“We are taking fire!” Taren’s voice cracked over the flight cabin’s speakers. “I repeat, we are taking fire! Any craft, please assist!” March risked a look at the tactical display, saw one of the Owls loosing a spread of missiles at the Shovel. The Shovel’s point defense lasers opened up even as the heavy ship went into evasive maneuvers, though it was like watching a pig attempting to dance. The lasers shot down most of the missiles, and a cloud of flak destroyed two more, but one slammed into the Shovel’s drive section and exploded. The impact collapsed the Shovel’s kinetic shield, and the shrapnel from the missile ripped into the freighter’s hull. The entire ship seemed to jerk as if it had been struck by a hammer, and Taren’s voice abruptly cut off.
March cursed, looked at the tactical display, saw the incoming contacts from Rustbelt Station, and decided to take a gamble. He sent the Tiger hurtling toward the Owl attacking the Shovel, configuring the point defense lasers to intercept any missiles launched towards Taren’s ship.
He did it just in time, too. The Owl released a torpedo, and March’s lasers sliced across it, burning off its maneuvering jets and sending it tumbling away. The starfighter started to turn, but Vigil had already calculated a firing solution for the railgun. The weapon spat its deadly tungsten rod, and the Owl blew apart in a spray of debris.
Unfortunately, that gave the remaining two Owls a chance to open fire. March sent the Tiger into a wild evasive spin, the laser turrets seeking incoming missiles as he dumped flak behind him. The lasers and the flak dealt with the missiles the Owls sent at him, but the starfighters began firing their forward-facing plasma cannons. A volley of bolts slammed into the Tiger, rocking the ship, and the radiation shield lost eighty percent of its strength in a second. Another volley like that and the plasma bolts would burn through the hull armor and into the ship.
Fortunately, before the starfighters could adjust their vector for another volley, the three MIRVs that Heitz had fired from Rustbelt Station came into range. Each MIRV split apart, the boosters spitting out a dozen missiles, and a swarm of thirty-six missiles shot towards the remaining two Owls and the troopships.
The Owls tried to evade, but they were overwhelmed. Volleys of missiles slammed into each starfighter and ripped them to slag. The shuttles scattered, breaking off their approach to the Shovel. One of the shuttles disintegrated in a spray of wreckage. The second entered hyperspace about two seconds before the missile swarm would have hit. The shuttle’s dark matter reactor had been primed, which meant that the Graywolves had been ready for a quick escape once they had boarded Taren’s ship.
But why board Taren’s ship? Six starfighters, their pilots, two shuttles, and their assault troops had been a lot of resources. Dr. Taren might have been a popular historian, but no matter how influential she was, March could not see the Machinists and their Graywolves lackeys taking that much trouble just to capture a historian.
Of course, depending on where that missile had hit, they might have just killed Adelaide Taren.
“Shovel,” said March. “This is the Tiger. Do you read?” He heard static. “Shovel, do you read?”
“We’re here,” said Taren, her voice a little thick. March heard someone coughing in the background.
“What’s your status?” said March.
“No injuries, I think,” said Taren. “Thank God for that. Ah…we took a missile to the engine section.” She was silent for an instant, and then March heard her hiss of breath. “We lost half our fusion drive, and…our dark matter reactor’s off-line. We can’t go to hyperspace.”
“I think you had better dock with the station for repairs,” said March. “A moment, please. I’ll speak with the station administrator.”
He switched channels, and Heitz’s face appeared on one of the displays. The administrator looked quite smug.
“Those were some well-timed MIRV shots, weren’t they?” said Heitz with obvious satisfaction. “Between you and my missiles, those damned Graywolves didn’t know what hit them.”
“Thank you for the timely missiles,” said March. “Do you have any idea why those Ronstadt gunships turned and ran?”
Heitz’s smile turned to a scowl. “Damned if I know. But they were ordered to do it.”
“Ordered?” said March.
