The Gilded Cage

by Blaze Ward

  The Gilded Cage (The Science Officer: Volume 3)

  Blaze Ward

  Copyright © 2015 Blaze Ward

  All rights reserved

  Published by Knotted Road Press

  www.KnottedRoadPress.com

  Cover art:

  Copyright © Innovari | Dreamstime.com – Orbital Space Station And Spaceship Photo

  Cover and interior design copyright © 2015 Knotted Road Press

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  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  The Gilded Cage (The Science Officer: Volume 3)

  BOOK FIVE: WILHELMINA

  Part One

  The voice coming out of the comm was such a surprise that Javier nearly set his workbench on fire with the welding laser.

  “Science Officer to the bridge,” Captain Sokolov growled from speakers on several walls.

  Javier took the time to disarm the laser and set it down carefully. He really didn’t feel the need to explain to the Chief Engineer how he managed to set off the fire suppression system.

  Again.

  He stood and scratched a spot on his kidneys as he stretched and weighed the urgency in the captain’s voice.

  The desktop was a mess. But the man had sounded a bit cross. Worse than usual, even.

  Javier couldn’t remember what he might have done this time to set the captain off. After all, Sykora wasn’t back from her trip yet, so he really didn’t have anybody to bicker with.

  Too bad he couldn’t figure out how to keep her gone permanently. He might even like it on this ship, regardless of his status as a highly–valued slave.

  Javier considered adding a fancy sash to the basic ship uniform of slacks, undershirt, buttoned–up tunic, and occasional jacket.

  They were pirates. Weren’t pirates supposed to wear a fancy sash? They did in all the movies.

  I wonder what uniform I could convince the crew the ancient Janissaries wore. Probably get Kianoush Buday to work up me something swanky. She’d be tickled.

  Still, Sokolov hadn’t asked politely. And he didn’t sound like today was going to involve him using the word please a lot.

  Javier flipped a coin in his head, studied the results, and started gathering key electronics components into his hands and sliding them into his pockets. For now, Suvi’s little flitter was scattered all over the place, part of the shell here, optical sensor turret brain sitting to one side, lifter controls physically removed and sitting on a shelf.

  The key components: her secondary processor, radio encryptor and transmitter, and backup memory storage, were what he wanted right now. He was in the process of upgrading the flitter’s processing power, and adding more horsepower to the controller portable, so his secret AI assistant could think faster.

  It was amazing what kinds of spare parts you could scavenge on a ship this size, just by paying attention.

  Suvi was still a little pissed at not being a starship anymore, with all the power of a nav computer to think with and store movies and books and stuff.

  But when Sokolov and his pirates had captured the two of them, Javier had just barely managed to sneak her memory and personality chip off the vessel, and then pour her into the only thing he had to hide her in, his short–range airborne autonomous remote. The one that looked like a big gray grapefruit, covered with sensors.

  It wasn’t his old probe–cutter, Mielikki, but Suvi could hide in the remote, safe from the pirates. They would have killed him if they knew about her, and turned her into a slave, too. Another slave. The flitter was as close as he could get her to starflight right now. And she had saved his ass more than once in the little flier.

  “Now, Aritza,” Sokolov growled from the speakers again. Apparently, he knew his Science Officer a little too well.

  “Coming,” Javier yelled back, stuffing things into pockets and moving to the door.

  Part Two

  Zakhar Sokolov sat in his command chair and stewed.

  Externally, he maintained the façade of command.

  Aloof. Charismatic. Demanding. Durable.

  The Captain.

  Storm Gauntlet was on her late first shift. Normally, he would come off duty in another hour or so and go hit the tiny gym at the back of E–deck for some sweat and mobility. That wasn’t going to happen today. At the same time, Javier Aritza, his Science Officer/botanist/pain in the ass slave/Centurion would have come on duty at that time.

  With Djamila Sykora and Piet Alferdinck away on a mission, he was down to a very small group of centurions to stand watches, which meant he actually had to do it, instead of delegating like he normally did.

  And it wasn’t going to get any better.

  Sokolov looked over to his administrative assistant and comm tech, Kibwe Bousaid. The man had the size and bulk to be a successful soldier or dragoon, if he had any trace of killer instinct in him. Instead, he was big, and soft, and quiet, an introvert with a passion for paperwork. And he was probably worth his weight in exotic metals as a result.

  “Bousaid,” he called across the bridge, waiting for the man to look up. “When the science officer and the chief engineer get here, you’ll be in charge.”

  Bousaid nodded, powered down his station, and stood up.

  Sokolov hadn’t planned to interrupt what his aide was doing, but he recognized the sense of purpose the man brought to any task, so he stood as well. Bousaid would sit in the command chair, deadly serious, and be In Command, when he could have just kept working at his station and answered any rogue questions that came up.

  Sokolov shrugged and moved to one side. They were all pirates, usually by choice, with one exception, and even Aritza had chosen to be here, when push came to shove. They all could handle their jobs with a minimum of adult supervision.

  The main hatch cycled open to one side of the bridge.

