She crossed one leg over the other and relaxed a bit in the chair, though the Daemon remained on her thigh. “Hmm. Well, I suppose that means you’re likely either military, intelligence…or a criminal.”
Her eyes narrowed in pointed accusation. “I bet you’re a criminal. A human slave trafficker, or maybe a gunrunner, arming the violent gang wars on the independents? Or are you a drug dealer…yep, I bet that’s it. I bet you sell hard chimerals to kids so they can burn their brains out, but not until they—”
He growled in palpable frustration. “I wouldn’t do that. Ever.”
She grinned smugly. And she was quite proud of herself. “So military or intelligence, then.”
Her gaze ran down and up the length of his body again, this time for dramatic effect. “And I highly doubt the military would let you keep that mess of a haircut, so intelligence it is.”
His brow furrowed into a tight knot at the bridge of his nose; the muscles of his jaw contracted beneath cheeks shadowed by the hint of stubble. He looked at her as though she resembled some sort of alien creature, perhaps with slimy tentacles swirling about her head, but remained silent.
She took the silence as confirmation. “Why is Senecan Intelligence interested in the Metis Nebula?”
He blinked, and with the act his expression morphed from dismay to wary detachment. “This is unclaimed space. I have as much of a right to be here as you do.”
“Wasn’t what I asked. Why is Senecan Intelligence interested in the Metis Nebula?”
“I still can’t tell you, especially not when you’re Alliance. What are you doing here?”
Her mouth twitched before she managed to squelch it. “What makes you think I’m Alliance? This is a civilian vessel.”
“Oh, you’re not military—though you’re not far removed from it—but you are definitely Alliance.”
“Why?”
“The way you said ‘Senecan.’ Like it was a curse.”
She met his penetrating stare with her own cool one. “It is.”
“Lovely.” The left corner of his mouth curled up in a brazen smirk. She instantly disliked it. “In fact, I’d put credits on you being from Earth.”
“There are sixty-seven Alliance worlds. Why would I be from Earth?”
“Earthers exude this arrogance, this pretentiousness—as though even now, nearly three hundred years after colonization began, they’re still the only people who really count.”
“That is not true.” Her toes swiveled the chair again. Her gaze drifted away from his to stare at the ceiling. Seconds ticked by in silence; she felt him watching her.
Finally she rolled her eyes in reluctant exasperation. “Okay, it’s totally true—but not me. I don’t feel that way.”
His self-satisfied smile noted he could give as good as he got, and knew it. “So you are from Earth.”
Dammit. “That’s irrelevant. What’s your name?”
“Samuel.”
“I’m sure. Well, Samuel, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a little while.”
His expression turned imploring. “Can I at least get some water?”
“When I get back.” She leveled an unimpressed glare in his direction but gave him a wide berth as she passed him and headed down the circular stairwell.
First things first. She double-checked the status of the plasma shield to make certain it was holding. Getting sucked out onto an inhospitable planet sporting unbreathable air and limited atmosphere absolutely didn’t fit in her schedule. Satisfied with the readings, she lifted the hatch to the engineering well and descended the ladder.
The dull sallow of the planet’s surface could be seen through a roughly three meter long rupture in the hull. The reassuring plasma shimmer kept the interior free of the churning sand and harsh wind.
A smaller gash twisted diagonally from the midpoint of the rupture up to the base of the right internal hull wall. The wall had been ripped open to expose the housing for the plethora of conduits, filters and cabling which powered the ship. The external hull, partially visible behind the mess, sported merely a hairline crack.
From one perspective, this was quite good news—more structural integrity, less hull to repair. On the other hand, it meant the laser had likely danced around wreaking havoc in the gap until it dissipated. Even absent closer inspection she noted several of the photal fiber weaves were shredded in multiple places. Dread pooled in her gut at the thought of what systems they might belong to.
With a sigh she maneuvered around the rupture in the floor to the open gap. She crouched and peered into the aperture, rocking absently on the balls of her feet. Once she got in there it would be hours just cataloging the damage. Perhaps she should get her captive a little water first….
What did Senecan Intelligence want in Metis, anyway?
She had picked up some rather unusual spectrum readings on the long-range scans before being so rudely interrupted by laser fire. Had someone else already found the same thing—or more?
“Puzzle it out later, Alex. Prioritize: Water, damage assessment, repairs.” She stood and climbed out of the engineering well, went upstairs and rummaged around in the kitchen storage for a field water packet.
‘Samuel’—she doubted it was his real name—regarded her as she approached. His acute gaze made her strangely uncomfortable, but she did her levelheaded best to not let it show. She gave him an irritated look and shoved the water packet in his face.
“Something wrong?” he inquired as he accepted the straw.
“Yes, something is wrong. You totally wrecked the undercarriage. God knows what it’s done to power and navigation. We’re going to be grounded for days thanks to your handiwork.”
He lazily sucked on the straw, eyes twinkling in blatant amusement. Annoyed, she yanked it away and stepped back to cross her arms stiffly over her chest. “I’ll be below for the next few hours cataloging the damage.”
She pivoted and left before he could respond.
The damage was even worse than it had appeared at first glance.
