Knight's Move (29 page)

Slowly, an idea started to form in her mind.  Maybe there
was
a way to locate the raiders.  It would be risky, but after what she’d seen ... it was worth any risk, just to stop the bastards before it was too late.

Sandy looked terrible, Glen saw, as she came into his office and collapsed on the sofa.  Her bearing suggested complete exhaustion, so complete that he almost called the doctor to insist that she be given something to help her sleep.  But there was a light in her eye that made him stay his hand.  Instead, he poured her a cup of tea and watched as she sipped it, gratefully.

“I was thinking about ways to tackle them,” Sandy said, once she had swallowed half of the cup.  “They’re not likely to stand around and wait for us to catch them, so we need to get ahead of them.”

Glen nodded.  He’d had the same thought.  But short of guessing the right target correctly, he knew that setting a trap would be almost impossible.  The best idea he’d had so far was to lurk in the next system they visited, hoping that they could get into engagement range before the enemy realised that they were there.  And yet the enemy would have to expect that ...

“Assuming that they’re the ones recruiting the really unpleasant mercenaries,” Sandy continued, “we have a potential way to get someone into their band.  We just need someone willing to play mercenary until they get into the right position.  That person would have to join them and ...”

Glen blinked in surprise.  “That person might not be snapped up by the
right
people,” he pointed out, when he had recovered.  “There’s too much that could go wrong.”

“It won’t have a hope of working if we don’t do it at all,” Sandy pointed out, dryly.  “I’m willing to take the risk.  I’d just need to find a volunteer to join me.”

“I see,” Glen said.  “
You
plan to undertake the mission yourself?”

“One of the people involved has to be a colonial,” Sandy said.  “A bunch of strangers from the other side of the Great Wall would raise suspicions.  Ideally, the other people have to have some good reason for their records.  I was thinking about asking Jess to volunteer.”

She outlined her plan, piece by piece.  “It isn't
that
uncommon to have feds serving in the Colonial Militia,” she said.  “We’ll talk
Independence
into helping us; they can dump us on a lawless world, with a record that will make most ordinary recruiters take one look and run for their lives.  Being marooned on a planetary surface isn't an uncommon punishment, particularly for non-career officers.  Our records will ensure that we don’t get any legitimate offers of employment.”

Glen scowled.  “They'd check, surely,” he objected. 

Sandy snorted.  “With whom?”

Her face twisted into a tired smile.  “This isn’t the Federation,” she reminded him.  “There aren't really any qualification certificates out here, nothing that might help them track us over a dozen star systems.  We’ll look like a pair of spacers who hired themselves to the Colonial Militia for a few months.  Plenty of
those
around, Captain.  And then we got booted off the ship for gross misconduct.”

“Or so you’ll tell them,” Glen said.  He hesitated.  The whole plan seemed crazy to him.  “But what if they do catch you?”

“Then we die,” Sandy said, simply.  “I figure we’ll tell them that we were trying to cover up prisoner mistreatment or something along those lines.  No direct evidence, but the CO had enough suspicion to fire our asses and dump us on the nearest world.  And enough penalties loaded onto our IDs to make abandoning them a requirement.  We’ll look like ideal recruits.”

Glen rolled his eyes.  In the Federation Navy, anyone caught committing an offense, as laid down in naval regulations, would be dishonourably discharged, dumped on a penal world or executed, depending on the offence.  There was no provision for marooning a crewman, no matter how much he deserved it.  He couldn't imagine any situation in which the broad authority of a Captain could be bent to allow it to happen.  The fact the colonials could ...

“The Federation Navy is largely professional,” Sandy explained.  She'd clearly read his puzzlement on his face.  “Even the crewmen who aren't in the Navy for life are tied down for five to ten years, depending on their enlistment.  The Colonial Militia doesn't have that option, not really.  Taking on someone to serve for a brief period ... yes, it happens.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Glen said.  The Federation Naval Reserves could be recalled to duty if necessary, but they weren't so ... unprofessional.  “So you believe that you will be picked up by the raiders?”

