Fracture Lines (The Glass Complex Book 2) (27 page)

Gillespie said, “He’s either checking up on you or simply wants more entertainment. Weapons, can you give me details of starships at the station?”

“Yes, commander. There’s some small craft; they look like miners, five, six of those. Ten mid-size freighters, inter-system types. A small passenger liner. A couple of couriers. Two frigates, small ones—probably only for show or local defense. Another two starships, which appear to be alien, although I don’t think they’re Xesset. Some private yachts, large, probably inter-system capable. There are some heavy-duty surface-space tugs, cargo carriers, I’d say. A number of lighter shuttles. Of course, there’s the Alliance destroyer, which arrived a minute ago—I assume she’ll stand off. They may not have docking rights. Besides, the military types always want to be able to react quickly, which they can’t do if they’re docked.”

“That’s why you’re assuming only a few hours for shore leave for your crew?” suggested Steg.

“Got it in one. We’ll be far more helpful to you if we’re standing off.”

“Good.”

Steg watched as
Wasp
slowly moved towards the planet and its way station. He listened to the transmissions between the station authorities and
Wasp
—there was nothing untoward in the exchanges.

“Wasp
to
Eos Way Station
. We request docking for three days. We require general supplies.
”

“Eos
to
Wasp
. Welcome to our system. Tug on standby. See separate message for docking details. Also we’re sending files containing our customs rules, station regs, and local laws. You can list your needs and any merchandise you have for trading on EMN—that’s Eos Market Net—there’s a 10 percent commission, each way. Planet-side dealings require Customs clearance.
Eos
out.
”

Steg flinched at the add-on rate—the station would take 20 percent of any transaction, half from each of the seller and buyer.

“If we make major purchases here, they’re likely to be expensive, based on those rates.” Gillespie said. “I’ve routed the messages and attachments to a general purpose display for bridge, engineering, medical, and to the rec area for general access.”

The Alliance destroyer announced her presence and declined docking and other assistance offers. Apparently visiting warships generated substantial income for the traders on the way station, and the station response seemed to be disappointed at the loss of potential revenue. Other com traffic appeared to be routine.

Steg met with Dean as
Wasp
moved towards the way station. “Start researching planet-side—the so-called rebels—who we need to deal with. There should be news items and perhaps more detailed reports available. See what your intelligence people can tap into.”

“I’ve already initiated a station search. We’ve found only a small amount of public material, so far. We need to be a lot closer to attempt a dirtside search. Our intel team says we’ll be more successful once we dock.”

“What have you got so far?”

“There’s been some small protests on the planet, for example, some government buildings bombed with minor damage. No deaths, at least none reported. It’s the type of almost casual protest you see on numerous planets.”

“They must have funds, though? They purchased a freighter load of munitions.”

“There’s one province—very wealthy—no protests there, at all. According to the on-station scandal sheets, one of the major commercial houses in that region is suspected of growing J-trees and producing a range of Joy products. It’s a high cash earner and gives them inter-system contacts.”

Joy was a potent, highly addictive pleasure drug, banned in most systems. It was produced from the leaves of J-trees, a cultivated bush, using a simple distillation process. Fruit from J-trees produced an even more potent drug. The leaves and fruit, if processed differently, had beneficial properties, which outweighed by far by the addictive contents. An uncut dose of Joy would, in most cases, be fatal, agonizingly so.

“Get the team to dig as deep as they can on that possibility. We’re still hours away from docking, and I’d like to have results by the time we get to the station.”

“Will do. Have you heard anything yet?”

“I’ve sent off messages to the local authorities. Monty did say the Eos government officials were slow to respond. They now know we’ve taken possession of the freighter. I’ve requested intelligence on the rebels. It’ll be interesting to compare what they provide, compared with the data the team gathers.”

An hour later his comunit chime sounded. Steg read the details displayed on his workstation. The feed was anonymous, there was no way to back-link the message to its source; it contained a number of files which, based on a quick review, provided in-depth background on Eos, its politicians, military capabilities, economics, and drug trade suspicions. He laughed out loud. The Alliance captain was being supportive. Steg forwarded the files to Dean, with a note to not even try to guess their source.

