Установить Steam
войти
|
язык
简体中文 (упрощенный китайский)
繁體中文 (традиционный китайский)
日本語 (японский)
한국어 (корейский)
ไทย (тайский)
Български (болгарский)
Čeština (чешский)
Dansk (датский)
Deutsch (немецкий)
English (английский)
Español - España (испанский)
Español - Latinoamérica (латиноам. испанский)
Ελληνικά (греческий)
Français (французский)
Italiano (итальянский)
Bahasa Indonesia (индонезийский)
Magyar (венгерский)
Nederlands (нидерландский)
Norsk (норвежский)
Polski (польский)
Português (португальский)
Português-Brasil (бразильский португальский)
Română (румынский)
Suomi (финский)
Svenska (шведский)
Türkçe (турецкий)
Tiếng Việt (вьетнамский)
Українська (украинский)
Сообщить о проблеме с переводом
Правила обсуждений
Пожаловаться
She didn't feel like crying. Was that a sign of strength or coldness?
The punching bag shook as she threw out a series of jabs. God, she hadn't done any boxing since her colony days - what the hell was she even doing right now? She should be looking over readouts, or reviewing old intel on this sector, or, God help them all, rereading some of those stupid books about leadership from her academy coursework. Anything that might help even a little bit, now that...
She gave the bag the hardest roundhouse she could muster and found the impact unsatisfying, so she followed up with a right hook. That stung her knuckles, but not good enough. Another punch, another kick, another, another. Her breath started speeding up and she heard clearly the ragged hitching of emotion in those breaths. But no - that would not do, not now. Maybe in her quarters later, but not now, not where anyone might walk in. Or would the stupid aliens even realize what water coming out the eyes meant?
Captain, she thought. Captain.
The hatch opened, and Katarek skittered in. She had a media stick in one pincer and a bag of dried meat in the other.
"Ah, lieutenant - I was not expecting you in here."
Brant wiped at her forehead and sighed. "Captain," she said. "It's captain now, Kat."
"Ah! I apologize. Old habits - it will not be a problem, captain," Kat said. She sounded sincere enough, but Katarek had poked and prodded at the limits of Andrews' authority enough that this was probably intentional. "I was going to watch some vids, but I can go to my quarters if you're..." The mantis eyed the punching bag. "...what is it you're doing, exactly?"
"This? We call it boxing. A sport of structured hand-to-hand combat," Brant said.
"You...don't expect it to be useful in the near future, do you?" Kat asked. She skittered into the room and placed the media stick and the bag of meat on the table, then skittered over to the punching bag, eying it quizzically. "Shooting at a dummy can make you a better shot, sure, but I don't see how fighting a bag will help you fight a live foe."
Katarek poked hard at the punching bag, her pincer piercing the tough exterior. A little tuft of stuffing poked out of the hole she left. Brant shut her eyes and breathed in. "Katarek, I...no, I'm just trying to let off some steam."
Kat ♥♥♥♥♥♥ her head at Brant, looking at her intensely for a moment. The mantis ♥♥♥♥♥♥ her head and clicked a few times, and it was all Brant could do to avoid screaming at the insectoid to get out of her face and...
"Ah. Of course. I...I will leave," Kat said. She scrambled over to the table to collect her belongings. "I did not...I apologize, captain."
Great! Now Brant felt like a jerk, too. "Kat, it's fine! You can watch your..." But the mantis was already gone. She went through a few exercises on the punching bag, but she didn't feel much like boxing after all. It wasn't getting the feelings out like she'd hoped, and it was like Kat said: no matter how mean her right cross got, it was unlikely to make much difference against a mantis or an antipersonnel drone.
She was seriously considering taking out her pistol and blasting the bag into pulp when Kat returned, this time carrying a small satchel.
"Ah, good. I think I could stand to watch some mindless combat for a few hours," Brant said. She wiped her forehead with a towel, and sat back in one of the chairs.
"Thoughtless? That’s an outrage! The choreography, the artistry in those films, is…” Kat had puffed herself up to her full height, then made an effort to calm herself down. “No. That's not why I'm here. You just looked so pathetic punching this stuffed bag, and I was hoping to help you be less pathetic."
Brant's eyes bugged out a little, and she held her hands out around her head for an exasperated moment before she found words. "I wasn't really doing combat training, Kat. I just...I don't feel very good, and I was just trying to hit something until I felt better."
Kat giggled. "My entire life philosophy, captain. I knew I liked you." She approached Brant and dropped the satchel on the table with a thunk. There was something heavy and metallic in there. "Andrews picked a worthy successor."
