The View from the Imperium

by Jody Lynn Nye

  Through the transparent ceiling, they saw what I did. The ship was indeed of a pale azure hue over most of its structure, but the motif was incomplete. The fin, a sweeping triangle that must have extended ten meters from its narrowest point to a width of six meters off the stern of the stubby oblong, displayed a logo quite different from the sigil of peace-lovers and serene intermediaries of the HEF. Rather, I saw, on a harsh ochre background, a tight, black, textured knot throttling a number of commodities such as trees, metal beams, and even a discontented-looking herd beast into a sheaflike mass. No doubt the image was meant to evoke a comprehensive organization, but to me and my friends it had always looked like the commodities in question were being sucked into a central vortex. The Calsag device was only visible because of a large chip cracked from the enamel of the fin, possibly from an unhappy encounter with a meteorite, another ship, or landing on the surface of the planetoid. No doubt the pirates had made a hasty job of repainting the vessels in question, intending to pass their illicit gains off as legitimate. The original owner’s logo would have remained concealed from the eyes of anyone who was not underneath the low-slung fin, as we were.

  “They have attempted to disguise the Calsag vessel, but part of the disguise has broken away,” I said. “We are the only ones who know it. We’ve got it!”

  “We must report it,” Plet said at once. “We have to let the Wedjet know.”

  “Report it?” I echoed. “We must stop it. We can’t let it leave here.” She gave me a sideways look, and my soaring ambition came crashing down with all the force of gravity. “You’re right. Notify the fleet at once.” I sent my camera flying upward to the ceiling. Monitoring its focus from my viewpad, I took a wide-angle snap of the entire vessel, then a close-up view of the broken enamel showing the design hidden underneath. I sent the file to Plet.

  Plet ran a thumb down the side of the viewpad, and the small screen turned blue. The symbol of the Imperial Navy appeared. She tapped a code into the center of the symbol, and waited. Nothing happened. She set in another code. The screen should have cleared to display the visage of the communication officer of the day. Nothing.

  “That shouldn’t happen,” she said.

  She put in a short sequence of digits. The screen filled with blocks of color. Some of them were stodgy and slow moving like bar graphs, others that were long and narrow and multiply curved, writhed all over the screen like wild snakes. “I’m running diagnostics,” she said. “It’s not my viewpad. There’s something interfering with my transmission.”

  The miners looked at one another.

  “Magnetite,” Torkadir said. Or perhaps it was Premulo. “A big order got processed last month. The buyer must have shown up for the delivery. That stuff gets in the way of communications all the time. It’s a real pain in the bucket. You ought to be able to get a signal through sooner or later.”

  “We must do something sooner,” I said, “or that ship might escape. I shall inform Parsons. He’ll know what to do.”

  I brought my own viewpad into operation. I entered Parsons’s official command code, his personal code, and even attempted to worm my way through by the links on his Infogrid file on the local server.

  “No success,” I said.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Filzon said, pointing toward a discreet line of doors near the main entrance to the ballroom, in between the chambers of personal convenience. “We can use the hard line to call him. That’s always our fallback when this happens. Where did he go?”

  I frowned. “I don’t know,” I said. My belly churned with decisions I did not feel up to making. We couldn’t let the pirate go! Parsons would know what to do. He always did. “He said only that he had an errand to run in town.”

  “He’s probably got a girlfriend,” Chan chortled. “Or whatever. This settlement can cater for all tastes, no questions asked.”

  Under any circumstances, such a remark called for a cold glare, but I was too concerned with the security warning. I stared up at the ship parked upon the ceiling. It was taunting me, daring me to make a decision. I took the challenge.

  “We must seize that vessel,” I resolved. “How can we prevent it from lifting off?”

  “Don’t worry,” Chan said. She waved a dismissive hand. “They’re not going anywhere if they’re not a legit ship. You have to have a license to buy fuel. Its transponder is tied into the Infogrid. The moment the fuel depot sees that, they’ll stop the sale. They have nowhere to go.”