She lay on the narrow strip of flooring that wasn’t ripped open and stared at the wrecked tangle of conduits and cabling. The blast had shredded twenty centimeters of one of the three lines going to the impulse engine. With the inflow reduced by a third, it was questionable whether the engine had the power to escape the atmosphere.
Even worse, fully half the conduits feeding the plasma shield were damaged—which meant the likelihood of it failing in the vacuum of space was…high.
She never would have made it to Gaiae.
Half a dozen other somewhat less critical problems were immediately evident, thanks to the fissure occurring along one of the primary cabling paths. Aft navigation controls had suffered measurable damage. Splinters of the mHEMT amp for the dampener field decorated the floor.
And all this was ignoring the obvious, irrefutable fact that the undercarriage of her ship had been torn to shreds.
She only hoped the pulse laser hadn’t vaporized too much of the hull material, and once the ragged shards were smoothed back out the hull would be able to be resealed. She kept reserve components for the internal electronics and extra conduit coils; spare sheets of reinforced carbon metamaterial? Not so much.
She opened a work list in her eVi and began. The end of the gash closest to the ladder seemed as good a place as any. She shimmied along the edge of the open wall, periodically crawling half into the exposed aperture for a closer inspection. Goddamn it was a mess.
When she finally finished cataloging the damaged components along with severity and criticality, she started constructing the most efficient order of repairs. At least the internal systems resided farther inside and hadn’t been damaged—electronics, mechanical, temperature control and water recycling were all fine. So too was the crucial LEN reactor powering them.
Crawling out of the opening, she found an undamaged section of the wall, leaned against it and drew her knees up to her chest. After a deep breath she project
ed the work list to an aural, expanding it until it no longer required scrolling. The result stretched for more than half a meter.
She made a couple of notations and adjusted the order. Realized she had made a mistake. Corrected it. Corrected it again.
She was tired. Too tired to begin repairs tonight for certain.
Then there was the matter of her prisoner. His restraints secured him for the time being, but long term he constituted a significant problem. A damn Senecan intelligence agent. Dangerous, clever and wearing an arrogant smirk that was going to annoy her real fast.
She wished he had just been a merc. Even the smart mercs were simple and straightforward, with easily discernible motives usually involving credits. This guy represented far more of a mystery, making him even more dangerous than his profession already did. And while in any other circumstance she would simply go on her way, the option wasn’t currently available to her.
A groan emerged from the back of her throat as she banged her head against the wall. Anywhere else and she could hand her prisoner over to the authorities, pay a premium for materials and have her ship back in near-to-good-as-new-shape in a day, two days max. But here on this forbidding planet in the middle of nowhere, there were no communications, no supplies and no authorities.
She was on her own.
Several hours did in fact pass before she reemerged from the depths of the ship.
Caleb didn’t spend the time dwelling on the unfortunate reality that he had been ‘captured,’ as it were. It was regrettable, but he hadn’t exactly been at his best, on account of having plummeted eighteen kilometers through a violent, punishing atmosphere with a centimeter of fabric and a nanopoly faceplate protecting him then crashed onto a barren, unforgiving wasteland.
Instead he carefully studied his surroundings.
By the time she returned, he’d identified the functions of the controls within line of sight, noted several crucial junction points and potentially useful screens and—actually first—determined the nature of the encryption on the restraint web. The cockpit appeared blank and unadorned save for a single chair, which meant it was the most advanced area on the ship. Virtual and impenetrable.
The overall design of the interior conveyed a sense of understated, elegant functionality, with as much attention paid to comfort as to utility. Definitely not a military ship. No, this vessel was of private origin and very, very expensive. Corporate perhaps, though it didn’t feel corporate. It felt personal.
Once he completed the visual inventory his thoughts shifted to formulating a plan of escape. Well, not so much ‘escape’ as freedom; it would be counterproductive to abandon the only viable means off the planet.
But he had to admit he was impressed, and more than a little curious. Not about why the most advanced scout ship he’d ever seen was running around Metis. Clearly Alliance interests had discovered the same anomaly as his government and dispatched an investigator.
No, mostly he was curious about what this woman—mechanically savvy and with undeniable flying skills, acerbically sharp, ill-tempered, caustic…and rather stunning in an uncommon, confounding way—was doing piloting it, much less who she might be. At least he would be able to answer the latter question soon enough.
The woman retrieved a new water packet from the kitchen area in the aft of the deck and once again approached him. Her arms glistened from a thin sheen of sweat, while grease and fluids streaked her pants and shirt. Tangled strands of very dark red hair had slipped out of a twisted knot to tickle her cheeks and jaw.
She was making a valiant effort to come off as cold, aloof and even threatening. But he read the exhaustion in the stiff way her feet hit the floor with each step and the tense cording of the muscles in her long, slender neck.
She extended the packet straw toward his mouth. The motion was less rude than earlier; he rewarded the good behavior by giving her a quick smile as he accepted the drink. After a moment he nodded, and she stepped back.
Her expression was flat with weariness. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
He gazed earnestly at her, looking as hopeful as he could manage. “No food?”
“You won’t starve before the morning.”
