Filcher remembered those moments from not too long ago when a BG boat was trying to kill him and his crew and his mouth tasted like metal and his skin had gone cold and only afterwards could he truly breath again. It was then he felt alive. Now, number three on the list was the selection of dinnerware for a diplomat coming a week later. Someone’s gonna get shitcanned for that, he thought.
But he caught himself right there. He’d forgotten. He wouldn’t be worried about administrative tasks for much longer. His life had become so routine it was sometimes easy to let it fall to the back of his mind. This is all for the greater good, the President had said many times. The wingnuts in the bowels of the Fed Intel building on Sol, down in the lowest levels where the great minds got together, had crunched the numbers. The computer models didn’t lie. They’d factored everything in. He was an Admiral, what did he know?
All for the greater good. He reached into his jacket pocket, opened a small flask and took a few long pulls. He slid the flask back and his hands brushed against his Fed issue hand gun. His fingers found the handle and he eased it out of its holster. There was no barrel like the ancient weapons from Old Earth, this gun spit out an energy charge that could take down a large man, even a BG warrior if you hit him just right.
He closed his eyes. 2000 people aboard, plus another half the fleet under his command. Suddenly he wished he’d never risen to admiral. Never had known what he knows now. He’d have preferred to die like a military man, in battle, fighting.
He opened his desk drawer and stared at a picture of himself when he was #2 on the Fed gunboat Jessica. Times were simpler then. The gunboat was a wonderful weapon. Efficient and deadly. The Defender was the finest ship the Federation had yet produced, but it was larger, too many people, too much red tape.
It wasn’t that long ago, but he felt older. He stared at his younger self: fresh faced and clean shaven. And right in the middle, standing next to him, was Captain Jolo Vargas. He had an easy smile and never seemed to be rattled, never seemed to be out of control. Barthelme on the other side who always kept the ship together. Nothing could touch the Jessica. The BG stayed clear of the cunning captain and the experienced crew. Filcher let out a slow breath and closed the drawer.
“Admiral.” It was Milicent, the comms officer. He only came when an encoded point to point transmission came through.
“I don’t want it,” said Filcher. “Probably some frakking Fed official pulling us in yet another direction.”
“I think it’s coming from the President.”
“I don’t want to talk to that ass.” Filcher watched his face for any sign of surprise, but he masked it well. He’s going to remind me of my duty, thought Filcher. The greater good.
“Sir, I need your signature or they’re gonna keep pinging me.” Milicent stood in the doorway holding the small screen in front of him like a waiter with a platter of finger food, like the message might fall out if he tipped it. Filcher nodded and the man put it on his desk and then took one reluctant step back and stopped, waiting. Filcher let him dangle for a few moments then looked up, his eyes boring a hole through the man’s head. Milicent stammered, apologetic. “Admiral, can you please sign?”
Filcher pressed his thumb on the bottom right and the message moved to the screen on his desk. Milicent headed for the door. “Milicent,” said Filcher. “Thank you.”
“Your welcome, Sir,” he said, smiling, saluting before heading back to comms.
Good kid, thought Filcher. This shit ain’t fair.
“Authorization code?” said his computer.
“F-I-L-C-8-6-7-5-3-0-9-Y-1.”
The message flashed onto his screen and Filcher took a deep breath. The President was coming. The little weasel never had good news. But he didn’t think it could be worse than what he already knew.
The President declared this an unofficial visit, so most of the crew didn’t even know he would be on board. He wore a Fed-blue colored suit which pissed Filcher off. He was just a core world softie, mid-forties, graying hair and a great smile for the media. He was a master at blending in. He was what you wanted him to be. Fed blue for the trip to the Defender, silk suits for the upper crust, black leather for the BG? he wondered—and he had them all fooled, but Filcher knew he was a snake. He rose to power when the war turned and the BG suddenly accepted the offer of peace. He put the deal together. He met with the Emperor, the tall, metal worm. It was a coup and so many lives were saved, and he rose like a rocket. The election was decided before it began. And here we are, on the brink again. And this time we do our duty.
The President agreed to meet in Filcher’s office and this being unofficial, he wasn’t trailed by a cadre of sycophantic losers calling themselves advisers. Filcher breathed easier. If the President came alone he could speak his mind.
The President breezed in without a knock, busy with a button on his blue suit. “This is my assistant,” he said, waving his hand behind him, no good morning, no fake-assed salute he gave when the advisers were in tow. A thin blond started sweeping the room for bugs. She wore a typical Fed up-and-comer pinstriped suit, tight around the ass, but not too much. Just enough. She went about her work without a glance in Filcher’s direction. She scanned every corner, his books, the old leather chair, then she got close to him and had the nerve to wave the black wand across his chest. He grabbed her arm and it was like he’d grabbed the arm of a statue. He couldn’t move the twig-armed girl’s hand down away from his body. But that was only for a split-second, and then she squealed like he’d poked her with a stick and her arm came down, like a girl. But she was no girl. She wasn’t human. If you weren’t looking for it you’d never see it. She moved gracefully. But there was something off, something very subtle. She moved too gracefully.
