by M. D. Cooper
Ngoba sat in a chair opposite the affable chancellor. “You’ve been eating, that’s good.”
“What else am I going to do? I’m not interested in dying on Cruithne of all places. Without Link access, I can listen to music and watch vids. I’ve been teaching myself to meditate.”
“How’s that going for you?” Ngoba asked.
“Quite well. You know, I’d never realized now much useless noise was constantly bouncing around inside my skull until I had no reason to listen anymore.”
“You must be worried about what’s happening in Sol. About your people.”
Osla shrugged. “I have no control over that situation. Even if I knew what was happening, all I could do was sit here and pull my hair out.”
“They don’t know you’re here.”
Ngoba wasn’t sure Osla had been aware of that fact. It wasn’t until Cara left with the Amplified Solution that they became aware of the Collective groups scouring Marsian space for the ship, thinking their chancellor was still on board. Cara had dealt smartly with a few breaching attempts in just the last week.
Ngoba studied him. If Osla really knew nothing about what was happening throughout Sol, including the insurrection attempts on Cruithne, how could he be used to control them?
What if recordings were released, showing the man was alive and a prisoner without any indication of location or group holding him? Would that weaken Collective operatives, or simply make them more desperate?
What Ngoba didn’t like was the realization that he was planning various courses of action with the simple aim of wiping the smart-ass grin off Osla’s face. That was not an intelligent way to play the game.
Should I simply ignore this man and go about doing the work of ridding Cruithne of the Anderson Collective?
Ngoba couldn’t help feeling there was a better answer just beyond his view. He wished Fugia or Petral were still here to debate options. They could tell him he was acting out of pride and to get it over with.
Leaning back in his chair, Ngoba slapped his thigh. What had he told Crash back on Vesta? Sometimes a little chaos was what they needed to reset the board.
He reached into the front of his suit and pulled out a small pistol.
Osla spotted the weapon, and sat up straighter. “What’s that?” he demanded.
“Needle gun,” Ngoba said. He shot Osla in the neck. “Administers a fast-acting sedative. You probably won’t even feel it.”
The chancellor’s eyes went wide, and he slapped his neck. The needle had already disappeared beneath his skin. A tiny sac on the end of the needle, much like a bee’s stinger, would already be contracting until empty.
“Why bother?” Osla asked as he slumped on the couch. His legs were splayed, toes pointing out.
“Because it pleases me,” Ngoba said.
He replaced the pistol and stood, straightening his suit. Then he called for his guards.
LEGION OF HONOR
STELLAR DATE: 09.02.3011 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Amplified Solution
REGION: Hildas Asteroids, OuterSol
Screaming proximity alerts woke Cara from a nightmare. Her mind had been trapped in the buzz again, the world an endless blur.
When the alarms eventually stabbed through, dragging her into wakefulness, she spent a few seconds not knowing where she was. Her prison cell was the wrong shape. Her bed was too far off the floor. She had lost her prison uniform.
If she didn’t make it back to her cell before lockdown, they would take her back.
She pressed a hand to her chest, slowing her breathing. Fran had silenced the alarm.
Cara said.
Remembering the problem helped clear her mind. The prison was gone. She had her own ship now. She was going to rescue Tim.
There was a blockade in her way.
She pushed herself out of bed and stumbled into her lavatory to splash water on her face. The washed-out light made her look like a ghoul. She rubbed her eyes, then straightened her shipsuit, grabbed her pistol belt, and left her room.
Crash squawked at her when she entered the command deck.
They were still a good three days’ burn from Hilgram Station. There was nothing else in the area but a few small floating gravel piles with no valuable metals, and a cloud of debris dumped by the mining rig over the centuries. The Andersonian garden orbitals were massive rings nearly half the size of the station. There were three of them arrayed around the grid-like structure, oriented to capture as much of Sol’s light as possible. The poppies gave off an impressive IR signature, and the rings glowed red in the display.
Crash said.
Cara whistled.
Cara smiled grimly. They had already burned too far to act like they weren’t headed for Hilgram.
Fran entered the command deck and threw herself into the seat in front of the systems console. She pushed her wild hair off her forehead and secured it with a band at the back of her neck.
Rondo came in, rubbing his eyes, and sat at the navigation console. Adama rode his shoulders, green eyes blinking. Nothing seemed to bother the big cat.
Rondo peered at his screen.
Crash’s hail hung in wait status for nearly five minutes. Just when Cara was getting irritated at being ignored, a voice from the comms console answered.
“This is MSS Insurmountable. Authenticate registry.”
Cara straightened in her seat. “This is Captain Cara Sykes of the Amplified Solution. We already sent our registry data.”
“Your registry must be hacked, Captain. You’re flying a Marsian ship.”
“She’s a refurb. Who am I speaking to?”
“This is Lieutenant Trestin, Executive Officer of the MSS Insurmountable. I’ve never heard of a refurbished Marsian courser.”
“Neither had I, Lieutenant. I can send you the sales brochure if you’re interested. Listen, I’ve got a passenger bound for Hilgram Station. What’s with the security detail?”
There was a pause. “You’re either ignorant or a bad liar, Captain. Hilgram has been under quarantine since the Andersonian uprising started. No one goes in or out. Your passenger might be lucky they won’t be getting in.”
“They didn’t pay me to turn around,” Cara said.
“It doesn’t matter what they paid. No outside ships are passing the blockade. If you continue on your current vector, it will be considered an act of aggression, and we will take effective measures.”
