Rogue-ARC

  Cobra Joe was one of the best private contractor schools in space. Well, that was truly succulent. I sent a reply.

  Subject should have been IDed via DNA or other methods.

  This was something we’d have to keep track of internally. Not just Operatives and Blazers, but any vet seeking training and employment like that. Just so we didn’t get blindsided again.

  The Caledonian Space Authority could handle reservations for anything. At the desk sat a very nice middle-aged lady. She looked helpful and slightly bored. No one else was around at this time.

  “Good day,” I said. “I need to book priority passage for two to Mtali.”

  She feigned dramatic bother. “Well, with all the thousands of people swarming to get there, that could be a problem.” She waved and pointed at her screen and pad, bringing up color-coded options.

  “Hopefully there’s space,” I said.

  “There is. It is a somewhat circuitous route. From here to our Jump Point Two on Royal Spaceways, wait two days, through to Alsace via Terra Nova Lines, wait two more days, then to Mtali on a cargo hauler with a spare stateroom for let, and they’ll even transit you to orbit. You’ll have to book landing there. There is some, but I can’t find a schedule.”

  “‘Somewhat circuitous,’” I repeated.

  “That’s the fastest route I could find. I don’t think you’ll like the price, either.”

  “Try me.”

  “Twenty-seven thousand, four hundred sixteen pounds and seven pence, assuming joint occupancy.”

  That was borderline rape, but it wasn’t my money, so I said, “That’s within my budget,” and handed over a card.

  She hid her surprise well, and I could see her trembling in interest as to what I might be doing going to a remote hellhole.

  “Thank you very much,” I said, and left her disappointed.

  I find it amusing that Caledonia is a UN nation, but insists on issuing its own currency, which of course is pegged to the UN mark. Still, it’s at least a show of independence.

  Silver and I bagged up, loaded out, added some supplies available on station at a stiff premium, even with the government’s official discount, and got ready to travel.

  Our departure gate was the far side of the station, and I realized the boosted security was going to be a pain. I’d prefer not to flash the Queen’s paperwork around. We wanted to resume anonymity. I had the captain call ahead on our behalf and ensure our traveling names were starred.

  We took the perimeter tram around the skin of the station, past a dizzying twist of stars seen through ports, pillars, shops, gates, the lumps and tangles of intra-system ships and the glare of Caledonia and Ness. I enjoyed the contrast between stark nature and differently stark state-of-the-art tech.

  Our shuttle outsystem was the Mary. Like most such, she was a combination cargo and passenger craft, with the passengers gravy money. They were the cheapest leg of our trip, the price varying not by distance, but by energy expenditure.

  The captain had done his job well.

  “Sir, your names are flagged,” the gatekeeper, Jackson, two stripes told us.

  “Good,” I said.

  “That’s not good, sir,” he said with a half chuckle, half frown. He was wiry and bald and I didn’t detect any humor.

  “We’re priority and trying to be discreet about it,” I said softly. “Security matter.”

  “It certainly is,” he said. “I’ll have to ask you to step over to the side, please. Someone will be with you in a moment.”

  I shrugged and we complied. Whatever silliness it was, I didn’t need a scene.

  We waited.

  And waited.

  I was about to ahem and shuffle for attention when two other costumed clowns appeared, one each male and female took us by an arm each and led us to a back room. They were larger than average but not in bad shape.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked reasonably.

  We entered the office and I was pushed toward a chair at a table.

  “Who are you?” he asked as I sat down. He took the chair across from me. Silver was next to me and the female backup across from her. The chairs were on rails to allow travel, but prevent them slapping around if the station had problems.

  “You have my ID.” This was odd.

  “I don’t believe this for a second,” he said, waving it. His name was Radernan. Three stripes.

  “That’s who I’m traveling as.”

  “Exactly. So who are you, really?”

  Had he not got the message? Or, had the flag been misread as to offer me lots of special attention? Hell.

