The original Argossy docking bay wasn’t designed for modern Federation starships. So when Marco retrofitted the standard, round two-meter docking tube into the Argossy, he made a few improvements. The typical vestibule between ships could hold three men abreast, and that’s just how the Argossy looked from the outside, but the walkway quickly narrowed so that only one man could enter the inner air lock at a time.
So when the Fed marine team came barreling into the main hold, guns hot, in their bright, shiny blue battle armor, they quickly realized that this wasn’t going to be the usual rock and shock takeover of a merchant ship way past its prime.
Right before the marines burst through the air lock Jolo told Greeley to get into position. “You’re gonna do your thing again, aren’t you?” Greeley said, sour faced.
“You jealous?” said Jolo.
“Naw, it just ain’t natural is all.”
“Sort a like your tiny brain?”
Marco’s beautiful retrofitted air lock door started to glow orange near the top as the Feds, always anxious to use their gear, especially during peacetime when life was a blur of pinochle and training runs, had decided to burn their way in.
“You know, I was gonna open the dang door,” said Jolo. He made sure the mag boots were strapped on tightly, then he shut them down and set them to lock on contact. He jumped straight up, turning in the air so his feet landed on the ceiling. He waved down at Greeley who was still shaking his head.
A spray of tiny orange sparks flew into the vestibule, some bouncing off the deck a few times before going black. Soon they’d be through, so Greeley stepped back a few meters and waited. His job was to draw their fire while Jolo took them out. The Feds usually came in four man teams so Greeley had to wait until they all cleared before taking out the first one which meant he was gonna have to take a few shots for the team. This wasn’t the first time the Argossy had been boarded and Greeley hated being the designated target in Jolo’s little plan. So early on Jolo had taken him aside and confided a simple truth. “The rest of these guys are wussies. You’re the only one man enough to do this. And I’m the only one who can make it to the ceiling.” Greeley had to agree, the rest of the crew couldn’t do it. And from then on he reluctantly played his part, standing there like a green recruit who didn’t know better than to get the hell out of the way.
The first marine burst through, handsome shiny blue battle gear and a Fed energy rifle, searching for a target. And there was Greeley ten meters back. He side stepped behind the doorway of the air lock showing just enough of himself to divert the lead man’s attention. The rest barreled through and Jolo popped the fourth one as soon as his head came through the doorway. Now there were three.
Greeley got hit twice before Jolo got the second marine. They weren’t expecting a half-synth hanging from the ceiling. He jumped down, a few centimeters from crushing one of the downed Feds under the heavy mag boots and took out the third. Greeley got the fourth.
Jolo closed the door manually, locking everyone on the Argossy side of the vestibule. He checked on Greeley, who was sprawled out on the deck. “That shit hurts. Ain’t doin’ that no more,” the big man said. They had a special battle suit designed just for this occasion. It was heavy, the new Fed suits were light and nimble by comparison, but the big suit could take a ton of punishment before the power was gone.
Jolo pulled the helmet off the closest Fed and put it on. He felt the sensors gently press down on his temples and the heads-up display showed Jolo’s vitals. “Marine 4, this is Command, why was your helmet off? Your heart rate is down and blood pressure is low. Report.”
Jolo held up Koba’s comm scrambler near the helmet and responded. “We’ve got two down and two helmets off. Have a med team on standby. Comm is sketchy. Securing ship now. Two hostiles down.” Jolo motioned for Greeley to put on a helmet.
“Roger that, Marine 4, I have Marine 2 back online, but no comms. Med team on the way. Be safe,” said the Persephony.
Greeley and Jolo quickly stripped the two downed marines and put on their blue armor. The med bot took the two marines in their white tights down to the med bay. They’d wake up later strapped to a bed. The bot would check them out and give them a shot and they’d go back to sleep.
Barthelme limped in, out of breath, then sat down next to one of the marines. “He okay?”
“Bit of a headache,” said Jolo. “Did Hurley and Koba make it out?”
“Yes.”
“You ready?” said Jolo.
“This gonna work?”