If hitting the punching bag repeatedly for fifteen minutes hadn't made her feel better, it had at least tired her out somewhat. Some part of her howled WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT IT?! but she just nodded, frowned, and said "He'd better have."
Katarek nodded and clicked inscrutably. She seemed uncomfortable, hesitant.
"Out with it, Kat."
"Uh...yes. Are you familiar with the funerary traditions of the Katalpik?"
"I don't even know what that is."
"They're my people, a mantis ethnicity. We...believe that when a member of the war band dies, it creates a weakness in the band itself. Not just because we're down a member, either. More because everything that warrior brought to the group, every combat strength and every personality quirk, was part of what made the group function. We try to reduce this damage to the band by...recycling, we call it."
"If you are suggesting we eat Andrews' body..."
"Not unheard of, but that's not what I'm talking about. We keep our comrades' memory alive by taking on their behaviors, their tastes, their fighting style, whatever they bought to the group. We have never been good at saying words for the dead or building memorials. We remember the dead through our actions."
Brant looked at Katarek for a moment. That actually sounded like a good system, but Brant wasn't sure she liked where the mantis was going. "Yeah? Is there some trait of Andrews you were thinking of taking up?"
"I did not know the captain very well. It might be in poor taste to take from someone who was only briefly my comrade. I don't mention it for me." Katarek reached into the satchel and pulled out a solid metal cylinder, two inches wide and a foot long. Andrews' power baton. "I think you should learn how to use this, captain."
Brant raised her eyebrows. She'd seen him use this a few times, and it was a terrible thing in the right hands, a captain's weapon indeed.
"Not just because you looked truly pathetic punching the stuffed bag, either. I...I think this could help you to…not feel bad."
Brant reached out cautiously for the weapon. It was Brant's by right now, but she'd completely forgotten about it in the rush of new responsibilities. She extended it and held it up to her face, turning it over.
"It would be a shame to let it go to waste, if nothing else," Brant said. "I don't have any training in it, though. I hear these can be just as dangerous to the user, improperly handled."
"Ah - in that, I may be able to help." Kat slammed her pincers into the side of the table and heaved, flipping it away from them and advancing on the captain. Brant spilled out of her chair and rolled away, landing in a crouch as Kat bore down on her, bringing her right pincer down in a savage arc toward Brant's head. Brant threw the baton up to catch the blow, but Kat stopped short with a disapproving click.
"Oooh - we've got a lot to do. First lesson - don't ever parry like that," Kat said. "You're holding it in front of you. If I hit you hard enough like this, I’ll knock the tip of the baton right into you, and even at low speed it would cause damage." The mantis reached out and gently grasped Brant's hands, wiggling the baton back and forth. "Block like that. Focus on deflecting, not stopping."
Brant wanted to tell Kat that she was in no mood at all for combat instruction right now, and for God's sake didn't she understand that humans need space to grieve?
But really, this was better.
Without a word of warning, Brant leapt at Kat, sweeping back and forth with the baton. She didn't ignite it, so its full lethal force was kept dormant, but a strike landing home might still require a trip to the medbay. Kat laughed, dodging the strikes or deflecting them, then struck low and swept Brant's feet out. She fell on her back, her teeth clicking together, then leapt right back up.
"Not bad for a mammal, eh?"
"No, but that's setting the bar pretty low," Kat said. She pounced at Brant, who batted away Kat's slashes and rushed in to throw her shoulder into the mantis. Kat stumbled backward, surprised that the captain had closed with her, and only just sidestepped as Brant lashed out with the baton. The weapon grazed Kat on her pincer, and Kat laughed excitedly.
"Yes! That would have taken my arm off!" Kat cheered. "Your grief is yours, captain! Make it serve you! Make it a weapon! Come! Again!"
They didn't talk much more as they traded blows for the next half hour. By that time, Brant was a mess of blood, bruises, and cuts, and Kat's carapace had caved in in several places. And Brant couldn't stop smiling, even as she lay down in the medbay and finally, exhausted, started to cry.
They sparred at least half an hour a day from that point on, for the rest of Katarek's life.
Brant could have made her way to the medbay blindfolded if she had to. This ship had been her whole life for months, and she'd had to navigate its corridors through low power, through billows of smoke, and more than once with the threat of hostile forces on board. On top of that, it wasn't a big ship. She knew she wasn't lost, but her mind rushed to come up with any other reason why it would be so quiet in here as she approached the medbay.
She stumbled on, awkwardly clutching her numb arm and her pistol in one hand. She dug around in the packs at her belt and took out a tiny vial of combat stimulant, jamming the microsyringe into her leg. She inhaled sharply, drug-induced clarity flooding her senses, her pain fading into the distant background. Her arm still refused to move.
