Boneshaker Page 6

  The message containing the revised orders was sent to a messaging service on the planet Ver, which was a dead drop box for when the team was out of contact. Per standard operating procedure, Brown would check in on that box periodically if he couldn't talk to Taurus Station directly. Webb just hoped he bothered to check it like he was supposed to.

  7

  "Your slip-com array is badly damaged as well."

  "How damaged?" Jacob asked skeptically.

  "The array is missing," the shop boss said, pointing to where a large section of outer hull platting had come free at some point. Sully had told him they'd lost a few non-critical pieces of cladding during entry, but it looked like the pilot had been overly optimistic about what non-critical had meant.

  "That section of missing hull is where your slip-com field emitter array would normally sit," the squat, gruff alien technician went on. "Legally, I can't let this ship leave the hangar until you have a working superluminal com system."

  "Add it to the list, damnit," Jacob sighed. "And replace the outer shielding that would normally protect it."

  "On a ship this old, it'll have to be fabricated, and that will—"

  "Cost more. Yes, I'm picking up on the theme here," Jacob snapped. "Just do it."

  The tech shrugged, unflappable in the face of the human's growing irritation. He just passed over a beat-up tablet for Jacob to sign off on the repairs and add a payment method. He flipped through the four different accounts provided to him by NAVSOC for operational expenses and chose one to apply all the repairs to. Altogether, it would cost the UEN nearly two-hundred thousand credits to get the ship back from the crews at Pinnacle, but at least it would be spaceworthy and marginally more reliable when it was done. At least, that's what they were telling themselves since it seemed unlikely it could ever become less reliable.

  "If you insist on flying such an abused and antiquated ship, you should be ready to accept the high cost of maintenance, my friend," the tech said, suddenly boisterous now that money had exchanged hands. All of the crews that worked the lower hangar decks on Pinnacle Station were private contractors that leased the hangars from the station and worked in a sort of loose cooperative, pooling resources where it made sense and cutting each other's throats on everything else.

  "Yeah…thanks for the advice, friend," Jacob said, turning back to his crew.

  "How long?" Sully asked. The pilot had annoyingly insisted Jacob handle the negotiations with the hangar crew.

  "Four days," Jacob said. "Give or take. They'll get it done faster if we pay more, of course."

  "It's Fleet's money." Mettler shrugged. "Spend it."

  "You're not the one who has to settle the tab with NAVSOC once we get back," Jacob said. "We'll get the repairs done, and we won't draw undue attention to ourselves by flashing around more money than our entire ship is even worth."

  "Fair point, although, technically, I'm the one who will be explaining our expenditures," Sully said. "Either way, you're making the right choice keeping our profile low."

  "Thanks," Jacob said. "I want MG to come with me, the rest of you go to the upper decks and find someplace for us to lay low for a few days. Make sure nothing is left on the ship that can identify us."

  "Where are we going?" MG asked as the group split up.

  "The computer said there was a public com suite two decks down," Jacob said. "I need to check in with the boss, and you're going to stand there and look tough so I don't need to keep turning around to check my six."

  "I can do that."

  The pair easily found the com suites, where upon Jacob paid for the use of a Class II slip-com node while MG stood outside the privacy screen, glaring at anyone who walked by. Jacob pulled out his com unit and interfaced it directly with the data jack on the node's terminal. Once it came up and said it was ready, he enabled encryption via his own unit, and then punched in the twelve-character address he knew by rote.

  "Code in."

  "Obsidian Actual, bravo sierra six one eight kilo kilo," Jacob said to the bored sounding voice on the other end of the connection.

  "Copy that, Lieutenant Brown. Standing by for your report."

  "Contact was deceased when we reached the domicile. Subsequent investigation discovered that ex-NIS Agent Elton Hollick had been there before us to question the contact, and then killed him. I have no reason to believe that Hollick found anything actionable based on the footage I saw, but it's clear he is after the same thing we are," Jacob said.

  "Current status?"

  "Still on-mission," Jacob said. "Currently at Pinnacle Station effecting repairs, and then we'll be moving on to the next lead. Once I have access to a secure slip-com node again, I will transmit the full mission report."

  "Understood."

  The connection went dead without any sort of warning. Jacob shut down the terminal and executed a script on his com unit that would wipe the machine's memory of the address he contacted and the transmission logs of the event. It was a pain in the ass having to use a public system, but it had the added benefit of brevity since he had to call into Taurus Station's main operations center instead of directly to 3rd Scout Corps' command center.

  "That was quick," MG said.

  "Doesn't take long to say we've spent a lot of time accomplishing nothing," Jacob said. "Let's head up to…" He trailed off as they passed an external porthole just as two massive cargo haulers came about to line up with the upper level docking complex.

  "Head up to what?" MG asked.

  "Do you remember how many ships they said were involved in the attack on Miressa?"

  "Dozens," MG said. "I don't think we ever got an exact number. Why?"

  "Recognize the symbol on the aft drive pods on those ships?" Jacob asked. "It's the company logo of Hontuun Movement. They're the largest supplier of fleet logistics for the quadrants civil maritime industry. Any starliner or bulk freighter is kept flying with their fuel and parts."

