by Dan Thompson
The door opened on its own, and there was a flurry of activity. The first team charged in, while the second one surrounded the doorway in the hall. The shoulder cameras of the first team showed no combat, just a quick takedown. It took another minute of checking in with all the teams to confirm it. They had Victor Trent in custody.
Despite the fun he had had on Tsaigo, Collins knew that he was going to enjoy this particular interrogation even more.
Chapter 18
“There’s an old expression about ships passing in the night, but I never quite understood it. It’s people who pass by in port. You see them once, and then they’re gone. I don’t think I like that.” – Peter Schneider
DINNER WAS A PLEASANT AFFAIR, but it did not carry the same sense of importance that his night of toasts back on Cenita had. Certainly some of it was that Michael was not the center of attention. He was merely at the head of a table of six, tucked away in the corner. But more than that, having his crew along suddenly made him the old hand, the one who had already seen all of this. It was not new anymore, but that still had a special quality of its own.
He ordered a liberal amount of wine, though it seemed that Carlos and Dieter consumed the majority of it. Neither Hector nor Winner drank at all, but Winner did wolf down a half-kilo steak. Vivian and Hector ordered a dish Michael had never seen that involved fried apples stuffed with crumbled sausage. They offered him one, and while it was indeed tasty, he found it very awkward to eat.
Still, these were his crew, and he found himself genuinely liking them. Carlos told a number of stories from his years out in space, some so rowdy and implausible that they reminded him of Malcolm’s tall tales. Vivian managed to top Carlos’s story of an errant shipboard dog with a story of a colony-bound piglet that had gotten loose from its cargo pen and managed to hide out in the environmental system crawlspaces for two more ports. Hector amazed them with some bits of film trivia, and Dieter even played a couple of short pieces on his sitar to the applause of some of the closer tables. Winner was fairly quiet throughout the evening, but at least she smiled more than Michael was used to seeing.
It was a shame that they had left Richard behind on the Sophie, especially because Michael knew Richard had found most of them. He made a point of including Richard in his toast, and decided that they would most definitely do this again sometime at a groundside port where they could leave the Sophie behind and enjoy their full company.
After a little more than two hours, they wound down and started to file out. Dieter had gone first, hoping to find a club to play in. Carlos went next, saying he did not know Ballison station that well and wanted to do a little exploring before going back to sleep on the ship. Vivian headed back right away, wanting to get a full night’s sleep before her watch shift in the morning, and Hector went off in hunt of a theater. Winner merely excused herself politely. He thought to tell her to be careful, but he did not want to bring it up in front of the others. He paid the tab, was a little shocked at how much the wine had cost, and began making his way out.
A voice stopped him. “Michael Fletcher—is that you?”
He turned and saw Captain Leonard Bradley of the Hamilton James. “Captain Bradley. Yes, it’s me.” He stepped up to the raised bar and took the older man’s outstretched hand. “It’s good to see you.”
Bradley looked at him. “So you really did it after all. A captain, at your age … damn, but that would have made old Malcolm proud.”
“I’d like to think so, sir.”
Bradley laughed. “No more sirs from you, Michael. You’ve got the star on your collar now, so in here, I’m either Captain Bradley or, in your case, Leo.” He motioned him to the barstool next to his. “So, the last time I saw you was all the way back at Tortisia, and you were looking for Malcolm’s war records. Did you ever find what you were looking for?”
Michael took the seat and nodded. “It was more complicated than I expected, but in the end, I think he did as well as anyone could expect of him.”
“You’re satisfied then?”
“Mostly. At least, I know Malcolm’s role in it, but I’m following up on some loose threads.”
“Oh?”
Michael glanced around, determined to be more circumspect than with his drunken babbling to Xavier Foshey. “When the war was over, you left the privateer program, right?”
“I did. They asked me to stay on for some kind of peacetime program, but I didn’t want to.”
“Why not?”
Bradley shook his head. “It’s …” He sighed. “Mind you, I like the Confederacy, and I liked them enough to fight for them—for us, I suppose—but wars are never as clean as history makes them.”
Michael nodded. Apart from Malcolm, he had never dealt with a casualty first-hand, but he knew the war had been full of them, especially for the cargo haulers. “I understand. How many crew did you lose?”
“Five,” he grumbled, “but that’s not what I meant. You grew up with Malcolm, and he was pretty much a black-and-white kind of guy. No middle ground, right?”
Michael nodded. “Well, in some things there is no gray.”
“Granted, but what do you think the war was about?”
“Well, the Caspians wanted to break off with this entire sector, and we didn’t want to let them.”
“More or less, but why did the Caspians want to break off?”
“They …” Michael considered how to answer. It had been something about representation or population. Or had that been the Confederacy breaking away from the old Republic? No, that had been the Free Soil rebellion in the Senate. Or was it?
“You don’t really know, do you?”
Michael frowned. “History never ranked high in Malcolm’s shipboard curriculum.”
Bradley chuckled. “I’ll grant you it doesn’t help you much when the sails are down, but it’s worth knowing.”
“All right, then why did the Caspians want to break away?”
