Falcone Strike

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Commander,” Roach said as he stepped onto the bridge. “Can I have a word?”

  William eyed him for a long moment. The tactical officer hadn’t been hauled in for interrogation, but he had to know he was in some trouble. Parker had been in his department, after all, and it was Roach’s job to review the personnel files and spot any discrepancies. On the other hand, like everyone else, Roach had been overworked right from the start. In hindsight, they might have been lucky that there had only been one major problem on the squadron.

  “One moment,” he said. He looked at the communications officer. “Linda, contact Mermaid and inform her commander that they are being detached for a specific mission. I shall be shuttling over as soon as possible.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Linda said.

  “Come with me,” William said to Roach. “Lieutenant Weiberg, you have the bridge.”

  “Aye, sir,” Weiberg said. He barely looked up from his console. “I have the bridge.”

  William led the tactical officer through the hatch and down to his cabin. There was no dedicated office for the XO, although he had blanket permission to use the captain’s office if necessary. This time, however, he had a feeling this discussion was better held elsewhere.

  “Right,” he said, once the hatch was closed and locked. “What can I do for you?”

  “Commander,” Roach said. “I should have been consulted on Parker . . .”

  William felt his temper start to fray. “You should have been supervising the tactical department, as well as handling your bridge duties,” he said sharply. “If you had been doing your job, perhaps Parker would have been caught before we were ambushed!”

  Roach clenched his fists, then visibly forced himself to relax. He was tired; they were all tired and demoralized after the ambush and retreat. William silently cursed the staffing problems again, then reminded himself that they had plenty of spare personnel now that a handful of ships were being scrapped. The only problem would be working up the handful of remaining ships before they had to go back into battle.

  “With all due respect, sir,” Roach said, “I . . .”

  “No,” William said. He held up a hand before Roach could say another word, then forced himself to keep his voice calm and level. “I understand your feelings on the matter, both your outrage and your embarrassment”—and your sense it wasn’t your fault, he added silently— “however, I do not have time to deal with the matter. I do not believe you deliberately covered up anything, merely that you didn’t have the time to handle all of your responsibilities. There will, of course, be an inquest when we get home, but until then I expect you to do your duty.”

  He took a breath. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Roach said.

  “Good,” William said. He studied the younger man for a long moment. “I will be leaving shortly. During my absence, I expect you to work hard to rebuild your department and prepare it for the next challenge. Once I return, we will discuss any other matters. Do not let me or the captain down.”

  “Yes, sir,” Roach said.

  “Good,” William said, again. He sighed inwardly. Roach would either blame himself or blame everyonebut himself. The entire crew really needed a rest, but they weren’t going to get one. “Very good. Dismissed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “It looks like yet another boring system,” Lieutenant Lars Rasmussen observed. “Set course for the asteroid cluster, then broadcast the signal code I gave you,” William ordered. “There should be a response within seconds.”

  “Aye, sir,” Rasmussen said.

  William concealed his amusement with an effort. Rasmussen was in command of the vessel, but William outranked him. In theory, Rasmussen had the legal authority to give orders to admirals and even politicians; in practice, it would be a brave or foolish junior officer who tried. He seemed to have compromised; he paid attention to William, but steadfastly held to his command. William would have been impressed if he’d had time to care.

  “That’s a response,” Midshipwoman Grace Hawthorne said. “They’re pointing us towards a large asteroid, then demanding payment in advance.”

  “How unsurprising,” William observed. “Remember: none of you are to leave the ship without my permission. If I don’t return or contact you within five hours, cast off, return to the RV point, and report to Captain Falcone.”

  “Aye, sir,” Rasmussen said.

  William nodded, then watched grimly as the asteroid slowly came into view. He’d seen quite a few hidden settlements, but this one wasn’t really hidden at all. It emitted enough betraying radiation for the enemy to have no trouble finding it if they bothered to look. He’d had doubts, no matter what he’d said to the captain, but now . . . now he realized he’d been correct all along. The Theocracy knew the base was there and turned a blind eye.

  “Take us towards the docking port,” he said as the asteroid turned slowly, revealing a handful of ports cut into the stone. Several starships were clearly visible, including two old warships and something that looked like an early model pleasure yacht. The remainder were freighters of various designs, one of which was a complete unknown. Something the Theocracy had produced? Or something from the other side of the settled universe? “I’ll pay when the hatch opens.”

  He picked up his carryall as the ship docked, then made his way down to the airlock and stepped through. A pair of grim-faced men were waiting for him, one with his arms removed and replaced by a set of very visible combat augmentations. William refused to show any reaction—it was a childish attempt to intimidate him—as he held out their payment, a handful of Commonwealth credit chips. They would be worthless in the Theocracy, of course, but smugglers were no respecters of borders. Besides, the crown was worth more than anything the Theocracy used for money.

  “That would be suitable,” the first man grunted after checking the chips carefully. “You have the right to use this airlock and docking port for two days. Fuel, energy, and anything else is extra.”

  “Thank you,” William said dryly. “Can you point me towards the market?”

