“Well, well,” said Bishop with a wide white smile. “Jack March, bringing trouble to Rustbelt Station once again.” He strode across the dining room, extending his left hand. It was a gesture of trust since Bishop knew exactly what was under the glove of March’s left hand. March took his hand and shook it. “I saw the little firework display on the station sensors. Then I recognized the Tiger, and I thought you might be turning up here sooner rather than later.”
“It’s good to see you, Constantine,” said March. He released Bishop’s hand. “Did you receive any word from our employer?”
“I fear not,” said Bishop. “You have outpaced the news.” He offered his brightest smile to Taren. “Though, as usual, I see you have brought a lovely woman to my humble hovel of an establishment.”
Taren grinned. “As usual? Then Captain March really does have a girl in every port?”
“For God’s sake,” said March.
Bishop laughed at that. “If he does, I will die of shock.” He bowed over Taren’s hand and planted a brief kiss upon her knuckles, and she looked amused at the courtly gesture. “I am Constantine Bishop, and I am most pleased to meet you.”
“Adelaide Taren,” said Taren. “I would kiss your hand, but that would just look strange.”
Bishop laughed again. “Truly it would. But there are all manner of strange sights at Rustbelt Station. Such as Ronstadt mercenaries turning tail and running from a fight with pirates.”
“Not pirates,” said March. “Graywolves.”
“I see,” said Bishop. “I suggest we should talk amongst ourselves in private.”
“Agreed,” said March. “Your office?”
“Yes.” Bishop turned to Anne, who while out of earshot had nonetheless been watching the conversation with interest. “Take charge here, my dear. If anything comes up, I’ll be in my office.”
“Will do, chief,” said Anne.
They walked behind the bar, and Bishop stopped for a moment.
“Make sure you have your gun ready,” said Bishop to Anne in a low voice. “There are odd things happening here, and I don’t like them.”
Anne nodded, her face hardening. Then a customer approached the bar, and her friendly smile returned.
March and Taren followed Bishop through the door behind the bar and into a storeroom stacked with cases of beer and prepackaged meals. That reminded March of the Tiger’s cargo, forgotten in the chaos of the fight and its aftermath. As Bishop stopped before his office door, March fished out his phone and sent a command to Vigil, authorizing the pseudointelligence to arrange for priority unloading of the ship’s cargo. The fees for priority unloading would cut into the profits from the cargoes, but the sooner the ship was empty, the better. March realized he might need to leave with Taren and her people in a hurry.
Bishop opened the door and strode into a small office with a plastic desk, the wall lined with photographs of Bishop posing with various dignitaries. Bishop pulled out one of the chairs with a flourish, and Taren thanked him and sat down. March seated himself next to her, the cheap chair creaking a little under his weight.
“Charming as ever, Mr. Bishop,” said Taren.
Bishop smiled as he sat behind his desk. “It is easy to be charming when a proper lady comes into my establishment. Which, thanks to Captain March, happens more often than you might think.”
March let out an irritated breath. If Bishop decided to mention Roanna Vindex…
“We can charm each other,” said March, “once we’re sure no one is about to shoot us in the head or blow up the commercial concourse to get at Dr. Taren.”
Bishop’s smile faded. “Yes. Business must take priority.” He tapped some keys on his computer and rotated the screen to face them, and March saw a recording of the battle between the Tiger and the Owls. “That was quite a firefight. I recognized the Tiger, but I assume the Shovel is your ship, Dr. Taren?”
“That’s right,” said Taren. “And it would have been blasted to pieces if Captain March hadn’t come along when he did. Or we would have been boarded and taken captive.”
Bishop grimaced. “Which might have been a worse fate, to be blunt.”
“As you have probably guessed, Dr. Taren is a Beta Operative of the Silent Order,” said March. “Censor received word that the Machinists or their agents were planning an attempt on her life, and he dispatched me to stop it.” He gestured at the screen. “You see the rest.”