“We’re gonna get some face time with Filcher. What he does is up to him.” And then Jolo held up the scrambler to his face mask. “Persephony, Marine 4. The ship is clear. I have one prisoner, a man claiming to be Federation Captain Barthelme. He wants to meet Commander Filcher.”
“Security will escort the prisoner to holding.”
“Roger that, Persephony. Prisoner is threatening to blow his ship if he doesn’t see Filcher.” There was a long pause and after awhile Jolo thought the comm link had dropped, but then she came back: “Marine 2, please confirm prisoner has a black mechanical right arm.” Jolo smiled behind his Fed facemask. Filcher wanted proof it was Barth. They were in.
“Roger, Persephony. Prisoner has a black mech arm.”
Filcher strode into the quarantine room of the Persephony with a security detail, four men in black armor with Fed rifles. Jolo and Greeley, hidden in their Fed blue battle gear, stood on either side of Barthelme, their captive, who had slunk down to the floor. Earlier, Jolo had yelled at one of the grunt deck scrubbers to bring some water, and a nurse came right before Filcher.
When Filcher entered Barthelme stood and saluted. “Commander Filcher,” he said. “Good to see you.”
Filcher just stared at him, took a deep breath. “You look like shit. I’m sorry you got shipped out. It’s Admiral now.”
“Shipped out? Is that what you call it? It’s bad enough they send you to hell, but no one—no one even lifted a finger.”
“I made some calls,” said Filcher. “Come, lets talk. And you need a chair.” He called for a hover chair, then looked up at Greeley and Jolo. “You two report to the infirmary. You know the protocol.”
“Commander, I’d appreciate it if these two marines could come along as well,” said Barthelme.
Filcher tapped on his comm link. “Computer, locate the away team members,” he said. Jolo glanced at Greeley, the big man was scanning for an exit. Jolo shook his head slightly: No. If Greeley ran, they’d shoot him.
“Away team members 1 and 3 are in the infirmary. 2 and 4 have been flagged for bio-authentication errors,” came the computer’s reply. Instantly the security detail surrounded Jolo and Greeley.
For a split second Jolo thought to fight, but instead he put his rifle on the floor, and thankfully, so did Greeley.
Jolo took off his helmet. “Filcher.” And the Admiral stared at Jolo with hard, tired eyes, and then his face softened, a flash of recognition. “We need your help,” Jolo said. “The attack on Duval is real. Barthelme is no criminal. Neither am I.” He stepped toward the his former number two and the guards pushed him back.
“You’re all three criminals,” said Filcher. “Where are my marines?”
“On our ship. In the med bay,” said Barth.
The admiral shook his head in disgust. “Pirates. You guys got balls, I’ll give you that. But damn if you ain’t stupid. Throw them all in the brig,” said Filcher with a wave of his hand, and he walked away.
Two days later Barth and Jolo were brought in front of the admiral. Both prisoners wore neck rings and handcuffs.
“Now I’ve got to decide what to do with these idiots,” said Filcher to his security detail. “Leave the pirates here. Wait outside.” Three left, black armor reflecting the lights on the ceiling. Clean and polished, thought Jolo. Not a scratch. Green.
The team leader of the sec detail was older. He wore the armor from years back that Jolo remembered, small dents fro
m head to toe and dull spots where the suit had been repaired. The man raised his face shield so he could look Filcher in the eye. He wasn’t supposed to leave the commander with prisoners. Filcher’s voice went cold, “Leave.”
Filcher pressed a button on his console once the marine had gone. “Millicent. I want ears off in my office starting now. And don’t give me shit about the audio records. Dump today’s files and find a creative way to explain it away.”
“Sorry about those,” said Filch, gesturing at his neck. “Appearances.” Jolo’s hate for his old number two had eclipsed even his hate for the whole Fed. This was a mistake, and he was going to escape, or better yet, kill Filch. He glared at the admiral.
“It’s good to see you,” said Filch. “The old crew back together again.”
“Never would’ve known by the last two days,” said Jolo. He suddenly had an urge to put his hands around Filch’s throat. He jumped forward but hit an invisible wall in front of the admiral’s desk. Electricity raced through Jolo’s body starting at his neck. He fell to his knees.
