“What’s your name, Private?”
“Mulligan, Sir.” She saluted, and he half-heartedly returned.
“How did you know? Surely they weren’t broadcasting their position. Helm had nothing. I had nothing.”
She looked down at her console. “There was an anomaly in the sensor sweep as we completed the slingshot, Sir—a cluster of tight, short-wave frequencies, nothing the fleet uses; it’s an outdated form of—”
“Radio,” he said. She nodded, smiling. A shock of curly red hair had broken free from her tight bun, and she swept it out of her face. “I should have guessed,” he murmured. Every time they had run the simulation, the aliens had surprised them with new twists on old technologies. That’s why he had been inspired to order kinetics this time; they had gone down in a blaze of glory three of four runs past when they had been pinned down by a strafing run before being obliterated by nukes.
His reverie was broken by Sock’s voice. “Unidentified ships ahead, closing.” He glanced up at the screen and thought he saw a distant shape reflecting starlight out into the void. His console lit up with two little blips, dead ahead.
“Captain on the bridge,” Sock announced. The doors slid open and the crew all rose to their feet, Lucas with them.
“Sir.” He saluted. Captain Harris returned it and took his chair. His face was even grimmer than usual as he studied his console. After a moment he cleared his throat.
“All missiles ready, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, Sir.”
“Gunner, spin up the plasma charge.”
Tompkins turned to face the captain, the question on his lips. Lucas caught his eye and shook his head. The kid returned to his console and began calling up the plasma charger. No point letting the captain know they had been playing their heavily modded game on the bridge just seconds before.
“Sir.” Lucas’ mouth ran dry. “Are we expecting a fight?”
Harris let out a sigh through his nose, frowning up at the view screen. The distant shapes had coalesced into two distinct vessels, their bodies sleek and fierce. “If I had to place a bet, yes. Expect a fight.”
“Any idea what we’re dealing with here?”
The captain nodded, his eyes never leaving the view. “Pirates.”
Chapter 2
Colonel Sand’s lower lip was propping up his upper lip, as if to keep the obvious frown at bay. He looked like he had just taken a bite from a sour, old lemon. He started talking, and the sound washed over Lucas, void of meaning, just more of the same. You did this when you should have done that. Blah blah blah, not competent. Blah blah, not sure you understand the standard of leadership. Blah. Blah. Blah.
And then that magical, holy word: “But.”
“But,” Sand said, taking a deep breath, “my colleagues and I have conferred at length, and we have reached a decision, Cadet.”
Lucas’ back straightened and he forced himself to look the older man in the eye. Here it was. His fate hung on the next few seconds. “It was not unanimous, at first… but we have finally agreed to pass your combat command test, without reservations.”
The glory and exultation swept through him, followed by a sinking in the pit of his stomach. No reservations meant he would surely secure a command. Meant that sooner or later he would face the test again, but in the real world. With a real ship, and crew, and enemy.
“Please understand,” Sand continued. “Off the record? There are a number of reservations. You still have a lot to learn, kid.” He shook his head, smiling a little. “But those other scores. I’ll tell you something, Odin. Your dad would be a proud, proud man.”
Ah. So that was it. Of course Lucas’ excellent scores in every test except combat command may have factored in, but ultimately it was the ghost of his father pulling the strings. Even in death, the old man kept a vice-grip on his son’s destiny. How bittersweet.
Part of him had wanted to reject it flat out. To say, “Thank you, but I cannot accept on the merit of a man I never knew.” But his sense of duty prevented it. Because the Kuiper colonies were under constant threat, and the fleet needed all the talent it could muster. And while fighting and flying may not have been his fortes, he still knew at the end of the day that he was a truly talented young man. The fleet could do what they wanted with his combat score. They needed his mind.
A year later, after having served a term as Sand’s assistant and then shooting up to First Officer on the Fairfax, Lucas was having second thoughts. Especially as he watched the two unidentified pirate ships grow larger on the view screen.
“Missiles ready, Sir.” Caspar’s voice betrayed none of the nerves Lucas felt. Of course not. She lived for combat, thrived on the very thought of it. If anything, she sounded like she hoped things were about to get hot.
