by Blaze Ward
At least three ships, somewhere, hiding in the darkness.
Plus Sokolov’s communications satellite, happily circling in a sloppy, stupid orbit that just screamed amateurness on the part of the man commanding over there, that he would run it at a weird, oblong angle, instead of clean on the corners. Zero or ninety.
It smacked of desperation.
Zakhar Sokolov had been a good officer once. He had a reputation as a professional.
This did not look like the work of a pro.
Or was she supposed to be lured in by the setup?
Wheels within wheels? Traps within traps?
“Captain,” the sensors tech called. “Picking something up from the planet.”
She waited.
Ajax was a warship, not a scout. Her sensors were good for hunting, not science.
“Transponder signal, sir,” he continued. “The shuttle from Calypso has taken off and is climbing to orbit.”
“How fast?” Turner asked, forcing the words past a suddenly-dry throat.
The game was afoot.
“Ten thousand meters elevation now. No hurry on his part,” the reply came. “Within normal tolerances for an administrative shuttle like that. Low-Orbit-Insertion will be achieved in about two hours.”
“Pilot,” Turner called, sounding more and more like a pirate captain as she got her rhythm back. “Plot me a spot in orbit that is the third point of a triangle with that satellite and where we think Calypso’s shuttle will be when it arrives.”
The woman nodded.
Something still stank to high heaven, but Turner couldn’t put her finger on it. Still, there was time. Nothing would happen until Navarre was here.
And the bounty for taking him alive was worth the extra effort involved. Otherwise, she could have just uncloaked and splattered the little shuttle like an annoying fly before Sokolov could stop her.
“I’ll be in my office,” Turner announced as she rose from her station. “Let me know as soon as something happens. If Storm Gauntlet appears, hit it with everything you have immediately. Ion pulsars if you can, pulse cannons if you have to.”
A chorus of assents followed her to the little day office where she could have some tea and study the situation more closely.
What the hell were those two men up to?
Part Four
“Stop laughing, Mary-Elizabeth,” Zakhar said as the comm went dead. “It’s not funny.”
“Oh, but it is,” she managed between giggles. “The science officer and the dragoon in some romantic fairy tale. But would anybody buy that hornswaggle?”
“Nobody outside this crew knows the truth, Gunner,” Zakhar replied in a sharp voice. “They don’t know how far from reality that line was.”
“Now I want to get them both drunk,” Mary-Elizabeth said. “Totally passed out, blitzed. Strip them naked. Leave them together in somebody’s bed to wake up the next morning.”
“You will be personally responsible for cleaning up all the blood, if that happens,” Zakhar said in a quieter voice.
Mary-Elizabeth gulped audibly. And sobered remarkably fast.
“Oh,” she said. “Right. That would be a bad idea, wouldn’t it?”
“Whoever woke first would kill the other one, I’m pretty sure,” Zakhar replied. “I’d rather we avoided that outcome, thank you.”
“Sorry, sir,” she said, chagrined. “Won’t happen again.”
“Just not where either of them will hear it, okay?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Zakhar nodded. Point made. He had a good crew.
They could talk about practical jokes, but it had to remain only talk. The last thing he needed was for the personal war between Djamila and Javier to spill over and divide the crew into hostile camps.
And it would. Quickly.
He might as well hang it all up and go back to his birth name if that happened. Because Zakhar Sokolov would be done as a pirate captain if he lost his crew to an unnecessary civil war.
“Piet, Gibney,” Zakhar said, turning his attention to them. “What do we know?”
The science yeoman tech looked up and shrugged, while Piet turned and grinned.
“I’ll assume that everything we heard was a performance for whoever else is out there,” Piet said quietly. “Designed to communicate to us while confusing them.”
“Agreed,” Zakhar said. “The chances of them actually being on that shuttle are practically zero. So what do Javier and Del do, while everyone is looking the wrong way?”
“Well, you’ve already mucked everything up with a bad orbit, sir,” the big Dutchman said suddenly. “Javier would send the shuttle up all pleasant and stuff, louder than hell on all sensor channels, while Del will fly like Del. And everybody always flies counter-clockwise from polar north because they do.”
“Where’s that leave us?” Zakhar said, watching a dangerous fire catch hold in Piet’s eyes.
That man was frequently so quiet, people forgot he actually talked. Emotional engagement right now might not be a bad thing.
Piet held his two index fingers up in a V shape, and then moved them outwards from that central point.
“Javier will have a laser beam on the shuttle, so he can relay comm traffic, just like we’re doing,” Piet said as his voice swelled. “Assume the bad guys’re going to jump the shuttle, I’d be trailing it to orbit by as much as I could and still keep it above the horizon. Maybe send it east-north-east to an equatorial orbit while I climbed to sky straight south and then let the planet snap me around southeast.”
“Sounds ugly,” Zakhar replied.
“I would fail anybody on a piloting certification exam who even suggested it,” Piet said. “Since we’re pushing the envelope on stupid today, I figure why settle for half measures?”
Zakhar nodded.
Being around Javier Aritza had made them all crazy, but in a good way.
Maybe.
