Back From the Dead (15 page)

“Sort of, technically, yes.”

“Attached to the Plataean military advisory on NewOz?”

“Only temporarily, in a manner of speaking.”

“We have a situation, and you are the only active military or diplomatic representative on board, so the Captain would like to consult with you before doing anything final.”

“I’m not sure if I’m really qualified to–”

“I’m sure he’d value any ideas you might have. And please don’t tell any of the passengers about this.”

“About what?”

“I’d best let the captain explain, sir.”

The spacious command center of the starliner’s bridge has a half dozen seated personnel and a couple more standing. The captain sits in the large central command chair. He’s a large, bearded man who could be imposing if he wanted to, but now looks worried. He rises and shakes Helton’s hand as he approaches. “Mr. Strom, glad you came.”

“What’s going on?”

“A short while ago, one of our sensor techs picked up an odd signal. Our thermals and some other sensors are down, and on the wavelengths we can get it’s very faint. It looks like it might be a ship running silent.”

“Why–”

“It looks to be on an intercept course.”

“I see. What do you want me to do about it?”

“You know about military matters, and the Plataeans are notorious in their fighting effectiveness, so I thought I should consult with you before I did anything.”

“I’m not sure if you have the right person, but … how long to intercept?”

The scanner tech, seated off in corner, pipes up. “About an hour and a half.”

“Can you put a trajectory diagram onscreen for me?”

“Yes, sir. There.” A position diagram with a pair of converging arcs pop up on the main screen.

“How long until we can transition to FTL?”

“About two hours,” says the captain.

“So anything that even delays them should help,” Helton says. “Looks like they are coming in from outside, so if we veer away, we go down that gas giant grav-well, and they have more time to catch us. Relative acceleration?”

“They look to have about twice our legs,” the scanner tech says.

“Working a good plan. Do you have anything specific on board that they might be after?”

The captain looks uncertain, almost embarrassed. “Ahem… uh…”

The purser saves him. “A shipment of Plataean goods in sealed containers, which is why we thought of you. We thought
you
might know about it.”

“Okay, that might complicate things. Any ship-to-ship weapons?”

The captain is aghast. “Oh, no, of course not! Our insurance policy prohibits weapons!”

“Based on my experience, I’d say that a good defense is worth more than a paper policy.”

“But we cannot violate the terms of our insurance contract!”

“Leaving you stuck with asking me for help. Great. Juuuust great.”

Helton looks around the bridge. Everyone seems to be studiously watching screens or going about their work, except for one nervous guy watching him out of the corner of his eye. Helton bites his lip and looks at everyone closely. They all have perfectly fitting uniforms, except Nervous Guy, who tugs at his a bit to adjust it. “Any other cargo of note, or crew changes recently?”

The captain shakes his head dismissively. “All pretty ordinary, and we always have a few newer crew members, it seems.”

“Any new techs or bridge crew?”

The purser points to Nervous Guy. “Just him.”

“Who’s the com tech?” Helton asks. A middle-aged woman off to the side raises her hand. “How tight a beam, and what kind of power can you put on him?”

“Narrowest beam is an arcsecond. We could pump that up to about four kilowatts.”

“That oughta warm their coffee. Good. Can you aim well enough to nail him center beam?”

“Maybe, sir. No problem if we widen to two or three arcseconds.”

“Do that.” Helton turns to the captain. “But no missiles or beam weapons?”

“Nothing but anti-debris micro-lasers.”

“Well, then I guess we’ll have to go with Plan A. Which is a long shot, but it’s the only plan that comes to mind. Get security in here and watch him,” Helton nods at Nervous Guy, “make sure he doesn’t touch anything until I get back. I’d quietly post security anyplace with access to the air system, in pairs that don’t normally work together.” He turns and strides off the bridge.

Back in the dining room, Helton walks directly to Bipasha’s table, the purser following him. Bipasha glares silently at him as he ignores her and politely addresses three of her well-dressed table mates: a man wearing a sash with several medals, a woman with a flashy star-and-cross broach, and another man with a high-peaked cap with an impressive insignia and decorative aiguillette.

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but a situation has come up and I really need your help for just a few minutes. Could you three come with us, please?”

“Is there a problem?” The rich lady asks.

