Vigilante

by Laura E. Reeve

  “Good thing I’m buying, then.” For some reason, she impulsively added, “I’m cutting back on my drinking also.”

  The words didn’t sound right. Her session with Major Tafani suddenly replayed through her mind. Since you continue to drink, how will you control yourself? The same way she always had in the past: through sheer strength of will. Get out of my head, Tafani.

  Tahir listened tensely as the Father’s Wrath made contact with the Pilgrimage III, after dropping back into real-space. There was confusion about the change of name, of course.

  “We can change the lists, if that’s necessary. Was the registry changed also? Over.” The voice sounded puzzled.

  Tahir saw Abram muttering in Captain Zabat’s ear. So far, the captain had been frightened enough to cooperate.

  “Pilgrimage, the lists and announcements must use the new name. Registry is still Hellas system and all stats on number of crew and passengers stay the same. Father’s Wrath out,” Zabat said.

  “Certainly. Welcome back to Gamma-145 and we’re looking forward to meeting everybody. Pilgrimage Three out.”

  If the Pilgrimage crew understood the significance of the ship’s new name, they wouldn’t have agreed so cheerily. Even Zabat had no idea the name Father’s Wrath was a signal, notifying all supporters within the solar system that Abram’s plan was in motion. This was not a dry run.

  “Rand, take over real-space piloting and connection,” Abram said.

  Tahir turned around from the sensor console to look at the crowded control deck. This deck was designed to hold a crew of four, although only two of its regular crew members were present: Zabat, the captain, and Danielle, the N-space pilot. Also on deck were Abram, Emery, Rand, Tahir, and one of Zabat’s engineers, a hidden Abram supporter.

  Danielle quickly got out of her seat and went to Zabat’s side. Zabat also stood, perhaps with the hope they’d be dismissed. He was a bulky man and only a little taller than the lanky Danielle, whose face looked even bonier after her N-space weight loss.

  “Not so fast, Captain.” Abram’s gaze went around the deck. “Tahir and Emery, escort this pilot to her quarters.”

  Zabat took one look at Emery and came to the obvious conclusion. “She cooperated, Abram. She got us to G-145.”

  Tahir moved toward the hatch, not wanting to see the confusion on Zabat’s face. The captain was going to discover that negotiating or cooperating with Abram never got anyone a different result—they merely bought themselves a little more time.

  “Come along.” Emery grabbed Danielle’s arm.

  “But we did what you wanted!” Zabat’s voice rose.

  “And you lived. Now, Captain, you have an appointment in the clinic.” Abram had taken out his flechette pistol and aimed it, point blank, at Zabat’s thick midsection. For right now, this coercion worked. Zabat flinched and nodded.

  Following Emery and Danielle, Tahir fingered the bulbous shape of the flechette pistol in his belt. Abram had obtained several crates of them, even though flechette weapons were hard to find. They used bulky cartridges, which expanded upon firing into a cone of spinning needles with helical spines. They were designed to cause maximum damage to human bodies while not harming harder ship structures. The cartridges could also be infused with chemical or biological agents.

  However, the threat of these weapons would be less and less effective on the crew of the former Venture’s Way, unless Abram backed up his threats with actual action. Now that they were inside G-145, someone would have to die, as an example. Tahir knew that Abram wouldn’t trust Zabat’s cooperation otherwise.

  Emery stopped and opened a hatch, pushing Danielle through.

  “These aren’t my quarters. They’re the first mate’s,” she said, her eyes fearfully riveted on Emery’s face.

  “They’re empty and that’s all I want.” Emery turned around to Tahir, who stood in the hatchway. “Get out.”

  “No, Cousin.” Tahir swallowed, hard. “Abram wouldn’t approve.”

  “Please.” She directed her whimper at Tahir.

  Emery quickly shoved Danielle toward the single bunk, his movements exploding with rage. She fell backward across the bed, her head and shoulder hitting the bulkhead. Emery whirled and in one stride, pushed Tahir out of the hatchway, his face close to Tahir’s.

  “Don’t call me cousin.” Emery’s hands gripped his shoulders tightly. “You’re not one of us, and you’ll only prove that to Abram, if you run to him with trivial complaints.”