  "Holy shit, LT, what is the point?" MG wasn't what one would call an intellectually curious man. He liked what he liked, so if he wasn't shooting at someone, blowing up their stuff, or trying to steal their women away, he tended to lose interest fairly quickly.

  "The point, my musclebound simpleton, is that the logistics involved in operating a sizable fleet—like the one that attacked Miressa—can't be easily hidden from the ConFed when they control all banking transactions," Jacob said. "That fleet is being hidden by a sponsor government."

  "I feel like the best thing for us to do at this point is to stop talking about it until you can sit down with Murph and Sully to have a dork-fest about spare parts shipping and fuel," MG yawned. "Since you'll obviously want us out of your hair while you discuss this, it would be a good command decision to give me, Mettler, and Taylor some coin so we can hit up one of the local bars. You know…to collect valuable intel."

  "I appreciate the fact you still lie right to my face about what you're doing," Jacob said. "I take it as a sign of respect."

  "As it was intended."

  "Hiding the ships themselves are no real issue," Jacob said, now in the middle of trying to convince Murph he was on to something. Sully had decided not to stick around and was, instead, going down to make sure the crews had started on the ship like they said they would. The rest of the enlisted men had been true to MG's word and had split to find a bar after a stern warning from Jacob to stay out of trouble and to be unmemorable.

  "In low-power modes, they can sit for decades without needing fuel or risk being detected."

  "But what's the point of scraping together a battle fleet if you're going to execute one hit-and-run strike and stash the ships somewhere?" Murph said. "Beyond that, you're defeating your own point. You're saying the support systems will give away the fleet, but then you say they can hide almost indefinitely without it."

  "The ships, yes. But not the crews. This is where the analysts are wrong, I believe," Jacob said. "The NIS brief theorized that the fleet is either scattered and hidden, or i
ntact and hidden, but definitely in ConFed space, and definitely cut off from their normal supply chains. I don't think that's true."

  "You think they found a government to secretly sponsor them," Murph deadpanned, repeating Jacob's original point. "Any of the smaller powers left in the quadrant would have to be suicidal to hide this fleet. If the ConFed found them—when the ConFed finds them—whoever was aiding them will have the hammer dropped. I still think they're funneling supplies through Mok's organization."

  "An obvious but flawed answer," Jacob said. "Blazing Sun isn't in the business of war. The only reason I'm not dead right now is because I was able to tell Mok that one of his Points was about to make a move on him. That tells you how fragile positions of power are in that organization. I think if Mok were to recklessly risk profits and resources on an ill-fated rebellion attempt, his own people would eliminate him."

  "That…makes sense," Murph said grudgingly. As someone who was still technically an NIS agent, he seemed to be committed to taking their analysts' assessments at face value, becoming defensive when Jacob pointed out some of the logical flaws. "So, where do you think they are?"

  "No idea," Jacob admitted. "I'm not an investigator or an agent. I'm a glorified ship spotter, if we're being honest. Logically, I would say that it's whoever has the most to gain from a destabilized or weakened ConFed."

  "Which would be the Saabror Protectorate."

  "Ah! But the ConFed will be well aware of that, too. The Protectorate and the Cridal Cooperative will be the first places they send their intelligence service to look."

  "The Cooperative?" Murph frowned.

  "Despite Seeladas Dalton's protests, it was an entire Cridal strike group that participated in the attack," Jacob said. "Doesn't look good, and I doubt they're just going to take our dear Premier at her word."

  "Shit," Murph muttered, looking over all the notes and material on the table Jacob had been using. "I need to pass this on to my handlers at the NIS." Jacob was unable to control his facial expression at that offhand comment.

  "What's your problem?" Murph asked.

  "You're still reporting back to the NIS?"

  "Of course. Did you think I wasn't?"

  "Given that you're not on any mission other than remaining a functional part of Obsidian for the time being, I wasn't aware you were still passing on NAVSOC intelligence to another agency," Jacob said.

  "I'm just following standard procedure, Lieutenant," Murph said. "Is this going to be an issue? We still have to work together, but I need to be able to do my job."

  "I suppose it's not like I have a choice here short of physically restraining you," Jacob said.

  "How about a compromise? I still need to report in, but I'll let you be there and see exactly what I'm telling them," Murph said. "That keeps me within regs on my side, and it lets you know I'm not here spying on Obsidian and trying to undermine our team."

  "Deal."

  "Have you thought about how we're going to get onto the next lead?" Murph asked as the pair walked out of the mid-level suite they'd rented.

  "I actually thought about what you said about reaching out to Mok."

  "And you'll do it?" Murph sounded surprised.

  "Hell no…I’m not insane," Jacob said. "But I think we have a way to exploit a gap in Mok's security and get ourselves a Blazing Sun smuggling gig."

  "How is this any better than my idea?" Murph asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You realize our standing mandate for Scout Fleet missions is pretty explicit about engaging in illegal activity, right?"

  "I read it," Jacob said defensively. "I'm not a lawyer, but I definitely saw some gray areas in those sections. Trust me, Murph…you'll love this."

