by Troy Denning
Intrepid Eye activated the datapad’s speaker, then emitted a piercing general-call whistle. All three of the bunk’s occupants rolled immediately into a seated position, their expectant gazes going instantly to the stationwide intercom speaker above the door.
Under normal circumstances, “general call” heralded announcements of vital importance to the entire crew of the Argent Moon. Everyone aboard had been trained to respond to the signal as though their life depended on it—which, given the nature of many of the station’s ongoing experiments, could easily be the case. Intrepid Eye had no wish to draw the attention of the Argent Moon’s designated AI, Rooker, by activating one of his intercom speakers, so she continued to transmit from Ensign Wallace’s datapad.
“My apologies for interrupting your sleep cycle,” she said. “But Lieutenant Craddog is needed in Hangar Bay Charlie Four at once.”
The trio frowned in confusion, and their eyes dropped to Wallace’s datapad.
“Who are you?” Wallace’s speech was a bit slurred.
“I apologize,” Intrepid Eye replied, “but that information is above your clearance level.”
“Then what are you doing in my tacpad?”
“Lieutenant Craddog appears to have secured his own datapad inside a trouser pocket.” Intrepid Eye paused while Craddog’s companions scowled at him. “So it was necessary to utilize yours. But rest assured, my presence will in no way violate security protocols. Your datapad will be destroyed the instant I depart.”
“What?” Wallace looked to Craddog. “Bart, do something!”
Craddog sighed and reached for his pants, then looked into the datapad’s lens. “Is that really necessary?”
“I fear it is,” Intrepid Eye said. “You were the one who attempted to evade observation by concealing his own datapad.”
“Observation?” The Argent Moon’s facial recognition database identified the third companion as the cabin’s assigned occupant, Ensign Kris Gaston. “You mean we were being watched? Are you kidding me?”
“There is no need for concern,” Intrepid Eye replied. “My data banks are completely private and inaccessible, even to Rooker.”
Gaston’s hands clenched into fists, and Intrepid Eye feared the ensign was about to give Craddog a black eye—an injury that would only make him appear less worthy to the ONI security team he would soon be leading.
“I have orders for Lieutenant Craddog,” Intrepid Eye said. “Give us the room.”
Gaston’s brow sank in intoxicant-induced confusion. “This is my cabin, ma’am.”
“For now,” Intrepid Eye replied. “However, there are several double cabins available above the Beta Deck launching bay.”
Wallace grabbed Gaston by the elbow. “Come on, Kris. Let’s go to my cabin.” They sorted through the clothes on the floor and quickly slipped into theirs; then Wallace asked, “About my tacpad—”
“It will look like an overheated battery,” Intrepid Eye said. “The quartermaster won’t hesitate to give you another one.”
“But my data—”
“Is already gone,” Intrepid Eye said. “I needed the space.”
Wallace groaned, then turned to Craddog and raised a finger. “Thanks for nothing, Lieutenant. I hope they’re sending you to monitor singularity probes.”
Craddog’s slack expression fell further. “Come on, Jess. There’s no reason to be like that.”
“Yeah, there is.” Gaston made the same obscene gesture Wallace had, then added, “You knew you were being monitored. If this gets out, those promotions you promised—”
“It won’t get out.” Craddog turned to Wallace’s datapad. “Right?”
“I see no need for that,” Intrepid Eye said. “Yet.”
The companions took the hint and departed, leaving Craddog alone with Intrepid Eye, holding up his work tunic and wrinkling his nose at the green stain on the shoulder. After a moment, Craddog shrugged, then pushed an arm through a sleeve and turned a bleary-eyed glare in the direction of Intrepid Eye.
“Are you crazy?” he demanded. “If those two figure out who you are—”
“They will meet with an unfortunate accident,” Intrepid Eye said. “In fact, I find it quite surprising they made it through this evening without injury. I was unaware human beings fit together in that combination.”
“You have a lot to learn about us,” Craddog said. “What’s in Hangar Bay Charlie Four?”