  The man nodded. “Down in Section C,” he said gruffly. “Be warned that you may not offer insult, aggression, or violence towards anyone else within the rock. Any offenders will be put outside the airlock without a protective suit.”

  He turned and strode off, followed by his augmented companion. William frowned after him—that level of visible augmentation was unusual—then headed down towards Section C. The layout of the asteroid looked to be fairly standard; there didn’t seem to be many differences between this location and the handful of other smuggler bases he’d visited, although the population here seemed to be smaller. It probably had something to do with their location, he reasoned; the chance of making a fortune off corrupt officials versus the prospect of being brutally killed if the Theocracy’s enforcers got hold of them. He shrugged, then stepped through the door into the marketplace, looking around with interest. It was smaller than his brother’s asteroid, but almost as well-appointed.

  “I have spare parts to sell,” he said once he found a prospective reseller. He held out a datapad containing the manifest, then smiled. “Make me an offer.”

  The reseller—a dark-skinned woman who seemed to have been slimmed down until she was hellishly thin—eyed the manifest sourly. “I’ll give you ten thousand credits, five thousand joys, or one thousand crowns the lot.”

  William frowned. “Credits?”

  “You can only use them here,” the reseller said. She smiled, revealing very sharp teeth. “Useless anywhere else, I’m afraid.”

  And no doubt rigged to benefit the asteroid’s managers, William thought. “You can have the lot for ten thousand crowns.”

  The woman snorted. “I’d give you ten thousand joys,” she said. William puzzled over it for a moment, then realized it had to be a slang term for the Theocracy’s currency. “You don’t have anything like enough here for ten thousand crowns.”

 
; They haggled backwards and forwards for a long moment, then settled on seven thousand crowns. William took the advance payment, called the ship to arrange for delivery, and then settled on a time to pick up the rest of the payment. The reseller, having melted slightly, offered him a handful of items from her selection, although she admitted— with another toothy smile—that times were hard. William guessed the Theocracy was buying up everything it could, as well as redirecting production towards the war. There would simply be much less to steal.

  “I need to speak to an information broker,” he said, finally. “Can you recommend one?”

  “Quietus over there is the best on the rock,” the reseller said. She giggled, a high-pitched sound that put William’s hackles on edge. “Not that that’s saying much, out here.”

  William nodded, thanked her, and headed over to the information broker. He looked very much like the others he had met while he’d been on a quest for his brother—short, very composed, and clearly augmented heavily. One of his eyes had been replaced by an implant; the other looked normal, but flecks of gold were clearly visible. William sat down facing him and waited until the man had activated his privacy generator.

  “I need information on shipping movements through Theocratic space,” William said, calmly. The man would probably take him for a pirate, but it hardly mattered. “What do you have?”

  Quietus looked thoughtful for a long moment. “I have shipping charts, but nothing more detailed,” he said. “The convoy details I have are subject to change without notice.”

  Which is an excellent excuse for scamming me, William thought. “Can you get anything more authentic?”

  “My sources might be reluctant to share such details,” Quietus said. “It would get them in trouble. You would need to make a very good offer.” William considered it. “A thousand crowns?”

  “Not good enough, given what is at stake,” Quietus said. “They wouldn’t live long enough to spend it.”

  “I can take someone onboard, then transport him and his money out of the Theocracy,” William offered. He supposed if he had to work for the Theocracy he’d want out too. “I think that would constitute suitable payment.”

  Quietus smiled. “And where would you take him?”

  “One of the border worlds or asteroid settlements,” William said. “I could give him a couple of thousand crowns, if his information pans out. That would be enough to get him started.”

  “Might be doable,” Quietus said. “What would you want from him?”

  “Everything,” William said simply. “Ship schedules, charts of Theocratic space, locations of naval bases . . . everything he can bring, in short. And I would pay you two thousand crowns for arranging it.”

  Quietus lifted his eyebrows. “Three thousand crowns, considering the risk.”

  “Two thousand,” William said. “That’s enough for you to set up somewhere else too.”

  “Very well,” Quietus said. “You will pay me one hundred crowns for trying to recruit someone who wants out. If I find a possible candidate who fits your requirements, I will arrange for him to be smuggled here, at which point you will pay me the remaining one thousand, nine hundred crowns. It will take at least five days to accomplish those tasks. Do we have a bargain?”

  “We do,” William said.

  “I may also request transport myself,” Quietus said. “Would that be acceptable?”

  “If you wish,” William said. He had a feeling the CIS would want a few words with Quietus before he was allowed to go, but that was Quietus’s problem. “I may have to place you in stasis until we reach our destination, but you would be allowed to leave once we arrive.”

  “Very good,” Quietus said. He cocked his head, sending a contact code into William’s implants. “You will be informed if I succeed or fail.”

