Rebels and Patriots (Imperium Cicernus Book 3)

by A. G. Claymore

  Then again, the Urbica patriarch probably frowned on his daughter staying in the Imperial Marines beyond the standard contract. Few women joined in the first place, but for her to stay on and, even worse, to be incredibly good at it… Poor old Governor Urbica must have all but given up on brokering a decent, dynastic marriage for his daughter.

  Paul almost laughed as he pictured an uncomfortable family gathering. The old man would disapprove of Paul’s low birth, fear his authority and influence as an inspector from the Eye and wonder if that influence might be useful in some future scheme.

  He realized with some surprise, that the harvesting heads were now in sight on his passive sonar display. He maneuvered to the left and turned to face away from the reinforced vacuum line of the nearest head. He accelerated to match velocity and then slowed slightly to drift back into reach of the maintenance ladder that ran up the line.

  Now came the waiting game again, and his fears threatened to flood back in. He didn’t want to obsess about Julia, so he turned his thoughts to a more concrete future. If they managed to thwart the attack here in Santa Clara, the next step would be Home-world.

  They would need to present their evidence to the Eye and CentCom simultaneously. The media had already started the ball rolling after the interviews in Irricanan orbit, but they would reduce the chances of a cover-up by involving more than one government agency.

  Both CentCom and the ‘Eye’ might have compelling reasons to cover up what had happened, but it was very unlikely they’d succeed if both were involved. A room full of cats would dance Swan Lake before CentCom and the Eye ever cooperated on anything.

  He nearly lost his grip when the ship finally started reeling in the vacuum lines. The massive collector heads lifted off the floor and followed the team up into the bottom hatches of the harvesting sub.

  Paul rode the line into the storage bay for the vacuum head and he hugged the ladder as the line passed through the small, pressure-shielded aperture. His suit shorted as he cleared the pressure-shield and he shuddered, barely remembering to step off the ladder as soon as there was a dry floor.

  Though he knew it didn’t matter now, he still hoped it had been the pressure-shield that shorted his suit and not just random chance. He retracted his helmet just before a worker came around the corner to check on the huge reel that held the vacuum line.

  Paul knew, from long experience, how quickly the look of momentary confusion on the man’s face would turn to suspicion. He headed off the transition.

  “It looks good enough for now,” he told the man as though he had every right to be there, “but you tell your idiot of a boss that he needs to follow the proper schedules. I’m not going to be the one taking a hit if this line fails in the middle of a field.”

  The worker gave him a vague nod and carried on. Paul resisted the urge to smile. Everybody had an idiot above them in the hierarchy. A stern warning to said idiot was usually enough to get on somebody’s good side.

  He casually strode out of the massive room filled with vac-line reels. He’d had every intention of sneaking out of the reel room along with the other six team members, but he’d been found immediately. Now his best camouflage was to stay in plain sight and act as though he owned the place.

  He found himself in the ore-straining room, where the water was separated from the incoming nodules. He could see workers moving toward a door three levels up on the starboard side. The room would be empty soon and he’d be able to reach the ore cars.

  “Excuse me,” an authoritative voice called, “can I help you?”

  He turned to find another man standing to his left, between the supports of two vac lines.

  “Yeah,” he replied gruffly, “you can follow procedures.” He stepped forward and jabbed a finger at the man. “I know what you’re up to.”

  “Y – you… What?”

  Paul nodded his head back, eyebrows up. “Oh, don’t think we don’t know this trick when we see it. You guys are skimming the preventative-maintenance budget and, when things get out of hand, you expect us to authorize a capital expenditure in order to keep the lines running.”

  It was a safe enough bet that somebody was skimming money from this department. It was so common in the Imperium that it wasn’t even considered illegal. It only led to repercussions if you let it get out of control.

  “Whoa! Hold on now…”

  Paul shook his head. “I don’t want to hear it. You tell that moron to follow the PM schedule or we’re bringing an audit down here.”

