In the Presence of My Enemies

IN THE

PRESENCE

OF MY

ENEMIES

Kestrel Saga: Volume IV

A novel by

Stephen A. Fender

Edited by

Lynda Dietz

Published by

JR
P
©

Jolly Rogers Productions

In The Presence Of My Enemies

Copyright © 2014 Stephen A. Fender

www.StephenFender.com

First Edition: June 2014

Published through Jolly Rogers Productions (JRP) ©, a subsidiary division of StephenFender.com

All rights reserved.

Ordering information: [email protected]

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 

Print ISBN:        
1499146752

Print
ISBN13:    
978-1499146752

Electronic
AISN:             

Cover art layout by Stephen Fender ©.

I’d like to thank to my family, friends and fans that have been there through this process. I’m grateful for all of you, and each of you has a special place in my heart.

I’d also like to thank my editor, Lynda. She spent countless hours going over this text, and it was time well spent. This novel is the culmination of a lot of hard work, and I’m exceedingly grateful for her assistance. You rock!

Thanks should also go to my parents, Bill and Denise. You’ve been amazingly supportive. I love you both so very much.

I want to extend a very special thanks to my lovely wife, Jamie. Your support has been nothing short of astounding.

“All that glimmers is not necessarily gold, and some things bought that can never be sold.”

— Akturian Statute of Attainment

   He knew that even as he gazed out the wide view port, what he was seeing was a trick of his mind. The stars surrounding the ship—once numbering in the tens of thousands—had all but disappeared, replaced by twisting and turning shapes forged by the hands of warring races. In their time, these forms were the pinnacle of their respective races’ technological advances, capable of both immense destruction and unimagined scientific discovery.

   Now the
mighty machines were all dead: disremembered relics of a time not too distant in the past. Their enormous power generators hummed and twisted no more. Long silent were their destructive batteries, drained of their projectiles and energy shells. No longer were the crews flowing about their corridors—as blood would in the veins of the body—bringing life to every corner of the vessel. Every window was now a dark spot on the pitted and battered hulls, and if anyone ventured close enough to peer into them, the curious would have more luck seeing into the depths of a black hole.

   With no friction in space to slow them down, every fragment
of debris spun and twisted as it had begun those years ago when it was blown free from whatever ship was nearby. Now it was nearly impossible to tell most ships from one another. With their identification transponders as dead as the hulks they lived in, the only way to categorize one ship from another was by chance—that lucky moment one might see the christened name plastered across an unbroken stretch of hull plating, or find an unbroken china cup from one of their wardrooms floating in the hundreds of square miles of debris.

   But those
trinkets weren’t the veritable needles-in-haystacks that Captain Nango Gandar and his crew were looking for. He couldn’t care less about names that meant nothing to him, remnants of an old war that had nothing to do with him or his people. All he cared about was getting paid, and he was sure he was going to find something in the floating carcasses spinning inexorably just beyond his salvage ship to quench that appetite. 

   As the navigator turned the salvage ship
Bo’tham
to port, Gandar’s view of the stars was obscured by the gutted remains of a large warship. It looked like a Sector Command cruiser, but Gandar couldn’t be certain. Extending his three gangly fingers, he stroked the thick proboscis extending down from his chin as he contemplated his next move.  

   “We’ll be on it in just a moment, Gandar,” the blue
-skinned navigator said without turning from his station. “Should I make ready the docking clamps?”

   The captain’s only response was to grunt an acknowledgement. The
Bo’tham
was in dangerous territory, and every second counted. The remains of the battlefield was littered with any number of objects that threatened to perforate the hull of the small salvage ship at any given moment, to say nothing about the proximity of the site to Kafaran space. While many races hadn’t had contact with that dangerous and unpredictable race since the end of the Galactic War years before, Gandar was quite sure they still patrolled this area of space. On an earlier salvage operation near this location, Gandar’s sensor had picked up what he was sure was a Kafaran scout, well outside the unofficial boundaries of their empire, but he hadn’t stuck around long enough to verify those readings. After all, he was cautious, not stupid.