  Zakhar looked over and pointed at Aritza, then at his chief engineer, Andreea Dalca.

  “Primary conference room,” he said, moving that direction. They both stopped and turned around to head back up the hall.

  Ξ

  Javier suffered a moment of despair as he considered the old battered table in the conference room. The last time he had been in here for something important, he had arrived early, taken over a whole corner, and committed a petite tea ceremony while waiting for the rest of everyone to gather.

  Now, it was a much smaller group, and no warning. Javier plopped his old battered coffee mug on the tabletop and settled into a chair.

  He watched Sokolov blanch slightly when he saw the other side of the mug, which, based on the amount of hot coffee inside, would currently be a beautiful young woman with green hair, and no clothing north of her belly–button.

  Javier smiled.

  He hadn’t been the person who picked it up from the tourist shop in a brothel on Merankorr. He’d just found it down in the officer’s wardroom about a week ago.

  And kept it.

  It wasn’t as good as the custom team mug he had sent with Wilhelmina when she and Sykora left, but it still was very obviously his now, which kept the pixies in the wardroom and galley from stealing it when he wasn’t looking.

  They did that. Well, used to. Obviously the captain had worked his co
mmand magic on them at some point and made them stop. He had even said so. Not in so many words, you know. But it was all captainy magic. Bad juju.

  Sokolov didn’t waste any time today on polite questions or fripperies. Also, not a good sign.

  “An hour ago, we received a message, transmitted from well outside the minefield, by someone who knew where the safe boundaries were located.”

  Inside, Javier snarled to himself, remembering all the fun to be had when this ship, this little private service strike corvette, Storm Gauntlet, had first come to A'Nacia, the Haunted Star, and gotten trapped in an ancient mine field like a fly in a spider’s web. How much fun it had been figuring out how to save the ship, and her crew, when he’d really just wanted to say I told you so.

  But in the end, they had rescued a princess from a dragon, fixed her starship, and sent her off to live happily ever after. Not bad for a bunch of pirates.

  Still, there was something about the tone of the captain’s voice. Something ominous and dangling, like any good bait.

  Oh, what the hell.

  “From whom, Captain?” Javier asked.

  He wasn’t going to like the answer. Might as well get it over with.

  “Wilhelmina Teague.”

  Huh?

  Apparently, Captain Sokolov had been sand–bagging, probably just to see the way Javier felt his face screwing up sideways in confusion.

  Inside Javier’s head, little warning buzzers and klaxons were going off as the reactor that was his brain scrambled itself and began to shut down. Or words to that effect.

  Whatever.

  “I’m sorry,” Javier replied as he fought to keep his brain on–line. “I thought you said Ms. Teague.”

  “It gets better,” Sokolov growled sarcastically. “She’s in the smallest deep–space yacht you’ve ever seen. Apparently, she stole it.

  “And where are Piet and Sykora?”

  “They’ve been captured and are being held for ransom.”

  Well, so much for a quiet day.

  Part Three

  Javier watched his sensors and readouts like a hungry raptor. Not that there was anything he could do if something went wrong as they slowly transited the minefield back out to deep space. No, if that happened, they’d be dead so quickly they would probably never know what hit them.

  He had mapped all the mines around them. Big purple triangles marked the ones that could probably gut a battleship at this range. There were a lot of those.

  Out beyond that, a pretty, pink star, because that was how he thought of Wilhelmina. Not that he had really seriously considered trying his luck with the woman. His grandfather had always warned him never to chase a woman smarter than himself.

  You can’t catch them. And worse, what if you did?

  She was one of those. Brilliant, decisive, incisive. Several different college degrees in a variety of fields. And totally freaking nuts, but at least in a good way.

  She was a Shepherd of the Word. A missionary. Probably the last of them. From what he had seen, years ago, the sad, modern remainder of the order had none of the spark of the early missionaries like her.

  Rip van Winkle.

  At least she was nice to look at. Half a hand taller than he was. Not as tall as Sykora, but tall. Maybe a little squishier than he liked them, but five centuries in cryo–sleep would do that to you. Nothing a few months of effort couldn’t fix if she wanted to.

  Warm blue eyes that didn’t miss anything. Cute freckles. Ready smile.

  Javier smiled to himself. It would be nice to see her again.

  Not that he’d been bored or lonely. He was still the new guy to many of the folks on this ship, and none of them had any misconceptions about marriage or white picket fences. But there was nobody aboard the ship that could discuss Kierkegaard or Schumpeter. And certainly not while roaring drunk.

  Well, maybe Sokolov, but who wanted to get drunk with their dad?

  No, it would be nice to see her again.

  On the console, a single bright green light, with a helpful ping, interrupted his train of thought before it really got going.

  “Aritza?” the captain asked carefully.

  “You remember the range you considered safe? Sure we wouldn’t trigger any mines?” Javier replied.

  Sokolov nodded. “Was that it?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” Javier smiled innocently. “I’m eighteen percent more paranoid than you are. But we’re clear.”

