“Nah. You’re my second officer.” David grinned at her. “You get to join me in finding out just what Mage Soprano has done to my ship!”
ENTERING HIS BRIEFING ROOM, David took a seat at the head of the table. Campbell followed suit, collapsing into a chair with the exhaustion of someone who’d had a really bad few days. David, at least, hadn’t been stunned—and she wasn’t fully recovered from having been shot a few weeks before.
“How’s the ship?” he asked Maria without further preamble.
“Coming together,” she told him. “If you want details, you’ll need to pin Kellers down, but I’ve got the high-level. Damage to the engines is repaired and our replacement engine is almost finished being fabricated. The lasers are remounted and the structural beams in the middle of the ship are repaired.
“We’ve got about two days’ worth of work in the bow dome to get the radiation cap structure finished, sealed up and ready to go, and then we need to install the new antimatter drive unit.” She shrugged. “If I’m reading the reports correctly, we’re about four days away from being ready to go to space.
“Our cargo is all off-loaded, we’ve been paid, and our deductible has been covered,” she concluded. “We probably don’t want to try and load cargo until we’re out of the yards, but we can probably start sourcing it.”
“Good.” David rose, grabbed a glass of water from the sideboard and took a swallow. “I want to be the hell out of this system ASAP. The biggest cargo going the farthest away. I want fifty light-years between us and the Legacy.”
Maria sighed and he made a checkmark in his mental list of bets while taking another drink of water.
“And you’re about to try and argue me into making contact with this Turquoise,” he concluded. “And yes, I’m sure we could make some solid coin with another pseudo-smuggling job, and we’d probably get some intel that the Protectorate would love, but I need to remind you that we don’t work for the Protectorate.”
He turned around to face his two senior officers.
“You work for me,” he reminded them. “I am in this to make money. I also have a moral obligation to our crew to make sure they get their shares at the end of the year and that they live to spend them.
“That’s it,” he said. “That’s all. That’s our job. We ship cargo for money, we pay ourselves, we pay the crew.”
The room was silent for several seconds.
“Well?” he asked. “Am I wrong?”
“At least hear her out, David,” Campbell told him with a tired look. “We sit in a ship that the Protectorate gave us because we didn’t walk away from things that weren’t our problem.”
“Fine.”
Soprano looked just as tired as Campbell did. Maybe more so.
“You were rescued by Protectorate agents on Anvil Station,” she said quietly. “Did you wonder why you were being watched? Why there was a Marine strike force standing by to rescue you?”
“Everywhere I turn, someone seems to be watching me,” David snapped. He had wondered that. Perhaps more importantly, however, he hadn’t told anyone about that and everyone else had been unconscious when the Marines had arrived.
“Because I told them to,” Soprano told him. “Because Alaura Stealey left orders that you were to be protected, even as she handed you a ship that she knew was going to paint a target on you for all of your enemies.
“I work for you,” she continued. “I also work for the Martian Interstellar Security Service. My main role is to keep you safe and advise MISS when people like the Legacy came after you or the Conroys recruited you.”
David took another drink of water before he said anything, buying himself time to think. So, apparently Soprano was the second mole, another “benign” one, as LaMonte had put it. He wasn’t even surprised, not really.
“All right,” he said. “Now, assuming I don’t regard that alone as sufficient reason to kick you off my ship, why the hell would we make contact with Turquoise?”
“MISS tracked our last cargo,” she replied. “It was delivered to a company that builds particle accelerators and similar high-energy scientific equipment, on a massive scale. That company has seen forty million tons of raw material delivered from the Conroys over the last two years…and has had forty million tons of particle accelerator components ‘stolen’ over the same time frame.
“Now, I don’t know what you could do with forty million tons of particle accelerator bits, but I can’t imagine it’s something we want the Legatans to be doing,” she concluded. “The Navy might have dismissed particle accelerators as weapons, but that doesn’t mean someone hasn’t come up with a solution.”
David shook his head.
“No,” he admitted, his brain running ahead of him and coming to a terrifying conclusion. “Legatus wouldn’t be sourcing particle accelerators for weapons. You know what the Centurion Ring is, don’t you?”
Both of the women inhaled sharply.
“The Centurion Accelerator Ring,” Campbell echoed. “That… that would be a hell of a lot more than forty million tons.”
The Centurion Accelerator Ring was a single massive particular accelerator that encircled the gas giant Centurion in the Legatus system. Its sole purpose was to produce enough antimatter to run a modern industrialized society without needing Mages.
A ring space station with a two-hundred-thousand-kilometer diameter, the Centurion Ring was probably closer to forty billion tons than forty million, though most of that wouldn’t be the particle accelerator itself.
“They’re building a secret antimatter production facility,” Soprano concluded. “Fuck me.”
“All of the Protectorate’s calculations over whether or not the Legatans would risk a civil war factor in their known fuel supplies,” David continued woodenly. “Another major facility, without the consumption of an entire system’s industry…would change the balance of power.”
He sighed.
“Damn you, Soprano,” he snapped. “And just what can we do about this?”