“Please,” said Filch. “You’ve got to stay put. Please sit down.” Filcher took a pull from his flask and then slid it to Barth. The old engineer took a long drink and handed it to Jolo. “Easy now,” said Filch. “Let’s talk.” Jolo tossed the flask back to Filch. It slid across his desk, knocked off a small, alacyte gunboat model and hit the floor. Filch reached to pick it up.
Jolo glared at him, wishing he had his gun, wishing they’d never come. They wouldn’t listen. This is what happens when you get mixed up with the Fed, he thought.
Barth leaned back in his chair and told the story of Jolo Vargas and Duval. He held nothing back: his mistrust of the Fed government, how he believed the BG were still a threat. How the BG were going to destroy Duval and Barc. How Jolo had pulled him from an ice harvester. All the while Filcher had his feet up on his desk. He’d take a pull from the flask then slide it back to Barth.
Barth finished with “…and now the BG are going to destroy Duval.”
The admiral put his feet down on the floor, “I know.”
“Then you’ll help?” said Jolo.
Filcher hesitated, fingered the large brass buttons on his uniform. Jolo remembered him doing the same thing, standing on the bridge of the Jessica, when he was captain and Filch was second. Filch looked up with a strained face. “No.”
Jolo instinctively jumped up again, then remembered the neck collar and held his ground.
“You were always ready to pull the trigger, weren’t you, Captain? Always ready to dive in head first and to hell with regulations, to hell with protocol—common sense!” yelled Filch.
“At least I fought for the Fed, just like Barth. I don’t remember everything but enough is coming back now. I never trusted you, did I? And now we know who you are. A snake!”
“No!” said Filch. “I do what’s best for the people always. I always have.”
“By supporting the unholy alliance with the worms?” said Barth.
“Barth, you were a fool to stand against it. Why do you think they shipped you off?”
“And what about when the Fed were gonna send me off to die on a prison planet? You did nothing!” said Jolo.
“Of course. See, that’s what you two warriors don’t get. There are times when the best course of action is to stand down. But all you know is fight. The alliance would have suffered with Captain Vargas. The military would have risen up again. I’m sorry, Jolo, if that is really who you are. I’m sorry they had no need of you. But it was the best thing at that time. One man steps aside so peace could prevail.”
“You call destroying Duval peace?” said Jolo.
“I call it survival. We can’t win. Deep down you know that. But you’d rather run into a brick wall and take everyone down with you. If you fight more humans will die and the black bas—,” he paused here then lowered his voice, “they could wipe us all out. If we stand down they’re gonna let some of us live. Come with me and live. I’m trying to save as many as possible.”
“You’re just saving yourself,” said Jolo. He stood up and gripped the collar around his neck with both hands. “Then at least let us go back and fight. Coming here was a waste of time. And what kind of life do you think the worms are gonna give you? You think they’re gonna just let you live happily on some beautiful oxygen-rich core world? I imagine it’ll be more like Sotec. You’ll have barely enough to survive and you’ll forget what it was to feel warmth on your face. I’m sure they’ll arrange plenty of work for you.”
“It won’t be like that,” said Filch defensively.
“You ain’t seen a prison planet, have you?” said Barth.
“Once you watch a BG bot pick up a living human and literally throw him into a trash chute to be recycled, you tend to underestimate who you’re up against,” said Jolo. “You figure out quick they don’t give two squirts of piss for your life. For humanity.”
“It’s not like that. I’ve fought them for years during the war,” said Filch.
“Yeah, but we were in the Jessica,” said Jolo, “fighting against other space craft. And we won more often than not. We rarely left that boat, rarely got on the ground. There was a kind of honor in those battles. May the best ship win. But down on the ground the BG are killing women, children, whole planets. You lose sight of that in your office here with pictures on the wall of your glory days and young girls bringing you coffee.”
“But you can’t win,” said Filch.
“They got more boats, bigger guns, and a bunch of crazy blond assassins,” said Jolo. “But I’d rather die fighting than be you. Your death will be slow. Some cold ass rock with barely enough to eat. Always a BG bot nearby to cut you down if you get any ideas. Yeah, you can have all that you want.” By then Jolo had sat down again and for the first time he felt calm. His direction was clear. He’d finally seen what he didn’t want to become. He took the flask from Barth and drained it, tossed it back to Filch. This time it landed on the desk.