“The Fast Gus,” Intrepid Eye said. That was the swiftest vessel available to the Argent Moon, a Winter-class prowler with adequate cloaking technology and a full-size Shaw-Fujikawa Translight Engine, which made it ideal for short-notice courier runs. “Security Team Papa-10 will meet you there.”
“Papa-10?” Craddog whistled. “What are you bringing in this time, a Gravemind?”
“Nothing quite so dangerous,” Intrepid Eye said. “And we are not bringing it in. You are going to retrieve it.”
Craddog shook his head. “I’m in no shape to go anywhere,” he said. “And anything you need Papa-10 for, I want nothing to do with.”
“This is not a request,” Intrepid Eye said. “You will monitor the cryo-jars. Papa-10 will do the killing.”
“Killing?” Craddog stopped in the middle of pulling on a sock. “Who are they killing?”
“The couriers presently carrying the cryo-jars,” Intrepid Eye replied. More properly called cryogenic preservation containers, cryo-jars were typically used to transport viable organs across interstellar distances. “That is why you are needed. Papa-10 has no personnel capable of monitoring cryo-jars.”
Craddog continued to hold his sock half-on, his jaw hanging slack and his bleary eyes fixed on Wallace’s datapad. His confusion was predictable. Intrepid Eye was improvising on a plan he did not know about, trying to prevent Lopis and her Ferret team from tracing the attack on the Tuwas back to the Argent Moon. To sever the connection, she had diverted the courier team to Pridarea Libatoa—known to humans as the moon Meridian, orbiting Hestia V in the Hestia system—and instructed them to await further contact on the half-completed space elevator Pinnacle Station. That contact would come in the form of Papa-10, which would eliminate the courier team and retrieve the cryo-jars that had been the object of Intrepid Eye’s plan from the beginning.
But speed was essential. It would not take Osman and Lopis long to discover what had really happened to Admiral Tuwa’s family, and once they did, the courier team’s time would be severely truncated.
Finally, Craddog pulled his sock completely on. “Cryo-jars?” He sat upright. “For transporting organs?”
“That is the purpose of cryo-jars.”
“And you want me to bring them here?”
“Yes. Have I not made that clear?”
“Why?”
“Because if you do not, your arrangement with Wallace and Gaston will be the least of your problems.”
Craddog shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The Argent Moon is not a transplant hospital. Those organs can only be going one place.”
“To the bioweapons lab, of course,” Intrepid Eye said. “And as the chief science officer, it is your duty to see they arrive safely.”
“Not if you’re the one behind the project,” Craddog said. “There are some things even I won’t do.”
“What makes you believe I am behind the project?” Intrepid Eye asked. As a vast bureaucracy dedicated to keeping its own secrets, ONI was a shadowy network of units that interacted through a web of protocol, procedure, and regulation so hidden and complicated that no human could comprehend it completely. Orders were accepted and reports made with no clear idea of who was authorizing either, as long as they arrived through the proper channels with the correct notations. “Project: SLEEPING STAR was initiated before I had access to the Argent Moon’s comm net.”
“Before I knew you had access,” Craddog corrected. He grabbed his other sock and thrust his foot into it. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t initiate it.”
&nbs
p; “Nor does it mean I did,” Intrepid Eye pointed out. “And it is not relevant to our current discussion. What is relevant is that I am only trying to save humanity.”
“By weaponizing the most virulent pathogen known to man?”
“By developing a vaccine for it,” Intrepid Eye said. From a certain point of view, it was almost true. “ONI did not create this demon, Lieutenant. They are merely foolish enough to believe they can control it.”
Craddog thought for a moment, then looked into the lens through which Intrepid Eye was observing him. “We seem to have a bad habit of doing that.”
“Indeed, you do.” Intrepid Eye experienced a current surge as she recognized Craddog’s implication—that he realized it was not ONI who had captured Intrepid Eye, but she who had captured ONI. “Arrogance is weakness easily exploited. That is why men like you are so important. You can always be trusted to do what is best for humanity.”
Craddog continued to stare at the datapad for a moment, then finally let his breath out and slipped into his shoes. “I’m going to need a few things from my cabin.”
