Authors: Bennett R. Coles
Katja frowned. A Fleet Marshall Investigation was a serious matter, and it didn’t really surprise her that the Special Forces would be called in—but she hardly saw how a bunch of scientists would be able to challenge her newfound abilities.
Among the various people walking up and down the spar, one suddenly broke off and strode purposefully toward them. She wore undress blues instead of coveralls, the three silver bars on her epaulettes a beacon of her authority.
Katja felt her heart sink.
Korolev didn’t turn.
She fought down the snarl that threatened to twist her face, and focused on keeping her walk steady. Every muscle in her body seemed to tense.
You bastard.
“Good afternoon, Commander Brisebois,” he said aloud. “This is the operative who will be assisting you today.”
* * *
As she reached the brigadier and his companion, Breeze stiffened, and every muscle in her body seemed to tense. She wasn’t sure if it was from fear or revulsion. Korolev had promised her a Special Forces operative, a member of the most highly trained and dedicated servants of the State.
What he’d brought her was a maniac.
Katja stood before her in silence, expression neutral. Breeze had spent way too much time with her, however, to not see the glimmer of anger in her deep, dark eyes. Today was supposed to be a clean, decisive conclusion to the Fleet Marshall Investigation. With Emmes in the mix, who knew
what
would happen?
She glanced around quickly to ensure no one was in earshot. Then she turned to Korolev.
“Sir, this mission needs to be conducted with precision.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Are you sure this operative is the best choice?”
Korolev’s bland expression didn’t change. “I realize you’re in a position of authority now, Commander, and that those bars on your shoulders are still shiny and new,” he said. “But please don’t forget about the two shiny new stars that I normally wear on my shoulders, and the fact that I’m the commander of the Astral Special Forces. Do you want me to withdraw our support for your little witch-hunt?”
Breeze felt a chill ripple through her. Picking a fight with this man was not a good idea. Looking again at Katja, standing so still and quiet, she figured that some brainwashing just might have made a useful tool out of her. So she bowed her head in acquiescence.
“I meant no offense, sir,” she answered. “Any operative would be more than qualified for what I require today.”
Korolev took a step back. “I’ll be observing remotely, but this mission is yours, Commander. My operative will take her direction solely from you. Fill her in as you go.”
Well, that should be interesting
, Breeze mused. “Thank you, sir.”
She motioned for Katja to follow, and turned to enter the tunnel connecting the spar to
Armstrong
’s airlock. As they walked, she gave Katja the basics of what was about to transpire. It felt strange, yet satisfying, treating her as a subordinate.
There was a sailor standing at the entrance to the ship. His bored expression barely shifted as he glanced at the security readout of Breeze’s ID chip and nodded. She’d expected that the arrival of a senior officer on board would spark at least a
bit
of interest from the ship’s gatekeeper, but no one in the Research Squadron seemed to have figured out that there was war brewing.
Just another nail in the coffin.
She walked down the passageway until they were out of sight of the airlock then turned to Katja.
“We need to enter the admiral’s quarters at just the right moment, in order to maximize the impact.” She studied Katja’s face. “Can you assess from outside what’s happening in there?”
Katja met her gaze, nodding.
“According to my records from the ship’s security feed,” Breeze added, “Grey frequently reports to Bush’s cabin at about 14:00. Did she keep to the schedule today?”
“Just a moment.” Katja’s gaze went blank, eyes flicking slightly as she accessed the ship’s data.
Breeze had seen it a couple of times before, during Intelligence briefings, but never in a live situation. She would need to learn more about it, especially now.
“Grey went into his cabin about twenty minutes ago.” Breeze jumped a little when Katja spoke. “Recommend we recce the activities now.”
Breeze searched her words for any note of mockery, but found none.
“Okay,” she said. “I don’t want to bump into the captain, Kane, or Mallory on our way. They’d just cause complications. Can you tell me where they are?”
The gaze went blank again, for longer this time. Katja even squinted at one point, but her unfocused stare didn’t waver. She blinked heavily and looked up.