The hatch to the medbay stood in the corridor just ahead of her, shut. The corridor remained quiet as the vacuum. Katarek was dead.
Brant stopped. She had to assume she was alone in the fight now, holding the emotions that came with that realization at arms' length. Katarek was dead, and with her they'd lost their berserker, their wild killer whose fury could break the enemy.
Your grief is yours. Make it a weapon.
She could be going in one against three, with the enemy dug in and expecting her, and she was badly wounded herself. She thought about Karl, and the more she thought about him, the more confident she felt in her decision to lock him up; the enemy knew their ship layout and their systems too well to chalk up to coincidence. So she holstered her pistol and, the stimulant still numbing the pain, grabbed at the awful wound on her arm. It was mostly cauterized, but she squeezed it enough to get her hand good and bloody. She smeared her face with red, and she ripped off her patch to expose the twisted scar tissue where her eye had been. She had no illusions about her odds of surviving the next few minutes, but she told herself that just one slight moment of shock in the enemy could mean the difference between her getting shot like a dog and killing one or two before getting shot like a dog.
She told herself this. Really, she was feeling sentimental, and she decided that if she was going to die, she'd like to die the way Katarek should have.
She took two pouches off her belt. One had a multitool in it and the other had some nuts in case she wanted a snack; she hefted them to check their weight, then nodded to herself.
Well, Charlotte, she thought. Time to make an exit.
She hurled herself at the medbay door, opening it remotely with her wrist unit as she approached, and she screamed low and brutal. Just as she approached the threshold, she threw the pouches into the middle of the medbay; as she'd hoped, she entered the room to see three human forms throwing themselves behind cover away from her supposed grenades. She charged on; she leapt up on top of an autodoc table and picked a target, a tall, bearded Rebel who'd crouched behind the table next to hers. He was alert and ready for her, raising his pistol just as she leapt into his sight; her opening shot grazed his shoulder, a spasm of pain rocking his body and making his own shot go wide. She pounced at him, firing down at him as she went, but he managed to roll away and compose himself just as Brant bore down on him.
On the one hand, closing with only a pistol out and only one working arm was a terrible idea, especially against a larger opponent. On the other hand, Katarek was dead. Brant threw herself on top of the Rebel hard enough to knock him flat. He grabbed both of her wrists, easily pushing away the gun. Katarek was dead. Brant snarled and slammed her forehead into his once, twice. This was a disciplined soldier, but she saw the onset of panic on his bloodied face, felt it in his tensing muscles. Still, his grip held fast, and she couldn't bring the gun down to finish him. Katarek was dead. Katarek was dead.
Brant snapped her jaws down on the man's throat and shook her head, and that did it. His grip gave just enough for her to wrench her pistol free and jam it into his armpit, pointing it right at his heart, pointe blank. She'd take him out, then she'd worry about the others, maybe take one more with her, but no. Something hit her in the side, and her every muscle went limp at once.
"Jesus, God," the Rebel under her said. He kicked her off and scrambled away from her. "She bit me! Crazy girl bit me!"
Brant tried to summon up an appropriate obscenity, but she was surprised just to realize she was still alive. She willed herself to move, but got only minimal response from her body, not enough to do anything as she felt someone grab her arms and lock her hands into restraints behind her back. She was kicked in the side hard enough to turn over, and she found herself face to face with a short, frail-looking woman with a shaved, tattooed head, hard eyes, and a pistol trained down at Brant's face.
"That was a stun round," the woman said, still in that same annoying sing-song accent, and still with reasonable good humor. "I think a full-power shot would rather improve that nasty cyclops face of yours, so you're gonna' want to listen real close if you want to keep breathin'."
Brant tried to speak, but her mouth felt full of cotton. She took stock of the situation in the room. The Rebel she'd attacked was stumbling over to guard the door, poking at the shallow yet ugly wound she'd left on his throat. There was one more Rebel standing against the far wall of the medbay, a pistol ready, his attention divided between Brant and his two prisoners, kneeling and restrained next to him. Ahab's fine coat was torn and his body shone only dimly, and 78 was dented and missing a leg, but they were both alive, and looking at her with surprise.
"Not your best look, captain," 78 said, his voice heavy with static. "But...you make it work."
"The handcuffs are particularly objectionable," Ahab muttered. "You should lose them."
"I've got to say, you lot do live up to your reputation. Whatever you did to piss off Command, they want you something fierce. We'll be able to buy a resort world with what we'll get for bringing you in alive."
"Real fancy-like," said the man guarding Ahab and 78.
"So, introductions. That over there is Angel." She nodded over to the man who'd just spoken, who grinned. "The fellow over there that you chewed up is Grisham. And I'm Captain Lilian McRee. And judging by the intel we got on this crew, you’re Charlotte Brant."