Bradley sighed. “The politicians dressed it up in talk of interstellar security and safe buffer zones, but the reality is they wanted to break the Caspian sector in two.”
Michael shook his head. “That doesn’t make much sense. It’s already the smallest sector in the Confederacy.”
“It is now,” Bradley replied. “Back in the day, it stretched almost all the way to the Solarian border. The only buffer zone we had back then is what’s now the Echinoan Federation, and that’s barely a sliver. And when they had their own troubles, it looked for a while like they were going to slip back under Solarian control, and then we were going to be eye-to-eye with those old Republic Solarian bastards.”
Michael nodded at that. The biggest, and virtually only, naval battles since the discovery of FTL travel had been between the early Confederacy and the fracturing Republic. He had at least studied that much history, though to be honest, most of his knowledge of those battles came from all the vids he had watched growing up. “So, what? We wanted to magically stuff fifty light-years between us and the Solarians?”
“If it had been an option, I imagine they’d have wanted a few hundred light-years. But no, they simply drew a new border, right through the middle of the Caspian sector and told all of those colonists to either move back home or fend for themselves.”
“And that’s the border we have now?”
“Close. I think originally it might have stretched out as far as Nirette or even Stilson’s Rock. Past that, the planetary pickings are pretty slim until you get to the Echinoan Federation, but there were still thirty-eight worlds out there. Then one morning, they’re all on the wrong side of the border and none too happy about it, to say nothing of their financial backers. Almost half of them had been funded by the industrialists on Tsaigo, and on the eve of them turning a profit on it, the politicians all the way back at Callista Prime were telling them to flush it all away.”
“But I thought they were trying to tear off a piece of the Confederacy, not make it … well, keep it bigger.”
&nbs
p; Bradley nodded. “The folks on the outside knew they’d never survive on their own, so they wanted to take the whole Caspian sector with them, all the way back to Folsom.”
Michael blinked in disbelief. “But that’s almost all the way to—”
“Latera? Yeah. And when the bulk of the Arvin fleet followed their local allegiances and signed up with the Caspians, they almost did it. If the base commander hadn’t held out … well, they might have pulled it off. The civilian stationmaster was in bed with him—some say literally—and between the two of them, they held Arvin for the Confederacy until the third fleet arrived from Retilla.”
“And from there to Tsaigo and Cenita?” Michael prompted.
“Ballison and Taschin, too. I see you do know some of the history. But then it was six months of cat and mouse with the Confederates never hitting the main Caspian fleet—or at least, never finding the carriers—while the faster elements of the Caspian fleet wreaked havoc with the Confederate supply lines. After that, it fell into the long-haul strategy of containment, blockade, and isolation.”
“And that’s when you joined the privateer fleet?”
“Something like that,” he said with a shrug. “I was halfway to the Solarian border when the Arvin fleet mutinied, and with a mixed crew to boot. My chief engineer was from Kavenir along with my environmental lead. My pilot was from Waloen. Hell, my cook was from the Solarian Union. But I was from Mariner’s Rock, all the way back in the Gemini basin, and my navigators were both from Callista Prime itself.” He shook his head. “We damn near fought the whole rebellion in the galley.”
“But you were the captain.”
“Yes, I was, and with mutinies happening from Arvin to Serina, I wanted to stay that way. So I put it to a vote. We could go try the Union routes, head all the way out to the League of Catai, or we could split the crew, and I’d take the Hamilton James back to Confederate-controlled space.”
“So you split the crew?”
He nodded. “In that, we were damn near unanimous. I dropped them off as I went and quietly gathered up a few Confederate loyalists who were looking to get back into friendly territory—or at least friendly bars—and made it back to Arvin just as they were gathering up ships for the privateer fleet. By then, a third of my crew were retired military, so it made sense. The Navy folks upgraded my gun, converted a couple of my unofficial cargo bays into missile launchers, and paid me a bonus to boot.”
“Did you see much action?”
Bradley looked away. “Some. More than I wanted.” He turned back to face Michael. “But not as much as your father. Malcolm and the Hammerhead always seemed to be in the thick of it.”
“Why?”
“I know it’s hard to imagine it, Michael, but back in the day, Malcolm always struck me as something of a patriot.”
“A patriot?” Michael shook his head. “If you knew half the shit he pulled …”
Bradley held up his hands. “I never said he was a law-abiding patriot. No, far from it, but I think he really loved the Confederacy back then.”
Michael nodded. That, he could believe. “So how did it all end? The history I read said the Caspians caved in from the blockades and surrendered.”
“Something like that,” he replied, lifting his drink to his lips, but stopped and set it down again. “But there was a stink to it.”
“How so?”
He shook his head. “I never heard anything official, but the rumor at the time was that it wasn’t the Caspian government that surrendered. It was their fleet.”
“I’m not sure I see the difference. If the fleet surrendered in a battle—”
“No, it wasn’t a battle, at least none I heard about. They had a big chunk of their fleet massed at Renier, something like eight of their twelve carriers, and it was that fleet that surrendered. No courier or anything. They sailed right into Ballison and handed over the core of the Caspian defense. Without it, the rebel Caspian government at Kavenir folded, and there’s never been anything holding them together since.”
