Authors: Christopher Nuttall
“I see,” the interviewer said. There was a long uncomfortable pause as he studied her though dark eyes. “We have need of computer techs, but I see from your record that you also have qualifications in navigating and tactical operations?”
“Yes, sir,” Sandy said. “My CO was a great believer in cross-training.”
“You will be taken to the computer centre, where our techs will cross-examine you and then put you to work,” the interviewer informed her. “I must tell you that
we
will not take it so lightly if you steal money from us. You will be thrown to the men.”
Sandy nodded. Somehow, she wasn't surprised.
“Sir,” she said carefully, “what about my friend?”
“We will decide her position after we interview her,” the interviewer said. “One of the crew will guide you to the computer centre. Behave yourself.”
A hatch opened in the far wall, revealing a grim-faced man wearing a black uniform. He led Sandy out into the next room, then passed her a pair of trousers and a shirt. There was no insignia on the uniform, she realised, nothing to suggest what she’d joined. The man waited impatiently until she’d dressed, then led the way through yet another hatch into a corridor that led deeper into the ship. Trying to match the deck plan with ships she knew, Sandy followed him, keeping her eyes and ears open for useful intelligence.
Most pirate ships were poorly maintained, she knew from long experience. This ship seemed to be reasonably well maintained. Indeed, it lacked the makeshift appearance common to older vessels in the Colonial Militia, where spare parts from a dozen different factories had often been jury-rigged into working together. If she hadn't known better, she would have wondered if she was on a Federation Navy starship. Only the feds had the resources to produce several different standards of spare parts at the same time.
“In here,” her escort grunted. He opened a hatch, revealing a large room crammed with computer cores. Sandy kept her expression blank, even though she recognised two of the cores as being top-of-the-line mil-spec Federation Navy gear. “The officer will deal with you.”
A pale-faced man, so pale he had to be an albino, appeared from behind one of the cores and beckoned her. There was something in the way he walked that told Sandy that he'd had all of his determination beaten out of him, perhaps by the collar around his neck. His eyes had seen terrible things and he’d been unable to look away. Or, perhaps, he’d been forced to watch as the raiders slaughtered humans and aliens alike.
“Greetings,” he said, in a faint voice. “You are our new tech?”
“Yes, sir,” Sandy said. She had to pass this test – and she hoped, desperately, that she knew enough to please them. It was unlikely they would let her near the navigational systems until they trusted her. Her father
had
insisted that she learn the nuts and bolts of starship operations, but she wasn't as good as a regular computer tech. But then, no one would expect that of a colonial officer. “I just came onboard today.”
“My name is James,” the albino said. “Come with me.”
Three hours later, Sandy felt utterly exhausted. James had gone over everything from basic data entry to debugging rogue computer cores. He’d even touched on blending human and alien technology together, which Sandy knew enough to avoid if at all possible. There were enough horror stories of problems caused by integrating Dragon computers into human starships to convince her that only the desperate – or the fools – would try.
But James hadn't looked unhappy with her work. He’d merely pointed her to a tiny cabin and told her to get some sleep. Tomorrow, Sandy told herself, she’d try and work out just where they were – and how best to get in touch with Jess. Once they were speaking again, they could decide what to do next.
***
“Not a great success, Commodore,” Mr. Ford said.
Jason
felt a flicker of anger which he repressed, savagely. Losing two ships, one of them almost certainly captured by the enemy, was a major problem – and a black mark on his record. The mercenary community was nowhere near as tight-assed as the Federation, but they wouldn't be so inclined to serve with a commander they blamed for losing two starships and their crews. Crewing his new ships had just become a major problem.
“No, sir,” he agreed, tightly. No wine this time, for sure. “However, I believe I warned you, more than once, that our pattern was predictable – and the feds predicted it. Had they been able to station more ships in the system, we would have been looking at a total loss.”
Mr. Ford lifted an eyebrow. “Are you saying that it doesn't matter?”
“Losing the ships is a major hassle,” Jason said, keeping his voice calm. “But it is not a complete disaster. Our security precautions will ensure that the Federation cannot use their brief advantage to track us down, not when hardly anyone knows the location of our base. Your overall plan, whatever it is, is still good.”
He paused, meaningfully. “It is unavoidable that this will give a moral boost to those concerned with protecting various worlds from attack,” he admitted. “The Federation Navy will gloat about the glorious victory and the Colonial Militia will be embarrassed, but relieved that a world was saved from attack. It will only hurt them the greater, sir, when we move ahead with the rest of the plan.”
Mr. Ford held his eyes for a long moment, then nodded once.
“There are three more worlds to receive the Governor’s largess,” he said, shortly. “I would like you to attack them.”
Jason shook his head, flatly. “Sir,” he said, “it would be a grave mistake to repeat the pattern any further. They will be waiting for us.”
“Unless they assume that you were burned hard enough to discourage you from pressing the offensive,” Mr. Ford said. His tone was mild, but there was an underlying steel that suggested that it would not be easy to dissuade him. “Pressuring the aliens is of upmost importance to our plans.”