C
ara sighed, trying to act the part of a freighter captain who was going to lose a very large fare. “This isn’t Marsian space. You don’t have any jurisdiction here.”
The lieutenant chuckled. “This is going to be a case of might makes right, Captain.”
Cara tapped her armrest, thinking of another tack. “What if I left them with you? I’m going to have a real problem on my hands if I can’t offload this passenger. It’s going to create an unsafe situation on my ship, and I’m not equipped to deal with it.”
She glanced at Rondo, who was nodding agreement with her new tack.
On the Link, he said,
There was another pause, then the lieutenant said, “Send me the name. We’ll see what we can do.”
Cara’s mind went blank. She hadn’t planned on actually making up a fake passenger.
Cara stared at Rondo for a second. He isn’t telling me everything.
Did she trust him?
Then she nodded.
“Passenger’s name is Sinclair Rondo,” she told the Marsian officer. “Sending ID.”
“Got it,” the officer answered, sounding bored now. There was another pause.
Fran shrugged.
Cara could only agree with a grim expression. The longer they waited, the fewer options they would have. Rondo’s plan would put them too close to the Marsians to evade. Fran’s would take them down in a blaze of glory.
Rondo looked up from his console. He was holding a translucent hand terminal between his meaty hands, typing with his thumbs.
For the first time, Cara saw not the goofy, bearded hacker, but a communications specialist with military special-ops experience.
He considered the question.
Rondo shrugged.
Cara said.
Crash blinked.
“Amplified Solution,” the lieutenant said, breaking up their conversation. “We’ve verified your passenger and will accept passage. It’s short notice, but my commander says we’ll provide full military honors befitting an inductee in the Legion of Honor.”
Cara shot Rondo a frown.
The big man hung his head and stared at his terminal.
When Rondo didn’t answer, she was forced to offer thanks to the lieutenant, who sounded as if he hoped to talk to their esteemed passenger.
“I’ll be honest,” Cara said. “We weren’t aware Mr. Rondo was in a legion of anything.”
“The Legion of Honor is the highest award for valor in the face of death bestowed by the Marsian Protectorate,” the lieutenant said testily. “Sinclair Rondo is the only living recipient.”
His emphasis on ‘living’ sent a worry down Cara’s spine. They didn’t trust that Rondo was who he said he was.
Rondo said.
Cara wanted to know what this was all about. That was obviously going to be a question for a later time.
“Thank you for the education, Lieutenant,” she told the Marsian. “If you send the docking sequence, we’ll get him over to you as soon as possible.”
“Of course. Thank you, Captain.” He paused again. “Do you know why he wants to visit Hilgram Station? And now, of all times?”
“I’m just a bus driver in this situation. He paid a fare, and we brought him to the provided address.”
“Right,” the lieutenant said. “I understand. Sending you the data now. Please let me know when you have receipt.”
Cara checked her console. “Looks good. We’ll be heading your way shortly. Amplified Solution out.”
Cutting the connection, Cara leveled a direct gaze on Rondo, who looked like he was trying to bury his head in his collar.
THE SLAB
STELLAR DATE: 09.02.3011 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Lowspin Docks
REGION: Cruithne Station, Terran Hegemony, InnerSol
Ngoba studied the unconscious form of Osla, spread out on the medical table. The man’s skin looked like raw fish, with a translucent quality at the surface that picked up the harsh overhead lights of the old surgery chamber.
Moving his gaze to the equipment arrayed around the room, Ngoba contemplated what fanciful shapes he could apply to the sedated chancellor. A peacock’s plumage? That would be fitting. Maybe the worm-like head appendage of an angler fish, with a third eye dangling from the man’s forehead? Anything was possible…and equally removable, once Osla was back in Andersonian control.
“You look like you want to cut him in half,” Kirre said.
His lieutenant was a lean wom
an with short, brown hair and a hawk-like face.
“I won’t lie. It’s crossed my mind. That, and a thousand other payments for the pain this man is causing Cruithne.”
Ngoba squeezed the dirty pink cloth in his hands. No, he wasn’t going to kill Osla. Just embarrass him a little, take him down a notch, set him loose on Cruithne to shake the trees of this uprising. The last thing Kamelon would expect would be for Osla to appear among the workers, disrupting his uprising.
“Him or the AI?” Kirre asked. “I think he’s a stooge. He’s too much of a playboy.”
“Could be both, or neither. And don’t discount Osla. He came up hungry on the Insi Ring, much like we did here. I reckon he’s got a plan, he just didn’t count on running into us. I think if things were going according to his plan, he’d be on a luxury cruiser for the JC right now, sending orders back to his armies on Luna and all the other abandoned places across Sol. It wasn’t a fool who placed his people in every empty factory, mine, and warehouse in the system.”
Her lips turned down. “If you say so. He hasn’t proved it to me yet.”
“This man has nothing to prove. Let’s help him with that. Are you ready to get this surgery started?”
“You made up your mind, boss?”
Ngoba shook his head. “I won’t sully myself by assaulting a man when he can’t defend himself. Beyond the tracker, anyway. Go ahead and start the business.”
Kirre waved at the technician next to the autodoc console. The thin man tapped a display and then stared at the results, nodding to himself.
Above Osla, a silver orb opened into thin, articulated arms and lowered toward his body.
Ngoba didn’t look away, forcing himself to watch what he had ordered done to the Andersonian chancellor. In his drugged state, the man would appear dead to an active scan that wasn’t searching for the correct stasis-inducing isotopes. Most scans also wouldn’t identify the organic tracker now being implanted in Osla’s spine.
