Cassandra Kresnov 04: 23 Years on Fire

by Joel Shepherd

The man extended his hand. “Tung,” he said. “Wait ten minutes, I have to make a crew inspection, then we’ll load this stuff and leave.” He strode past the crates and boxes waiting in the corridor, and headed for the bridge.

  The three new arrivals exchanged looks. They’d gone over how this should work too many times to start discussing it again now.

  Tung returned in ten minutes, and they helped him load the airtight transport crates into the runner, lashing them down in the cargo space behind the seats. Then they followed him into the cold, cramped interior, found various seats and strapped themselves in. Tung’s pilot fired up the engines, then released grapples, pulling them clear. And then, with a startling silence, cut engines. Weightlessness returned, as the station’s spin carried them out and away. The pilot’s touch on the control stick kept them oriented, with a huge view of Antibe Station’s curving expanse outside the forward windows. Real windows, Vanessa marvelled, gazing out at the extraordinary view. She’d missed them; starships of course had none.

  Once clear of the station’s dangerous rotation, the runner fired up engines once more and headed slowly for the station hub. Everyone stared out, even Ari, for the station at this range was quite a spectacle—a good three kilometers wide, it was said by some to exert its own minor gravitational pull. Bullshit really, most of that width was empty space between spoke arms, but to look at it, it seemed it might be true.

  “That’s a Fleet ship?” Vanessa asked Tung, pointing to the ghostie where it nestled amidst a tangle of supporting gantries, like a bird caught in the vines of some carnivorous plant.

  “U-huh,” said Tung. “No idea what, they won’t let us near it. Used their own docking crew and everything.”

  “A year ago that might have been an act of war.”

  Tung shrugged. “Torah doesn’t have its own navy, not much we can do.”

  Which was a bullshit answer, because you didn’t need a navy to stop uninvited vessels from doing what they wanted in your space. Callay hadn’t abandoned its independent anti-shipping defences it had acquired five years ago during the troubles with Fifth Fleet. Modern guided missiles could make life this close to a planet extremely dangerous for any League ship, and Pantala was an arms factory world. You didn’t need an FSA briefing to figure that one out.

  So who in the corporations had given this one permission to dock? And to what purpose?

  Station hub had a pair of huge docking funnels, like an axle running through the rotating wheel. Huge mechanisms ran the funnels counter-spin so they didn’t rotate as fast, making for an easy docking. Various vessels were clamped to the outside, like barnacles latched onto a bridge pylon. Suddenly station orbit brought them into Pantala’s night side, and huge station lights glared as darkness abruptly fell, with a smattering of smaller lights from each docked vessel.

  Tung piloted them into the end of the docking funnel, and Vanessa felt like some character from a story book, being swallowed by a giant monster. Within were more ships, several big in-system runners like the one that had just departed, numerous orbital service vehicles, and a bunch of atmospheric shuttles. Everything was lit like the interior of huge factory floor, metal ribbing everywhere, ships pressed comfortably to the funnel’s outer rim by the gentle rotation. Vanessa counted fourteen orbital shuttles, five of them big VTOL assault shuttles, no wings and all armour, for rapid ascents and descents. Pantala industries made them, too. Were they still making them? Where did the money come from, in a collapsed economy?

  She glanced at Ari, and found he had quite casually commandeered a display panel by his seat and had plugged in. Neither Tung nor his pilot had noticed. That was sloppy. Ari would have every security system internalised by the time they docked. Ari saw her looking, quite calmly, and looked much happier in zero-G with something else to think about.

  “Is this a standard traffic day?” she asked Tung, to keep his attention.

  “Quiet,” said Tung. “You should have seen it before the crash, it was something.” Most of the funnel berths were empty, Vanessa supposed. She imagined it with most of them occupied, and saw what Tung meant. “Station capacity’s nearly half a million, but there’s barely ten thousand living here now. Two thirds of it are shut down to save power.”