“The people stealing the cargos appear to work for Turquoise,” she told him. “Learning what she wants and needs could give the Protectorate an edge in working out what the hell is going on.”
“And we still share an enemy with her,” Campbell said. “Throwing our enemies’ resources at each other sounds…useful.”
David sighed and finished the water, setting the glass aside.
“You realize that, regardless of whether the Legatans trust us, this Turquoise will see us as expendable assets who know too much, right?”
“Yes,” Soprano agreed. “Which is why we’ll need a backup plan…and as it happens, I also have a contact number for Commodore Andrews.”
He sighed.
“Get Skavar in here,” he ordered. “If we’re going to do this, let’s at least get the cards I know about on the damn table.”
THE SECURITY CHIEF entered the room and looked at the gathering of senior officers with a visible degree of alarm.
“Why do I feel like I just walked into a court-martial?” he asked dryly.
“Close the door, Ivan,” David ordered. “Then take a seat.”
The big man took a careful seat, perched on the edge of the chair like he was ready to spring into action. The room was small enough that it felt cramped with all four of them in it, though it could in theory fit another four people for a meeting.
“Jenna, check the security systems,” David continued. He waited while his XO checked the panel, locking down the room from any surveillance.
“I won’t swear by these systems,” he observed to the others, “but they are better than anything I’ve ever had before. Our discussion should remain private.”
“Private,” Skavar echoed. “I’m feeling even more court-martialed here, Captain.”
“That’s not a bad comparison,” Soprano said with a chuckle. “But don’t worry; you’re not the one in the most trouble here, Chief.”
“Somehow, that’s not reassuring,” he r
eplied.
“It’s not intended to be,” David told him. “Ivan. Be honest with me. How many of your security troops are active-duty Marines?”
There was a long silence.
“All of them,” Skavar finally replied. “Drawn from ten different companies so it wasn’t obvious to anyone watching. Gear was issued by the RMMC logistics team in Tau Ceti.”
“I’d guessed that part from the fact that you had all of the gear of an actual Marine platoon,” David observed. “Though I’ll admit that Miss LaMonte was the one who broke the illusion for me in the end.”
The Chief of Security looked confused, then sighed.
“Fuck. One of my idiots tried to get the lesbian couple into bed, didn’t he?”
“Bingo,” David confirmed. “So, all things considered, Chief Skavar, would you like to explain just who you actually are and how you got a Marine platoon aboard my ship?”
Skavar sighed and relaxed back into his chair, his bulk sliding back to allowing him to lean against the back.
“I told you I was retired and was asked for a favor, the call coming down from on high,” he reminded David. “What I didn’t mention was that it wasn’t really a favor: I was Active Reserve and they recalled me.
“And commissioned me,” Skavar continued. “I’m technically a Lieutenant in Royal Martian Marine Corps Forward Combat Intelligence, on special assignment under the authority of General George Bracken, as requested by Hand Alaura Stealey.”
“I see that Stealey wasn’t exactly trying to leave well enough alone,” David observed. “Does anyone on this ship actually work for me?”
Soprano coughed.
“It was made quite clear to me,” she said softly, “that I did work for you. I just also worked for MISS.”
Skavar looked at her in surprise.
“You’re MISS, ma’am?” he asked.
“It’s an all-cards-on-the-table kind of meeting, Ivan,” Maria told him. “I believe we’ve convinced the Captain to take some risks on his own part and the part of this ship in the name of the Protectorate, which means that those of us the Protectorate planted on his ship to keep him safe have a job to do.”
The Marine nodded, squaring his shoulders.
“Wilco, ma’am,” he confirmed brightly, then turned back to David. “We may still be Marines, sir, but there was no question in my orders. We report to you. No one else.”
“But you’re sending reports home, right? Both of you?” David asked.
They nodded.
“All right. So, here’s where things get ugly,” he told them. “I had LaMonte look for people burying covert transmissions off-ship. Assuming each of you is responsible for one set of communications, we still have two spies aboard ship.”
He sighed.
“And I have no idea who, so nothing we’re discussing leaves this room. Understood?”
34
The image on the wallscreen in David’s office didn’t resolve into a person once the call connected. The general “call holding” sign dissolved into a large rotating turquoise gemstone, glittering with an inner blue fire.
“Captain Rice,” a melodious female voice greeted him. “I’ll admit I’m surprised to see you contacting me with this code. I wasn’t aware that you had connections to LMID.”
“I’d believe that, ma’am, except that I’d be surprised if you didn’t know exactly whose cargo I arrived with,” David pointed out with a chuckle. “The Legatans tell me we share an enemy.”
The gemstone giggled in turn.
“Well done, Captain,” she murmured. “I was aware you’d arrived with a cargo being run through LMID’s little smuggling project. I’m still surprised they’d provide the man who killed Mikhail Azure a secure identification code to contact me.”
“As I said, they think we share an enemy in the Azure Legacy. They’re hunting me quite specifically, and my understanding is that as the leader of one of the organizations to fragment off the Blue Star Syndicate, you’re on their list as well.”
Turquoise giggled.
“Call me Turquoise, Captain,” she told him. “And yes, I am on Azure Legacy’s hit list as well. We do share an enemy. But I doubt a man of your reputation would reach out to me without more reason than that.”