Bishop frowned. “Forgive me if I am overlooking the obvious…but that looks like a board-and-capture operation, not a simple assassination.”
“You see the problem,” said March.
Bishop nodded. “And the mess of interlocking problems that creates for us.”
He gazed at the ceiling for a moment, thinking.
“First problem,” said March, glancing at Taren. “Why did the Ronstadt gunships abandon the Shovel?”
“Simple answer?” said Bishop. “Veldt is a toad. Old Karlman got transferred away after that mess the last time you were here.” That had been a mess, though it had revealed the existence of the Wraith device to the Silent Order. “Veldt was the new supervisor. He showed up six months ago, and the quality of the local Ronstadt personnel has deteriorated dramatically in that time. Veldt is both extraordinarily corrupt and massively incompetent at the same time. I doubt he’s been suborned by the Machinists. Likely one of their agents arranged an anonymous payment for him, and he sent the signal that told your gunships to withdraw.”
“Typical Machinist vermin, then,” said Taren.
“They are a constant thorn in one’s side,” said Bishop. “If you will forgive the impertinence of the question, Dr. Taren…why would the Machinists wish to kidnap you? Assassinate you, that is understandable. They try to assassinate Silent Order operatives whenever the opportunity arises. But to kidnap you…why?”
Taren shrugged. “I’m an archaeologist. Xenoarchaeologist, to be specific. I can only assume someone has a grudge against me.”
“She’s also a public figure on Calaskar,” said March.
“Public figure?” said Bishop. He blinked. “An archaeologist? Are there really that many people interested in archaeology?”
Taren smiled. “Not that many. But everyone needs a hobby, and it’s more than you might think.”
Bishop grunted. “With all respect to you, Dr. Taren, I can’t imagine the Machinists mounting that much of an effort to capture you. They would kill you – they would kill all three of us – if it was convenient to do so. But a deep space smash-and-grab? The Machinists might do that for a Calaskaran noble or one of the Ministers. Someone prominent they could ransom or publicly execute or suborn,” his eyes flicked to March, no doubt remembering Thomas Vindex, “or otherwise use. I don’t think you would be useful enough for the enemy to expend so many resources attempting to kidnap you.”
Taren shrugged. “I agree. Nevertheless, it happened.”
“Yes,” said March. “My mission is to get Dr. Taren to safety. Our priority should be to get her off Rustbelt Station as soon as possible. If the Machinists are bribing Veldt, then Rustbelt Station and the entire NB8876X system is not safe.”
“Agreed,” said Bishop, “but it is not quite that bad. Veldt is a worm, but the Ronstadt rank and file loathe him. He hasn’t been able to put his loyalists into positions of authority on the station, and I have many friends in the local Ronstadt contingent.”
Taren smiled. “Bribed friends, you mean?”
“Or they owe me favors,” said Bishop. “Favors are often a more valuable currency than money or merchandise. But Captain March is likely right. Best to get you and your crew off Rustbelt Station and on your way as soon as possible. I doubt the local Machinists would have the resources to pull off many more elaborate ambushes like the one we just witnessed…and if they do, Captain March can escort your ship back to Calaskar. A heavily armed blockade runner can discourage all manner of trouble.”
“Agreed,” said March. “We should find out how
long it will take the Shovel to be repaired.”
“Yeah,” said Taren, digging her phone out of her jacket pocket. “Bauer ought to have finished with the diagnostics by now.” She unlocked the screen, scrolled through the notifications, and started to scowl.
“Bad news?” said Bishop.
“Yes,” said Taren. “The entire dark matter reactor has been destroyed, along with the dark energy resonator. One of the fusion drives failed,” her frown deepened, “and the reactor had to be shut down before it started leaking radiation. The Shovel’s drive systems are going to need a complete replacing and overhaul. God, that’s going to be expensive.” She rubbed her forehead. “At least no one got killed.”
“How many people do you have?” said Bishop.