   Out of restraint,
Gandar had beat a hasty retreat, vowing to return to the site soon. Now he was back, and his sensors were tuned to their finest settings. He didn’t want to stray too far into the field, which would make a speedy retreat extremely perilous. However, he also knew that any valuable items would likely be found on the largest of the capital ships—and they were most certainly located near the center of the five-hundred-square-mile field.

   With a heavy sigh, Gandar shook his large head, the overlapping layers of
blue-tinted skin reacting slowly while trying to keep up. “No. We will need to move farther into the field.”

   “It’s pretty crowded in there,” the navigator replied in a cautious tone. “We could find ourselves out of maneuvering room
really
fast.”

   “I’m not paying you for your opinions, just your skills. And if you’re telling me you can’t handle it, then I’m sure I can get someone else
up here to take over for you . . . and for half the price.”

  
While it was true that no one on board had the piloting skills the current navigator had, the man at the helm was equally certain Gandar would make good on his threats. Having strayed so far from the normal shipping lanes to get here, the
Bo’tham’
s fuel supply and food stores were both running dangerously low. The easiest way to ration was always to eliminate those things responsible for their consumption, and that meant the crew first.

   “That’s not what I’m saying,” the navigator defended. “All I’m saying is that, if we get pinched in there—”

   “That’s not your concern right now. If you’re so troubled about your own hide, perhaps you should have stayed home and suckled on your mother!”

  
Both defeated and embarrassed, the navigator lowered his head and turned his attention back to his console, his ego sufficiently deflated. “Yes, sir.”

   Gandar’s
immense chest expanded with satisfaction over his victory. “Right now we remain undiscovered, and we will proceed along those lines until the situation changes. Plot a solution into the navigation computer. I want to get as close to the heart of this mess as soon as possible.”

* * *

   Nearly an hour after entering the debris field, and with several close calls under their belts, the angular
Bo’tham
neared the center of the long-dead conflict. All around the two-hundred-foot-long craft, bits and pieces of starships from a half dozen races floated serenely, occasionally colliding with one another and releasing even more flotsam.

   Standing close to the
five-foot-tall hexagonal view port at the front of the control room, Gandar surveyed the scene with satisfaction. Surely there was something of value in the remains, the largest concentration of which was sitting just off the starboard bow.

  
I must possess it.
“Any idea of what I’m looking at?” Gandar asked the navigator.

   Three fingers lightly
scratched at the navigator’s malleable scalp. “My guess would be a Unified ship . . . probably a fighter carrier. Looks like it has launch bays along the side. Hard to tell if we’re looking at the port or starboard, though. The bow and the stern are . . . missing.”

   Gandar bobbed his fat head accordingly. “That would be my assessment as well. I think we’ve found our target. If there is even one salvageable
Sector Command fighter still on board, the profit alone would make this entire trip worth the headache involved in getting it out.”

   The navigator eyed the former Sector Command carrier suspiciously.
Any type of fighter we discover will be too big for our cargo hold.
“We’d have to rig it for towing.”

   “Is that a problem?” Gandar sneered.

   “Not at all. That means we can use the cargo hold exclusively for anything else we find.”

   “Such as?” Gandar asked, wondering what list of artifacts the slimy little navigator had invented for his own personal gain.

   “The possibilities are almost endless,” the navigator said eagerly, now seeing profit where he once saw danger. “Hover tanks, mechanoids, medical equipment, not to mention small arms and munitions. All worth a king’s fortune.”

   Gandar had already thought as much, and was as inwardly eager to begin the operation as his crewman. However, preparations would need to be made first.
Although the
Bo’tham
was equipped with a number of robotic arms easily capable of ripping into smaller vessels, Unified vessels were known to have extremely thick armor around their most sensitive areas. The hangar doors were especially hardy, and would take an enormous amount of time to tear open.

   “Is there a suitable docking ring?”
Gandar asked.

   The navigator keyed in the request to the
Bo’tham
’s
sensors. “It looks like there are several that are structurally sound.”