Brant slowly got the use of her limbs back, only to find that her restraints were secure and that she didn't have anything nice to say.
"Burn in Hell," Brant said.
"Oh, dear, you're in a mood," McRee said. "I take it you found what was left of your shields engineer."
78's face flickered yellow, then went black. "Katarek is dead?"
"I promise you, before this is over, you will pay tenfold for killing her," Brant growled. She smirked joylessly. "And considering what we did to the guard you left, you're already halfway there."
78 whined loudly, his face shining red as he attempted to struggle to his feet. Angel slapped him back down and McCree kicked Brant back to the ground.
"Listen to yourself! How many wars have the mantis started, just in living memory? How many slaving operations are they running right now? And you're threatening a fellow human for taking one of those monsters out of circulation?"
McCree had hate in her eyes to match Brant's own. Brant breathed in and out, trying to calm down. She had to think. Toh might be following her in shortly, and...he was too bruised up to count for much. Karl...was locked up and very likely a rat. Katarek was dead.
78 struggled to get back up to a kneeling position, but with one leg gone it was in vain. Ahab sat serenely, his eyes closed and his aura still faint, apparently meditating.
"Ah...but I don't want to get on a rant. We've just about got what we came for, so let's wrap this up," McRee said. She touched her wrist unit, the hate replaced with a smug grin. "Let's get the man of the hour in here. Channels are open now. Tell him we've got you in the medbay, and to come on down so we can beam off and have done with it. And if you could possibly sound real pathetic when you do it, that'd be extra nice."
Brant thought she would have run out of anger by this point, but nope. On closer inspection, she found she had quite a reservoir of rage left.
"He sold us out..."
"What? Oh no, no, no, Charlotte. You have to see: you sold yourself out." McRee knelt down to eye level with Brant and put her hands on Brant's shoulders. She kept talking as if explaining something to a small child. Brant tried to fumble for her power baton, but with both hands tied up and only one hand working, it was not a thing she could do subtly. "You betrayed the heritage of Earth. You sacrificed humanity's destiny for...what, the company of xenos? You made the choice to abandon your race all on your own." McRee sighed and got back to her feet. "And if you thought what we did to the mantis was bad, then just wait 'til you see what we do with traitors like you. Now call him in."
Brant didn't move. What was there to do? The only avenue of rebellion still open to her was to resist this last insult to call her betrayer in, so she lay on the ground quietly.
Well...we always knew it was a longshot.
McRee rolled her eyes. "Fine, whatever. I'll call him myself. Come in, captain! Damion Andrews, wherever you are, I want to let you know that we've got your hussy captive in the medbay. Come to us with your hands over your head, or we will execute her in two minutes, with one of your aliens to follow two minutes after that. Better hustle, cap'n!"
"Wait," Brant said. "You're looking for Andrews?"
"Who'd you think I was talking about?" McRee asked, suspicious. "Grisham, keep alert. Sounds like there's..."
It all went to hell in the next two seconds. The air vent above Angel's head exploded, gobs of plasma fire streaking out of it. Ahab stood, turned his back on Angel, and projected a blast a brilliant green energy out of his hands into his captor's face. A round from the duct took Grisham in the abdomen, and the Rebel went down. And as McRee turned to deal with these disruptions, Brant finally teased the baton out of her belt; in the one working hand behind her back, she extended it and ignited it. Then she spun on her knees and brought the weapon slamming into McRee's calves.
And like that, it was over. Grisham was still alive, but he lay in the doorway, paralyzed with pain from his gut wound. Angel was similarly out of commission, staggering around blindly, clutching at his face. McRee alone seemed to have some fight left in her: her legs were a very painful-looking mess from the knees down and she'd dropped her pistol, but she was dragging herself over to it. Brant got to her feet, strode over to the gun, and kicked it away. She looked down with a blank expression at the Rebel captain.
"Andrews is dead," Brant said. "I'm the captain now."
Brant didn't feel very good at the moment. She kicked McRee in the face, in the gut, in the back, everywhere she could, and was thinking she'd just keep kicking until she felt better, though that'd probably be an awful lot of kicking.
A large, hard hand fell softly on her back and pulled her away from the Rebel captain.
"Captain..." Toh said. She turned to see him looking terrible, leaning heavily against a nearby table and much of his molten blood already cooling and hardening outside of his wounds.
Ahab had freed himself and 78 with Angel's keys, and 78 was busy reattaching his leg. Karl was trying to jimmy the air vent loose so he could get out.
"Sorry I'm late, ma'am," Karl said. "They must have hacked the door controls."
