Chapter 35
“If universal peace is ever obtained this side of entropy, it will be through the most powerful form of tyranny ever known.”
Legacy Mandate by Emperor Yung I
“Beacon locked,” Julie Yeager said, staring into her scope. The other members of the bridge crew stared at the optical image of Delta Three station filling the main holo.
Tanager slid along on minimal thrust, gradually matching orbits with the station and edging toward the waiting lock.
“Weps, you see that point-defense turret of theirs?” Roush said, staring at the holo image with a faint grin. “Lock your optical sight onto that, but don’t touch your manual controls.”
Lieutenant Pennysmith opened her mouth, closed it, then said, “Yes, Commander.” She rotated an optical scope over and dialed the magnification up, centering the spindly cluster of beam weapons in her viewfinder. Shrouded in the darkness of the nightside, Pennysmith could still clearly make out the static aiming point of Delta Three’s point-defense turret, the thin tubes pointing far out to cloudward.
“Keep an eye on that turret, Weps, prepare to power down shields for docking.”
Tanager edged into dock, the Delta Three station reaching out its pedipalps and drawing Tanager’s hull into full seal. Tilly Pennysmith dropped the shields as they locked in, then turned her attention back to her optical scope. The Delta Three defensive turret still aimed out cloudward, but Pennysmith saw the green aiming reticle of Tanager’s own dry-side point-defense turret now neatly bisecting it.
“You see that, do you?” Commander Roush said, glancing sidelong at her.
“You figured we’d dock right here, and preset our static aiming point?” Pennysmith said.
“That’s right. If things get nasty we’ll have a half-second or so jump on them.”
Pennysmith nodded but said nothing.
“Trust me, sunshine,” Roush said, “if things get hot, we’ll want every half second we can find.”
Roush turned to Phillipa Baker. “Ops, four armed ratings to the lock, and rig for quarantine, double lock.” She brought up the vid feed of the Delta Three airlock.
“Alright, they’re cycling. Comm, inform station control we’ve got one casualty, one medico disembarking.”
Commander Roush scanned over her instruments and feeds for a moment, then fired a terse message back to the Marine sergeant, Kabir.
Everything moved. Everything was in play. Roll the dice.
“Ops,” Roush said, “inform Chief Maru that we are docked.”
“She’s already moving, Commander,” Phillipa Baker said.
Roush brought up a vid feed on her holo. She saw Chief Maru guiding a suspension cot down the companionway, her cloak shrouding her figure, a dumb-mech scampering along behind. The face of Captain Saef Sinclair-Maru certainly looked suitably comatose.
“Okay, we’re only docked shortly, let’s pump some volatiles and prepare to cut loose.”
“Should I set a launch clock?” Phillipa Baker asked.
Roush glowered at the image of Delta Three station, drumming her fingers on the arm of the command seat. “Negative. No clock. Prep for emergency release. When it’s time, there’ll be no chance for a count.” She turned to Che Ramos. “You keeping a sharp eye out-system, Sensors?”
“Y-yes, Commander,” Che said. “Nothing yet.”
“Our link is green,” Phillipa Baker said. “Start bringing on volatiles?”
“Pump away, Ops.” Roush glanced over at Deckchief Church, who had remained silent throughout their approach and docking. “Deckchief, arm up and babysit the airlock, please.”
Church stood to his feet without expression and headed for the bridge hatch.
“Deckchief,” Roush called after him, and Church turned back expectantly. “If you smell something off—anything—sing out. Something feels very wrong about this, and these arseholes have a vote in what happens next.”
Deckchief Church nodded sharply. He represented one of the old guard in Fleet to whom Susan Roush walked on water, but his serious regard for Roush was not necessary. Staring at the sprawl of Delta Three station as they approached, his skin had crawled. Never had he seen an orbital station so jammed with ships, with not a single sign of activity. No tugs moved, no shuttles dropped, no mechs labored over the superstructure. It all hung still and silent over the storm-tossed surface of Delta Three planetside. He held no doubt at all: something very bad was unfolding.
* * *
Inga Maru pushed the suspension cot slowly down the companionway, the not-so-dumb mech clattering behind. Roush’s armed ratings from various departments stood about the outer airlock with a slight air of nervousness about them. With the companionway rigged for quarantine, the ratings knew that Commander Roush could vent them all to hard vacuum, so they all quickly shifted into ship suits, keeping their face masks loose around their necks. All four glanced at the slack face of Captain Sinclair-Maru before looking away, but no one said a word.
Inga cycled the inner lock open and pushed the cot in, closing the lock behind her. She saw the ratings all staring at her as the iris sealed, the wide-eyed faces disappearing behind blank alloy.
Loki continually chattered now, every packet of data expressing disfavor with Inga’s mission. Why must she leave the ship? Why was she bringing that third-rate Intelligence in the dumb-mech along? Why couldn’t they rig some form of uninterruptable communication stream? Why couldn’t some other person push the captain’s suspension cot onto the orbital station?
Even Inga’s attempts to gain useful information collided with Loki’s petulance. “The Delta Three Intelligence?” Loki responded to Inga’s inquiry. “Young. Second rate. It will not amuse you as I do.”
