Shooting the Rift - eARC (24 page)

“Chance would be a fine thing,” I said ruefully, trying to keep the conversation light, and receiving a plasma torch glare in return.

“Then you’d better get over there and practice,” Clio said shortly.

“Sound advice.” Remington glanced up from a private conversation with Sowerby. “Practice makes perfect.”

“You wish,” Sowerby said, elbowing him in the ribs almost as hard as Rolf had nudged me.

“Just haven’t had enough practice yet,” Remington said cheerfully.

Feeling the gaze of my shipmates on my back, I jogged around the cavern’s perimeter, following my usual route. Mokole saw me coming, of course, and we both pretended not to have noticed one another until I was almost at the pressure hatch.

“Hello, stranger,” she greeted me, as though it had been far longer than a mere three days since we’d last spoken. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, you know.” I shrugged. “The fun around here just never begins.”

“And there I was thinking you enjoyed our little chats.” The teasing tone I’d come to appreciate was in her voice, but overlaid with a faintly wistful quality, as if she thought I really might be resenting her presence.

“I do, very much.” I hastened to reassure her, which was clearly the reaction she’d been hoping for, judging by the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll miss them when I move on.”

“Me too.” She sighed faintly. “But it’s the life. Makes it hard to put down roots.”

“Tell me about it,” I said, cautiously extending a tendril towards her visor’s comms port. I’d given up trying to break into the link between the visor and her gun, having belatedly realized it would be a prime target for battlefield countermeasures, and therefore hardened far beyond anything I’d be able to crack with a bit of home made sneakware and a talent for digital mischief. At least in the time I had available. “Only in port long enough to drop off one cargo and pick up another.”

“At least I get to stay put for a whole tour,” Mokole said, but her voice barely registered. My ‘sphere was suddenly overlaid with a series of graphics; a targeting reticle in which my face was centered, a free-floating dot wavering around the vicinity of my feet, apart from occasional forays in the direction of the fountain (which after a moment’s thought I realized represented the point of aim of the gun slung casually at her side), and some numbers, which I assumed were confirming the weapon’s state of readiness. Nothing to indicate an outgoing communication link, though.

“There is that,” I said, forcing myself to follow the verbal conversation as if I had nothing else at all on my mind. “If you don’t mind being away from your family for so long. I hardly saw my mother while I was growing up.” I hesitated for a moment, before honesty impelled me to add, “Which suited us both fine, as it happens.”

“Your mom’s in the military?” She sounded surprised, and I nodded without thinking, still rummaging through the visor’s rudimentary ‘ware in search of a communications protocol. Easiest just to snag everything I could, and analyze it at my leisure, I decided. “The Commonwealth military?”

“Navy,” I said. “Bit of a family tradition.”

“Really?” Mokole was looking at me with an odd expression on her face, as though I’d just produced a coin from her ear without warning. “Then why aren’t you in uniform?”

“Wrong chromosome,” I said shortly, then relented a little. “Actually, I tried. Screwed it up big time.”

“How big?” She was looking at me with frank curiosity now, and the trooper with her seemed hardly less interested: maybe he was waiting for me to hand over the Commonwealth Navy’s battle plans, or, given most people’s perception of Guilders, at least open the bidding on them.

“Disowned by my family big,” I said. I’d never verbalized it before, and was faintly surprised by the way the words seemed slightly too large for my larynx. “Unwelcome back in the Commonwealth big.”

“That sounds pretty big, all right.” Mokole nodded slowly, her tone sympathetic. “But these things blow over. They can’t stay mad at you forever.”

“That might be true,” I said, “but my mother will still give it her best shot.”

“Hmph,” Mokole said. “The worst thing mine ever did was call me Jasmine.”

“Jasmine?” I seized on the change of subject gratefully, and, my virtual booty secure, cut the link to her visor. The faintly disorientating image of myself apparently standing three feet in front of my own eyeline, superimposed on the woman I was talking to, disappeared, and I found I was able to concentrate more fully on the conversation again. When I did, I immediately regretted my indiscretion. If the Leaguers were looking for spies, which I knew full well they were, I’d just made myself look like the prime candidate. And I wasn’t naive enough to believe for a moment that Mokole wouldn’t report it, however much she enjoyed our little chats. “I like it. It suits you.”

