I sit quietly in the hall. The floor is carpeted here, and my old bones find it comforting. I doze, more deeply than in my younger days, but still alert for foreign sounds.
From my place in the center of my Lord and Master's demense, I can respond to any threat. I listen, the years having dimned my eyesight, but my hearing is as acute as ever.
I am not the carefree young pup who entered my Lord's service many years ago, but no matter. Where time has introduced aches and pains, made the vision fuzzier, and made stiffness a daily burden, it has not dimmed my sense of duty, my hearing, nor my wits.
From my chosen place in the central corridor, I listen. I hear my Master's deep and troubled sleep. He too has seen the passage of many years and the years have taken their toll. The days now are hard for him and he fades a little more each day. It is hard to watch age take its toll.
I remember many a better day, where my Lord and his household shared their joys with me and I with them, while never failing in my duty as chosen guardian. Years have come and gone. My Lord's family has grown and his Lady too has suffered the wrackings of age. Most of those years have been good years, the household living and prospering under my watchful eye.
If ever a threat appeared, my challenge was fast and sure, my voice strong and my courage undaunted. Never has a threat been allowed to harm my Lord, his people, or even his pets, two very demanding felines. I have seen to that. Such is the way of the warrior.
I am nearing the end of my natural span. My bones ache, my legs have a certain shiver in them, and sometimes breathing seems a chore. But my sense of duty remains, my obligation to protect not so much undertaken as ingrained in my very fabric.
I have given my Lord devotion, honour, and the best of my strength, courage and skill in all contests and in all times of danger. I have succored the Master and his family in times of loss, such as when the previous watcher passed on, venerable in age and distressed of body. I have made no request, but I have received the love of my Lord, his family, and even the tolerance of the felines in my care. I have wanted for naught.
I am not the young firebrand of days gone by, but if a menace comes in the dark of night, I shall be waiting. My eyes are not as sharp as once they were, but in the darkness, it is hearing and scent one uses to track dangers. My legs may not be as steady as in my youth before strength and endurance parted company with my body, but my courage remains undimmed, my heart untarnished. My voice can still be heard and still echoes with the authority of my better days. I listen.
If comes the foe by night to make mischief, he shall not be countenanced to undertake his errands unannounced or unhindered. I shall sound the alarm and place myself across the main passage from the outside world unto the chambers of my Master and his family.
My voice shall awaken them to any danger and if that danger seeks to penetrate the sanctum sanctorum which I guard, then I shall do as has ere been the duty of my kind - I shall defend my Master unto my dying breath, with all of the fire in my heart and the remaining strength in my old body, gladly, without hesitation or regret, for mine has been a long and happy life and for as long as I remain, my duty shall be fulfilled.
No harm shall come to the family in my charge for as long as life remains.
Old Warriors do not fade away...
Dedicated in loving memory to Max Murphy, our yellow labrador retriever. He was one of the kindest dogs I've ever known, even letting the old grey tabby Puss eat from his bowl (and he loved his food!). He was kind and gentle with children, but he had a loud bark if he needed to let you know something. As he got older, he took to lying in the main hall so he could watch the door and hear things so he didn't have to get up and look and often he'd just bark once or twice when someone arrived, feeling this was sufficient. Yet somehow, I know if someone unpleasant had arrived, he'd have stood up and shown them the ferocity he never had need to show. He died in my arms. God rest you. All Dogs Go To Heaven.
© Lux Mentis, 20 MAY 2013. All rights reserved.
25 May 2013
10 May 2012
The Interview
The woman was neat and businesslike. Her body language drew attention away from the fact she was probably only in the middle of her third decade. The dark blue business suit she wore suited her but drew attention away from any physical assets. She wore it like a uniform and her tight expression suggested she would have little patience for fools or glib flattery.
"Ma'am, I'm John Darcy. It was suggested to me that I should speak with you about the a job opening you may be looking to fill. I wasn't given much information so I hope I'm not wasting your time." John stood at parade rest in front of the woman, eyes front, back ramrod straight, yet still aware of her appraising glance from where she sat at the simple table upon which rested her business valise.
"Mr. Darcy, I have had quite a long and challenging day. I am tired and rather annoyed. You have two minutes to convince me that a longer conversation has any possibility of not being a waste of my time." Her tone was cool, but the challenge was obvious. She didn't really want to hear from John and would dismiss him out of hand as soon as she found a pretext.
John needed to find some form of work so he could continue to eat. And soldiering was the business he knew, even if what passed for soldiering here on the far end of the Charon Drift in the Cauldron wasn't exactly the same as soldiering in the Corps back in the Empire. That life was past, however.
Whatever new life he was going to have out here had to start somewhere and the lady from Farrell's Landing might be the best option of a slim lot. He wasn't particularly keen to wind up working in a fourth-rate mercenary unit with a mix of substance abusers, bloodthirsty idiots and ruthless brigands. That idea turned his stomach so John new he had better make a good showing here. This might not be that many notches above his other options, but better was better. If this was better.
"Ma'am, if you'll bear with me, could you please tell me the nature of your situation so that I may explain what advantages I may offer you over your other alternatives?" John tried not to sound desparate. He wasn't quite that badly off yet, but the other prospects for employment here really weren't things he was anxious to pursue.
The woman continued her scrutiny, but deigned to reply to his question. "Mr. Darcy, Farrell's Landing is a small world in the far reaches of what is generally considered to be one of the worst backwaters of the Empire. The Imperial Navy rarely visits our world and doesn't stay long when it does. If there's a situation that requires military intervention, it is quite likely the Empire will only be able to investigate the outcome after the fact. That reality is cold consolation to our people who might end up dead or missing relatives and without their savings. And that's a best case scenario."
She continued, managing to mostly surpress the bitterness in her voice. "So, with things worsening in the Drift and more quickly in the Cauldron, Farrell's Landing needs protection. Our Council of Reeves has elected to retain a military unit to serve as our protection in the short run."
"We have credible concerns that an unsavoury neighbour may have designs on our world. And thus, I am here on El Dorado in the hope, vain as it may seem at the moment, of finding such a force to protect my people. So, how can you help me with my problem, Mr. Darcy?" She ended with a chilly smile. She obviously had no expectation that John Darcy could do anything for her.
John brought his eyes down to meet hers and returned her appraising look. She looked him squarely in the eyes and said "You have ninety seconds remaining, Mr. Darcy.".
"Ma'am, you wouldn't even be giving me ninety seconds if you had found someone you liked the looks of for this job. I haven't been here on El Dorado long, but I've looked over the list of units you might choose to retain and met with a few of their commanders."
John paused, allowing for a moment of silence to give his next words more emphasis.
"There isn't one of those units I would choose to be a part of if I could find another option. There isn't one of those units I'd want defending my people if I was worried about unsavoury folk. There isn't one of those unit commanders that I'd trust around my women folk, my home, or my treasury."
She cocked her head slightly to one side, perhaps adjusting her appraisal of John slightly.
"Mr. Darcy, you seem to take a dim view of my available options."
"Firstly, I've got a self-styled General who thinks he is the Maker's Gift to womankind and who wants me to hire his mixed battalion of armoured infantry." The young lady used her long, thin fingers to tick off the entries of her list as she enumerated them.
"Secondly, I've got a former Army Colonel from the sort of place where it might be hard to differentiate between the local troublemakers and the military and he wants me to hire his reinforced company of 'special forces'."
"And lastly, I've got a Major, standing in for his absent Colonel, who wishes me to hire his battalion of line infantry. The best thing I can say about his offer is he probably bathes and not in perfume and his line infantry might be able to march in a straight line."
Her face had taken on a tension as she ticked through her options. "Whatever in the world gives you the impression that I am anything less than thrilled by my options? And what can you, John Darcy, offer me that is any more palatable?" Her questions had the acid tinge of sarcasm. Her frustration with her prospects was obvious but equally obvious was the fact she classed John in the same group with the others.
He let the hint of a smile touch his lips. "Ma'am, if I had a choice between that lot and giving my own young men a rifle or shotgun and hoping they could protect me, I might still choose my own folk."
Jon chose to forgo using his fingers to tick of his points in reply, instead remaining at parade rest as he responded. John kept his smile, but his tone was cold. If she was going to give him cool and sarcastic, he could risk showing a little steel in return.
"That self-styled General is a lecher and his troops won't be any better with that one leading. They'll be more focused on molesting your womenfolk than protecting them."
"The former Army Colonel is 'former' with good reason - something about black market sales of his own military's equipment. I wouldn't expect him or any of his to do anything but help themselves to anything not nailed down and to things nailed down if they have a crowbar. And the only thing 'special' about those 'forces' is the rate they'll want to bill at."
"As to the last one, he's standing in for his absent Colonel because that Colonel is busy getting shit-faced at the local watering hole. I visited their camp and I found plenty of dress uniforms and fancy toasts in crystal glasses; They are quite pleasant to their guests. But what I didn't see was any sign that anyone from the least private to the senior officer present had the vaguest clue of how to lay out a secure camp and to protect its permimeter. If they can't even secure their own perimeter, they'd be pretty damn little use securing your people. The officers would probably offer the invaders a nice drink of brandy." John made a sour face at the thought.
The woman spoke with slightly less chill, having been brought up somewhat sharply by John's own tone. "Mr. Darcy, you're telling me things I already know. I know what all of my bad options are. Unless I'm mistaken, you don't come with even a squad of soldiery, let alone a company or battalion. What can you really do for me, John Darcy?" There was a hint of curiosity in her voice, but it was very faint.
"Ma'am, you don't need a battalion, a company, a platoon, or even a squad of profiteers, of fancy dress clowns who couldn't identify the sharp end of a bayonet, or of lecherous miscreants who'll spend more time molesting your young ladies than they will securing your assets and population. That kind of help, you don't need."
"Farrell's Landing is a mostly agrarian world with some natural predators that demand respect. The kind of people that colonize those sorts of places are strong and capable, if properly trained and equipped."
John looked her straight in the eye with his best Command Stare. "What you need is somebody who you can trust to train your own people to protect you. You need someone that won't be doing it because he's an overpaid layabout or he's hoping to supplement his income from your assets whenever no one is looking. You need someone competent, professionally trained and capable in both military theory and applications thereof and with the field experience to back that up. Trust, competence and professionalism - that's what you need and that's what you can't get from any of those others. That's what I can offer you."
