The Best of Deep Magic- Anthology One

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Republican signature burning hard for co-orbit. Looks like a frigate. Kali’s blazes,” muttered the captain, eyes glued to his screen. He reached up again to his microphone.

  “Giannis, what can you give me on mass flow? Another two, three, kilos a second?”

  Yuri could almost hear the engineer’s profanity through the captain’s earpiece; under any other circumstance, it would have been humorous to witness the exchange.

  “I understand, yes—yes—no, I really do. A kilo, then? We need to grab another few meters per second here; can you do it?”

  Yuri listened intently, trying to overhear the other side of the captain’s conversation. He saw all he needed when he saw the captain’s face darken, and the man sullenly respond.

  “Counting on you, Giannis.”

  The captain threw his head back in the chair and ran a hand through his black hair, eyes closed and face set in a look of aggravation. He spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Third lesson: all propulsion engineers are liars.”

  * * *

  The Alpha Centauri trinary system was awash in conflict, and the Doukas was rocketing into a political minefield. More than a century ago, a half-dozen independent entities—joined by a hodgepodge of national and supernational governments—dived wholeheartedly into the business of interstellar colonization in the wake of the invention of the translocation drive. One of the first of the fledgling colonies was the planet Mimir, an all-encompassing archipelago of islands dotting a single world ocean, the product of overeager terraforming caused by impatient arrogance. Many different entities founded their own small outposts on the low islands, and as the population grew, conflicts began to develop between the different factions over mineral rights, territory, and borders—no different from the squabbles that infected every other group of humans throughout history. After years of fruitless talks, negotiations failed and whispered threat exploded into a brutal, internecine bloodbath. But as the troops of the Republic of American States set boots in cloying Mimir mud, many of those that had managed to avoid taking sides—the Sol Merchant Guild among them—tasted the opportunity for profit.

  And so, along her venerable spine, clustered between the vast hydrogen propellant tanks and the clusters of radiators, the Doukas carried containers filled with her trade goods: platinum-group metal powders, refined for printing from Saturn’s dizzying array of moonlets; helium-3, that most valuable fusion reactant; and a wet container brimful of water melted from the gas giant’s majestic rings. Besides the helium-3, most of the rest of the goods would be worthless in the Sol System; the water-production and metallurgical facilities of the Belt were far closer to the shipyards orbiting Terra and Mars, and so their goods would always outcompete those of Cronus. But the guildsmen who worked the skies of the old titan had a trick up their sleeves: extrasolar colonies lacked the sophisticated technology necessary to maintain a modern society, and while the Republic’s colony-wide wartime blockades were in effect, those goods became that much more valuable. And so the Doukas arrived at Mimir, a streak of light deep in the black of space, laden with forbidden metals and cryogenics carved from the grasp of another star.

  “—Dimitrios, sir, I don’t understand.”

  Yuri’s face had slowly drained of what little color it originally held as the strain of the acceleration gnawed away at him, and now he looked expectantly at the captain. Dimitrios had been resting his eyes, content to let his crew and computer handle the minor course corrections. He opened them slowly—regretfully—and looked over in the vague direction of the deputy guildmaster’s son.

  “. . . understand?”

  “Obviously we need to make orbit before the Republican ship catches us—Father has explained their rules of engagement, how stations and orbital hubs are neutral ground. We get there first, we’re home free.”

  “I fail to see the question.”

  “But it’s not like it’s a mystery who will win this race, sir. That’s my quandary. We can see how fast they’re going, and they can see how fast we’re going, so don’t both of us already know who will make it first?”

  The Doukas’s master grinned, impressed for once at his young pupil’s comprehension.

  “So your old man did teach you something. You’re right, we both know just about everything we need to know about the other, just from our heat signatures: exhaust temperatures reveal thrust power and reactor configuration, and adding acceleration gives mass and even a good guess about likely cargo and crew complement—with a bit of math. No, they know we’ll beat them to orbit with hours to spare; they likely started their burn the moment they detected ours, but they were out of position and on an outbound heading, so they have much more ground to cover.”

