Ballistic

by Marko Kloos

  “Thank you,” Jansen said. “But why do I have the feeling that you don’t just want to congratulate me and send me on my way?”

  “First I have to figure out what I am dealing with here. Or who I am dealing with.”

  Dunstan brought up a data screen.

  “You see, when we submitted everyone’s ID passes to the system for a check, they all came back green. Except for yours. That one came back yellow. That means ‘pending.’”

  He rotated the data field in the air between them so Jansen could see it as well.

  “Now, there are good reasons why a background check might come back pending instead of an instant clearance. It could be that the link with the Oceanian database is a little shaky from all the way out here. But your three Oceanian crewmates all came back green instantly, so I don’t think that’s the issue.”

  Dunstan put a hand on his chin and tapped the side of his nose with his index finger.

  “A more common reason is that the data on the pass doesn’t quite match the database entries all the way, and that the system needs to do a more thorough algorithm check to give a certain reply.”

  “I’ve used my ID pass to scan in all over the system,” Jansen said. “Never had an issue.”

  “Those entry scans are running off a common database. The background check we ran goes through the respective planetary databases. Takes longer, but it’s more thorough.”

  Jansen looked at him impassively, but Dunstan could tell that this was not a welcome development. There was a flicker in the linguist’s gaze that hadn’t been there just a few moments ago.

  “When I get a yellow on an ID pass, I usually put in a system request for an extended ID check. That can take an hour, sometimes two. But I have no place else to be for a while.”

  Dunstan extinguished the screen between them.

  “I think that you really don’t want me to send that extended ID check request. I think that you paid someone a fair chunk of ledger for that pass, which is why you are getting through scan-ins everywhere. But I also think that it’s not your real ID. Or maybe it is, but you had the data tweaked a little. Maybe had something erased or added.”

  Now there was definitely a whiff of panic in the linguist’s expression, and Dunstan took it as encouragement to press on while he had the man off balance.

  “We can play this in two ways. I can put in the request, and we can wait for the return. If we go that way, we’ll be sitting here for a while. Or you can fess up and tell me why your ID pass is coming up yellow. Same result, but one will make me considerably less cranky.”

  Jansen closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

  “It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” Dunstan encouraged. “I may not even give a shit. I have a nuclear warhead to deal with today. I don’t care about a fake job clearance right now. Or whatever it is that’s making you all jumpy.”

  Jansen opened his eyes again and suddenly seemed deflated somehow. It was like looking at a different person.

  “I paid twenty-five K for it,” he said in a resigned voice. “It’s real, but the person on it isn’t.”

  Dunstan nodded, pleased to have his instincts validated.

  “So who is the real you? And remember, I may not care. I just like to know who I’m talking to. Especially when there’s a surprise nuke involved.”

  “I’m Gretian. My name is Aden Ragnar. My service name was Aden Robertson. I was a prisoner of war on Rhodia until this May. I ended up on Oceana and bought a real-fake ID because I didn’t want to return to Gretia.”

  “This May,” Dunstan repeated. “Five years. So you’re a Blackguard.”

  “I was a Blackguard,” Jansen said. “Linguist, not infantry. Military intelligence. I was a major.”

  “Company commander,” Dunstan said, and Jansen nodded.

  “Signals Intelligence Company 300. We were stationed on Oceana all the way through the war.”

  “Well, isn’t that something.” Dunstan looked at the man sitting across the workstation from him. He tried to imagine Jansen-Ragnar-Robertson in a Blackguard uniform, but his brain couldn’t quite make that stretch right now.

  It’s the beard, he decided. Beards don’t look right on Gretian soldiers.

  He studied Jansen’s face, looking for a glimmer of that haughty Gretian air of superiority he had seen in the expression of every fucking Blackguard he had ever encountered. They had been the shock troops of the Gretian army, the most dedicated and obedient of the lot. But there was nothing like that in this one. He just looked defeated, resigned, tired.

