Renegade (46 page)

Chankow smiled humourlessly. “Erik,” he said. First name, as though speaking to a child. A calculated insult. “Where do you think you’ll go?” Erik said nothing. He wasn’t about to give Chankow clues. “Firstly, you’re nothing like the pilot and captain that Pantillo was. What chance do you think you’ll have now? With our entire Fleet chasing you?”

“You think you can trust all your captains to chase me? Good luck.”

Chankow snorted. “You think everyone loved Pantillo as much as you? Half of Fleet thought him a meddling fool. Fleet captains follow orders, but Pantillo? No boy, your Captain took liberties. He reinterpreted orders to suit himself and his crew, often he skipped orders he didn’t like entirely. Only this… crazy media-inflamed status, this ‘hero of the fleet’ nonsense kept him from being busted back down to Lieutenant, or worse.”

“I know you’ve got your cronies,” Erik said coldly. “They’re not the ones you should worry about. Plenty did like him, and if you keep all of them away from chasing me, they’ll notice, and gossip and whisper behind your back. If you’re going to chase me, you better catch me quick, because I’ll spread the word about what you’ve done, and the longer you leave it, the more it will spread.”

They couldn’t take
Phoenix
here, Erik reckoned, thinking furiously. Shooting at a combat carrier with anything big enough to damage it meant a weapons lock first.
Phoenix
would sense it and fire back, leading to mayhem. Such engagements would certainly damage station and take collateral lives. And they had no way of knowing that his bluster about
Phoenix
being instructed to fire on this Fleet HQ section of the rim
was
bluster.

They could kill him here and
Phoenix
wouldn’t know about it for a while at least… but if they couldn’t take
Phoenix
quietly, it wouldn’t advance their position. Boarding
Phoenix
by force was impossible. It would have to be from the dock, since assault shuttles would be quickly killed by close range defence, and good luck getting through
Phoenix
’s marines, with or without their Major. This here was a standoff.

“You haven’t thought this through,” said Chankow. “You speak of your family as though they’re an asset to you. You don’t understand the stakes here at all. Your mother is not the only voice that matters in the family company. She couldn’t risk it all to save you even if she wanted to. She has a multitude of board members, executives, shareholders. They can overrule her if they have to. Most of that business comes through Fleet at some point. I can assure you boy, we have much more power over her than she has over us.”

Erik smiled. “You think you can lecture me about my own mother? You have no idea how she operates. She doesn’t posture and shout. If she moved against you in any way, you’d never know about it. And don’t think for a second you can threaten me with my family’s safety. They’re better protected than you are, especially now.”

“And yet,” Chankow said drily, gesturing to the room. “Well protected as I am, here you sit. Sworn to kill me. Face to face. Things happen, Mr Debogande. To anyone.”

Trace, Erik thought. Currently on PH-1, flying out to Faustino. He leaned forward. “Let me tell you what will happen if you put an intercept on Major Thakur, or shoot her down. Firstly,
Phoenix
marines will storm this station and kill you. Secondly,
Mercury
marines, perhaps even Master Sergeant Afraz here, will let them.”

He looked pointedly at Afraz. Afraz’s expression had changed, from hard purpose to a concerned frown. Thinking on it. And by no means denying the possibility. Seeing it, Erik felt his confidence soar. He’d only speculated before, how other marines would react to Trace’s involvement. Now he saw it with his own eyes.

The Supreme Commander saw it too, then pointedly ignored it. But when he spoke again, he spoke a little too fast. “Major Thakur will be unmolested for now. As will you, and as will your ship. At least allow your objecting crew to deboard, if you will not see reason. Surely you have heart enough for that.”

“I have no objecting crew,” Erik retorted. He disliked this lie more than the others. Some lies were tactical, but this lie felt dishonourable.

“The Major is on her way to Faustino,” said Chankow, eyes narrowed. “Why?” He didn’t know about Stanislav Romki, Erik thought.

“Tell me,” he said to change the subject. “Now that you’ve sold out the human race’s security to chah'nas interests, will you send chah'nas after us too?” Chankow glared at him. Perhaps he’d expected a scared and spoiled young brat. Clearly he hadn’t expected
this.
“When did you think to tell everyone? You’ve been sitting on this deal for over a century, haven’t you? When did you agree to let them clean out Merakis for you? A world that
we
won, with
our
blood? What do they get next? Your balls in a jar? Liberties with your wife?”

Chankow got out of his chair and leaned on the table, his face like thunder. “You listen to me you pipsqueak,” he said with menace. “You have no idea what you’re playing with. This galaxy we’ve inherited is
nothing
like you’ve imagined, and if you threaten the plans we’ve made to keep humanity safe, forces beyond your dreams will crush everything in their path to get you and everyone you hold dear. Do you understand me?”

