Aurora Rising: The Complete Collection (28 page)

He acquired a chair at a high table in the bar area and motioned for a waiter, remembering at the last second not to bark an order for immediate service. He ordered an Earth ale; since he was out of uniform he didn’t need to publicly support the local economy, and Deucali’s meager attempts at hops brewing left a good bit to be desired.

Deucali wasn’t a particularly scenic world either. Its landscape had been painted in browns and yellows and decorated with dull waters and minimal mountain ranges. Nevertheless, it was rich in natural resources and boasted a calm, temperate climate, one reason it had been the first world colonized on the Perseus Arm of the galaxy and for a brief time the most distant colony in existence. The Alliance had established a strong presence here and for decades used it as a base from which to expand outward along the southern arc of the Arm.

After a hundred and ten years a thriving, self-sufficient economy was firmly established, even if much of it continued to be centered around military operations. The patrons of the pub were engineers, defense contractors and civilian managers, yet even they retained a rugged, down-to-earth aura. You wouldn’t find glitzy balls or elaborate sensory circuses on Deucali, and he thanked God on an almost daily basis for their absence.

The waiter delivered his drink and a bowl of crusted bread, then vanished upon his disinterest in further purchases. The pub was busy bordering on packed, and he assumed the young man had others to service who would be freer with their credits.

He twisted the cap off the pure-bottled ale and rotated the chair toward the nearest exanet news screen in time to see Prime Minister Brennon walk to the podium.

Brennon was a sturdy, solidly built man, with a slightly lined face and slightly graying hair that could mean an age anywhere from sixty to a hundred sixty. He held himself as all politicians did, shoulders back and chin a notch high.

“As you no doubt know by now, yesterday we suffered a great tragedy in the loss of Trade Minister Mangele Santiagar. He was one of our brightest young stars, a dedicated public servant and a personal friend. He volunteered to lead the delegation to the Trade Summit because he believed in the possibility of a peaceful future with the Senecan Federation and the benefits which could result therefrom.”

The Prime Minister paused to look troubled. In the pub, most of the patrons shifted their attention away from the various sporting events playing out on the other screens; the previously lively room grew subdued. Though situated in nearly the opposite corner of settled space from Seneca, the strong military presence here meant even civilians on Deucali exhibited a strong patriotic streak.

“It was a good dream, one we all hoped would come to be. But it, and he, were betrayed by those who might have reaped its benefits—by the very Senecans he reached out to in a gesture of peace. He was savagely murdered by those who came forth in a costume of friendship but wielded daggers beneath their cloaks.”

Liam took a sip of his ale. Politicians could always be counted on to turn a phrase when the fires of outrage needed to be fanned. Hyperbole and metaphor were powerful tools in the right hands. He doubted the PM was anything other than a vapid politician in an empty suit, but he certainly knew how to give a performance when a performance was required.

“The General Assembly has convened in emergency session and is discussing the best manner of response to this shocking outrage. Rest assured that our response, when it comes, will be measured, deliberate and commiserate with the crime committed against the Earth Alliance.”

He paused again, his voice softening in tenor
. “For now, our hearts and prayers are with Minister Santiagar’s wife, his children and all the members of his family. I grieve with them, as we all do, in their time of loss. Thank you.”

Liam gestured to the waiter for another drink. The pub had a nice atmosphere and safe anonymity. He decided he might linger awhile.

Perking up at the renewed prospect of further purchases, the waiter quickly reappeared to deliver his drink. Liam nodded to himself as he turned the fresh bottle up. He didn’t know whether Santiagar had been a good man or a bad one, but it made no difference. He had been a sacrificial lamb to the mission.

Mr. Prime Minister, you ain’t seen nothing yet.

COSENTI

I
NDEPENDENT
C
OLONY

A chill breeze drifted in from the flatlands as Thad Yue instructed the bots to bring the crates down the ramp and move them into the unmarked hangar.

Eight crates in total were unloaded from the transport. Each one contained four autonomous VI-guided short-range Earth Alliance missiles tipped with high-density HHNC warheads. As missiles went they were lightweight and compact; even so, each crate required two of the industrial-grade mechanized bot lifters to be moved inside.

As soon as the last one cleared the ramp he signaled the transport to depart. The pilot had no knowledge of the contents of the crates, and probably didn’t care to find out. Just another routine delivery from New Babel.

Cosenti was a tiny colony not far outside Senecan Federation space. Nominally independent, it maintained only the most basic governance infrastructure, and in practice the criminal cabals ran things here. It served primarily as a storage and staging location for smuggling illicit goods onto Senecan worlds, which was just as well, for its arid, infertile soil and flat landscape rendered it suitable for little else.

Although it sported fairly substantial defensive measures, if the Senecan military really wanted to they could wipe the colony off the map. Thus far they hadn’t chosen to, presumably because they realized a replacement would spring up somewhere else within a month. The real source of illicit trade—chimerals, weapons, gear and all manner of cyber tools and unauthorized enhancements—was New Babel. And wiping it out would be another matter entirely.

The land outside the small town which constituted Cosenti’s sole inhabited locale was populated by a patchwork of warehouses, flight hangars and plain structures of hidden purpose. Kilometers separated each cluster of buildings and perimeter drones guarded every region, programmed to eliminate any vehicle or person who did not possess the correct code. Various organizations controlled the buildings, but no markings, signs or other identifying features designated ownership. Visitors either knew where to go, or had no business going there.