Filch stood up and pressed a button on his console. “I’m going to save you,” said Filcher. “You’ll thank me later.” The security detail came in and grabbed Jolo and Barthelme. Two of the shiny armored marines jerked Jolo up off the ground roughly and Jolo started to yell at them but realized he couldn’t speak. He shot a glance at Barth and the old engineer looked tired. Jolo stared into the old man’s bright blue eyes. We’re going to get out of here, thought Jolo. And then we’re going to fight.
Silana, Part II
Duval
9 days left
The synthetic humanoid called Silana sat on the smooth concrete floor of the cell and checked the transponder logs. Every 1.7 seconds an encoded signal tried to reach the BG cruiser in orbit above Duval. But all connection attempts had failed. Merthon had held her captive for exactly 13 days and the log file in her mind was up to 660,709 entries. Each one the same: SIFSURBG 138.387.114.297 conn fail [soft connection reset. Attempting recon…]
She scanned through the half a million entries a thousand lines at a time, searching for a moment where a connection locked, then timed out. She was underground, surrounded by concrete and there were signal interceptors scanning her transponder, trying to steal any messages that might get through. If she were topside this wouldn’t be an issue. But down here was different. Down here the signal couldn’t reach the cruiser.
There. She stopped at line 439,924. SIFSURBG 138.387.114.297 conn success 17:39:24. But then four seconds later, before any data could be transmitted, the connection was gone again. What happened in that four second window? She replayed the video of those four seconds and she was lying on the floor of the cell, sedated, and the door was open.
She sat down again. All she had to do was get a signal up and they’d come for the target. Just one little human, she thought. He had been a captain once, and then he’d been modified by the creator, but still seemed a waste of time. Retrieving the creator would be a bonus. The Emperor would be pleased with her, with all of
the Silanas. If only she could get the message beacon out.
She placed her hands on the cold, smooth wall, sent a small pulse out through the layers of concrete, rock and dirt and waited. An image appeared in her mind, an interpretation of the waves reflected back through her fingers: concrete composed of shale, sand and pebbles a good twenty centimeters thick with steel reinforcement rods crisscrossed throughout, finally giving way to clay, calcium carbonate and a heavy dose of iron-oxide compounds which made the soil look red. She continued to probe. Was there a crack along the wall, a weak spot she could use?
Time was running out. Her power cell was at 32% and sending pulse charges through rock would drain her and then she’d automatically kick into sleep mode and only the creator would know she wasn’t dead. She sent one last pulse into the wall near the hinges of the thick steel door, and there, alongside the hinge, was a hairline crack in the concrete. It wasn’t much but it was something.
She leaned back against the wall and looked up, the med bot hovered quietly in the corner. If she attacked the little bot would stun her with an energy blast and force her to restart, which took about 3.42 seconds, giving the creator just enough time to shoot a pathogen dart into her system, then wait an hour, then zap her again and then take a sample, then start the process over. There was no logic. Why would the creator perform tests? The Vellosian made us, he knows how to kill us. None of these experiments would kill a Silana or a Jaylen, who were nearly identical physically yet with different programming. He was searching for something. Probing. What was he looking for?
She stared for a moment at the round medbot, hovering in the corner almost silent. She ran a pattern recognition scan on the shape and size and found a match instantly. Fed issue, Starwell Medi-bot, made on Carnus in the core worlds. She pulled the data file from her long-term memory. The bot had the usual specs: alacyte shell, super fine glass optics, surgical grade components, though it was too small to move a humanoid patient. This one was used for surgical procedures, mainly. Probably stolen from a Fed ship. Humans hurt each other, kill each other, steal from one another. She looked down at the stump of her arm. Even the creator. And a sensation came over her at that moment and she wondered if it was sadness. She wasn’t programmed for sadness. They are all animals. But not us. She wanted to connect again to the network, to hear the other Silanas. We are one.
The Jolo Vargas Space Opera Series Box Set Page 34