Erik got to his feet. “Perfectly, Commander.” He turned his attention to Afraz. “Master Sergeant. I don’t know if you’ve ever met Major Thakur. If not, ask after those who have. Ask them how likely it is that she’s been led astray by some junior command officer with a rich family.”

“That will be all, Mr Debogande!” Chankow insisted.

“Ask them how likely it is that she’s lying,” Erik continued. “Ask them if she’s ever done anything for personal advantage, or served any cause but the human cause. And don’t let these jumped up, spineless brass hats intimidate you into not asking more questions. And if you
do
ask more questions, watch your back. If they can murder my Captain, and thirty
Phoenix
crew at Homeworld, they won’t stop at marine Master Sergeants.”

He turned his back on them, opened the door, and left. And walked down the hallway outside, half expecting an alarm, or a crash tackle, or a thunder of running boots, but nothing came. He’d never before thought it good to be underestimated, but on this occasion it might have saved his life… and other lives besides. Now to get back to Lieutenant Dale, and hope like hell that someone didn’t change their mind and blow Trace out of the sky.

A
t any other orbital period
, Faustino could have been up to a three day trip. But they were lucky, Faustino was on the near side of Heuron V, and at a constant 2-G acceleration and turnover, PH-1 was going to make it in just under six hours. It was a heck of a long time to run a shuttle’s engines, and lying still for anything over an hour at even 2-G was difficult. At turnover, their speed was getting dangerously fast for a sub-light insystem run, and various vessels gave them non-verbal com-squawks, the sub-light version of two cars on a long distance highway flashing lights to warn of hazard. In this case, the hazard was them, but no one was going to reprimand one of
UFS Phoenix
’s shuttles verbally for violating lane regs.

Barely an hour out,
Phoenix
gave them a com burst of their own — no message, just a tight-beam alarm that suggested nothing good. Someone was listening, that meant. If they were listening so closely that they’d break
Phoenix
encryption, it meant HQ were onto them. Trace thought about it as she lay strapped to the seat, subconsciously flexing one muscle group after another against the ongoing strain. If HQ were onto them, it could only mean Erik was wrong, and word from Homeworld had beaten them here. That HQ hadn’t shot them out of the sky suggested… well. She didn’t know, and shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

“Hausler,” she said, putting both arms up, working the muscles against their double-weight. “Any Fleet ships heading for Faustino?” She could see PH-1’s scan feed on her visor, but the pilots up front could see a lot more.

“
Major, there’s just the five civvie ships inbound,”
Ensign Yun answered for her pilot. As frontseater, she ran scan and weapons directly. “
You think it’s a trap?”

“I always think it’s a trap. That’s why I’m still alive.”

“Supreme Commander Chankow has an appearance problem,” said Hiro Uno. Lisbeth’s ex-Intel bodyguard had joined PH-1 before departure, along with Second Section of Alpha’s Second Squad — Lance Corporal Walker plus three more marines, giving them an even dozen including Trace. Hiro made thirteen, dressed only in civvies with a Phoenix jacket and whatever gear he’d brought from Homeworld. “If he’s onto us, the only reason he hasn’t moved is appearances. He can’t share that information with many other people. If he moves against you Major, without a damn good reason, he could risk a mutiny of his own marines. And he can’t let them in on that information.”

“Why not?” asked Staff Sergeant Kono.

“Because the only ship that could get here that fast from Homeworld is an alo ship,” said Hiro, his voice a little more strained against the Gs than the marines. “That implies a much closer working relationship between Fleet HQ and the alo than anyone knows. Alo don’t run errands for anyone, not even Supreme Commander Chankow. Revealing the information also reveals the source.”

Which was the kind of thing a spy would know, Trace thought. “You operated in Heuron before, Hiro?” she asked him.

“Yes. It’s a ticking bomb.”

“That might have been nice to know before we came here,” Kono growled.

“A ticking bomb set to blow in about ten years,” Hiro added. “We thought. We were wrong.”

“If you’ve anything else to tell us that you haven’t yet,” Trace added. “Now would be the time.”

“Fleet have had contingencies in case of Worlder uprisings for the past three decades at least,” said Hiro. “What we’re seeing here isn’t rushed. But non-Fleet intelligence has told Fleet that they’re not the only ones with contingencies.”

“What did Fleet say to that?”

“They didn’t listen. Fleet have their own Intel, they didn’t trust us much. One reason why I left — Federal Intel is a dead end, no access to anything that matters. Fleet kept a lid on us.”