  Dunstan’s first instinct was to call in the marine stationed in the passageway outside and have Jansen hauled off to the brig. He found that he had already started to open his mouth to do just that. Then he closed it again and took a deep breath.

  All his crewmates said they found the nuke because of him, Dunstan thought. He must have known his ID would fall apart. We’ve had him as a prisoner for five years. And he warned them anyway. Because this is all he has left.

  He wondered how he would feel in Jansen’s stead, at the mercy of a Gretian officer after losing the war to them, after spending half a decade in their custody.

  We’re the same rank, Dunstan thought. Same job. Same age, give or take a few years. He once had a company. I still have a ship. If just a few battles had gone their way instead of ours, I’d be the one in that chair right now.

  “The captain knows, but the others don’t,” Jansen said. “When you put me in the brig, just tell them I’m a wanted criminal. Make up whatever crime you want. Don’t tell them I’m Gretian.”

  Somehow, that statement triggered a spark of pity in Dunstan. Maybe it was a combination of everything—Jansen’s scraggly beard, his flawless Rhodian, his concern for the crew that had accepted him—but it left Dunstan with no angle to vent his anger. There was nothing left to beat down. Jansen was so desperate to deny his old identity that he would rather have his new friends think he was a thief or murderer than discover he was Gretian. Dunstan knew he could never forgive Gretia for starting a war that killed dozens of his friends. He wouldn’t forgive the Blackguards for being in the vanguard of conquest. But right now, he knew that he would find no satisfaction in locking this man up, not after his act of caring for the safety of his fellow crew, even knowing that it would probably expose him.

  What the hells, Dunstan thought. He got a nuke out of circulation. That’s a net good. Not enough to let him off the hook for his past. But enough to let him off for today.

  “We’re in Rhodian space,” he said. “Your Oceana ID pass is Oceana’s issue. I won’t make it mine today. There’s more important stuff sitting in my cargo hold right now.”

  Jansen looked up in wide-eyed surprise. Dunstan could almost see the shock that went through him from head to toe. If hope had a scent, the compartment would suddenly be redolent with it.

  “Go rejoin your crew. Keep your secret for another day,” Dunstan said.

  “Thank you, Commander,” Jansen replied.

  Dunstan nodded.

  “It will come up yellow again somewhere. That ID pass of yours. Keep that in mind. And you may want to come clean with your crew before it does.”

  The AIC was the nerve center of the ship, always staffed and busy, but it could be the loneliest place on board as far as Dunstan was concerned. They had to send off a report to fleet command, but that would trigger a response containing orders, and those would take away whatever elbow room he still had to make his own calls. It had been three hours since they’d boarded Zephyr, and Bosca and his team had finished searching the ship. There was no hidden missile tube, no concealed rail-gun mount. They had a few sidearms in the arms locker, properly secured, and all were registered and authorized. Other than that, the only weapon-like item on board was the set of kitchen knives the cook had tucked away in a storage roll in his berthing compartment.

  Mayler approached him while he was looking at the plot, lost in thought.

  “Sir, we got data o
n that warhead. The AI found a match for the radiation profile.”

  Dunstan looked up. “We know where it came from?”

  “We do. It’s one of the Mark Sixteens from RNS Nike.”

  “I thought Nike was lost with all hands at the First Battle of Oceana.”

  “That’s what the database says. But it said the same thing about RNS Daphne.”

  “And we ran into Daphne just three months ago,” Dunstan conceded. “There were a lot of ships wrecked in that battle. We lost that one big. No way for us to salvage. The fuzzheads had all the time they needed.”

  “Makes you wonder how many more they got,” Mayler said. “Nike had four nuclear launch tubes.”

  “That’s something I’d rather not think about right now, Lieutenant. Or I’ll need more than a drink to help me sleep tonight.”

  They looked at the tactical display, empty except for the solitary icon representing OMV Zephyr, which was patiently hanging in space a hundred klicks away, waiting for its crew to return.

