Interstellar Mage

by Glynn Stewart

  “Are you armed?”

  “No,” David replied. “This is Armstrong Station!”

  “Apparently, some of your enemies have a long reach,” their new friend told them, glancing back over his shoulder. “Here.”

  He pulled a familiar Martian-built caseless pistol from the pockets of the unmarked shipsuit. “I only have one spare, so whichever one of you is the better shot…”

  David took the gun, checking the safety and ammunition level. The Martian Armaments Caseless Six-Millimeter was a familiar old friend, but he’d never expected to need a gun here. The only enemy he’d had with this long an arm had died a year earlier, in the same incident the Navy was giving him Red Falcon to make up for.

  “Shouldn’t we still be moving?” Campbell asked.

  “Won’t do you any good,” the man said grimly. “If they picked up our side trip here, they’ll follow you anywhere. They’ve got you dialed in, probably through station security.”

  “You’ve given me a gun,” David pointed out. “You may as well give me a name.”

  Especially if the man was applying for a job on Red Falcon. David found the mess suspicious, but something about the man suggested he could be trusted—which left David suspecting why he’d been around to see the hunters rather than his intent.

  “Skavar,” the man told them. “Ivan Skavar, once a Sergeant in the Royal Martian Marines. Currently retired.”

  “Indeed,” David accepted calmly. “So, tell me, Ivan, who’s paying you to watch my back?”

  Skavar didn’t even blink.

  “Don’t know,” he admitted. “Ask came down through my old captain; he begged a favor and said it was from the highest of high mucks.”

  That was almost certainly Hand Alaura Stealey.

  David shook his head, but before he could say more, gunfire echoed in the cramped corridor. A gray-clad figure stepped around a corner and opened fire with a submachine gun before any of them could react.

  Skavar slammed into David, flinging the starship captain to the deck as bullets ricocheted down the corridor. Rolling off of a winded David, the Marine opened fire with a weapon the captain hadn’t seen him draw.

  His weapon was almost identical to the one their attacker was using, but Skavar was kneeling on one knee with his SMG in perfect firing stance. Their attacker had emptied most of a magazine down the hallway and hadn’t hit either man.

  Skavar took him down with two three-round bursts to the chest.

  “Check your friend,” he snapped at David before firing again, another three-round burst dropping a second attacker before they could do anything.

  That was when David realized the Marine had only knocked him down. Campbell was hit.

  Leaving the shooting to the expert, he knelt by his old friend, checking over her injuries. She’d taken several solid hits across her arm and upper torso, and while they weren’t instantly fatal, none of them looked good.

  The bubbling red froth on her lips told him the first concern. She had one lung untouched, but the other was a classic sucking chest wound. The medical supplies he had on him were limited, but they should be enough to keep her alive.

  David barely heard the continued exchange of gunfire as he focused his will on keeping Jenna Campbell alive. She’d lost consciousness from blood loss far too quickly for his peace of mind as he taped a bandage over the hole in her chest, leaving a corner open to “breathe”, and then worked over her other injuries.

  Skavar reappeared from somewhere, pressing a Marine emergency personal medkit into his hand. The kit was a rough-and-ready thing, designed to allow someone conscious but injured to keep themselves alive until help arrived—but it was more than he’d had.

  Bandages went onto wounds. A shot of adrenaline went into Campbell’s neck while the Marine held her still. The two men stayed focused on her for long enough that David didn’t think either of them realized one of Armstrong Station’s emergency medical carts had arrived, a pair of EMTs dismounting to take over the task.

  Letting them take care of his friend, David collapsed against the wall, breathing heavily as he looked back up the corridor. Four bodies were sprawled on the ground where they’d met Ivan Skavar’s gunfire.

  “You were looking for a job, huh?” he asked softly.

  “Like I said, my resume is in the stack for your new Chief of Security,” Skavar confirmed. The ex-Marine was breathing heavily, but the only blood on him was Campbell’s. None of their attackers had even managed to hit him.

  “You’re hired.”

  “Oh, good,” the big man replied. “Explaining this mess to Armstrong Security is going to suck regardless, but now I can dump most of that on you…boss.”

  4

  David and Skavar were left to wait in an office at the nearest Armstrong Security office for several hours while the police went through the scene and tried to work out just what had happened in that secluded back corridor.

  Eventually, a middle-aged woman with a perpetual frown and wrinkle lines clomped into the office and offered them both a perfunctory handshake.

  “Detective Olivia Constantine,” she said briskly. “Congratulations, gentlemen, you’ve stacked up more corpses in an afternoon than my district usually sees in six months.”

  “It wasn’t exactly our choice,” David told her.

  “No,” Constantine agreed. “I’ve already reviewed the footage. There’s no question who fired first, though Mr. Skavar here seemed quite certain an attack was coming.”

  “I was trained in VIP protection as a Marine noncom,” Skavar replied. “I can recognize a tail setting up to start a fight.”

  She glared at the ex-Marine for several seconds but then nodded.

  “I’m familiar with the program in question,” she said with a sigh. “Like I said, it’s a pretty open-and-shut case of self-defense, and a bug has already been put in my ear that barring evidence to the contrary, we won’t be pursuing that further.”

