Balance of Terror (36 page)

It was a lie and they both knew it.

Quinten made a show of walking around her. Probably to safeguard their own security, they had dressed her in little more than what was strictly necessary. The tight, short-sleeved suit hugged slight curves, the leggings ending just below her knees. Her toes, like her fingers, were long and lean, tipped with short, colourless cuticles. Everything about her was bland and pale, except for those huge angled, dark eyes that regarded him as if he were nothing more than an interesting biological specimen.

“We’ll throw the nerve-chain in,” Shaw added. “No charge. We reckon you’ll need it.”

“And what are you asking for in return?” Quinten took a step back and cocked his head, watching her intently.

“Captain Mestoo wants some shield technology,” Breit said, easily stepping into his role as the cartel’s head negotiator.

“You can buy your own shield technology,” Quinten countered easily.

“Not like what you got.”

“Try one of the Drifts.”

“They only have commercial-grade gear.”

“You have to pay more for the black-ray stuff, Breit,” Quinten told him dryly. “Even
you
know that. Tell Mestoo to pry open those purse-strings.”

“You custom-built your screens.”

“No I didn’t. I bought commercial screens and fine-tuned them.”

Sweat began beading on Breit’s upper lip. Shaw, silent and watching both of them avidly, shifted from foot to foot. The Sub remained as if frozen.

“Finetuned, customised,” Breit flicked a wrist, “they still outperform the stuff we can get our hands on. We don’t have anything that can evade the military’s sensors.”

“I can’t evade all their sensors.”

“But you can evade more than most,” Breit insisted, his voice rising.

Quinten considered the deal. Even if he traded an older version of his hand-crafted technology for the Sub, there was a slight chance that somebody could reverse-engineer what he’d done and find a vulnerability they could use against him. It wasn’t worth the risk.

He shook his head. “Forget it.” And turned to walk away.

“Wait!”

Shaw’s frantic voice stopped him in his tracks. He slowly spun around and lifted a dark eyebrow.

“We don’t know what to do with her,” Shaw admitted with a hunched shrug. “We don’t want the entire fucking government after us just because we have
her
with us. It’s dangerous enough as it is for the cartel. Once word gets out that we have a Sub, one that murdered some fucking
gentry
family with more money than sense, everybody’ll be wanting a piece of us.”

“But you obviously don’t mind if they have a piece of
me
?”

“Anyone with intelligence already knows to stay away from you.”

Quinten saw the signs of strain on both pirates’ faces. If he’d been them, he would have shoved the Sub back into the passenger craft the moment he’d discovered her, and given her three minutes to either take off or be blown into oblivion. Human-alien hybrids were more trouble than they were worth.

“And it’s much harder to just go after the
Perdition
than the five ships that make up the Neon Reds. None of our ships are as fast as yours.” Shaw was almost begging by now. “Give us something, Tamlan, and we’ll be happy with that.”

“You shouldn’t have caught her.”

“We didn’t know there was a fucking
Sub
in that ship! We thought it was easy pickings. Looting, ransom, then a quick escape.”

Silence filled the chill of the cargo bay.

“I have two military-grade shield units in storage,” Quentin finally told them. “Republic-sourced, version five kernels. They’re still working, but I upgraded my systems three years ago, and they’re now obsolete.

“If you’re prepared to pay for some additional custom work on top of that,” he added, holding up a hand to forestall their objections, “you’ll get something that’ll give you a good chance of escaping a Space Fleet sweep. That’s my offer. The two units for the Sub.”

Shaw and Breit looked at each other.

“The
Harness
is one of the fastest ships your cartel has,” Quinten pointed out, “and it can’t outrun a Republic striker. Help yourselves. Take the screens. Increase your chances of survival.”

“There are
five
ships in the Neon Reds,” Breit said.

“I only have two shield units.” He waited for three heartbeats. “If that isn’t enough for you, then take the Sub back to your ship.” The alien shifted at the words, and Quinten wondered how much of the conversation she understood. “Try selling her to someone else.”

“We did,” Shaw remarked, before Breit could stop him. “Nobody wanted her.”

A cruel smile lifted the edges of Quinten’s mouth, made even crueller by the pull of scar tissue on the right side of his face.

“Two shield units, Breit,” he repeated. “That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

“Damn you, Tamlan.”

And that’s how Quinten knew the deal was done.

WAR GAMES

Chapter One

Day 1,500 of the War:

Cheloi stuck a finger between her neck and the high collar of her tunic, pulling at the material. She had the utmost respect for the camp’s laundry section but wished they didn’t keep using so much stiffener in the uniform.

She gave her reflection in the mirror a critical eye, following the crisp pleats in her trousers, confirming that the thin black stripes running down the outside of the legs were parallel, and that everything metallic on the uniform gleamed. Not a bad job overall, considering she lost her aide almost two months ago. Since that time, the state of her uniform was dependent on whichever hapless enlisted soldier the sergeant frog-marched into her office at the beginning of each day. The results were…inconsistent. This morning, her uniform looked good. Tomorrow, it might not. The unfortunate thing was that she was starting to get used to it.

She walked to her desk to pick up the overnight reports, trying to hide her limp, but was unsuccessful. One foot clumped on the floor with a heaviness she detested. The camp surgeon told her that the lingering unsteadiness was her own fault for refusing to be evacuated to a more modern facility, but Cheloi knew that any vacuum in the territory’s command would be filled in an instant, and by whom. She couldn’t risk it. So, instead, she gritted her teeth and paraded her disability in front of the General Staff every day, forcing herself to put weight on that leg and will precious strength back into the limb.