“Plasma charge ready, Sir.” Lucas quirked an eyebrow. Even the noob gunner sounded more confident than he felt.
“Communications,” Harris said, his eyes still on the view screen. “Send a message back to the Council’s embassy on Mars. Give them our coordinates and tell them we are being approached by two unidentified Stag-Class warships, likely pirates.”
“Aye, Sir.” Mulligan bent to her work, her loosened hair falling back into her eyes. Harris turned at the sound of her voice and squinted at her, then beckoned to Lucas. When he arrived, the captain leaned in and lowered his voice, frowning.
“Is that a security Private at my comm station, Odin?”
“Right, my apologies, Sir.” Lucas shooed Mulligan from the console and took her place.
“Too bad we aren’t hauling candy,” Harris muttered. “I hear that’s easy to take from babies.”
Lucas blushed and pulled up their coordinates, then punched in the message. Great. Now he was serving as the comm officer, and he was being derided by his captain in front of the bridge. It was doing wonders for his self-esteem, he was sure.
A light flashed at his station. “Sir, I’m picking up a livefeed.”
Harris sat. “On-screen.”
What appeared was a terribly backlit figure, the face bathed in shadow. Evidently the pirates had a flair for theatre. Either that, or a reason to hide their identity—something pirates usually didn’t hesitate to share. Helped with their notoriety.
“Starship Fairfax,” it said, a jumble of human voice, synthesized speech, and modulators. “You will disarm all weapons and prepare to be boarded. Failure to do so will result in your destruction. You will bring all munitions to your main cargo bay and leave them unattended. Failure to do so will result in your destruction.”
They wanted ammo? Lucas frowned. That hardly seemed worth the risk of threatening one of the Fleet’s flagship vessels. If a firefight got started, they would gamble away everything they were hoping to gain. And probably their lives.
“This is Captain Ronald Harris. We will do no such thing.” Harris’ voice was hard as steel. “You haven’t the power to back up the threat. And we are here on behalf of the Kuiper Council, backed with the full authority of the Colonies. Unidentified Captain, I order you on their behalf to surrender yourself to me unconditionally. We will receive your shuttle peacefully.”
The altered voice laughed, a strange sound through the filter. “We will give you another minute for your scans to bring you up to speed on the situation. I’m sure you will find our terms the more reasonable.”
“Sir.” Randall turned to face the chair. “Sock has detected two Armageddon-class weapons.”
Harris was silent for a moment. Then he sniffed. “Unidentified vessel, it seems you are harboring highly illegal materials on board. You should be shot out of the sky for that.”
“Yes,” the voice responded. “Probably. But now we all know you’re in no position to do that, have you reconsidered our generous offer?”
“I have,” Harris growled. “Portside bay will be ready in ten minutes. Harris out.”
—
Lucas wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his pants for what seemed like the hundredt
h time, then hoisted the crate of small munitions with a grunt. He bit the sound off. Wouldn’t do for the crew to see him struggling to do his part. The whole point of being down here was so they could see him lead by example. Most of the ammo was being rolled down the corridors to the cargo bay by automation, but there wasn’t time to let Sock take care of all of it. They were down to good old-fashioned grunt-work.
“Join the Fleet, they said,” a young voice strained to grumble. Lucas turned and saw the kid, Private Tompkins, bending under the weight of his own crate. His breathed through his mouth, showing off a pair of big front teeth with a noticeable gap in between. “It’ll be fun, they said. Glory. Girls. Where was I when they read the fine print about hard labor?”
“Stow it, Gunner.” Lucas grit his teeth and held his breath to keep from showing his own lack of physical fitness as he passed the private, who was ambling down the hall beside another young officer.
“Yes Sir, Officer Odin, Sir. And it’s Private Tompkins, Sir.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Uh, hey, Sir?” Tompkins shuffled a little faster to catch up. Lucas heard metal clink against metal from inside the private’s crate, and winced.
“What’s on your mind, kid?” He blew out some air, unable to hold it in any longer. Oh, well. Anyone who’d been on the training deck at the same time as he had been knew he wasn’t in gladiatorial shape, anyway.