  Sokolov’s glowering scowl was almost worth getting out of bed this morning, all by itself. That man was one of the few people Javier had ever met who could pull it off.

  “Engines ahead three quarters,” Sokolov growled. “Kibwe, keep Teague updated with our ETA.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Javier smiled. It would be nice to see her again.

  Even if she was coming with bad news.

  Ξ

  There were days when Zakhar regretted not having sold Javier to an agricultural colony somewhere. Sure, they’d all be dead right now without him, but that man seemed to know exactly how to annoy people. He was like a sliver under the skin. Not painful, but something you could not ignore.

  Still, today was the day to play nice. He needed the goofball even more than usual now, and was going to have to ask for the sort of favor that would forever change their relationship. Even Javier would figure that out soon enough.

  After all, the man was an excellent poker player. Almost as good as his captain.

  Zakhar wondered where they might have ended up if they could have been friends, instead of…whatever they were. Slavery was technically illegal on most worlds. And Javier wasn’t exactly a slave. Close, but not exactly.

  Technically correct was always the best kind.

  Debt bondage was perfectly legal. A handful of years and Javier’s debt should be paid off. If they managed to loot A’Nacia’s orbital graveyard properly, he might even cut that to less than one.

  Zakhar considered what this would cost him personally. The two men were both Academy graduates from Bryce. Officers. Gentlemen. Anywhere else, they would be friends. Brothers in arms.

  But Javier still occasionally got that look in his eyes, when he thought nobody was looking. The one that said he was visualizing most of the crew hanging from yardarms in a public square.

  Perhaps not all of them. Just Zakhar and Sykora and a few others.

  Today was not that day. Javier had a smile on his face, almost a goofy one. Presumably, the thought of Djamila Sykora being held prisoner and threatened with execution had cheered him up.

  Zakhar sighed internally, where nobody could hear it, and considered the bait he was about to dangle in front of that man.

  Even Javier would listen.

  Ξ

  She hadn’t changed.

  Well, she had, but it had been to apparently spend a lot of time hitting the workout machines and doing pushups and sit–ups in the morning. Javier supposed that her time with Sykora might not have been a total waste after all. THAT woman was all about running for three hours in full pack before breakfast, just to wake up in the morning.

  Javier was practically allergic to that level of effort. Pushing his luck was usually enough exercise. He could hit the machines and the treadmill a couple times a week and be fine.

  Wilhelmina looked good. No, freaking fantastic.

  This meeting could have been done on Storm Gauntlet. She had a conference room the right size and purpose for this sort of thing. But instead, he and Sokolov had waited for the two ships to get close enough to dock, and then crossed over to the little vessel to meet.

  Just the three of them.

  Normally, Javier would have been iffy about this sort of thing, but Wilhelmina had been living aboard this vessel for several days, and had a nice perfume that had worked itself into every bit of fabric visible, from the pilot’s chair at one end of the room to the comfy sofa he had settled into.

  Javier looked around him with a critical eye. He had lived in efficiency apa
rtments larger than the interior of this ship. Rectangle–shaped when looking down from above, chopped at angles at belly–button level, to slope in to a roughly–pointed nose and stern, like a long, blunted diamond laying on its side. Two engine pods sticking out the back, with a jump–drive tucked between them, right behind and above the primary power unit.

  Inside, a single room. Pilot station at the bow with a single chair. Sofa on one side wall, kitchenette on the other. Fold–down table and bench for eating. Storage closet on the starboard aft, head on the port aft, not far from the airlock entrance. Everything a muted seaweed green tone.

  That’s why it smells so nice. She sleeps on the sofa.

  Javier smiled to himself, stretched out, and crossed his legs at the ankles.

  Wilhelmina had greeted them both with a hug and a peck on the cheek before retreating to the pilot’s chair. Sokolov ended up pulling the kitchenette bench down and perching on it rather than sitting too comfy next to Javier.

  The three of them made up corners of an unhappy triangle.

  “So where did she screw up?” Javier asked, to open the conversation.

  He was an expert screw–up, but he also treated it professionally going in. Little miss Amazon war–babe was too spit and polish to pull off the sorts of risks he took for granted.

  Wilhelmina was apparently thinking the same thoughts. She had pressed her lips together to suppress a smile.

  “Perhaps a failure of paranoia,” she replied.

  Javier blinked. He blinked again.

  Was that even possible with Sykora?

  He thought about it some more. Reconsidered everything he knew about the dragoon, aware that the other two people were now staring at him.

  Nope.

  “Did you even make it to Meehu?” he asked finally.

  Wilhelmina’s shoulders came down. Javier only now realized how tense she had been, seated over there, when it bled out of her.

  What was making her nervous? Him? Really? Weird.

  “We did,” she began after a brief pause, apparently to order her notes in her head. “Sykora had made some contacts with local fences to find a buyer for my old ship. The four of us: myself, Djamila, Piet, and Afia, had just finished dinner and were headed back to our hotel when we were ambushed. Djamila was stunned unconscious while the rest of us were captured.”