  “We may need her skills later.”

  “Her skills will never be used again. Not in this system.” Emery smiled, spitefully. “You can have her after me.”

  Tahir shook his head and Emery released him with a disdainful sneer. He backed away, knowing that he wasn’t strong enough to stop this, and Emery closed the hatch.

  You’re not one of us. Emery was right: He was an outsider. He felt nauseated and hurried away, so he couldn’t hear anything through the hatch.

  CHAPTER 6

  Qesan Douchet was a madman and the Minoans did us

  a favor when they killed him. He took the isolationist poli cies of his ancestors and twisted them into a manifesto,

  which the Terrans just recently released. It’s sickening.

  If you like scary stories, look at his strategy for expand ing isolationism (no, that’s not an oxymoron). First, one

  finds territory where the population can be permanently

  isolated. . . .

  —Misogynist Freaks, Lauren Swan Kincaid, 2103.043.11.25 UT, indexed by Heraclitus 29 under Conflict Imperative

  “This can no longer be passed off as a paperwork problem, now that we’ve found this dummy package. This is theft,” Edones said.

  Colonel Ash sat motionless, watching SP Hauser. When Hauser acknowledged Edones’s comment by nodding his head, Ash nodded also. Oleander frowned. What a sycophant! I hope I’m not like that when I rise to senior officer rank.

  She had been disappointed in SP Hauser; she’d expected a Terran State Prince would look more impressive. From her Autonomist viewpoint, leaders should look distinctive, but Hauser seemed entirely forgettable. He had a small badge on his chest and he wore the same sleep-inducing colors as the Terrans in uniform.

  Then Hauser spoke. His authority was mesmerizing and she had problems taking her eyes off him. He had to be using somaural projection.

  “I desperately hoped this would be an inventory mistake, Colonel Edones. We’re sincerely upset by this turn of events.” SP Hauser suddenly seemed so trustworthy that Oleander would have allowed him to invest her life savings, if she had any.

  Edones pointed to an image of the dummy package displayed on the wall. He appeared sullen because he wasn’t looking directly at Hauser, but Oleander realized he was using a sensible safeguard against somaural influence.

  She followed Edones’s example and focused on the package. Its dimensions, density, and mass distribution attempted to mimic the real thing, but it fell short under scans because it lacked exotic material. Once the Terrans had grudgingly scanned their entire inventory, they’d found the warhead with this package. It hadn’t happened quickly: It had taken four days and three teams of eight people to go through the weapons stored at Teller’s Colony, the biggest Terran arsenal located outside the Sol system. The results: Package TDP-2102-012 couldn’t be found, inside warhead WM15-894 or elsewhere in the arsenal.

  “This warhead was delivered three years ago from your production facility. When did it last have a maintenance inspection?” Edones waved at the short maintenance record on WM15-894. The history showed when the warhead had been produced and delivered, but there were no maintenance inspections listed.

  After getting an approving nod from SP Hauser, Colonel Ash appeared to squirm in his seat. “We’ve gone to five-year inspection periods,” Ash said. “This was—ah—one of our cost control measures.”

  “Gaia protect us,” muttered Bernard quietly, although Oleander heard his words clearly. TD weap
ons should be monitored frequently, due to the exotic matter trapped inside the package.

  Colonel Edones seemed stunned by the Terrans’ admission. He cleared his throat before continuing. “So, if not for our inspection, you wouldn’t have found this package missing for two more years?”

  Ash nodded.

  “What about delivery records? Was an inspection performed by the receiving unit?” Bernard asked.

  “The maintenance squadron commander at the time didn’t have enough techs to perform the receipt inspection for the unit, so he relied upon the civilian team that brought the warheads from the production facility.” Ash tapped his table to display a signed form on the wall.

  “They were cheaper than using military personnel,” Ash added, and a flash of embarrassment crossed his face.

  “Well, we have to look into the entire civilian delivery team, and pull their clearance investigations,” Edones said.

  “We’ve already started,” SP Hauser said.