  They docked at a vacant berth with a crash of grapples, then some waiting as the tube was positioned, Tung talking to someone on the other side. Tung gestured for them to unleash the cartons behind the seats, which they did, then drifted them across the cabin. The airlock finally opened with a hiss and pop of escaping air, and everyone yawned to equalise. Tung pushed several cartons ahead of him up the tube, then gestured back for more. Vanessa sent the whole lot over, still lashed together.

  Tung disappeared around a bend in the tube. They heard talking, and laughter. Vanessa hugged her arms tight, breath frosting in silver plumes. Ari was shivering, despite his layers. Being Tanushan, they were used to shirt sleeves even in winter. Rhian floated motionless, listening.

  Tung returned empty handed. He gave them a thumbs up, floating easily back into the cabin. “Easy,” he said. “Give them a moment, they’ll move the stuff. We’ll take the next crawler in.”

  “Wonderful customs system you’ve got here,” said Ari.

  Tung grinned. “This is why governments were invented, yeah? Make some makeshift bullshit admin with six big corporations sharing everything, no one trusts the other to do proper security, everyone has their own little loopholes for goods they don’t want no customs agent to check, no one knows which customs agent is reporting to which corporation . . .”

  “What was in those boxes anyway?” Ari asked.

  “Don’t ask,” said Tung, tapping his nose. “We don’t. They know we’ve got more stuff here but they won’t ask further. If they see something they shouldn’t, could get messy, yeah?”

  Ten minutes later they went up the tube themselves. The crawler was an elevator that traversed the length of the docking funnel. More airlocks and a tight seal, then they were trundling slowly toward the main hub. Small portholes offered a floodlit view of the funnel interior, crawling by.

  “We’re clear in here, no monitoring possible,” said Tung, indicating the control panel. “Why’d you come?”

  “Surprised you?” Vanessa suggested, eyebrow raised, holding to a handle in what she reckoned might be zero point-two of a G, a gentle drift toward the outer wall.

  “Hell, yeah. Boss nearly blew a wire when we got the signal. FSA didn’t tell us anyone else was coming. You’re supposed to clear it first.”

  “Something came up,” said Vanessa.

  And that was that. Tung looked a little anxious, exchanging a quick glance with his pilot. There was wireless here, station network, but she didn’t want to risk accessing. One look at the construct told her that there was no way Ari wasn’t already in it. She glanced at him. His look back was dead level, no deviation. Very un-Ari like. Immediately she knew. One glance at Rhian, and Rhian knew also. And gave away nothing.

  “She a GI?” Tung asked, nodding at Rhian.

  “Yep,” said Vanessa.

  “Low-des, right?”

  “No low-des GIs in the Federation.”

  “Is that right?” Tung looked at Rhian, dubiously. Rhian gazed out the porthole as though she hadn’t heard him.

  The crawler reached the hub wall and continued into its berth like a grub burrowing into a tree hole. It paused, as airlocks crashed and clanked, then jolted forward once more, emerging into a small chamber. Big locks crashed open, and the entire side opened, allowing them to float free.

  “Just through there,” said Tung, pointing to an adjoining corridor, more of a tunnel in zero-G. “My cell leader’s in there, he’ll meet with you.”

  “In there?” asked Ari, pointing down the narrow space. “After you.”

  “No, I’m not some big shot, best you talk with the CL alone.”

  “No, I insist,” said Ari. “You come with us, be good for your promotion prospects.”

  “N
o, buddy,” said Tung, “I assure you it won’t.”

  “I insist,” said Vanessa, having floated to an advantageous position at one wall. Her pistol was out, levelled at Tung’s head. Rhian similarly covered the pilot.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” said Tung, with a forced, nervous laugh. “Look, don’t be jumpy, there’s nothing down there but the people you came to meet . . .”

  “How do you know who we came to meet?” Ari asked. Tung blinked.

  Suddenly all three adjoining doors slammed shut and locked.

  “Fuck it,” said Vanessa, immediately grabbing her facemask out of a coat pocket and sealing it on, as Ari did the same. “Rhi, you smell anything?”

  Rhian didn’t bother with the facemask, pushed off a wall to float at a sealed door, and tried to find leverage. Tung and the pilot pulled out their facemasks also, but Ari took them away.