“I’d rather you stuck to Jas. The full version’s a bit too floral for the military.”

I smiled, as casually as I could, hoping it didn’t look too forced and sickly. “I’ve always preferred Si to Simon, as it happens.”

“Then it’s a deal. Si.” She stuck out her hand.

“Deal it is. Jas.” I shook it, in the time honored fashion of Guilders throughout the Human Sphere, thinking just how insane this was. I’d just put myself in imminent danger of exposure, and suddenly we were on first name terms.

“I’ll say this for you, you’re certainly full of surprises.” Jas grinned at me. “Any idea what your mom’s up to now?”

I kept my face as blank as I could, wishing I’d kept my nose out of the data packet Tinkie and I had found in the node back home. If the League ever discovered she’d gone to Sodallagain, despite it being off limits to both sides while the diplomats played their interminable games of syntactical chess, they’d send a warship of their own to confront her. At the very least the results would be hugely embarrassing to the Commonwealth, at worst it could tip the whole situation over into outright war, and in either case it was more than likely that my mother would be killed in the first exchange of fire.

“Like I said, we don’t talk,” I replied, truthfully enough.

“That’s a shame.” Jas looked me square in the eye, with what seemed to be real sympathy. “Mine’s always been there for me. Dad too.”

“Then you’re lucky,” I said. All of a sudden I wanted nothing more than to be somewhere, anywhere, else. I began jogging on the spot. “Guess I’d better get moving again. Before I stiffen up.”

“And we'd both really hate that, right?” She waited for a reaction, but the flirtatious innuendo didn't get the laugh it normally would have done. Her eyes narrowed, as if she could see what was going on inside my head, but that was impossible, even with neuroware, let alone the relatively crude technology of the visor. “Be seeing you.”

“That you will,” I said, trying to sound carefree, but probably not succeeding nearly as well as I’d hoped.

It took a good deal longer than usual to run my doubts and fears away, and achieve something akin to a clear head.

Once again, it seemed, I’d put myself squarely in the crosshairs, by letting my mouth get away from my brain. Of course I could still brazen it out, deny any connection with the Commonwealth military, but the fact remained that now I’d been stupid enough to bring it up, the DIR would hardly take any time at all to confirm that I was indeed the son of a warship captain in the Royal Navy. Of course, on the bright side, their agents on Avalon (and there were bound to be a few) would also report back on the scandal I’d unleashed, the disgrace I’d brought on my family, and the fact that (to polite society, at any rate) I’d disappeared into the galaxy, hopefully never to be seen again. Which, now I came to think about it, was exactly the kind of elaborate cover story secret agents in the virts seemed to construct all the time.

I needed to talk it over with someone, I decided, and to my vague surprise the name which immediately sprang to mind was Clio’s. I suppose Remington would have been a more logical choice, since he was the one who’d taken me on as an apprentice in the first place, but confiding in him could get very complicated, very fast. Though I only intended to discuss the fact that I’d let some of my family background slip, rather than reveal the whole story, he’d worked for Aunt Jenny before, and was far from stupid; he could easily have deduced something of her less public role, and come to his own conclusions about why I was aboard. If that was true, the last thing I needed was to confirm any suspicions he might have in that regard.

No, Clio it would have to be.

As I came to that conclusion my spirits rose, and I redirected my aimless orbiting of the compound towards our living quarters. Only to slow down again, as I approached them. Something wasn’t right. Instead of being scattered more or less randomly around the communal area as usual, everyone was loosely clustered together in the half adjoining the kitchen counter.

“What’s going on?” I asked, as I made my way inside.

Sowerby looked up, and grinned at me. “Clio’s got a visitor. He just dropped by to . . .” her fingers crooked into air quotes “. . . see how we were settling in. But the only one he’s spoken to for more than thirty seconds is her.” She smiled indulgently, but from where I was standing all I could see was Lena’s back, which this close to her was eclipsing half the room.