By the time Thad walked in the hangar the others were already unpacking the crates. He watched several of them guide the smaller, more precision-oriented bots in securing the first missile beneath one of the fighter jets while the others readied the next missile.

The four jets dominating the hangar’s open space had arrived two days earlier and were carbon copies of current generation Earth Alliance Navy ships. The paint on the Alliance logos and distinctive blue stripes shone like new. Which it was of course, having been applied about eighteen hours earlier.

This particular hangar belonged to the Zelones cartel, so named for the family who founded and ruled it for almost two centuries. Their rule had ended decades ago, though, with the rise to power of Olivia Montegreu. Formerly the chief lieutenant to Ryn Zelones, following his death under the suspicious circumstances typical of a criminal kingpin’s demise, she had rapidly secured control of the cartel under her sole and absolute authority.

He had met the woman on several occasions, and found she more than lived up to her reputation—sharp, cold, beautiful and utterly, soullessly ruthless. It didn’t represent a problem for him. He was confident in his ability to meet her admittedly considerable expectations.

The others didn’t know for whom they worked; from their perspective he had hired them for a job, end of story. They were all independent mercs-for-hire, all skilled enough to actually be able to maintain their independence and all being paid quite well for the op. Still, he imagined their payment en masse didn’t touch the cost of the fighter jets. Most were ex-military, a mix of Alliance and Federation, and brought with them the requisite knowledge and understanding of military procedure. None possessed sufficient morality to harbor any qualms about the nature of the op.

He came from a military background as well, having departed the Alliance armed forces in the wake of an
unfortunate
incident during ground operations on Elathan in the Crux War. Unfortunate indeed.

“Hey!” He shouted at the men docking the missiles. “Don’t load up one side first, you’ll tip the ship over.” He received curt nods in return. The camaraderie level wasn’t particularly high on the team, but it didn’t have to be. They were all professionals.

“Janse, join me for a few?”                                           

The tall, lanky man finished popping the lid on a crate then came over to where he stood near the hangar wall.

Janse’s skin was as black as unburnished onyx, a rarity in a world where racial and ethnic distinctions had blurred to the point of virtual meaninglessness. The man liked to claim his family were aboriginals living in the Australian outback until twenty years earlier. It was a blatant lie—he had been a third-generation hoverflyer racer before becoming a mercenary—but one which served to enhance his already fearsome reputation.

Thad projected an aural in front of them displaying the flyover layout of Palluda’s single city. “I’d like to go over the targets and assignments again. No need for us to be crashing into each other on our flight paths.”

“Yue, if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s how to
not
crash into other vehicles in close proximity.”

“Be that as it may, you’re not the only pilot and I don’t want to take any chances. Now I’m reasonably happy with the target choices, though I would like to fit this industrial machinery building in if we can.” He pointed to a flat, rectangular building near the top left corner.

Janse leaned against the wall and shrugged. “Thirty-two missiles man. No more, no less. Unless you’ve figured out to make missiles blow their payload then keep going, turn left and detonate again, you’ll have to trade something for it.”

Thad allowed himself a small smile. “Well, let’s do a walkthrough and see what we can find.”

20

SIYANE

M
ETIS
N
EBULA,
U
NCHARTED
P
LANET

A
LEX GLARED AT THE TWO LENGTHS
of fiber conduit in annoyance. Also a trace of disgust.

They insisted on entangling one another every time she tried to secure them in place alongside their brethren against the hull wall. The aft navigation line really shouldn’t be so cranky about the whole situation. True, she had removed it from where it typically rested to repair the section which had been sliced almost in two; that was no excuse for it not to go nicely back where it belonged.

The dampener field conduit on the other hand, being a recent addition, didn’t natively integrate into the cabling layout of the other systems in the first place. In Seattle she had had the time and tools to devise a relatively elegant arrangement which kept it safe and secure. Well not from errant pulse lasers obviously, but at least from normal dangers. Here, though, she was using spare supplies and jury-rigged fixes and…

…they just
wouldn’t
fit
. No matter what she did, it ended with a jumbled pile of conduit in her face. She blew out a breath through clenched teeth.

“Hey, could you come help me a minute?”

No response.

Maybe he couldn’t hear her over the music. She worked better and faster when music played in the background, and the last two days had needed every edge available to her. She gestured toward the small embedded panel by the ladder to mute it.

“Caleb, you got a second?” His name rolled off her tongue with surprising ease.

Still nothing. She frowned, suspicion flaring about what nefarious deeds he might be engaging in while alone on the upper decks of her ship. She was two seconds away from crawling out of the aperture and sneaking upstairs to catch him in the act when he leaned into the hold at the top of the ladder—

—wearing nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his hips. Loosely and
low
around his hips. His head tilted into the hatch opening. “What do you need?”

Long, lean muscles rippled subtly beneath tanned skin, confirming her earlier assessment of a well-built, athletic but not overly muscled frame. It was the type of body one developed from an active, physical lifestyle rather than a weight bench. A neat pattern of dark hair tapered in from his pecs to trail down the center of his abdomen and disappear beneath the towel. The Greek/Italian genetic heritage of the initial Senecan colonists asserting itself no doubt, and more chest hair than the current fashion. Then again she’d never particularly cared for the prepubescent look. And it wasn’t as if it appeared unkempt or….