John unbuttoned the top two buttons of his jacket, reached inside, and removed a one page film. He stepped forward smartly and handed it to the woman. As he passed it to her he said "John Fitzgerald Darcy, Captain, former Commander of Raider Company Alpha, 1st Battalion, 5th Imperial Marines Assault Brigade, at your Service, Ma'am." He stepped back and snapped to attention.
The woman, obviously somewhat surprised, briefly stared at John. He observed her stare in his peripheral vision, his eyes now once again locked eyes front. She then glanced down at the film, his one page resume. He saw her eyes quickly scanning the page.
He could see her taking in his qualifications: Graduation credentials from Marine Basic, Imperial Marine Officer Training, Marine Raider School and Close Combat School. Qualifications as a marksman, infantry section, platoon, and company leader, jump wings and the orbital assault badge. Commendations for good conduct and competence. Equipment qualifications on all state-of-the-art small arms, precision and support weapons in service with the Imperial Marines as well as with all current issue iterations of vac suits and combat exoskeletons.
Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared with surprise when she read the section on decorations. That section started with "Imperial Medal of Valour", a decoration which could only be won in combat while in direct personal peril during the execution of tasks critical to the success of the mission. In the ranks of Imperial Decorations, it was seventh in precedence, but was still a rare sight even within the Empire. Out here in the Drift, he might be the first and only person the young woman would ever meet who had such a decoration.
The section continued with "Meteoric Assault Order" awarded for having executed at least one meteoric combat drop from an orbiting vessel, the "Close Combat Clasp" awarded for having engaged enemies in extreme close quarters fighting, and the section concluding with "Wound Badge" indicating John had taken a wound in the line of duty.
While his list of decorations was not a chestful by any means, these were decorations given for actual achievements in combat rather than awarded for some political reason or as a bribe, both of which are common in many small Rimward militaries. The page concluded with an honourable discharge notation.
She carefully set down the film page on the table in front of her. She drew in a breath, paused, and then spoke, more quietly and far less pointedly than before. "Captain John Fitzgerald Darcy, I know of your Imperial Marine Corps by its reputation alone. That reputation is fearsome and honourable. No one doubts that Imperial Marines know their business. That by itself makes you the best candidate I've seen all day."
"But you are a former Marine. An ex-Marine. What gaurantee have I that you will be any better than my other options?" This time, she looked less the assured and business-like young woman and more like someone who has seen an oasis in the desert and isn't sure if she should trust her eyes for fear it turns out to be a heat mirage.
"Ma'am, you can discharge the Marine from the Corps. You never take the Corps out of the Marine. If you didn't have integrity and honour, you could not lead Imperial Marine Raiders in battle. They wouldn't have you, rank and orders be damned. But my words aren't going to allay your suspicions by themselves." John looked back down, meeting her gaze.
"The man who suggested I come talk to you, I believe he's an associate of yours. Average height, round spectacles, and some seriously unruly, wiry white hair. Ask him what he thinks about what sort of character I might have. It's better hearing an opinion you might trust."
"You can reach me at the Crown and Thorn where I've got a room upstairs. Ask the bartender and he'll point you in the right direction. That is, of course, if you like what your friend tells you."
"I think my two minutes are up. Thank you for your time Ma'am." With that, John about-faced and marched from the room as sharply as he had ever marched on parade.
Mari O'Callaghan left the meeting with the ex-Imperial Marine Captain somewhat unsettled. His record was credible and he had trained and commanded in the Imperial Marines, an organization known for its competence, effectiveness, and professionalism. If he happened to be a drunkard, a lecher, a thief or a miscreant, he didn't wear any of those pinned up on his sleeve for all to see - making him immediately seem a better candidate than the other commanders.
But he didn't have a unit of soldiers behind him. Mari agreed with him that the young men and women of Farrell's Landing were good folk - hardy, sensible, and loyal. But it was less clear if they truly had what it took to be trained to fight battles and win them. Would they be brave enough in the face of gunfire and bombardments? Could they handle their fellows screaming and dying in combat around them? Could they bring themselves to kill the enemy without freezing up or being sick? And if they could, would it change them in a way that would make them something somehow darker and altogether less palatable?
That wasn't all that unsettled her about John Darcy. He challenged her authority just in the way he met her gaze. He wasn't going to be one to meekly take orders from his paymaster nor was he going to back down when he thought he was right. And, despite the modest cut of his clothes, Mari could tell he was in great physical shape. And he had the craggy jaw and the height to be considered attractive, if you went for that kind of rugged look. There was just a chance Mari might have a weakness that way, if she ever let herself admit to having any weakness whatsoever.
Mister Darcy had suggested she go talk to Lawrence who would, for some mysterious reason, provide some form of character reference for the ex-Marine. With that in mind, Mari sought him out in the suite at the motel that they shared while in town on Farrell's Landing's official business.
When she saw Lawrence, she was horrified to see a bright, puffy shiner. He'd taken some sort of hefty blow on his left cheek that had swollen up the face around his left eye and discoloured it to rather unpleasant shades of purple and blue.
"Lawrence! Whatever did you do to your eye? Did you trip or run into something?"
Lawrence Farnsworth O'Higgins gave her a sharp look with his one unswollen ocular orb before replying. "Mari, if by 'trip' you mean 'were knocked down by four louts' then yes, I tripped. If by 'run into something', you mean one of them bludgeoned me in the face while I was down, then yes, I ran into something. His fist. Repeatedly." Lawrence's voice was cross and he was clearly perturbed at the thought that his clumsiness somehow explained what really was the results of some form of assault.
"What?! Who did this to you? Where were the authorities? Did they catch them?"
"And more importantly, are you okay?" Mari's tone was a mix of indignation and concern for her elderly friend and fellow civil servant.
"In order of importance: I'm okay, except my face hurts and I'll look pretty bad for a week or so while the bruising heals. It was four thugs who claimed to be soldiers and whose intention was to convince me to get you to sign on with the General you spoke to. Apparently their skills of conversational persuasion were lacking so they went directly to bludgeoning. The authorities were, as they usual are in the Drift, nowhere to be seen. Ergo, they did not, in fact, catch anyone."
"However...", Lawrence continued, putting some ice into a towel and applying the towel to his swollen face, "...there was a young man coming out of the local pub who happened upon me getting the stuffing knocked out of me in the back alley. Three of them had me down and the fourth was working some cosmetic realignment surgery on my face with his knuckles and a piece of plaspipe. Thankfully, they'd already knocked my glasses off or they'd have broken them in the process."
"Lawrence... I'm so sorry... I should have made you stick with me." Mari O'Callaghan was neatly dressed and prim, but if anyone had tried to lay a hand on Lawrence with her around, he'd have gotten his teeth loosened!
"I'll live, woman. I grew up on the Ranges and, Lord knows, I've had worse from one of the Bison. I'm just a bit older now and wasn't expecting it. They took me by surprise or I'd have given them what-for, let me tell you." Lawrence shook his fist in the air by way of punctuation.
Sure you would, Mari said to herself. You're sixty four years old and you've been off the range for 15 years teaching and being a part of the civil government. But she'd never say such a thing out loud so as to not offend Lawrence's pride. She cared more for him than she liked to admit. He was the next best thing to a parent since hers had been lost at such a young age.
"You were saying a man came by while you were being worked over?"
"Indeed I was. He didn't walk by and shrug it off as none of his business. He didn't stop to chat with them either. I guess he figured anytime there's four on one and the one is a more mature fellow, the four were probably up to no good. He just waded in. Gutsy, too, because a couple of them had plaspipe sections and one had some kind of fancy looking fighting knife. Didn't deter this fellow none though. He just waded in and in short order, he had all the bits of pipe and the knife, they had a bunch of stomped toes, busted noses, loosened teeth and bashed up ribs, and they decided it was time they lit out for safer whereabouts."
"I have to admit, if he hadn't happened by, I'd probably have taken a goodly lickin' from those thugs." Lawrence seemed still a bit shaken, which was entirely understandable in Mari's mind.
"Who was this passerby? Seems like I owe him a beer at the very least." Lawrence's story had distracted her from her original intention in coming to find him.
"Said his name was John, John Darcy. Seemed like a good lad. Tall, kinda handsome though I'm still partial to womenfolk. Had a fair bit of steel in him, that fellow did. Helped me up, dusted me off, and found my spectacles. Helped me back to the motel too. I asked him why he decided to get involved since the odds were bad and it weren't any of his business really and all he said was 'when that sort of thing is let pass, its only a few steps to anarchy and I don't much like their sort in any event'. I gave him my thanks as you might imagine."
"John Darcy, you say? Well that's interesting. I just interviewed one ex-Imperial Marine Raider Captain of the same name. He suggested maybe I ought to talk to you for a character reference."
"Well, Mari, I owe him that at the very least. You will be hiring him, won't you?" Lawrence's expression was serious.
"I don't know, Lawrence. He seems like a decent sort and he can obviously handle himself. But he's only one man and he thinks he can train the folk of Farrell's Landing to be his soldiers. I'm just not sure that that's what we need or want."
"Well, them four were a fine sample of what you'll get from the normal mercenary lot out this neck of the woods. I can't say whether John Darcy is right or wrong about being able to train our younger folk to do the job, but I can tell you that these other sort are as likely to be a nightmare as a salvation for us." Lawrence resettled the towel, some of the ice having melted.
"I still don't know, Lawrence. There's something about him...." Mari trailed off.
"Hmph. Girl, he's tall, he's handsome, he isn't the sort to take orders from no man... nor woman.... and that's what's bothering you." Lawrence had hauled out his glare of censure and had it set to 11.
Mari was going to reply, but Lawrence knew her too well and he'd just harrumph her and dismiss any objection on her part. Lawrence was the sort of man, having come up on the Ranges, who learned to judge another in short order and more by actions than words. It was pretty clear he'd already made the judgement about John Darcy and Darcy had met the high bar to be considered 'okay folk' by Lawrence.
The darned thing of it was that Lawrence judgement was damnably near 100% accurate when it came to scoping people out.
"Okay, okay. You can stop giving me the 'look'. I'm not going to make my mind up tonight. I'll sleep on it and if I'm settled in my mind tomorrow, I'll go talk to Mister Darcy again." Mari crossed her arms across her chest, her usual way of signalling she'd reached her final position in a discussion.
"Well, I suppose that's a good idea. Always good to sleep on these things. Then you can go hire the man on the morrow." Lawrence had established his position as well.
© Lux Mentis, August 2009. All rights reserved.
09 May 2012
Clothes Don't Make The Man
"Honey, we've got company.... again."