  “Have you decided what to do with the merchant crew, sir?” Mayler asked.

  Dunstan rubbed his forehead with a soft groan.

  “I haven’t quite figured that out yet, Lieutenant. But I am about to go down to the officers’ mess to talk to them, so I guess I should make up my mind before I get there.”

  The Zephyr crew were sitting around two of the tables in the mess when Dunstan and Sergeant Bosca walked in. They all got out of their seats at the same time and stood to face Dunstan.

  “Apologies for the wait,” he said. “I had a few things to sort out. Nukes tend to make the simple things complex.”

  They looked at him with unconcealed anticipation. It seemed that the long stretch of uncertainty had even served to temper the attitude of the pilot a little because she had dropped the hostile glares.

  “You’ve acted mostly by the book. I mean, after the part where you took on unregulated cargo. I’ve decided that it isn’t in the interests of the Rhodian Navy to add another complication to everyone’s day. And if we detain and prosecute you, it will just deter others from making a similar call of conscience. You are free to return to your ship and be on your way.”

  Dunstan held up his hand to interrupt their audible expressions of relief.

  “But. You will transmit all your data connected with the incident before you leave. And I can’t guarantee that the fleet won’t call on your testimony or even demand access to your ship. The Rhodian Navy will keep an eye on you for a while. I would suggest you become more selective regarding the contracts you accept.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” Captain Decker said. She held out her hand, and he shook it. They all filed out of the room behind Bosca. The last one to step across the threshold was the Palladian first officer.

  “Master Siboniso,” Dunstan said.

  The first officer stopped at the door and turned his head. “Sir.”

  “One last word to the wise,” Dunstan said. “You just turned over a nuke to the authorities. The kind of people who deal in nukes are the kind of people who won’t just accept a refund and an apology. Consider keeping a very low profile for a little while.”

  Siboniso inclined his head in acknowledgment and stepped across the threshold to follow his shipmates.

  You may yet wish we had detained you after all, Dunstan thought.

  CHAPTER 14

  IDINA

  To the west, the skyline of Sandvik was glowing with the fading remnants of a dark-red sunset. From the company square at the JSP base, it looked like the city was on fire.

  Is it a red sunset or a red sunrise that’s supposed to be a bad omen? Idina wondered as she walked across the square and toward the liaison building. The summer storms of the last few days had lifted, and the air was pleasantly cool tonight. The breeze had dried out the puddles the downpours had left in their wake. It was easily the nicest day she had experienced on this planet since she got here for her third tour of occupation duty, but it irritated her a little, as if the planet had been holding back its good weather on purpose until just before her departure. The emotion was irrational, of course—planets were spheres of rock and water, with no consciousness or capacity for intent. But having to fend off two dozen angry Gretian youths with her kukri just the night before had soured her attitude a bit, and she let her brain indulge in the act of bias confirmation.

  Gods, even my grudges have diminished in this gravity. Maybe it is time to go back to Pallas.

  The liaison building was busier than usual tonight. In addition to Idina’s Fifth Platoon and their usual Gretian police counterparts, a squad of the JSP’s Quick Reaction Force had arrived for the pre-shift briefing, adding a dozen troopers to tonight’s headcount. Idina had feared that Dahl would be absent tonight for some reason—rattled by the event last night or grounded by her superior—but the tall Gretian police captain was at the front of the room as always, helmet under her arm, hair in her customary tight braid. All things considered, everyone involved in the tussle had gotten off lightly. Idina and Dahl had collected a few bruises, and one of the belligerent youths had gotten his nose broken when Idina had smacked her helmet into his face. But nobody had died, and none had found out how terribly easily a Pallas Brigade kukri could amputate limbs.

  Idina walked to the front of the room, right down the multicolored paint stripe that had segregated the JSP troopers and their Gretian patrol partners for the first few years of the occupation. The colored stripe had been crisp and glossy on Idina’s first JSP assignment. Now it was dull and faded, scuffed and worn down by the many boot soles that had crossed the demarcation, and nobody had seen a point in refreshing the paint.

