by Kal Spriggs
He’d expected that dart to land home. Stanford’s reaction was not what he expected. The Flight Commander shook his head.
“You couldn’t have asked me that before you loosed the bull in the china shop?” the pale-skinned officer demanded, his blue eyes even more watery than normal. “If I’d known you were willing to move this quickly, we could have acted to protect the Lieutenant, rather than putting her in danger.”
“What do you mean?” Kyle demanded.
“I was warned, yesterday, that if that history was dredged up there would be no witnesses to testify,” Stanford told him stiffly. “I needed time Commander – time to be sure I could trust you. Time to be sure we could protect Williams. Now…”
“Who threatened you?” Kyle was on his feet now, but his voice was quiet – so quiet he worried for a moment that Stanford hadn’t heard him, as the man did not reply.
“Who, Commander?” he repeated.
“Vice Commodore Larson,” the older officer admitted in a quiet voice. “The first time, in this very office, after telling me that all copies of my report had been destroyed. He told me then that he would destroy what was left of my career and bury Williams.
“Then yesterday,” he repeated. “Sir, please – we have to do something.”
Kyle was already in the system, slamming an override code into the communications center to give him a direct line to the New Amazon Reserve Flotilla Station.
“Get me Major Neilson,” he said sharply into the empty air, his implant turning on his computer and linking him through to the commander of the Station’s MPs.
Part of his wall turned into a video screen, the image of the Major’s shaven-headed face appearing on it.
“Wing Commander Roberts,” he said calmly. “I wasn’t expecting to see an emergency override code from you.
“Major Neilson,” Kyle greeted him. “This is urgent. I need you to take Flight Lieutenant Michelle Williams into immediate protective custody.” He glanced over at Stanford, the smaller man starting to sag in relief. “I have reasonable grounds to believe her life is danger.”
He paused.
“I need the station locked down, Major,” he said finally. “I’ll get you the authorization from Captain Blair as senior Navy officer in the system as soon as I can, but you need to make sure no one leaves the Station until he confirms otherwise.”
The Major blinked.
“I’ll have Williams taken in immediately,” he confirmed. “I can’t lock the station without Blair’s order, though, and I’ll need reinforcements,” he said. Kyle met his gaze calmly, and the Major shrugged. “Hell, I knew your father, Commander. Get me Blair’s order ASAP – I’ll make sure nobody leaves. You damn well better get me reinforcements,” he concluded, “I’m not sure how many of my own men I can trust if the rocket is going up.”
The video cut, and Kyle turned to Stanford.
“I’m going to need you to tell the Marshal everything you told me,” he said quietly. “If Larson tried to cover for Randall, then by the Honor of the Space Force, he will burn right next to him.”
New Amazon System, Castle Federation
08:30 July 6, 2735 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
New Amazon Reserve Flotilla Station
Flight Lieutenant Michelle Williams had problems. Jumping at loud noises. Flashbacks. Nightmares. Worst of all, a doctor who refused to admit these existed, since diagnosing her with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder would require him to admit what had happened.
She knew she looked like crap as she half-stumbled towards her quarters from yet another waste of time medical appointment. Her black hair was far past regulation length, matted and unkempt from a lack of brushing. Her eyes were bloodshot and her shipsuit wasn’t properly sealed. Her superiors in Flight Control kept threatening to write her up, but they didn’t get it.
Michelle Williams was a pilot, equipped with neural implants ninety-eight percent of humans couldn’t even handle. Flying had been her escape from home, only to turn to ashes in her mouth – and then be stolen from her to protect her attacker.
Between modern therapy, drugs and nanites, even PTSD could be treated. In the aftermath of the attack, even as she had been panicking, terrified and hurt, she’d known the Space Force would take care of her. The thought that a senior officer could bury that she’d been attacked – could in many ways bury her – hadn’t even occurred to her.
A year of neglect and betrayal left her wandering half-lost through the corridors of the Flotilla Station, lost, unkempt, and jumping at every tiny noise.
The grinding noise of an improperly maintained door sliding open had her skittering away from the door like a terrified rabbit. Shaking herself and feeling silly, Michelle turned to face the door to see who had entered the hallway.
Her attempt at finding calm shuddered and she swallowed hard at the sight of Senior Chief Kawika Liago, Vice Commodore Larson’s right hand man. Only one man at Rio Grande had the power, if not the authority, to force her doctor to ignore her issues – and that man was Larson.
“Ms. Williams,” the massive shaven-headed petty officer rumbled. “I am truly sorry about this.”
“About wh–” Williams began, and then she saw the weapon Liago was drawing. She didn’t wait to see what it was before she turned to run.
She triggered an emergency alert in her implant as she began to run, but that was all she did before the dart-gun barked twice. Her shipsuit was unarmoured, unable to prevent the darts from delivering their load of nanites into her system.
Her run continued for about a dozen more steps and then every muscle in her body froze and her implants shut down as the various nanites took effect.
Michelle went down face first, able to feel her nose break as she smashed into the metal decking, but unable to move or respond in any way, even through her implants.
Liago picked her up with ease, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Part of her mind was wondering when she’d lost so much weight, even as the rest of her was panicking and trying to access her implants.
