“We would have found this, if we’d searched it,” Buzz observed, in the call where he reported that to Alex. There was no boasting in his tone, it was simply a statement of fact. The Customs and regular Fleet parties who’d searched the Pallamar for any evidence of missile or high powered cannon capability had carried out their searches thoroughly, as per procedures. That meant running scanner diagnostics, searching the ship with heatscan, radar and power-detecting scanners. The Fourth, however, were accustomed to physically stripping down their own ship to test every part of it directly, so they would have done just as they had here, opened it up for themselves and used their own eyes.
“Well, we knew what to look for,” Alex replied. He had a stack of reports to hand, ranging from intelligence advisories about various methods that might be employed to conceal that kind of weapons capability, through to suggestions from his own crew when he’d thrown it open to them with a “How would you do this?”. Almost all of them agreed that the missile launcher was probably concealed within an airlock while the guns had been boosted by hidden generators. What they’d found, therefore, came as no great surprise. It was also no surprise that they had found no drugs aboard, and no evidence, either, of the Pallamar’s involvement in either drug trafficking or piracy. They would keep looking, but Alex knew that Edrin Endell was far too smart to have any evidence of that aboard his ship.
A cheer went up on the Heron when, just ten minutes out from returning to port, Alex was able to give the order to restore power to their emblem. It mattered, that. It mattered to all of them. Absurdly, riggers were even going around polishing things, as if preparing for inspection. Nobody had asked them to do that and there was no point to it anyway since nobody would be coming aboard. It was a matter of pride, though, for them to be as presentable as could be achieved on their return to port.
Chapter Twenty One
When they rose into orbit at Karadon, the battered Pallamar following them, the shipping round the station went berserk. Within moments, hundreds of ships were spinning, flashing their lights in a display that outshone the stars.
Alex let his crew enjoy that, with cheers and whoops of delight from all around the ship. They had, he felt, earned that. All his own attention, however, was on recovering the shuttles he’d left there.
“All uneventful here, sir,” Arie McKenna reported, coming to the command deck. She sounded a little regretful, even envious of having missed out on the action.
“Thank you, Sub-lt.” Alex gave her a brief smile. He understood how she felt, but it had been important to maintain a presence in port. Arie had kept things calm there when it must have been stressful not knowing what was going on. “Good job,” he commended, and gave his customary, “Please convey my compliments to your team.”
When she’d saluted and gone to help with repairs, Alex released a pre-recorded “All ships” broadcast that the media would pick up too. It stated the facts, baldly.
“The Pallamar released two cargo containers directly into our path. They then fired upon us repeatedly with both scatter missiles and cannon. When warning shots and attempts at disabling fire proved ineffective we were forced to return live fire. Regrettably, upon boarding the ship we discovered that there was one casualty, Second Mate Jalia Albert, who had apparently been operating the missile launch system. Despite every effort to rescue and render medical assistance, she was pronounced dead on arrival at the Heron’s sickbay. Skipper Edrin Endell and all other members of the Pallamar’s crew are now in custody. No member of the Heron’s crew has sustained injury. Both the Pallamar and the Heron have sustained damage. One of our shuttles was destroyed, though there was nobody aboard it. Primary repairs have already been accomplished and both ships are safe to remain operational. No further statements will be made on this matter and the attached footage is all that we will be releasing from this operation.”
The attached footage consisted only of a few minutes of heatscan recording, showing both ships and the exchange of fire between them. The media would very soon turn that into a visual simulation, showing it as if the ships had been right alongside one another rather than tens of thousands of kilometres apart, and employing as many special effects for the gunfire and explosions as they could get away with. Some of the channels more concerned with drama than accuracy would add sound effects to the explosions, too.
Spacers, however, would read the thermal imaging record and would be able to visualise from that exactly how things had been. The many and various campaign groups protesting against the Fourth would all put their own interpretations on it, of course, but the spacer community, the people Alex respected and worked with, would see what had really happened.