  "I already don't."

  8

  Pinnacle Station was, by human standards, unbelievably ancient. It had been expanded and added onto over the course of centuries as each new caretaker configured it to suit their purpose. Nobody was really certain what it had been when its first humble form had been constructed and researchers routinely visited the station to explore the original sections, now buried deep within new construction, to try and ascertain what its purpose had once been and who built it. Since it sat in space, trailing behind an anchoring planet in a heliocentric orbit around its star, it never eroded away or became buried like terrestrial structures did. Save for a few impacts from docking mishaps and a rare meteor strike, the station's older sections looked much like they did when first built.

  Since nearly every being in the quadrant evolved on planets with around 1-to-1.75g of gravity, they all tended to think logically that expansion should mean building up. The older parts of the mammoth station were the lower levels relative to the artificial gravity generators. These spaces held heavy manufacturing, the main powerplant, and slum residences for those who couldn't afford to live on the upper decks. Like most slums, the lower decks of Pinnacle Station had become a viable host for a robust criminal underground.

  The criminals of Pinnacle Station had organized themselves differently than in most places, however, and it was important to know which was which. First, there were the people who operated entirely within the station's ecosphere. They preyed upon the full-time residents, the transient ship crews, and the starliner passengers hanging around waiting to catch a connecting flight. They followed a strict code to keep their activities below the threshold that would cause management to send down security teams to start busting heads. They were, for the most part, harmless. You might lose a few credits or a piece of luggage, but they wouldn't try to kidnap or kill you.

  The second group was much more dangerous. They were the criminals who were on Pinnacle as representatives of much larger operations such as Blazing Sun. Their forte was operating complicated smuggling rings out of the station, as well as kidnapping targets of opportunity, providing narcotics for the local crews to sell, and even stealing from ships carrying valuable cargo when they were docked for fuel or repairs. In some extreme cases, they'd been known to steal entire ships themselves when the reward seemed to justify the risk. It was this group Jacob actively sought out as he, Murph and MG descended down into the bowels of Pinnacle Station's lower levels.

  "Yeah…still not in love with this plan, LT," Murph said.

  "We need an excuse to be in the Saabror Protectorate," Jacob said quietly. "They've locked down their borders, and we're flying a ship with ConFed transponder codes. We have a little bit of built-in criminal cred with the ship we swiped, so let's just see if we can find a job smuggling something across the border."

  "Putting aside that you just blindsided us with this theory that we'll find what we need in the Protectorate, you've not put my concerns to rest about what happens if we agree to smuggle something illegal," Murph said.

  "Of course, it'll be illegal, dipshit," MG laughed. "Otherwise, they'd just ship it normally."

  "You can smuggle legal things, dumbass," Murph shot back. "You ever heard of trying to dodge tariffs and taxes?"

  "No. Why would I?"

  "I'll handle any potential legal pitfalls we may run into," Jacob said. "Let's just focus on what we came here to do."

  "Maybe we'll get lucky and it'll be another load of cash and buzzballs," MG said.

  "You're still a member of the United Earth Marine Corps, Corporal," Jacob said as they walked into the lift car. "Whatever narcotics we come across are off-limits."

  "It's for our cover, LT! What if someone puts a gun to my head and makes me fire one back to prove I'm who I say I am?"

  "What the fuck is wrong with him?" Jacob asked Murph.

  "Corporal Marcos technically scored at least in the ninetieth percentile on the aptitude and skills test battery to even qualify for Scout Corps duty," Murph said, staring at MG. "But I’m having a hard time believing that wasn't a fluke."

  "Whatever. Boy Scouts." MG yawned.

  The lift doors opened, and they were hit with a blast of hot, steamy air that reeked of alien bodies and chemicals. They were down in the engine
ering levels, and the type of powerplant used in Pinnacle Station—a series of fourteen water-cooled fusion reactors—spit out a lot of steam from the coolant line pressure relief valves. The reactors were nearly two hundred years old and not nearly as powerful as the antimatter reactors used in most starships, but they were simple, reliable machines that didn't explode when something went wrong. There was also the fact that they'd buried the powerplant deep within the station with new construction that would have to be cut away to replace them. When they finally needed to be retired, the station's controlling company would likely have a new system added on to the outside and seal off the old ones, entombing the reactors for the rest of Pinnacle's life.

  "What do you want?" The trio turned to look at one of the locals standing in an alcove. The belligerent posture and hands balled into fists made it clear he had no intention of letting them go unchallenged.

  "We're looking for someone," Jacob said.

  "Who?" the filthy alien demanded, moving to block their path.

  "Not you. Now, move," Jacob said, walking towards his tormenter in a way that made it clear he had no intention of altering his course. The alien at first tried to stretch up to its full height and bluster, but rethought its approach when MG flashed a nasty looking flechette pistol he carried under his jacket.

  "Perhaps we've both acted hastily in this first meeting," the alien said, now slouching down to make itself seem shorter than Jacob. "There is no need for hostility, and perhaps I can even be of service. Allow me to rephrase my question…whom do you seek and perhaps I can help?" Jacob looked at Murph, who just rolled his eyes and shook his head.