“Yeah,” said Heitz. “Transmission came from the local Ronstadt branch office right before they turned and jumped out. Encrypted, so I have no idea what it said, but Veldt himself must have sent it.”
“They were waiting for it,” said March. “They must have been cycling their dark matter reactors as soon as they arrived. Else they wouldn’t have been ready to jump out so quickly again.”
“Nope,” said Heitz. “Looks like those Ronstadt assholes are untrustworthy.” He smirked. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to lean on them. Looks like I might have a chance.”
“You’re welcome,” said March. “The Shovel’s going to need a docking bay. Someplace secure. I’ll need one right next to it.” The sooner he could speak to Taren in person, the better. Ronstadt Corporation controlled the security on Rustbelt Station, and if they had been subverted by the Machinists, Taren and her people were in danger so long as they remained in the system.
“Fine, fine,” said Heitz. He glanced off-camera for a moment, entering some commands. “All right. You’ve got Bay 86…and she’s got Bay 57. They’re in the same docking complex, and 86 is the biggest one that will accommodate a ship of your size and 57 the smallest one that will handle Taren’s freighter.”
“Good,” said March. He hesitated. He didn’t like Heitz much, but the man had come through for him, and there was no reason to make an enemy. “Thanks for the MIRVs. Might have been a problem if you hadn’t fired them.”
Heitz scoffed. “You’re a damned headache…but I suppose you’d have been an even bigger headache if you had gotten blown up.”
“I hope so,” said March, and he switched back to his link with the Shovel. “Dr. Taren?”
“Captain March,” came Taren’s voice, cool and calm again. “Status, please.”
“I’ve got you a landing bay on the station, Bay 57,” said March. “Station control should be sending you docking information now.”
“You’re very well connected, Captain,” said Taren. “Also blessed with remarkable timing, given the circumstances.”
March smiled, approving of her suspicion. “Yes. I suggest we speak in person as soon as possible. I have some information you will need to hear.”
There was a brief pause. “Very well. Looks like you’ll be landing right next to us. I expect it’s going to be an interesting conversation.”
March looked at the tactical data, the Tiger’s sensors noting the damage to the Shovel’s drive. The Shovel had come through the fight intact, but if March had arrived at NB8876X even an hour later, it would have been too late.
And knowing the Machinists, they had another plot or three up their sleeves.
“Yes,” said March. “It will be.”
Chapter 4: The Archaeologist
With one final adjustment to the ion thrusters, the Tiger settled into its docking bay.
The bay was simple, a rocky pit carved into the asteroid’s face, just large enough to accommodate the Tiger and its cargo ramp. March grimaced as he set down the Tiger and powered off the fusion drive, configuring the ship to start going through its post-flight checks and procedures. The close confines of the bay would make it tricky to take off, and it would also make it difficult if not impossible for March to use the ship’s laser turrets if any intruders approached. He wondered if Heitz intended to betray him, but if Heitz wanted him dead, he could have just targeted one of those MIRVs at the Tiger and later claimed it had been an unfortunate accident in the chaos of battle. March had asked for a spot close to the Shovel, and Heitz had given him one.
“Vigil,” said March, climbing out of the pilot’s acceleration chair. “Start the post-flight checks, and when I leave, put the ship on lockdown. If anyone approaches
or enters our docking bay for any reason, let me know immediately.”
“Acknowledged, Captain March,” said Vigil.
“Thank you,” said March. He checked his gun belt and his leather coat, its interior lined with a nanofiber mesh to turn aside knife blades and small-caliber bullets. He tucked knives into the hidden sheaths in the coat’s sleeves, then jogged to the cargo bay airlock and left the ship. The sooner he found Dr. Taren and talked to her, the better.
The treachery of the Ronstadt Security gunships alarmed March. The betrayal could have been worse. The gunships could have blasted the Shovel to molten dust. But for the gunships to leave meant that someone with authority in Ronstadt had given the order, and that meant there were either Graywolves or Machinist sympathizers in Ronstadt’s corporate hierarchy. Given Ronstadt’s poor reputation, March would not have been at all surprised to learn that Machinist sympathizers infested the Corporation.
