Zabat took one look at Emery and came to the obvious conclusion. “She
cooperated, Abram. She got us to G-145.”
Tahir moved toward the hatch, not wanting to see the confusion on
Zabat’s face. The captain was going to discover that negotiating or cooperating with Abram
never got anyone a
different
result—they merely bought themselves a
little more time.
“Come along.” Emery grabbed Danielle’s arm.
“But we did what you wanted!” Zabat’s voice rose.
“And you lived. Now, Captain, you have an appointment in the clinic.”
Abram had taken out his flechette pistol and aimed it, point blank, at Zabat’s thick
midsection. For right now, this coercion worked. Zabat flinched and nodded.
Following Emery and Danielle, Tahir fingered the bulbous shape of the
flechette pistol in his belt. Abram had obtained several crates of them, even though flechette
weapons were hard to find. They used bulky cartridges, which expanded upon firing into a cone
of spinning needles with helical spines. They were designed to cause maximum damage to human
bodies while not harming harder ship structures. The cartridges could also be infused with
chemical or biological agents.
However, the threat of these weapons would be less and less effective on
the crew of the former
Venture’s Way
, unless Abram backed up his
threats with actual action. Now that they were inside G-145, someone would have to die, as an
example. Tahir knew that Abram wouldn’t trust Zabat’s cooperation otherwise.
Emery stopped and opened a hatch, pushing Danielle through.
“These aren’t my quarters. They’re the first mate’s,” she said, her eyes
fearfully riveted on Emery’s face.
“They’re empty and that’s all I want.” Emery turned around to Tahir, who
stood in the hatchway. “Get out.”
“No, Cousin.” Tahir swallowed, hard. “Abram wouldn’t approve.”
“Please.” She directed her whimper at Tahir.
Emery quickly shoved Danielle toward the single bunk, his movements
exploding with rage. She fell backward across the bed, her head and shoulder hitting the
bulkhead. Emery whirled and in one stride, pushed Tahir out of the hatchway, his face close to
Tahir’s.
“Don’t call me cousin.” Emery’s hands gripped his shoulders tightly.
“You’re not one of us, and you’ll only prove that to Abram, if you run to him with trivial
complaints.”
“We may need her skills later.”
“Her skills will never be used again. Not in this system.” Emery smiled,
spitefully. “You can have her
after
me.”
Tahir shook his head and Emery released him with a disdainful sneer. He
backed away, knowing that he wasn’t strong enough to stop this, and Emery closed the
hatch.
You’re not one of us.
Emery was right: He
was an outsider. He felt nauseated and hurried away, so he couldn’t hear anything through the
hatch.
CHAPTER 6
Qesan Douchet was a madman and the Minoans did us
a favor when they killed him. He took the isolationist poli cies of his ancestors and twisted
them into a manifesto,
which the Terrans just recently released. It’s sickening.
If you like scary stories, look at his strategy for expand ing isolationism (no, that’s not
an oxymoron). First, one
finds territory where the population can be permanently
isolated. . . .
—
Misogynist Freaks
, Lauren Swan
Kincaid, 2103.043.11.25 UT, indexed by
Heraclitus 29
under Conflict
Imperative
“T
his can no longer be passed off as a
paperwork problem, now that we’ve found this dummy package. This is theft,” Edones said.
Colonel Ash sat motionless, watching SP Hauser. When Hauser acknowledged
Edones’s comment by nodding his head, Ash nodded also. Oleander frowned.
What a sycophant! I hope I’m not like that when I rise to senior officer
rank
.
She had been disappointed in SP Hauser; she’d expected a Terran State
Prince would look more impressive. From her Autonomist viewpoint, leaders should look
distinctive, but Hauser seemed entirely forgettable. He had a small badge on his chest and he
wore the same sleep-inducing colors as the Terrans in uniform.
Then Hauser spoke. His authority was mesmerizing and she had problems
taking her eyes off him. He had to be using
somaural
projection.
“I desperately hoped this would be an inventory mistake, Colonel Edones.
We’re sincerely upset by this turn of events.” SP Hauser suddenly seemed so trustworthy that
Oleander would have allowed him to invest her life savings, if she had any.
Edones pointed to an image of the dummy package displayed on the wall.
He appeared sullen because he wasn’t looking directly at Hauser, but Oleander realized he was
using a sensible safeguard against
somaural
influence.
She followed Edones’s example and focused on the package. Its
dimensions, density, and mass distribution attempted to mimic the real thing, but it fell short
under scans because it lacked exotic material. Once the Terrans had grudgingly scanned their
entire inventory, they’d found the warhead with this package. It hadn’t happened quickly: It
had taken four days and three teams of eight people to go through the weapons stored at
Teller’s Colony, the biggest Terran arsenal located outside the Sol system. The results:
Package TDP-2102-012 couldn’t be found, inside warhead WM15-894 or elsewhere in the
arsenal.
“This warhead was delivered three years ago from your production
facility. When did it last have a maintenance inspection?” Edones waved at the short
maintenance record on WM15-894. The history showed when the warhead had been produced and
delivered, but there were no maintenance inspections listed.
After getting an approving nod from SP Hauser, Colonel Ash appeared to
squirm in his seat. “We’ve gone to five-year inspection periods,” Ash said. “This was—ah—one of
our cost control measures.”
“Gaia protect us,” muttered Bernard quietly, although Oleander heard his
words clearly. TD weapons should be monitored frequently, due to the exotic matter trapped
inside the package.
Colonel Edones seemed stunned by the Terrans’ admission. He cleared his
throat before continuing. “So, if not for our inspection, you wouldn’t have found this package
missing for two more years?”
Ash nodded.