   “Are any of them close to the hangar level?”

   The navigator scanned the readout again, then shook his head in disappointment. “The closest one appears to be three levels above. However, if we can get down to the hangar, we should be able to force one of the landing doors open from inside, using the hand-operated emergency release system. Once open, they’re easily large enough to navigate the
Bo’tham
inside, or to haul out anything just as large.”

   Gandar approved the plan, although navigating the innards of the ship were not on his original agenda. It could pose any number of difficulties, and he was already taxed for time.
Thankfully, the navigator had had the forethought to pull up the carrier’s deck plans from a database recently acquired by Gandar on the black market. “Call down to the engine room and inform the engineer that we will require two cargo droids to accompany us inside the derelict once we are safely attached. Then I want you to download the schematics to our portable computers. Once that is complete, you will begin the docking operation.” Gandar then turned, and when the navigator noticed he was heading for the door, he decided to speak up.

   “Where are you going?”

   “To suit up. Maybe you’ve forgotten that there is no air over there,” the captain said, waving a meaty hand at the remains of the carrier.

   The navigator cocked his head. “You normally wait for us to secure the area before you come over.”

   “We don’t have time to be overly cautious. Now, do as you’ve been instructed and be quick about it. Take preliminary sensor readings of the inner airlock once you’ve attached the ship, but don’t waste too much time. We’ve got a job to do, and a fortune to make. Every second we delay is money flushed down the toilet.”

* * *

   Once the
Bo’tham
was secured to the docking ring, and the man-sized hatch had been laser cut and shoved inward, Gandar and his team of two cautiously entered the derelict’s long-abandoned airlock compartment. Behind them, two cargo droids, each a three-foot-tall multi-limbed unit custom-designed for ripping into salvaged vessels, hovered silently as they awaited their next orders.

   Gandar turned to his engineer, a recent recruit he had picked up in a far-flung cantina on Alpha-Seven. “Take a droid and make your way to the nearest ship
’s armory,” he said, pulling up the holographic plans for the level on which they currently found themselves. “They’re never marked on blueprints, but I have it on good authority that it’ll be near the remains of the Marine barracks.”

   The engineer
nodded without responding, his thick helmet obscuring most of the motion. Flicking on the floodlight above his visor, he shuffled down a long corridor to his right, his heavy magnetic boots smacking down with each step. A minute later, the engineer was out of sight, the darkness of the corridor consuming even the bright ambiance of his light.

   “There is a ladder nearby,” Gandar said as he turned his torso to face his navigator. “It will take us down to the hangar level, assuming these schematics are accurate.”

   “You don’t trust them?” the navigator asked with a laugh that was laced with uncertainty.

   “I don’t trust anything, and that’s especially true for people
who ask too many questions. Now come on.”

   After traversing through two empty compartments, the du
o easily located the ladder. Slowly descending several flights of stairs, they found their path barred by a closed door.  A sign above the door in Galactic Standard read “Hangar, Level 3.” Gandar tapped the controls on his wrist computer and commanded the cargo droid to move into position. As the two men stepped back, the droid hovered to the door and extended the appendage tipped with a laser cutter. Within minutes, the task of slicing into the door was complete, and Gandar pushed the newly cut portion of the portal away.  

   Inside the hangar, the lights of their environmental suits did little to dispel the gloominess of the
compartment. Gandar and his navigator moved slowly, with their droid following close behind. When a glint of something metallic registered in his periphery, the navigator was quick to draw his sidearm and face it. Gandar added his own light to the unknown object.

   “What is it?” the navigator asked.

   As Gandar’s light scanned the object’s length, he let out a slow laugh. “Exactly what we came for. It’s a fighter craft of some type.” He held his wrist computer aloft, letting the small scanner probe the craft.

   “Object identified,” the synthesized voice responded in short order. “Unified Sector Command medium
star fighter;
Seminole
-class Mark II.”

   “How much is it worth?” the navigator asked as he scanned the craft for any visible damage.