.

  “Doesn’t mean anything.”

  “So you say.”

  Tracy turned his attention back to the broader conversation. “Could they trace them through the Foldstream?” Walter was asking Graarack.

  “I suppose they could sift through it, but with all the League worlds, and League ships sending messages when they aren’t in Fold, it could take months.”

  “I doubt they have that much time,” Jax added.

  Tracy jumped in, “You know what would be really helpful is if a ship could stay in Fold, but intercept messages from the normal space Foldstream. We can grab them when we’re sub-light, but not in Fold. But God it would be an advantage in battle. No one can detect you, but you can eavesdrop on orders between the command structure and the ships, or between the captains of ships.”

  Walter looked thoughtful. “That would be an interesting project.”

  The chicken bisteeya appetizer arrived. Powdered sugar and cinnamon dusted the top of the pastry. Graarack used a claw to poke a hole in the top and steam erupted like the Vatican announcing a new pope with a column of white smoke. Tracy waited a few minutes for the interior to cool then scooped up a bite. The flavors of slow-cooked saffron chicken, spicy omelet, and ground almonds exploded in his mouth.

  Shaniqua took a sip of wine. She was staring thoughtfully off into space. “So just how large was that reward for information?”

  “Twenty million Reals,” Jax said promptly.

  A tense silence fell over the table. “That would put us over the top on buying the registered freighter,” Shaniqua said to Walter.

  “Are you saying you might have information,” Tracy said slowly.

  “We might. We’ve done a few deals with the gentlemen,” Walter said.

  “You let them come here?” Tracy asked, shocked.

  Shaniqua answered. “Oh, God no. We only deal with people who’ve been vouched for by our alien visitors. People like you.”

  “And the corsairs seem to be typical of most League people. Aliens as servants and second-class citizens,” Walter said. “So, no, we don’t want them here. Also, we couldn’t trust them not to betray us to the League.”

  “Rather like what you’re contemplating,” Jahan said dryly.

  An uncomfortable laugh skittered around the table. “Touché,” Walter said.

  “But we’re the good guys… relatively speaking,” Shaniqua said. “One of our agents who are shipping with you could drop a dime.”

  “Drop a what?” Luis asked.

  “Dime—it was a coin… never mind. Get word to the League.”

  Their main courses arrived and the conversation was tabled until the waiters had again left the room. Tracy rolled an olive around his plate with a forefinger then said, “Whoever comes forward is going to be put under a microscope and SEGU is good at picking a person apart. Their cover would have to be impeccable.”

  Jahan pinned him with a look. “You seem to have associates who excel at that, Oliver.”

  “Could you make the introduction?” Shaniqua asked.

  “What do we get out of this?” Tracy asked. Blunt talk for a social occasion, but necessary.

  “Five percent of the reward,” Walter suggested.

  “Fifteen,” Jax countered.

  “Seven.”

  “Ten.”

  “Done.”

  Luis let out a little whoop that was quickly stifled.

  “I’ll draw up a contract,” Jax said. Walter held out his hand and Jax wrapped a tendril around the man’s hand and arm. Handshakes went around the table.

  Shaniqua held up her wine glass. “To a long and prosperous relationship.”

  Tracy held up his beer. “To our swords, never drawn without cause or sheathed without honor.” It was the preferred toast of the captain of the Triunfo, the first ship where Tracy had served after graduation. Most of his crew looked away, uncomfortable over his overtly military toast, but Graarack’s faceted eyes were fixed on him. Tracy then added softly, “And to la Infanta, may she lead with wisdom and courage and emerge victorious.”

  * * *

  “They built a maze. How adorable.” A chuckle rippled through the bridge at the nav officer’s comment.

  Mercedes stood behind the captain’s chair on the bridge of the San Medel y Celedon. Since she was an admiral she could have demanded the chair and made Captain Eklund stand, but she felt it was important to let him be perceived as in charge of the day-to-day, with herself as the gray eminence hovering over all.

  The screen presented an image of the tumbling rocks that orbited the large central planetoid. Based on the different trajectories it was apparent the rocks had not naturally accreted around what appeared to be an orphaned moon. It was too symmetrical to be an asteroid and its surface wasn’t as heavily cratered as one of the wandering rocks from this system’s accretion belt. There were ships docked at the moon, umbilicals linking them to the surface, feeding them fuel and supplies. There was no sign of the three military vessels.

  “It’s like they forgot there are these things called computers that can analyze the movement of the rocks and calculate the path in,” Eklund remarked.

  “It’s all part of crafting a persona, a legend, if you will,” Tyler Nance said. He was the SEGU officer assigned to the San Medel. He possessed a quick wit and a level of cynicism that both charmed and repelled Mercedes. He was also very good at his job. “Myth and perception are often far more potent than reality. The mysterious corsair with his secret base at the heart of an impenetrable maze who can challenge even the might of the crown.”