Durban Jorgensen could certainly follow a heatscan record. The Pallamar was right there in orbit, too, conclusive proof that the Fourth had arrested Edrin Endell. If ever Jorgensen was going to be open to negotiation about giving himself up or turning state’s evidence, it would be now.
His response, however, when Alex attempted to call him, was a blunt and emphatic two words making it clear that he wouldn’t even discuss it.
“Ah well,” Alex said, with a philosophic shrug. At least he’d had the sense not to bet against Buzz on this one. Buzz had said that he expected Durban Jorgensen to dig in and defend the territory he considered to be his home turf, though Alex had hoped he’d have more sense than that. They would just, he recognised, have to do this the hard way.
Just how desperate and dangerous the situation actually was became apparent a few minutes later, though, when Murg Atwood sent the skipper an urgent report. When he read it, he called her at once.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked. They had re-established their link into Karadon’s computer systems. That had been down for more than an hour since neither of the shuttles had the capacity to maintain that. Their intel team was focussing on pulling up anything important that had changed while they’d been away.
“Yes sir,” Murg confirmed. There was a set look to her face. “Analysis confirms that oxygen uptake and other life support stats are consistent with there now being sixty eight people on that station, not sixty nine. We have multiple source confirmation that no shuttle or lifepod or hullwalker has left the station during our absence. We also have a recorded use of the waste disposal incinerator, burned at eight thousand degrees for seventy seconds, sixty three minutes ago. That would be sufficient to dispose of a human body, sir. There has been no use of Dale Hopkins’ comm in the last sixty seven minutes. I believe that’s cause for concern, sir.”
Alex nodded, looking at the evidence she was sharing with him. Dale Hopkins was a minor functionary in the gang. He was an office supervisor in the Freight division, involved in the production of fraudulent Customs documents but bright enough not to keep any record of that. Perhaps he’d tried to make a run for it while the Heron was chasing the Pallamar, or perhaps Jorgensen had suspected he was about to turn state’s evidence on them.
“The thing is, sir, it struck me that Ardant didn’t say anything to the Pallamar about us having Logan Tantrell aboard,” Murg continued. Alex looked at her alertly. He’d noticed that, too, though had been too busy with the Pallamar to think about it since. “It’s strange, they just don’t seem to have realised how important that is,” Murg observed. “And the thought occurs, sir – pure speculation, but I can’t help wondering if they knew that Dale Hopkins was paying Tantrell to falsify the records. I mean, if they were paying him to do it, and he was slipping Tantrell a few bucks on the quiet to actually do the work, Jorgensen and the others might not even have realised he knew anything about their operations.”
That made sense. Thinking back to his interview with him, Alex recalled that Logan Tantrell had spoken of coming to an arrangement with his boss, Mr Hopkins, to be paid a hundred dollars for every docket that he altered. Alex had thought at the time that that was a pathetically small amount to be risking a hefty prison sentence for. If the gang was paying Hopkins thousands to alter the documents,
with no knowledge of him paying a clerk a hundred a time to actually do the work, that would explain a good many things, including why Logan Tantrell had been allowed to leave the station and why Jorgensen and the others seemed unconcerned about the Fourth having arrested him. If they’d found out now that Dale Hopkins had done that, it would also explain why there were now only sixty eight people on the station and his comm had gone silent.
There were a lot of “ifs” in that, of course. They didn’t even have conclusive evidence that Dale Hopkins was dead, and could only guess what might have happened.
“Find out from Tantrell whether anyone other than Hopkins knew about him altering the dockets,” Alex told Murg. “And what his connection is to Zelda.”
“On it, sir,” she confirmed, and broke off the call.
It was another quarter of an hour before she called him back, filing a written report at the same time.