The weekly command briefing would be starting soon. Cheloi took a deep breath and exited her quarters.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about the loss of an aide. In a way, his absence was a relief because it gave her more privacy but, since taking command of the territory, she had become used to someone picking up after her. She missed that often unseen hand that anticipated her wishes, sourced favourite titbits for the dinner table and delivered crisp clean uniforms and gleaming shoes to her bedside at dawn. Sometime soon, she knew she would have to see about acquiring a new assistant/driver. Not today.

The rough, sandy floor of the underground complex muffled the sound of her shoes as she strode unevenly along the main tunnel. The soldiers liked to slide along the fine grains when they thought nobody was looking, scuffing their footwear terribly in the process. Even the junior officers did it. In truth she couldn’t find it within herself to begrudge them their little moments of fun. All of them were parsecs away from home and not anticipating a victory anytime soon.

Koul told her she was too lax allowing such liberties, that firm discipline in battle began with firm discipline in camp. She countered by replying that she considered it an innocent outlet for pent-up energy. As long as nobody was stupid enough to attempt a sand-slide in front of her eyes, she was content to pretend the practice didn’t exist.

The door to the main briefing room loomed and slid open at her approach. Of course Koul was already there. Koul was always there. It was as if he had a time machine, able to peer one hour into the future, to ensure he would be everywhere ahead of her.

Her lately deceased aide once told her that the soldiers called Koul “Ghost” behind his back, because of his unusual colouring. With his pale skin, burnished silver hair and light grey eyes, one could easily imagine him as an apparition, a manifestation from Perlim fable. The flaxen-coloured uniform of the Perlim Ground Forces, with its high-necked tunic and matching trousers outlined in black and gold, glowed against Cheloi’s darker skin. But on Koul it looked like a cage, imprisoning his ethereal-looking body on the material plane.

Cheloi nodded a greeting to him and he answered. Koul was nothing if not scrupulously polite amidst company. Turning attention from him, she scanned the rest of the table. Most of the sector commanders were already seated, their conversation lowering to a murmur at her entrance. The door behind her slid open again and she knew by the rhythm of the footsteps that her adjutant, Major Rumis Swonnessy, had just entered.

People did themselves a disservice by underestimating Rumis. He was tall, tanned and absolutely gorgeous. Others might think that Cheloi kept him around purely because he was so decorative. They might even have imagined a secret affair between them. With his dark, mysterious eyes, glossy black hair and dimples, it was an obvious but mistaken assumption. Cheloi liked and trusted Rumis, not because of his looks, but because of his abilities. His usually open expression hid a sharp and quick intelligence, and he had proven his loyalty to her in the past, two traits that were hard to find in the present environment. In the tank of sharks currently contained within the meeting room, at least Rumis was one shark on her side.

She walked to her customary seat, again trying to shield her limp as much as possible, and sat down. All eyes turned to her.

“I’ve been through the reports,” she began, putting the documents on the table in front of her.

Cheloi had been holding these meetings every week for more than a year. The format was unchanged. She would begin with a summary of the current conflict, adding directives and requests from Central Control. She would then turn the discussion over to her senior officers for a sector-by-sector outline. Their voices droned in the stuffy air of the closed room but she forced herself to pay attention. There was equally important information in what the commanders didn’t tell her as what they did. She cast a glance around the table, searching each earnest face for subtle non-verbal ues, hints that things may not be going as well as their words indicated.

Sub-Colonel Vanqill, for example, was a young and ambitious officer but lacking the finer appreciation of logistics and human resource management. He was boasting of impressive advances in Green sector but she could tell from the tightness around his mid-brown eyes that he wasn’t telling the full story. Further probing brought out the truth that, once again, his soldiers were outrunning the supply lines, daring the Menon fighters to cut them off. Not for the first time, she was forced to divert troops from the adjacent, relatively stable Black sector to intervene and help hold a route back to the straggling supply transports.

She knew what Koul would have done in a similar position. He would have tolerated one, maybe two, mistakes. But by the third time, Koul would have withheld reinforcements and let Vanqill and his battalions perish. Her second-in-command read her reluctance to let Vanqill charge into death as a sign of weakness but, after the Sab-Iqur affair, he knew better than to harangue her about it.

Diverting a company from the neighbouring Black sector to hold the Green line, however, meant mollifying Black sector commander, Colonel Senel Wakor. Cheloi still hadn’t succeeded in that task when the meeting came to an end.

With cool gleaming eyes, Koul watched his peers leave the briefing room then turned his gaze to his superior. There were now only three left at the table: him, the Colonel, and the Colonel’s adjutant, Major Rumis Swonnessy.

Like a signal, Cheloi heard Rumis’ soft sigh beside her. While she had been focusing on each of the commanders as they spoke, he had been watching the dynamics between the rest of them. His small exhalation told her that an argument was about to begin.

“With all due respect, Senior Colonel,” Koul began, when the door was safely shut, “I keep reminding you that you either need to pull Vanqill into line, or allow the Menons to do it for you.”

“It’s unlike you to mince words, Colonel,” Cheloi rebuked in a calm voice and tried not to notice the slight smile breaking on Rumis’ face. It was childish but Koul always seemed to bring out the worst in her. “What you mean to say is that we should let Vanqill and his soldiers perish.”

“This is not the fourth, nor even the sixth, time he has outrun his orders and his supplies.”

“He is unsettling the enemy by taking the fight to them for a change,” she countered. “While the rest of the commanders tend to a caution that borders on lethargy, at least Vanqill tries to be proactive. He may not always succeed, but at least he’s making the effort.”