Citadel

by Marko Kloos

  “One more thing, Commander,” the admiral said. Dunstan turned around.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’ll be out there by yourself, with nobody else to lean on if things get tough. You will have a great deal of leeway. But with that comes a great deal of responsibility. However things shape up out there, your first priority is that ship. I hope it never comes down to it. But Hecate is the most important asset in the navy right now. Whoever has her can dictate the course of the next war. You need to be prepared to do whatever it takes to keep her from falling into the wrong hands. Whatever it takes, Commander Park.”

  The directive sent an unpleasant little trickle down Dunstan’s spine.

  “I’ll see to it that it doesn’t come down to that, ma’am,” he replied.

  “I know you will. Good luck and fair skies.”

  He turned to follow the orderly out of the office, eager to get back outside and let the sunlight in the atrium disperse the sense of foreboding that had settled on his mind at the admiral’s parting words.

  CHAPTER 4

  SOLVEIG

  On the forward bulkhead of the Ragnar yacht, Gretia’s northern hemisphere took up most of the viewscreen, a sunlit tapestry of green, blue, and brown hues spread out before the ship. It was a clear summer day above much of the northern continent, and Solveig could make out the geometric lines of the Sandvik city grid and the spiderweb of transportation arteries spreading out from the capital.

  To think that some of us felt all this wasn’t enough, Solveig mused. That we needed more, when we had so much already. Now they were all paying the price. Gretia was still itself, but it was no longer in charge of its own fate. The Alliance planets were in control now. And in times like these, they made sure to remind the Gretians of that fact as often as possible.

  “We are now coming alongside the Rhodian Navy ship for our pre-docking inspection,” the pilot announced from the maneuvering deck. “Please return to your seats and buckle in just in case we have a bumpy rendezvous sequence.”

  Solveig was already in her seat, and now she reached up and pulled down the harness of the restraint system to strap herself in as directed. In the seat next to hers, Gisbert made a generalized noise of discontent and started doing the same. The vice president of operations for Ragnar Industries was no longer bothering to fake the congeniality he had worn like a thin veneer at the start of this trip. They were over a week late for their return because all flights into Gretia had to be inspected now, and the yacht had to delay its departure from Acheron because they’d had to wait for a security clearance slot.

  “This is our home,” Gisbert grumbled as he struggled with the locking tabs of his restraints. “Our world. It’s shameful that we have to ask permission to return.”

  “They won the war,” Solveig said. “They get to make the rules.”

  “That was five years ago. Half a decade. At what point do we let the past be the past?”

  I wonder if he voted for the war, Solveig thought. She concluded that she likely knew the answer. Gisbert wasn’t one to go against the grain. He was one of her father’s handpicked executives, elevated from the ranks for loyalty rather than ability. And Falk Ragnar had voted in favor of the war when he was on the High Council, Gretia’s committee of 128 plot holders who had charted the course for the entire planet right into ruin. Half a million dead, a system economy in tatters, and Gisbert was offended that the Alliance wouldn’t let bygones be bygones already.

  On the forward bulkhead, the viewscreen changed to a different exterior angle. It showed the Rhodian corvette that was now alongside the yacht to starboard, only a few dozen meters away. The Ragnar ship was sleek and elegant, all flowing lines clad in silver and white. The warship was a study in contrasts, angled armor plating painted in matte black, bristling with sensor arrays and weapons. The rail-gun mount on the stern section of the Rhodian ship was aimed at the Ragnar yacht, a gesture of dominance and intimidation that made Solveig uneasy. It seemed a gratuitous display to her, pointing weapons at an obviously unarmed civilian leisure craft, but she supposed that was the point.

  They get to make the rules, she reminded herself. And nobody can blame them for being jumpy after what happened on Rhodia. A few weeks ago, someone had gotten a missile with a nuclear warhead through the planetary defenses in the biggest act of terrorism ever committed in the history of the system. And now the war that had started to feel like the memory of a bad dream was threatening to flare up and set the whole system on fire again.