  “Thank you, Detective,” David said. “Do you know who tried to kill me?”

  “Good news and bad news on that front,” the cop told them. “Bad news is they aren’t known to Armstrong Security or the Tau Ceti security forces in general. Didn’t flag on Protectorate databases, either.

  “Good news is that we traced them back pretty easily, for all that,” she continued. “Your foursome arrived together on a passenger liner a week ago. We’re checking to see if we can link them to anybody else, but it looks like they came here looking for you in particular, Captain Rice.”

  “Wonderful,” David said flatly. And now Campbell was in intensive care. Either he had enemies he didn’t know about, or someone was looking for revenge for Mikhail Azure.

  “We’ll coordinate with the Martian Investigation Service,” she told him. “They’ll likely take over the case now that it looks to be interstellar in nature.”

  The MIS were the Protectorate-wide investigators, the people with the multi-system jurisdiction whose job it was to make sure that criminals couldn’t just flee one star system and be safe.

  “I appreciate your help, Detective,” David said. “This wasn’t where I expected my day to end up.”

  “It’s never where anyone expects their day to end,” the detective agreed. “If anything comes up to give you an idea of who tried to gun you down, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, I’d ask that you not leave Armstrong Station for a week or two while we get things sorted out.”

  “I’m supposed to take possession of a new ship in a few days,” he warned her, “but it’ll be a week or so before we’re ready to ship out.”

  “That should be fine,” Constantine admitted. “I’ll let you know if there’s a problem before then, Captain.”

  A light blinked on her wrist-comp and she checked her message. A ghost of a relieved smile crossed her face.

  “That was from the district hospital,” she told them. “Your officer is out of surgery and looks like she’s going to pull through. I can have a cart brought up to take
you over?”

  “I’d appreciate that,” David repeated. “And thank you for all your help.”

  “I didn’t do anything yet,” the woman replied grimly. “Thank me if I manage to trace the shooters back to the hand that set them in motion. And, Captain?”

  “Yes?”

  “Until we find that hand, watch your damned back.”

  The small electric cart delivered them to the district hospital with aplomb, though David carefully didn’t note that their driver wore the shoulder flashes of Armstrong Security’s tactical team.

  The two guns that Skavar had produced earlier had disappeared into the labyrinthine confines of Armstrong Security’s evidence lockers and attached bureaucracy, though David suspected that the dark-haired ex-Marine was far from unarmed.

  The last former Marine he’d commanded had been a pilot, not a ground-pounder, and it had still been impossible to make sure the man was ever unarmed. He’d have been surprised if Skavar didn’t have at least one more gun, let alone anything else.

  At first glance, the district hospital didn’t stand out significantly from any other collection of rooms attached to the main thoroughfares of Armstrong Station. Unlike most, however, it had a set of glowing green crosses on the doors, projecting out into the hallway to make sure the hospital was as obvious as possible.

  The Protectorate Charter, the deal the system governments made for the Mage-King’s protection and access to the Jump Mages of the Mage Guild, required a minimum level of healthcare for all citizens. Hospitals like this, funded by a mix of Protectorate, private and system funds, were the main delivery vector for that care.

  “This is where I leave you,” the cop told them. “Here, take this.”

  He slipped David a red data disk.

  “That contains the direct alert code for the AST teams,” he continued. “Flash that through your wrist-comp and we’ll have a dozen armed cops on the scene inside ten minutes, anywhere on the station.”

  “Thank you,” David told him. “I hope I won’t need it.”

  “Someone tried to hunt you down and shoot you on our station, Captain Rice.” The cop smiled grimly. “Armstrong Security Tactical takes that…personally.”

  “I’ll keep it on hand,” David promised.

  They were met in the front reception of the hospital by a tall dark-skinned doctor in a white lab coat and matching white turban. He flagged them down before they even reached the main desk, crossing to them briskly with a wide smile and an outreached hand.

  “Captain Rice! You’re looking for Miss Campbell?” he asked.

  “I am,” David replied. “I think you have the advantage of me.”

  “Dr. Abdullah Singh,” the physician introduced himself. “I’m the third-shift trauma surgeon here. Detective Constantine told me you were on your way.”

  “How is my XO, Doctor?” David asked.

  “Come this way,” Singh instructed. “We’re better off discussing this in private.”

  He led the way into a side office and gestured the two men to seats. “This is the young man who intervened to help?” he asked, eyeing Skavar.

  “He is,” David confirmed. “And now my Chief of Security, once I have a ship again.”

  “From what I’ve heard, it would have made a solid job interview,” Singh agreed. “Miss Campbell will live,” he continued. “But…it will be some time before she is fully up to speed again.

  “Her right shoulder blade and upper arm bone were both shattered,” he said calmly. “She also took two bullets through her right lung and had her air pipe clipped by another round. You were the one providing first aid on the scene?”

  “I was,” David said, shivering at the calm litany of injuries.

  “You saved her life,” Singh stated. “Without proper care for the chest wound, she would have died before the EMTs reached her. She will live because you acted quickly and appropriately.”

  “What kind of recovery is she looking at?”