“Well, it’s kinda funny, don’t you think?”
“The notion of you, thinking?” Lucas quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah, it’s pretty funny.”
“Oh, good one, Sir.” Tompkins shifted the crate in his arms and it clinked again. “I mean, it’s funny that a couple of pirate tugs would risk tussling with the Fairfax over nothing but a few missiles. You know?”
Lucas frowned again, both at the crate and at what the kid said. The sound of a door hissing open behind him startled him so much he almost dropped his ammo—would have, if Tompkins hadn’t reached out and steadied him with one hand. Lucas turned and saw Taurius, the Martian Ambassador, peering out. He had seen the pale, sun-starved face when they had brought him on board, of course, but it was still a shock. The man looked like a corpse. He supposed that must be normal for someone who had lived all their life underground. At least out in the far belt they had rigged a system of reflecting stones to dole out the distant sunlight. Taurius had only ever known florescent light. The near-translucent hue of his skin was accented by his deep purple robes. Ceremonial? Or just pajamas? A thick scent, sharp and floral, rolled out into the corridor. Lavender?
“Something the matter, Officer?” Taurius’ accent was harsh and clipped, reminding Lucas of the distance humanity had come to live in the Belt. He shook his head, suddenly aware he had been staring at the Ambassador.
“Nothing to do with our mission, Sir. Just a… an inconvenience.”
Tompkins leaned over his crate and grinned like an idiot. Taurius gawked at his tooth-gap. “Pirates,” Tompkins whispered gleefully. Lucas would have shoved him if he hadn’t been hauling sixty pounds of light ammo. Taurius’ eyes widened.
“It’s nothing to do with the Summit, Sir.” Lucas bumped Tompkins, nudging him out of the line of Taurius’ sight. “You should be safe in your quarters. But for good measure, I recommend you keep the door shut and lay low for an hour or two. I can comm you to let you know when we are back on track, if you like.”
Taurius nodded and disappeared back into his room, the door hissing closed again. Lucas glared at Tompkins, ready to tear into him for butting in and scaring the ambassador. But Tompkins was already moving again. He called back to Lucas over his shoulder.
“Good thing I was so alert, huh, Sir? You should really be more careful when carrying munitions. Almost dropped the whole payload. But aww, don’t worry. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.”
Lucas ground his teeth once more and followed down the corridor.
—
The loading bay was a mess. Trailers of heavy ammo skated in on tracks run by Sock, taking up a large chunk of space near the hangar doors. Crewmen carried crate after crate in, looked around, and, despairing of any system, set them down haphazardly. Lucas grimaced.
“Gunner, help me stack these up.”
Tompkins joined him and they began organizing the smaller crates along a back wall. “So how’d you do it, Sir?” The private tried to stay casual, but excitement churned in his voice.
Ah. The mods.
It must have been eating the kid alive. He clearly knew a thing or two about simulators, so he probably realized the kind of modifications he had seen up on the bridge were strictly prohibited from use on Fleet ships. And every Ship’s Operating Computer was programmed to prevent their implementation. For an answer, Lucas stepped up to the nearest dispensary—they were ubiquitous onboard the Fairfax—and ordered a drink. “Sock, club soda. Neat.”
“Order confirmed,” the computer chirped. “Salt-rubbed okra meat.” A few seconds later, a ding, and Lucas took and held out the steaming vegetable to the kid. It had been peeled down and rubbed with sea-salt.
“Hope you like your greens, Gunner.”
Tompkins looked in confusion at the okra. Then his eyes lit up.
“That was your backdoor? The dispensaries? That’s how you got around Sock’s firewall and—”
Lucas stopped his mouth with the vegetable. “Learn to keep a secret. And don’t complain about whatever Sock gives you. Apparently there’s some glitch; work order’s been in for weeks but it’s backed up in a wash of technical gobbledyguck.” In actuality it was a lot more complicated and not nearly as clever as it sounded. Yes, he and Caspar had managed to gain permissions from Sock to mod the sim program by altering some of the coding closely tied to the dispenser function, but the result was more than an occasional odd treat. The dispenser—sometimes the voice-command itself—seemed to be growing increasingly unpredictable. Their little hack had introduced an unintended instability into the system, one that would have to be remedied sooner or later. But no use boring the kid with all of that right now—or letting him think Lucas was anything other than a comp god. He winked subtly and turned around, sighing. There were a lot more crates to move.