  “No chance,” he said. Sealed in like this, the room could just be gassed, or decompressed. But ISO had two of their own in here, and gas wouldn’t stop Rhian, mask or no mask.

  “I could punch it,” said Rhian. “But in zero-G there’s no leverage.” She removed a small explosive from a leg pocket and clamped it magnetically to the door. Vanessa gestured Ari and the two captives behind the open elevator door, as Rhian got above her impending explosion.

  Tung and the pilot chose that moment to try and grab Vanessa and her gun. Vanessa fended easily and punched one in the head, then broke the other’s ribs with neat, short jabs. She had no leverage either, but with her augmentations at point blank range it didn’t matter.

  “It’s odd,” said Ari as they dragged the men behind the elevator door, one unconscious, one injured. “When I’m dealing with combat ops I’ll attack the small woman last, ’cause logically she’s the most augmented. But there’s still so many guys that won’t figure.”

  “I can’t figure if that makes you chivalrous or chauvinist,” Vanessa replied. “Rhi, we’re clear.”

  Rhian’s charge blew with a deafening crack. Rhian quickly got a hand into the hole, another on the bulkhead, and pulled. Steel shrieked and began to bend. Soon she had both hands in, and with more pulling, it was large enough to fit through.

  “Guess who’s going first,” said Vanessa, eyeing the size of the hole.

  “Me,” Rhian corrected. “They’ll try to shoot us coming up the passage. I’ll shoot them first.”

  “Wait,” said Ari, eyes distant, “my schematic says there’s a cross-corridor halfway up, better to go around them than through.”

  “Never been my experience,” said Rhian, making a last adjustment to the size of the hole, then pulling out weapons. “See you in a minute.”

  One of the corridors abruptly opened, and all weapons swung onto that space. A man emerged, empty handed, palms up, floating into the room.

  “Who the hell are you?” Vanessa demanded.

  “A friend,” said the man. Chinese features, young, handsome, strongly built under all the clothes. “Come to help.”

  “GI,” said Rhian, not taking her pistol from his head. “Are you ISO?”

  “No.”

  “League?”

  “No.”

  “Well you’re not Federation because I’ve never seen you.”

  “Doesn’t leave a lot of options,” said Vanessa.

  Ari abruptly winced, a hand flying to his ear. “Ow.”

  “Please don’t access my uplinks without permission,” said the new GI, with a faint smile. He seemed quite comfortable with the whole situation. “It’s not polite. Now if you please, the ISO will realise their trap was sprung, and will be hurrying around to block this corridor even now. Let’s go.”

  He disappeared back the way he’d come. The three Feds looked at each other.

  “You okay?” Vanessa asked Ari.

  “Sandy’s the only GI I know who can do that,” said Ari, looking quite astonished. “He went through all my layers just like that, could have fried my main perimeter if . . .”

  “That’s great, Ari,” said Vanessa, pushing off to follow. “Sounds like a man crush.”

  “Is that safe?” Rhian wondered.

  “Says she who was about to charge an ISO position single-handed. Move.” Vanessa hand-over-handed her way up the corridor after the GI. They emerged into a new chamber, this one with walls stacked around with safety equipment and storage containers. And the floating body of a woman.

  “ISO?” Vanessa asked the GI, who was checking adjoining corridors for signs of movement.

  “Yes. High designation, unconscious.”

  “Unconscious?” GIs were notoriously hard to knock out or disable. It made non-lethal neutralisations nearly impossible.

  “Fast hack,” said the GI, patting the lump in his pocket. A booster cord? “This way.”

  He pushed off down a new corridor, with the grace of a natural spacer. Ari peered at the unconscious woman’s face.

  “Fast hack a high-des ISO GI?” he breathed. “No way!”

  “From man crush to wedding bells,” Vanessa remarked, following after. Ari had a point, though. Technically, the highest designation GI ever made was Mustafa Ramoja. That anyone knew of. ISO only recruited the highest designations and didn’t have the problems with defections the League military had, because they treated them better, gave them responsibilities, trusted them as partners and friends.