Jian stood up from the couch, brushing the tortilla crumbs from his tattered blue and white Caber Biosystems wife-beater. He thought-clicked the HV unit off, silencing the latest 1960s Latin Guitar Revival performance from New Havana.
"Maybe you can convince them to take it outside this time."
Heather's voice sounded from the kitchenette, her usually soft tones sharpened. That meant she was mad and odds were, with him. This was the third time this month, which was pretty ridiculous, but the neighbourhood had been going downhill since Wild Rose Biotech shut down its main research lab and closed down its production lines in the Caled Metroplex. All sort of nice folks had moved out, following the good jobs, and all sorts of detritus had blown in as a replacement. And some of them just weren't that bright.
Jian surveyed the three 'men' standing inside his balcony door. They had obviously climbed onto his balcony from one above, below or beside and were looking fairly pleased with themselves for this display of skill. Meeting their feral yet largely clueless gazes, he continued the conversation with his beloved.
"I have my doubts, Honey. We've got two idiots and a moron, or perhaps it's two morons and an idiot. Really just shades of grey and sometimes hard to tell apart. They don't look bright enough to be trainable."
"Well, what do they want this time? It's not like we're rich. If they'll go away quietly, they can have a few meal packs."
She seemed to be possessed of a forlorn hope that perhaps offering these shallow-end swimmers in the city's gene pool a ration pack would forestall the truly inevitable.
"SHUT IT, ORGAN-BANKS!" bellowed the largest of the lot, the one in the middle, the one with the facial piercings attached to the large chain leading to bars through his nipples and then descending behind his belt buckle to regions best left uncontemplated. "This MY action. You stop broadstreaming scramble. You dance MY dance!" He spat his way to a finish, probably partly as emphasis and partly because otherwise the facial piercings would have had him drooling anyway.
The other two, the tall, spindly one on the left dressed all in black bleathers and carrying the large butcher's vibroblade and the fat, short one dressed in the latest in worn-out, three-generations-out-of-date military cargo pants and a day-glo orange wife-beater obviously thought the leader's assertive speech was the definitive word on the subject. The fat one shouted "Factoid!" and the spindly one "Verify!".
Jian gave them an askance glance. "Well?"
The leader, fingering the butt of a large-calibre plastigun while hefting a monowire spooler in the other hand, seemed momentarily non-plussed. Apparently he had sought silence and possession of the token to speak without having any concept of what he was going to say. Jian could have said he recovered quickly, but reality would have been sadly abused by that description as the pause was quite lengthy.
"You Gee-Ann. Deleted Fast-Trak and 40 Cred. We same packet. We pack YOUR bits!" More foam flying from the mouth, barely intelligible.
Jian reflected that if the local riff-raff got much dumber, they'd probably need state sponsored life support or they'd forget to eat.
"Honey, these 'gentlemen' appear to be here representing the same urban youth organization the last pair represented. I think they want a word with me or perhaps something more physical."
Jian's tone was mild, but he stepped out of the middle of the rec area into the workout area in front of the balcony, both to close some distance with the intruders and to ensure that if the monowire (or 'slashwire' as they called it on the street) was deployed. the HV unit woudn't take any damage. It was okay for him to get cut up, but Heather would have him neutered if these idiots interrupted her HV viewing schedule.
"I knew it! I knew it was going to be all about you. Why do none of the visitors ever come to see me? It's always you, you, you and the outcome is always broken furniture, severed limbs, broken bones, and a visit from the emergency services."
Heather's tone was sharp. It showed her annoyance at the untoward disturbance. She was a bit mad at him, but the tone had more to do with her being worried about him. Even though he could hear her continuing preparing dinner in the kitchen, he was fairly sure she'd have slid the Skoda 5.8mm from its hidden location in the kitchen and slipped off the safety, ready to back him up if things got unpleasant.
At least, he hoped she wasn't just chopping up the celery for the salad as the sounds seemed to indicate. He liked a good salad, but the monowire was a bit tricky and he could end up julienned if things went badly awry.
"Honey, be reasonable. I can't be held accountable for every imbecilic stim-slammer in the neighbourhood taking a big hit and then deciding that I should be his route to the Hereafter. They do have freedom of choice even if it isn't backed up by much upstairs."
Jian flexed his shoulders and wrists, tested his balance, and started to settle into Primary Awareness.
The leader, annoyed that his threat had been taken so nonchallantly decided it was past the time for civilized discourse, albeit said leader would have had to look up the meaning of both 'civilized' and 'discourse'. He snapped his wrist and the fun started.
The spooler in his hand sung like a high pitched fishing reel and the monowire, weighted at the end by a sharp barbed penetrator, shot out towards Jian. At more or less the same time, the tall one snapped on the vibro-butcher knife with the loud buzz that all vibros generate and began to step towards Jian. The stout, fat one brought his right arm up with a cocked fist bearing a jam-stunner, obviously planning to stun-punch Jian and take him out.
These three were pretty quick and fairly coordinated. Life on the streets was tough and tougher still if you were an idiot or a moron, so to survive these ones had to be fairly quick, fairly hardy, and utterly ruthless.
Unfortunately for them, compared to Jian, these clowns were the rankest of amateurs.
Quick was a word that wouldn't have done Jian justice. Blindingly fast might have started to get close. Bionic and bio-genetic enhancements had notched up his reaction times to the point where greased lightning would probably be a more reasonable description. Jian eyed the oncoming monowire spearpoint as it moved towards him in what appeared to him to be slow motion.
Jian pivoted low and spun clockwise out of the path of the monowire and out of the fall of the wire once the spool hit its stop. He continued the spin, sweeping out his right leg, sweeping the tall, spindly one's feet out from under him by smashing the right shin, leaving the bone protruding from the now useless leg as the spindly assailant tumbled to the ground.
Before the tall, spindly one had even drawn enough breath to scream, Jian went vertical, springing high into the air, pushing off the ceiling with his arms, rotating in a complete sommersault in the air over the monowire now settling to the ground, and slamming both of his heels squarely into the forehead of the stout one with the jam-stunner. The crack of bone could be heard and the body began tumbling to the ground while Jian landed on all fours.
Jian blurred immmediately into a sommersault along the ground, coming up fast into the leader from below. Jian's right hand slashed up in a knife hand smash that broke the leader's extended wrist and sent the monowire spool sailing away to bounce along the ground.
Jian's left hand latched a solid hold on the chromed bar through the leader's left nipple. The leader had time to dimly register his two fallen comrades, the broken wrist, and the grip on the nipple bar and joining chain before Jian moved again. In that frozen moment, the first dim sense of outright terror and the realization that he had badly screwed up started to dawn upon his drug-addled conciousness.
Jian spun rapidly away from the leader in a counterclockwise rotation. The corded and augmented muscles of his left arm ensured an unbreakable grip on the chromed nipple bar and the connector chain the leader wore. The scream as the strong bar and chain pulled metal through flesh, starting with the nipple and moving upward to the facial region and downward below the belt, was like the screech of a soul being rent asunder upon the Ninth Plane of Hell.
As Jian spun to a stop, no more than three seconds from the leader's wire cast, the leader finished collapsing to the ground, screeching incoherently, joining the unconcious or dead stout intruder and the thin intruder holding his smashed shin and letting out an anguished wail.
Jian stepped back, noticing in his peripheral vision that Heather was punching the call button for the emergency services who would shortly then be enroute allegedly. He also registered that she leaned around the kitchen doorframe with the Skoda in her hand, ready to back him up with lethal force.
It wasn't necessary as this fight was over. None of these broken miscreants would give Jian any trouble. Just to be sure, he reached into a vase filled with umbrellas he kept just inside the rec room and produced a Kockler C-4 Flechette Carbine.
The safety immediately disengaged as the weapon authenticated his implants. The C-4 was small, but the flechette burst it produced would shred half the body of a man into bloody cowburger at distances up to 50 yards. Even these cess-pool floaters would recognize the folly of screwing with that, were they not preoccupied by their various injuries.
Heather spoke up, her voice still tart, but with a very slight cracking, betraying her agitation and fear for him.
"You've got blood all over the tatami and likely it's tainted. We'll have to throw it out and get a new one! And the felching slashwire tip is stuck in one of my favourite throw pillows! And look at you! You've got blood and bits all over your clothes just before dinner! You'll need to wash and dinner will be overdone and ruined!"
Jian spoke in a reassuring tone to calm Heather down, partly for her sake and partly because having an agitated woman behind one with a loaded firearm with safety disengaged didn't seem like a low-risk option.
"Heather, you can lower the Skoda now, we're safe."
He hesitated a moment before continuing, noting Heather registering his words and lowering the Skoda.
"You always wonder why I never buy nice clothes and always kick around in second-hand store or freebie promo giveaway t-shirts and UberMart jeans. THIS is what seems to happen to any clothes I own."
"I long ago learned that it doesn't matter how expensive, how rip resistant, how stain impervious they claim the stuff is. It still ends up in the rubbish bin after an exciting episode. And it seems every episode with me is an exciting one."
He finished more quietly.
"Honey, I'm glad you had my back. The Polmedics will get this sorted out. I'll get a fast shower and change. Dinner will be just fine. You did good, very good."
"And I love you."
© May 2009, Lux Mentis, all rights reserved.
06 May 2012
A Fire In The Blood - Prologue
Jon de Castellano entered the small, spartan office quietly. He was expected, of course, or he'd never have gotten this far.
The office was plain and unassuming with little in the way of ostentatious display other than a few hardbound books, either originals from Old Terra or expensive copies made to look, feel and smell as close to the originals as modern science would allow. A small wooden desk, more of a table with a couple of drawers, and a pair of small, unpadded wooden chairs were the only furnishings other than bookcases. The lighting was indirect, except for the desk surface itself which was lit by one table lamp. A small personal computer sat upon the desk and Jon knew that, at need, that computer could control larger full-wall displays that and a holotank that would unveil from behind the simple bookcases if the need arose.
The simple room was spartan because its occupant preferred his spaces uncluttered. If anyone else in the Empire had a public life so cluttered and messy, Jon had never met them. Spartan spaces were some form of karmic counterbalance, Jon supposed. For the most powerful man in an empire spanning over two hundred worlds and a further sixty or so dependencies, protectorates, and territories, Alexander Konstantin Suvorov sought order and discipline from a universe that generally dealt him and the citizens of his Empire nothing of the sort.