Toh's hand was still on Brant's shoulder. She returned his molten gaze. She tasted blood in her mouth, and didn't know if it was hers.
"I'll tell him," she said softly. "Not right now, though."
"Good thing I've got a narrow frame, I guess," Karl called out. The vent finally came loose and he slowly began to back out of the hole, his legs dangling above the floor.
Ahab came up with the restraint key and let Brant go; she immediately put the cuffs on McRee. "I'm going to go get us in jump. Toh, 78, I want the medbay operational in five minutes. Ahab, Karl, I want the prisoners stabilized and escorted to the brig. Ahab - how are you at interrogation?"
The zoltan flashed an upsetting smile. "Second to none, captain."
"Good. Prep them." Charlotte turned and hurried out of the room. She heard clunking metal steps following her and pretended not to.
"Captain!" 78 called. She kept walking, but she could only go so fast at this point and he quickly caught up. "Captain....Katarek..."1
Oh, to hell with it. Brant turned and grabbed the engi, pulling him against her and holding him. 78 shook and returned the embrace. She let out one sob, but she couldn't let that dam break yet. The ship was still vulnerable. Her crew still needed her.
"We'll be okay," she whispered. "Soon. There will be time to mourn soon."
"Katarek wouldn't want us to mourn," 78 whispered back, his voice warbling and breaking off. What he said next, though, was clear as a cold mountain lake. "Would want us to avenge."
"I know." Another tear fell from her eye, and she pulled 78 closer for one last moment. "There will be time for that, too."
Just letting you know I'm still reading it !
but really looks b00ss
ditto!
They were in jump for ten hours, and between treating her arm and helping 78 check the ship for any further sabotage, Brant had had only a few hours to sleep, and she needed what she could get. She woke an hour before their expected ETA at the long-range hub, and she promptly made her way down to the weapons room.
Ahab and 78 were sitting together. Ahab was stark naked, fussing with a needle and thread over the wreck of his ostentatious coat. There was nothing uncomfortable about this; since ascending beyond strictly biological forms, the Zoltan anatomy had become very sparse, devoid of hair, pores, sex organs, or any other noteworthy feature, leaving only the frail, glowing notion of a humanoid body. He had a holoscreen up on his weapons' console, but he wasn't looking at it. He and 78 were both watching the vid projecting on the wall instead.
"What the hell are those?" Brant asked as she looked closer at the projection. A single mantis stood in the middle of a large sandy ring, surrounded by fifty brutish, knobby creatures, half-covered in spiky quills and the other half dripping with mucus and slime. Hideous growths of flesh bulged out of their chests and crotches. Some had awkward shrouds of cloth draped over their shoulders or stitched into what could only loosely be called “pants.”
78 thrummed with laughter. “Must understand. ‘Deathsong of Chaka Harakat,’ filmed over two hundred standard years ago. Contact with human race by mantis race still very sparse – humanity still only a rumored threat at edge of mantis space. Little reliable information on anatomy or culture.”
Brant raised her eyebrows. “Those are humans?”
“Stage automata built to resemble humans, at least. Or what most mantis thought humans looked like,” Ahab said. Brant looked closer and realized the clubs bore some faint resemblance to old plasma rifle designs, and the portrayal suddenly brought to mind modern human stereotypes.
“I find this highly offensive. Why in God’s name are we considered the ‘slimy race’ over the slugs? There is no justice in the universe.”
“’Slimy’ less than optimal word choice. Human species more accurately considered…” 78 looked around at Ahab for help. “Drippy?”
“I would say greasy, more than anything,” Ahab said. “Or just generally wet.”
“Come on! But the slugs…” Brant started.
“Slug epidermis constantly secretes light layer of mucus, yes. Human eye secretes discharge in response to emotional duress, human nose secretes mucus in response to nasal infection and cold atmosphere, human skin secretes oil and perspiration constantly,” 78 said, counting the different discharges off on his metal fingers. “Tastefully omitting all solid and liquid wastes, digestive system regurgitation, and reproductive processes.”
“What can you expect of an organic race from a water planet, though? I say, relish in the vast variety of life in the cosmos, however greasy some of it is,” Ahab said.
The mantis had gotten very busy on the screen, butchering the “humans” as they charged left and right, each exploding with blood and viscera like a burst melon at every glancing blow from the mantis.
“Ahh – I do see what she liked about this,” Ahab said, putting his stitching aside and pausing the vid. “Though I suspect you did not come to enjoy a gladiator drama, captain.”
“Well…if it’s for Kat, then maybe. But for now, no. We’re getting to the long-range hub, and I wanted to see what you’ve learned from the captives so far.”