  Ariane waited while Frank locked and immobilized his cart. Then they went through two station rings to the little bar that catered to workers. The door had a handwritten sign that read STELLAR SHIELD and the interior was built with odds and ends. The bar would be dismantled once the system “opened up,” meaning the time when the Pilgrimage ship line released the buoy codes into the public domain. At that point, anyone and everyone in an N-space-capable ship could come into G-145. By then, the system would have another name and Beta Priamos would house legitimate, rent-paying businesses.

  At this point, however, the Stellar Shield’s eclectic interior felt comfortably worn and familiar. It was crowded, being shift-change time, and Ariane had to wind around populated tables to get to the bar, obviously made from repurposed struts and bulkhead shields. Frank trailed her. She hopped on a stool and he hesitated, uncharacteristi cally, before sitting on the one beside her.

  “I’ll take whatever beer you’ve got,” Ariane said to the bartender, knowing the inventory was limited.

  Frank squinted in thought when the bartender looked at him. “There’s so much to choose from in the nonalcoholic range,” he said dryly. “Just give me that stuff you say is Hellas Kaffi.”

  The large young man didn’t look amused. He ducked through a hatch and returned quickly with their drinks. Ariane’s chilled beer was in resealable polycarbonate and Frank’s drink was in a flash-heat pack. Not that the station inhabitants didn’t trust their newly installed gravity generator, but products delivered to Beta Priamos had to be consumed under many conditions, including zero gee.

  The bartender held out a slate between Ariane and Frank, and she quickly grabbed it. The billing was manual, given the nodeless environment and dumb surfaces. In any restaurant back in the Hellas system, she’d use the tabletop for near-field exchange with her implant. Instead, she gave her thumbprint and verbal public password for voiceprint to the slate and applied the debit to one of her accounts.

  “Thank you, Ms. Kedros.” Frank was polite, as always. He never failed to call her Ms. Kedros, even when he was shit-faced—she doubted she’d ever see him like that again and she indulged in a moment of nostalgia.

  “You’re welcome.” She sipped slowly and delicately at the beer, putting it down on the counter between swallows. She wanted to drink faster, but Frank was watching.

  If Matt were here, he’d probably make the barbed observation that normal people didn’t obsess about how fast they drank. She pushed that comment back into the dark nether realms of her mind where it could bounce around with Tafani’s sly remarks such as new space is not conducive to your recovery.

  “Hey, Frank, who’s your friend?” A beefy hand landed on the back of Frank’s hunched shoulders.

  Ariane twisted and saw the hand was attached to a stocky man in ubiquitous crew overalls. He winked at her, his light green eyes a startling contrast in his dark face.

  “Ariane Kedros.” She extended her hand to trade a firm handshake with him. “Pilot of the Aether’s Touch.”

  “Hal Bokori.” The initial condescending leer on his face changed to a comfortable grin. “Pilot, huh? N-space or real-space?”

  “Both. You?”

  “I’m loadmaster for the Golden Bull, the behemoth that runs between here and the mining operation at Tithonos, Laomedon’s largest moon.” His grin became self-deprecating. “Can I buy you a drink or some smooth?”

  Hal pulled a smooth dispenser out of his pocket. When he offered it, she took a tablet, but Frank shook his head.

  “Not drinking, so what good is it?” Frank pointedly took another sip of Kaffi.

  “It can take the edge off.” Hal shrugged and put his dispenser away. “Not that any present company needs their edges smoothed, of course.”

  “You remember the ‘Small Stellar Terror’ everyone still talks about?” Frank jerked his head at Ariane. “This is she.”

  “No kidding!” Hal looked Ariane up and down. “You’re the one who took down Axel?”

  “Well, he was drunk and his reflexes were shot,” Ariane said modestly.

  “But, even drunk, he’s stronger than the Great Bull.”

  A bell started clanging as Hal’s drink arrived, which made him curse. “I ordered too soon—didn’t know anyone was scheduled to come in this shift.”