“Then I suggest you allow us to go after camps that the Governor has not decided to present with tons of food,” Jason snapped. “I do not wish to take my squadron into battle against any warship, particularly one with a commander that has shown himself ready and willing to gamble if it brings him victory. We got burned, as you put it, because we followed a predictable pattern. I cannot count on my crews following me if I continue to repeat the pattern again and again.”
“Maybe you could launch an attack when you knew that the Federation cruiser was somewhere else,” Mr. Ford suggested. “Or perhaps ...”
“I
knew
that the Federation cruiser was somewhere else last time,” Jason said. “And I was wrong. If you want us to go after a refugee camp, then let it not be a predicable one. Or, if you want to embarrass the Governor, find something else to do. Because I will not be able to keep control of my crews if we lose more ships while following a predictable pattern!”
“As you said,” Mr. Ford said. There was a long pause. “Very well; you may pick a refugee camp that is not on the Governor’s list. However, my backers also want you to irritate the Colonial Militia. That is not negotiable.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” Jason grunted. He used his implant to check the list of possible targets, then smiled. “What about Xenophon?”
“It would make a suitable target,” Mr. Ford said. Xenophon had been the site of bitter ground-fighting during the war. Now, it was the source of a surprising amount of the Colonial Militia’s manpower. The world also had an orbital battlestation providing protection, which would automatically make seem an unlikely target when the militia analysts tried to deduce threatened worlds. “And the aliens there are vulnerable.”
“There’s also a great many supplies on the surface, at the last report,” Jason said, after a moment’s thought. “We could take them, giving the militia a further black eye. Unless they move them prior to the attack, of course.”
“Of course,” Mr. Ford agreed. “Can I rely on you to carry out the offensive?”
“Yes,” Jason said, simply. He stood. “But I think that we need to make our attacks a little less predictable.”
“My backers are satisfied with the current rate of progress,” Mr. Ford said. “You will be paid. Content yourself with that, please.”
Jason scowled, but held his tongue. Whoever was behind the whole plan had their own objectives, objectives that they’d chosen not to share with their employees. Maybe even Mr. Ford was in the dark ... he briefly considered slipping the man a truth drug, before dismissing the idea as foolish. No one would be sent on a mission that would incur the strongest response from the Federation or the Colonial Militia without implants that ensured interrogation was not a possibility. Mr. Ford would simply be unable to talk, no matter what was used. Even old-fashion torture would be unreliable.
But he was still being paid, he told himself. As long as they were paid, everything was fine.
***
The hand caught her butt as she walked down to the mess. Sandy swung around and threw the hardest punch she could right into the groper’s nose. She felt it break under her fist, blood splashing down to the deck; the groper fell down, gasping in pain. His mates roared with laughter, then beckoned Sandy to join them. She shook her head firmly and walked onwards, expecting to feel someone stick a knife in her back at any moment. But there was nothing until she stepped into the mess itself.
It was surprisingly like a Federation mess, one where the crew could eat together. Most of the tables were full, but a handful were empty; she picked up a tray, walked over to the counter and helped herself to some dubious-looking stew. The raiders, if raiders they were, clearly didn't bother to steal food. It looked rather more like they took Federation-issue rations, added thick gravy and then called it a meal.
“I’ve eaten worse,” Jess said, from behind her.
Sandy jumped, cursing herself. She would have to watch her back on this ship; it wasn't a Federation Navy starship, or even a Colonial Militia vessel. The next person might have rape or murder in mind, rather than anything else.
“They put me in with the ground troops,” Jess said, as they sat down. “Not too surprising, really. Even someone like me knows more than the average kid with a gun and bad intentions.”
“Glad to see you’re all right,” Sandy said. They would have to check to make sure their implants couldn't be detected by the ship computer net before they tried to talk secretly. She would have to make sure of it, somehow. “Did they tell you anything?”
“Just that there were no room for doubt or scruples,” Jess said. “This job pays well, thankfully. Or I might despair at teaching teenage kids.”
Sandy heard the unspoken subtext and shivered. They were paid well to do the job – and the job might well be something ... objectionable. If the raiders were collecting utterly untrained teenagers and training them to fight, they had to want utter barbarians, people who thought mass slaughter was normal.
And that meant they’d succeeded. They’d found the raiders.
Now all they had to do was work out a way to get a message off the ship, without losing their lives. But she knew that wouldn't be easy.
Glen looked up from the autopsy report and asked the unanswered question.
“So what killed them?”
“Suicide implants,” Doctor Foster said, simply. “Their brains were completely fried.”
“They must have been linked to the computer network,” Cynthia said. “Dead men tell no tales.”
Glen nodded. As soon as the enemy ship had been secured by the Marines, his intelligence and engineering officers had gone onboard to see what they could pull from her hull and the remains of her crew. The ship’s computer system might have been disabled by the brief engagement, but her crew might have left physical evidence for the searchers to pick up.
“We found enough to paint a worrying picture,” Cynthia admitted. “For a start, we have a positive ID on the ship itself. She used to be TFS
Gadfly
, a
Polaris
-class destroyer. We pulled the records and discovered that she was decommissioned five years ago, stripped of all sensitive gear and sold to a junkyard for disposal. I suspect that she was picked up by a shady dealer and transferred into pirate hands.”