“Oh, nothing at all. I have not asked them so much as their full names yet,” Ahab said. He turned in his chair to face the holoscreen behind him, and Brant noted it was a live feed of their cell in the brig. The two male prisoners were lying on their cots, one with a load of gauze over his eyes and one clutching painfully at a bandage over his stomach. McRee was pacing back and forth in front of the bars.
Brant did not bother to note that she’d told him to prep them for interrogation. He would not so brazenly ignore an order, especially one right up his alley like this. She just waited for him to go on.
“They are clearly well-trained, and I’m sure they’ve been trained to resist interrogation. If we press them immediately, they will think we need the information they have immediately, and they will resist that much harder. No, I think they will be more pliant if we let them languish for a bit. Let them think we don’t care.”
“But…do need information immediately,” 78 said. “Need to know who sent them, what they know about us, whether they know what it is we’re carrying,”
Brant thought of the heavily-encrypted intel packet they were carrying back to Federation command and thought Because I’d sure like to know.
“Much of that we can infer or learn at the hub. If there is no bounty posted for us, then we know our cargo is important enough that the Rebels do not want anyone else getting hold of it,” Ahab said. “Which in turn means our friends in the brig are likely trusted operatives, not mere rank and file. All the more reason to employ advanced techniques – you note how only the female was fully treated in our medbay?” He pointed at McRee.
“I do. The others are stabilized as ordered, correct?” Brant asked.
“Stabilized, but still in bad shape. I am providing the female with medical supplies and rations for her comrades, and as planned, she has been quite diligent in changing bandages and administering all necessary care. You see, your species takes care of its young for many years, and your bodies evolved to compensate you for the effort with emotional dividends. It is in your nature to develop attachments to those you nurture closely.” The zoltan eyed the screen and smiled one of his more disconcerting smiles. “I can work with that.”
“Ahab, you are a scary little dude,” Brant said. “But do what you have to. I’m going aboard the hub in force, just in case things get dicey. The ship’s yours until we get back.”
“Very good, captain.” Ahab held the coat up to his face to inspect the stitch he’d just completed, and he clucked disapprovingly. “If you happen to find a tailor…oh, never mind. I shall persevere.”
“Hang in there, big guy,” Brant said. “8, you’re with me.”
The engi followed her out, and they walked briskly down the corridor together.
“How are you doing?” Brant asked quietly.
78’s face blinked blue and red. “Fine. Refreshing familiarity with shield systems. Allocating grief processes to background until I can spare processing power to fully address.”
Once, Brant might have thought about how inhuman and detached this sounded, but she knew better now. “Yeah, me too. Can’t afford to slow down yet. What’s our intel on the Tefinix hub?”
“Sparse. Tefinix Cloud has dangerous reputation and few habitable worlds, but for those merchant nations that do operate here, the Hub is the only civilized outpost on this side of the nebula. It is slug-operated and primarily caters to trade and military vessels crossing the Cloud.”
“Which means it caters mainly to rough costumers.”
“Accurate assessment. Chance to encounter cheerful folk with ships full of pastries and baby animals: near zero. Hub operators have decent reputations, at least.”
“They’re slugs. That means they’ll be honest about how they’re going to screw us in any deal we make.”
“Essentially. And they’ll shoot us in front instead of back if negotiations collapse.”
That would be Brant’s chair.
“There’s a lot of overlap between our theologies and yours, but that’s one place where we differ,” Toh was saying.
“So no afterlife at all?” Karl asked. Toh had glanced up briefly at the captain, but Karl couldn’t see the door and had apparently no idea they’d entered.
“If the Shaper plans to reward the righteous in death, then he hasn’t said anything about it. Righteousness is its own reward; anyone who can’t see that is never going to achieve it anyway.”
“Old Job couldn’t have said it any better,” Brant said. Karl started a little at her voice, then stood and faced them.
“Hello, captain. Commander. Uh…I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. We’re managing,” Brant said.
“Condolences appreciated. Mission continues,” 78 said. His face glittered green very briefly; Brant doubted anyone else would have noticed, much less that anyone else would have taken it as a sign of mischief. “Side note – protocol under this command does not require crew to stand at attention when captain enters the bridge.”
“Oh. Uh…thanks for telling me.” Karl sat back down.
“Protocol does, however, require that you get out of my ♥♥♥♥♥♥ chair,” Brant added. Karl stood so fast he nearly tripped.
“I…I didn’t realize…”
“At ease,” Brant said, taking her seat. “I’ll just assume you were warming it up for me. Now stay here, we’re going to need you in a few minutes.”
“We’re approaching the hub, captain,” said Toh.
“Brace for transition,” she said over the intercom, realizing that everyone was in the room with her but Ahab and the prisoners.
