Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Eighteen


Spin One


Murphy heard the hatch to the observer’s gallery of the departure bay open. Without turning, the jaunty footfalls told him who’d entered.

“Didn’t know if you were coming, Kevin.”

“I wasn’t going to, until I realized I could buttonhole you and get the latest word on whether the Trzgarth Family have agreed to play ball.”

“I’m still waiting to hear from them. Good to see you had time for this, though.”

“You wanted all the command staff for the send-off, I was told. Otherwise, I’d be lounging by the pool we don’t have,” Bowden lied cheerfully. He craned his neck to check the rest of the gallery. “Is Tapper here?”

“No. He’s on Pakir Station, conspiring with Korelon to ensure our survival.”

“You mean, making sure the RockHounds keep to their tech-sharing agreements?”

“And autofabbing quotas.” Murphy sighed. “Probably best that he’s not here, though.”

“Why’s that?”

Bo Moorefield’s voice provided the answer from behind them. “Harry’s family is down there. Stella, and his son—and maybe another, by now?” He joined the two at the observation gallery’s railing, glanced down at the duffel bag he’d almost stepped on, saw the name tag, looked up at Murphy. “Going somewhere, sir?”

Murphy nodded at the wedge-shaped craft sitting in the center of the bay, techs pulling hoses and diagnostic leads from various ports behind the cockpit blister. “I’m hitching a ride with Cutter.” He looked down the rail.

The captain tipped an imaginary hat at the brass lined up to his left. “Sirs.”

One of the techs trotted over toward him. “Captain?”

“Yes?”

The SpinDog offered the briefest of nods. “We must get a baseline on your flight suit’s biomonitors. It will take but a moment of your time.”

Cutter nodded, ambled toward the ramp down to the flight deck. “They just won’t salute, or say, ‘sir,’ will they?”

“Not if they can inhumanly help it,” Bowden quipped.

Murphy chuckled. “Inhumanly help it. I hadn’t heard that one yet.”

“Saved it special for you, Colonel.”

Bo glanced from one to the other, smiling. “Are you two always like this?”

“Always,” Murphy grinned.

“From first coffee to nightcap,” Bowden almost crooned.

Bo put up his hands. “Okay, this is too much like a stand-up routine.”

“Yeah,” Mara Lee chimed in as she entered where Bo had. “Give it up for tonight’s opening act: ‘Admiral and Commander.’”

Bowden rolled his eyes. Murphy effected a world-weary sigh . . . but, how had he become “Commander”? If Makarov had let slip that Korelon referred to him as ektadori’u . . . 

“You haven’t heard that yet, sirs?” Lee asked with a wicked smile. “I understand you are particularly fond of your part of that marquee,” she gushed at Bowden.

“Oh, I am. No pressure from it. None at all.”

Lee glanced at Murphy. “I guess ‘Colonel’ was too plain vanilla, sir. On the other hand, ‘Sko’Belm’? That was a mouthful.”

“Sounds like a detergent. Or a ski-outfitter,” Murphy groused, playing along—and hopefully burying any thread that might connect the title “Commander” to its RockHound equivalent.

“I hate to talk business, Boss,” Bowden said with a grin that suggested he relished doing so, “but how did Anseker react to all the last-second subsystem replacements? Did you get charbroiled, or just spend a quick minute on the grill?”

“Sorry to disappoint, but neither. He anticipated it.”

Bowden stared, glad and disappointed all at once.

“It seems the SpinDogs are quite familiar with how often—and suddenly—changes may be needed for autofabbing templates. And in a project as ambitious as yours, they’ve been surprised there haven’t been more. Specifically, they’d briefed their weapon engineers to be ready for you to jump back and forth a few times. The only downside is that they expected it to occur earlier in the process. So of course they are all snarling about last-minute revisions—because after all, they have to complain about something.”

Moorefield crossed his arms. “Yeah, particularly where Terrans are involved. Because we’re so very special.”

“Speaking of us special Terrans, Bo, I wonder if you could help me get a little more insight into whinaalanis.”

“Sure, sir. What is it you’d like to know?”

“Well, to start, why we’re the only ones they’ll allow to saddle and ride them.”

Bo shook his head. “Wish I knew that myself, sir. For every fact I put in my campaign summary, there were a dozen speculations: all perfectly reasonable, all completely without supporting evidence.”

Murphy nodded. “I’m proposing approaching the topic a little differently. We’ve been asking targeted, mission-specific questions.”

“That’s all we had time for, sir.”

Murphy nodded again. “Yes, but now we could ask broader questions.”

Bo frowned. “To what end, sir?”

“To understand them more completely, which might be the key to understanding why they’re so fond of us.”