Other men would have used the title "Your Imperial Highness" when addressing Alexander Konstantin Suvarov, Grand Emperor, Grand Marshal of the Army, Grand Admiral of the Fleet, Protector of the Church, Guardian of the People, Grand Duke of Novy Moskva, etc, etc. Some people might not survive the discourtesy of failing to use the proper honorifics in addressing Alexander Suvorov. But Jon de Castellano was a member of a very small circle of those who ran only a minimal risk in doing so.
Every Empire had men like Jon de Castellano. They had to. Empires spanning light years and star systems, incorporating multiple planetary systems, diverse political and religious groups, and generally too big to be administered in real-time by even the most heavily computer-augmented, expert-aided polymath required men like Jon.
In Imperial systems, an Emperor needs to have a body of men trusted to do what he would do without the need of him being in every place those sorts of things might need done. These important vassals and their vassals collectively confer upon the Emperor the capability for one powerful, capable man to manage a far-flung and often factious Empire. Those men got to take a fair few liberties with Alexander Suvarov.
The even smaller body of men such as Jon de Castellano got to take even greater liberties. Jon de Castellano was what some would, not without some savoury irony, call a Troubleshooter. The less courteous (or perhaps the more rash) would assert this is because the solution to all problems involved shooting someone.
Of course, what such daring and impudent pundits would never understand was that doing the job well involved considerably more than indiscriminately shooting people. You had to know who needed shot. Who you could shoot. Who you could not shoot at this point in time. And at what particular time shooting was the appropriate evolution to execute. The devil was always in the details and if you got any of these sorts of things wrong, it tended to result in disasters on a large enough scale to merit Imperial Attention.
This was why Jon de Castellano and a few other Imperial Agents were allowed a great latitude by Alexander Suvrov - these men were very well-trained and very skilled at figuring out who to shoot, who not to shoot (yet), and when to have the appropriate people shot (along with a host of other actions designed to generate the outcomes the Empire needed).
These were the men that Alexander Suvarov sent as auditors, investigators, and as inspectors general and sometimes as covert agents to poke their noses into places, find and identify problems, and bring to bear whatever solutions were required to keep the wheels of the Empire turning.
It didn't matter to the bearers of the Imperial Warrant whether they were sent to investigate the most mundane blue-collar worker or the Imperial Governor of a Sector. Once one or more of these Agents got their fingers dirty with a problem, that problem was going to achieve resolution.
The imbeciles of the Imperial Court seemed to have watched one too many holocasts and were of the 'informed' opinion that Imperial Agents only ever resolved problems with bloody dispatch. The reality was that many of their operations were quiet and involved a minimum of bloodshed.
Most of the time, you could get the job done with simple collection and presentation of incriminating data and a few 'suggestions' to key players about how they should best save themselves from the most dire outcomes. Sometimes it was necessary to take very fast action with terminal consequences, but those were usually considered the less successful missions insofar as they were never clean and were always more public than anyone preferred. More public than Alexander Konstantin Suvorov preferred at any rate and that was all that mattered.
Jon contemplated Alexander Konstantin as he sat in his high-backed wooden chair, with his head tipped back and his eyes closed. You might think the Emperor was sleeping, except Jon knew better. He new that his employer was gathering his thoughts and organizing them.
Shortly, his head would come down, his eyes snap open, and the grilling would begin.
"So.... you're back. I take it this means you have completed the investigation I assigned to you?" The Emperor, a man of average height, average feature and gifted with a piercing intelligence that was reflected in his dark eyes, spoke clearly in the otherwise silent room.
"Yes. You tasked me with finding out why your third child, Tabitha, a very junior and newly-minted lieutenant, was sent of to the Charon Rift, despite having scored well by any metric in her time at the Imperial Naval Academy on Novy Moskva. I have the answers you seek, but I am certain they will not be answers you will want to hear." Jon stared levelly back into the dark, hard eyes of the Empire's chief executive.
Alexander's lips creased at the corners, a small forced smile with no warmth in it. "When you bring me a report that I want to hear, I will probably have to fire you as it will not contain any of the truths I need to hear and employ you at great expense to ascertain." The threat of conjectural firing they carried was merely an artifact of how Alexander conveyed himself. Mostly.
"Well, you have been warned. In order to investigate this, I pulled her records from the Academy, spoke with several of her instructors, and spoke with a few of her classmates. Initial data was certainly intriguing. Did you know that the top 8 students, your daughter included, who graduated from the Academy this year were relegated to the Charon Rift?" Jon paused briefly and the Emperor gave a small shake of his head to indicate he had not been aware of this detail.
"This left a number of lower-ranked students getting the positions that are usually considered plum junior lieutenant appointments - battleships, cruisers, and other major fleet elements or postings to DefCom or StratCol. That in itself was interesting. What was even more curious was seeing that the daughter of Admiral Von Bulow, the Academy Commandant, was the 9th ranked student and obtained the most plum of those positions." Jon left a moment for that to sink in.
"Please continue." The Emperor sat quietly, listening with most of his attention. That was really all you could ever expect from a man with that many irons in various fires.
"The Charon Rift, as you know, is a backwater sector of our little slice of the cosmos. Not much to recommend it as far as main trade routes, significant resources, or worthwhile population or technology centers. An aging backwater with broken dreams and a variety of troubles, but nothing generally important enough to reach the attention of anyone even at Rimward Command, let alone at DefCom here in the capital."
"The Charon Rift is usually the sort of place where new graduates in the bottom quartile might be assigned to serve a first term hoping to either give them a bit of a challenge to which they might rise or find out if their potential really is limited to backwater garrison and patrol duties. Hardly the sort of place you'd sent your top eight students under normal circumstances."
The Emperor's right eyebrow arched slightly at this observation.
"With some increased episodes of unrest of late and with a Naval and Diplomatic bureaucracy filled with third-stringers, sycophants, idiots, and borderline incompetents, the Charon Rift is not the sort of place anyone with half a clue would send the seventh in line of succession to the Imperial Throne." Jon's tone had taken on a slightly scathing tone with this section of the report. There was much in the Charon Rift that was deserving of such condemnation.
The Emperor interrupted when Jon paused. "And now that you've nicely recapped the background to the initial mission brief, why don't you cut to the why and who?"
Alexander knew as well as anyone how unimportant and backwater the Charon Rift was. He might not know about the particulars of the people assigned there by the Navy and the civilian bureaucracy of the Empire, but he knew the sort of people who would be sent to such places. The Charon Rift would be a place for exiling the undesirables or the problem cases. The only competent people who would end up there would be those who'd offended someone with political clout and were thus relegated to the fringes of the Empire or those who were unwilling to kiss the appropriate rings, hands, and asses.
All of this, Alexander knew before he sent Jon to 'look into the matter'. What he didn't know and wanted to know was who sent his daughter there and why.
Jon shifted slightly in his chair, sitting a bit straighter at the implied rebuke for recapping the well-known. "I learned quite a few things that weren't in the original brief. For instance, I learned that your daughter Tabitha continues to prove that she is a Suvorov all the way through, despite attending the Academy under the pseudonym Tanya Chesterton."
Jon paused, noting Alexander's eyebrow arching again, and then continued. "She seems to have the Suvorov gifts: Brilliance, acute perception, integrity, fearlessness, the inspiration of intense loyalties from those around her, and the ability to piss-off beyond all reason or common sense those who pride themselves on positions of eminence and power. Suvorov all the way to the bone."
The only reply from the other side of the table was a low, quiet chuckle. "You have discovered why my daughter and I get along so well." A deeper chuckle.
Around the Palace, the fights between Alexander and his daughter were a topic no sane denizen of the Palace would mention, but every last one knew of. Jon had heard unguarded comments from time to time indicating surprise that Tabitha had been permitted to grow to adulthood without being drowned, throttled or shot... or perhaps all three.
Taking a tone of mild reproof, Jon continued his report. "Those who know the yourself and your daughter understand that your similarities cause your calamitous interactions, not your differences. She is the one of your children most close to you in character and disposition."
Alexander nodded again, conceding the point.
"Tabitha is wilfull, has a sharp wit, is possessed of a judgement of people and circumstances that is formidable for her age, and has ideas of the 'right' way for things in the universe to work which are held closely and ferociously. She also holds her friends as tightly as a shipyard tractor field and protects them like an Class One shield generator. If those traits seem unfamiliar, I think you may want to spend the occasional moment looking in a mirror, milord."
Jon took a small sip of water from the glass he had secured upon entering the room.
"I would, but I tend to gawk at and bask in my own magnificence for protracted periods. And God knows what the Senate would get up to if left without adult supervision for that long...." Alexander's reply was dry, but he tacitly acknowledged the truth of Jon's contentions. "And just how did you get such a well-developed appreciation of my daughter's character?"
"In investigating the unprecedented postings, I discovered the orders originated from Admiral Lorgan Cherenkov over at the DefCom's Office of Personel Resources. A little more digging revealed that Cherenkov was an old classmate and cricket teammate of Admiral Von Bulow. A little more judicious pressure and some highly illegal snooping in allegedly secure communications archives at DefCom reveal that Von Bulow asked Chrenenkov to personally see to it that the top eight students were given a 'challenging' assignment in 'the farthest, most distant, and least advanced' sector of our empire." Jon didn't realize it, but his face had already slipped into a disapproving frown unconciously. He never liked cronyism.
Alexander's expression mirrored his own as the Emperor had little time for such behaviour even when it served his ends.
Jon continued, his frown remaining. "So, that explained the who. Cherenkov at the behest of Von Bulow. But what would motivate the Commandant of our Academy to be so vindictive against his eight best students?"
"Yes. It would be good to know 'why' before I decide exactly how hard to drop the hammer the responsible 'who'." The Emperor's eyes were cold and it was clear he was already contemplating varying options for how to deal with the situation.
Jon knew that some part of the Emperor wanted to just order Jon to execute the guilty. However, Alexander Suvorov was not the sort of man to give in to his own whims without first making sure they were aligned with the interests and values of his Empire. And fortunately, vindictive executions were not. Very luckily for Cherenkov and Von Bulow.
"It was a bit of a challenge. I did manage to talk to a few of Tabitha's professors, including one who quitely told me a very interesting story which didn't include Tabitha's pseudonym but had her signature figuratively all over it. He obviously didn't want to make the connection without evidence in hand to back up the claim. When I saw the way the story was unfolding, it fit pretty well with what a younger, more hotheaded version of your Imperial Majesty himself might have done in a similar situation."
This small dig went uncommented, except for getting Jon the arched eyebrow this time accompanied by the stink-eye.