  “I am not at liberty to discuss that.”

  “Sir, do you see this uniform?” He waved a thumb. “That means I get to ask questions, and you are required to give me answers.”

  He focused on me to exclusion, ignoring Silver. His assistant did nothing. It wasn’t good cop/bad cop, and wasn’t an attempt to play us off against each other.

  I slid the Royal Warrant out of my coat and passed it over.

  He snorted.

  “Do I look like an idiot? That’s fake.”

  “I assure you it’s not.”

  “Her Majesty does not hand out writs to foreigners traipsing through the system.”

  “As I understand, she doesn’t generally do so at all. You might want to call and verify that.”

  “I don’t need to verify that, because it’s fake. Now, you can comply with my very reasonable requests, or you can not be on this flight.”

  I’d met my share of petty uniformed thugs before, but this guy didn’t seem to be that way. He seemed pretentious and stupid rather than conceited.

  “Sir, I don’t threaten worth a damn. My business is of interest to Her Majesty’s government, is crucial, and you can comply with your own protocols—if that Warrant is fake, you must report it and the Crown will file charges against me—or you can be looking for different employment tomorrow morning.”

  “So, why don’t we just sit here for a while until you miss your flight, then we can sit here a little longer until you decide to get smart.”

  I raised my eyebrows slightly and tried a different tack.

  “May I make a call, then?”

  “No.”

  “Sir,” I said, “I’ve been very reasonable and tried to answer your questions. I’ve offered documentation and you’ve refused it. What exactly do you want from me?”

  “ID, showing who you really are.”

  “How will you know it’s not fake?”

  How did I know Randall hadn’t set this clown up with a bribe to slow us down?

  In any case, we had a finite window to get aboard that ship. I figured we had six minutes to resolve it or a frantic reschedule would have to take place, which would be even more noticeable than our current urgent route.

  Given that, I stopped being polite.

  My hands were casually on the table edge. I gripped unobtrusively, with just tips and palm, then hooked his chair with my toe and yanked. It had stops, but they were closer in than his guts and ribs. He squeezed against the table and threw his hands down to resist. As he did so, I grabbed his jacket with one hand, floated the other toward his face, and snapped every joint from hip to wrist into it. His nose flattened and exploded in blood and both his eyes blacked and bloodied as well.

  His assistant tried to jump back, and fumbled at her weapons while gibbering. She’d just secured her stunner as I came up and spun across the table, banging my knee. I’m not chivalrous, and she was no lady, so I kicked her in the shoulder, tapped her under the chin with my toe just enough to clack her teeth and disorient her, then reached down for a carotid choke that finished her nap in about five seconds.

  Silver had come around the table and bound Mister Radernan with his own cuffs against one strut of the chair. She found strapping tape somewhere. Then she started to wrap his head.

  “Don’t,” I said. “He might die with his nose clogged, too.”

  She nodded, and
came over to gag the assistant instead. We lashed her separately, and she looked terrified, then furious, then disgusted as she realized we weren’t going to hurt her further, and were going to leave her lashed.

  I carefully closed the door behind us, as I said, “Thanks again, sir. We appreciate your help.” My right knee was swelling and painful by then. Ouch.

  Our personal bags were still on a dolly, so I rolled it myself with one hand, letting it take some of my weight, while I called the captain with the other, using hush.

  “Incident. May have been a setup or an idiot. Station security is unconscious and angry. Need it squelched.”

  He sounded rather miffed himself.

  “That’s really not good, sir. I’ll do what I can, but you understand this is going to be a bother.”

  “I wish it was avoidable. I greatly appreciate your help, Captain, and I’ve informed Her Majesty of that. I must ring off now.”

  “Travel safely.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I clicked off.

  There was a very brief mix-up at the boarding desk. The clerk said, “Mister Arun, there seems to be a flag on your name.”

  “Yes?” I prompted.

  He looked at something on his screen, then said, “It’s nothing. Please proceed at once, sir. Have a good flight.”