Her eyes were paralyzed open. She couldn’t even not watch at Liago carried her away from her quarters, in the direction of the flight decks. It wasn’t until they turned off from the main corridors, into a maintenance section that Michelle knew linked to a set of airlocks, that she realized what was going to happen.
She was going to die. They were going to make it look like a suicide, and that would be all too believable to everyone around her. The doctor might have refused to acknowledge her condition, but everyone around her knew something was wrong. If she appeared to commit suicide by airlock, everyone would believe it.
Whatever else may have happened since, Michelle Williams had joined the Federation Space Force because she was a fighter. She tried to struggle, tried to get even a tiny amount of motion, even enough control back to retrigger her implant’s emergency signal.
Her body betrayed her. The nanites were blocking nerve signals throughout her body and had disabled her implants. There was nothing she could do as Liago calmly carried her towards the outside of the ship.
Slung backwards over Liago’s shoulder, though, she saw the MPs arrive before he did, and realized her emergency signal had got out before her implants had been disabled. Even if she could have warned Liago, she wouldn’t have.
Four Military Policemen, in body armor and carrying stunners, came around the corner behind them at a trot. At the sight of her and Liago, they broke into a run. They closed half of the distance to Liago before the Chief heard them, and turned back to face them.
“Chief Liago, please put Lieutenant Williams down,” the lead MP asked politely. Michelle could no longer see what was going on, as Liago’s broad back was between her and the MPs.
“She seems to have broken into the liquor early,” Liago rumbled. “I found her near the airlocks, I was going to take her back to her quarters.”
It sounded reasonable to Michelle. Liago was senior to the four men
who’d intercepted her – and was known to have the ear of the Vice Commodore. She was doomed.
“Chief Liago, put her down,” the MP ordered flatly. “We will take care of her.”
It might have been Michelle’s imagination, but she was sure she heard the distinctive humming of stunners being charged.
“I’ve got her, Corporal,” Liago replied, his voice grumpy. “There’s no need for concern.”
“Lieutenant Williams is to be placed in protective custody and transferred to Avalon for her protection,” the MP told him flatly. “You will put her down and step away from her or we will fire.”
Liago dropped Williams roughly, her limp body crumpling to the metal floor and her head thumping against the wall. Despite the pain, she was unable to even blink through the paralyzing nanites, and could see the entire scene with the big Chief and the four armored MPs.
She saw him pull the gun out from his shipsuit pocket before the MPs did, and tried to shout a warning. The nanites still kept her frozen, and she watched in horror as Liago spun, far faster than she ever expected the big man to move, and fired.
The body armor of the lead cop exploded into two red splotches as the big pistol barked loudly.
The MPs responded instantly. The sparking noise of stunners answered the pistol’s crash as invisible beams slashed across the corridor. Liago jerked as the first beams struck home, but remained standing.
Whatever body armor or inhuman endurance the Senior Chief had, however, didn’t help him when the MPs overcharged the stunners and fired again.
Michelle had always been vaguely aware that the electron laser of a Navy stunner could be turned up far past the ‘shock’ setting, but watching it happen was an entirely different experience. The air smelled vaguely burnt as three visible lightning bolts blasted across the hallway.
Kawika Liago stood frozen for a moment as a new smell of burnt meat filled the hallway, and then, slowly, collapsed.
New Amazon System, Castle Federation
09:20 July 6, 2735 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
Shuttle Avalon-Delta, en route to New Amazon Reserve Flotilla Station
“I thought I told you to be debriefed by Marshal Khadem,” Wing Commander Roberts’ voice came over Stanford’s in-head link. “I don’t recall ordering you to assign yourself to fly Major Neilson’s reinforcements over to the Station.”
“The Lieutenant-Major is leading the team himself,” Stanford offered timidly, checking the controls of the shuttle as he began to decelerate towards the Station. “We figured it would be more efficient if he kept me under his eye.”
“Right,” Roberts replied dryly. Stanford noted that his new superior made no mention of the two Falcon starfighters Stanford had ordered to escort the shuttle.
“I have news from Neilson,” the Wing Commander continued. “Williams is safe – she’s in the Station Infirmary now, being treated for a dose of paralytic nanites. Neilson has his most trusted men guarding her.”
“Paralytics?” the pilot hissed. Even subvocalized, he drew the attention of his co-pilot, but he waved them off with a gesture towards his ear that every human with a neural implant would recognize.
Paralytic nanotechnology had been invented in the Commonwealth over a century earlier, as an attempt at a more ‘elegant’ solution to disabling someone non-lethally than the variety of methods currently available, most of which involved delivering an incapacitating electric shock. Paralytics blocked conscious nerve signaling, and could also disable neural implants.
Unfortunately, blocking conscious nerve signaling turned out to also often block unconscious nerve signaling. The chance of heart attack, suffocation, and similar fatalities was worse with a paralytic nanite than it was with a proper electric shock weapon, so scientists had gone back to the drawing board.
Paralytic nanites were still the favorite of kidnappers and assassins, people who didn’t overly care if their victim lived or died – mostly because the nanites could be ordered out of the victim when you were done, leaving no traces.