“Dawson is ten light years from here,” Sandy said.  She yawned suddenly, then tried to hide it.  “
Independence
can make a detour there before
Dauntless
heads to her next destination.  No one will really be surprised if we get dumped on the surface and just abandoned, not with the records we’ll have.  And we know from ... from the General that the raiders have been recruiting from Dawson.”

Glen accessed his implants, scanning the file.  Dawson had been largely abandoned in the wake of the war, creating a power vacuum that had turned the world into a centre of criminal activity.  The government didn't regulate anything, beyond ensuring that whatever happened off-planet never touched the surface.  They didn't even consider themselves part of the Bottleneck Republic.  For one reason or another, the Colonial Militia hadn't done anything about it, just leaving the planet to fester.  No doubt the Governor would insist that they did something about Dawson.  But with the demands on the militia’s time and resources, it was unlikely that anything would be done quickly.

The thought of sending Sandy there, even with Jess or another Marine as an escort, was chilling.  But she was right.  If it was possible to get someone onboard a raider ship, it had to be done. 

“If you can get a volunteer to go with you, you can go,” he said, reluctantly.  Sending his XO into danger bothered him, if only because it would put an inexperienced officer in Sandy’s place.  But he could carry out most of her duties himself.  “And I’d suggest you told as few people as possible,”

He briefly outlined to Sandy what Cynthia had suggested, when he’d discussed the matter with her.  Cynthia hadn't quite abandoned the idea that
Sandy
was the spy, although Sandy’s willingness to leave the ship suggested otherwise.  However, the intelligence officer
had
made it clear that they had to restrict information as much as possible.   Who knew who was leaking information, deliberately or otherwise, to the raiders?

“We’ll need Captain Goerlich’s assistance,” Sandy said.  “He may have to inform some of his crew.  Everyone else ... will be kept out of the loop.”

She gave him a rather morbid smile.  “With your permission,” she said, “I’ll speak to him and Jess now, then get some rest.  And then I’ll rewrite my will.”

Glen winced.  He'd be sending her off on her own – or accompanied by at most one other person – and she would succeed or fail without assistance from him and the ship.  Indeed, it was quite possible that he would never see her again.  Part of him wanted to refuse her suggestion, to deny her the chance to infiltrate the raiders ... but he knew that he had to put his personal feelings aside.  He was responsible for her, yet he was also responsible for using her as best he could.  And she was right.  There was no one else.

She
had
to carry out the mission.

Success pardons everything
, he told himself.  The Admiralty would certainly raise eyebrows at a CO who sent his XO and the senior Marine off on a dangerous mission.  Even if it succeeded, hard questions would still be asked.

“You may do so,” he said.  “And good luck.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sandy said, rising to her feet.  “I won’t let you down.”

***

Jess looked thoroughly annoyed when she stamped out of the shuttle, heading towards Sandy with a murderous glint in her eye.  Entire platoons could be recalled from the surface with no slight on their honour, but recalling a single Marine was odd.  It would probably pass unnoticed among the naval personnel, yet the Marines would notice and ask questions.

“This had better be important,” Jess said.  “We were doing good work down there.”

“This is important,” Sandy assured her.  She didn't say anything else until they were in one of the privacy tubes, where long-standing custom forbade any kind of surveillance devices.  “I need you.”

Jess glanced around at the compartment, then back at Sandy.  “What ...?”

“My sense of humour requires work,” Sandy admitted, flushing.  The privacy tubes were used by crewmen who had formed relationships with other crewmen.  As long as the Navy’s regulations were upheld, what happened in the tubes stayed in the tubes.  She pushed her embarrassment aside and continued.  “There is a mission that requires someone like you.”