  A few minutes later, Anja and Inga, the two executive assistants on the delegation, came up the ladder from the passenger deck below, followed by the bodyguards, Cuthbert and Fulco. Behind them, a Rhodian marine in full armor appeared, then another. They had their helmet visors open, but the vision slits only revealed their eyes and the bridges of their noses. Solveig put her translating bud in her ear. Next to her, Gisbert made no attempt to follow suit as he looked at the newcomers with a sullen expression.

  “Apologies, Miss Ragnar, but they want us all in the same compartment while they look over the ship,” Anja said.

  “It’s fine, Anja,” Solveig replied.

  “Do not sit down,” one of the Rhodians said when Inga made to claim one of the empty seats in the VIP compartment. “Everyone line up over there and remain standing.”

  He gestured over to the back of the compartment, where there was some open space between the seating arrangements and the refreshment station.

  Solveig unbuckled her harness and got out of her seat to do as instructed. Gisbert looked from her to the marines and back uncomprehendingly, and she nodded at the space they were told to occupy.

  “Put your translator in, please,” Solveig told him. “This will take twice as long if Inga has to relay everything they say.”

  Gisbert hesitated, obviously displeased, then fished his earbud out of his pocket and put it in. He got out of his seat in no particular hurry and moved to join the rest of the group. Solveig felt her own irritation rising. She had mildly disliked Gisbert before the business trip to Acheron, but two weeks with him had intensified that dislike into antipathy. The man had added no value to the mission, and his arrogance and tone deafness had been a constant source of irritation to her.

  Over by the ladderwell, another pair of Rhodians came up and continued on to the flight deck above the VIP compartment. All the marines were armed with pistols, which they carried in holsters attached to their chest armor. From the way Cuthbert and Fulco were tracking the Rhodians with their eyes, Solveig could tell that the bodyguards were not at all happy to have several armed Alliance marines in the room with their protectee. But this inspection was the price of admission back onto Gretia, and there was nothing left to do but to bear the inconvenience.

  “ID passes,” one of the soldiers said.

  “ID passes, please,” Gisbert replied. “This is a Gretian ship in Gretian space. Let us not forget courtesy.”

  The Rhodian soldier took a half step toward Gisbert.

  “ID passes,” he repeated.

  Gisbert took his pass card out of a pocket and handed it to the marine, who snatched it from his fingers in an aggressively quick move. The marine passed it back to his comrade without taking his eyes off Gisbert.

  “Only say ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir’ to me from now on, or I’ll put this ship at the back of the clearance queue. Understood?”

  Gisbert opened his mouth to reply, and for a second Solveig thought he would continue with his haughty attitude and buy them all three more days of waiting time in orbit. But then he seemed to catch himself, even though Solveig could see that his jaw muscles flexed with suppressed anger.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied with carefully precise diction.

  The marine turned to his comrade and chuckled.

  “Courtesy,” he said. “Did I hear this one right?”

  The other marine’s eyes narrowed. He gave Gisbert a long up-and-down look.

  “Courtesy,” he repeat
ed. “You’ve had courtesy for five years. Now we have thirty-seven thousand dead. A quarter million injured or still missing. The time for courtesy is over.”

  Solveig had to wait a second for the translation to arrive in her ear, but she knew the Rhodian word for courtesy, and the way the marine pronounced it made it sound like an obscenity.

  “That wasn’t us,” she said. “Nobody on this ship had anything to do with that.”

  The marine shifted his gaze from Gisbert to her. He looked at her for a long moment.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t just take your word for that,” he said.

  “This is a business craft,” she replied. “We have no weapons. No cargo other than our luggage. Surely the Rhodian Navy can tell a corporate yacht from a warship.”

  “Whoever dropped a nuclear weapon on our planet two weeks ago didn’t use a warship,” the marine said. “They sneaked in with a quick little civilian ship. Much like this one. Now get out your ID passes and submit to a search. Unless you want a few days to think about it. Or turn around and go back to where you came from.”