  “Thank you.”

  Apparently, if you punch a bureaucrat in the face hard enough, the message does get through.

  We made it through the gangtube and aboard with no further incidents. We had a small stateroom with bare amenities and use of the passenger diner. It was perfect for our needs, even if overpriced due to the urgency.

  We still could be harassed en route, but that should be an easier fix. I still had the Royal Warrant, and I intended to destroy it as soon as we cleared system. It probably wasn’t of much use now, but one never knows. Assets are kept until mission parameters dictate destruction.

  I went past the passenger galley and acquired one triple of a good rum for medicinal purposes, and sat back to de-stress. There would be lots more of it in the future.

  I felt a beep and checked my phone.

  Re: Your suggestion. Yes. Should have.

  I knew what he wasn’t saying. Why hadn’t they tracked me? All those files must have been corrupted during the war. They were now trying to reassemble them as best they could. That also explained why I’d not been found. They had no reason to look for any individual, and no reason to attempt to reconstruct a database on information they didn’t want to admit existed, for future operational security needs. Oh, joy. What else had he learned?

  It was a short flight as such go. The craft was fast. Eight days instead of ten doesn’t seem like a huge improvement until you try it. I had to work to stay busy.

  Because I can be a vindictive bastard, I kept a search out for Security Agent Radernan and the station. Sure enough, I found a note about his “Hurried transfer” due to “minor personal issues” and that support was appreciated but there was no cause for concern. A PR lie if I’d ever seen one.

  I coded a follow-up text for the Captain, thanking him for the resolution. I didn’t know if the clown was a plant, but he was definitely an ass and it seemed he was suited for different work. He responded that if they determined anything from debriefing him, they’d let me know.

  CHAPTER 10

  The rest of the trip was uneventful until the last leg, switching from shipboard to station cabin and back, with two jumps to twist the brain. We searched for possible targets on Mtali (not “in”—there’s very little off surface development), but there are so many factions and clans and interests, all interconnected, I had little hope of accomplishing much before arrival. We figured there were a hundred or so probables targets for Randall. We’d rule about half of them out after arrival, and add about the same number back after new intel.

  The tramp we rode was actually quite nice. It was Freehold flagged, as most are, and also Freehold crewed. That’s a good combination. Our flag of convenience often means someone trying to shirk inspections and safety to save money. Our crew means potential massive lawsuit for failing to comply, for which we had precedent only a couple of decades before. It was a family-owned hauler trying to make a few credits. They had three couples besides us, and one family of four as passangers.

  Space travel is culturally distorting. You’re looking at several months’ income per person, so only the upper class ever do it, or middle class people bent on permanent relocation who have sold most of their belongings. Passengers are almost always honest and beyond petty crime. The most you’re likely to encounter is a loud drunk. There are occasional stowaways, and a few poor people who scrape up one-way funds but often run short.

  The Travers had three wonderful kids from four to ten our years, who’d grown up in space and well knew the handling of ships. The father, Thor Travers, was former Freehold Military Forces Space Branch. He’d bought a salvaged UN support boat after the War and fitted it out himself. His wife Lari had been a groundside volunteer for medical support.

  I felt comfortable.

  We made a point to join them once a day for drinks, and for meals. The galley was small but clean, aft of the controls but before the cabins. A good buffer zone. They were gracious hosts and the food was commercial but Lari spiced it up a little and improved it. No complaints.

  The third day out from Alsace, we talked business a little. I’d allowed that I was a veteran, and admitted to knowing emergency procedures for space.

  Thor limited himself to a single beer. “I can’t drink much so I only drink good stuff,” he said. He had quite a chill rack of real glass bottles with a hundred or so types on hand. He sat back with a very classic reproduction firearm—a handgun with a revolving cylinder—in a thigh holster.

  “This is an unusual leg for us,” he said. “Not many people go to Mtali, and not much cargo. I gather this isn’t your honeymoon, Mister Dahl,” he said to me.