I shuffled around the transgene deckhand, and got a glimpse of a familiar profile. Clio was leaning forward in her seat, apparently fascinated, while someone told what I assumed was intended to be an amusing anecdote, judging by her reaction—which seemed to consist of an astonishing amount of wide-eyed giggling, so utterly different to her usual behavior I had to look twice to confirm that it was indeed the same woman. Rennau seemed as nonplussed as I felt, radiating a slightly theatrical hostility in the direction of her companion; and when I saw who it was, I could hardly blame him. League Navy uniform, exaggerated moustache: Ensign Neville had indeed come to call.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

In which I recall a childhood pet,

and a kiss seems less than pleasant.

“I really don’t see why you like him so much,” I admitted, a couple of hours later, after Neville had disappeared back to his ship—which was apparently going to be in dock for another week or so, for resupply and a bit of downtime for her crew. Which apparently meant, in turn, that we could look forward to the pleasure of his company several more times in the interim. Or Clio could, anyway: Sowerby was right, he hadn’t seemed all that interested in anybody else. He’d conversed briefly with Remington, because protocol demanded it, deflecting questions about how long we were going to be stuck here with unshakable, and apparently genuine, ignorance, but the rest of the time he’d spent strolling in the garden with Clio, who seemed to bypass about twenty percent of her neurons every time she so much as glanced in his direction.

“No, I don’t suppose you do.” She tilted her head, indicating Jas and her companion, who seemed to be killing time until they were relieved by gazing idly around the cavern, keeping an unobtrusive eye on the movements of every internee who was out in the open. As we glanced in their direction, Jas nodded an almost imperceptible greeting. “Small clue. Why do you spend so much time hanging around Soldier Girl like a puppy hoping for a biscuit?”

“Well . . .” I hedged, trying to find an acceptable answer. I had a pretty strong suspicion that “I’ve been trying to sneak a link to one of the base nodes through her eyeware” wouldn’t be one, and was certain to result in a very uncomfortable conversation with Remington, not to mention an even more unpleasant time with Rennau shortly thereafter, if she didn’t keep it to herself. “We seem to have hit it off . . .”

“How nice for you.” Clio’s voice positively dripped with sarcasm. “Then why do you find it so hard to believe that I’ve hit it off with Ronnie Neville?”

“His name’s Ronnie?” I asked involuntarily. “I had a hamster called Ronnie once.” Which was true, when I was about seven, but not particularly relevant. “He died.” I wasn’t sure why I’d added that, either, as hamsters weren’t exactly renowned for their longevity, and Clio could hardly have thought he might still be around somewhere. We’d buried him in the broccoli bed of the kitchen garden, and Mother had rebuked me for sniveling.

“Did you?” Clio looked taken aback for a moment, then rallied, returning to the subject at hand with renewed vigor. “If you can make friends with one of the knuckle-draggers here, I don’t see why I can’t. At least Ronnie’s an officer, which proves he’s got some intelligence. What’s it even got to do with you, anyway?” She concluded her peroration with a short, expectant pause.

“Nothing,” I said, with the faintest of shrugs, hoping to mollify her, and failing completely. It hardly seemed a propitious moment to raise the subject I wanted to discuss with her, but I felt I was running out of time. Jas would be going off duty soon, and I was certain that as soon as she did, she’d report what she’d learned about me to her commanding officer: she was too good a soldier not to realize what it might mean to have a family member of one of the enemy forces in custody. (All right, technically the Commonwealth was a rival rather than an enemy at this point, but tensions between the two powers were at the highest they’d been in a generation: since the Commonwealth had first annexed Rockhall, in fact.) The DIR would want to wring me dry of anything I might possibly have picked up from my mother and sister, and the longer they tried, the more likely it was that they’d find some indication of my covert commission from my aunt. Not to mention the big secret I carried, that the
Queen Kylie’s Revenge
had been deployed in a neutral system while the negotiations were still going on, in clear contravention of the agreed conditions.

Of course I was still a Guilder, which should offer me some protection, but I couldn’t entirely rely on that. I was a very junior member indeed, and if the Commerce Guild had a single overriding principle, other than “grab what you can,” it was expediency.

“Exactly,” Clio said flatly. “Do I ask you what you see in Soldier Girl?” Which she pretty much had, a few moments before, but it hardly seemed tactful to point that out under the circumstances.