“What about delivery records? Was an inspection performed by the
receiving unit?” Bernard asked.
“The maintenance squadron commander at the time didn’t have enough techs
to perform the receipt inspection for the unit, so he relied upon the civilian team that
brought the warheads from the production facility.” Ash tapped his table to display a signed
form on the wall.
“They were cheaper than using military personnel,” Ash added, and a
flash of embarrassment crossed his face.
“Well, we have to look into the entire civilian delivery team, and pull
their clearance investigations,” Edones said.
“We’ve already started,” SP Hauser said.
Ariane waited while Frank locked and immobilized his cart. Then they
went through two station rings to the little bar that catered to workers. The door had a
handwritten sign that read STELLAR SHIELD and the interior was built with odds and ends. The
bar would be dismantled once the system “opened up,” meaning the time when the Pilgrimage ship
line released the buoy codes into the public domain. At that point, anyone and everyone in an
N-space-capable ship could come into G-145. By then, the system would have another name and
Beta Priamos would house legitimate, rent-paying businesses.
At this point, however, the Stellar Shield’s eclectic interior felt
comfortably worn and familiar. It was crowded, being shift-change time, and Ariane had to wind
around populated tables to get to the bar, obviously made from repurposed struts and bulkhead
shields. Frank trailed her. She hopped on a stool and he hesitated, uncharacteristi cally,
before sitting on the one beside her.
“I’ll take whatever beer you’ve got,” Ariane said to the bartender,
knowing the inventory was limited.
Frank squinted in thought when the bartender looked at him. “There’s so
much to choose from in the nonalcoholic range,” he said dryly. “Just give me that stuff you say
is Hellas Kaffi.”
The large young man didn’t look amused. He ducked through a hatch and
returned quickly with their drinks. Ariane’s chilled beer was in resealable polycarbonate and
Frank’s drink was in a flash-heat pack. Not that the station inhabitants didn’t trust their
newly installed gravity generator, but products delivered to Beta Priamos had to be consumed
under many conditions, including zero gee.
The bartender held out a slate between Ariane and Frank, and she quickly
grabbed it. The billing was manual, given the nodeless environment and dumb surfaces. In any
restaurant back in the Hellas system, she’d use the tabletop for near-field exchange with her
implant. Instead, she gave her thumbprint and verbal public password for voiceprint to the
slate and applied the debit to one of her accounts.
“Thank you, Ms. Kedros.” Frank was polite, as always. He never failed to
call her
Ms
. Kedros, even when he was shit-faced—she doubted she’d
ever see him like that again and she indulged in a moment of nostalgia.
“You’re welcome.” She sipped slowly and delicately at the beer, putting
it down on the counter between swallows. She wanted to drink faster, but Frank was
watching.
If Matt were here, he’d probably make the barbed observation that
normal
people didn’t obsess about how fast they drank. She pushed
that comment back into the dark nether realms of her mind where it could bounce around with
Tafani’s sly remarks such as
new space is not conducive to your
recovery
.
“Hey, Frank, who’s your friend?” A beefy hand landed on the back of
Frank’s hunched shoulders.
Ariane twisted and saw the hand was attached to a stocky man in
ubiquitous crew overalls. He winked at her, his light green eyes a startling contrast in his
dark face.
“Ariane Kedros.” She extended her hand to trade a firm handshake with
him. “Pilot of the
Aether’s Touch
.”
“Hal Bokori.” The initial condescending leer on his face changed to a
comfortable grin. “Pilot, huh? N-space or real-space?”
“Both. You?”
“I’m loadmaster for the
Golden Bull
, the
behemoth that runs between here and the mining operation at Tithonos, Laomedon’s largest moon.”
His grin became self-deprecating. “Can I buy you a drink or some smooth?”
Hal pulled a smooth dispenser out of his pocket. When he offered it, she
took a tablet, but Frank shook his head.
“Not drinking, so what good is it?” Frank pointedly took another sip of
Kaffi.
“It can take the edge off.” Hal shrugged and put his dispenser away.
“Not that any present company needs their edges smoothed, of course.”
“You remember the ‘Small Stellar Terror’ everyone still talks about?”
Frank jerked his head at Ariane. “This is she.”
“No kidding!” Hal looked Ariane up and down. “You’re the one who took
down Axel?”
“Well, he was drunk and his reflexes were shot,” Ariane said
modestly.
“But, even drunk, he’s stronger than the Great Bull.”
A bell started clanging as Hal’s drink arrived, which made him curse. “I
ordered too soon—didn’t know anyone was scheduled to come in this shift.”
Whoops started about the Stellar Shield as everyone looked up at the
arrival list. A ship’s name appeared, right above the
Aether’s
Touch
. It was
Father’s Wrath
, which puzzled her, because
Matt had pointed out that
Venture’s Way
was the next ship scheduled
to arrive. Then a notation appeared, indicating that the ship had changed its registration from
Venture’s Way
, perhaps due to a change of ownership.
Father’s Wrath
was arriving at G-145 early, but more importantly, she’d
miscalculated by being here in the bar. She was going to lose some pocket money.
“New ship in-system.
Aether’s Touch
pays the
next round!” were the cries about the bar counter as the bell clanged. “Anyone here from
Aether’s Touch
?”
Ariane raised her hand and grinned. As the sole crew member present from
the last arriving ship, she became responsible for toasting the next ship—essentially paying
for the next round of drinks. She nodded at the bartender, and a cheer welled up. It wasn’t the
worst ritual to get caught in and Matt would have enjoyed it, even though he’d grouse about
expenses and mutter some curse that included the Great Bull’s balls. Her grin faded as she
realized how much she missed him.
“I need to get going,” Frank said abruptly.