  I regarded her with disbelief. “Do you think a self-respecting pirate will balk at having a false license?” I demanded. “Re-enameling a hull is expensive, as I sadly have reason to know.” I cringed inwardly at recalling what it had taken to repair the fin of a very fine speedster that I had borrowed from a friend. Well, I hadn’t seen the comsat before I clipped it. “It means that the crew of that ship has already taken some steps to avoid detection. We have to assume that they have taken others. They will be indistinguishable from ordinary, legitimate customers. Please notify the station manager, Captain.”

  Chan flushed. “I don’t have any official standing with him, sir. Except for running exercises and filling out the paperwork for the local militia, I’m nobody. I operate a drillhead. My rank only means I run the stupid idiots who volunteer to throw themselves into the gap to protect the Imperium. It don’t mean a thing on this station when I’m not bringing profit in.”

  “I will speak to him,” I declared.

  I marched into one of the discreet booths and activated the communications console inside. I entered the code Chan had given me. A bored-looking Wichu with scruffy fur dyed light purple answered the call.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  “Are you the station manager?”

  “Steeeeed!” the Wichu shouted over the top of the console. I heard many voices and the clanging of machinery. A muffled yell came after a moment. “Guy wants to talk to you.” He listened. He looked down at Thomas. “State your name and your business.”

  “I am Ensign-Captain Lord Thomas Kinago, here on official Navy business,” I said, grandly. Well, it was no more than the truth. I was careful not to state what that business was, but the Wichu seemed to know anyhow.

  “Oh, yeah, visiting the militia, taking up half of number one landing bay. Whaddaya want?”

  “I require the immediate assistance of the station manager.” I explained my observation, and urged him to persuade the station manager to take action. “The pirates are reported to be very dangerous,” I said. “This is only one ship of the fleet that was taken. The admiral, I am sure, will want to question the crew as to the whereabouts of the rest of the ships and the goods that they stole. I am sure that the station manager will want to be involved in their capture. It is the duty of all citizens to prevent crime where it threatens.”

  “Uh-huh,” the Wichu said. “Hold on. Steeeeed!”

  The screen went blank. I tried Parsons again with my viewpad, but the interference had increased. I could not even connect to the local Infogrid. Where had he gone?

  The Wichu came back on the line. “Steed said the ship’s fine. The license is legit. The owner’s an old customer, the landing bay operator told me. I spoke to her myself.”

  “You’re being had, sir. Once they’re fueled up; they can escape. In the name of the Emperor . . .”

  The Wichu’s mustache bristled, the equivalent of a human raising his eyebrows. “Do you have orders from the Emperor himself?”

  “No, but, if you’d just look at this image . . .” I tied in the file of the two pictures I had taken. The Wichu’s eyes left mine as he glanced at them on the side of his screen, then reached out a thick forefinger. He must have deleted them.

  “Don’t waste my time. You’re mistaken. We run scans on every ship visiting this facility every day.”

  “But . . .”

  “Out.” The screen went blank.

  I strode back to the table, rules fighting with impulse, worry and annoyance in my mind.

&nbs
p; “What did he say?” Oskelev asked.

  “That I was mistaken. How could they ignore plain, photographic proof?” I demanded. “The idiots! That ship will fly off. They will miss the easy chance to take a criminal out of circulation.”

  “What now?” Plet asked.

  I smacked my fist into my palm. “We’ll have to take action ourselves.”

  “Us?” Bailly asked. “What can we do? There’s only five of us.”

  I looked around at the sea of concerned faces, and enlightenment bloomed within me.

  “No, Bailly. Fifty-five,” I said. “Captain Chan!”

  “Yessir!” The operator of number three drillhead jumped to her feet.

  I met her eyes. “I require your assistance to take action against a dangerous enemy. Are you with me?”

  A wide grin spread across her face. “You bet, sir! Miners?”

  “We’re with you!” Filzon yelled, pumping a fist skyward. “Let’s hear it for the lord ensign! Yay!”

  “Yay!” The assembled volunteers let out a ragged cheer. It was swallowed up by the immense chamber. I hoped the swift diminuition was not an omen for our enterprise. The humans were enthusiastic, the aliens less so but game nevertheless. I felt my heart lift.