Moorefield rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d hardly know where to start, sir. Particularly since the closest whinnie is two orbital tracks away from here.”

“Which could be a blessing in disguise. You’re an old hand with horses, Bo. Is the best way to understand them by studying data in a lab, or working with them?”

Bo laughed. “I see your point.” He put his hands on his hips, reflecting. “But damn, I was so close to them for so long, I’m not sure I can stand back far enough to come up with any questions. They just seemed eager, and naturally suited, to become our . . . well, our friends.”

Murphy smiled. “Okay, so I’ll start you off: were they fond of any particular foods?”

Bo smiled back. “You mean, the way horses like apples and carrots? I see where you’re going. I’ll have to think about that.”

Murphy nodded. “Please do—as well as any other basic questions that strike you. Is there any treat they liked as much as horses like sugar cubes? Did the riders working up in the Greens see them going after different foods up there? What kind of plants did they avoid? Did they keep space between them as they slept, or were they all huddled up? Did they prefer to spend the night on high ground or low ground?”

Bo was staring at the deck. “I get where you’re going with this, sir. Not sure that it will help figure out why they treat us differently, but it couldn’t hurt. I’ll look into it, get together with some of the others who rode them—which was almost half of the Lost Soldiers who served under me down on R’Bak.” He looked up as Cutter returned, wearing a SpinDog flight suit. “Looking ready for action there, Tyree.”

“As ever, sir.”

Bo put out his hand. “Good luck, Captain. Wish I was going.”

Cutter glanced at Murphy, who nodded. “Well, a little silver birdy tells me you’re next.”

Bo looked sideways at Murphy. “Whenever that is.”

Murphy shrugged. “Not entirely up to us; the Kulsians get a say. But Tyree’s right—you are next. Once Kevin has finished destroying the Harvester fleet, we’ll have to take Downport.”

Bo smiled, pleased, shook Cutter’s hand one more time and backed away. “Guess I’d better start thinking about how best to take R’Bak Island, then.”

As he exited, Mara crossed her arms. “Well, I know Bo’s going to need air support. And probably vertical envelopment. And sustainment.”

Murphy grinned. “Which means that you should start thinking about coordinating air assets for the attack.”

“Getting a look at the OPORD would be a good start, sir.”

“Major, right now, I don’t even have a fragmentary CONOPS to scribble on the back of a cocktail napkin. But in the meantime, make a wish list—and a worry list.”

Lee was frowning. “Gonna be hairy. Won’t be much time for pilots and crews to get back up to speed.” She glanced at Murphy.

Murphy shrugged. “I agree, which is why you won’t have to wait for the OPORD, Major; you’re going to help Bo scratch it together.”

Mara nodded, turned, and reached out toward Cutter. “You take good care. No heroics.”

“Never crossed my mind, ma’am.”

“From what I’ve heard, that’s all that crosses your mind. Just make sure they’re the kind you can tell us about later.” She nodded and followed Bo.

Murphy pulled a folded envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Cutter. “This is a letter from Vat to a villager in Ikaan-tel. Tanavuna is to deliver it personally. Her eyes only.”

The infantryman nodded slowly, pushed open his flight suit, and slipped the envelope into the breast pocket of his uniform blouse. “I read you loud and clear, sir.”

“And before you zip up that shiny onesie you’re wearing, here’s something for you.” Murphy produced an ancient pack of cigarettes from inside his own, more basic flight suit. “The smoke with the dented filter has a waterproof lining on the inside of the paper. It contains the intel you’ll need to contact and coordinate with the emergency shuttle and team we left behind on R’Bak, should that become necessary. There are no instructions, just a value and a data string. The value is your unique seed to be used with the data string, which you’ll recognize as the equation you established for the visual comms system’s progressive change in squelch frequencies. If you lose that cigarette, it’s wildly unlikely that anyone could make sense of the information.”

Cutter nodded even more slowly than before, put the pack in the same pocket as the envelope. He smiled. “Can I zip up now, Colonel?”

“You had damn well better!” declared a voice as the hatch to the crew ready room opened. The speaker—a woman with the tight haircut of a RockHound but an improbably stocky build for someone raised in micro-gee—nodded at the craft sitting in the bay. “Unless, of course, you want to stay here to breathe vac. I’m Hadraysa—‘Captain,’ to you—and we’re on a tight schedule.” She glanced at Murphy. “Korelon sends his regards.”

There it is; the first of the code phrases the RockHounds sent. “I missed Korelon the last time he was on Spin One.”

“That’s because he was avoiding you!” Hadraysa completed the required exchange with a convincingly brusque laugh. “Get your gear aboard. Jabrael will help you secure it.”

Jabrael, a silent Hound-Dog of uncertain origins, nodded and waited.

