W Michael Gear Read online

  Squinting, Bryana reached her cup into the dispenser where it filled with tea.

  “Wish we were out. I mean, here we are, getting a chance of a lifetime shot at a ship like Boaz . . . and under a commander like Petran Dart . . . and what happens? The rug is pulled from under us. If there was a way we could transfer out of this ...”

  Bryana sighed and raised dark eyebrows. “Face it, we’re stuck for the moment. Look . . . let’s just do our best. Get through this trip and then we can apply for transfer without looking like sulking idiots. If can’t be all bad. Carrasco has commendations to fill a wall with. He-”

  “Lost three ships and retired. No one’s lost three ships that quickly.”

  Bryana bit her lip. “Yeah, well, maybe . . . but they put him in command of Boaz. ” She shook her head. “I don’t know, I heard that he couldn’t even respond when his old crew went to see him. They just wouldn’t have given him this command if the guy were a total screw up.”

  “He lost three ships . . . three Brotherhood ships.”

  “And as many as a hundred and some people have died under his command. I mean, the standing joke is that Fleet sends people out with Carrasco so they don’t have to pay pensions down the road.”

  Art ran pensive fingers through his beard. “This isn’t like the Brotherhood. If this isn’t a mistake, Kraal’s playing a real deep game, one I don’t understand.”

  “Let’s hope. If there’s a genius anywhere in the Confederacy, it’s Kraal.” A pause. “You know, tied to the bridge, we’ve missed seeing a lot. You should catch a gander of the lounge. Plush, my friend. Like my beloved Armenian grandmother once said, ‘opulence to dim the sight of a Persian king’!”

  Arturian turned his attention back to his game of Find the Ship again. “Since when?”

  “Since we are supposed to cart all these diplomats around.” She ran a series of standard orbit corrections through navigation, studied the answers, and nodded with satisfaction. “Imagine the thrill of seeing them to quarters. Not big enough? I’m sorry, sir. Water’s not hot enough? Yes, ma’am, have the plumber right down. Not enough space for you to conduct three-dimensional left-handed Tantra? I’ll have the decorators here in a moment, ma’am.” She growled softly. “Who gets the joy of teaching them high g drill? Or all the other little things they need to know?”

  “Quite a few are station born. Boat will have her hands full trying to keep their skinny bones from breaking.” Art looked up. “Can you do that, good ship? Or do we need to float them around in bubbles?”

  “I believe bubbles and gel will be unnecessary for standard acceleration,” the ship informed. “Distortion of the gravity plates only presents problems under high g and when they want to mix together. Gravitation effects can be countered by repulser belts and harnesses.”

  Arturian watched with disgust and groaned as the last of his fleet vanished in a flare of blaster fire. He raised his hands in defeat, leaned back, and sucked at the hot coffee.

  Bryana peered at the monitor which showed the Fast Transport docking a kilometer and a half up the barrel-like sides of the Brotherhood docks. “That’s Carrasco’s ship?”

  “Yeah,” Arturian chewed worriedly at his thick mustache. “This guy is one of the youngest captains in the fleet. He’s had three ships shot out from under him . . . and lost a bunch of people in the process. How’s that make you feel?”

  “About like knowing the reactor’s gone schizophrenic and your body could become a real bright light real quick!” She winked at him. “On the other hand, we won’t be bored.”

  “Most of his old crew—like your friend Happy—are already aboard . . . what’s left of them, that is.” Arturian reached for his chewing tobacco and loaded his lip. “Why didn’t he bring his old officers? Why are we still here?”

  “I don’t know.” Bryana looked up at the speaker. “Boaz, do you have any information on why Solomon Carrasco’s former officers were not given this assignment?“

  “Affirmative.”

  “Well . . . why?” Arturian pushed.

  “His officers are unavailable.”

  “They didn’t want to serve with him again?” Bryana raised questioning hands, palms up in confusion. “Or were they promoted or reassigned after he resigned from the service?”

  “Neither,” Boat hedged. “It would have been better had you not brought it up, but if you must know—all the men and women who held First Officer positions under the command of Captain Solomon Carrasco are dead.”