  Solveig knew that their ship didn’t have the fuel to make the trip back to Acheron, and she suspected that the Rhodian marine was well aware of that fact. They had no choice but to jump through whatever hoops the Alliance had set up to obtain docking clearance. She couldn’t begrudge the Rhodians their anger—thirty-seven thousand dead!—but it still felt like collective punishment to her, and for the first time, she felt herself agreeing with Gisbert on something, even if it was just a fleeting impulse.

  She handed her ID pass to the marine, who handed it to his colleague. She watched as the second marine scanned her pass and brought up a screen to read the results.

  “Ragnar,” he said. “Same as the company name. You must be the VIP.”

  “I’m nobody important,” she said.

  “Important enough to have your name on the side of this ship.”

  “We were all on Acheron when the attack happened. You can check the movement data on our passes. We spent the last two weeks in Coriolis City on business.”

  He replied without taking his eyes off the screen.

  “Movement data can be faked. ID passes can be counterfeited. Ship transponders can be duplicated. I don’t trust anything except my own eyes right now.”

  The marines went down the row of Ragnar people, taking ID passes and scanning them one by one. When they had finished with Fulco at the end of the line, one of the Rhodians pointed to the seating in the center of the deck.

  “You may sit down now while we perform our inspection of your vessel. Do not leave this deck or interfere with Rhodian military personnel. We will return your ID passes to you when we have completed the inspection.”

  They did as they were told. When Solveig sat down again and strapped herself in, she felt a little like a chastened schoolgirl. One of the Rhodian marines went down the ladder to the deck below. The other one took up position by the staircase and stood in a relaxed posture, hands clasped over the sidearm holster on his armor’s chest plate. Gisbert exchanged a look with Solveig, his face still showing sour distaste, but a glance at the marine standing watch seemed to convince him to keep his mouth shut.

  That’s the smartest thing you’ve done in two weeks, Solveig thought.

  Thirty minutes later, the marine returned from belowdecks, this time with three more of his comrades. Solveig got out of her chair when she saw them coming up the staircase, and the rest of the delegation followed her lead.

  “We have almost finished our inspection,” one of the marines said. “Please step over to the rear bulkhead one by one for a physical scan.”

  The Gretians exchanged looks.

  “You want to search us?” Solveig asked. Next to her, Gisbert let out a nonplussed little gasp.

  “Just a pat-down, miss. And a brief scan with a handheld unit. You may refuse, but—”

  “I know,” she said. “Back of the line.”

  She walked to the rear bulkhead, waving off Anja in the process, who had been about to do the same.

  “I’ll go first. Let’s get this done so we can all be on our way.”

  Two of the marines followed her to the bulkhead. One mimicked for her to extend her arms away from her body, which she did. He produced a handheld scanner and ran it down her front, then her sides and back. When he was finished, the other marine stepped forward and patted down the front of her body. He wasn’t particularly gentle, and he didn’t even try to give her an explanation or ask for her consent. When he switched to patting down her back, he did so without asking her to turn around. Solveig thought that his hands were lingering on the curve of her ass for just a little longer than required for the professed task, even though she was sure he couldn’t feel much through the gloves of his armor. Cuthbert, her bodyguard, seemed to have the same thought because he perked up and took a step toward the two soldiers.

  “Hey,” he said, anger flaring up in his voice. “Watch where you’re touching her.”

  The marine who was patting her down stopped his search and turned around. His hand went to the butt of the pistol strapped to his chest.

  “Please,” he said to Cuthbert. “Give me a reason. Put some fun into my day.”

  Cuthbert froze in place and looked from the marine to Solveig and back. The struggle was evident in his expression. It was his job to keep her safe, and seeing an armed stranger touching her without her permission would go against all his instincts and his training. But Marten had picked him well enough, because he raised his hands in acquiescence and stepped back even though Solveig could still see the anger on his face.