“Tantrell never dealt with anyone other than Hopkins,” she told him. “He knew from Hopkins and general station gossip that Jorgensen and Ardant were mixed up in the drug dealing, but he never had any conversation with them about it. He says he had a “private arrangement with Mr Hopkins”. He says that Zelda seemed to know about it, though he doesn’t know how. She joked with him once, saying how much Mr Hopkins must appreciate his invaluable assistance, and laughed when he said that he prided himself on being efficient. He says she’s bought him drinks a few times, since, but has never mentioned the drugs thing directly. It seems that Dale Hopkins didn’t tell anyone about our Mr Tantrell.”
Alex nodded understanding. The gang would not have been happy, for a start, that a junior clerk had spotted the office supervisor’s falsifying of documents. Also, given that Logan Tantrell was willing to do the same job presumably for a fraction of what they were paying Dale Hopkins, it would be very much in Hopkins’ interests to pay him off privately and keep quiet about it. At least until Durban Jorgensen found out.
This was and could only be speculation, of course. It was equally likely that Dale Hopkins had lost his nerve and tried to flee the station. It was even conceivable that he wasn’t dead, that the drop in life support stats was due to some other factor they hadn’t thought of and the incinerator use a pure coincidence.
The odds were not in favour of that, however, as Arie McKenna was clearly aware when she came back to the command deck.
“Is it true, sir?” she asked Alex. “Has Dale Hopkins been murdered?”
Alex looked at her with quiet understanding. She had been left in charge. She would not be the officer she was if she didn’t feel a sense of responsibility for what had happened on her watch.
“It seems probable,” he said. Arie went pale, her back very stiff as she stood to attention. “All we know for sure is that Dale Hopkins is off comms, life support stats have dropped as if there’s one less person on the station and there was unusual usage of a waste incinerator. That’s circumstantial at best and there are several other possibilities.”
Arie looked him straight in the eyes.
“You think he’s dead, though, sir?”
Alex nodded.
“I think so, yes,” he affirmed. “If he is, it is not your fault. You could not possibly have known, or done anything about it. Even if we’d been in port with a live intel link, by the time we realised what had happened, it would have been too late. If, indeed, anything has happened. We don’t have sufficient evidence to be sure.”
Arie drew a breath, steadying herself, and nodded back.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. She was grateful for the comfort, though nothing would prevent her going over things again and again in her mind, trying to work out if there was any way she could have known, or anything she could have done.
She went back to work, though, showing the grit and leadership that had already got her nicknamed “McMarvel” by the crew. She had grown up a lot in the last week, with no trace left of the cadet she’d still been, really, when she bounced aboard full of enthusiasm and Academy Yap. Arie McKenna was all officer now.
She wasn’t the only one who’d matured. Not long after that, Alex summoned Andy Carrington-Miles back from the Pallamar. Repairs were going well there and it would not be long before Buzz would be ready to hand over the command to a more junior officer.
Andy arrived promptly when the skipper sent for him, taking a seat at Alex’s gesture. They were in Alex’s daycabin, a space he only used for private meetings. Being summoned to the skipper’s cabin unexpectedly would be cause for any officer to carry out a rapid review of their recent performance and conduct, but Andy knew that he had nothing to be anxious about.
“I would like you,” Alex told him, “to take command of the Pallamar, Mr Carrington-Miles.”
Andy’s face lit up with pleasure. It would be a challenging command, with all the work that needed doing to the ship, but being appointed to such a command would be a huge boost to his career.
“Thank you, sir!” he said, and as rosy colour flooded his face, “I won’t let you down, sir.”
Alex gave him a look of friendly approval. It had given him great pleasure to see the nervous, failing Sub gaining confidence, firstly through the kindly support of Martine Fishe and then as he’d found himself competent and successful in their operations here.
“It is a lieutenant’s command, really,” Alex observed, since the Fleet would normally appoint a Lt to command of a ship with more than ten crew aboard. “So I am going to give you an order as Acting Lieutenant, which I trust that the Admiralty will confirm when we return to port.”