  Arturian closed his eyes and leaned back in the command chair. “Now that, good ship, really inspires confidence.” He studied Bryana. “What was that joke about pensions?”

  * * *

  Sol stood up from the FT’s command chair as the tugs took over control of the transport. He nodded to the vessel’s captain, a quietly competent dark-skinned man who smiled in return. “Thanks for the opportunity to get my feet wet again.”

  “My pleasure, Captain Carrasco.” The young man nodded, respect in his eyes. “Uh, good to have you back, sir. There was talk that space would never be the same without you.”

  Sol laughed with a gusto he didn’t feel and followed the bridge access way aft. His kit stood against a bulkhead, left by a thoughtful ensign. He felt the ship shudder slightly as the grapples locked into the Brotherhood docks and angular acceleration replaced artificial gravity.

  He waved a final good-bye to the captain and walked through the chilly tunnel of the lock and into the wide ovoid tube of the docks. Arcturus. The glowing jewel of Confederate space. He studied the familiar sights and sounds, smelling the chilly air, listening to the machinery whine. A tang of oil met his nose as did the accustomed smell of paint and the ozone from welders.

  He’d walked on these same foam steel deck plates with Fil and Maybry and Octorhu Mbazi. The ghosts watched through hollow eyes, hovering in the shadows, teeth flashing as they laughed. Sol’s scalp prickled as he felt their knowing winks behind him. And so many lay dead— decompressed corpses now light-years away, frozen, charred, tumbling forever between the stars.

  He started to wave down a shuttle and stopped short. It was only a mile or so. He’d stroll to his new command. Smiling, he slung his load over a wide shoulder, carrying his kit, enjoying the sights and sounds he’d thought forever left behind.

  . . . Only the shuttle stopped anyway, two more pulling up to either side.

  “Compliments of the Galactic Grand Master,” a blond man in the first called out. “If you’d step into the middle vehicle, please. Anything happens, duck for cover and stay put. We’ll handle it. The vehicles are armored.”

  “If anything. . . ? Wait a minute! Why the cloak and dagger? What’s up? I don’t need security. I’m just walking down to take my—”

  “Please, Captain. If you’ll simply step into the middle car, you’ll be briefed there.”

  He couldn’t find any give in the agent’s demeanor-only the cold efficiency of a professional.

  “Oh, hell.” The joy of old sights flushed away to leave his heart aching with premonition. “All right. But I think you‘re overreacting.”

  “Oh, we’ve got our reasons,” the fellow said amiably.

  Sol sighed, stepping back to hand his kit up to the armed agents who waited. A black woman looked up expectantly as the shuttle slid forward on its track, superconducting repulsion making the ride effortless.

  “This is for you,” she explained as Sol sat, handing over a plastic-sealed envelope to him. Her dark eyes burned soberly into his. “Kraal’s orders are that they’re not to be opened until after you’re in the jump.”

  Sol frowned and pulled the packet from the protective plastic sleeve. Curious, he inspected the seal—authentic so far as he could tell—impressed above his ID. The stationery, he could see, was chem matched to his body. Should another touch it, the paper would discolor in reaction to the different molecules excreted by the body.

  “I don’t understand. Why all the security? I—”

&
nbsp; “Captain Carrasco, I don’t have all the details. Suffice it to say that two of our people were assassinated while guarding Speaker Archon. Leave has been canceled for all ship’s personnel and we’ve uncovered and stopped several attempts to prohibit Boaz’s departure. Someone powerful wants your ship delayed, probably for political reasons. This is Arcturus. We’re not taking chances.”

  The shuttles pulled up before a well-lit lock.

  “Here you go, Captain. And good luck.”

  Sol nodded, feeling lost. I’m a deep space captain-not a secret agent, by the Blessed Architect! What is all this?

  The kit felt heavy to him as he grabbed up the handles, leaping to the firm plating below. The blond man from the first car moved up beside him, chattering pleasantly about nothing.

  Two Patrol officers waited by the main lock, talking softly to each other. Sol started for the lock. His bodyguard shouted a warning and shoved him violently to the side. Sol half-stumbled and dove instinctively for a cargo dolly. Blaster fire crackled as he pulled his own weapon from its holster. Screams sounded and an alarm went off.