“Unidentified shuttle approaching,” Sock announced. “Clear hangar for decompression. Arrival imminent.”
“Officer Odin?” The voice that came over Lucas’ comm didn’t belong to Harris.
“Randall? The Captain with you?”
“Ah, no Sir.” Randall sounded even more scattered than usual. “I think he’s on his way down. He ordered me to tell you to clear the loading bay as soon as that shuttle showed up. So, ah, clear the bay, Sir. Please.”
At least Lucas wasn’t the only one feeling a little out of his element.
“Rodger that, Randall.”
He spent the next minute getting everyone else back out the double doors and away from the bay. He was about to turn and leave when Sock announced the shuttle had landed. He peered through the triple-shielded windows of the decompression chamber to catch a glimpse of their mystery visitors.
The nondescript shuttle that touched down gave nothing away—could have been ex-military, could have been civilian. Nothing fancy. The chamber pressurized and three thugs hopped out—tall, broad-shouldered, and masked.
Hmm. He wasn’t getting many clues.
“Think they’re really pirates?” Tompkins stood at his shoulder.
“Why are you still here, Gunner?” Lucas frowned at the Private.
Footfalls echoed in the bay. Lucas sniffed and rubbed his nose. Odd. He smelled lavender here, too.
“Odin!” He turned to the sound of his name whispered urgently and saw the captain crouching behind a stack of crates, a pistol at his belt and a blaster rifle in his hands. “Get down!”
Lucas sank to his knees behind his own crates, pulling Tompkins down with him. “Captain,” he whispered. “What are you doing? What’s the plan?”
“Bay doors open,” Sock announced, and the decompressi
on room’s inner doors opened. Harris held a finger to his lips and shook his head. Too late to explain now. They were in a combat situation. Lucas’ stomach rolled. He reached for his belt and felt his own shock pistol there, took it out, turned the safety off, and cursed under his breath.
The loading bay floor gleamed like polished steel, it had been kept so meticulously clean. Harris ran a tight, clean ship. If he couldn’t have a senior staff, the least he could have was a clean floor. Many a private had whiled away the hours sweeping and scrubbing, even though Sock was equipped for the job. The captain believed a little elbow grease was good for one’s character. Now Lucas alternated between looking at the floor to watch the reflection of Harris, who had dodged behind his crates, and peering over the edge of his own crate to keep an eye on their guests.
It felt like an unendurably long time, squatting there, doing nothing but trying to breathe as quietly as possible while the masked men loaded up crate after crate onto their little freight shuttle. It was amazing the thing still had any room for them to sit. They grunted as they lifted one together that looked long enough to carry a body.
Surely any second now the captain would give a signal and they would open fire. Lucas forced himself to breathe through his nose and tried to slow his heart rate. He watched them carry the long, heavy crate.
Lucas spotted movement in the corner of his eye, and glanced down to the floor, seeing the reflection of the third pirate as the man squatted down to lift a nearby crate. That wasn’t good. If Lucas could see his reflection around the crates, the man could doubtless see his. He sucked in his breath and silently told himself to remain perfectly still. All that moved were his eyes.
It must have been enough.
The man dropped back two steps, lifted his rifle to his shoulder, and dropped to one knee. “Show yourself!” His voice was masked but commanding.
Tompkins chose that moment to arm himself and see if he could get the pirate in his sights. Idiot. The pirate fired a warning shot over his head, the blaster round hot enough to warm Lucas’ skin. He had no doubt the next shot would be aimed to kill.
Starship Fairfax: Books 1-3 Omnibus - The Kuiper Chronicles: The Lunar Gambit, The Hidden Prophet, The Neptune Contingency Page 2