“The captain’s in his cabin,” she answered. “Thomas and Jack are both in the main lab.”
“Good.” She gestured. “The admiral’s cabin is this way.”
They ascended one deck and moved forward in the ship, passing occasional crew members who continued about their business with barely a nod of acknowledgement. Within minutes they were standing outside the door to Admiral Bush’s quarters—or, more accurately, the guest quarters set aside for any visiting senior officer. Since Bush seemed to make
Armstrong
his home most of the time, she doubted anyone else ever got the chance to try them out.
Katja opened her tool bag and removed what looked like a maintenance helmet. Technicians wore such protection when they were servicing equipment, both to shield them from flashes, and allow them to access data inside the visor. She donned the helmet and moved slowly along the bulkhead, gaze pointed at the blank, composite surface.
Suddenly she paused, head sweeping from side to side. Then she moved back to Breeze.
“Targets are inside,” she said, “and in a very compromising position.”
Breeze suppressed a smile. This was kind of fun, actually. She had her very own pet operative.
“Go in quietly, and have your helmet-cam recording the entire time. I—
we
want to get as much evidence as possible.”
Katja nodded. She reached into her tool bag again and pulled out a holstered pistol, which she attached to her belt. Breeze felt her stomach tighten.
“I don’t want anyone killed in there.”
“It’s just to contain them, ma’am.”
Katja Emmes had just called her
ma’am
.
The sense of fun began to return. True, Katja was armed, but she was a sworn servant of the State and she was working for Breeze. In effect, having her armed meant that Breeze had the power of life and death in her hands.
It didn’t get much better.
“Open the door,” she ordered.
Still wearing the helmet and with the visor down, Katja paused in front of the door. Moments later it slid open quietly. She disappeared through without a sound. Breeze stepped forward as softly as she could, passing the threshold to enter the dim room.
The quarters were divided into a sitting room, into which she entered, and a bedroom which was accessible through an open door to the left. The sitting room was dark, lit only by a pair of lamps next to the desk. A broad window looked out toward the upper edge of Earth’s shining surface.
Unmistakable sounds left no doubt as to what was happening in the bedroom. Katja had already crossed the floor, and was crouched in the doorframe, helmet-cam pointed toward the source. Breeze rolled her eyes in distaste as she walked over.
They were coupled by the bedroom window. Helena Grey’s bony body was bent over, her hands braced against the polyglass, Randall Bush’s fat form thrusting from behind. Apparently the admiral liked to enjoy the view while he enjoyed his crew. The only light came through the window, and she didn’t think that was quite enough to secure a positive ID.
So she flicked on the overhead lights.
The resultant flurry of flesh was quite amusing as Grey screamed and desperately sought cover. While Bush stood in shock, jerking in several directions without knowing what to do, she wound up cowering in the corner, barely hidden behind a table.
Breeze put a hand on Katja’s shoulder.
“I think that’s enough evidence.”
Katja nodded, turning off the camera.
Bush finally found his voice. “What—what’s the meaning of this?” A croak turned into a bellow. “How
dare
you!”
Breeze met his weasel gaze fearlessly. She didn’t often get to use her authoritative tone, and now she let it belt out.
“I might say the same thing,” she barked. “I come on board, to find out why my Dark Bomb project is so behind schedule, and this is what I find! The science team leader, whoring herself out to the man who promised me
personally
that this project would meet its deadlines.”
To his credit, the admiral didn’t surrender easily.
“Commander Brisebois,” he pressed, “you are
way
out of line, and you are skirting dangerously close to a court-martial. Hand over that camera, and get
out
of my cabin.”
Breeze squeezed Katja’s shoulder. “Contain the admiral, please.”
In a heartbeat Katja’s pistol was out and pointed at the fat old man. Any sense of fight Bush might have possessed was suddenly whisked away. His eyes widened in shock.
“Sit down on the bed, please, Admiral,” Breeze ordered, using a calmer voice. “Lieutenant Grey, please get dressed and report to the lab. I think you have some work to do.”