“Actually, it was Jas I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. “I told her—”

“Jas?” Clio snorted derisively. “What sort of a name’s that?”

“It’s short for Jasmine,” I said, “but that’s not—”

“Kind of suits her, though,” Clio conceded, with another glance at the pair of League troopers guarding the pressure hatch. “A bit androgynous. Masculine, even.”

“Is it?” I hadn’t really thought about it like that. To me, names were just a handy way of knowing who you were talking about to someone else: when I thought about Jas it wasn’t the sound of her name which came to mind, it was the way she smiled, and the tone of her voice, which had always struck me as decidedly feminine. True, she was a warrior, but so were my mother and my sister, so that didn’t exactly label her unfeminine in my eyes; though I was prepared to concede that, since the League had an unshakable ideological commitment to gender equality, the men and women serving together in their military might merge their characteristics into some kind of androgynous soldier archetype. Possibly quite literally, in a few cases, given their penchant for transgenic mucking about.

“Definitely,” Clio said. She might have said more, but if she did I failed to hear it, as that was the moment I noticed some unfamiliar activity in my datasphere. While we were talking I’d meshed briefly with Jas’s visor again, partly just to see if I still could at this distance, and partly out of a paranoid conviction that her eyeware might be able to magnify an image, and have some datanomes built into it to help her lip read at this sort of distance: after all, being able to tell what an enemy was saying could be very useful if you were trying to sneak up on them. She had been looking in our direction, but not very much more than at anyone else, and I’d been relieved to note that if she did have any image intensifying ‘ware available, it wasn’t being used to spy on Clio and I. “So what’s the problem? Lovers’ tiff?”

“I told her about my mother,” I said, my mind, once again, only half on the conversation. It seemed as though Jas’s visor was equipped with a comms package after all, and she’d started to receive a message through it. I rifled frantically through the datanomes I’d scavenged, trying to find something that matched the protocols.

“You did what?” Clio stared at me in astonishment: so much so that she seemed to have forgotten she was mad at me. “Why would you do something as stupid as that?”

“I don’t know,” I said, sounding a bit lame even to myself. “It just sort of came up while I was talking to her.” I could hardly admit I was distracted by having successfully merged with Jas’s eyeware for the first time.

Then I finally found a set of datanomes which meshed with the incoming communication she was receiving, and the datastream resolved at last. It was a simple voice message, nothing more, clipped, and so riddled with jargon and acronyms it might as well have been in Ancient English for all the sense it made to me. I could have kicked the fountain with frustration, but all I’d gain by that was a throbbing foot, and Clio would probably notice, so I restrained the impulse.

“I’ll just bet it did,” Clio said grimly.

“We were just talking about our families,” I explained, still trying to make sense of the strange voice in my dataflow. But before I could extract any kind of meaning from it, the transmission abruptly ceased.

“Roger that,” Jas said in response, her voice crisp and efficient. “We’ll be waiting.”

I infiltrated a tendril into the outgoing message, and felt it being carried deep into the heart of the base. There was a node nearby, a big one, I could feel the crackle of concentrated data pulsing like the heart of a distant sun, but before I could reach out towards it, she cut the link. I snapped back into myself, feeling momentarily disorientated, as I had done when the roadblocks descended in the examination hall back at the Naval Academy on Avalon.

“So you just happened to mention to a League squaddie that your mom’s the captain of a Commonwealth warship, and your sister commands a platoon of Marines? God in heaven, Simon, what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking anything,” I admitted, glancing across to the gate in what I hoped was a casual manner. Something was going on, I’d overheard enough to be sure of that, and if it was going to happen before Jas went off duty, it was going to be soon. But nothing looked any different from the way it had before. Jas and the other trooper were still mooching about like school teachers in the lunch break, keeping a desultory eye on us all, and their counterparts by the other hatchway seemed no more engaged than they were.

Clio snorted. “No change there, then.”

“And I never mentioned Tinkie,” I added, acutely conscious that I sounded as though I was clutching at straws. Which was fair enough, as essentially I was. “Do you think I should tell John?”

“Absolutely not,” Clio said emphatically. “It might not come to anything,” although she didn’t sound as though she thought that was any more likely than I did, “and if it does, everyone’ll just assume they found out about your family through regular background checks.”