They were halfway to the way station, and he and Dean were reading through the anonymous material when the comunit chimed again. This time the message was from Eos, providing a secure comlink to the president’s office, apparently from someone describing himself as the president’s aide. Steg made the requested call.

“I’m Steg de Coeur,” he said, when the link was answered. “I’m deputizing for Colonel Attwood. I’m responsible for execution of our contract.”

There was a short communications delay before Steg received his reply. The person on the other end of the video link appeared unimpressed with Steg and his role. “I don’t care who you are,” he replied. The transmission contained static, and the image of the other person jittered across the screen. “As long as you carry out the terms of the contract, yeah. What’s the status of the freighter?”

“As we advised, we took possession and have control of
Djamu
and its load of weapons.” Steg again waited for the reply.

“Good. At least you’ve succeeded with the first objective, yeah. The president wants details of your plans for dealing with the terrorists.”

“We’ll carry out the remainder of the contract, as agreed.”

He kept his reply bland and noncommittal. Steg did not mention the contract did not require them to communicate any plans. Indeed, that would be the last thing he would do—he had no confidence anything communicated dirtside would remain secure. He suspected it would be safer to publish his plans in the local media.

Steg continued, “I have a requirement for you—for the president, that is: we require comprehensive intelligence on the rebels, including their leader, members, numbers, organization structure, locations, sources of finance, and backers. Your undertaking to provide this intelligence was included in the contract. We cannot plan anything until we have this material. Please advise when you propose to send these details. I can refer to the sections of the contract if you require?”

The president’s aide looked away from the screen, apparently speaking to someone out of camera range. Steg assumed he was receiving instructions. He returned his attention to Steg. “The files will be sent tomorrow morning, yeah. Please acknowledge receipt. We’ll make contact tomorrow afternoon to hear your plans, yeah. President’s office out.” The screen went blank as the link was disconnected.

Dean had been listening to the conversation. “Arrogant little man, isn’t he?”

“Typical—their egos expand according to the height of their bureaucratic position, I think. Our plan is to take out the rebels. That’s all he’s going to hear.”

“Skipper, do you think we should land some personnel? We’re not close enough to provide support if anything drastic happens.”

“Tac, you’ve developed a soft spot for de Coeur?” Captain Montrose raised his eyebrows.

Jessie Brent almost blushed under the skipper’s intense regard. “Uh—no, sir. I’m intrigued. I want to know how he’s going to carry out his contract. We’re too far away to see what’s happening at a detailed level.”

“A neatly planned escape. I see why you’re the Tac expert. We could send a drone to the station—one of the smaller ones? Or you could take a pinnace with a small team? I’m sure the local authorities would welcome you, as long as you spend money on their station.”

“Sir, you tempt me with the thought of some station time. However, I think the small k-drone might be suitable. It carries a number of spy bots we could distribute around the station.”

“How will you recompense
Defender
if we lose valuable equipment?”

“I’m sure the insight we gain—about the planet, their so-called rebels, and the mercenaries—will be recompense enough, sir.”

Defender’s
bridge crew were listening with avid interest. Montrose liked to challenge his team, they claimed, to ensure they could stand up to officialdom without reaching into disrespect. Jessie was one of his favorites for this challenge; she tried to set an example for her team and for the bridge crew on watch. Sometimes, though, she felt she sailed close to the edge.

“Tac, you tempt me.” Montrose repeated Jessie’s phrasing. “Security, prepare a k-drone and guide it to the station. Include ten spy bots. We want to locate it as close to
Wasp
as possible. Give Tac control of the bots when you have the drone in position. We’ll see if we can gain these hypothetical insights.”

“Yes, sir. It’s already prepped. Dispatching now.”

Montrose looked around the bridge. “Was I just tricked?” he asked of no one in particular.

“Anticipated, sir, anticipated,” Tac said,
sotto voce
.

