by P. K. Lentz
With a roar, Kearn rose and strode for the exit.
“Kearn!” Fyat barked, and moved to block him. “This is no time for paranoid fantasies. Keep your secrets. Like I said, I win no matter what.”
Kearn stood inches from Fyat’s face. “The one person on this ship I should have trusted from the start is in a drug-induced coma thanks to me,” he said. “I’m going to come clean with her now and hope she forgives me. Then my crew and I will decide what to do. You two are welcome to stay aboard or run back to your masters. Or go ahead and blow us all up if you’re that stupid.” With that he moved around the assassin, who thankfully let him pass, and breezed past Zerouali on his way into the corridor.
“Kearn,” Zerouali called, trailing after him. “The Halo logs end before you get to Reissa. What happened next?”
Kearn laughed. Some nerve she had.
“Fuck off!” he told her, and abruptly she stopped following him.
Leaving the pair he now saw as co-conspirators behind, Kearn made haste toward the medsuite where Aprile still lay comatose, recovering from her Saerix poisoning. En route he commed ahead to Thorien.
Moriet, Kearn reminded himself. Their pseudonyms were useless now.
“Any chance we can revive Aprile soon?” Kearn asked.
“I’ve only kept her under because that cretin told me to,” the doctor replied. “I can wake her any time.”
“Do it. And don’t take any more orders from Fyat.” Kearn deliberately used the assassin’s name over the comm, half-hoping that he, or even his masters, overheard. “I’m in charge here.”
A few minutes later Kearn hovered at the side of a bleary-eyed and half-conscious Aprile in her stasis web. In another web nearby was a sedated Coleridge. The charred stump of her missing arm sported a more professional, if still temporary, treatment.
Aprile’s eyes flickered for long seconds before finding focus. For a while she looked up blankly as if trying to remember her captain’s name.
Of course, the name by which she did know him was a fraud.
“Some fucking plan...” Aprile groaned. “I hope you’ve come to tell me it’s all over and I missed everything.”
Kearn laughed apologetically. “I’m afraid it’s only begun. How do you feel?”
“Like I look. Get me out of this damn thing.”
“Glad you’re in a good mood.” Kearn punched the web release by Aprile’s head. “I have a few things to tell you before you hear them somewhere else.”
Aprile stretched, massaging her neck. “I’m listening.”
“You’re the best friend I have,” Kearn said. Even if the task at hand was unpleasant, it felt good to set cold calculation aside for once and speak with sincerity. “That’s why I very much regret what I have to tell you.”
Aprile stopped stretching and faced Kearn warily.
“William Gareth was a lie,” he went on. “My name is Kearn. It’s my history with the Interim that’s put us in the danger we’re all in now.”
Aprile reacted with mild skepticism. “All spacers have a past,” she said.
“Not like mine.”
“What did you do that was so bad?”
Though hardly comfortable with the subject, Kearn found relief in purging himself. “Actually, they weren’t even the Interim when I met them more than three hundred years ago. But the short version is...I supplied them with the technology they used to dominate the human race.”
Aprile laughed aloud. “So are they desperate to give you a medal, or what? I should probably kick your ass on behalf of the species.”
“In my defense, I didn’t do it on purpose and I’ve been kicking my own ass ever since. But right now we have other worries. I promise if we get out of this mess you can beat me to a bloody pulp.”
“Noted. I owe you for this Saerix shit, too, by the way. What did I miss?”
Kearn sighed. “Honestly, I’m not sure what’s going on anymore. Fleet has offered to trade Zerouali for a hostage from my old crew, after which we’re supposedly free to go. Of course I don’t trust them for a second. I don’t know what to make of Fyat or Zerouali anymore either. I’m starting to think maybe they were planted here just to get at me, but the bottom line is I don’t know. I can’t make sense of any of it. All I do know is that Fleet is not stupid. They don’t plan to let me leave this system a free man.”
Pondering a moment, Kearn scowled. “I also know that I have a duty to my old crewmate,” he said. “She’s in this because of me. I’d do the same for you.”
“I’d like to think so. So what do you have in mind?”
“There are some details to work out, but essentially--” Kearn smiled, permitting himself a faint glimmer of less-than-honest optimism. “A last stand. Naked force. Alone if I have to.”