  Then silence.

  “Captain Carrasco? You all right?”

  Sol lifted his head from behind the brushed aluminum of the dolly. The black woman from his shuttle crouched over the body of the blond man, a wisp of condensation rising from the muzzle of the blaster clenched in her hand. The other agents crouched around the shuttles, blasters pointed in all directions, ready.

  The two Patrol lock guards lay dead. A bolt had caught one in the chest, ripping the rib cage open, spattering pink lung tissue over the fragments of rib. The second had taken a shot to the thigh that amputated the leg above the knee. A second bolt had shattered his shoulder, fragmenting the scapula, crushing the vertebrae.

  A truck full of Patrol purred up to disgorge armored forms. Boots clattered in the quiet. Sol swallowed, holstered his weapon, and stood. Shooting on a Brotherhood dock? They had the tightest security in the galaxy!

  His face felt like a mask as he passed the scene of the fray. A mess of bloody tissue with bits and pieces blown here and there—that’s what had become of the man who’d just saved his life.

  “Got ‘em,” the remains of the blond gasped as the Patrol literally shoveled him onto a med stretcher and called urgently for a portable unit. He’d taken a hit low in the abdomen, his intestines a total mess where they hung out over the splintered fragments of the pubis.

  “Don’t know who these guys are ...” a Patrol lieutenant called from where he was inspecting the bodies by the lock. “. . . but they’re sure not our people.”

  “To get a Patrol uniform like that?” The Brotherhood agent who’d taken to shadowing Sol shook his head. “Something’s rotten high up.” He met Sol’s frightened look. “Be careful, Captain. We knew you were hot—but we never thought they’d get this far.”

  “Why—why . . . me?” He groped at his kit handles.

  “I don’t have that information, Captain.”

  Sol backed up to the bulkhead and sucked a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. “What’s happening here? Kraal? What did you get me into?”

  The remains of the blasted Patrol impersonators had been scraped up and carted off. Deep inside, Sol suffered that familiar hollow feeling. He fought to still the shaking in his muscles, the heaving in his gut. Cursing his weakness, he forced himself to keep from trembling.

  “Urn, Captain?” The agent pointed to the lock. “The sooner you’re aboard, sir, the better I’ll feel. You know Brotherhood ships, the lock is as far as an assassin could hope to get.”

  Sol nodded hesitantly, staggering for the yawning tube, fighting the urge to be physically sick. Staving off shivers, he entered the cold womb of steel, leaving the carnage behind.

  “Oh, Lord of the Universe,” he muttered under his breath, “... say they didn’t die for me!”

  He reeled forward, stopping at the hatch, staring into the white interior of the lock.

  “Captain?” a speaker asked.

  “Y-yes?”

  “I am Boaz. First Officer Bryana has prepared your crew for a formal reception beyond the hatch.”

  “I. . . I . . .”My god, the ship. What do I do? Gage? Gage? Where are you? The pounding of his heart threatened to split his ribs. I’m not ready for this. I can’t. . . can’t face them. Can’t face this ship. “I ... give me a moment. I need some time, good ship. Just a little time ... to ...”

  “I understand, Captain. I’ll inform the First Officer you are detained for a moment.”

  Sol blinked, mouth dry, guts runny with fear. “Yes . . . please. Thank you.”

  Come on, Solomon. Pull yourself together. You can do it. You can face them all. Even this ship. You‘ve got to! Guts, man! He forced himself to breathe deeply, steeling his trembling limbs. “Got to stand up to it... to them.”

  He lifted his chin, the feeling that of facing a firing squad. He stepped into the lock, standing before the hatch. “Boaz, I’m ready. If you would cycle the hatch.”

  “ Acknowledged, Captain.”

  The outer hatch slid noiselessly shut behind him.

  Solomon Carrasco fought the urge to scream.