  “That’s the spirit that made this Imperium great,” I said. “Now, let’s plan our strategy. Captain!”

  “Yessir!” Chan said. “Jurhman, come here. Let’s get to work.”

  The bulky male with wisps of black hair around a nearly bald crown with a scar across it slid neatly into the seat beside Chan. I put my viewpad on the table. The rest of the militia crowded around.

  “Now, who possesses a map of the colony? Is one handy?” I asked. Plet grudgingly obliged. “Where are we likely to find them?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Chan said, taking her own communications unit out of her pocket. We united the two devices with a filament cable—primitive in this day and age but a necessity when physical elements interfered with connectivity. She identified the correct map. I instructed my viewpad to project it upon the wall for ease of examination. “They’re gonna look for a meal or a f— uh, date. The main strip. Hardly anyone goes farther than that unless they’re here for a long stay.”

  “If they are who you think they are,” Juhrman said, “they’ll get out of here pretty snappish.”

  “That’s what I believe,” I said. “It’s what I would do if I didn’t want to draw attention.”

  “So, what’s your idea?”

  “Surround and apprehend,” I said. “If we overwhelm them with superior force, they will see the wisest thing to do is surrender. Once we disarm them, your station manager can hold them until the fleet returns to this area to take them into custody. If we aren’t equal to this band of crooks, and I do not see how we can’t be, we can call for the local constabulary to swell our ranks.”

  “Shouldn’t we call them first?” Bailly asked.

  “The station manager has already dismissed our claims as false,” I pointed out. “The police force works for him. He can direct them to stand down, and that could be dangerous in the midst of an operation. We can call them in during our attack if we need assistance, but we shouldn’t need it. I think that we will have the elements of surprise and superior numbers. That ought to be sufficient to effect a simple capture.”

  “Sounds simple enough,” Chan said.

  “This is madness!” Plet protested. “You are oversimplifying a potentially explosive situation to a series of actions.”

  “All good plans are simple, Lieutenant,” I said.

  “But you are behaving as though these putative felons will not react to your attempt to arrest them! It isn’t plausible!”

  “We must try,” I said. “It is our duty.”

  “Peril to all,” Rous agreed. “Pirates dangerous aren’t to us?”

  Juhrman grinned at the Uctu. “We’re pretty tough. We’ve all won our share of brawls. We’re not afraid to get knocked around.”

  “Is there any chance you’re wrong?” Torkadir asked me.

  “No way!” Premulo chided him. “You see the damaged fin, same as the rest of us did. It’s them! We have to take them down.”

  “Then we’re with you, sir,” Filzon said.

  “We concentrate upon the main strip,” I said, returning to the map. “Locate them, isolate them if possible, and disarm them before they can endanger anyone.” I could feel the blood of my ancestors surging hot in my veins. So this was what it was like to command! I understood why my mother loved the fleet. I could feel skepticism radiating toward me, nearly obliterating the glory of the call to action, and identified its source. I looked up. “Plet, come sit down. Join us. We need your expertise. All of you,” I added, extending the invitation to the rest of my crew. They looked uncertain.

  “It would be wrong to engage the enemy,” Plet said. “This is foolhardy. You cannot act without orders from a superior officer.”

  I spun to give her my mien, set on full-on haughtiness. “And when that superior officer is unavailable, it is the duty of a junior officer to take charge, Lieutenant.”

  She put her chin out. “Then as your superior officer, Ensign, my order is that we locate and inform Commander Parsons. His decision will be the one we act on. Captain Chan, your services are not required.”

  “With all due respect, Lieutenant,” Chan said, her blunt nose upturned, “we don’t take orders from you. The lord ensign here is the one that the admiral sent here, right? Well, I’m in charge of this company, and I’m putting us under the orders of the lord ensign here. Right, guys?”

  Another cheer burst out.

  “Yeah, see?” Chan said. “Okay, everyone, arm up. Be back here in fifteen, or try and tell me why. Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am!” they shouted as one.