On Rustbelt Station, that could be lethal for Adelaide Taren.
He waited for the bay’s airlock to cycle open, and then he hurried into the corridor. The corridor in the docking complex looked a great deal like the rest of the corridors on Rustbelt Station, the floor smooth and polished, the walls rough-hewn and cut from the rock of the asteroid. Racks on the walls held bundles of cables and pipes, and lights in hung in metal cages from the ceiling. Cargo drones rolled back and forth, carrying crates and canisters, and cargo handlers in red jumpsuits jogged past.
March broke into a run, weaving around cargo drones and ignoring the irritated glares from cargo handlers. The Shovel had put down in Bay 57, and if the Machinists really wanted Taren dead, it would be the easiest thing in the world to walk up and shoot her in the head. Especially if they had suborned someone within Ronstadt Corporation.
It was a half-kilometer to Bay 57, and March took it at a run.
He skidded around a corner and saw the airlock doors leading to Bay 57. A crowd of about twenty people stood near the doors. Half of them wore the jumpsuits of starship crewers. The other half wore the black jumpsuits of Ronstadt Private Security Corporation personnel, complete with the red logo of crossed laser pistols on the upper arms. A gaunt-faced middle-aged man in the slightly more ornate jumpsuit of a Ronstadt supervisor stood in front of his men, his face growing red with anger.
Dr. Adelaide Taren stood facing him, hands on her hips, her expression cold with controlled anger.
Her thick black hair had been pulled back in a utilitarian tail, and over her jumpsuit, she wore a knee-length coat of brown leather and a gun belt holding a plasma pistol. Her eyes were like chips of gray ice, harsh with rage.
March was struck by how vital she seemed, how every line of her stance seemed to radiate anger held in check through sheer will. She had looked pretty in her pictures and videos, but enough makeup and camera trickery could make anyone pleasing to the eye on a screen.
March had expected to dislike her.
He had not expected to find her attractive.
That could be a problem, but he shoved the thought aside as he hurried towards them.
Taren’s voice came to his ears as he approached. “This is unacceptable, Supervisor Veldt. The university’s contract with the Corporation clearly stipulated that those gunships would escort us until we returned to Calaskar. It did not stipulate that they would turn and run at the first sign of trouble.”
Her voice was calm and smooth, but March was still amazed by how much scorn she fit into the words.
“Our gunships were entirely within their rights,” said Veldt. “They received an authorized command signal telling them to return to hyperspace. If you will look at Paragraph 97, Section C, Subheading 65 of our contract, it specifies that any Ronstadt Private Security Corporation vessel or agent will return to base if it receives an authenticated command signal…”
“So,” said Taren, “why did someone decide to send an authenticated command signal just when that pocket carrier showed up? You decided to take the money and run, is that it?”
Veldt drew himself up and glowered down at her. Taren looked singularly unimpressed. “We acted entirely within our corporate guidelines and the stipulations of our contract…”
By then someone saw March running towards them.
“Just who the hell are you?” said one of the men standing next to Taren. He was in his late twenties, an overweight man with a thick goatee that failed to conceal his double chin. He had been glaring at Veldt and his men, but now he was glaring at March.
Taren and Veldt broke off their argument and looked at March. Taren only looked surprised. Veldt’s eyes narrowed in recognition for just a moment. March had never seen the man before, but he suspected that Veldt recognized him.
“My name’s Jack March,” said March. “I am the captain and proprietor of the Tiger.”
Taren blinked a few times. “The privateer that shot down those Owls.”
“That’s right,” said March.
She stared at him for a moment, and then a slow smile went over her face. “Then I am very glad to meet you, Captain March. I’m Adelaide Taren.”
He had expected her to introduce herself as Dr. Adelaide Taren.