  “I’ll want to keep her in intensive care for at least a week,” the doctor replied. “After that, if you have a decent ship’s doctor, I could see releasing her to their care aboard ship, but she would need to be restricted to very light duty, no more than a few hours a shift, for at least a month.”

  “We can do that,” David promised. Hiring a doctor had just moved significantly up his priority list.

  “Good. She should be awake shortly if you want to wait around to talk to her,” Singh told him. “But you will need to take it very carefully with her, today and in future. She’s going to be in bad shape for a while.”

  “I owe Jenna Campbell my life a few times over,” David said quietly. “Whatever it takes, we’ll make sure it happens.”

  “That’s what she needs,” the doctor replied. “She almost died today, Captain. That takes some coming back from.”

  “I know. She’ll get what she needs.”

  “You should probably go get some rest yourself,” David told Skavar. “I’ll be here for a bit and I shouldn’t need security.”

  “All right,” the ex-Marine replied. “You said we don’t have a ship yet, but is there an office I should be checking out for security and safety?”

  “Yeah.” David reeled off the address. “The yards say we’re going to get Red Falcon in a few days, so we don’t have to worry about the rental office for too much longer. I’ll decide if we’re going to keep it for interviews, well, after I’ve checked on Jenna.”

  “Good call,” Skavar agreed softly. “See you on the flip side, Captain.”

  “Git,” David ordered.

  The Marine obeyed and David stepped into the room where Campbell was resting. Slumped back in the bed unconscious, she looked astonishingly frail and vulnerable. Several cuffs around her arms and legs were connected to various scanners and bags of fluid, and he winced at the bandages across her torso.

  He’d hoped that this kind of trouble was over for him and his crew. The Blue Star Syndicate had hated his guts, but after Damien Montgomery had been done, they’d been a headless mess.

  David missed the earnest young man who’d been his Ship’s Mage. He did not miss the young Mage’s ability to be a trouble magnet. He’d lost too many crew running across the galaxy with Montgomery, though he’d freely admit half of that had been his fault.

  He took the seat next to the bed and sighed. To his surprise, his XO slowly opened her eyes at the noise.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said softly.

  “Wasn’t asleep,” she whispered. “Just resting.”

  “They tell me you’re staying in here for a bit,” he told her. “And you’re going to listen to them and do what they say, is that clear, XO?”

  Campbell laughed, then coughed and winced.

  “Clear, skipper.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Nah, I’m too drugged up to hurt much,” she admitted. “They do good work, from where I’m sitting. I’m going to be fine.”

  “So they assure me, and the doctor seemed trustworthy.”

  “Reminds me of Narveer,” Campbell told him. “I’ve met Sikh men who weren’t honest bastions of good, but they do seem to be the exception, don’t they?”

  “True enough,” he agreed. “You didn’t have to get shot to get out of the interviews, you know. If you’d told me it was this much of a problem…”

  Even in the dimly lit hospital room, he could see her roll her eyes.

  “Wheel my hospital bed in and I’ll do your damned interviews for you,” she told him. “You ain’t that helpless!”

  “No, I’m not,” David said. “And you are doing nothing except healing for the next week. Red Falcon won’t ship out for a week to ten days at least. You can let the doctors put you back together.”

  She exhaled heavily and nodded slightly.

  “Can’t argue there,” she murmured, her eyes half-closing.

  “Rest, Jenna,” he ordered. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

/>   5

  Maria stopped outside the office she’d been given the address for, facing a matched pair of male and female guards from a very familiar mold. They wore plain, unmarked shipsuits, but their body language told her everything she needed to know: Captain Rice’s security were ex-Marines.

  And based off her own situation, she suspected there might be less ex about them than the good Captain thought. The young man on the left, for example, might have completed his training and a single five-year tour.

  Maybe.

  She turned an executive officer’s level gaze on them.

  “I’m here to meet with Captain Rice,” she told them. “I have an appointment.”

  The female Marine was far closer to what Maria expected of retired ex-Marines, clearly into her thirties with short-cropped hair and the lines around the eyes of someone who’d seen real action. She had a holographic screen projected from her wrist-comp and checked it.

  “Commander Soprano?” she asked respectfully.

  “Just Ms. Soprano now,” Maria replied, “but yes.”

  “Of course.” Both Marines saluted regardless. “Corporal Lisa Ambrose, Red Falcon security. You’re expected.”

  “I’m meeting with Captain Rice and Officer Campbell, correct?”

  “Officer Campbell is in the hospital,” Ambrose replied. “She’ll recover, but you’re just meeting with the Captain today.”

  “What happened?” Maria asked. From her conversation with Alois, she could guess. It seemed that the good Captain’s past was already catching up with him. The ex-Marines were less decorative than she’d thought, then.

  “Not my place to say,” the guard said crisply. “We got hired after; don’t know the details anyway. Skipper is waiting for you in the office. Good luck, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Corporal.”

  Past the guards, the rental office was a small space. A tiny reception area with a drink station, a meeting room and four offices. The reception desk was occupied by a tall, dark-haired man with his feet up—and a standard Royal Martian Marine Corps nine-millimeter battle rifle lying on the desk next to him.