“No, not really, but it’s … complicated. It’ll just take a few minutes of your time.”

The purser lends his authority. “If you could help us out, I’m sure the Captain would be ever so grateful.”

Sash Man needs no further entreaties. “A favor for the captain? Certainly!” The three rise from their seats and join Helton and the purser as they exit.

Helton walks back onto the starliner bridge, now wearing a peaked cap, the dress jacket, aiguillette, and sash, with the flashy broach placed as a medal, looking for all the world like a serious military man. The captain stares at him in surprise.

“Still have a fix on them?” Helton asks the com tech.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. I want you to put the beam on them, start at low power and ramp up fast to full. Then, put me on the beam, so they can see me and only me on their screens.”

“Aye-aye, sir. Ramping up now.” Helton sits down in the captain’s chair, looking at the main screen. “Full power now,” she says. “If they didn’t fry everything, they’ll see you …
now
.”

“This is Space Colonel Strom, of the Plataean 3rd Expeditionary Force, to the unidentified ship. We can see you are on an intercept course. Either change course, NOW, or I’ll have the space marines on board break out the hardware that you are after, load them into the message drone launch tubes, and give you an up close and personal view of what a ten kiloton detonation looks like. It’s not just expensive food down there, as you well know.”

Nothing appears on the screen but the image of blank space. Nervous Guy starts looking REALLY nervous. Helton continues, “Your inside guy here on the bridge gave up your position, and I’m sure he’ll soon be giving us enough details to make sure we don’t have to launch many at you before we score a hit.”

“NO! I didn’t SAY ANYTHING! I never told THEM anything!”

The captain points at the man and speaks firmly for the first time. “Security! Take him!”

Helton faces Nervous Guy, eyes hard. “I’ve dealt with pirates before. The only way you live is to keep talking fast, and NOW.”

“No, I mean YES, I don’t–”

Helton turns to the captain, and uses a harsh voice he was only dimly aware he had. “Either they change course, or we burn ‘em.” He makes a vicious throat-cutting sign to the com tech, and she ends the transmission.

The liner captain is appalled: “You are shipping weapons without TELLING US?”

“I have absolutely no idea what’s in the hold, Captain. But it’s something they wanted, unless they are after the ship and passengers, which they now think they can’t take without a fight.”

“So you really don’t have weapons, and we’re defenseless?”

“I was bluffing, hoping they veer off. If they don’t, at least they don’t have this guy to trigger gas and knock us all out. Tell every crew member on board to get paranoid, and report anything. If the pirates do latch on, we’ll have to fight them with whatever you DO have, but at least we now have an hour warning.”

“Sir,” the scanner tech interrupts, “looks like they are altering course. Yes, definitely pulling gees away.”

Celebration bursts out around the bridge. Two security guards haul Nervous Guy away. The captain becomes much more effusive: “Thank you, THANK you, Mr. Strom! But PLEASE don’t say anything to the passengers. I don’t want them to get scared and panic, or drive up our insurance rates.” Helton looks at the captain blankly, shakes his head, pivots, and walks out.

Helton, dressed normally again, returns to the dining room with the other three passengers from Bipasha’s table. They are chatting animatedly and all seem in good spirits. Sash Guy is especially cheerful. “Not at all, not at all, happy to help out!”

“Thanks again for everything,” says Helton. “I hope the rest of your trip is enjoyable, too!” As he passes Bipasha, he pauses, leans over, and whispers into her ear with mock seriousness. “Don’t worry. I told the pirates I was a Plataean Colonel, and they should leave or I’d nuke ‘em, so they pulled high gees away. We’re all safe now. You can thank me later.”

Helton smiles, stands up, and walks back to his table, whistling happily to himself, hands in his pockets, because the universe is just a dandy place.

Irregular

“This is an unusual list.”

Helton is in a modest office of the Eridani Parts Depot, which is cluttered with various machine parts, electronics, and ship-related oddments. There are two desks but only one is occupied, a young man in plain clothes eyeing the e-reader in his hands. Helton sits opposite.

“It’s just things I need to fix my ship,” Helton says.

“Many of them are flagged as restricted items.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, we have them, but they are only for transfer to military authorized personnel because they’re pulled off decommissioned military ships. I’m going to have to ask about this.”