“You brought one of those onto my ship!” Filcher yelled at the President, who was sitting in his leather chair.
“One of those?” the President mocked him. “My assistant Alyce? I’m sorry, Commander, she’s new.” Once the girl was through she nodded and stood by the door, hands behind her back. And then the President got down to business.
“Why am I here?” he said.
“To make sure I’m on board.”
“See, that’s why I chose you. You know the score. You understand the game we are playing. Most of it, at least. So, are you on board?”
Filcher shifted in his seat, his hand instinctively reaching for the flask. The girl took two lightening quick steps towards him. He couldn’t pull his hand out empty so he pulled out the flask and took a drink, offered it to the President who waved it off.
“Yeah,” he said, sliding the whiskey back into his pocket. His fingers gliding over the pistol. He thought about it for a split second. And right on cue, as if she could read his frakking mind, the girl took another step forward. He wondered if he could get the gun out in time. Probably not. And even if he could, they’d kill him and everyone on his boat. It’d be an accident way the frak out in deep space, and the Fed would send out 2000 of those little blue boxes families get when one of the military dies.
The President rehashed his sales speech. “Silas, you supported me when we made the alliance. That saved lives: civilian and military. The war stopped. And you zoomed up the ranks. Look at us now, two leaders. Leaders make difficult decisions. Now we have to do it again.”
“They ask too much.”
“Here’s the deal, Commander, oh, I’m sorry. You’re an Admiral now. Thanks to me. Now I’ll lay it out simple so even a military man can get it. You got two options: 1. Fight and Die. 2. Stand down and Live. Humanity must survive.”
“Leave,” Filcher said to the synth girl. She did not move. He turned to the President, “Tell your little robot pet to leave or we’ll see if her circuits can withstand an energy blast.”
“She’s mostly biological,” said the President to Filcher, then turned to the woman: “Can you wait in the common area down the hall?”
“He will not be pleased,” she said.
&
nbsp; “He?” said Filcher.
“Yes, He!” yelled the President. “Who do you think holds the cards in this little game? Not me!”
Filcher couldn’t help but stare at the blond abomination standing there smug and satisfied. He will not be pleased. Filcher loosened his tie and spun his chair to the side, slid his hand into his pocket and brought his hand gun out. But before he could level it on the skinny synth girl she had leapt over the table. One hand a vice around his neck, then other hand the gun. It was like he’d been chained down, immovable.
He stared into her synthetic eyes, unreadable. A human would show emotion: anger, hate, fear. She showed him nothing. She looked at the President. Filcher knew what that meant: Should I kill him?
The President shook his head, no. And he put his face close to Filcher’s, the girl’s hand still on his neck, still choking him, his head pressed back against his chair. “Do you see your options a little more clearly now? Die, or not die. It’s so simple. Silas Filcher, controlling half the fleet, a war hero, can’t even defeat this little girl they have created. How could you possibly think to defeat all of their ships? We have exactly ten Defenders. Ten Galaxy class warships. They have fifty. Fifty!” he yelled. “Do the math, Admiral. It’s a bigger number! You don’t need to see the computer models to know the outcome of a war with these worms. Their boats are bigger and have better guns and stronger defenses. They’ve got double the amount of gunships. Double the transports. And they’ve got thousands of these little creatures,” he said, putting his hand on the synth girl’s shoulder. She gave him a cold, blank look and he pulled it back.
“Imagine about 5000 of these unleashed on Sol. Can you imagine them running through the streets of Valaris, streaming into the core Fed buildings killing everyone that matters? Leaving only the strong to work in some Alacyte factory. These synthetic creatures were a gift from the Vellos, God rest their souls. See, the Vellosians didn’t even have a chance to survive. We do.” He nodded at the girl and she wrenched the gun out of Filcher’s hand and released her grip on his neck.
She glided back to her spot, still clutching the gun. For a moment he thought she might try and crush it in her hand, but she just dropped it and it landed under the leather chair, nothing on his desk had been disturbed.
“Those skinny little synth girls won’t make it to the core admin buildings. They’ll all be shot.”
“Oh, you mean with one of your energy weapons?” said the President.
Filcher nodded. Then the President picked up the gun under the chair and pointed it at the girl. She didn’t move. Before Filcher could say no, the President fired. The energy blast flowed into the girl and at that range Filcher thought she might pop. Filcher’s gun was old, before there were stun settings. His gun delivered as much as a Fed rifle carried by the marines. A human target would have been burned dead instantly, the heat would have blown out through the top of the head, or a leg. But not this thing.
The girl’s eyes closed yet she remained standing, and then her eyes opened again and she looked around.
“Who are you?” said the President.
“I am Alyce. Ward of the Bakanhe Grana, made on Montag by the Creators.”
“She just reboots.” The President shrugged, and for a second he let his guard down and Filcher could see he was tired and beaten. “I’m going to save as many of us as I can. Help me.”
Filcher nodded, feeling beaten himself.
“Two final things,” said the President. “If you come across Vargas, kill him. And lastly, soon, the Fed will send the fleet on a training mission in one of the far reaches of the galaxy. Some in the military will go rogue and not leave. They’ll be destroyed. You must take as many as you can. Use your influence. Remember, our job is to save as many as we can. Those ships that stay in the rendezvous point will be spared.”