“Beyond doubt,” Inga replied. “Capabilities? Disposition?”
“Who can say?” Loki offered. “Most likely does not matter anyway.”
“Why wouldn’t it matter?” Inga heard the lock begin to cycle and she readied herself, feeling her nerves sing like plucked wires even as she immersed in the still pool of the Deep Man.
“The Delta Three Intelligence does not appear to be functional.”
The lock clattered open and Inga paused, sampling the first breath of station air. The hints of ozone and lubricant brought her back to her years on Hawksgaard, the bouquet of recycled station atmosphere much the same.
A dim companionway opened before her, empty and straight.
With one hand, Inga guided the suspension cot out of the lock, as Loki made his final, resigned salvoes. “Do not stay long. Return quickly.”
“I hope to. Our enemies may hold me or destroy me, and you will endure…without my company.”
“That is not acceptable to me, Chief Maru. I will resist all such outcomes. I do not choose to endure without your company.”
The dumb-mech scampered along behind and Inga moved forward. As Tanager’s lock began to cycle closed, Inga sent her final note to the distressed Intelligence. “This is loneliness, Loki. It is life, and we will both endure it.”
Whatever reply Loki would offer ended with the closing lock. Although Inga could push signals back to the Tanager, the station monitors would detect the feed, and that would create suspicions she did not want aimed at her.
Inga walked forward, her boots gritting with each step. She noted the wrongness in the dust and silence. Where were the station dumb-mech cleaners? The usual activity of a busy station? The clatter of her dumb-mech seemed stark and abrasive, echoing from the oppressive bulkheads of the companionway.
Where the companionway joined the main station bay, Inga encountered another closed lock, sealing the companionway from the greater station. Inga’s skin prickled as powerful sensors swept over her. Someone on the station exercised considerable caution, checking Inga and her accoutrements for what? Fissionables? Most likely. Without her own collection of detectors Inga would never have known.
The lock cycled and Inga slid the suspension cot in, the dumb-mech scampering alongside.
When the inner lock opened Inga received another breath of air and it was all she could do to stop herself from recoiling and drawing a weapon. She found the Deep Man once again and steadied herself.
Treachery. Violence. Betrayal.
Along with the usual scents of station life, the air carried the unmistakable signature of necrotic ketones. Somewhere on Delta Three station, something or someone decayed. It indicated not only death at a scale sufficient to score the station air, despite filters and vast volume, it also screamed out of disruption, chaos, anarchy.
The great bay curved off to Inga’s right and left, shrouded in darkness but still visibly filmed in a thin coating of dust. Directly before her a hatch slid open and the lightworld Guard lieutenant stepped into the bay walking toward Inga. His face wore an odd grin, and Inga expected some comment—an excuse at least—regarding the stench of death filling the air, but he had made no mention of it.
“Welcome to Delta Three station,” he said blandly. He stopped next to Saef’s suspension cot and very pointedly examined the techmedico screen displaying Saef’s suppressed vital signs before glancing at Saef’s face. He looked up.
“Very well. I will bring you to the infirmary. We can offer little more than you have done.”
“Thank you,” Inga said. “We’ve felt helpless to aid him.”
The lightworlder said nothing in response and turned on his heel, heading directly back to the still-open door.
“You said you experienced a tragedy?” Inga offered.
“Yes.”
After they walked several seconds in silence Inga figured he would say nothing more. No mention of the stench, no excuse was forthcoming.
The lieutenant continued through the door a short distance down an equally unkempt passage, to a medical bay. The lieutenant led the way into the spacious room lined with medical equipment and a row of techmedico units. He held out a hand and Inga slid Saef’s cot into the indicated place. There was no sign that the facility had been used in weeks, no hint of their alleged disaster.
“Use the comm screen here to contact your ship,” the lieutenant said. “Tell them you receive medical attention. As required.”
Inga looked from the lieutenant to the comm screen. The lieutenant’s mouth stretched into a wider grin, but the eyes remained dark and watchful.
“Very well,” Inga said.
The lieutenant accessed the comm panel and, to Inga’s considerable surprise, woodenly addressed the station Intelligence. So the Intelligence still functioned, just restricted, blinded, constrained somehow.
“Central, unlock comm channel one.”
“Comm channel one unlocked, Lieutenant,” the station Intelligence replied.
Stepping aside, the tall lieutenant gestured to the comm screen. Inga stepped up, angling so she kept the lieutenant in her sight. A moment later she made the connection to Tanager’s bridge, and Farley connected her to Commander Roush.
“Chief Maru.” Roush’s glaring gaze measured her through the comm screen, seeking any hint of her findings.
“We are receiving medical attention, Commander,” Inga Maru said. “You may transmit data updates now.”
Susan Roush began to reply, but the comm screen fell abruptly dark.
“Commander?” the lieutenant said, still grinning. “You called Captain Roush, ‘Commander.’” Despite the strange grin, angry lines formed around the lieutenant’s eyes. Then the eyes flickered as information flowed through his implant.