“Gibney and Suzuki,” Zakhar turned the other direction so he could look at both his gunner and his science officer stand-in. “Start with that and give me all the passive scans you can. We’ve got way better sensors than Ajax does over there, so we ought to be able to find Del before they do. And prepare to slot out that torpedo, once we know where we’ll be headed.”
Gibney nodded and went back to his screens. Mary-Elizabeth opened a comm and confirmed that the engineering and damage control folks had already pulled a torpedo from the launch tube and had it ready on the flight deck.
It was going to get ugly, shortly.
Part Five
Javier didn’t figure it would do any good, but at least Sykora was down in the gun turret while he rode to orbit in a jumpseat out of Del’s way, up on the furry, pink bridge.
The guns on the Assault Shuttle were for clearing a hostile landing zone if you came down on top of infantry or armor. Whatever awaited them in orbit was going to be so much bigger that they might not even notice Sykora hitting them with her beams.
It would probably be akin to trying to tickle a whale to death.
Still, it kept her out of his hair, at a time when he was playing Go on a three-dimensional board. And Suvi was down on the cargo level, keeping an eye on the pirate prisoners.
No, it was just him and Del for this ride.
Javier checked the little computer screen that his station came with. Del was used to handling everything himself, so the bridge was automated to the level that one person had everything at their fingertips.
This station was probably originally for training. One touch-screen barely bigger than a dinner plate, and a keyboard for input. Pink fur on the walls up to eye level and glittery, metallic-pink paint above that.
Weird. Good enough.
Javier checked the little green light that told him there was still a low-power laser locked onto Calypso’s shuttle. Enough to issue the autopilot additional commands, and to feed it a radio signal it would broadcast, as if he was flying the rickety, old boat.
He grabbed the microph
one and held it like an ice cream cone.
“Storm Gauntlet, this is Navarre,” he said carefully, sticking to the script in his head. “You cowards haven’t fled the system yet, have you?”
“Negative, Captain Navarre,” a voice came back a few moments later. “Waiting for you in orbit.”
It was a deep, rich baritone. Radio voice. The kind of soothing warmth that got you through lonely, boring nights on a long drive in the desert. Kibwe, Sokolov’s assistant.
Made sense. Storm Gauntlet sounded much bigger when you might have any of a half-dozen people talking on the comm. Big crew. Maybe the bad guys would think twice about how small the little corvette really was.
Granted, more heavily-crewed than a comparable-sized freighter, by an order of magnitude at least, but the other guy had to be impressive enough that Sokolov was hiding, and forcing him to play these games.
Javier took another deep breath and considered how he had gotten here.
He might finally be getting angry. It had taken years. He had spent a lot of time getting past the rage of his youth, the anger that blew up his naval career and two marriages, the bitterness that finally drove him into the galactic darkness.
They hadn’t killed Suvi, but they had killed her ship. Made her a shadow of her former self.
That alone had made him mad. Making him a slave had lit a slow fire.
Being hunted by other pirates was enough.
Finally, enough.
People were going to die for this.
The microphone was still in his hand.
“What odds are the bookies offering right now?” he asked.
It didn’t make any sense. It didn’t have to.
The point was to confuse whoever else was listening. Make them stop, blink, wonder.
“Stand by,” Kibwe replied.
Every second he could maintain this bizarre façade was that much closer to escaping. To getting to a place where he could sneak up on those bastards with a shiv and a maul.
They had it coming.
Fortunately, Slavkov hadn’t managed to hire competent ninjas.
This time.
Next time, the man probably wouldn’t be interested in taking him alive. Or hauling his sorry butt back to the Land Leviathan so the evil villain could monologue all over the place, chewing scenery and crap.
No, they would probably send a sniper with a big rifle. Or a warship with big-enough guns to do the job in one go.
Smash and grab types.
Javier could have told them that sending a beautiful woman assassin to infiltrate Sokolov’s crew and seduce him was probably more likely to be successful. No ulterior motives there, either.
None.
God’s Truth.
He grinned and waited. He could play their game, as well.
“Seven to four, Sokolov,” Kibwe finally replied.
Huh.
If this were a real duel, he would have expected nine to five on Navarre. Even with Sokolov having home field advantage.
“You’ll regret that,” Navarre said coldly.
“I’m just holding the vig, sir,” Kibwe replied evenly.
Javier nearly burst out laughing.
It did make a kind of twisted sense. Kibwe Bousaid was probably even more scrupulous than Storm Gauntlet’s purser was, which was saying something. Just the person to hold all the betting cash and take his cut afterwards.
“Understood,” Navarre said. “We’ll be to our orbital insertion in twenty-seven minutes. Looking forward to docking with you then and proving you all desperately wrong.”
“Acknowledged, Shuttle One,” the man said, cutting the signal from his end.
Del glanced over his shoulder with a placid look, like a cow with just the right flavor of cud.
“What are you up to, Javier?” he said.
“Getting us out of here alive,” Javier replied dryly.
“All of us?” Del asked.
Javier looked closer, but the man was giving nothing away for free today.
Still, the implications were obvious.
“Yes, her too,” Javier nodded heavily. “It can wait until tomorrow, she and I.”