“What do you expect to see happen here?”

“To judge from what your journalist friend told you? Could be nasty. I hope Fleet have fully inspected every non-Fleet vessel attached to all the stations. Wouldn’t want a nuke to go off.”

Silence in the shuttle, save the howl of engines and the rattle of restraints and armour. “That would be interesting,” Kono deadpanned. “Faustino might actually be safer right now.”

Soon Trace didn’t need magnification to see Faustino clearly — a straight rear feed showed it huge and getting huger at an alarming speed, dull silver in the light of a distant sun. PH-1’s engines roared and shook in their target’s direction, blurring the visual with thrust, decelerating them down from a velocity that would have made a thermo-nuclear sized impact at its peak. It was the thing that Worlder civvies and new marines struggled to get their heads around about combat in space — velocity was energy, and velocity ate up distance at an exponentially accumulative rate. Warships put explosive heads in most ammunition only so armscomp could terminate misguided rounds — for killing targets the explosive was redundant, it was velocity that killed the target irrespective of armour. If your engines cut out at peak velocity in a 2-G push, after three hours of constant acceleration,
you
became the ammunition, travelling at speeds to give rifle bullets nightmares.

A quarter-orbit descent showed them various bases and settlements across the moon’s broken ice-crust, lights gleaming far below. Hausler received clearance from a wary-sounding Crondike traffic controller, still approaching backward to wipe off the excess V. Doubtless some bureaucrats down there were already writing up the complaint to Fleet HQ about hotshot shuttle pilots. They were only five klicks out when Hausler finally turned them around, never having deviated from the 2-G decel, and let Faustino’s low gravity arc them down toward the settlement ahead.

Crondike was a circular sprawl across the ice, like a dark island upon a fractured, silver sea. Somewhere beneath it, mining shafts descended to vast mineral deposits below. Buildings were low, squat and unglamorous, all pressurised and insulated against the airless cold. Landing lights blinked upon the periphery pads, and Hausler descended toward one, engines lightly humming in low-thrust relief after their long effort. Some big gas haulers sat upon neighbouring pads, bulbous tanks full from a maze of pressurised pipes and tanks beside them. Small bus shuttles arrived at a nearby pad, underside thrusters glowing faintly, all they needed for lift to carry passengers from one base across the frozen lunar surface to another.

They touched, feather light, and rolled to where pad workers were unhurriedly extending a docking arm to touch the dorsal port. “
Thank you for flying Phoenix Air,
” said Hausler. “
I know I can speak for all of my crew when I say that it has been an absolute contractual obligation to fly you here today, and I look forward to setting my ass on fire with you all again in the near future.”

“Jeez, can these pad guys work any slower?”
his co-pilot wondered. “
Are they getting paid by the hour or what?”

“Nice job guys,” Trace told them. “Do me a favour and stay with the ship. Get some gas and stay alert.”

“
What, you mean we don’t get to go and take in the stunning attractions of Crondike? ‘Cause it looks like a peach.”

When the access arm made a seal they climbed the dorsal hatch, then walked at a low crouch along the dingy, fluro-lit tube until they reached Embarkment. It was utilitarian like mining settlements everywhere, some pad workers operating the arm and peering out portholes, talking on coms. Beyond were offices, where bored workers paid little attention to comings and goings.

At the base of the steps from the tube stood an impatient woman in a working jumpsuit, red customs tabs on her shoulders. Beyond her, about twenty civvies with recording devices, and a few with notepads. About half were kids. Trace very rarely suffered outbursts of any kind, but she had to repress a bad word beneath her breath. It looked like a fanclub.

“Hello Staff Sergeant,” said the customs woman to Kono as he lead the way. “Are you in charge here? I just need all your IDs for the log, if you wouldn’t mind… thanks.” As Kono flashed his on the reader. “Thank you Staff Sergeant Kono, thank you Private Kumar, thank you Private Arime.” As they checked through one at a time. “Thank you Major…” and the customs lady’s eyes bugged a little. “Major Thakur! Thank you very much!”

Gasps from the gathered fan club, who clustered not too close, recording devices activated and angling for a shot of Trace’s face as she passed. “Major Thakur!” called a couple of the kids. “Major Thakur!” As though hoping she’d wave and smile. If Trace resented anything about her Liberty Star, it was the celebrity that went with it. War was not a game show, and she absolutely refused to go along with this lunacy on any level.

And yet, in this situation, her celebrity could be an enormous help, eventually. Marines weren’t the only ones who would doubt Fleet’s story about the Captain and the LC, with her standing against it. It also made her an enormous inconvenience for Fleet. Surely they’d like that inconvenience removed at the earliest. But doing it in public would be problematic for them.