“Twenty,” said Taren. “My film crew, which doubles as the ship’s crew, and my graduate students and a few other academics.”
“Graduate students?” said Bishop, astonished. “Graduate students are some of the most useless people in the universe. Why the hell would you bring graduate students on an expedition to an uncharted planet?”
Taren gave him a look over her phone’s screen.
“Not that it is any of my business, of course,” said Bishop.
“It’s a requirement of working for the Royal University of Calaskar,” said Taren. “Since I am a professor, I am obliged to occasionally teach. And I’ll be honest with you. The graduate students are more useful than the tenured faculty. They definitely work harder.” She shrugged. “And I wouldn’t have brought them if I thought the trip would be dangerous. Xenostas is way beyond Calaskaran space, but it’s not near any of the hostile powers, and nowhere near the Machinist worlds.” She sighed. “But I think we should focus on getting my ship repaired.”
“Agreed,” said March. He could take her and all twenty members of her expedition on the Tiger, but it would be tight, and it would put all their eggs in a single basket. He would prefer to escort the Shovel back with Taren on the Tiger.
“Rustbelt Station doesn’t have anything like the kind of facilities we need to do a complete overhaul of your ship’s drive systems,” said Bishop. “I do think the mechanics here can get at least the fusion drive and the hyperdrive systems repaired.” He hesitated. “It’s…not going to be cheap, I’m afraid.”
Taren sighed. “This far from civilization, I suppose that’s to be expected.”
“You’ll also need to find lodgings for your crew while the drive is repaired,” said March. “That much work would generate a dangerous level of radiation.” He disliked this more and more. The longer Taren stayed on Rustbelt Station, the greater the likelihood that a Machinist agent would capture or kill her.
“As it happens, I own a small hotel off the commercial concourse.” Bishop flashed a smile. “I would be more than happy to offer a reduced rate to a fellow member of the Silent Order?”
Taren laughed. “Say, two percent?”
“No, no, no,” said Bishop. “At least fifteen percent.” They both laughed. “Serving in the Silent Order is hardly a lucrative occupation, as I’m sure you’ve realized, so a man must look after his revenue.”
“It might be better if we loaded your crew onto the Tiger and left at once,” said March, his unease growing. Something had begun to scratch at the back of his mind, and he had been an Iron Hand and an Alpha Operative long enough to recognize that instinct as a sure warning of impending trouble.
A smash and grab. Had they wanted to grab Dr. Taren?
Or had they been after something else?
“How long do you think it would take to get the Shovel functional again?” said Taren.
“Four days,” said Bishop. “Maybe less, if you apply some liberal bribes.”
Taren looked back at March. “I think we would have a better chance of making it back to Calaskar with the crew and cargo split between two ships.”
“Yes,” said March.
“Oh, that reminds me,” said Taren. “Does your hotel have a secure vault? If there are going to be technicians swarming over my ship, my cargo is valuable enough that I don’t want to leave it unguarded.”
Smash and grab…
The scratching at the back of March’s mind got worse.
“Cargo?” he said.
“It’s not much,” said Taren. “Only about two hundred kilograms’ worth. Mostly some alien relics we found on Xenostas and want to bring back to Calaskar for proper analysis. Tablets and amulets, that sort of thing. Some of them are giving off a faint dark energy reading, and…”
Dark energy?
And then, all at once, in a single moment of horrible clarity, March understood.
“Shit,” he said.
Both Taren and Bishop looked at him.
March got to his feet. “We have to get back to your ship. We have to get back to your ship right now. Damn it, but I’ve been an idiot.”
“Why?” said Taren, standing.
“This isn’t an assassination attempt,” said March. “This isn’t even a kidnapping or a hijacking. The Machinists don’t care about you or your ship. They just want the artifacts you found on Xenostas.”
Chapter 5: Relics
March found another autocab outside of the Emperor’s Rest, overrode the computer control, and drove through the concourse as fast as the machine would allow him. Which, irritatingly, wasn’t very fast.