Very quickly Aprile’s lips twisted in a conspiratorial smirk. “That’s insane,” she said. “Let’s do it.”
***
Simon Ascher awoke to the sound of an alarm in his berth, an alarm he knew he hadn’t set. A squint at the chronometer confirmed he’d slept only two hours. Several times he ordered the blaring siren to cease, but it failed to respond.
Much as he wanted to deny it, he knew exactly what was happening. He dragged his stiff body out of bed and over to his room’s terminal, where, unsurprisingly, a message awaited him.
>>YOU MUST MOVE NOW SIMON. A LEAK OF ANESTHETIC GAS HAS BEEN ARRANGED IN MEDSUITES, SENSORS BLINDED. WITHIN 10 MINUTES STAFF WILL BE UNCONSCIOUS. EXTRACT OUR FRIEND AND FOLLOW THIS PATH.
Below was a floor plan of the cone-shaped Hunter with a red line tracing a route from the medsuites to the cargo hold where Ascher worked.
Ascher keyed his incredulous reply.
>>EVEN IF WE LEAVE IN A CARGO HAULER AND EVEN IF THEY DON’T DESTROY IT IMMEDIATELY, WHERE CAN WE GO? THEY’LL TRACK US.
>>LEAVE IT TO ME. I’M COUNTING ON YOU SIMON.
>>I’M RISKING MY LIFE FOR YOU. YOU OWE ME EXPLANATION. WHAT DID YOU MEAN THE SHIP IS INFECTED?
>>NO TIME FOR THAT.
>>TELL ME.
>>I CAN DESTROY STARS WITH A THOUGHT SIMON. SO CAN THE ONE WHO HAS INFILTRATED YOUR SHIP. THE DIFFERENCE IS THAT UNLIKE MY ENEMY I WOULD PREFER NOT TO SEE HUMANITY ERASED.
>>I’M TO BELIEVE THE FUTURE OF THE RACE DEPENDS ON MY RESCUING ONE WOMAN?
>>SHE IS A FRIEND. BUT I AM LOSING AND YOUR ACTIONS COULD HELP.
>>WAIT. YOU WANT ME TO GET YOUR FRIEND OFF THE SHIP--
>>SIMON YOU MUST GO NOW.
>>YOU’RE GOING TO DESTROY HUNTER, AREN’T YOU? I WON’T BE PART OF IT!
>>SIMON. I DISLIKE THREATS, BUT YOU FORCE MY HAND. YES, I WILL CRACK THIS VESSEL’S ENGINE CORE. IF YOU DO NOT PROCEED TO MEDSUITES IMMEDIATELY AND THENCE OFF THE SHIP, YOU WILL BE OBLITERATED TOO. GOODBYE.
>>WAIT.
But the lines faded. The phantom had gone. Ascher’s stomach churned, his tired mind raced. He desperately wished to believe he’d imagined this, but knew it was all too real. He knew too that his decision must be made quickly. Which consequences were worse, he wondered, those of action or of inaction? A possible death sentence from Fleet, or the more immediate death promised by this phantom?
The former seemed the more desirable, if barely. But more than that...something in Ascher knew that if he chose now to do nothing and death did not come, he would spend all his remaining years--right up through his early retirement--wondering ‘what if.’ What if he’d tried?
His Fleet career had been short and dull, but it would not end that way. It would end with a story to tell his grandchildren, should he live to have any, a story like an adventure vid, in which the hero risks life and career for the sake of a mysterious woman, death the price of his failure.
Ascher went to his locker and retrieved Hellene Hawthorne’s badge and uniform. He left the weapon there untouched, for even if this phantom planned to slaughter every soul aboard, he wasn’t about to kill anyone himself. Besides, he was accepting on mere faith that success was even possible; if that faith
was misplaced, no weapon would save him. In fact it might even ensure his death by provoking Security into using lethal force against him.
Ascher’s breath came shallow and blood pounded in his ears as he made his way to the medsuites. Part of him expected to find everything there as normal, with a curious medical staff staring expectantly at him as he entered. On that possibility Ascher stood in the corridor and requested entry first, wondering what he might say if someone actually answered.
When no acknowledgment came, he keyed the request again. Several moments passed with no response. He summoned his courage and entered.