“Irregular.
Most
irregular,” says the parts officer.

She’s a middle-aged woman in uniform, standing behind the young parts clerk. She sounds even more skeptical than the clerk.

“Yeah, I know, I know, my paperwork needs more fiber.”

She looks at him darkly. “This is not a joking matter, Mr. Strom.”

“Irregular has pretty much defined my life for the last month, so I guess there isn’t any reason to think it’ll stop today.”

“Why do you need these parts?”

“To fix my ship.”

“What kind of ship?”

“Old,” says Helton. “Very old. Very old and
very
not-flying.” She eyes him skeptically, waiting for more specific information. Helton continues, “A pre-blackout surplused military transport that I’m renovating to use for training and eventually hauling cargo.”

The minutes tick silently by as the parts officer looks over the rest of the list thoughtfully. At last, she says, “These parts are quite specific in their uses, but they do not seem to be particularly dangerous. Especially on a ship that old.”

“Then why are they restricted?”

“Because they are salvaged from military ships. I see nothing listed that is a weapons part, or unusually radioactive, or hi-grade computers or com-tech, but your credentials are not the normal military contractor type. Or any other normal type we see here. Why would a diplomatic attaché come here for parts?”

“Well, that’s the list Stenson gave me, and he said–”

“Stenson?” she interrupts, looking at him sharply. “Henery Stenson?”

“Yes. That’s the guy I have working on my ship.”

“I know him. But he’s Plataean military. Why’s he working as a private contractor for you, if you’re a diplomat?”

“Well, I’m not really a diplomat, just acting as a courier for Colonel Lag.”

“Lag? A colonel, now? So you are military?”

“Well, no, I’m a private citizen of … well, nowhere right now, but I–”

“You are not Plataean?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so, but their rules on citizenship are a little fuzzy.”

She pauses a moment, trying to make sense of his strange statements, but apparently lucid demeanor.

“You are not sure of your citizenship? Are you here for parts for your ship, or as a courier for Lag?”

“Correct, sort of. Yes. Both.”

The officer and the clerk look askance at him, like he’s a total loon. Helton leans back and puts on his most ingratiating voice and smile.

“It’s a very long story. Short version: I’m here on Eridani for Lag as a courier, and I’ve already delivered the package. I am also here, in this building, for myself, at the request of Stenson, to get parts for my ship, a ship Lag thinks might be useful.

“Lag fired Stenson, but only sort of. Technically, he’s working with me, but unofficially Colonel Lag calls a lot of the shots. My money, my ship; mostly Lag’s people and orders. I’m carrying Plataean diplomatic ID in order to work for Lag, but my official citizenship is currently uncertain because of a legal issue on my previous home-world.”

“Very,
very
irregular,” says the parts officer, “just like everything else Lag does. Can’t fault his results, though.” She thinks for a moment. “The ID checks out, and these are not universally restricted parts, and the letter of payment checks too. I’m going to let you have the parts, but I’m also going to send to Stenson for a confirmation, and even the Lord can’t help you if you are pulling a fast one using his or Lag’s name.”

“Whew. Thanks. You are much more understanding and patient than another uniformed acquaintance of mine. By the way, since I’m planet-side … can you help me track down something else?”

Monks of St. Possenti

The sun beats down and Helton sweats as he walks up a road in a small, deep, dusty gulch, with sparse brush and bare rock all around, and faintly in the distance, a rhythmic sound of metal striking stone. He rounds a bend and sees a group of six men ahead, working with hand tools, building a gate and part of a stone wall across the wash. The rocks they are lifting into place are large and heavy, as are the hand-made wood and metal pieces for the gate. At this distance they look like a scene from the 10th century.

Four of the men wear nothing but simple brown breeches and heavy sandals. They appear to be in their mid-twenties, lean and well-muscled. All are clean-shaven with short hair. A few tattoos of various sorts are visible, including a couple that look like military unit crests. One man has a prosthetic leg. The other two wear traditional brown monks’ habits. One of them is as young as the first four, but the second is older, perhaps in his fifties. All the men labor silently, some shaping rocks with hammer and chisel, others fitting them and checking the level. They note Helton’s approach with a glance, say nothing, and continue working.