The ship entered reality again, and without the interference of the nebula, the ship’s digital telescopes came fully online for the first time in at least a week. The ship’s aft display showed only the Cloud, a vast violet expanse of gas and storms. Charlotte, the colonial girl who wanted to see the vastness of the universe, couldn’t help but think how beautiful it was. Captain Brant of the Federation knew that the beauty was hiding pirates, attack drones, and a whole fracking fleet of Rebel cruisers in steady pursuit.
The view from the front was much emptier. Stars by the million in the distance and one bright sun in the foreground, with any attendant planets too distant to spot immediately.
“Hub on screen,” Toh said, and they zoomed in much further to a bulbous slug space station, all purple domes and antennae sticking out like quills. It looked pretty much like Brant would have expected, except for one detail. “Shaper…looks like we’re late for a party.”
Whether floating nearby or docked, at least a hundred fifty ships were crowded around the hub. Brant noted cargo ships, mass transit jets, and one or two luxury yachts.
Brant turned to 78. “I thought you said this place didn’t see much traffic.”
“Very strange…” The engi’s face blinked with confused static. “Very strange. Mostly civilian craft, minimal shielding and armament...suicide to cross nebula so poorly equipped.”
Karl stroked his chin a little as he studied the visual. “God, it must stink in there.” He looked around at the stares of the others. “What? Little station like that, not used to much traffic, and probably a damp slug atmosphere at that – the life support systems must be straining just to provide enough air for everyone, never mind filtering it.”
“Well, think pleasant-smelling thoughts, then, because we’re going aboard. Toh?”
“Hailing them now, captain. How should I identify us?”
“Probably not a great idea to advertise we’re Federation right off the bat, not if we’re trying to see if there’s a bounty on us. 8, any ideas?”
The engi whirred in thought. “Tell them we’re lesser mercantile house. Federation sometimes sold decommissioned craft to houses looking for well-equipped transports.” The engi glanced at Karl. “Merchant husband and wife, and eclectic alien crew.”
“Uh…well, ok,” Karl said, slightly confused. “I mean…I did some acting in elementary school. Let’s give it a shot.”
Brant nodded to Toh. “Go with it. Call us House…” She searched her mind, but only one thing came. “…Katarexis.”
An audio channel opened with a crackle. A female voice, sounding bored as can be, came on over the speakers.
“Yes?” This was far enough from the usual protocol that it caught Brant off-balance. “What is it?”
“We…seek audience with the hub director,” Brant said.
“We’re…oh, frack my soul, here’s your information. House ‘Katarexis’? I have never heard of it,” the voice said. Brant would guess she was talking to a zoltan. She’d never heard any other race stoop to a phrase as stupid as “frack my soul.”
“No? Oh, heck,” Brant said. “Big time socialites like you, I’m sure you’re up on all the lesser houses. We must have made it up, then.”
A long-suffering sigh came out of the speaker. “My apologies, my lady. What service can we provide for you?”
“We’re here to trade for munitions and intelligence. Scan us all you like – you’ll see we’ve got goods for trade, and then some. Or is there some backwater bumpkin convention going on, and we need an invitation?”
There was a brief pause. “Ah, indeed no, your scans check out. Ignore the crowd – refugees, mostly. I think you will find us amenable to some very agreeable commerce. You may come aboard.”
“Excellent. Give us half an hour to get our ship in order.” Brant closed the channel and stood. “All right – we’re a scrappy, down-on-our luck merchant family with servants. Let’s get a wardrobe change with that in mind, and meet at the shuttle in twenty minutes.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” Toh said. He reached up to the Federation insignia affixed to his shoulder, the only ornament or clothing that he wore, and took it off. “K. I’m good.”
78 clucked. “No imagination,” he whirred as he turned and shuffled off the bridge.
“Captain, uh…” Karl began.
She looked him up and down. He was wearing a dirty white shirt and stained beige pants; he had a few other clothes taken from Mickelson’s old belongings, but none any better than this. He could use a shave, but she didn’t object to a little stubble. Besides… “Well, we’re going for scrappy. You’re fine.”
The airlock opened, and Brant fought off a momentary urge to wretch as a brutal smell attacked them. Thick, warm, and wet, the air stank of sweat, sewage, mildew, and an aggressively fruity antiseptic that only accented and worsened the reek. Karl gagged.
“♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥!” he said. “Yeah. Told you so.”
A zoltan was approaching the airlock, walking uncertainly and glowing an ugly brownish-green. Next to the zoltan walked a heavily-armed rock and a mantis in heavily dented armor.
“You are the merchant family, then?” asked the zoltan. Again, something about the voice suggested a woman to Brant; while the species had long since abandoned sex, they had not entirely eschewed gender.