  Whoops started about the Stellar Shield as everyone looked up at the arrival list. A ship’s name appeared, right above the Aether’s Touch. It was Father’s Wrath, which puzzled her, because Matt had pointed out that Venture’s Way was the next ship scheduled to arrive. Then a notation appeared, indicating that the ship had changed its registration from Venture’s Way, perhaps due to a change of ownership. Father’s Wrath was arriving at G-145 early, but more importantly, she’d miscalculated by being here in the bar. She was going to lose some pocket money.

  “New ship in-system. Aether’s Touch pays the next round!” were the cries about the bar counter as the bell clanged. “Anyone here from Aether’s Touch?”

  Ariane raised her hand and grinned. As the sole crew member present from the last arriving ship, she became responsible for toasting the next ship—essentially paying for the next round of drinks. She nodded at the bartender, and a cheer welled up. It wasn’t the worst ritual to get caught in and Matt would have enjoyed it, even though he’d grouse about expenses and mutter some curse that included the Great Bull’s balls. Her grin faded as she realized how much she missed him.

  “I need to get going,” Frank said abruptly.

  “Have another Kaffi—you look like you’ve been working too hard.” She noticed his face was pale.

  “No, I don’t need the caffeine.” His hand shook as he carefully set down his flash pack. He glanced up at the arrival announcement before he left.

  Hal clapped her on the back and slid another beer toward her. “Frank’s been a wet blanket ever since he stopped drinking. You haven’t finished your first beer, so drink up.”

  Contrary to Hal’s advice, she sipped her beers. The night blurred anyway, filled with orders for drinks and sidesplit ting jokes that could never be related to someone who hadn’t been there. She met people whose names she’d never remember: other crew members of the Golden Bull and construction workers for the station. She met a young Autonomous worker who’d made the mistake of getting a green skindo right before transferring to Beta Priamos, where there weren’t any salons. Now it was blotching, and several rounds of beer were required to remove the young woman’s pout. “Carly, you’ll just have to learn to use a touch-up kit,” Hal advised. Everyone laughed, and then Hal introduced her to somebody else.

  She always wondered, afterward, if the stories and conversation that accompanied the drinks had really been that good. But getting lost in the moment was what drinking was all about; it drowned out the memories.

  Tahir’s guts clenched when he saw Commander Charlene Pilgrimage. Not another woman, please.

  The commander tried to make sense of the small party of men she faced as they stood inside an area t
hat obviously held some sort of religious function for the generational ship. There were benches that faced a niche with a statue. She read the inscription above the niche, which referred to a St. Darius and Gaia.

  “You’re ahead of schedule, Captain Zabat. Where’s your pilot? Danielle, right?” Charlene was familiar with Zabat, but hesitated when trying to remember the pilot’s name.

  Zabat was sweating, unable to ignore the threat of the explosives implanted in his body. In case Zabat wanted to be a martyr, Abram had demonstrated that the charges would take out innocent bystanders within ten feet—and the ship’s first mate ended up being the sacrifice. Now Abram subtly herded Zabat, keeping the captains close together.

  “Danielle had a bad drop,” Zabat said.

  She certainly had. Tahir decided the only way he was getting through this, alive and sane, was to pretend he didn’t know about what he couldn’t see. It wasn’t working, because he couldn’t get Danielle’s face out of his mind. He hoped he wouldn’t add Charlene Pilgrimage to the faces that kept revolving in his head.

  “Right now, it’s only my engineer and three passengers,” Zabat added. “Let’s get on with the tour, Charlene.”

  The commander looked at Abram, who certainly showed the hard wear and tear of a spacecraft engineer. Her eyes flitted over Tahir and Rand in a noncommittal way, but flinched when meeting Emery’s gaze.

  So far, everything was proceeding exactly as Emery predicted. “These crèche-get are simplistic idiots,” he had scoffed. “And silly enough to think they have no enemies and no need for security. They might sense something is wrong, but it’s not in their nature to protect themselves.”

  “But Abram needs them,” Tahir replied. “Isn’t it ironic that we need their crèches and in vitro methods, which is exactly what we despise them for?”

  At which point, Emery scowled and turned away, stopping the conversation. Tahir had smiled to himself, although he knew that pointing out logical incongruities in tribal doctrine would have no effect upon Emery.