  He turned and stalked off, but he couldn’t go through to the ore cars now, not with the nervous employee watching him. He ascended the stairs, hoping it didn’t just lead to a break room.

  He was relieved to find himself in a broad passageway. He took a quick look both ways to ensure nobody was approaching before he placed a hand on the emergency evacuation panel. A holographic display showed him the layout of the large harvesting sub and he stored it on his CPU.

  There were boarding gates on either side of the sub, one level down from where he was. They were on the port and starboard ends of a single passageway that ran across the ship. He moved aft a few hundred feet and entered a stairwell, exiting one level down.

  Moving a little farther aft, he came to the passageway to find a few dozen employees waiting at the port end and he simply joined them. There didn’t seem to be anybody in charge of the small group. He suspected security might be somewhat lax between the vessels of the fleet.

  That suspicion was confirmed when, after docking for the ore transfer, the portal slid open and the group flowed out past a bored-looking pair of security guards who paid far more attention to their dice rolls than they did the miners entering the factory ship.

  The plan was a little light on details from this point. They knew the bomb was likely aboard this vessel because there was only one factory ship. The conspirators could blow up dozens of harvesting ships and barely make a dent in production rates. Take out the factory ship, however, and the Imperium would be on deathwatch. The Imperium’s Military ships would turn into stationary gun platforms within months.

  So they were reasonably certain the bomb would be here, but this was still a hell of a big submarine. They’d divided the ship into sections but, beyond that, it was going to take a miracle to find the damn thing.

  And then he left the Arrivals lounge and saw salvation, right there in the middle of the off-duty market.

  A falafel stand.

  Follow the Falafel

  When Urbica spotted him sitting at a table eating his falafel, Paul wondered if he was reading too much into her expression. Still, she looked pretty damned happy to see he’d made it into the ship alive.

  She moved past the table, putting a hand on his shoulder as she continued over to the food vendors. She fit in well enough, he was surprised to see. In a city that never saw the surface, items like soap were incredibly expensive and what people could afford was pretty harsh on hair.

  Close to a third of the citizens of Santa Clara kept their heads shaved. Even her implants were unremarkable. This factory city only existed to manufacture high-tech components and a large number of citizens sported more extensive implants than hers.

  She returned with a plate of fishcakes and sat next to him. “I thought I’d lost you,” she told him before taking a bite.

  He noticed she hadn’t said ‘we’. “Yeah, I got caught by a maintenance worker,” he explained as two more members of the team joined them with their food. The agreement had been to rendezvous at this food market after getting aboard. It was the closest to the ore receiving plant.

  “You got caught?” one of the dragoons asked. “How did you get away?”

  Paul shrugged. “Gave him a stern lecture and called his boss an idiot.”

  “That worked?” the other dragoon asked, frowning.

  Paul nodded. “Twice, actually. You’d be surprised how often a belligerent attitude can give you the upper hand.”

  They chuckled. O
ne of them noticed two more dragoons searching the crowd with trays of food in their hands and waved them over.

  “Anyone see Karl?” Paul asked.

  “Lost his grip on the ladder when his line started to reel in,” one of the men said quietly. “My suit was running on fumes when I came aboard. I don’t know if he had enough to make the pickup with Eddie.”

  “Hell,” Urbica muttered. “Alright, we need to make sure his troubles aren’t for nothing. Kendricks, Hensen, take his zone and split it between you.”

  “I have a suggestion that might help save us some trouble,” Paul said, looking past Kendricks to where two men sat at a table ten meters away. “We could try following those two shaggy-haired Marines over there. Don’t look,” he warned as Kendricks and Hensen both began turning their heads.

  “One at a time, and not directly. They’re at your six. When I point to your five, take a look, then give us a lewd gesture, as if I’ve just pointed out a good-looking woman.”