“Thank you Mr Toshi,” said the customs lady as Hiro passed through, and Trace waited with the gathering group forming a ring to keep the fan club at bay. A couple of the kids jumped to see more clearly — in the one-fifth-G they sailed nearly up to the ceiling. A couple of her marines smiled. Trace did not. She beckoned Hiro to walk at her side, and they skipped lightly down the wide-spaced stairs, letting gravity sail them gently down.

“Nice inconspicuous entrance?” Hiro ventured.

“Manifest and flightplan security on mining bases is shit,” said Trace. “All the civvies hack it, see who’s coming in. Famous ships get a crowd.”

Hiro nodded. “Lucky they didn’t know it was actually you — we’d have a hundred here. All these kids shouldn’t be in low G.”

“Local holiday,” said Trace. “They’re down from the heavy station to see family.” Because Spacer kids had to spend a medically-mandated 96 percent of their time in full gravity. Anything down to 90 percent could be fixed, medically, but it was risky and expensive. Less than 90 percent and kids got brittle bones, malformed heart and organs, all kinds of nastiness. Every Spacer kid wore a ‘heavy tab’ somewhere that wouldn’t come off, often a ring or bracelet, that recorded gravity levels at every moment and alerted someone if they weren’t getting enough. Station kids loved to mess around in the hub when parents and guardians weren’t looking, and often got much less G than adults thought they were getting. Twenty-percent-G here on Faustino wasn’t technically any healthier than zero-G for kids over long periods, and bases like Crondike were usually child-free. Station rims on the other hand were often crowded with boarding schools, where parents from bases like this one would send their kids for medical and educational purposes equally.

The main walk through arrivals had a tall ceiling and some shops along one wall. Regular portholes overlooked pads to the right — spacesuited workers and runabout vehicles, various inspectors and machinery operators. Along the walk, passengers, crews, a lot of pads personnel, a few security. It always looked comical to the unaccustomed, because everyone skipped instead of walking — it was the far faster form of movement, with long, easy bounces along the corridor. Accidental collisions were common, as you couldn’t change direction in mid-air if you saw you’d made a mistake. Carrying sharp objects in the transit halls was strictly prohibited.

“Who is Mr Toshi?” Trace asked Hiro as they bounced. The customs lady had read that name off his ID when he’d checked in.

“Debogande Inc employee,” said Hiro, moving as well in micro-G as any well-travelled marine. “Performance Inspector, I made him up. He’s a pretty nifty guy though, gets lots of places, high security clearance.”

“I can imagine. You’d like to get a few places in here?”

Hiro nodded. “Crondike security aren’t much worry, but Fleet have got others for emergency contingencies. Be nice to check it out while you’re finding Mr Romki.”

“Absolutely,” Trace agreed. “Do your thing, just keep in touch.” Hiro nodded, then skipped easily left and bounced off a wall down an adjoining corridor like a guy who’d spent quite a bit of time in this gravity. A well-travelled man indeed.

“You trust him?” Kono asked, taking Hiro’s place at her side.

“Not yet. But the Debogande family has a habit of making all their inner circle feel like part of the family. It’s not just a paycheque for guys like him, it’s personal. I’m pretty sure he’d take a bullet for Lisbeth.”

“Lisbeth’s not here,” Kono said dourly.

“We’ll see,” said Trace.

E
rik walked
with Lieutenant Dale and Alpha First Squad along a perimeter path of Blue Sector Park. The park was at the top of the Hoffen rim, and the high ceiling thirty meters above was a line of segmented, transparent panels presenting a spectacular upward view of the enormous hub and axle, huge support arms stretching away from the rim for kilometres. The park itself was central residential green space, long and rectangular, filled with plants and centred upon a series of winding ornamental lakes and a stream. The gardens were beautiful, in stark, natural relief to the grey steel of surrounding walls… though here the steel was broken by large windows overlooking at various levels, where expensive apartments looked onto the pretty view.

Ahead Erik spied the hotel he’d seen on schematic plans. Dale spied it also. “So long as we’re not paying,” he said. “And I doubt Fleet credit will take us at the moment.”

“My treat,” Erik said drily.

“What if they’ve blocked your account?”

“They don’t know all my accounts.” Even Fleet officers were allowed some secrets from Fleet Command. Most couldn’t keep those secrets, if someone as high up as Erik’s enemies were determined to discover them, but Erik’s financials were Debogande Incorporated private accounts. Any bank that wanted to keep doing business with Debogande Inc would think twice about closing them, no matter who was asking.