“I have already instructed your assistant to pack for you,” Intrepid Eye said. “When you arrive in the hangar bay, Petty Officer Kopek will be waiting with your bag and a clean uniform.”
“Well, then.” Craddog stood and started toward the door. “It seems you’ve thought of everything.”
“Of course,” Intrepid Eye said. “I am an archeon-class ancilla. We are designed to think of everything.”
CHAPTER 17
* * *
* * *
2117 hours, December 13, 2553 (military calendar)
ONI Sahara-class Prowler Silent Joe
Moon Taram, Pydoryn Planetary System, Shaps System
Veta Lopis could not push the images aside—the needles of light arcing away from the Turaco as a half dozen Keeper vessels fled the missiles launched by the Silent Joe . . . the white blossom of thermonuclear detonations incinerating the hostages she had left trapped in the Salvation Base detention center . . . a blue ring of annihilation dilating across the face of Taram, its surface collapsing into the Forerunner vacuum energy extractor . . . a final implosion flash that was too brief and brilliant to have color before it drained into eternal, impenetrable darkness.
“Lopis?”
The voice came from the head of the wardroom table, where the Silent Joe’s captain, Piers Ewen, sat looking in her direction. He was flanked on both sides by full chairs, with Veta and her Ferrets sitting to his left, now wearing black fatigues with no identifying patches. Fred and the rest of Blue Team were to his right, dressed in khaki service uniforms with full insignia and somehow still looking like war machines. The rest of the seats were occupied by analysts, technicians, and other personnel who would either benefit from or contribute to the debriefing. They all wore the royal-blue work uniforms of the Covert Services branch, and they were all watching her with expectant expressions.
When Veta did not reply, Ewen asked, “Your thoughts, Inspector?”
Ever the Ferret team guardian, Mark leaned forward to answer in Veta’s stead. “Sorry, Captain. Inspector Lopis’s ears are probably still ringing. There was no time to put in hearing protection before the shooting started.”
“Hazards of going undercover—can’t wear helmets,” Ash added. He glanced down the table toward a thin-faced man with a surgeon’s badge on his collar, then looked back to Veta and spoke in an elevated voice. “Doc Krosbi was just saying that full rigor mortis suggests Catalin and Yuso Tuwa were both killed between twelve and thirty hours ago. Their organs appear to have been excised by a medical—”
“Guys, my hearing is fine,” Veta said. Of course it was, because the moment the Ferret team set foot on the Silent Joe’s deck, they had all been ordered to report to the infirmary for a full evaluation. “But thanks for the cover.”
Ewen scowled and let his gaze slide toward Fred. The Spartan pursed his lips and kept his gaze forward, focused on the wall above Veta’s head. She guessed that her reluctance to abandon the hostages on Taram had been the topic of heated discussion between the two officers—and it would no doubt be the subject of an urgent report to Serin Osman. If there was one thing ONI captains did not like, it was someone putting Spartans under their command unnecessarily at risk.
After a moment, Ewen turned back to Veta. “Then I hope you don’t intend to keep us in suspense any longer,” he said. “If you have any thoughts on the bodies, Inspector Lopis, I’d like to hear them . . . now.”
“Sure thing,” Veta said, deliberately striking a nonmilitary note. As a civilian employee of ONI, she was subject to Captain Ewen’s authority only while aboard his vessel—and she was beginning to suspect that distinction might prove important in the not-too-distant future. She looked down the table toward Krosbi, then said, “No offense to Doctor Krosbi, but the most important thing the bodies tell us is pretty obvious.”
Krosbi shrugged. “I’m a combat surgeon, not a forensic pathologist,” he said. “What did I miss?”
“That we’ve been played here.” Veta turned back to Ewen. “If Doctor Krosbi’s death window is close—and I think it is—then somebody was holding the Tuwas captive while we chased our own tails.”
Ewen’s tone grew defensive. “I wouldn’t characterize it as chasing our own tails. We did find and destroy a major Keeper installation, and preliminary analysis indicates we eliminated ninety percent of the forces based there. That’s going to cripple Keeper operations across the entire sector.”