  “So why does Giannis need to push the engine, if we’ll beat them handily?”

  The merchant captain stroked his thick black goatee thoughtfully, for a moment almost forgetting the rumbling of acceleration from the ship’s potent engine.

  “That, my dear lad, is because you’ve forgotten one thing. We’re not racing the Republican frigate, Yuri, not exactly; we’re racing light.”

  The youth’s look of immoderate consternation at the older man’s words left little of his confusion to the imagination.

  “Think it through, Yuri. We’re not at war with them, and we sure as blazes don’t want to start one. If they warn us to stop, we’ll have little choice but to obey. But—” At this, he twisted his console toward the youth, pointing at the low ebb in their hyperbolic path traced around Mimir. “If we can move our periapse to within shuttle range of that station, we’ve won, even once they tell us to stop. Ordering us to abandon orbit violates the Delhi Accords: they are required to let us circularize rather than risk us flinging off into interplanetary space or burning up in the atmosphere. So we’ll circularize and casually discard our shipping containers within range of a shuttle; there’s just about nothing they can legally do to stop the station, and that shuttle will have our cargo aboard before the Republic ship arrives.” The captain ran some calculations on his screen before continuing.

  “Our scans showed that if they fired off their message immediately after we ghosted in, we have another minute or so before it reaches us. And we’ll be where we need to be in about the same amount of time.” He winced. “It’s going to be close.”

  Captain Eleftheriou twisted the console back toward himself, muttering to himself as he pushed against the imposed gravity of acceleration.

  “If Giannis could have given me another half kilo of mass flow, we’d have nothing to worry about.”

  As if on cue, the console beeped angrily, and the youth immediately looked over to his own screen. His face fell.

  “Priority one message, sir. From the frigate.”

  Eleftheriou wistfully looked at the burn timer counting down for a few long moments before huffing at Republican impudence.

  “Looks like they’ve improved their detection speeds. Good to know, I suppose.”

  He picked at a piece of lint that had somehow managed to affix itself to his jumpsuit and flicked it toward the air return. With an ironically grandiose gesture, he tapped the button on his screen and the frigate’s message began to broadcast throughout the compartment.

  “Attention unknown vessel. You have entered a restricted area subject to military interdiction by the Republic of American States, under authority of the Declaration of Martial Law, article seven, section B. You are ordered to cease your burn immediately and stand to for cargo inspection. Failure to submit will result in immediate offensive action. You have thirty seconds from receipt of this message to comply. There will be no further warning.”

  Dimitrios looked at the clock again and tapped at his mic.

  “Giannis, we’ve done what we can. Shut her down. Pop the white flag while you’re at it.”

  The captain and the clerk immediately felt the burden of acceleration lift, replaced at once by the unsettling sensation of free fall. The pulsating waves of plasma blas
ting from the wire-formed nozzle dissipated, leaving the Doukas drifting calmly through space. All her radiators—fragile as rice paper under any sort of assault—unfurled to their maximum extent, the international signal of meek compliance. Captain Eleftheriou absentmindedly wrapped the chain of his medal around his finger, eyes still flashing with constant calculation. He turned to the deputy guildmaster’s son.

  “Well, Yuri. Now we wait.”

  * * *

  “Sir, it’s been one minute since they’ve received us.”

  The captain’s aide looked nervously over at the master of the Gibraltar, awaiting his reply. Captain Peter Gregory bore the face of a world-weary cynic: tired-eyed, gray-tinged tonsure ringing his prematurely bald pate, the beginnings of wrinkles now thinly stretched by the cruel tug of acceleration. His flight suit—the famous dark blue of the Orbit Guard—bore the ignominy of casual neglect, the golden striping of the collar tarnished by sweat, the pant seams having long abandoned their crease. The captain sighed heavily and waved his hand at the aide.

  “Patience, Ensign. They’ll comply.”