  They did as advised and everyone shared a good laugh. Urbica leaned in. “They’re looking our way. I’ve just said something really obscene and amusing.” She licked her lips as the team burst out laughing.

  “Nicely done,” Paul said calmly. “But I think they were looking at the three women sitting behind us.”

  One of the two Marines was now making a gesture that left little doubt as to what occupied his mind.

  “Are you sure the colonel didn’t get him worked up when she was licking her lips?” Kendricks asked, grinning.

  “I’m starting to think you might be right,” Paul admitted. Anyway, the falafel guy says they showed up about five months ago dressed like civvies but they stood out like a sore thumb. Mostly keep to themselves. There’s three of ‘em but you never see more than two at a time.”

  “The falafel guy?” Urbica didn’t sound convinced.

  “One thing I’ve learned from this adventure is to always take time to talk to the falafel guy,” Paul told her. “Now watch this.”

  One of the Marines got up, tossed his wrappers in the recycler and bought a new falafel. He returned to the table and waited for the second Marine to finish eating.

  “That sandwich is going to lead us to the bomb,” Paul said quietly.

  Kendricks shook his head in amazement. “It’s a damned good thing this place has a falafel hut.”

  “You guys wait here.” Paul finished his drink. “It’s too easy for them to notice if a small horde is following them. Just myself and the Colonel, I think, and we should get up now, before they do.”

  He led Urbica to the main exit and stopped, pretending to examine a necklace at one of the jewelry stalls. He held it for her to examine, but also at an angle that let him see the Marines as they left their table. “Coming our way,” he said quietly.

  He paid for the necklace and made a show of putting it around her neck as they walked past.

  “Just so we’re clear about this,” she said, “the first time you buy me jewelry, it’s just a cover?”

  He rolled his eyes. “It does complement your eyes. If I do a cover, I do it right.” He gestured toward the exit.

  They moved off, flowing with the crowd. They kept several people between themselves and their targets as they walked, but the Marines didn’t seem to be concerned about a tail. After several months in the factory city, they appeared to have grown careless.

  The whole place had that old-ship smell. The metallic tang of the vessel itself held hints of bearing grease, ozone and accumulated corners of dirt and grime.

  The people around them smelled of sweat, like they would anywhere, but the sweat was scented with acrid, bitter aromatics from dark kelp. The cheap seaweed grew on the ocean floor and it found its way into almost every dish served on board.

  The two Marines split up as they reached the end of the business district. “Follow the sandwich,” Paul said quietly, taking her hand and leading her after their target.

  They were led deep into a residential zone of the submarine and they began to see children. They chased each other as well as the ever-present cats that lived on every ship in the Imperium.

  There was hardly a world that didn’t have some annoying little animal that would stow away on cargo or escape from an owner. Even the Xipe Totec carried its own unofficial pest patrol.

  The Marine stooped outside an apartment door to scratch a battered old tomcat behind the ears. He straightened and put his palm on the lock-plate.

  Acting on impulse, Paul closed the distance just as the door was opening. He shoved the man through the door, sending him sprawling on the floor. He leapt over him and raced into the main room as Urbica got a grip on the hapless Marine’s hand and slid it up behind his back.

  The third Marine was already halfway across the room before Paul set eyes on him and the man managed to get his hands on a small device. He spun around, determination on his face as he stared at Paul. Then his features faltered. He looked down at the trigger in his hand.

  Paul held out a hand, palm up. “I’m not going to move,” he assured the man. “Just take a minute to stop and think about what you’re about to do.”

  “I have my orders,” the man said quietly, as if to himself.

  “There is such a thing as an illegal order,” Paul insisted gently. “Every Marine knows that.”

  “How the hell do you expect me to assess the legality of my orders when I’m stuck down here? What are we supposed to do, hire lawyers to follow us around and analyze everything our officers tell us?”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit,” Paul replied calmly. “At your level, you’re still responsible for your actions if you follow orders that are blatantly illegal or even treasonous.”