The staff inside the medsuites were inert heaps on the floor. In that instant all Ascher’s doubts were erased. Hunter really would be destroyed. Until now he’d been living as if in a dream, not fully believing that his actions mattered. Now it was real.
A rarely-used part of his brain kicked in, telling Ascher he probably didn’t have much time before he succumbed to the gas himself. He had to find the woman quickly. Breathing as slowly and lightly as possible, he began a hurried but systematic search.
He located Hellene on the floor of a tiny observation cell. He hadn’t counted on her being unconscious as well, though in retrospect it made perfect sense. That freshly awakened crisis center in Ascher’s brain told him to find some sort of stimulant with which to wake her.
Scouring the adjacent lab he soon came across a prepped hypo with a familiar label--a stimulant administered to him once before. Hurrying back into the woman’s cell, he pressed it to her neck. Then, for good measure, he gave himself a dose.
Within a few seconds the woman came round. Groggy eyes focused on her rescuer.
“We don’t have much time,” Ascher said urgently, helping her to sit up. “We have to get out of here.”
“Who are you?”
“You seemed to know me earlier.” He half dragged the woman to her feet. “We’ll talk later. Here, put this on.” Passing her the Fleet uniform, Ascher politely turned around.
“I saw your name on a keypad display,” the prisoner explained as she changed out of her red coveralls. “It said you would help me.”
But before Ascher could absorb the content of the woman’s words, he was forced to struggle past their delivery.
“Your speech,” he said in mild astonishment. “I understand you, but it’s a pre-Commonwealth dialect. Where did you pick that up?”
“What Commonwealth?” she asked casually, but did not await reply before declaring, “I’m ready.”
Ascher turned around and looked the woman over. The uniform fit perfectly, but nothing could effectively conceal the bulge in her abdomen.
“It’ll have to do,” he concluded, adding the final touch by affixing the Fleet ID badge to her chest.
Together they left the medsuites and started along the phantom’s prescribed escape path. Ascher felt the effects of the stim keeping him wide-eyed and alert. Then again, perhaps that was only the danger.
“You’re not Hellene Hawthorne, are you?” Ascher said with some conviction, as they walked into the corridor. He kept his pace swift but casual, fighting the natural urge to run.
“Serenity Martijn,” the woman confirmed. “I wish someone would explain what’s going on.”
“I wish I knew myself,” Ascher said. “But whoever you are, it seems like you have a friend in a very high place.”
***
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was with satisfaction, if not confidence, that Kearn emerged from the hastily-convened meeting of Lady’s senior crew. Their chosen course of action was one born of desperation, but one that Kearn felt had a fair chance of success. Even if it failed, at least he was in command of his own ship and his own fate again. And at least the damage might be limited. Kearn himself was the only one likely to die. With or without regrets.
But if the plan succeeded, Lady would leave Merada with Serenity and all other passengers and crew safely aboard.
Of course, Zerouali and the two SES assassins would be aboard, too. Kearn was still uncertain about those three. Maybe they weren’t actually here just to entrap him, but for now it was safest to assume they were. If that turned out to be a paranoid fantasy--well, no harm done.
Fyat in particular was a problem, though, for anything that he learned of their plans could potentially be communicated to Fleet, spoiling any chance of success. Before the meeting, Ilias had swept the conference room for the assassin’s tiny spymotes, but who knew what other eyes and ears might be employed by a man who seemed able to subvert Lady’s systems at will?
Now Kearn stood outside the hab module medlounge, Fyat’s unofficial headquarters, on a mission that he hoped would remove the assassin as a player in events to come. He entered to find Fyat standing, typically statuesque, in the center of the room. Was he like this even when no one was around?
“I honestly don’t know if you’ve been lying to me or not,” Kearn started right in. “I don’t know if it matters. I intend to save my ship and Serenity.”
“Then accept Fleet’s offer and make the exchange.”
“No. Maybe Zerouali’s one of you, maybe she’s not. But if there’s any chance she’s legit, I won’t let them have her. Besides, I don’t believe for a second that Fleet will let me leave here no matter what I do.”
“Their instructions to me were a contingency. Had they intended your death they could have ordered it already.”