She outlined the idea briefly.  Jess was a Federation Marine, which would provide a suitable motive for Captain
Goerlich to hire her in the first place.  A little fiddling could provide a record that suggested that she’d been told she needed to leave the Marines, which could cover a multitude of sins.  Marine records were not available to civilians in any case, so it would be difficult for the raiders to identify Jess, even if they did check. 

And Jess did have some experience in undercover work.

“Chancy,” Jess said, finally.  “How sure are you that it will work?”

“I’m not,” Sandy said.  There was no point in trying to dissemble.  “But we have to get ahead of the bastards somehow.”

“Being dumped on a planet,” Jess said, shaking her head.  “My reputation will never live it down.”

Sandy said nothing.  She just waited.

“Very well,” Jess said.  “I will come with you.”

“Good,” Sandy said.  She yawned before she could stop herself.  “Get some rest, then we’ll report to Captain Goerlich. 
Independence
will take us to Dawson.”

She opened the hatch and stepped out into the passageway, thinking hard.  They'd have to come up with a record that gave a believable reason they’d been marooned, rather than simply put out the airlock.  Even the Colonial Militia took a dim view of some offences ... and it would have to seem bad enough to merit recruitment into the raiders.  Cursing, she headed towards her cabin.  They had a day to come up with a record that would ensure the only offers they received were illegitimate. 
That
shouldn’t be too hard.

***

“So our benefactor has money,” Dana said, as the shuttle drifted towards Ford’s starship.  “It's always nice to see proof.”

Jason
scowled.  The encounter with the Federation starship had gone about as well as could be expected, but it had unsettled some of his crew.  Who would have thought that the Federation Navy would risk itself to protect colonials?  Jason knew better, but colonial propaganda was insidious.  After all, they
had
been abandoned by the Federation Navy during the war. 

He studied Ford’s starship curiously.  It looked like an older Federation Navy battlecruiser, a long dagger-shape bristling with weapons and sensor nodes.  Jason was experienced enough to tell the subtle signs that indicated that it was actually a fast freighter built on a battlecruiser hull, a design created by a shipping corporation hoping to deter pirates from raiding its vessels.  The design had proven popular enough to be duplicated by other companies, although it was actually quite inefficient.  There was no way that the ‘battlecruiser’ could be unloaded as quickly as a regular freighter. 

“I bet some of those fake nodes are actually
real
,” Dana offered, wriggling girlishly.  “And that the ship is actually armed to the teeth.”

Jason wouldn't have been surprised.  The feds charged through the nose for armed freighter licences, but Ford’s backers, whoever they were, had plenty of money.  Besides, even the most expensive licence was cheaper than replacing the ship and crew after a pirate attack.  He kept that thought to himself as the shuttle drifted into the docking bay and dropped down onto the deck.  The hatch opened, revealing a man in an environmental suit, who beckoned for the two visitors to follow him.  Rolling his eyes – it wasn't as though he was going to reveal anything to the Federation or the Colonial Militia – Jason allowed the man to lead them into a small compartment.  Mr. Ford was waiting, sitting at a small metal table.

“Welcome,” he said, dryly.  “You came close to having your feathers burned.”

“Yes, we did,” Jason said.  There was no point in trying to deny it.  They
had
been lucky to escape without exchanging fire with the Federation cruiser.  “But we made it out.”

“So you did,” Mr. Ford observed.  A masked steward appeared, carrying a tray.  He placed it down on the table, revealing three small glasses of a dark red liquid.  “Finest Quebecoise Red, to celebrate your escape.”

Jason lifted an eyebrow – Quebecoise Red was expensive – then took a sip.  He had never developed a taste for fine wines, but he had to admit that the drink was surprisingly good.  Beside him, Dana gulped it as if it were water and put the glass back down on the tray.  Mr. Ford showed no visible reaction to her at all.

“Thank you,” he said, shortly.  “Was there a reason you called us here so quickly?”

“My backers are very pleased with the success of your operations so far,” Mr. Ford said.  “They wished me to make that clear to you.”