"And then I went to talk to one of the eight relegated to our Imperial backwoods. Number eight, as a mattter of fact. He'd caught a dose of the Guangzhou Influenza and had failed the pre-flight medical on a medical downcheck. He was in holding quarantine and waiting for the all clear to fly out and join his classmates in the bumbling mess we call the Charon Rift."
"The odd thing that struck me immediately upon meeting Lieutenant Junior Grade Yuri Timovich Capilano was that he was actually considerably put out by the delay in getting to somewhere Rimward of East Bumfuck Nowhere. That was not the reaction I would have expected."
"But that wasn't the last surprise I was dealt by Lt. JG Capilano. When I mentioned I was investigating a situation involving Lt. JG Chesterton, he asked who I was, I showed him some Naval Investigative Service ID with the rank of Commander - enough rank that it should have given him a distinct urge to cooperate. Instead, he basically told me to go piss up a thruster jet and get vaporized. He then told me to do my worst, but come supernovas or the heat death of the universe, he wouldn't be contributing to any investigation of Lt. JG Chesterton."
The Emperor once again had an eyebrow cocked, this time in moderate perplexity.
"I had the same reaction. At least, after I fought down my initial reaction to kick this Lieutenant Junior Grade's ass around the room. I patiently explained to the intransigent Lt. JG that my investigation was not of Lt. JG Chesterton but of situations she may have been involved in at the Academy and subsequently and that they were inquiries into possible misconduct of other service members rather than of Lt. JG Chesterton."
Jon's frown had returned when he was thinking about having to explain such things to a newly minted Lt. JG.
"I then concluded by hauling out the Fear of God and the Emperor, Grade A version. I'm good enough at that now that my explanation plus my barely reigned in wrath convinced him to alter his tone a bit and cooperate."
"It turns out one of the reasons he was so defensive of Tabitha is that she was, in his eyes, the reason he'd graduated eighth in his class. In fact, he credited her for being the reason he'd graduated at all and pretty much indicated if he hadn't, he'd probably have come to a bad and presumably self-inflicted end."
"Apparently, your daughter recognized that Yuri Capilano was a good kid who had a very questionable head for the mathematics of ballistics and who had had some exceedingly poor academic preparation having coming from the middle classes of Longshadow. She recognized that he had some good leadership instincts and that he didn't have an ego so big he couldn't accept help. Consequently, she spent a lot of time tutoring him and getting his ballistics, mathematics, physics, conventional and hyper-navigation up to at least a passable level. That, plus his actual talents in leadership, marksmanship, military history, and military law & ethics, got him eighth place in the graduating class of 150.... or at least it did after the incident."
Alexander seemed to have been sucked into this narrative, seeing a side of his daughter he may not have seen before. If he hadn't been, his apparent continuing interest would have instead been brewing impatience for the final, bottom-line result.
"Your daughter inspired a fierce dedication in Lt. JG Capliano. Apparently also in the other six newly-minted officers who graduated at the top of the class with her and who were assigned with her to the Charon Drift. This explains why the eight of them were all sent out there - they represented a body united in principle against a principle and perhaps, indirectly, a principal."
Alexander winced and the stink-eye was back. Jon was professional enough that the corners of his mouth only twitched towards a smile once before resuming their normal neutral expression.
"Once Yuri felt a little bit more talkative, he explained to me how one of Tabitha's conditions had been that she would help him improve his grades if he promised never to cheat on an exam. She apparently concluded it might be tempting for him, given his struggles, but she made it clear her help had that condition. He indicated the other six also assigned to the Drift shared in this policy - they would rather come in the bottom of the class than resort to dishonesty."
"And that, in a sense, is why Tabitha got sent to The Charon Drift."
Alexander's voice was acerbic. "Well, I'm glad that's all cleared up now." Pause. "Are you going to explain that before or after I start playing Smoke on the Water with your still warm intestines?"
Jon made a pretense of thinking, but only a short one. "Before. Definitely before. I've heard you play your guitar. I am fairly certain its use violates several multi-system conventions on crimes against music."
More seriously, Jon continued. "It seems that some of our Academy Cadets were riding on the shoulders of prior generations. Some of the exams were fairly similar from year to year, sometimes with identical questions. A database of past questions was circulating for many of the final exam subjects. Some of the students chose to avail themselves of this added 'tactical advantage'."
"In some cases, the students were supplementing their existing knowledge with extra available questions and answers. In other cases, most notably those of a number of the rich and well-to-do students, having this database meant they could take their study week off to go for a floater-ski weekend in Cuba Libre Archipelago's expensive resorts."
Jon's frown had reappeared. He disliked laziness and selfish self-indulgence with approximately the same level of distaste as he reserved for cronyism. It was convenient for him that the sorts of people who would engage in one of those behaviours would often engage in the others, thus saving him having to keep track of two seperate lists of offenders.
"While your daughter and a number of honest and hard working students busted their butts, a bunch of the lazier students including one Marissa Von Bulow, went off to get a tan and party on the beach."
Alexander said nothing, sipping at some water from a glass. He waited for Jon to continue.
"This is where your daughter's competence and diplomacy come into play. It appears Tabitha could not abide laziness and dishonesty. But she knew that if she reported this to the Commandant of the Academy, it would all get covered up. Commandant Von Bulow wasn't about to let his precious snowflake Marissa crash and burn. So, Tabitha went at the problem from the flank."
"She sent a rather oblique and anonymous letter to the only professor she trusted, one Captain Hugh MacDougal, Imperial Navy - the professor of military law, ethics, and military history at the Academy. She suggested that a database of prior exam questions might be circulating among some unnamed students and that it might be prudent to consider steps to preserve the integrity of the testing regime."
"Captain MacDougal, it seems, was aware of such a rumour but had no evidence. But he did have the control of what questions went on the two exams he was administering the next day. He was pretty canny himself - he left 50% the exam's content as the older questions. Another 10% of the questions he left the same except for changing a few minute particulars, enough to notably change the solutions. These were honeypot questions designed to illuminate the guilty parties. The remaining 40% of the exam was new questions, never before seen."
"Needless to say, when the exams were administered, the results were interesting. I talked to Captain MacDougal. He was circumspect, but he indicated he strongly suspected from the test results which students had seen the bootleg database. The honeypot questions often identified the guilty, although not strongly enough for overt action. Changing a fair portion of the test questions did help to separate those who memorized from those who understood the material, separating those 'comming it in' from those actually studying."
"Captain MacDougal waited until the last minute to submit his marks for coallation, knowing this would give the Commandant no time to interfere, even had he a mind to. This one set of exams meant that Marissa Von Bulow, who should have graduated at the top of the class, was relegated to 9th standing in the year. Similarly, many of her cronies from wealthy and influential backgrounds dropped several places, some as many as twenty places. And nothing could be done about it, thanks to Captain MacDougal's late submission approach."
The Emperor allowed himself a small smile at this part of the story. He was not a fan of those who tried to coast through based on the advantages of birth and by availing themselves of the illicit advantages money could procure.
"On the other hand, those who had suffered thought they knew who to blame. And Admiral Von Bulow was apprently wrathful when he found out about his daughter's position in the graduating class was not what had been expected."
"And so we have the 'who' in Admirals Cherenkov and Von Bulow. We have the 'why' in the form of Von Bulow's precious snowflake Marissa and a bunch of her rich and influential cronies being deservedly raked over the coals for putting in a half-assed effort and Von Bulow convincing Cherenkov to help him get some measure of payback against Tabitha. Your daughter didn't let misconduct stand - she stood against it in her own actions, encouraged those around her to avoid the easy road to damnation, and then fought a short and effective guerilla action against the misconduct."
"And for that, she and the four cadets whom she helped graduate above her and the three she pulled up to ranks immediatly below her, got The Charon Drift."
Done his mission report, Jon sat quietly. Alexander sat quietly, lost momentarily in thought. Jon thought he was weighing his options.
After several moments, Alexander spoke. "There's a political cost to everything. Von Bulow and Cherenkov are connected to the families of every rich or influential Naval Officer for the past five generations. If I go after them, even if it is justified, I'll have pissed-off a bunch of people that can make many other important things more difficult politically."
Alexander Suvorov looked like he had swallowed a very potent lemon.
"Tabitha won her fight. She picked her people and got them through and her enemies came off the worse. Going after Von Bulow and Cherenkov and all the young idiots that thought cheating was just fine in MY Navy would really feel good, but in the long run the cost would be more than the return." Suvorov sighed, looking a bit weary of politics.
Weary like unto one who must constantly fight the urge to have the people he knows deserve to be lined up against a wall not lined up against that wall.
"I want you to go out to the Charon Rift, take a look at the wreckage that I suspect is Sector Command in the Drift. Try to straighten it out - round off some of the sharpest corners, clean out some of the worst festering sores - and make sure that the seventh in direct line to the Imperial Throne isn't stuck on some less-than-airtight parts barge." The Emperor let the last sentence carry some of otherwise well-contained anger.
"I'm sure Cherenkov didn't know who Tabitha really was and I don't want him catching wind, but if she's reassigned within the Sector, he'll get as little information back from Sector Command as I do every time I ask for an Intelligence Appreciation." Alexander frowned again at that thought, perturbed by that situation as well.
"And start building a file on Cherenkov and the Von Bulows, both the younger twit and the older jackass. It might not make sense to move against them now, but I'm not in the mood to forget this and if anything happens to my daughter out there, there will be one almighty reckoning for these bastards."
There was no doubt that a long, careful operation to exact some justice and a goodly dose of vengeance had just been declared by His Imperial Majesty, Alexander Konstantin Suvarov.
Jon de Castellano would see it done because it was his job, his duty, and the most tangible way he could support one of his oldest friends.
On his way out of the small, unassuming office, once again grown very quiet and with lights dimmed, Jon paused.
"Sir, you know she graduated fifth in her class."
"I knew that. I read the results."
"I understand you told her not to be noticed if she wanted to have a career in the Navy under her pseudonym."
"I may have said something to that effect. Your point?"
"If she'd been the top cadet or even in the top 3, she'd be celebrated, feted, and photographed endlessly, offered standing and various awards and plaques. She knew that. She also knew that the 4th student would get some attention as a 'near miss'. 5th, on the other hand, pretty much doesn't exist."
"Are you saying she planned to be fifth?"
"I reviewed her assignments. She actually left segments of her assignments and exams blank. She did not make intentional errors; I don't think she could convince herself to perform beneath her abilities and show dishonestly even to preserve her nom de guerre. Instead, she left blank sections of the work, blaming a slow working pace. The work she did do was almost uniformly correct. If she'd done the remaining part, which I believe she voluntarily left incomplete, she'd have been the top cadet, hands down. I just thought you should know." Jon turned to leave.