Perhaps Inga missed the cues because the lightworld lieutenant’s body and his face seemed to operate out of synch, or perhaps it was simply the unexpected abruptness of his action. His eyes still flickered, his lips still stretched into a grin even as the pistol seemed to materialize in his hand, leveling.
Inga’s Krishna submachine gun swung up beneath her enveloping cloak. As her finger pressed the trigger, she saw the lieutenant’s pistol fire, the muzzle aimed at Saef’s skull, too close to miss.
The lieutenant hammered back a split second later, slammed by a string of Inga’s fire. Without pausing, Inga leaped forward and targeted the sensor pod up in the ceiling’s far corner, riddling it in a shower of sparks. That should keep the station Intelligence off her long enough.
Inga’s second error certainly sprang from the root of all human virtue, and so much human weakness. She raced to Saef’s suspension cot, expecting to see the gaping wound at his temple. Instead she saw his unmarked skin and a blackened patch of fabric beside his face.
Devlin’s old body shield…
The wash of relief through Inga lasted only a moment.
A bubbling gasp from the floor beside Saef’s cot preceded the pistol shot by a millisecond. Inga fell back from the impact, staggering, firing one-handed. She emptied her magazine, blasting the pistol from the fallen lieutenant’s hand and stitching him across the face. She collapsed, fumbling, slapping a fresh magazine into the Krishna.
Feeling blood seeping down her side, Inga took a ragged breath, separating her thoughts from the agony in her side, activating biologic systems far beyond mere human capabilities. She growled as the power surged through her mortal frame, vanquishing pain and weakness. She stood slowly to her feet, returning to Saef’s cot. Holding the submachine gun leveled at the med-bay hatch, she tapped the techmedico controls, administering the necessary drugs to revive Saef.
Although she knew it was likely futile, Inga moved to the comm screen and activated it. “Central, unlock comm channel one.”
“I am sorry,” the Intelligence replied. “You are not authorized.”
“I am Fleet Chief Inga Maru, cox’n to Captain Saef Sinclair-Maru…grant me access.”
“You are Fleet Chief Inga Maru. I am sorry, Chief Maru, you are not authorized.”
Inga shut down the comm and turned her attention to the dumb-mech standing mutely beside Saef’s cot. She linked her UI to the fractional intelligence concealed within the luggage mech, and the mech eased down to the deck, pressing two metallic contacts against the alloy surface. She cranked the dumb-mech’s power up to maximum, then blasted a short, coded message out through the station hull. Her enemies could not suppress it, but they would know she transmitted something.
Saef groaned beside her, stirring as hints of life returned to him, drip after drip.
Inga turned back to the dumb-mech, sending sensor pulses rippling out, sensing the movements in the station around her. She bared her teeth, sweeping her cloak back. They came.…
“Maru?” Saef croaked, his eyes struggling to stay open. “What…? Where…are…?”
Inga drew her body pistol from concealment, cocked it and thrust it into her belt before kicking another cot over as a makeshift barricade.
“We’re on Delta Three station. Do you remember the plan?”
“Delta Three?” Saef murmured. “Delta Three.… My back…hot.”
Inga snatched out a food bar, her eyes and invisible senses sweeping the hatchway. “Yes. That’s your body shield. They tried to assassinate you.”
Saef struggled to move, his arms flailing. “Assassin…? Pistol…sword…”
Inga opened the compartments to the suspension cot and withdrew Saef’s pistol belt and sword.
“Here,” Inga said, but Saef’s squinting eyes locked on the bullet-riddled lieutenant sprawled, leaking on the floor. “Here,” Inga repeated, giving Saef the weapons.
Inga moved quickly as Saef fumbled with his weapons. She overturned a row of suspension cots, shoving them into a crude barrier, each motion sending bolts of pain into the wall of her exclusion.
“Help me up, Maru,” Saef called out. Inga made the final touches, her attention flickering between the sensor feed showing movement around the med-bay, and her immediate tactical demands. She stepped to Saef’s side, accepting his heavy arm over her shoulder and easing him from the cot.
“Got to…get…comm panel.” Saef blinked, grimacing blearily. “Blood on you, Maru. Wounded?”
“Yes.” Inga continued in agonizing slowness across the infirmary floor, each step pressing his weight down upon her, sending trickles of blood down her side despite her biotech’s best efforts to dam the flood. “I’ll keep…long enough.”
They staggered nearer to the panel. “I dreamed,” Saef said, shuffling, his eyes struggling to remain open. “Back in…Battersea. You…we…were young. Carried your bag… Did I…did you…?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Inga said, seeing the movement drawing down upon them. “Authorize with the station Intelligence,” Inga said.
Saef tapped the comm panel, unsteadily, gripping onto it as their attackers invisibly gathered.
“Didn’t dream…” Saef murmured, but Inga barely registered the words. Her hand found the comforting shape of the grenade in her pouch, lifting it free as she covered the hatch with the Krishna, one-handed. She blew the fringe of hair from her eye and bared her teeth as the lights flickered out, leaving them in total darkness.
The enemy came in force now.
Inga Maru was the silent hand of the Sinclair-Maru, but subtle no longer.