Bowden put out his hand to Cutter. “Try to come back in one piece, Captain.”

“Always uppermost on my mind, sir.”

Murphy nodded back toward the hatch of the observation gallery: two dockhands were waiting. “Better get out while there’s still oxygen in this barn.”

“No convincing needed!” Bowden replied, already halfway through the hatch. “I’ll update you in a few days, Colonel.”

Actually, a few more than that. Which Bowden would learn when a message popped up on his system in an hour, directing him toward a letter explaining Murphy’s absence, albeit without detailing it in full.

With all his command staff gone, Murphy fell in alongside Cutter as he walked to the surprisingly compact delta-shaped craft with its nose aimed at the bay doors. “Tyree, do you get seasick?”

“Only in the boat heading toward Omaha Beach, sir.”

“Then you’ll be fine. I think.”

“Fine for what?” Cutter said sharply.

“The final stage of your landing. The ride down should be easy; the lifting body and ablative shielding is designed for a smoother descent. The final drogue chute detects your attitude to ensure you almost glide down to the water. But for safety’s sake, it will put you down anywhere between two to five klicks offshore.”

Cutter had heard it all before and was obviously wondering why he was hearing it yet again. “Yes, and . . . ?”

“Satellites show a storm rolling in near your landing footprint. Current predictions say it will miss you, but the water might be . . . well, more choppy than we anticipated.”

“Can’t we delay the drop?”

Murphy shook his head. “Remember how hard it was to find a window to get in behind the rock the Hound-Dogs boosted, which would also put you at the optimal insertion point? Well, it would take almost three weeks to put together all those elements again.”

“Great,” Cutter muttered as Jabrael pointed how to best enter the spacecraft.

Murphy heard the anxiety that had crept into the captain’s voice. “There’s no chance the pod will sink, it’s got its own guidance to motor you to shore, and you’ll have a rudimentary periscope to stay oriented. But it could get rough. So, even if you feel the pod graze the bottom and you’re eager to get out, don’t pop the hatch until you’re firmly grounded. A green light will come on when the sensor is satisfied the pod is immobilized.”

“Sounds foolproof, sir,” Cutter drawled sardonically. “Care to come along for the ride?”

“I am, Captain.”

Cutter stopped, one long leg inside the ship. “Seriously, sir? All the way to R’Bak?”

“Well,” Murphy drawled, “not dirtside. But until you’re dropped, yes.” He smiled. “This way, before I head to Spin Two, we have plenty of time to review the details of your mission.”

“Roger that, sir,” Cutter sighed. He sounded as if he was scheduled for a root canal.

Murphy followed him into the ship, the techs sealing the hatch behind them.


RockHound packet Darkseek, R’Bak orbit


There was a slight bump when Cutter’s pod detached from Hadraysa’s small ship. “And he’s away,” she declared.

Other than the pilot’s very low, streamlined canopy, there was no way to see outside. So Murphy could only imagine the tapering, flattened pod beginning to glow as it descended, nose-up, toward the black nighttime expanse of R’Bak’s Great Eastern Ocean.

“How long to . . . well, wherever we’re going?” Murphy called up into the cockpit. It was too small to think of as a “bridge.”

“You’ll know that when we arrive,” Hadraysa called back with a sly smile. “And we won’t be moving toward it for a while yet: we have to follow with the debris that skipped off the atmosphere until we’re safe away from the inhabited parts of the planet and have its mass between us and Downport. Then a few puffs of our attitude thrusters will nudge us into the shadow of one of the midget moons. Once there, we can burn hard.”

Murphy settled back, glad he’d brought reading material.

It promised to be a long journey.


Surveyor packet Kunsheft, V’dyr orbit


Le’Bal Trenks, Senior Wa’hrep of the surveyor commerce packet Kunsheft, opened the narrow hatch of his vessel’s small bridge. More like a cockpit, he thought, squeezing around the back of his XO’s seat. His second officer, Saldazn, was typical of most G’Talls: an overachiever and far more capable than his rank suggested. That was the fate of those who had a parent from the ungroomed bloodlines of the southern continent. And Trenks was happy to be the beneficiary of Saldazn’s abilities: those with his own pure parentage were typically reluctant subordinates.

“Status?” Trenks demanded as he lowered himself into the slightly more spacious pilot’s seat. “And why is the damned blister cover still closed?”

Saldazn nodded sharply “Regulations, sir. Rad spike is still too high. Regarding status, I am completing calculations to alter orbit to bring us to our planetfall point, Lord.”

“Lord”: just hearing that made Trenks feel a bit more alert, a bit more alive. A G’Tall like Saldazn wasn’t strictly required to affix that honorific, but the navigator/sensor operator had learned quickly enough that whatever made his captain feel happy made his own life that much more pleasant. “Any projection on the rad levels?”