As he opened the door, a quiet "Thank you" followed him out on the first steps of his trip to Charon Drift Sector Command.
The office was plain and unassuming with little in the way of ostentatious display other than a few hardbound books, either originals from Old Terra or expensive copies made to look, feel and smell as close to the originals as modern science would allow. A small wooden desk, more of a table with a couple of drawers, and a pair of small, unpadded wooden chairs were the only furnishings other than bookcases. The lighting was indirect, except for the desk surface itself which was lit by one table lamp. A small personal computer sat upon the desk and Jon knew that, at need, that computer could control larger full-wall displays that and a holotank that would unveil from behind the simple bookcases if the need arose.
The simple room was spartan because its occupant preferred his spaces uncluttered. If anyone else in the Empire had a public life so cluttered and messy, Jon had never met them. Spartan spaces were some form of karmic counterbalance, Jon supposed. For the most powerful man in an empire spanning over two hundred worlds and a further sixty or so dependencies, protectorates, and territories, Alexander Konstantin Suvorov sought order and discipline from a universe that generally dealt him and the citizens of his Empire nothing of the sort.
Other men would have used the title "Your Imperial Highness" when addressing Alexander Konstantin Suvarov, Grand Emperor, Grand Marshal of the Army, Grand Admiral of the Fleet, Protector of the Church, Guardian of the People, Grand Duke of Novy Moskva, etc, etc. Some people might not survive the discourtesy of failing to use the proper honorifics in addressing Alexander Suvorov. But Jon de Castellano was a member of a very small circle of those who ran only a minimal risk in doing so.
Every Empire had men like Jon de Castellano. They had to. Empires spanning light years and star systems, incorporating multiple planetary systems, diverse political and religious groups, and generally too big to be administered in real-time by even the most heavily computer-augmented, expert-aided polymath required men like Jon.
In Imperial systems, an Emperor needs to have a body of men trusted to do what he would do without the need of him being in every place those sorts of things might need done. These important vassals and their vassals collectively confer upon the Emperor the capability for one powerful, capable man to manage a far-flung and often factious Empire. Those men got to take a fair few liberties with Alexander Suvarov.
The even smaller body of men such as Jon de Castellano got to take even greater liberties. Jon de Castellano was what some would, not without some savoury irony, call a Troubleshooter. The less courteous (or perhaps the more rash) would assert this is because the solution to all problems involved shooting someone.
Of course, what such daring and impudent pundits would never understand was that doing the job well involved considerably more than indiscriminately shooting people. You had to know who needed shot. Who you could shoot. Who you could not shoot at this point in time. And at what particular time shooting was the appropriate evolution to execute. The devil was always in the details and if you got any of these sorts of things wrong, it tended to result in disasters on a large enough scale to merit Imperial Attention.
This was why Jon de Castellano and a few other Imperial Agents were allowed a great latitude by Alexander Suvrov - these men were very well-trained and very skilled at figuring out who to shoot, who not to shoot (yet), and when to have the appropriate people shot (along with a host of other actions designed to generate the outcomes the Empire needed).
These were the men that Alexander Suvarov sent as auditors, investigators, and as inspectors general and sometimes as covert agents to poke their noses into places, find and identify problems, and bring to bear whatever solutions were required to keep the wheels of the Empire turning.
It didn't matter to the bearers of the Imperial Warrant whether they were sent to investigate the most mundane blue-collar worker or the Imperial Governor of a Sector. Once one or more of these Agents got their fingers dirty with a problem, that problem was going to achieve resolution.
The imbeciles of the Imperial Court seemed to have watched one too many holocasts and were of the 'informed' opinion that Imperial Agents only ever resolved problems with bloody dispatch. The reality was that many of their operations were quiet and involved a minimum of bloodshed.
Most of the time, you could get the job done with simple collection and presentation of incriminating data and a few 'suggestions' to key players about how they should best save themselves from the most dire outcomes. Sometimes it was necessary to take very fast action with terminal consequences, but those were usually considered the less successful missions insofar as they were never clean and were always more public than anyone preferred. More public than Alexander Konstantin Suvorov preferred at any rate and that was all that mattered.
Jon contemplated Alexander Konstantin as he sat in his high-backed wooden chair, with his head tipped back and his eyes closed. You might think the Emperor was sleeping, except Jon knew better. He new that his employer was gathering his thoughts and organizing them.
Shortly, his head would come down, his eyes snap open, and the grilling would begin.
"So.... you're back. I take it this means you have completed the investigation I assigned to you?" The Emperor, a man of average height, average feature and gifted with a piercing intelligence that was reflected in his dark eyes, spoke clearly in the otherwise silent room.
"Yes. You tasked me with finding out why your third child, Tabitha, a very junior and newly-minted lieutenant, was sent of to the Charon Rift, despite having scored well by any metric in her time at the Imperial Naval Academy on Novy Moskva. I have the answers you seek, but I am certain they will not be answers you will want to hear." Jon stared levelly back into the dark, hard eyes of the Empire's chief executive.
Alexander's lips creased at the corners, a small forced smile with no warmth in it. "When you bring me a report that I want to hear, I will probably have to fire you as it will not contain any of the truths I need to hear and employ you at great expense to ascertain." The threat of conjectural firing they carried was merely an artifact of how Alexander conveyed himself. Mostly.
"Well, you have been warned. In order to investigate this, I pulled her records from the Academy, spoke with several of her instructors, and spoke with a few of her classmates. Initial data was certainly intriguing. Did you know that the top 8 students, your daughter included, who graduated from the Academy this year were relegated to the Charon Rift?" Jon paused briefly and the Emperor gave a small shake of his head to indicate he had not been aware of this detail.
"This left a number of lower-ranked students getting the positions that are usually considered plum junior lieutenant appointments - battleships, cruisers, and other major fleet elements or postings to DefCom or StratCol. That in itself was interesting. What was even more curious was seeing that the daughter of Admiral Von Bulow, the Academy Commandant, was the 9th ranked student and obtained the most plum of those positions." Jon left a moment for that to sink in.
"Please continue." The Emperor sat quietly, listening with most of his attention. That was really all you could ever expect from a man with that many irons in various fires.
"The Charon Rift, as you know, is a backwater sector of our little slice of the cosmos. Not much to recommend it as far as main trade routes, significant resources, or worthwhile population or technology centers. An aging backwater with broken dreams and a variety of troubles, but nothing generally important enough to reach the attention of anyone even at Rimward Command, let alone at DefCom here in the capital."
"The Charon Rift is usually the sort of place where new graduates in the bottom quartile might be assigned to serve a first term hoping to either give them a bit of a challenge to which they might rise or find out if their potential really is limited to backwater garrison and patrol duties. Hardly the sort of place you'd sent your top eight students under normal circumstances."
The Emperor's right eyebrow arched slightly at this observation.
"With some increased episodes of unrest of late and with a Naval and Diplomatic bureaucracy filled with third-stringers, sycophants, idiots, and borderline incompetents, the Charon Rift is not the sort of place anyone with half a clue would send the seventh in line of succession to the Imperial Throne." Jon's tone had taken on a slightly scathing tone with this section of the report. There was much in the Charon Rift that was deserving of such condemnation.
The Emperor interrupted when Jon paused. "And now that you've nicely recapped the background to the initial mission brief, why don't you cut to the why and who?"
Alexander knew as well as anyone how unimportant and backwater the Charon Rift was. He might not know about the particulars of the people assigned there by the Navy and the civilian bureaucracy of the Empire, but he knew the sort of people who would be sent to such places. The Charon Rift would be a place for exiling the undesirables or the problem cases. The only competent people who would end up there would be those who'd offended someone with political clout and were thus relegated to the fringes of the Empire or those who were unwilling to kiss the appropriate rings, hands, and asses.
All of this, Alexander knew before he sent Jon to 'look into the matter'. What he didn't know and wanted to know was who sent his daughter there and why.
Jon shifted slightly in his chair, sitting a bit straighter at the implied rebuke for recapping the well-known. "I learned quite a few things that weren't in the original brief. For instance, I learned that your daughter Tabitha continues to prove that she is a Suvorov all the way through, despite attending the Academy under the pseudonym Tanya Chesterton."
Jon paused, noting Alexander's eyebrow arching again, and then continued. "She seems to have the Suvorov gifts: Brilliance, acute perception, integrity, fearlessness, the inspiration of intense loyalties from those around her, and the ability to piss-off beyond all reason or common sense those who pride themselves on positions of eminence and power. Suvorov all the way to the bone."
The only reply from the other side of the table was a low, quiet chuckle. "You have discovered why my daughter and I get along so well." A deeper chuckle.
Around the Palace, the fights between Alexander and his daughter were a topic no sane denizen of the Palace would mention, but every last one knew of. Jon had heard unguarded comments from time to time indicating surprise that Tabitha had been permitted to grow to adulthood without being drowned, throttled or shot... or perhaps all three.
Taking a tone of mild reproof, Jon continued his report. "Those who know the yourself and your daughter understand that your similarities cause your calamitous interactions, not your differences. She is the one of your children most close to you in character and disposition."
Alexander nodded again, conceding the point.
"Tabitha is wilfull, has a sharp wit, is possessed of a judgement of people and circumstances that is formidable for her age, and has ideas of the 'right' way for things in the universe to work which are held closely and ferociously. She also holds her friends as tightly as a shipyard tractor field and protects them like an Class One shield generator. If those traits seem unfamiliar, I think you may want to spend the occasional moment looking in a mirror, milord."
Jon took a small sip of water from the glass he had secured upon entering the room.
"I would, but I tend to gawk at and bask in my own magnificence for protracted periods. And God knows what the Senate would get up to if left without adult supervision for that long...." Alexander's reply was dry, but he tacitly acknowledged the truth of Jon's contentions. "And just how did you get such a well-developed appreciation of my daughter's character?"
"In investigating the unprecedented postings, I discovered the orders originated from Admiral Lorgan Cherenkov over at the DefCom's Office of Personel Resources. A little more digging revealed that Cherenkov was an old classmate and cricket teammate of Admiral Von Bulow. A little more judicious pressure and some highly illegal snooping in allegedly secure communications archives at DefCom reveal that Von Bulow asked Chrenenkov to personally see to it that the top eight students were given a 'challenging' assignment in 'the farthest, most distant, and least advanced' sector of our empire." Jon didn't realize it, but his face had already slipped into a disapproving frown unconciously. He never liked cronyism.