Steg rubbed his temples. He was meeting with Dean and Sergeant Riddell to determine how to allocate their force. He said, “We need to consider how we’ll deploy our marines when we dock and later, when we take on the rebels. First, I want guards in place, around the clock, fully armored, to protect
Wasp
. Armed inside the ship, and if we can, armed when outside. We’ll need to check local rules, I suppose.”

Dean nodded. “Agreed. I’ll arrange the guards. We need to consider risks outside the ship. We can schedule shore leave, with a maximum absence of two hours, groups of three or more, for safety. No one to be off the ship overnight. I’ll brief everyone.”

“We’ve—what— two hundred and fifty men available?”

Sergeant Riddell said, “Sir, we have two hundred and thirty active mercenaries. There are six in the sickbay who’ll be laid up for another week or so and then will be on light duties for a week or two. Nothing serious—mainly broken limbs from either fights or aggressive training. We have five on short term absences—broken fingernails or similar.” The man had no patience for mercenaries who succumbed to minor medical issues. At Steg’s expression, he added, “It’s the Fain, sir. They care too much for the men.”

Steg hid his smile. “Fain are good for morale, sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.” He seemed unconvinced. “What about
Wasp’s
own marines? Can we use them as guards?”

“I suspect the commander will want her people for internal security. If she requires assistance, we’ll provide it.”

Captain Dean said, “So we’ll have two hundred and thirty men, less guards, so net, say two twenty?”“

“Three shuttle loads, more or less,” Steg suggested.

“Four, sir. We should pack our heavy weapons; you never know when we might need them, and they take up room,” reminded Riddell.

Dean said, “Definitely.”

Steg said, “All right. Four shuttle loads. Wasp has five shuttles available, so we’re set for transport.”

“Sir, the men wonder if they’re going to be paid for action?”

“It’s always a major question.” The captain shrugged. “They are mercenaries, after all.”

Steg leaned forward, hands on the desk. He looked at Riddell and said, “All the mercs will get a share, standard combat rates and a possible bonus. That depends on how quickly we complete operations.
Wasp
will be reimbursed for support.”

Riddell seemed pleased Steg had confirmed the payments. “Good to know, sir. They’ll be pleased. They were envious of the Ebony Company getting a duty bonus for providing security for
Djamu
.”

Steg mentally shrugged; he still hadn’t developed an insight that would allow him to fully understand the mercenary priorities. “Riddell, you can initiate the shuttle checks. Hold off the heavy weapons until we have a better idea of what we might encounter.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean said to Steg as Riddell left the conference room, “Our Intel team has been busy; they’ll have material for you by morning. More station gossip and lots of planet-sourced reports. They’ve been tapping into a number of sources. I’ve arranged a meeting—you, me, the Intel team. You’ll be impressed.”

After an early breakfast, Steg headed to the bridge. He had an hour to spare before meeting with Dean and his team and thought Commander Gillespie would be on watch. The commander maintained bridge discipline even though
Wasp
was docked.

“Commander Gillespie’s in a meeting, Captain,” said Aadan, looking up from her Helm workstation. “She’s with Stacia and Sara and one of the sergeants, Sergeant Menyll, I think.”

“Thanks. I’ll come back, later.” He was about to leave the bridge when the conference room door opened.

“Steg, I thought I heard your voice. Can you join us?” Gillespie asked.

“Certainly.”

The commander closed the door behind him. He nodded his greeting to the people seated around the conference table. He was intrigued at Gillespie’s serious expressions.

“Steg,” said the commander. “I’ll brief you quickly. We decided to sell the surplus water—about five thousand tons—from Monty’s habitat to the way station. They offered a good price and I negotiated a discount on the Eos Market Net charges. They agreed to it because the buyer is the station itself. The station sent a water barge yesterday evening, and we’ve been draining off about a thousand tons each load. As the team drained the water, they’ve been checking the exposed areas, section by section. About midnight, they made a somewhat gruesome discovery. They found what they suspected were human remains—two apparently carefully butchered upper legs. They were in a freezer, stored alongside fish and other food items we’d brought on board for Monty and his wives. I had Stacia run a DNA test—she has the results. Stacia?”