“Which will look terrific in everybody’s records jacket.” As she spoke, Veta made no attempt to hide her sarcasm. “But our assignment was to rescue Admiral Tuwa’s family and avenge her assassination—and we’ve done neither. Instead, we played into the real killer’s hands and ended up incinerating the only hostages we had any hope of saving.”
Kelly exhaled loudly and looked at the ceiling, but Fred studied Veta with a wary gaze that suggested he was trying to decide whether to revoke her “friendly” designation.
Ewen had clearly made up his mind. “Delaying the detonation was not an option, Inspector.” He leaned forward to lock gazes with her. “It would have given the Keepers time to organize a counterattack.”
“Or to launch an evacuation,” Veta added. “Which would have meant letting ninety percent of their fleet escape.”
“It would have meant getting both of your teams killed.” Ewen spoke softly but firmly, his tone that of a man working to control his temper. “You know what a mistake it would be to underestimate the Keepers of the One Freedom, Inspector. They’re brutal, pitiless, and led by a very cunning Jiralhanae. Given the circumstances on the ground, those captives were going to die no matter what you did—unless you failed to mention to the lieutenant that you had a ready craft with the capacity to evacuate dozens of prisoners?”
“I’d have said so, believe me.” Veta looked across the table at Fred and realized she was angrier at herself than at the Spartan. She was the one who had left the hostages locked in their cells so they wouldn’t get in the way if she and her Gammas got into a firefight. All Fred had done was stand fast behind a decision she had already made. Veta gave him a quick nod, then said, “The lieutenant made the proper call. He didn’t have a choice.”
“I’m glad you understand that, Inspector.” Ewen assumed a lecturing tone. “You’re not the police anymore—you’re a soldier. Sometimes people die who don’t deserve to.”
“Thanks for pointing that out, Captain,” Veta said. “I guess they forgot to mention collateral damage at spy school.”
Ewen’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not doing yourself any favors, Inspector.”
“I’m not trying to,” Veta said. “I just want to be sure those hostages died for a good reason.”
“That’s not always in our control.”
“It is this time.” Veta made a fist, but left it lying in front of her instead of using it to pound the table—a tactic that drew every eye in the room
to her hand. “As long as you don’t give up on the mission.”
Ewen scowled. “No one’s giving up, Inspector. But there needs to be a viable way forward.”
“It’s called following the evidence.” Giving Ewen no time to argue, Veta turned to Doctor Krosbi and asked, “Were Catalin and Yuso still in full rigor mortis when you examined them?”
Krosbi shot a nervous glance toward Ewen, who responded curtly, “Carry on, Doctor. Let’s see if this leads anywhere.”
“Yes, sir.” Krosbi’s gaze shifted back to Veta. “Both bodies were still in full rigor, yes. It’s one of the reasons I couldn’t do a better autopsy.”
“That’s fine,” Veta said. “I just wanted confirm your findings, because the timeline is important. If we know they were killed between twelve and thirty hours ago—”
“Then we know the murder scene is between half a day and a day and a half from Taram,” Olivia said, following Veta’s line of reasoning. “I tried to look at the Turaco’s navigation history while I was waiting, but after I found the Dark Moon reference, the AI kept blocking me. Maybe someone better can dig it out.”
She looked down the table toward the Silent Joe’s senior intelligence analyst, Anki Hersh.
Hersh shook her head. “Oh. Probably not,” she said. “I have my best team working on it, but the Dark Moon AI was extremely thorough when she erased herself. So far, the only thing we’ve been able to determine is that her architecture was more compact than anything ONI has ever developed.”
“But we do know that Dark Moon is involved,” Linda said. “We can shake something loose from them, yes?”
“Yes,” Fred said. “Let’s start with their heads.”
“We can work that angle later,” Veta said. She was glad to see she had somewhat made peace with Blue Team . . . but they were soldiers, not detectives. They didn’t know the first thing about keeping an investigation focused. “We’ll get to the subject of Dark Moon. But for now, let’s think about everything else the bodies are telling us.”