Alexander's expression mirrored his own as the Emperor had little time for such behaviour even when it served his ends.
Jon continued, his frown remaining. "So, that explained the who. Cherenkov at the behest of Von Bulow. But what would motivate the Commandant of our Academy to be so vindictive against his eight best students?"
"Yes. It would be good to know 'why' before I decide exactly how hard to drop the hammer the responsible 'who'." The Emperor's eyes were cold and it was clear he was already contemplating varying options for how to deal with the situation.
Jon knew that some part of the Emperor wanted to just order Jon to execute the guilty. However, Alexander Suvorov was not the sort of man to give in to his own whims without first making sure they were aligned with the interests and values of his Empire. And fortunately, vindictive executions were not. Very luckily for Cherenkov and Von Bulow.
"It was a bit of a challenge. I did manage to talk to a few of Tabitha's professors, including one who quitely told me a very interesting story which didn't include Tabitha's pseudonym but had her signature figuratively all over it. He obviously didn't want to make the connection without evidence in hand to back up the claim. When I saw the way the story was unfolding, it fit pretty well with what a younger, more hotheaded version of your Imperial Majesty himself might have done in a similar situation."
This small dig went uncommented, except for getting Jon the arched eyebrow this time accompanied by the stink-eye.
"And then I went to talk to one of the eight relegated to our Imperial backwoods. Number eight, as a mattter of fact. He'd caught a dose of the Guangzhou Influenza and had failed the pre-flight medical on a medical downcheck. He was in holding quarantine and waiting for the all clear to fly out and join his classmates in the bumbling mess we call the Charon Rift."
"The odd thing that struck me immediately upon meeting Lieutenant Junior Grade Yuri Timovich Capilano was that he was actually considerably put out by the delay in getting to somewhere Rimward of East Bumfuck Nowhere. That was not the reaction I would have expected."
"But that wasn't the last surprise I was dealt by Lt. JG Capilano. When I mentioned I was investigating a situation involving Lt. JG Chesterton, he asked who I was, I showed him some Naval Investigative Service ID with the rank of Commander - enough rank that it should have given him a distinct urge to cooperate. Instead, he basically told me to go piss up a thruster jet and get vaporized. He then told me to do my worst, but come supernovas or the heat death of the universe, he wouldn't be contributing to any investigation of Lt. JG Chesterton."
The Emperor once again had an eyebrow cocked, this time in moderate perplexity.
"I had the same reaction. At least, after I fought down my initial reaction to kick this Lieutenant Junior Grade's ass around the room. I patiently explained to the intransigent Lt. JG that my investigation was not of Lt. JG Chesterton but of situations she may have been involved in at the Academy and subsequently and that they were inquiries into possible misconduct of other service members rather than of Lt. JG Chesterton."
Jon's frown had returned when he was thinking about having to explain such things to a newly minted Lt. JG.
"I then concluded by hauling out the Fear of God and the Emperor, Grade A version. I'm good enough at that now that my explanation plus my barely reigned in wrath convinced him to alter his tone a bit and cooperate."
"It turns out one of the reasons he was so defensive of Tabitha is that she was, in his eyes, the reason he'd graduated eighth in his class. In fact, he credited her for being the reason he'd graduated at all and pretty much indicated if he hadn't, he'd probably have come to a bad and presumably self-inflicted end."
"Apparently, your daughter recognized that Yuri Capilano was a good kid who had a very questionable head for the mathematics of ballistics and who had had some exceedingly poor academic preparation having coming from the middle classes of Longshadow. She recognized that he had some good leadership instincts and that he didn't have an ego so big he couldn't accept help. Consequently, she spent a lot of time tutoring him and getting his ballistics, mathematics, physics, conventional and hyper-navigation up to at least a passable level. That, plus his actual talents in leadership, marksmanship, military history, and military law & ethics, got him eighth place in the graduating class of 150.... or at least it did after the incident."
Alexander seemed to have been sucked into this narrative, seeing a side of his daughter he may not have seen before. If he hadn't been, his apparent continuing interest would have instead been brewing impatience for the final, bottom-line result.
"Your daughter inspired a fierce dedication in Lt. JG Capliano. Apparently also in the other six newly-minted officers who graduated at the top of the class with her and who were assigned with her to the Charon Drift. This explains why the eight of them were all sent out there - they represented a body united in principle against a principle and perhaps, indirectly, a principal."
Alexander winced and the stink-eye was back. Jon was professional enough that the corners of his mouth only twitched towards a smile once before resuming their normal neutral expression.
"Once Yuri felt a little bit more talkative, he explained to me how one of Tabitha's conditions had been that she would help him improve his grades if he promised never to cheat on an exam. She apparently concluded it might be tempting for him, given his struggles, but she made it clear her help had that condition. He indicated the other six also assigned to the Drift shared in this policy - they would rather come in the bottom of the class than resort to dishonesty."
"And that, in a sense, is why Tabitha got sent to The Charon Drift."
Alexander's voice was acerbic. "Well, I'm glad that's all cleared up now." Pause. "Are you going to explain that before or after I start playing Smoke on the Water with your still warm intestines?"
Jon made a pretense of thinking, but only a short one. "Before. Definitely before. I've heard you play your guitar. I am fairly certain its use violates several multi-system conventions on crimes against music."
More seriously, Jon continued. "It seems that some of our Academy Cadets were riding on the shoulders of prior generations. Some of the exams were fairly similar from year to year, sometimes with identical questions. A database of past questions was circulating for many of the final exam subjects. Some of the students chose to avail themselves of this added 'tactical advantage'."
"In some cases, the students were supplementing their existing knowledge with extra available questions and answers. In other cases, most notably those of a number of the rich and well-to-do students, having this database meant they could take their study week off to go for a floater-ski weekend in Cuba Libre Archipelago's expensive resorts."
Jon's frown had reappeared. He disliked laziness and selfish self-indulgence with approximately the same level of distaste as he reserved for cronyism. It was convenient for him that the sorts of people who would engage in one of those behaviours would often engage in the others, thus saving him having to keep track of two seperate lists of offenders.
"While your daughter and a number of honest and hard working students busted their butts, a bunch of the lazier students including one Marissa Von Bulow, went off to get a tan and party on the beach."
Alexander said nothing, sipping at some water from a glass. He waited for Jon to continue.
"This is where your daughter's competence and diplomacy come into play. It appears Tabitha could not abide laziness and dishonesty. But she knew that if she reported this to the Commandant of the Academy, it would all get covered up. Commandant Von Bulow wasn't about to let his precious snowflake Marissa crash and burn. So, Tabitha went at the problem from the flank."
"She sent a rather oblique and anonymous letter to the only professor she trusted, one Captain Hugh MacDougal, Imperial Navy - the professor of military law, ethics, and military history at the Academy. She suggested that a database of prior exam questions might be circulating among some unnamed students and that it might be prudent to consider steps to preserve the integrity of the testing regime."
"Captain MacDougal, it seems, was aware of such a rumour but had no evidence. But he did have the control of what questions went on the two exams he was administering the next day. He was pretty canny himself - he left 50% the exam's content as the older questions. Another 10% of the questions he left the same except for changing a few minute particulars, enough to notably change the solutions. These were honeypot questions designed to illuminate the guilty parties. The remaining 40% of the exam was new questions, never before seen."
"Needless to say, when the exams were administered, the results were interesting. I talked to Captain MacDougal. He was circumspect, but he indicated he strongly suspected from the test results which students had seen the bootleg database. The honeypot questions often identified the guilty, although not strongly enough for overt action. Changing a fair portion of the test questions did help to separate those who memorized from those who understood the material, separating those 'comming it in' from those actually studying."
"Captain MacDougal waited until the last minute to submit his marks for coallation, knowing this would give the Commandant no time to interfere, even had he a mind to. This one set of exams meant that Marissa Von Bulow, who should have graduated at the top of the class, was relegated to 9th standing in the year. Similarly, many of her cronies from wealthy and influential backgrounds dropped several places, some as many as twenty places. And nothing could be done about it, thanks to Captain MacDougal's late submission approach."
The Emperor allowed himself a small smile at this part of the story. He was not a fan of those who tried to coast through based on the advantages of birth and by availing themselves of the illicit advantages money could procure.
"On the other hand, those who had suffered thought they knew who to blame. And Admiral Von Bulow was apprently wrathful when he found out about his daughter's position in the graduating class was not what had been expected."
"And so we have the 'who' in Admirals Cherenkov and Von Bulow. We have the 'why' in the form of Von Bulow's precious snowflake Marissa and a bunch of her rich and influential cronies being deservedly raked over the coals for putting in a half-assed effort and Von Bulow convincing Cherenkov to help him get some measure of payback against Tabitha. Your daughter didn't let misconduct stand - she stood against it in her own actions, encouraged those around her to avoid the easy road to damnation, and then fought a short and effective guerilla action against the misconduct."
"And for that, she and the four cadets whom she helped graduate above her and the three she pulled up to ranks immediatly below her, got The Charon Drift."
Done his mission report, Jon sat quietly. Alexander sat quietly, lost momentarily in thought. Jon thought he was weighing his options.
After several moments, Alexander spoke. "There's a political cost to everything. Von Bulow and Cherenkov are connected to the families of every rich or influential Naval Officer for the past five generations. If I go after them, even if it is justified, I'll have pissed-off a bunch of people that can make many other important things more difficult politically."
Alexander Suvorov looked like he had swallowed a very potent lemon.
"Tabitha won her fight. She picked her people and got them through and her enemies came off the worse. Going after Von Bulow and Cherenkov and all the young idiots that thought cheating was just fine in MY Navy would really feel good, but in the long run the cost would be more than the return." Suvorov sighed, looking a bit weary of politics.
Weary like unto one who must constantly fight the urge to have the people he knows deserve to be lined up against a wall not lined up against that wall.
"I want you to go out to the Charon Rift, take a look at the wreckage that I suspect is Sector Command in the Drift. Try to straighten it out - round off some of the sharpest corners, clean out some of the worst festering sores - and make sure that the seventh in direct line to the Imperial Throne isn't stuck on some less-than-airtight parts barge." The Emperor let the last sentence carry some of otherwise well-contained anger.
"I'm sure Cherenkov didn't know who Tabitha really was and I don't want him catching wind, but if she's reassigned within the Sector, he'll get as little information back from Sector Command as I do every time I ask for an Intelligence Appreciation." Alexander frowned again at that thought, perturbed by that situation as well.