  I grinned. “No, we’re doing research on some of the geologic formations for my wife’s thesis paper, and because I like colored rocks.”

  Silver said, “I prefer the green, translucent kind with flowery inclusions.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Lari Travers asked, “Are their formations unusual?”

  “Generally boring,” I said. “Lapis is common, which is ironic given the culture. There are various corunda and some interesting limestones. Not much in the way of gems or others.”

  “There are some odd impact formations,” Silver said. I hadn’t heard that, and hoped it was true. Cover lies have to be solid.

  “Really?” I asked in hint.

  “Oh, yes, didn’t I tell you? A large one in the southern bay. We need cores from there.”

  That sounded quite feasible. Good.

  “I learn more all the time. And if it’s the bay, maybe we can go diving.”

  Travers turned to the familyof passangers. “And you folks?”

  “We’re missionaries,” Mr. Terry said. “There are many people in need of help.”

  I let a little more background slip out.

  “I was here with our forces some years back. I do hope you’ve got a secure mission. Most of the people are quite nice, but a few make up for it.” Their kids were cute. I’d hate to hear of them suffering.

  His wife said, “Yes, that’s a concern. We trust in God, but have strong walls.”

  “Good,” I said. I hoped they did. Then, “What of you, Captain? You have cargo on this leg?”

  “I do. Mostly weapon-related support equipment, I’m afraid. Stuff the UN will allow in for various enclaves to use for defense and support, without actually being lethal. It’s the only thing that really gets imported here, except for occasional donations of infrastructure gear that usually doesn’t last.”

  “That sounds like what I remember.” And I suddenly wanted very badly to look at his manifests and get into his cargo holds. The odds were slim but possible that something was tagged for Randall.


  I paid enough attention to the chatter of the other passangers to find out the Roulet’s were going to the Alsatian embassy, and Mister Merkel was a consultant for the fusion plant upgrade in the capital, with his ladyfriend along for company.

  “Dinner was good,” I said, “and the beer is excellent. Thank you very much.”

  “You are most welcome,” Travers said. “If you’d like to try a couple of rounds in the Colt Special Police, I may fire a couple in the bay tomorrow before dinner. There’s a solid backstop and these rounds won’t penetrate the hull armor.”

  “That would be quite exciting. Please.”

  I wasn’t lying. But I was still more interested in his cargo.

  I made an official but badly acted show of shoving Silver against the hatch to our stateroom, just in case anyone was looking. I did not grope her or kiss her because there was no need to and I would have enjoyed it too much and not enough. She giggled as we fell through, then we both resumed professional masks.

  She said, “You want to see the cargo.”

  “I do. It’s all but impossible.”

  “You can’t get back there?”

  “I can. Doing so without leaving some kind of trace in a manifest this small is very unlikely. That kind of breech would not be discreet or acceptable. Can we find anything through the nodes?”

  “I doubt they’re even active at this point. We’re light hours from either the jump point or orbitals. Unless you ask them to activate it, which means they’ll know we’re on, and any traces will be hard to cover with an oops.”

  “Do it when we hit the orbitals, and do it fast.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Anything high tech or sexy.”

  “I’ll try to set some protocols. We won’t have long. Will you try to intercept?”

  “No, but I’d like to know what to expect, and any official destinations.”

  “Understood.”

  There were no professional escorts on this ship.

  However, I did get to shoot the reproduction Colt. I knew their function, but we covered it in a couple of segs in training. It was unlikely we’d ever encounter one in operations. They handle differently from regular pistols, and require a lot of hand fitting, but they do have nice lines and decent accuracy. I’d never want one as an actual arm, but it would make a lovely recreational piece. Shooting one in emgee aboard a starship was anachronistic and amusing. Echoes came back from the spaces between cargo pods, tinny and phasing in texture. Those cans were a taunt, so close, but utterly unreachable. I fired three rounds.