“The bodies I’ve been sending home are a damned good reason,” David said quietly. “So long as the Legacy hunts me, my crew are at risk. If we can work together to end the bastards, we both benefit.”
“There is that,” she replied. “Plus, well, if you hadn’t killed Mikhail Azure, my own boss wouldn’t have been vulnerable and Silent Ocean wouldn’t exist. You could say I owe you. I don’t suppose you have a plan?”
“Inklings of one,” he told her. “I’d be delighted to share them with you.”
She giggled again.
“In person, I think, Captain Rice. Unless you want to negotiate with a glowing gemstone?”
“I’ve done worse,” he said levelly.
“I’m sure you have,” she replied. “You’re still at Foundry Yard Alpha, yes?”
Of course the woman knew more about his ship than he was comfortable with. David concealed a sigh.
“We are,” he confirmed.
“Go to the Salty Dragon Wench in the central station at twenty-two hundred OMT,” she ordered. “Tell them you’re on Oceanic business, and they’ll deliver you to me. Bring one escort, no more.
“We will make the Legacy suffer,” she concluded.
THE SALTY DRAGON WENCH WAS…EVEN worse than what David had been expecting given the name. He and Soprano made their way through one of the seedier sections of the Foundry Yard Alpha Central station. They weren’t—quite—into the areas where brothels had signs openly advertising their business, but David suspected that was only a few corridors over. Certainly, they were already into sections with stereotypical neon-style signs declaring GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS or BOYS BOYS BOYS, depending on the establishment.
The Salty Dragon Wench’s sign didn’t leave much doubt as to the nature of the establishment, either. The text announcing the bar’s name was beneath an anthropomorphized dragon with exposed breasts. Loud music leaked out each time the door opened, and David managed to not actively look uncomfortable as he followed his Ship’s Mage under the sign.
Soprano, to his amusement, was utterly unbothered by the neighborhood. She led the way up to the door and rapped on it calmly.
It popped open and a massive man loomed over them.
“Cover is ten,” he growled at them.
“We’re on Oceanic business,” David replied calmly.
The human mountain growled wordlessly at the back of his throat, then gestured for them to follow him.
He led the pair of officers into a dimly lit space. The only brightly lit areas were the stages, where David was unsurprised to see mostly naked women cavorting around poles.
Most places in the Protectorate, he’d be sure they’d chosen to be there. Knowing this bar was tied to a Blue Star Syndicate offshoot, though…
Soprano’s hand settled onto his shoulder.
“You can’t tell the difference between the volunteers and the trafficked at a glance,” she murmured in his ear. “Leave it. For now.”
He coughed but caught the meaning of both her restraint and her addendum. They had the connections to let a few people know about the Wench and let them poke into it without it getting attached to his name.
He didn’t have to screw up today’s meeting to make certain that any of the kids flashing their bodies across the stage unwillingly were taken care of.
Calming himself with plans of future vengeance, he allowed Soprano to gently pull him after their immense guide.
He had work to do.
THE ROOM the bouncer led them to was clearly a private party room, a slightly larger version of the closed booths where a certain class of patrons could pay for lap dances and such.
There was only one occupant, a young woman who looked about nineteen, with a face and body whose
proportions and lines were just on the wrong side of too perfect to be natural. She was facing them, wearing a tiny pair of dark blue shorts and a similarly sized crop top.
Carefully keeping his eyes on her face, David inclined his head.
“Turquoise, I presume.”
She giggled…and then moved. If he’d doubted his assessment for even a moment before, he had no doubt when he saw her move. Turquoise was built like a stripper, but she moved like an assassin.
The miniscule outfit would easily draw attention away from the holster nestled into her mid-back with the small-but-deadly needler pistol tucked into it, and something in how she moved suggested her muscles were as natural as her breasts.
As she leapt down from the stage, her hair flickered in color, changing from a glittering fiery red to a shimmering, gem-like blue.
“Well done, Captain Rice,” she told him, offering her hand. “You’d be surprised how many people, even in this day and age, assume the pretty girl is a bonus.”
She had to be older than she looked, David presumed, but given the amount of surgery and upgrades she’d clearly had, he wasn’t going to hazard a guess as to how old.
“When meeting the underworld boss of ten systems, it pays to err on the side of caution,” he replied after he’d shaken her hand.
Turquoise giggled.
“Six systems, Captain. Flattery will get you my amusement, but it won’t change the deal,” she warned. “Sit. Khaleesi—bring us drinks.”
The last was directed at a similarly built woman with long blond hair, clad in a thin blue robe. Tucked against the wall and invisible from the entrance, Khaleesi was about six inches shorter than Turquoise but otherwise had clearly been pressed into the same bodysculpted too-perfect mold.
Her eyes were downcast and her posture submissive as she produced three glasses of soda…but translucent as her long robe appeared, David’s practiced eye also picked out the two areas where it was concealing weapons. The blonde had the same less-visible “upgrades” as her boss, too.
Interstellar Mage (Starship's Mage: Red Falcon Book 1) Page 24