  Combat GIs were hard to hack. Sandy herself, nearly impossible. Fast hack meant a backdoor, something written into the barrier defences that a simple key could access and disable in a split second, but no high-des GI had anything like that in her systems, least of all one working for the League’s premier intelligence and security agency. Sure, this new GI had used a booster cord, meaning direct access to the back of the head, presumably while holding her in some kind of immobilising grip . . . hard enough to do on its own. Then insert the cord, then do a fast hack and knock her out cold . . . who the hell was this guy?

  Further along, the hub became busy—docking crawlers unloading goods, dock workers moving heavy crates with just light touches. Crates were then attached to railing systems down these corridors, then guided to central cargo. It was only small goods, though. Main cargo went through automated systems direct from ship to station down on the rim—the station hub was for stuff that avoided customs, though there were a few people around who looked like security, checking seals and scanning contents.

  Vanessa, Rhian and Ari had their facemasks off, manoeuvering past some crates on rails, when security stopped them. “You three. IDs.”

  They pulled readers, established direct uplink connections while security inserted their own readers, and verified those barrier IDs on the non-invasive platform the readers presented—less dangerous than a direct uplink, for security and their targets. The security were both men, dark jumpsuits, spacer webbing with many tools, pistols included. On their readers, IDs would show as corporate—Heldig Corporation, semi-shielded background, meaning they were quite high up and couldn’t be verified all the way back to home base. Ari had warned them it would open them up to greater suspicion, but it was the only way to do it—an unshielded ID could be traced by anyone, and found immediately to be fake. Higher level corporate types kept some information behind barriers, not liking to share everything with rival corporates. Station security were theoretically independent, and no corporations trusted that impartiality, so station security could only check so far.

  “So,” said one of the security men, in a half-bored drawl as his eyes scanned the reader, “what brings you three Heldig folks up this way?”

  “Merchandise check,” said Ari, a steadying hand on a bulkhead to stop him from spinning. “New arrival.”

  “New arrival,” security repeated. “That wouldn’t be that Farseeker ship, would it?”

  “No idea,” said Ari, all skeptical intensity of this man’s right to ask him anything. His accent, Vanessa noted, was spot on—score one for another of Ari’s fast-training upload programs. “Why not take it up with my
superior?”

  “And who might that be?”

  “That’s right!” said Ari, as though it just occurred to him. “You can’t find out, can you?”

  “Hey buddy,” said the man with a smile, unplugging his reader. “Just doing my job. You know, we caught someone pretending to be checking on a backdoor cargo, just last week?”

  “Did you, now?”

  “Turns out they were just black-marketing for personal profit. Not even letting their buddies in on a cut. Someone got pissed, blew one of them out an airlock.”

  “You’re joking,” Ari deadpanned. “You know where the airlocks are?”

  The security man pointed. “That way, I think.”

  “You know how to use them, too? Those little buttons by the door? I think there’s a red one, and a blue one.”

  A dry smile. “Have a nice day sir. Ladies.”

  “You have to pick a fight with them?” Vanessa remarked as they floated on, down the next corridor.

  “It was well done,” said the new GI. “No one trusts anyone up here. It’s neutral territory, so the corporations constantly squabble over jurisdiction. You handled it exactly as they would.”

  “Why didn’t they check your ID?” Rhian asked him.

  “I’m known to them.”

  “Any sign the coalition’s working?” Ari asked.

  “Well, they’re not killing each other anymore. Or not so obviously that they can’t deny it. The station staff are appointed by all the major corporations; station master’s a rotating post, two months at a time. There’s big government offices up here. Corporate officials run a lot of the new government from orbit. Safer than the ground.”

  “You don’t say,” said Vanessa. She knew all that, but their new friend seemed quite talkative. “Who’s the new ship in port? League vessel?”

  “Ghostie, Fleet recon.”

  “Any idea why she’s here?”

  “The same reason anyone docks at Antibe Station,” said the GI. “Someone invited her.”

  “Who, and why?”

  The GI smiled, gliding easily down the corridor with gentle touches on the wall to recorrect. “Wouldn’t that be telling?”