“You’re probably right,” I agreed, with a faint sense of relief. I’d been beginning to make a new life for myself aboard the
Stacked Deck
, and if it wasn’t too late, I wanted to carry on doing so when we left here. There was certainly nothing to be gained by undermining whatever good opinion Remington may have had of me by jumping the gun on confessing.

“What’s going on over there?” Clio asked, abruptly, and I seized on the sudden change of subject with alacrity. Jas and the trooper with her were turning to face the pressure hatch, and bringing their weapons up; not on aim, but with the air of people who knew what to do with them, and liked to have them ready just in case they needed to prove it. Clearly, whatever the message I’d overheard the end of had been about, it was starting to happen.

“Only one way to find out,” I said, and began strolling casually in that direction, my sneakware poised to exploit any further communication through Jas’s visor. To my faint, and welcome, surprise, Clio fell in at my elbow, no doubt as curious as I was about what was going on. And we weren’t the only ones. By the time we got to the hatchway, over a dozen people had drifted over there to see what was happening. Remington was among them, and greeted us cheerfully.

“Any idea what this is all about?” he asked, addressing me as we approached.

“No.” I shook my head, wondering if he’d deduced anything about my attempts to access a node. He probably hadn’t really expected me not to try, despite his and Rennau’s orders to the contrary; but to anyone else in the cavern with neuroware there simply wasn’t a node within reach, and that was that, so he’d have no real reason to suspect that I’d persevered. “Why would I?”

“I thought you might have a little inside information,” Remington said, glancing in Jas’s direction with a meaningful nod, and a faint smile.

“Step back, please,” Jas said, in a tone of voice which made it perfectly clear that this wasn’t a request. To my relief, everyone complied, with a shuffling of feet and some exaggerated slouching which made it very clear that they were treating it as one anyway, and acceding to it purely because they felt like it, not because they recognized the authority of her uniform or were intimidated in any way by the weapon she carried. Once she seemed satisfied that we’d all moved far enough away not to be underfoot, she turned to the other trooper and nodded. “OK. Send them through.” The last in a quick transmission, which, like the previous one, was too brief for me to tap into the distant node, although it certainly confirmed that it was there.

“On their way,” the voice at the other end responded, and the thick metal hatch began to crank open. I craned my neck to see what was behind it, but, somewhat anticlimactically, saw nothing more exciting than a long, dimly lit corridor, pretty much identical to the ones I’d seen on the way here, with a sled parked at the other end. There were people walking down it, about halfway along, and the first thing to catch my eye was a glimpse of Naval Infantry uniforms. I’d just made up my mind that it was nothing more exciting than Fledge and his people swinging by for a snap inspection and an early guard change, when Clio nudged me, apparently forgetting she was supposed to be mad.

“Isn’t that the Freebooters?” she asked.

I nodded. “I think you’re right,” I agreed, becoming more certain by the second. “Some of them, anyway.” There were three civilians in the middle of the group, none of them looking particularly happy, and one of whom I definitely recognized: the green woman Remington and I had met on our way to our meeting with Ellie at Farland Freight Forwarding. I tried to recall if either of her companions, a burly man with short graying hair and no visible tweaks, or a younger fellow, whose eyes glowed green in the reduced light of the corridor and had the vertical slit pupils of a cat, had been with her when Clio and I first caught sight of her entering the bar in Dullingham, but I couldn’t remember. Maybe I’d ask Clio later, if it seemed important.

“Where have they been all this time?” Clio asked. We’d seen the System Defense Boat which had crippled the
Poison 4
moving in to pick up the survivors shortly before Neville and his team had boarded us, so they couldn’t have been in transit for as long as we’d been here: the Guild representative had made the round trip from Freedom two or three times in the interim. The only possible explanation was that they’d been held somewhere else on the base; where and why I’d have to try to find out.

“The hospital, probably,” Remington said. “At least to start with.” Which made sense—hardly anyone came out of a rift bounce feeling entirely chipper, and serious injuries were common. “After that . . .” He trailed off, and shrugged. “I don’t imagine our hosts were quite as concerned about their welfare as they have been with us.”