  CHAPTER VI

  Arturian chewed his lip as he watched Captain Solomon Carrasco work his way up the line. He stopped before each crewman and shook hands. Some—his old shipmates—actually embraced him; the worship in their eyes irritated something deep inside Arturian. Hell, Carrasco was a man, a simple human being—and not very impressive looking at that.

  Solomon Carrasco wore a traditional white dress uniform, but his features seemed washed out, somehow pale and frightened. A slight sweat sheen stood out on his face, and he moved with hesitation—the effect that of a man afraid.

  “Not what I’d expected at all,” Bryana whispered from the side of her mouth. “This guy don’t look like he could skipper a pre-programmed shuttle ... let alone a star-ship.”

  But Solomon Carrasco was too close for Arturian to shoot her a reply.

  He found himself looking into the frightened brown eyes of a man possessed. Hysteria lay there, barely concealed. The look was that of a frayed soul on the edge of an abyss. “Welcome aboard, Captain,” Arturian responded hollowly.

  “My pleasure, First Officer.” Then he’d moved on, shaking Bryana’s hand.

  Solomon Carrasco stood stiffly at the head of the line and Art saw his face twitch. The old crew of Gage stood out somehow. To Art’s eyes, they looked tougher, calmer, ready for anything as they looked toward the ship’s captain. Others stared warily, uncertainly, especially those who’d expected to ship with Petran Dart. Finally, a few faces mirrored their curiosity about Solomon Carrasco, waiting to see if the man lived up to the legend.

  This was the man who always brought them back through thick and through thin ? This trembling puff ball of a Captain?

  “At ease, ladies and gentlemen.” Solomon Carrasco issued his first order at half volume as he looked down the ranks. “We’ve just had a shooting outside the lock. Evidently an assassination attempt . . . which is why I might seem a little shaky.” A mumble of voices stirred, to be silenced by Carrasco’s subdued voice. “I want security beefed up. Some persons bribed their way into Patrol uniforms. So be wary and keep on your toes. Of course, I believe the ship will keep track of internal security. “

  “Affirmative,” Boaz called through her speakers.

  Carrasco seemed to steel himself at the word, a slight tremble in his locked legs.

  Woodenly, he continued, “To those of you with whom I’ve spaced before—good to see you all looking so healthy.” A nervous chuckle broke out. “To the rest, I look forward to serving with you. I’m sure Boaz has the best people in Fleet.

  “I’ve heard through the grapevine that many of you are wondering what this is all about. Why is the ship decked out with a lounge? What are we doing with passengers and—most of all—where are we headed?” He smiled halfheartedly. “I’m sure it will put your minds at
rest when I tell you I don’t have the slightest idea either.”

  Some looked perplexed, others seemed completely undone. The old Gage crew—on the other hand—laughed, truly amused. Whispers of “Here we go again,” “Adventure” and “Leave it up to Cap” came up the line.

  Didn’t the damn fools understand?

  “In the meantime, my instructions are to follow any course suggested by the Speaker of Star’s Rest. At least, those are the orders from the Galactic Grand Master. We’re to serve the diplomats aboard and see to their every wish.” Captain Carrasco raised his hands, pale face expressionless as carved wood. “I know, odd orders for a Brotherhood ship . . . especially one of this caliber, but that’s how it’s laid out.

  “Outside of the irregularities of handling the passengers, it should make a pleasant jump—to wherever we’re going. Consider yourselves dismissed.”

  The gathering broke up as Carrasco motioned to Arturian and Bryana. “First Officers? Happy?” he called, getting the big, muscle-bound engineer’s attention. “Could I see all of you in the officers’ debriefing room? Um . . . where is the officers’ debriefing room?”

  Art started to open his mouth, only to have the bluff engineer bull past, grabbing Carrasco’s arm. “C’mon, I’ll show ya. Hey, Cap! It’s good to see you like this. Man, I thought you’d bought it but royal last time I saw you.“

  They walked several hundred meters down spotless white corridors, the engineer babbling the whole time. Happy steered Carrasco into a room of perhaps six by eight meters. Comfortable couches lined the sides under comm viewers. Headsets rested in their racks. A holo projector-equipped planning table dominated the center of the room, gravchairs arranged around to allow comfort during long sessions.