True enough. “What if I have to, um, use the facilities?”
“Pozhaluysta, ya zhe ne tupïtsa. Your suit has provisions for that.”
His eVi identified the unfamiliar words as an Earth-based Russian dialect. He priority-cached Russian into the translator then shrugged within the confines of the restraints, a dry chuckle on his lips. “No, of course you aren’t a moron, but I had to try.”
She managed to look highly unimpressed as she turned away. “If you say so. Sleep well.”
“What are the odds?”
Halfway down the stairs she paused and gestured toward a screen embedded in the wall. The lights dimmed to a faint glow.
He called out after her. “Thank you….” But she was already gone.
He waited another ten seconds, his posture relaxed and nonchalant in the uncomfortable jump seat. Slowly his eyes drifted downward.
Even in the low light he recognized the strand of her hair which had fallen to rest on his thigh. He took a deep breath and cracked his neck.
It was going to be a long night.
15
SENECA
Cavare, Intelligence Division Headquarters
* * *
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what the hell is going on here?”
Michael Volosk nodded with proffered conviction, though his inner thoughts were decidedly less confident.
This was his worst nightmare, if not only his. A prominent Alliance diplomat was dead, and all signs pointed to an official member of the Senecan delegation being responsible. He didn’t need to be a politician to recognize the clusterfain of trouble it meant.
Intelligence Director Graham Delavasi dropped his elbows on the desk and waited expectantly for answers he didn’t have.
The man’s bushy salt-and-pepper hair had strayed onto the wild side, an indication he too had been awoken in the middle of the night. He wore faded denim and a wrinkled polo and kept a giant thermos of coffee in easy reach. There were no aurals around him and no screens active on the desk, which was his way. When he met with someone he gave them his full and undivided attention, for good or ill.
Delavasi had always been a bit of a renegade, wielding a blunt demeanor unusual in the intelligence trade and even more unusual among the political ranks he now technically belonged to. He had risen to a position of power due in large part to a keen intellect, a sharp eye for bullshit and unassailable integrity. Michael admired the man; didn’t always like him, but admired him.
He met the Director’s gaze. “The Alliance Trade Minister was the target of what looks to be an assassination hit during the Summit’s closing dinner. The scene remains in a state of flux, but the evidence indicates the hit was in all probability conducted by a member of our Trade staff.”
“Have we executed the son of a bitch yet? Because that may be the only thing standing between us and the full might of the Alliance military showing up at our doorstep.”
The data stream from his agents on Atlantis continued to scroll on his whisper; he checked it a last time to make certain it held no better answer. “No, sir. Neither my agents, the Senecan security detail, Atlantis police, nor Alliance security have as yet been able to locate Mr. Candela.”
He cringed at Delavasi’s disbelieving glare and rushed to reassure the man. “It’s simply a matter of time. Atlantis is locked down hard. He won’t escape.” His hand came to rest at his chin; it was a tic and usually meant he was bothered by something…which he was. “I recognize the undeniable seriousness of the situation, but sending in the military would be a rather disproportionate response, wouldn’t it?”
“Assassination of a government official is an explicit violation of the armistice. Now that may not matter to everyone, but I guarantee it will matter to someone with more authority than g
ood sense.” Delavasi took a long swig from the thermos. “Who is this guy anyway?”
“He’s nobody. A low-level staffer in Director Kouris’ office. He’s worked in the Trade Division for three years, prior to which he served as an intern for the Parliament’s Commerce Committee. Graduated 3rd honors from Tellica with a degree in economics. Has a wife and a new baby. His record is spotless, and he has a reputation as a competent if unexceptional employee. There’s no history of political activism or fringe activities. He didn’t even vote in the last election.”
“Enemies? What about his family, his wife’s family? Any potential for blackmail or coercion there?”
“We’re looking into it.” ‘We’ had started looking into it three hours earlier at one in the morning when he had been awoken by a flurry of alerts and left Shera sleeping in their bed, and it likely would be days before ‘we’ knew anything for certain. The Director no doubt recognized this.
Delavasi sighed and sank into the high-backed leather chair. “Bloody hell, Michael, this is a disaster. Nobody wants open conflict with the Alliance. Well, maybe a few fire-breathing Parliament back-benchers and some wackos on Caelum who want an excuse to shoot over the border. But nobody who matters wants another war—and the Chairman definitely doesn’t want one. He put a lot of political goodwill on the line in pushing for this Summit.”
Michael frowned. “Could that be what this is about? Perhaps it’s not actually about the Alliance at all, and instead an attempt to discredit the current administration and destabilize the government.”
“Damned if I know. Which is a problem, seeing as I’m the Intelligence Director and thus expected to know the justifications of lunatics and devils. But I do know something isn’t right here. This smells from top to bottom and I need answers. You’ll have all the men you need. Find out what’s going on.”
“Absolutely, sir. The official delegation should be cleared to leave Atlantis in the next few hours. My men on the ground have already begun private interrogations and will continue them during the flight home. Agents are at Mr. Candela’s home now and en route to extended family locations. My best analysts are scouring every aspect of his past for clues as to what might have led to this action.”
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