“They are fading, Lord. I suspect we shall be able to withdraw the blister shields within the hour.”

Within the hour? So sixty more minutes of staring at the dull gray covers? Trenks managed not to sigh. Not that looking at V’dyr was much better. It had a fair share of gray in its cloud-cluttered atmosphere: only two orbits out from Shex, the hot world’s scant water was overwhelmingly captive to a ceaseless cycle of vaporization and torrential downpours. “And have you found any traces of the lost ships?”

“None, Lord. The wreckage of both the lighter and the corvette appears to have deorbited. While I have detected some pieces, that is all they were. Just pieces.”

“Do you find it odd that there is nothing remaining of the corvette?” Trenks asked. “Because I do.”

“I will admit that it is strange. Even if they were crippled, both craft deorbited very quickly,” Saldazn replied. “Of course, if they were docked, then it is quite plausible that both were destroyed by the same occurrence. A catastrophic engine failure, an impact by uncharted debris spawned by this Searing: either incident might not only reduce them to junk, but push the remains toward V’dyr.”

Trenks nodded reluctantly. “Which would also explain why they had no time to send a radio message, alerting the worker crews on the planet. But still, those on V’dyr might have seen the debris burning as it fell.”

Saldazn shrugged. “Yes, but with the workers restricted to the temperate—well, survivable—poles, the wreckage might have fallen at middle latitude they could not see. And even if its descent was within their field of vision, they might have dismissed it as more of the new meteorites from this Searing or missed it entirely if it was daytime.”

He swept his eyes over the sensor feeds again, as if some new contact might appear in one of them. “But I do agree, Lord; it is still strange that there are no traces at all. Given its size, there should have been something left of the corvette, at least.”

When Trenks remained silent, Saldazn asked, “What are you thinking, Lord?”

“I’m thinking this may be proof that there are others in the system who wish us ill.”

“Do you think it is these ‘Others’ that are rumored to have come to R’Bak? Maybe they are now operating around this planet, as well?”

“No, I do not think that there are ghosts or old wives’ tales in orbit around V’dyr,” Trenks said. “I do, however, think it is possible a group of reavers has gone rogue and may be hiding out nearby. Perhaps they are trying to cut their own deals with the locals.”

“With respect, Lord, we have not seen any sign of that on R’Bak.”

“That does not mean it has not happened out here, though.” Trenks shrugged. “If they were able to get a corvette full of the local drugs back to Kulsis, they could sell them for a fortune on the black market. That might be enough to finance . . . many things.”

“I see,” Saldazn said. “What do you intend to do?”

Trenks scoffed. “With this undersized cargo vessel? I will tell you what I do not intend to do. I am not going to go looking for trouble. We would be no match for even a poorly armed and led corvette. They would reduce us to dust before we even got close.” Trenks shook his head. “No, this is a problem for the Harvester fleet to solve when it gets here.”

“So we are going to leave?”

“We are going to continue with our mission,” Trenks said with a smile. “However, that doesn’t mean we can’t make it easier for the fleet when they arrive. Prepare four of our snoop platforms. We will leave two of them in orbit here and send two back toward R’Bak.”

“The cost of that . . . ” Saldazn muttered.

“The cost of not doing it might be worse,” Trenks interrupted. “I do not want the missing corvette to reappear suddenly and catch us unaware when we are loaded. And if the platforms generate some intel on the pirates, we may stand to be reimbursed for their use, as well.” He shrugged again. “As long as they help us leave without being attacked, they are worth the expense.”

“It will be done as you say.” Saldazn was turning toward the satellite deployment controls when the automated long-range optics scanner pinged.

“What is it?”

“A flash, Lord. Very distant.”

“Where?”

“R’Bak, apparently descending from near orbit.”

“More junk from the new Searing?”

Saldazn pursed his lips. “It was too brief and too distant to be certain, Lord. If so, it was somewhat atypical.”

“In what way?”

Saldazn pointed at his sensor board, even though Trenks could not read it from where he sat. “The flash was not only bright, but the object causing it continued to glow. Meteorites typically burn up very quickly, if they are as small as this light output suggests.”

Trenks waved a dismissive hand at Saldazn’s sensors. “I have seen that before. Fragments of a nickel-iron asteroid may burn up that way, particularly if there is an unusually high concentration of metal at its core. It lasts a bit longer and may be a bit brighter when it comes apart. Unusual, but not an anomaly.

“Now lay in that course to the polar insertion point. I want to be loaded and heading back to R’Bak in two days. The sooner we get away from what might be a pirate’s hunting grounds, the easier I will sleep.”


Back | Next
Framed