“Unless they don’t trust you,” Kearn argued. “Which may be a wise move on their part.”
If Fyat took offense, naturally he failed to show it. “You have no chance,” he said. “Unless, of course, you possess secrets of which I remain unaware.”
Kearn snorted. “Nice try. All I’m asking from you now is a promise that I get one chance to end this my way. If my plan fails, do what you will. Go back to your death squads. Capture me. I won’t say a word to your masters, assuming of course they didn’t put you up to all this to begin with. You have nothing to lose.”
Fyat stood impassively for a moment, presumably deliberating his verdict.
“Very well,” he said at last. “One chance.”
Nodding acceptance, Kearn headed to the room’s comm panel where he keyed a live comm request to Hunter in the Dark. Fyat stepped back to avoid being visible in the transmission.
Several anxious minutes later, Vice-commander Sallat appeared on screen.
“Captain Kearn,” Sallat said cordially. “Good to finally hear from you.”
“We’ll make the exchange aboard my vessel,” Kearn said, not needing to try very hard to sound bitter and defeated. “Send a shuttle, and Martijn better be aboard. No tricks. Your men don’t lay a hand on Zerouali until I see my crewmate alive and well.”
Sallat nodded. “Agreed. Rendezvous will occur one hour from now. Sallat out.”
Kearn cut the transmission and started for the door. There remained much to prepare.
“Captain,” Fyat called after him. “You should be aware that you are about to enter a trap.”
As much as Kearn wanted to walk away, Fyat’s words were impossible to ignore.
“How’s that?”
“Fleet would never allow the transfer to take place on your vessel unless it suited them. I suspect that once they have Zerouali safely in hand, your own capture will follow.”
Kearn might have been annoyed, were he not too busy being genuinely worried. “You just finished telling me the opposite,” he said, “that I should just make the trade--that they would have ordered a strike already.”
“New data, new assessment,” Fyat said simply. “There will be an assault team of Fleet marines aboard the craft that comes. If you’re lucky, your crewmate might actually be with them.”
With Fyat’s words, Kearn’s mild optimism died a brutal crib death. He had assumed the Interim’s offer to be some sort of trick, of course, but having Fyat confirm as much cast the planned operation in a new light. Where Fleet marines would rely on skill and high-tech weaponry, Lady�
��s crew had been counting on the cruder means of surprise and explosive decompression to achieve a similar goal: neutralize the enemy and steal its prize.
Shit, they were all as good as dead.
“I’ve yet to analyze it,” Fyat continued, “but I expect that Sallat’s latest transmission will have contained revised orders detailing how I am to aid in the coming attack.”
“Do your masters really change their minds that quickly?” Kearn asked, searching for any reason to doubt the bad news. “No, forget I asked. The important thing is, do I still get my chance?”
“Yes. But I warn you: you will lose.”
Kearn didn’t need the warning. From the moment he’d heard the phrases ‘assault team’ and ‘Fleet marines,’ he’d begun to accept the fact of his impending death.
But maybe there was another way. A rather repugnant one, but certainly one he could live with if it meant averting disaster.
He had entered this room determined to remove Fyat as an active participant in the deadly events to come. Instead he would beg the help of a man who made no secret of his willingness to betray them all the minute things went awry, if not sooner.
“Alright,” Kearn said with a sigh. “Tell me how we can win.”
***
His conversation with Kearn at an end, Vice-commander Sallat stepped away from the comm station on Hunter in the Dark’s bridge. He was a guest there in his capacity as leader of the ‘negotiations’ for Zerouali.
“Strike team, stand by,” Sallat ordered. “Ready the hostage for departure.”
Slumping back into his seat, Sallat worried. On a tactical level, the negotiations with Kearn had borne fruit. Strategically, however, a decision by Bohringer and Hunter’s incoming Intelligence chief threatened to negate that success. They wanted Kearn apprehended and his crew liquidated.
Sallat had objected, arguing that the failure of such an attempt could precipitate trouble on an unprecedented, galactic scale. Lacking key intelligence on Kearn, it was anyone’s guess whether or not he truly posed a threat to the Interim. Maybe he did have a cache of translight cores hidden away somewhere, and maybe, in the event of his death or capture, those cores could be scattered throughout human space.