“How about all tomorrows?” Del asked, turning his whole torso around to look Javier square.
All tomorrows?
“I didn’t start it, Del,” Javier said. “You people did when you captured my ship, cut her into pieces, and turned me into a slave. I’m close to buying my freedom and leaving you all in my rear-view mirror.”
“I’m pretty sure turning you into an officer was a worse fate,” the pilot observed with a ghost of a grin. “Where do you go when you’re done?”
“Back to civilization,” Javier growled. “You don’t want to go down with them, I suggest you retire. I’m bringing the Concord Fleet back with me.”
“We’re well outside Concord space, Mister Science Officer,” Del shot back. “They won’t care.”
“So I should just kiss you on both cheeks and cheerfully walk away, Del?”
Javier let the grumpiness surface.
Jackass down on the planet with his stun pistol, shooting him to say hello. More jackasses in orbit, waiting to jump them.
Sykora being Sykora.
And now Del Smith getting on his last remaining nerve.
“You have only seen us in the last couple of years,” Del said. “It used to be much worse.”
“Worse,” Javier echoed him in a neutral prompt.
“Storm Gauntlet is an expensive hobby, Aritza,” Del agreed. “Old and tired, like me. Costs a lot to keep her flying. Sokolov used to do some very bad things, but he did them to keep the crew fed. To give people a home when they had lost everything.”
“Why do I care, Del?” Javier growled. “Piracy is piracy.”
“Agreed,” Del nodded. “But since you came along, we’ve done a lot more transport jobs, a lot more salvage like A’Nacia, and a lot more petty theft. I think you were the last person we took prisoner under a debt contract.”
Javier let the silence stretch while he thought.
Yeah, they had stopped capturing ships and selling crews to mining or agricultural colonies. Or had, until they took this mission.
It was one of the reasons he had been so grumpy about this job.
Reverting to type?
What would have happened, had they just captured Dr. Mornan and Dr. St. Kitts without the quadruple cross?
Another private conversation to have with Sokolov, once they all got out of here safe.
“So?” Javier prompted.
“So Djamila Sykora is turning human on us,” Del said. “And Captain Sokolov is acting more like an armed merchant and less like a pirate. I’m pretty sure this is all your fault.”
Javier shared a quick grin with Del.
“Let bygones be bygones?” Javier asked. “Are you really that stupid, Del?”
“No, I am not, Javier,” the pilot replied. “But I’ve seen a hell of a lot more of this galaxy and its inhabitants than you have. It could have been much worse for you. Trust me on that one. I used to be on the other side of the law, back about the time you were busy being born. Besides, I was going somewhere with this conversation.”
“I’m just glad that you fly better than you talk, Del,” Javier smirked at him.
“Very funny, Javier,” Del said. “What happens when you get away from us?”
“I get my life back,” Javier growled in a tone more suited to Navarre.
“Sure,” Del agreed. “Right up until someone recognizes you, or maybe Captain Navarre. I recognized some of those men you captured. They belong to an outfit called Walvisbaai Industrial. Bad folks. You, yourself said that they were coming after you specifically, as is that nimrod with the desert snake tank resort. Gonna be ninjas or something, one of these days.”
“Trust me, I’m already planning that asshole’s death,” Javier said.
“Javier, he’s a law-abiding citizen on whatever planet he’s living on,” Del observed. “T
hey all are. Concord law doesn’t come out this far. That leaves money and power. You don’t have enough of either to take on a multi-system conglomerate by yourself.”
“So I’ll need you people?” Javier sneered.
Now he really was getting angry. Mostly at himself.
Because Del was right.
Javier might have to go clear to the far side of the Concord itself if he really wanted to be safe. Take up another assumed identity. Maybe become a dentist or something.
“Maybe,” Del said simply. “You’ll need something. And Djamila Sykora is the most dangerous person I know, you included.”
Yes.
The Ballerina of Death.
High Priestess of her own, personal death cult.
The woman with the great ass and the perfect tan.
He didn’t have to kill her today.
Or tomorrow.
What about all possible tomorrows?
Would he need that killing machine around to keep him safe for the rest of his life?
That might really be the fate worse than death.
Javier fixed Del with a sour look.
“I know, Del,” Javier replied. “Trust me, I know.”
Book Sixteen: Sunrise
Part One
Orbits took roughly one hundred minutes at this elevation from the surface of Svalbard. Zakhar had been unconsciously counting them as sunrises in his head as he waited for the other guy to make a mistake.
Well, not counting. Making hash marks on a prison cell wall in his imagination, maybe.
The wall was almost full. This sunrise was probably the last one, too. At least here.
All hell was going to break loose, very shortly.
He took a moment to watch Svalbard’s star rise on the screen as they chased it around the planet’s shadow.
It might also be his last sunrise ever.
“Science station,” Zakhar growled. “Report.”
“Is Javier crazier than Del?” Gibney replied quietly.
“About anything other than flying?” Zakhar said. “Absolutely. What do you have?”
“Starting with Piet’s assumption about an orbital path, I looked south, sir,” Gibney began. “The shuttle is making a bigger racket than I would expect, so I presume flashing lights and dancing girls to distract people.”