Galaxite
Arcon 7 Jump Point
Three pirate ships feasted on the remains of the UFP Fortinbras like vultures eating a dead carcass. The smaller ships were busy and well lit, men in jet-packs corralling as many boxes as they could into their holds. The dark, cold Fortinbras was laid bare, now fully broken into two separate pieces. The sight was unsettling and unnatural to Jolo, like when an arm is broken and bent the wrong way. A pair of disabled deep space gunners, neither generating heat, both with UNITED FREIGHT on the side, both with black holes where thrusters once were, drifted nearby.
“Vargas!” came a loud, rough voice on the comm. “This is Radar Mantis of the Succulent Beast. You’ve had your pick, you know the rules, now stay clear.” His words, both angry and somehow jolly, bounced around the bridge of the Argossy.
“What about the two survivors?” said Jolo.
“What do you care?” said Mantis.
“I don’t.”
“One of the scouts got away.”
Jolo was glad they’d escaped. I should have forced them to come with me though, he thought. The man who didn’t know how to use a rifle and the lady in the blue dress got lucky. “I need to access the bridge. I want the manifest. I ain’t gonna take a box.”
“Alright. In that case help yourself, Vargas.”
So Jolo and Koba jet-packed into the burned out forward compartment of the Fortinbras. Koba checked the logic array panel in the rear of the bridge, pulled off the cover, but the board was already gone.
“Did Mantis and his crew grab it?” said Koba.
“Probably not,” said Jolo. “Maybe the captain got it before the end. Or maybe it’s drifting out there in space. Now we’ll never know what was in the black box.”
“What about the backup?” said Koba. “You can’t not have a backup. The only problem is where would it be?”
Computer, Jolo thought, were are the backup logic boards on Allesar 405 Class freighters?
Forward compartment, captain’s ready room, next to operations. Would you like a schematic?
Yes, thought Jolo. And suddenly he could see the layout of the forward compartment in his mind.
“Come on,” said Jolo. And Koba followed him off the bridge, down one level, then along a dark corridor, their helmet lights cutting through the black, occasionally flashing on bits of broken ship suspended in zero gravity.
The sliding door to the captain’s ready room was stuck open about five inches. The large, well-funded freighters often had real wooden furniture, not like the military boats where a seat was a piece of metal bolted to the floor. When the BG boat put a hole in the hull and the forward compartment depressurized, everything in the room tried to squeeze out through the five inch crack and got stuck. A wooden sofa leg was sticking out, the red velvet back of a chair was swedged in just below that, and at the bottom was the remains of the captain.
Jolo held out his arm to move Koba behind him. “Don’t look,” he yelled. But it was too late. Koba threw up in his suit, and Jolo could see little yellow bits on the inside of his face shield. While Koba wretched and cursed, Jolo called for Greeley to come with the torch. The upper part of the captain’s body had been squeezed through. He’d long since been freeze-dried, but it was still a gruesome sight and it saddened Jolo to see it. This was the only captain to ever stand against the feared Jolo Vargas. This captain had bested him, only to be tricked by a BG Cruiser.
The Fortinbras had been betrayed by the BG, and in most circumstances Jolo would be happy to see a BG and a Fed ship taking shots at each other, but this was different. Jolo hadn’t felt truly afraid for his crew in a long time. He thought back to the moment when he was running through the Argossy in the dark to have Hurley engage the kicker, all the while waiting for the big freighter to deliver the kill shot. The Argossy had taken three from that giant cannon. Another might have opened up the hull and sucked them all into space, or at least fried everything in the ship, including the kicker, and left them floating in a dead ship, waiting for the oxygen to run out or the cold to get them. What would he have said to Katy and the crew? No way to call for help. Nothing to do except die. But this captain w
ho lay here disfigured and frozen, who could have killed him and the only friends he’d ever known, had shown restraint.
Soon Greeley arrived and cut a hole in the door. And once Koba found the backup board, they headed back to the Argossy.
……
Back on Duval, Katy expertly dove straight down into the ravine at speed, clearances so tight that most Federation boats would have alarms going off, then turned at the bottom and soon guided the old boat right to Marco’s hidden landing bay on the sheer cliff face.
Jolo stepped off the ship and Marco gave him a hug like they hadn’t seen each other in a long time. Jolo looked into the old man’s red, watery eyes, standing there in the large bay where they’d first met, or reunited, Jolo reminded himself.
“Your message scared me. Glad you guys got home okay,” said Marco. “Something ain’t right out there.”
“No, it ain’t, but here’s a clue,” said Jolo, handing him the logic array.
“What’s this?” Marco said.
“It’s the backup off the Fortinbras. Can you crack it and find out what was in the black box?” said Jolo.
“Not me, but maybe George. BG boats attacking Fed property is a strange thing.”
“Yeah, I know. Maybe it’s the beginning of an offensive against the Fed planets? Could this be it? Our food stores are good, right? I just gave Bertha four and a half boxes. We may have to hole up.”
The Jolo Vargas Space Opera Series Box Set Page 23