  “They do have homemade rail guns on some of the rocks,” Eklund pointed out.

  “Which are hardly a threat to cruisers and destroyers, and I have faith that our Infierno pilots are sufficiently skilled to avoid fire from those guns,” Mercedes said.

  Chastised, he ducked his mead and murmured, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The vermin are bound to have built in some bolt holes in case they did have to decamp and can’t use the main path through the maze,” Nance said.

  Mercedes nodded in agreement. “So, let’s locate and block those. Send out some fighters to make a sweep.�
��

  The order was given. From the bridge of the massive dreadnaught there was no possibility that she would feel the launch of the fighters, but she imagined it. Imagined the crushing weight on her body as a fighter rocketed out of the docking bay. To feel the couch close around her armored body, the swing and sway of the gimbals as the fighter maneuvered; the almost instant response as the craft reacted to minute shifts in her body, the movements of her eyes. There were moments when the craft felt alive. She longed to join them. But of course she couldn’t. She was an admiral now, and the heir to the throne, and this was no exercise. It was unlikely that any of the corsairs’ ships would be armed with anything that could harm her forces, but she couldn’t take the risk and she needed to stay in the command position to react to the ebb and flow of the operation that was about to begin. The real fighting was going to happen once they reached the base. The corsarios were sure to have small arms. Some of them would fight. They would die, but some of her fusileros would die too. The real question was how many of the hostages were they going to lose?

  “Let me know when the fighters have completed their sweep, Captain, and taken up positions at any escape routes. I want to speak to our corsair prisoner before we make any further moves. Nance, you’re with me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the two men said in tandem.

  The two fusileros assigned to her fell in behind her as she left the bridge. She skipped the elevator and instead entered the access tunnel.

  “Feeling the need to move?” Nance asked as she grabbed the ladder.

  “Yes. I’d be nervous if I was going in. I’m more nervous that I’m not.” She focused on placing a foot on each rung.

  “You’ll have access to the fusileros’ helmet cams.”

  “Which makes it worse. To see the events unfolding and be incapable of affecting them.” Desperate to escape from the conversation she hooked her boots on the braces and slid down the rest of the way. It didn’t help her outrun her thoughts and fears.

  The brig was on the lowest level of the big dreadnaught. On the same level as the armory and the gun range. On reflection Mercedes decided that maybe that wasn’t the best design. The guards on duty jumped up, braced, and saluted as she entered. She waved them down. “Bring me Captain Duarte.”

  She and Nance went into the office and waited. A few moments later the guards returned with the captain of the trading ship. It had been a trail of breadcrumbs that had led to the corsario base, starting with a sheepish merchant admitting that he had purchased cheap contraband goods from an electronics store on Dragonfly. That arrest had led to a supplier with a warehouse on Nephilim, which had ultimately led them to the freighter captain who now stood before her. He was a short man with a magnificent beer belly and a thatch of curly white hair. Nance had questioned the three-person crew using approved interrogation techniques. Some of which involved boxes of Oreos and coffee. Eventually Duarte had given up the coordinates of Rockfleet, and now here they were.

  Mercedes motioned at the chair on the other side of the desk. “Señor Duarte.”

  “Highness.” She waited. She had taken to heart Kemel’s lesson that silence was often more powerful than words. “Do you need something?” the man asked eventually.

  “Advice.”

  “Advice,” he repeated. He looked surprised and wary. Nance pulled a package of the Tiponi stim sticks out of his pocket and tossed it to Duarte. He grabbed it gratefully, pulled out a stick. Nance lit it for him. The corsair took a long pull.

  Mercedes watched the man’s shoulders relax and then asked, “So how fervent are the people on that rock about fighting to the last man? If I offer leniency are some of them likely to… decamp?”

  Duarte took the stim out of his mouth, studied the burning tip for a moment before answering. “Oh, hell yes. None of us are true believers. In much of anything. We’re just… greedy.”

  “Thank you. Are you familiar with the ships and captains who work with Señor Cornell?”

  “A lot of them.”

  “Do you have call signals for them?”

  “Some.”

  “Will you provide me with those? I can hope some of them are presently docked.”

  “What does that get me?”

  Nance stepped in. “Less time in prison.”

  Duarte ruminated while he frowned at the wall and took a few more puffs on the stim stick. “Okay, sounds fair.”

  Back on the bridge they sent targeted messages to the call signals Duarte had provided. The surveillance officer reported that the scanners were picking up activity on four of the seven docked ships. Mercedes laid a hand on Eklund’s shoulder. “Send in some Infiernos to take out the cannon. Cornell might decide to punish the defectors.”