Helena Grey, her face beet red to the roots of her dyed-blonde hair, gathered up her clothing and slipped through the door into the sitting room. Breeze was happy to have that withered old crone removed from her sight, and turned her attention to the bulbous, pasty old geezer plopped naked on the bed. His gaze shifted between her and the gun that was still pointed at him.
“Admiral, I’m very disappointed to discover the truth of why the Dark Bomb project is so far behind schedule,” she said, as if talking to a child. “As you may know, I’m also the leader of the Fleet Marshall Investigation into the significant Terran losses during the recent conflict. As of now, I think I understand what’s happened. Your Research Squadron has been squandering a golden opportunity to develop a weapon that could have stopped the rebellion as soon as it started.”
She allowed herself a sneer. “If your Research Squadron had been doing its job, and not serving as your personal harem, thousands of brave men and women of the Astral Force would still be alive, instead of having their remains floating in pieces around the colonial worlds.”
He was sweating openly. She let him stew for a moment, naked, frightened, and humiliated.
“What do you want?” he whispered.
She kept her face neutral, but inwardly she allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. This was certainly no brave, idealistic Thomas Kane before her. This old man was a survivor. She turned to Katja.
“Give me a moment with the admiral, please.”
Katja retreated through the doorway, holstering her weapon. Breeze sat down on the bed next to Bush, and lowered her voice.
“I’m going to give you a choice, Admiral,” she said. “Parliament must be handed its guilty party, but I have the power to decide exactly who that is. Clearly the blame for Terra’s recent military troubles is going to fall on the Research Squadron, and its failure to provide the best weaponry to our fighting forces.” She placed a hand on his cold, bare knee. “But who, exactly? Was it a failure at the very top, or was it a conspiracy at a lower level? I need you to make that choice.”
Bush’s eyes lit up with a glimmer of hope.
“I’ll cooperate.”
It was considered bad luck to whistle on a ship, but Thomas was in such a good mood that he was tempted to defy the ancient superstition and more than a thousand years of tradition.
As he flashed up the terminal at his personal workstation, his office door fixed open so he could hear the chatter from the lab, he contented himself with humming an old folk song.
The barrage of messages on his screen revealed the usual nuisances of a typical work day, and he doubted today would be any less frustrating than normal, but at least all his hard work was paying off. One message in particular caught his eye—forwarded from Admiral Chandler in confidence.
It was the sanitized version of Breeze’s interim report of the Fleet Marshall Investigation, concluding the line of inquiry into the wartime conduct of Expeditionary Force 15. As he knew it would, it stated that the overall conduct of the officers in EF 15 had been exemplary, and any potential sources of embarrassment had been caused elsewhere in the Astral Fleet.
The investigation was ongoing, but no matter how much she might have wanted to fix the blame on him, Breeze knew that Thomas was the only thing holding the Dark Bomb research together, and that made him untouchable.
With that threat out of the way, Thomas was finally free to consider how best to deal with his own situation. Being the acting XO of a Research ship wasn’t exactly the dream of the ambitious Line officer, but he could see the opportunities. Most importantly, his position was billeted for a commander, and if he could convince the necessary decision-makers to make his posting permanent, the necessary promotion would be granted immediately. None of his peers in the regular fleet had access to that kind of shortcut, and once his position was permanent he could
really
start to make some changes.
As if on cue, Helena Grey stormed into his office.
“Thomas, I think you should know that Amanda is not performing well.”
He leaned back in his chair. “How so?”
“She’s been burying herself in her equations for three days, with hardly any work on the latest batch of field results.”
Thomas wasn’t a scientist—and neither, he’d come to realize, was Helena—but he’d familiarized himself with the latest round of extra-dimensional experiments.
“My understanding is that the math needs to be sound before we can start applying experimental results.”
“But not for three days!” Helena’s plastic face began turning red. “I’ve never seen anyone need more than a full day to check over what hundreds of scientists have already proven, long before it comes to us.” He could tell there was nothing to be gained by arguing, so he decided not to waste his time.