  “Hold on,” the man looked annoyed. “Who said anything about treason?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Paul stared at him for a few seconds. “You might be missing some pretty important ‘big-picture’ stuff here. What happens if this factory ship is destroyed?”

  “Shipments from Santa Clara will stop.” The Marine shrugged. “Other data-gear producers will have to pick up the slack.”

  “They can’t,” Paul replied. “The vast majority of data chip and circuit production takes place right here on this ship. The other companies can’t make a dent in the loss. It would take half a year to get them ramped up for that kind of production.”

  “So the banking and porn industries will collapse,” the man said with a shrug. “What do I care? I’ll be dead anyway.”

  “It’s not just that. Don’t you have family?”

  No response.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” Paul told him. “They’ll have to suffer through the effects of what you’re about to do to them.

  “Without this world’s products, everything will start to fail, and not just banks.

  “Everything from your assault rifle, to the ship you came out here on will grind to a halt as the circuits fail and there’s no replacements available.” Paul spread his hands out. “Why do you think we call every quartermaster ‘Chip’? Do you seriously think the military sets aside anyone with the name and trains him as a store-man?”

  “Well, no.” The Marine shrugged in annoyance. “I realize they’re always sitting in the armory, swapping out circuits, but I think you’re just trying to confuse the issue with a load of bullshit.”

  “Let me catch you up on what’s been happening on the other end of your particular chain of command,” Paul offered. “Several days ago, someone walked up to Senator Hadrian Nathaniel in the rotunda and vaporized him with a body-bomb. With Nathaniel and the 488 out of the running, who do you think was the most likely man to lead a pacification of secessionists at Irricana?”

  A shrug.

  “Seneca,” Paul told him. “Of course, he’s not the type to lead from the front, so he’s back at Home-world. He sent the 538 out to do the heavy lifting – easy work when you consider they are the secessionists anyway.”

  “It makes no sense,” the Marine p
rotested. “What does Seneca gain from destroying the Imperium?”

  “Nothing at all,” Paul agreed, “but he stood to gain a lot from having saboteurs placed to carry out the threat. If he’d been able to seize control of Irricana and Santa Clara, the threat of destroying production would have kept the military from walking in and taking both worlds back.

  “He’d become the power behind the throne and the Grays would have been the power behind him. If the plan failed and production was destroyed, the Grays could have just waited a few months and then walked right over us.”

  Paul pointed at the Marine. “That’s where you come in. Who do you serve?”

  “W… the… the Emperor,” he blurted in surprise, offended at having been asked.

  “Not from where I’m standing,” Paul told him. “As long as you’re holding an armed trigger, I’d say you’re serving the Grays.”

  The Marine looked down at the device in his hands. He took several deep breaths. Suddenly he looked back up at Paul. “Who the hell are you?” He demanded. “How am I supposed to trust you?”

  Paul nodded. “Good man. That means you’re starting to question everything, including me. Turn on your IFF transponder and I’ll do the same.”

  The man frowned at Paul for a few seconds but, apparently seeing no trap in the proposal, he nodded his assent.

  Paul saw the man’s icon appear in his vision and he opened it. Lance Corporal Harry Clark. He looked past the data to see the wide eyes of the Marine.

  “You’re from the Eye?” Clark asked.

  “That’s right, Harry. Started out in the Corps as a military cop and you know that folks like us only betray the Imperium if we’ve been lied to.” Paul nodded to Harry’s left hand. “Why don’t you disarm that trigger and show us who you really serve?”

  Harry stared down at the trigger.

  “They have someone, don’t they?” Paul asked.

  A nod. “My daughter.”

  “Pulling that trigger won’t save her,” Paul warned. “The entire Imperium will descend into anarchy until the Grays take over. Civil war, famine, disease, and then enslavement as experimental subjects. Once they have no further use for us, the Grays will likely wipe us out. They’re funny that way.”