  The room was awash in the din of low conversation. The QRF troopers stood out in the crowd in their tactical outfits, which were flat black and considerably more aggressive looking than the standard blue JSP patrol suits with their police markings. The leader of the QRF squad was a hard-faced Rhodian lieutenant whose biceps strained the short sleeves of his ballistic undershirt. He was standing next to Dahl, talking to her in a low voice. Dahl looked up when she saw Idina striding up to them.

  “Good evening, Sergeant,” she said.

  “Good evening, Captain. Lieutenant,” she added with a nod in the Rhodian’s direction. The JSP had switched to police protocol when they were around their Gretian counterparts, which meant no salutes and no calling a room to attention when a superior walked in. It had taken weeks for her to stop feeling like she was committing insubordination.

  “Good evening, Color Sergeant. Looks like you have some excitement scheduled tonight,” the lieutenant said.

  “Let’s hope it won’t be exciting at all,” Idina replied. “I want to get this fellow off the street and into custody without anyone getting wind of it. We had plenty of excitement on our first try.”

  She looked at Dahl and inclined her head toward the assembled troopers.

  “Your room, Captain.”

  Dahl nodded and turned to face the crowd.

  “Attention, please,” she said. The din of conversation in the room stopped, and within a few seconds, all eyes were on the Gretian captain.

  “Tonight, we are going to effect a high-risk arrest,” Dahl said. “The suspect is one Vigi Fuldas. You all have the relevant data on your briefing log. He eluded our first attempt to arrest him last night at Philharmony Station. The suspect is a known arms trafficker who has already resisted arrest aggressively. That is why we have requested the assistance of the Quick Reaction Force.”

  Dahl created a screen and flicked it over her shoulder, where it expanded to fill most of the back wall. It showed a three-dimensional map of a location in Sandvik. An image of Vigi Fuldas along with his vital data hovered in the upper-left quadrant of the map.

  “As the suspect was already under judicial watch prior to the attempted arrest, we were able to track his movements since last night, despite his considerable efforts to elude surveillance. He has not returned to his residence. We lost track
of him for a few hours, but this afternoon, a facial recognition unit in the Artery network caught sight of him in western Sandvik near his place of employment. He has checked into a capsule hotel near the Sandvik Spaceport using a forged identity pass. It is likely that he is preparing to leave the planet to evade further apprehension measures.”

  Dahl isolated a section of the map and magnified it. It showed an intersection surrounded by a variety of commercial buildings.

  “The suspect has rented a capsule in the Worlds Travel Lodge at 12 West and 2 North. Tonight at 0300, we will leave a minimal number of patrol units on their usual stations. The rest will establish a perimeter around the 12W and 2N intersection for a block in either direction. There is an Artery transit station just half a block north on 2N, so pay attention to that escape vector. Apprehension will be done by the QRF, which will enter the facility from the rooftop emergency access and secure the floor, then proceed to the capsule, where the suspect will hopefully be in the deepest phase of his REM sleep. The JSP patrols will maintain the block of the intersection and the quarantine of the building until the QRF unit leader reports a successful apprehension. Once the suspect is in QRF custody, they will evacuate the area with him via gyrofoil, and the patrol units will lift the block and return to their assigned sectors. If all goes as planned and expected, the operation will conclude at 0315. Does anyone have questions?”

  Idina watched as Dahl answered the few clarification requests that followed her prompt. After months of joint briefings and patrols, even the Alliance troops deferred to the Gretian police captain, talking with the same level of respect and courtesy they would use if Dahl wore a Pallas Brigade uniform instead. The JSP concept of joint responsibility and integration had been a full success, even if it had taken years to work out the friction and smooth out the burrs. But this was the only unqualified success of the occupation, achieved by the cooperation of a group of people used to discipline and teamwork. Idina wasn’t sure the model could ever be transplanted into a civilian setting, not with everyone trying to pull the rope in different directions.