  She slipped on a headpiece so she could monitor the cross-talk between the Infiernos and their base ships and between the fighter pilots. A few minutes later a squadron of fighters arrowed into the maze. A few of the rail guns took shots. Most of the slugs missed, others were dodged, and the few that did find a target were easily absorbed by the heavy shielding on the Infiernos. A rain of missiles from the Infiernos answered, and blew apart the guns.

  “Hijole,” one of the pilots caroled. “Those things were made of tin foil and spit.”

  With the rail guns neutralized the four ships that had chosen to defect made their way through the maze surrounding Rockfleet. Orders were radioed to kill engines and surrender or be targeted. One of the four tried to engage their Folddrive and were hammered by missiles off the five destroyers in Mercedes’ strike force. She watched as the freighter came apart in slow motion. Escaping atmosphere turned to glittering ice; the tumbling metal pieces glinted and flared as they caught the light off the star that anchored this system. She didn’t ask for a closer view. She didn’t need to see the bodies. The remaining three corsair ships meekly surrendered.

  “Lesson learned and message received,” Eklund grunted.

  “One ship making a run on a bolt hole,” came a voice. Mercedes pinpointed the location of the attempted breakout and keyed into the cameras aboard the fighter at that sentry point.

  “Fire a warning shot and order them to surrender,” Mercedes commanded.

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.”

  A new voice came on the radio. “We have hostages aboard.”

  Nausea filled her throat, threatening to choke her. “Scan to determine numbers.”

  She counted her heartbeats until the pilot reported. “Thirty.”

  She muted her radio and looked to Eklund. “Ship that size would normally have a crew of five to eight people. So, yeah, they probably have some of our people aboard.”

  She keyed her radio back on. “Lieutenant, disable that ship.”

  “Ma’am, I’ll have to use a missile. I can’t program a slug—”

  She muted her microphone and looked from Eklund to Nance. Seconds elongated into eons. The radio crackled to life with a new voice.

  “Ma’am, this is Captain Cristobal Yuen off the frigate Indomitable. We’ve broken free and we’re trying to reach the bridge, but we’re not going to make it in time. Take the shot.”

  “A missile will destroy that ship.”

  “We know, but if you let them escape they’ll load more of us on ships to use us as human shields. They have to know it won’t work. That we’re expendable.”

  An ache settled into her throat. Mercedes said, “Captain Yuen, the League thanks you and your men for your service. Ve con Dios, Captain.” She switched channels. “You have your order, Lieutenant. Fire at will.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She watched the calculations flick across the screen in the cockpit of the Infierno. The image gave a link as the missile was fired. Scanners traced its path as it wove its way through the tumbling rocks toward the corsario vessel. The freighter tried to evade its oncoming doom, but then the engines cut out, probably due to actions by Yuen and his men. Unable to navigate, it deviated from the safe path it needed to maintain. An oblong rock clipped th
e back of the ship. Pieces of metal fell away in that dreamy dance of zero gravity. The inertia of the first rock nudged the ship into the path of a much larger, jagged rock that hit in the center of the ship sending it off on yet a new trajectory and into the path of more and more rocks. It was like watching a steel ball bouncing between the bumpers in one of those ancient pinball machines. The ship was coming apart at the seams. The mass of flying metal pieces confused the missile’s tiny brain. It kept changing its trajectory, chasing pieces until it finally hit one large segment that was the body of the ship and detonated. The flare of the explosion blinded Mercedes for an instant. She was glad. It might explain the wetness in her eyes.

  “Well. I bet nobody tries that again,” Eklund said in a voice stripped of all emotion.

  “Let’s finish this.” Mercedes’ voice sounded harsh even to her own ears.

  “With pleasure, ma’am.”

  The shuttles loaded with fusileros wove their way through the maze of rocks toward the orphan moon.

  12

  A WHIFF OF SEDITION

  Walking with Nance and her adjutant through the corridors that had been drilled into the moon Mercedes found herself reflecting on the complacency of the League that had allowed Cornell to construct a base of this size and complexity and the arrogance of even giving it a name. What in Heaven’s name had led the corsair leader to think he could seize military vessels without consequence? Mercedes answered her own question. Because we allowed him to reach that conclusion. It had been easier to just pay the occasional ransom, for insurance companies to absorb the losses, and bean counters at fleet headquarters to argue that the cost and effort to dig them out was too great.

  Those accommodations had now led to the death of several hundred people—corsario and O-Trell alike—and the loss of three military vessels. The loss of life concerned Mercedes, and she was also worried over the whereabouts of the three ships. She hoped someone among the survivors could tell her what the hell had happened to them.

  Was there an alien rebellion brewing? No one had ever satisfactorily explained the disappearance of the Cara’ot. Could they have taken the ships? She shook her head. That made no sense. The aliens had had ships and abandoned them. Why now, all these years later, would they take three human ships?