  I felt my chest swell with pride and emotion. Plet, by comparison, seemed deflated. Even her crisp uniform had lost some of its starch. I could not let her feel humiliated by my efforts. Under normal circumstances, I would have been more than willing to follow the chain of command, but at the moment it was broken off from the remainder. Time was winging away, and with it our chances to stop these pirates from disappearing into the depths of space. It was our duty to capture the rogue crew. Consensus was the way forward. I was not an island unto myself. An army of one is not an army.

  “We will continue to attempt to contact Parsons,” I said, offering conciliation without, I hoped, sounding patronizing. “And the fleet. Will someone guide one of my officers to the main shopping district and try to find Parsons? The security service up there will certainly have spotted a man in naval uniform marching about the place. Parsons does tend to stand out. He’ll be back here in two shakes, probably before we finish our plans. We will act only in the absence of advice from either the fleet or Commander Parsons. Will that do, Lieutenant Plet?”

  “Well,” she began, still uncertain. “Very well.”

  I beamed at her. “That’s the spirit! Now, do I have a volunteer?”

  “I’ll go, sir,” Oskelev said.

  “I’ll take her,” said Haludi, rising. “C’mon, we’ll catch the sidewalks toward the sun-side of the colony. They won’t be too crowded at this hour.” They departed at the run.

  “Someone go up to the strip, too,” Chan said. “Ask around and see where that crew went to hang out. Filzon, you know all the brothels, you go.”

  Ganny Filzon’s cheeks went red as I looked at him in astonishment. He simply did not seem the tireless pursuer of negotiable affection.

  “My mom sells bedroom furniture,” he said, sheepishly.

  “Good man,” I said, relieved that my faculty of assessment was not totally askew. “Inside information is always helpful. Contact us on the land line as soon as you have a sighting.”

  “Aye, sir!” he bellowed,

  “Come along, then, Plet,” I said, beckoning her over. “We need all good minds on this. We will have only once chance to get this right.”

  Cha
pter 14

  It seemed an unnecessary caution to tiptoe behind Filzon in the loud, hot and busy street, but it was hard to control the impulse for silence. It was not as though our presence went unnoticed; I wore my full uniform with the bill of my cap facing smartly forward. At my side strode my shuttle crew and Captain Chan. Behind us, in their ragtag uniforms and mismatched weapons, were the members of the Smithereen militia. I regretted my small force had only two sets of powered armor, one under the command of a man so ancient that I doubted he could perform drills and exercises without its support, but he moved with the grace of a swallow, whereas the other suit, operated by a muscular young woman with broad shoulders, creaked and jerked at every step. The smell of overworked circuitry added an acrid aroma to the mixed scents of crowds, garbage, machine lubricants and unidentified minerals. Only the limited gravity helped to keep the suit moving in its state of decrepitude.

  The locals looked oddly upon us marching with weapons on the busy main street. Crowds parted before us as we moved with purpose, though everyone I passed could have picked me up and broken me over a knee. Under normal circumstances, I would have been in field dress, with an optical pickup that fit over my right eye, feeding me intel from my viewpad as a heads-up display instead of having to rely upon memory and the occasional furtive glance downward at the pouch at my waist. Many of my troops had to link personal electronics into the military channel, hooked into the software by a hasty fix provided by Juhrman. We would all have been in light armor at least. Still, an army was an army, and we outnumbered the other force more than two-and-a-half to one, or so Filzon had informed me. That meant that once we engaged, each pair of my soldiers would acquire a preselected target and do its level best to apprehend that target without danger to the surrounding setting.

  “They just ordered pancakes,” Filzon stage-whispered, pointing to a storefront with the sign Oatmeal and Son over the door. Blast-glass panels provided a slightly hazy view of the interior, but nothing could staunch the savory aromas coming from inside. My stomach, though it was well fed, squeezed appreciatively. Robot servers carried enormous food on trays to each table of hungry diners. A few humans in brightly colored tunics, folded cloth caps and wheeled shoes, no doubt the wait staff, skidded from group to group to assess the quality of service and comestibles, and to serve the platters from the robotrays. “I caught ’em comin’ out of Strange Bedfellows over there. Bruce always sends his clients over there for breakfast after . . . you know.”