  “You have already scanned her,” he said. “What are you hoping to find on her backside?”

  The marine slowly moved his hand off the pistol’s grip. Then he tapped the Rhodian insignia emblazoned on his chest armor next to the gun.

  “This says I can do whatever I want up here,” he said. “Because we won the fucking war. Don’t forget your place.”

  “The scanner doesn’t see everything,” the other marine explained. “Pat-downs are standard procedure.”

  “Do we look like smugglers to you?” Cuthbert asked.

  The first marine let out a humorless laugh.

  “The fuck do smugglers look like, huh? Bunch of rogues in dirty flight suits? Flying some rusty shit pile?”

  He made a gesture that vaguely encompassed the whole VIP deck.

  “People who travel like this,” he said. “People who can afford adaptive AI shielding that can defeat a handheld scanner. She could have three hundred grams of weapons-grade plutonium in a Class VI capsule strapped to her thigh and the scanner wouldn’t see shit.”

  “Let him do his job, Cuthbert,” Solveig said. “I’m fine. I just want to go home.”

  The first marine looked back at her.

  “Listen to the smart one here,” he said to Cuthbert. “Let me do my job. You think I get some kick out of doing scans and pat-downs up here for three months straight?”

  “Please,” Solveig said. “Forgive my security detail. I’m sure he meant no disrespect. It’s his job to be protective.”

  The marine looked back at her, and she held eye contact when he did, doing her best to look contrite and worried. She found that she didn’t have to fake the worry. The last thing she wanted to do right now was to spend three more days up here in Gisbert’s company, eating meals from the ship’s limited variety of galley food and not being able to stretch her legs properly. After the days-long journey from Acheron, she was yearning for some fresh air and a long, sweat-inducing run along the lake back home.

  The Rhodian regarded her for a few seconds, his expression unreadable behind the impersonal facets of his matte black helmet.

  “Right now he would serve you best by shutting his mouth and standing still in that spot until it’s his turn,” he finally said.

  Solveig shot Cuthbert a cautioning look.

  “We aren’t here to cause you any problems,” she said
to the soldier.

  He repeated his pat-down. The second one was every bit as rough and invasive as the first, as if he wanted to provoke Cuthbert into reacting again. But her security officer took the unspoken warning to heart because he didn’t stir from his spot this time even though Solveig could practically hear his teeth grinding. Finally, the marine seemed satisfied that she wasn’t hiding any contraband on her body. He motioned for her to step back and pointed at Anja.

  “You next. Let’s go.”

  Solveig watched the frisk of her entourage, which took several minutes. It seemed excessive and punitive despite the Rhodian marine’s explanation of the necessity. If she had doubted the reasoning before, watching the Rhodians at work just reinforced that doubt. This was security theater, put in place to make the Rhodians feel like they were in power and show the Gretians that they weren’t.

  When they were finished with their search, the marines had them sit down again. From her seated perspective, the lead marine looming above her seemed huge and almost inhuman in his bulky armor.

  “You are required to surrender your communication devices for inspection,” he said.

  “Our comtabs?” Gisbert said with renewed pique in his voice. “Those have personal information on them.”

  “The Rhodian military isn’t interested in your private little secrets,” the marine replied. “We will merely copy the location history and compare it with the movement records from the Mnemosyne. Again, you are free to refuse. But you will be denied docking clearance if you do.”

  For some reason, having to hand over her comtabs felt more invasive to Solveig than having her ass groped by a stranger. A good chunk of her personal life was on her device—finances, workout routines, message history between her and most people she knew. She was sure that if the Rhodians could get into her device and past the commercial encryption, they wouldn’t limit their intelligence gathering to just her location history. But she was used to covering her tracks when it came to the stuff she didn’t want anyone else to read. She doubted that the Rhodian intelligence services were any better at snooping than her father’s own corporate security division.