“Is she okay?” Stanford demanded.
“She’s fine,” Roberts told him. “But she was being kidnapped by Chief Liago. He drew on the Station MPs and killed one. They fried him. He’s dead.”
Stanford was silent for a long moment, considering and watching the station grow in his screens.
“If Liago was involved, Larson was in this up to his neck,” he said quietly.
“We already knew that,” his boss told him. “But with this, Blair is entirely on-side. You and Lieutenant-Major Khadem are to proceed immediately to Vice Commodore Larson’s office and place him under arrest.”
Stanford glanced back at Avalon’s top MP, who had dropped himself into the spare seat at the back of the cockpit. The MP flashed him a thumbs up, confirming that he was on the call as well.
“Understood, sir.”
Stanford quickly checked in with his co-pilot to confirm they were clear to dock, and took the shuttle slowly, carefully, into the Station Flight Deck Alpha. As the gravity trap caught them, Stanford looked down the neat rows of Badgers lining the Deck – another six squadrons to go with the six they’d brought from Avalon and stored in Deck C.
“CAG,” he said distractedly, checking that the line was still open to Roberts, “quick question for you.”
“What is it, Commander?” Roberts asked in a sharp voice.
“How many Badgers are supposed to be on the Station?” the Flight Commander asked, eyeing the nearly fifty obsolete starfighters.
“SFG-279 had six squadrons assigned to them,” Roberts replied immediately. “I assumed those were the ones that ended up on Avalon.”
“Between yesterday and today, sir, I’ve seen twelve squadrons worth,” Stanford said quietly. “Shouldn’t there be at least some Typhoons aboard?”
Silence answered him for a long moment, and the pilot unstrapped himself from his seat and turned back to face Khadem before Roberts finally answered.
“Pin Larson down, Commander, Major,” he said quietly. “I think we have more questions for him than we thought.”
New Amazon System, Castle Federation
12:30 July 6, 2735 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time
New Amazon Reserve Flotilla Station, Station Commander’s Office
Stanford really had no business accompanying Marshal Khadem’s MPs to Larson’s office, and both he and the Marshal knew it. Khadem had still said nothing as the pilot joined the six MPs they’d brought to the station in drawing a stunner from the shuttle racks, and allowed Stanford to lead his team through the Station.
“Where are the station MPs?” he asked Khadem after a few minutes. He’d half-expected them to be joined by some of Neilson’s men.
“Neilson doesn’t have enough of them he trusts,” the dusky Marine replied grimly. “He’s keeping them busy and out of our way. Once we’ve seized Larson, we’ll probably have to take him back to Avalon.”
Further discussion ended as they reached the Station Commander’s office, where Larson exercised his command of the New Amazon Reserve Flotilla’s defenders. It was a relatively plain door, tucked away less than a minute’s walk from the Station Combat Information Center, where the Vice Commodore would exercise command of his squadrons in an emergency.
“Open it,” Khadem instructed one of his men. He drew his own stunner up to the ready position and hit the ‘charge’ button on its grip.
Stanford imitated the Marshal and felt a reassuring hum from the weapon as it cycled up its charge chamber.
The selected MP stepped up next to the door and hit the panel that should have opened it. The security door failed to respond. The MP turned his gaze towards it, focusing on it for a moment, and then turned back to Khadem.
“Standard overrides aren’t working, sir,” he told his boss. “It’s locked down under the Commodore’s personal code.”
The Lieutenant-Major nodded grimly, stepping up to the panel and tapping the golden badge of his office, a laye
red block of molecular circuitry that could override almost any lock in the Navy, against it.
The panel flashed bright red, and then slowly conceded to the police override. The door slid silently open, revealing the last sight that Stanford had been expecting to see.
The office was the same as it had been when Larson had threatened him. The viewscreen behind the desk still showed Avalon – only now it was spattered with blood.
Larson was sitting in the chair at his desk, the retractable monitors extended around him for what looked like daily paperwork. A service automatic, the standard seven millimeter caseless high-velocity sidearm issued to every officer, was in his right hand, and his brains had been blasted all over the wall-screen behind him.
“Stop,” Khadem ordered as Stanford started forward. “No offense, Flight Commander, but you have no idea what to do at a crime scene. My men have forensics training.”
The Marshal waved his MPs forward around Stanford, each carefully stowing their stunners and pulling out white gloves to cover their hands.
Stanford, standing back out of the way, contacted Roberts over the com. He made sure Khadem was copied in, in case the MP had something to add.
“Larson’s dead,” he said flatly. “Looks like he committed suicide.”
“What the fuck,” Roberts replied, his voice just as flat. “He shouldn’t even have known you were coming – and he sure as hell didn’t strike me as the type.”
“He wasn’t,” Khadem interjected grimly. “Looks like we showed up faster than someone was expecting – this was a botched job.”
“Botched job?” Roberts asked over the channel.
“I’ll flip you both visual,” the MP replied. “I don’t want Stanford getting his boots in this mess.”
The image that flipped up on Stanford’s optic nerves almost made him throw up. Khadem was looking very closely at the shattered back of Larson’s head.