Andy stared at him for a moment as if not quite able to believe he’d heard him right, then thanked him again, rather breathlessly this time.
“Fully deserved, Mr Carrington-Miles,” said Alex, and meant it. “Just one word of advice.” He gave the acting Lt a steady look. “There are,” he told him, “officers who are happy in groundside postings, enjoying the social status of serving in the Fleet. Then there are officers who are happy in homeworld squadrons where it’s all spit and polish, pomp and ceremony. And then, Mr Carrington-Miles, there are officers who are only happy on active service, being out here, actually making a difference. It is important to know what kind of officer you are. Do yourself a favour, Lt, and do not accept any more postings to homeworld squadrons, yes?”
Andy gave him a beatific look. With those few words Alex had redefined all the humiliation of his previous four shipboard postings, not as failures but simply as being the wrong kind of posting for him, and wrong because he was better than that. Andy would never forget that as long as he lived.
“Thank you, sir!” he said, for the third time.
“I can allow you your choice of the other super-Subs to be your Exec,” Alex informed him. He was curious to see what decision Andy would make, there. If he was still feeling insecure he might choose the officer he felt least likely to challenge his command role. If he’d learned as much as Alex hoped he had, he would choose the strongest of them.
“Thank you, sir,” said Andy, and then, without a moment’s hesitation, “I would like Sub-lt McKenna, sir, if that meets with your approval.”
Alex smiled. “Good choice, Lt,” he agreed. “You can tell her that yourself. Talk to Mr Burroughs about crew – I want you in command over there by the end of the watch.” He held out his hand and they shook hands, then Andy, feeling that to be insufficient, saluted him too. Alex returned the salute and did not grin until the newly promoted Lt had departed. Then he went back to the command deck and waded into the enormous amount of paperwork the Fleet would require in reporting damage to his ship.
Chapter Twenty Two
The Heron had been back at Karadon just a couple of hours when another ship came into port.
The new arrival commanded instant attention as it rose into orbit. Spacers recognised the type of ship, at once, as the latest thing out of the Mandram spacedocks. It was so new that most spacers hadn’t even seen one yet, other than on the news. The manufacturers des
cribed it as a hyperliner. It was half the size of even the smallest class of traditional liner, able to carry up to three hundred passengers. They wouldn’t have anything like the range of glitzy entertainment provided on a normal liner. On the other hand, the ship was so fast it would get them to their destination in two thirds of the time even the fastest liners could travel.
It even looked fast. Though aerodynamic design was redundant in space, groundsiders would expect a fast ship to look sleek and arrow-like, so the designers had obliged. Both White Star and Red Line were said to have ordered several of the hyperliners, introducing them on high traffic routes as a faster business class alternative to traditional liner travel. It would be the following year, however, before they even started to take delivery of them.
This hyperliner didn’t have either White Star or Red Line emblems, or any other corporate ID. It had dark red, glossy paintwork and the name Stepeasy in small black writing. The official ID code indicated that it was a private yacht, registered at Flancer.
All the busy inter-ship chatter around Karadon stopped as everyone watched the “yacht” cruise up into orbit. The Stepeasy would naturally expect to be receiving traffic control signals from the station. Like every other ship arriving in port, however, they received a signal telling them that the Queen of Cartasay was currently handling traffic control due to the emergency. Fortunately Durb Jorgensen evidently didn’t consider that important enough to be making a fight of it by issuing contradictory instructions from Karadon. The automated flight control systems there had been one of the sections he’d turned off.
The Queen of Cartasay assigned the Stepeasy to Orbit 7/069, anyway, and the hyperliner glided gracefully into position.
“What a beauty,” Martine observed, echoing the admiration being expressed on every ship in port.
Alex nodded, though his interest was far more focussed on who was aboard the ship than in its design.
Karadon (Fourth Fleet Irregulars) Page 34