  True to his word, the incoming vessel’s exhaust trail evaporated, leaving the glowing-hot signature’s course unchanged. The captain grunted.

  “Guidance, will their final orbit be within range of the station’s shuttles?”

  His guidance officer, a hawk-eyed Bostonian, shook her head after a moment’s analysis.

  “No, Captain. After circularization, they won’t have time to adjust heading for rendezvous before we arrive.”

  The captain made a self-satisfied sound and turned to the officer.

  “Maintain present course, notify me when we’re within fifteen minutes of boarding.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The captain tapped on his screen and sent a command to his tactical officer.

  “Lieutenant Alvarado, as soon as we end the burn, I want a squad of your men armed and ready at airlock one. I will join you there. Prep another two squads and pods to inventory the cargo.”

  The voice over the ship’s comms answered with cool professionalism.

  “Yes, sir. Expecting trouble?”

  The captain sighed.

  “No, Lieutenant. Just a precaution.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  * * *

  Hours passed in silence as the crew of the Doukas anxiously awaited the rendezvous with the Republican frigate. Once the two ships had come in range for real-time communication, theGibraltar had transmitted a series of instructions for the crew, and Captain Eleftheriou had betrayed no intention to disobey. His young charge expressed dismay at the captain’s mild-mannered obsequiousness, but a single stern look from Dimitrios silenced any further muttering.

  Gradually, carefully, the Gibraltar came alongside the Doukas, maneuvering thrusters gently prodding the much smaller frigate into position adjacent to the old trading ship’s port airlock. Far below, the swirling, rain-heavy clouds of Mimir hugged the churning world-sea, and the occasional bolt of lightning sent momentary flashes glinting through the billowing masses, like the glow of far-off fireflies swallowed in the gloom of early evening. Captain Eleftheriou watched dispassionately through a tiny porthole, imagining the sheets of rain falling on Collins City or Endeavor.

  “Captain? What are we going to do?”

  Dimitrios turned away from the window and looked at the source of the ever-wearying voice, young Yuri.

  “What else? We’ll ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ and ‘have a good day, sir’ until we’re blue as their suits. You’ll learn, Yuri, that much of guild work is knowing when to remain silent—a fact that I trust you will grasp, preferably sooner rather than later.”

  The youth finally caught on to the captain’s jab, and shut his mouth pointedly. The captain turned back to the window, looking for a final moment down at the planet below, and then back up to the approaching airlock of the Gibraltar. The frigate’s universal docking port made short work bridging the gap between the two vessels, latching on to the Doukas’s airlock with a decisive click and booming thud. Captain Eleftheriou took a deep, calming breath and spread his hands and feet out wide, palms facing forward toward the airlock. The deputy guildmaster’s son mimicked him.

  The muffled sound of the pressure alarm on the far side of the airlock sounded, and the door cracked open, followed immediately by the angry muzzle of a boarding carbine. A suited figure followed the weapon through the door, eyes flitting back and forth behind a clear helmet as the guardsman scanned the room for threats. He took up a position immediately inside the door, sliding his foot into a hold on the wall, and gestured another three soldiers through, who took up positions above, below, and in front of Captain Eleftheriou. The merchant captain smiled as pleasantly as he could, keeping his position with a foot wedged against the side of the module, hands still. Captain Gregory came through the airlock next, irritable expression visible even behind a mask and pressure suit. He grasped a handhold and halted himself with practiced skill immediately in front of the trader.

  “I am Captain Peter Gregory of the Republic frigate Gibraltar, acting by and for the authority of the Senate of the Republic of American States. State your business in the Alpha Centauri system.”

  The merchant led off with a smile and a formal bow of his head.

  “Captain Gregory, a pleasure. I am Dimitrios Eleftheriou, and this is the Doukas, a licensed and bonded free trader of the Sol Merchants Guild. This is my second-in-command, Yuri Levin. We’re here to trade, of course.”