“Not even the Yoshido Syndicate?”
Bradley snorted. “They were outlaws back when the Confederacy claimed the space, and they’re still outlaws. If they’ve done anything to unify those scattered worlds, it’s by taking advantage of their hate for the government back on Callista Prime. I don’t care how strong they claim to be, they’ll never be a proper government.”
Michael nodded. “I suppose not.”
“So, these loose threads you’re following up on. Are they with Malcolm’s Navy friends or the Yoshido Syndicate?”
Michael frowned. “A little of both. Mostly right now I’m trying to get to Arvin to check in with an officer at the base there. I don’t know what exactly is happening after that.”
“So you’re all set then? Ship and crew working well?”
“Yeah, I was here buying dinner for my crew. And you, how are things on the Hamilton James?”
“The wind’s still blowing, and we’re still sailing,” he said. “I don’t suppose you remember a young gal I have on my crew …”
“Lena?”
“Oh, I see she left an impression on you.”
He nodded with a bashful grin. “Plus, I ran into her a few hours ago.”
“Did she already hit you up for a job?”
Michael chuckled. “It came up. So, you know she’s been looking?”
“Yes, and with my blessing. It’s not like I’m trying to get rid of her or anything, but she’s ready to move up, and I don’t have anything for her. She came on board back when she was underage—her mom is an old friend—and the last time we passed through Deshmon, I promised Nora I’d do what I could to find her a good ship. She’s an adult now, but the last thing I want is for her to end up under the heel of some crappy officer.”
“I can certainly understand that, and I might be able to help.”
“Really?”
He held out his arm and tugged on the sleeve of his uniform. “As you can see, I’m no longer with Schneider & Williams, but I still have a lot of friends there. I told her we could go to the local shipping office and ask them about any open postings. The Ludwig is here in port, but they’re full up. Still, their chief engineer told me there’s usually a few postings open somewhere.”
Bradley nodded. “Well, that would be damn nice of you. Should I forward her profile along with my recommendation?”
“That would be good, and she said she had been cross-training to other positions. If you could detail any shifts she’s pulled in those, that would be a big help in making them look like more than a paper rating.”
“You’re right. Hell, I should come down there with her. What time is she supposed to be there?”
“Ah …” Michael stammered. “We didn’t set a time for going to the office. The truth is that I was going to meet her for dessert in a little while.”
“Dessert?”
Michael did his best not to look nervous and utterly failed. “Well, I mean ... yes, dessert.”
Bradley shook his head and grinned. “Ah, to be young again. When are you meeting her?”
He checked his watch. “Shit! I’m supposed to meet her in eighteen minutes all the way down on ring four.”
Bradley smiled. “Then you’d better get your ass in motion.”
“I will. Thank you.” He stepped away, but Bradley caught his arm.
“And Michael …”
“I know,” he said, remembering Susan Carson’s words on the dock. “Treat her right.”
Bradley shook his head. “No, be someone who treats her right.”
Michael was not sure he understood the distinction but nodded. “Yes, sir. I mean, Leo … yes, I will do my best.”
“I suppose that’s all any of us can do, but make your best pretty damn good.” He released Michael’s arm. “Now get going before the young lady starts looking elsewhere.”
Michael muttered a final thanks and headed for the door as briskly as decorum would allow, but as soon as he
was through the lobby, he bolted into a sprint. There was a line at the elevator, and for a moment he wished he had a runner’s badge with him. In fact, he even considered shouting out something like “ship’s emergency” to make his way through, but he did not. He even shook his head at the formality of his decision. That kind of fudging the truth was what marred his first meeting with Lena.
Eventually, he got to the head of the line and took the lift down the long trip to ring four, and once the doors opened, he dashed past the milling crowd and into a full-on sprint. He hit the ring an eighth of a turn from Tully’s Teahouse and ran the entire way. He made it through the doors and paused to catch his breath, wishing he had been spending more time on the treadmill on board ship. He checked his watch again: 22:03. Damn.
He scanned around the room and found it surprisingly full for such a late hour. Then he saw her, sitting in a small wrap-around booth in the far corner. She wore a deep blue dress with spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline. He strode across the room and stopped at the table. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
She shook her head but broke out into a playful grin. “Captain Bradley called and took the blame for delaying you.” She patted the bench next to her. “I imagine he gave you the fire-and-brimstone version of the ‘be good to her’ speech.”
Michael shrugged. “Something like that,” he said and sat next to her.
“I went ahead and ordered,” she said, taking his hand. “There’s this seven-layer chocolate confection that is to die for.”
He looked at her hand in his and gave her another look. Her neck was bare, but she wore a pair of earrings that had not been there before. Her hair was different as well, pinned up by something silver. “You look …” he stammered, “well, you look to die for.”
She blushed. “Thank you, Michael.”
The waiter arrived with a tray of large chocolate balls, each about the size of a donut hole. Tiny chocolate sprinkles sat atop a liberal coating of chocolate syrup. She picked one up and looked at him expectantly. “Open your mouth.” He complied, and she placed it between his front teeth. “Don’t take it all in. Bite through it. It’s better that way.”