She extended her hand, and March shook it. She had a strong grip, with light calluses on her fingers from lifting weights.
“You’re the privateer who fired weapons in restricted space around Rustbelt Station?” said Veldt, glowering at March.
“Yup,” said March, meeting Veldt’s gaze as he released Taren’s hand.
Veldt looked away first and then scowled. “Casual weapons fire is forbidden…”
“Casual?” said Taren. “Pirates tried to seize my ship, and your men abandoned us. I’ll take casual gunplay over that any day.”
“But…” started Veldt.
“You can piss off now,” said Taren, not looking at Veldt, her eyes on March. “We’re done, Mr. Veldt. I doubt you’ll cough up a refund, but don’t bother me with your nonsense again. I look forward to filing a fraud report once I get to Calaskar.”
Veldt sputtered something, glared at his men, and stalked away. The rest of the Ronstadt men followed him.
“I don’t think,” said Taren, “that I should have hired them.”
“No,” said March.
“Why are you talking to this privateer?” said the bearded man. “He likely set up the entire ambush himself. Now he’ll ask for money or…other favors.”
“That is a good point, Professor Orson,” said Taren, glancing at the bearded man. “He might ask for money or inappropriate favors. But I actually think he’s here to give me a message.”
Orson’s scowl deepened. “A message?”
“Let’s talk, Captain March,” said Taren. She looked at the others. “Wait here for a bit. We’ll just be right down the corridor.”
“But,” said Orson, glaring daggers at March. “This is a…”
“We’ll just be a minute,” said Taren. “And we’ll be in full sight the entire time.” She smiled. “If Captain March does anything untoward, you can shoot him in the head.”
Orson scowled but fell silent. He seemed to have taken a strong dislike to March for some reason. Odd, given that March had likely just saved his life from the Graywolves. But March knew full well that frightened people often lashed out in irrational ways.
Taren walked twenty meters further down the corridor, March at her side. At last, she stopped, looked around, and nodded.
“All right,” she said. “I assume you have a message for me. Or else I’m the biggest idiot in the Kingdom of Calaskar.”
“The message,” said March. “The bomb was located in the drive shaft.”
Taren’s eyes went flat, her expression distant.
“Yes,” she muttered. “Of course he would pick that.”
March waited.
“The counterphrase,” said Taren. She sighed. “The surgery was never forgotten.”
March nodded. “That’s right.”
“So,” said Taren. “I
assume our censorious mutual friend sent you.”
“Yes,” said March. “While you were on Xenostas he learned of a plot against your life.”
“I’ve irritated a few people over the years,” said Taren. “I’m afraid I have something of a gift for it.”
“I was the nearest operative at hand, and I was dispatched to prevent the attempt,” said March.
“Looks like you succeeded,” said Taren. She took a deep breath, pulling her emotions under control. “Captain March, thank you. We would have been dead, all of us, everyone on the video production team and my graduate students. I’ve had a few attempts on my life over the years, but I’ve never had anyone come at me with heavy starfighters and a pocket carrier.”
“I don’t think it was an assassination attempt,” said March. “I think they wanted to board your ship and take you alive.”
Her reaction surprised him. He would have expected fear or alarm, but Taren only looked confused. “Why? The Machinists don’t operate that way. I know they want me dead, but when they want someone dead, they don’t play games. And I don’t know anything valuable enough to bother with an interrogation. For God’s sake, I make documentaries about dead alien civilizations. I’m not influential enough to capture and ransom.”
Or so she thought. Perhaps she knew something that was more valuable than she believed. Or maybe she had access to something that the Machinists needed, something valuable enough that they were willing to use one of their Wraith devices on her.
“I don’t know,” said March. “I think you should come with me for the next few hours.”
Taren raised her eyebrows. “To do what, exactly?”
“I want to check in with the local head of our mutual organization,” said March. “He’s very well connected, and he might have a better idea of what is going on than we do. Was the Shovel’s hyperdrive damaged?”
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