  The Republican captain looked over his nose at the two men with a barely contained look of disdain.

  “Do you gentlemen realize this system has been under martial interdiction for the better part of three months?”

  “I do recall seeing something of the sort in the spacer bulletin.”

  The captain snorted loudly enough that his suit’s internal microphone broadcast the sound. He pulled a tablet from a holster at his side and began to skim through the data on it, drawn from the Doukas’s registration information on the ship’s black box.

  “Would it be too much to presume, then, that your passing familiarity with the bulletins includes an understanding of what goods are prohibited merchandise?”

  The merchant captain raised his eyebrows and responded quickly to the guardsman’s sardonic barb.

  “Well, I would assume weapons, of course—that goes without saying.”

  “Yes, it does,” muttered the captain, flipping through the screens of data. He continued his queries without looking up.

  “You left Titan late yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No other stops along the way?”

  “No, sir, this is a direct-route transaction.”

  “And what is your cargo? I remind you, Captain, misleading or otherwise inaccurate responses to my questions will be deemed intentional and you will be charged with providing false information to a Republican officer in time of war.”

  As if to accentuate his point, a thudding sound reverberated through the hull as an EVA pod airlock connected to the external loading bay of one of the shipping containers aft of the crew module. The merchant captain grinned disarmingly.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Captain Gregory! No, this is a fairly standard cargo run. Titanium, palladium, platinum metal powders, helium-3, and good old H-2-O.”

  The captain looked up from his perusal of the ship’s manifest.

  “I see,” he remarked, a hint of amusement—or disgust—creeping into his voice. He switched off the broadcast microphone and spoke inaudibly inside his suit. The young assistant had watched this entire exchange with a growing sense of dread, and he fidgeted nervously with the flight-suit fasteners at his neck, causing the guardsman nearest him to gesture roughly with his carbine.

  “You there, hands in front of you.”

  Yuri obeyed instantly, eyes wide with fright. Captain Eleftheriou spoke soothingly, attempting to defuse the situation.

  “Guardsman, my a
pologies, my young second officer is green as Terran grass. Would you believe that this is his first trip in the black? Unbelievable, I know—to live your whole life on an icy orange popsicle like Titan.”

  The guardsman glared and lowered the carbine’s muzzle, and Dimitrios quietly exhaled, tension momentarily relieved. Captain Gregory switched his headset back on again.

  “Mr. Eleftheriou, I am happy to report to you that my men have verified that your cargo checks out with your manifest and your statements to me.”

  Dimitrios smiled and bowed slightly.

  “Of course, Captain Gregory. I wouldn’t dream of—”

  “I was not finished, Captain.”

  “My apologies, sir—”

  “All of the items on the manifest, however, are illegal goods carried in direct violation of the Declaration of Martial Law, article three, and notice posted in ‘Bulletins for Spacers,’ numbers four thirty-one and four thirty-five.”

  Captain Eleftheriou’s face drained of color.

  “Well, that’s, that’s—all of them?”

  “Yes, I can provide you with the citations if you like.”

  “Yes, I would, actually,” stammered Captain Eleftheriou, sheet-white face now slowly coloring red.

  “Titanium, palladium et al metals, powdered or ingot form: prohibited by article three, section one, subsection seven. Potential use in military weaponry or vessel construction. Helium-3, in gaseous or liquid form: prohibited by article three, section one, subsection three. Potential use in restricted reactor technology. Water, in gaseous, liquid, or solid form—”

  “Now wait just a moment. This is outrageous, Captain! I mean, yes, you could use titanium for military applications, but you could say the same about any material in existence!”

  “Are you quite done?” The Republican captain’s icy retort stopped Eleftheriou midbluster, and the middle-aged guardsman cut in.

  “Mr. Eleftheriou, my job is not to argue with you. These restrictions were clearly posted in the proper channels, and I find that you had sufficient notice.”

  “What is this, a magistrate hearing? I want to appeal that finding, this is ludicrous.”