“Why is this so important?” said Taren next to him, one hand gripping the armrest for balance as he sped through the crowds. “Even if they steal my cargo, it’s just some alien tablets and amulets. They’re valuable, but not dangerous.”
“The artifacts that gave off the dark energy signature,” said March. “What did they look like?”
“We think they’re amulets,” said Taren. “They’re made of an unknown substance that has the hardness of stone but is much stronger and far more resilient. The amulets are an oval shape, about three inches long, two inches wide, and an inch thick, and are a bluish-green color.”
March’s alarm grew.
“Do they look a bit like oversized beetles?” he said.
She gave him a strange look. “Yes. Yes, they do.” March’s alarm increased. “How did you know?”
“Because I’ve encountered them before,” said March, wishing the damned autocab could go faster.
“That’s impossible,” said Taren. “No one has encountered relics like this before. The script we found on some of the tablets is totally unique. The library computer we brought from Calaskar contains samples of every known human and alien script and alphabet, and there was no match.”
“No one on Calaskar has encountered that script before,” said March, “but I would bet the Machinists have.”
He hoped he was wrong. But in his gut, he knew that he was right. And if he was right, and if Dr. Taren’s cargo was indeed what he thought it was, then the relics she had brought back from Xenostas were beyond price.
And the Machinists would do absolutely anything to get their cybernetic hands on those artifacts.
The last time March had encountered artifacts that matched Taren’s description, the Machinists had sent an entire task force of capital starships to retrieve just one of them, and a lot of people had died.
At last, the autocab skidded around the corner and drove towards the Shovel’s docking bay. Bauer still stood there, scowling at a computer tablet in his left hand, Orson hovering next to him. Both men looked up as March brought the autocab to a halt in front of them.
“Good, you’re back,” said Bauer.
Orson glared at March. “And your privateer friend didn’t sell you to the first batch of Kezredite slavers that came along.”
“They couldn’t afford me,” said Taren, climbing out of the cab. “I saw your diagnostic report. It’s that bad?”
“Worse,” said Bauer, turning the tablet so she could see the diagnostic information on the screen. “We’ll have to clear everyone off the ship while the drive section is rebuilt. That’s going to be expensive,
especially in the middle of nowhere.”
“Yeah.” Taren looked at the screen, and then at Bauer. “Yeah. All right. I’ve found a hotel. The crew can stay there while we arrange for repairs. I think we can get the ship going again in another three or four days, and then we can limp back to Calaskaran space.”
Orson’s perpetual scowl deepened. “That is ridiculous. You want us to stay in some flea-bitten hostel on this station? That is…”
“Goddamn it, Patrick,” said Taren in a flat voice. For the first time, March glimpsed some the strain she was feeling. “These are the best choices we have. Do you have a better idea? Or are you just going to stand there and whine?” Orson opened his mouth and closed it again. “No? I thought not.” She let out a long breath and looked at Bauer, who had been trying not to smile. “Can you get everyone to the hotel?”
“I will,” said Bauer.
“If it makes you feel better,” said March, “there won’t be any fleas in the hotel.”
“What?” said Orson, glaring at March. Likely that expression intimidated the graduate students. March wasn’t impressed.
“The environmental systems would have killed them all,” said March. “You’re more at risk of dying of accidental explosive decompression and the resultant vacuum or slow carbon dioxide poisoning than suffering from flea bites.”
“That’s not reassuring,” said Orson.
“Who said I was trying to reassure you?” said March, and then ignored him to turn his attention to Bauer. “After the battle outside, Dr. Taren has hired me to help get all of you back to Calaskar safely.”
“I have,” said Taren.
“You should be safe enough in the hotel,” said March. “The owner isn’t a criminal, and I think the attackers were after your cargo. So long as you’re separated from the cargo, you shouldn’t be at any risk.”
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