Jason nodded, thoughtfully.  It had barely been a day since they’d fled the Federation cruiser.  If word had reached Mr. Ford so quickly, his backers had to be based in the Fairfax Cluster.  He doubted that anywhere past Bottleneck had heard the news yet, although the chain of relay stations were no doubt thrumming with activity as word headed back towards Earth.  There was an agreement that he wouldn't try to track down his employers, but it was always interesting to collect data.  If nothing else, he could ensure that they wouldn't be abandoned when things went south.

It was unlikely that anyone in the Fairfax Cluster would care about the aliens, no matter how many of them died.  But colonials had died too – and worlds had been threatened with starvation.  The reasons might be different, but both the Federation Navy and the Colonial Militia would want their heads on a platter.  And if the heat grew too intense, betrayal would become a very real possibility.

“Thank you,” he said, out loud.  “And what would they like us to do next?”

“We believe that the Governor will insist on the remaining supplies being delivered, regardless of any possible ... consequences,” Mr. Ford continued.  “She is a political creature and making grand gestures is her habit, even though it would be wiser to hold the supplies until the camps can be secured.  In that case, we can expect the Federation cruiser to escort the remaining freighters to the next destination.  Again, we want you to attack the camp after the supplies have been delivered.”

Jason considered it.  They would be repeating their previous pattern, creating the very real danger that the Federation Navy would lay a trap.  After the last attack, it would certainly be anticipated.  But one ship, no matter how powerful, couldn't hope to cover all the bases.  His fleet could jump in, hammer the camp from orbit, and then vanish.  They wouldn't even bother to bombard the colonial settlements this time.  It would only infuriate the Colonial Militia and raise the risk of mutiny among his troops.

“We will certainly do our best,” he said.  “Do you have proper tactical information?”

“Enough,” Mr. Ford said.  He produced a datachip and passed it to Jason.  “I expect you to be careful, as well as successful.”

“I always am,” Jason said, irritated.  “What else do you have for me?”

“Four new ships, all assault cruisers,” Mr. Ford said.  “They’ve been heavily reengineered to ensure that they can be operated with minimal crews, but they still require at least a couple of hundred crewmen each.  Can you crew them?”

“With difficulty,” Jason admitted.  The more recruits he brought into the organisation, the greater the chance of someone snapping at the wrong time, particularly when they found out what they’d actually joined.  Enforcing loyalty required a strong hand and a steady eye, but he was having to reinforce his supervisors too.  There were limits to what automated systems could do.  “We’re still recruiting more people for the crews.”

“The ships will be waiting for you at the normal place,” Mr. Ford said.  He took a sip of his glass, then continued.  “You should be thinking about expanding your operations.  We may require something more dangerous from you in the future.”

Jason lifted his eyebrows in exaggerated shock.  “More dangerous?”

“Quite,” Mr. Ford agreed.  “But I will tell you about it when the time comes.”

He stood and drained his glass.  “You will be escorted back to your shuttle,” he added.  He dropped a handful of untraceable credit coins on the table, which Jason snatched up and checked automatically.  “And good luck with your next operation.”

Jason watched him go, wondering just who he was working for.  The sheer level of resources invested in the operation was staggering, even if starships and mercenary crewmen were relatively cheap in the aftermath of the war.  And all to kill a few hundred thousand aliens ... it seemed too much effort, somehow.  Unless there was something else in mind, something that required a formidable squadron ...

He shook his head, dismissing the thought.  It didn't matter, he reminded himself, as long as he got paid.  And they
had
been paid.  Even after the expenditure of maintaining the squadron, he still had plenty of money to spend.  He could keep the squadron going for years, without any further income.  And he could make himself a player out beyond the borderline, taking a handful of worlds as a private kingdom.  Who would stop him?

“More aliens to kill,” Dana said.  She was happy, as long as she could play her games.  “And new recruits to investigate.”

“Just don't kill any of them,” Jason ordered.  He paused, considering.  Dana could be more disconcerting than an entire regiment of Dragon torturers, all armed to the teeth.  “Unless it’s strictly necessary, of course.”