"And start building a file on Cherenkov and the Von Bulows, both the younger twit and the older jackass. It might not make sense to move against them now, but I'm not in the mood to forget this and if anything happens to my daughter out there, there will be one almighty reckoning for these bastards."
There was no doubt that a long, careful operation to exact some justice and a goodly dose of vengeance had just been declared by His Imperial Majesty, Alexander Konstantin Suvarov.
Jon de Castellano would see it done because it was his job, his duty, and the most tangible way he could support one of his oldest friends.
On his way out of the small, unassuming office, once again grown very quiet and with lights dimmed, Jon paused.
"Sir, you know she graduated fifth in her class."
"I knew that. I read the results."
"I understand you told her not to be noticed if she wanted to have a career in the Navy under her pseudonym."
"I may have said something to that effect. Your point?"
"If she'd been the top cadet or even in the top 3, she'd be celebrated, feted, and photographed endlessly, offered standing and various awards and plaques. She knew that. She also knew that the 4th student would get some attention as a 'near miss'. 5th, on the other hand, pretty much doesn't exist."
"Are you saying she planned to be fifth?"
"I reviewed her assignments. She actually left segments of her assignments and exams blank. She did not make intentional errors; I don't think she could convince herself to perform beneath her abilities and show dishonestly even to preserve her nom de guerre. Instead, she left blank sections of the work, blaming a slow working pace. The work she did do was almost uniformly correct. If she'd done the remaining part, which I believe she voluntarily left incomplete, she'd have been the top cadet, hands down. I just thought you should know." Jon turned to leave.
As he opened the door, a quiet "Thank you" followed him out on the first steps of his trip to Charon Drift Sector Command.
© 2009, Lux Mentis, all rights reserved.
05 May 2012
Hunting the Dark: Reeling In
The people who design alert klaxons for starships go out of their way to make them loud, irritating to the ear, and impossible to ignore. Considering the consequences of ignoring one, you can understand this design logic, but they are uniformly disliked by every spacer. They are the audible harbringer of awful tidings, signalling a sudden pressure drop, a fire aboard ship, noxious fumes in the air, poisonous radiation bathing the ship and her crew, a critical power plant overload, or some external threat like a pirate vessel.
This particular alert kalxon was doing its job admirably. In the constrained space, the alarm echoed and the echoes formed a discordant wall of sound almost strong enough to burst an eardrum.
Jurgen Stihl made as much haste as his constrained surroundings permitted, pulling out his shiptab, unlocking it with a swipe of his thumb, and the electronic version of the alert message immediately jumped to the forefront, flashing and demanding his attention.
Another swipe of his thumb and the alert application was kicked into the background and the audible alarm cut off throughout the ship.
Momentarily, almost complete silence ensued. Or at least it seemed that way given the ear trauma Jurgen had just endured. He wasn't sure his hearing would ever return to normal.
A flick of a finger brought up the ship's synthetic sensor display, albeit on the shiptab its data content was significantly reduced and prioritized compared to the main bridge viewer or even the normal foldaway screen at the Captain's workstation. What Jurgen saw on the display explained the converging course alarm. There was a ship gaining fast from astern on a course essentially parallel to that of The Hole Card.
Jurgen's guts rumbled and a cold claw felt like it dug into his stomach. Out here, in the systems Outer zone, there wasn't a good reason he could think of for another ship moving that fast to be coming up behind a solitary merchant ship. It was ill-mannered enough it might provoke a shot across the bow from a nervous merchant Captain.
Jurgen could see, even with the shiptabs' limited screen real-estate, that the ship was closing quickly and would overtake within about 15 minutes. The ship's signature was outlined in yellow and mass and power estimates were similarly yellow, tinging towards orange. It seemed like the passive sensors on The Hole Card were having some trouble pinning down the particulars of the vessel approaching. That could indicate a problem with The Hole Card's sensors or it could be the ship closing had taken additional precautions against identification as well as against detection.
The sort of ship that might have need to do such a thing and which might also be closing on another ship was not the sort that would give a merchant captain a good feeling. Jurgen's gut felt like ice.
He tapped the screen to superimpose the helm popup over the sensor synthesis display. He set the helm for an additional 0.3 Gs, just the sort of thing a startled merchanter ought to do. Of course, when you didn't have firepower to speak of and were not a combatant vessel, running faster was your only option, even if it wouldn't be enough.
The ship behind appeared to accelerate to keep pace, perhaps piling on a few extra tenths of a G to close faster.
Jurgen was breaking a sweat and his insides cramped. Any merchanter caught out in the Outer zone by a raider, of whatever stripe, could expect there would be no prisoners taken. Sometimes they'd take slaves, but most often there would be some new merhcanter bodies floating through the airless void. A salvage without witnesses could not easily be characterized as anything else.
Jurgen knew The Hole Card still had a few tricks up her sleeve. He adjusted his reactor shielding and began quietly feeding power to the capacitor bank that fed the pulse lasers. If he was lucky, the other ship wouldn't detect this trickle of power to the ship's energy ordinance.
Jurgen brought up another combat subsystem overlay, banishing the helm overlay. He fed an even smaller amount of power into the subsystem to start the ordinance combat readiness cycle.
The Hole Card had some external compartmentalized storage on top of the hull and beneath. With a bit of effort, it appeared to all inspections as several long thin spaces with internal subdivisions and with potentially different cargos in each, fully isolated.
At the moment, however, all of the internal subdivisions had been removed. It turned out the front and rear facings could also be dropped automatically from the shiptab. That left the long spaces open to space on both ends, a somewhat convenient circumstance given that each of these long, thin external storage holds now contained a Phoenix 7A antiship missile. The missile would launch out of one end and the exhaust would harmlessly exit the other open end during launch.
Of course, no merchanter would have shipkillers, even dinky ones like the Phoenix. That's what the ship gaining on Jurgen would be counting on. It was also what Jurgen was counting on.
Jurgen felt as if he'd been kicked in the belly and he continued to sweat. His misery was amplified by another sharp internal cramp.
This situation could end badly for him and The Hole Card despite the fact that he'd worked hard to setup just this sort of meeting. Jurgen had known there was a predator in the system's Outer zone and he'd deliberately brought The Hole Card through the Outer zone on the kind of course that was totally in line with normal merchanter operation, yet impossible to miss by any other ship with sensors, especially one sitting in wait for a nice, relatively-defenseless merchantman.
The presumed predator closed. Zero-distance intercept would be in about 7 minutes and distant combat range for his lasers would be reached in about 2 minutes. Jurgen wouldn't be showing his hand that soon though. He wanted the vulture to close in, sure that its fleeing prey had no options but to run ineffectively.
The Hole Card was built to look like a freighter. Cosmetically and externally she did look like one and a lot of the time, she carried on life as if she was one. But if you could see behind the outer hull shell, see behind the carefully orchestrated signs of poor maintenance and neglect, look to her heavy-duty spine and her oversized power runs, see her surprisingly new CentaCore main datasystem, and see the sorts of internal displays as could be brought up at the duty stations or on the shiptabs, you'd begin to realize her pedigree may have been freighter, but her purpose was something far different.
If you could see the adjustable core shielding, the layer of scan blocking material on her hull and the second one under it, the multiple military-grade laser emitters and the multi-target military fire director, the ordinance launch system and the as-yet-not-extended sensor extensor grid, you'd realize she had at least as much in common with a small warship as with a merchant.
And if she ever really decided to run, you'd see another G and a half of thrust. If she ever decided to shoot, you'd find she'd hit much harder and more accurately than any merchanter had any right to and she could take hits better than most as well.
The Hole Card was a hunter. She hunted the vultures that preyed on merchant shipping.
Jurgen Stihl soloed his ship because she could be run by one man, if that man had the skills to cover all of the onboard departments. Jurgen could handle himself at least adequately in all of the required areas of expertise. To be effective, the man had to have the mind of a predator, the strategic wit to pick fights he could win and the tatctical acumen to time the engagements so the fight was on his terms and kicked off on his schedule.
Jurgen relished the work of hunting the hunters. He hated the vultures more than most merchanters and most hated them through and through.
Jurgen's cramp struck again as he watched the shiptab show the predatory ship cross into the outer range band of his pulse lasers. The batteries were showing 70% charge. Another minute would put them up over 90%. He held off initiating the engagement. A good hunter made his first shot count because he wanted to be sure he got to take successive shots.
Very shortly, the vulture would find out that the desperate little merchanter that was now squawking for help from anyone who would be listening (as if that would work....) wasn't really the prey that was expected.
The murderous pirate would find that out about the time the pulse lasers blew one of his thrust nacelles to slag. It would be further confirmed a few tens of seconds later when the Phoenix missiles, having soft-launched and drifted some, went to full thrust for the final homing attack. And then, quite likely, there'd be an expanding debris and gas cloud where the vulture used to be.
The vulture probably was a former merchanter with a lot of extra firepower, but with merchanter bones and power systems, albeit with some auxilliary batteries. That sort of ship wouldn't be able to take the kind of damage The Hole Card could dish out.
The Hole Card would, if everything went to plan, then collect enough evidence to collect the cluster-wide bounty for the vulture currently preying on this system's traffic. The reward paid just as well for the destruction of the enemy vessel as for its capture. Jurgen was more partial to the not-so-alive option.
All of this was the stuff of a gripping holovid, except for one small exception. There's never been a holovid yet made where the dramatic space battle, complete with the good ship triumphantly blowing the bad ship to smithereens, was commanded from a shiptab. Ficitonal commanders always commanded from their command workstation on the bridge.
This being the more burdensome real world, Jurgen was commanding the engagement from his shiptab, from a small enclosed space rather than a spacious bridge.
There just wasn't a market, or so the thinking of holovid producers undoubtedly went, for space battles commanded from the confines of the Bridge Deck Sanitary Unit. Nor was there likely to be a lucrative starring role for a Captain who traded coherent light and multi-stage ordinance with the enemy in between raging bouts of food poisoning caused most likely by some bad beef in the beef madras ratpack he'd consumed some eight hours beforehand.
That sort of stuff just didn't sell to the holovid public apparently. The holovid viewing public had no idea what it was missing.
The cramps hit again, doubling Jurgen over momentarily, and then the capacitor bank blinked a status of 100% and the real battle began. This situation was just a further illustration that it was always challenging to fight a war on two fronts simultaneously.
© Lux Mentis, May 2012. All rights reserved.
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