  William rose, then spent the rest of the hour exploring the marketplace and looking for anything that might prove useful. It was odd; starship components seemed to be very expensive, while personnel weapons were surprisingly cheap. He couldn’t help wondering if the smugglers were selling them to insurgencies on occupied worlds, then dismissed the thought. No matter the number of corrupt officials involved with the smugglers, they’d have to be insane to allow the smugglers to supply weapons to their enemies. Unless, of course, they were so far gone they hardly cared.

  “They came for the supplies, sir,” Rasmussen said, when he returned to the ship. “We handed them over, as you ordered.”

  “Good,” William said. It would be at least an hour before he could collect the rest of the cash, but he could wait. “I have some new orders for you.”

  It was seven days before Quietus finally got back in touch with him, seven days during which William grew more and more paranoid about possible betrayal. Whoever Quietus had tapped to serve as a defector might be having second thoughts, or taking part in an elaborate sting operation. Maybe they’d brought an entire enemy squadron with them, or a handful of armed janissaries who would try to capture Mermaid. But, when Quietus called him to a private office, he discovered that matters were more awkward than he’d realized.

  “This is John,” Quietus said. He waved a hand at a one-way mirror, which looked into another office. A pale-skinned man sat at a table, looking nervous. “He is—he was—a mid-level official on Aswan. Commodore Malian, his former superior, used him as a go-between, but their new commanding officer is a bit more of a hard-ass. John felt it might be safer to leave, so he took the bait. It was very hard to get him, his two wives, and their five children out of the system without sounding any alarms.”

  William blinked. “There are seven of them?”

  “Eight, if you count John, and nine, if you count me,” Quietus said. “I do want to go too.”

  Idiot, William told himself. Just because I have no wife and children doesn’t mean that everyone else is equally free to leave at a moment’s notice.

  “I will need to check the data first,” William said. If John really had worked at Aswan, he would know enough to keep the intelligence staff happy for months. “And then we can transfer them to my ship.”

  “Of course,” Quietus said. He produced a datapad and held it out. “A sample can be found here.”

  William scowled at him, then peered down at the datapad. It certainly looked authentic. A handful of updated starship schedules, a couple of outlines of the defenses of various systems . . . it was either authentic or a very good fake. And the latter would be easy to spot, once the analysts went to work. There would be an opportunity for revenge on John, Quietus, and John’s family afterwards, if necessary. They would certainly be reluctant to cheat him if they believed he was a pirate.

  “Very well,” he said. “I will require the full data once everyone is on my ship.”

  “Of course,” Quietus said. “Shall I tell him to prepare?”

  “Yes,” William said. “Tell him we will leave in twenty minutes.”

  He keyed his wristcom and sent a few orders, then waited impatiently for John to return with his family. The two wives were veiled, their faces hidden behind black robes that robbed them of all individuality; two of the children, both girls, were veiled too, although he could see their brown eyes. All three of the boys wore long robes; he couldn’t help reminding himself to be careful, recalling just how fanatical young men could be. They might not understand why their father had taken them from their home and, when they realized they were actually going to the Commonwealth, they might do something stupid.

  John’s voice was strange, oddly accented. “You are the one who will take us all?”

  “I am,” William confirmed. “If you will come with me . . . ?”

  He frowned as he led the way down the corridor. The women brought up the rear; the young girls at the very back, hiding from the boys. There was something about such blatant inequality that sent chills down his spine; his homeworld had prided itself on breeding tough-minded men and women, where one’s strength and determination meant more than one’
s gender. To be treated as chattel because of one’s birth . . . it was a repulsive historical nightmare. But it was one that had to be endured until the Theocracy was crushed. If a princess could gain the nerve to escape, no doubt other women had the same sparks of independence glowing within them too.

  “Do not touch anything within the ship without permission,” William warned as they reached the airlock. “This is not a safe environment.”

  The hatch hissed open, revealing two crewmen. Both of them had clearly taken the instructions to wear something piratical to heart. The red shirts and black trousers, with several weapons hanging from their belts, made them look like characters out of a bad romantic play rather than real pirates. William sensed Quietus having second thoughts, but it was far too late. He led the small group through the hatch and into a medium-sized cabin that was easy to secure.

  “You are not to leave this compartment without an escort,” he said as he waved the women and children inside. “We will get you somewhere safe as quickly as possible.”

  One of the boys glanced at his sister, then said something in a language William didn’t recognize. John snapped at him, raising a hand as if he intended to strike the child; the boy cowered back, then glowered at his younger sister . . . as if, somehow, it was all her fault. William felt cold; it looked, very much, as if John kept his family in line with a rod of iron. What had the boy said? Had he objected to sharing a cabin with the girls? Or what? “It . . . it would be better if you could put the girls in a separate cabin,” John said. “Is that possible?”

  “Perhaps,” William said darkly. Although, judging by the expression on the boy’s face, it would probably be safer for the girls to keep the two sexes apart. “I will try and make arrangements.”

  “Thank you,” John said.

  William sighed and closed the hatch. “We’ll be casting off in five minutes,” he said once he showed Quietus to his cabin. “I need that data now.”

  “Here,” Quietus said. He gave William a sharp look. “You’re not pirates or smugglers, are you?”