“Hands,” the guard ordered.

Sandy stood, careful to keep her hands in plain sight.  Apart from the Captain and his XO, no one onboard
Independence
had been told about their mission.  Instead, they’d been informed that Sandy and Jess were former militiamen who were going to be dumped on Dawson instead of being shot.  There were some, she knew, who would have considered being shot a lesser punishment.  The story probably wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny, but as none of the ship’s crew would be on Dawson long enough to be interrogated, it probably wouldn't matter.

She turned, allowing the guard to cuff her hands behind her back.  The guard didn't know the truth, but she still felt a flash of anger as he tightened the cuffs, then attached shackles to her ankles.  Walking at anything more than a shuffle was now impossible.  Jess came forward at his command and was cuffed herself, her eyes glinting with suppressed amusement.  If the guard had realised just what she was, he would have stunned her at long distance before going anywhere near her.  Jess could have caught his hands and broken out of the brig before he quite realised what was happening.

“You know,” the guard told her snidely, “there are people who would pay good money to see you in cuffs.”

Sandy silently promised herself revenge later, even though she couldn't really blame the guard for his attitude.  Betrayal was the ultimate sin in the eyes of the Bottleneck Republic, everything from breaking one’s word to betraying one’s people.  Their fake personas had made an agreement with the militia when they’d joined up, an agreement they’d broken.  It wasn't too surprising, she knew, that the guard wanted to hurt and humiliate them.  A betrayal at the wrong time could be disastrous. 

The guard clicked open the hatch, then motioned for them to walk down the passageway and into the shuttlebay.  A trio of armed guards were already waiting for them, watching coldly as the two women entered the compartment.  Sandy let out a gasp as one of them picked her up bodily and dumped her into the shuttle, then attached her chains to the seat to ensure she couldn't move, let alone escape.  Jess joined her a moment later, rolling her eyes when only Sandy could see.  Compared to basic training in Marine boot camp, this was no challenge at all. 

Sandy braced herself as the shuttle pilot slammed on the drive, hurling the shuttle out of the shuttlebay and into open space.  The Colonial Militia had no time for the gentle entrances and exits performed by Federation Navy pilots; they sought to get every craft out of the mothership as quickly as possible, regardless of health and safety concerns.  Sandy couldn’t help feeling a wave of vertigo as the ill-tuned compensator fought to protect its charges from the acceleration, then swallowed hard as the shuttle dived into the planet’s atmosphere.  The pilot was either insane or he was doing his best to give the prisoners an unpleasant ride.  She couldn't help noticing that her escorts – and Jess – were unfazed by the flight.

There was a dull crash as the shuttle came down, harder than strictly necessary.  The hatch clicked open, allowing a gust of hot air to enter the shuttle.  Sandy took a breath and winced at the scent of sand.  Dawson had never been a particularly habitable planet, which was at least partly why the Bottleneck Republic had never tried to assert its authority over the system.  Besides, she had to admit, it would have been hypocritical.  What was the point of trying to declare independence – or at least autonomy – from the Federation while forcing a small isolated world to join the Republic?

Not that it would have been unprecedented
, she thought, as the guards unlocked her chains and helped her to her feet. 
The Nova Scotia settlers wanted independence from Albion, but they also wanted to keep control of New Glasgow, which didn't want to join them in independence
.

The guards thrust her out of the shuttle, revealing that they’d landed at a battered-looking spaceport.  If there were any entry/exit controllers, they didn't seem to be in evidence.  The handful of people watching them were doing it at a safe distance, without coming close to the shuttle or the formidable-looking armed guards.  In the distance, half-hidden in the haze, she could see a cluster of buildings.  The sky was blue, allowing the sun to beat down mercilessly.  According to her implant, it was local morning and the temperature was already close to unbearable.  Chances were that not much happened during the local day.  People would be too busy hiding from the heat.