“We are the Lord and Lady Katarexis,” Brant said. She patted Karl on the back affectionately. “Plus entourage.”
“And, uh, who might you be?” Karl asked.
Brant looked over at 78 with a disapproving look. The engi whined quietly, then reached over and slapped Karl upside the head.
“Speak when spoken to, servitor,” 78 said. He whispered none-too-quietly to Brant. “Really, dear: too indulgent with the help.”
Brant rolled her eye, hidden behind her shades. “And who might you be?” she asked.
“Zaramabra, Senior Assistant to the hub director,” said the zoltan, who looked thoroughly unamused by the exchange. “This way, please. Keep your weapons away, and avoid any speech or action which could be construed as aggressive. Ozzog is happy to talk to you, but the situation on the hub is somewhat brittle at the moment.”
Toh and the rock bodyguard exchanged silent glares, and the mantis sized up the group.
“Very good. A question, though,” 78 said. “You called this a refugee situation. If possible to ask…”
The zoltan’s head swayed a bit as she looked back at 78. Brant heard a bit of a drunken slur as she spoke this time. “Can you imagine what Ozzog would do to me, master engi, if I started giving perfectly saleable information away to his clients for free? This way, if you please.”
The escort led them through the corridors of the station. Armed guards patrolled regularly, and occasionally Brant caught views through open hatches of crowded tent cities filling up cargo bays. She’d expected a refugee situation, but nothing like this.
God. What had the Rebels done?
They arrived finally at a heavy blast door. The zoltan waved at a panel next to the door, and it slid open to reveal a dimly lit, richly appointed lounge. A number of well-cushioned booths lined the wall to their left, with an ornate bar carved out of hard, red fungus – the highest of high end slug carpentry. A thin white mist hung in the air around their ankles, partly to help keep the climate optimal for slugs but mostly for ambience. The air had not even a faint note of the crowds outside, instead smelling faintly of pickles for some reason.
On instinct, Brant immediately took stock of their surroundings. The only exit was through the blast door, and they were slightly outnumbered in the room. An engi stood behind the bar in an apron, cleaning a row of elegant drug pipes. Three rocks sat in an extra-large booth, designed for their race, eyeing the new arrivals suspiciously. A bearded man with small, dark glasses sat with a mantis female decked in jewelry, arguing in hushed tones over a data slate. And alone in the middle of the room sat a slug, his skin dry and wrinkled with age, swirling a hand in a small bowl of brown nutrient liquid. The bodyguards led them up to the slug’s table, and the slug slowly shifted his attention up to them.
“Thank you, Mabra,” said the slug. “I am Ozzog. Whom should I be addressssing?”
Brant stepped forward and extended a hand. “Ozzog, I am Elizia of House Katarexis, and this is my husband, KE-198. I hope we may arrive at some mutually beneficial trade.”
“Ahhh. That would be nice. I am very old, though, and I have lost my taste for petty deceits and dissembling. You cannot possibly think a telepath would accept such a fiction.”
“Of course not,” Brant said. “But it did get us to the trading table with armed protection.”
“Ah. Ssso it did,” Ozzog said approvingly. “Mabra, some drinks for us, species appropriate, of course. Something for yourself too, yes, there’s a good girl. Now how may humble Ozzog be of assisssstance?”
Brant eyed the Zoltan slouching over to the bar, but Toh was already staring her down closely. She turned back to the slug. “We are plotting a course though the Rebel cordon in the Magna Sector. We need armaments and information on their forces. We can pay richly with scrap and supplies.”
“I would be delighted to help you for a modest fee, captain. Ah, bless you, Mabra.” The zoltan had returned with a tray of drinks and a long, slender drug pipe. She started passing glasses to everyone but the slug. “Unfortunately, what you ask is impossible.”
Brant looked around the bar suspiciously. There was only the one human, the one arguing with the mantis, but she supposed the Rebels could have struck a bargain. “Oh? And why is that?”
“Even that information will cost you,” Ozzog said. “In fact, since it is clear you have been in the Cloud for quite some time and are very far out of the loop at present, I recommend you consider my flat rate intelligence package rather than negotiate piecemeal for individual scraps of information. Mabra?”
The zoltan took a data slate off the table, pushed at it, and presented it to Brant. She looked it over quizzically before handing it to 78.
“So you want food? We can do that, but these numbers…”
“I have several dozen ships docked in this hub which lack sufficient fuel, armament, or resolve to traverse the Cloud as you have, and as such we have many hundreds of refugees. There is high supply and low demand for ship equipment, but nourishment and medicine are other matters entirely. Judging by your looks, your stores are well-stocked. Shall you admit you can afford my price comfortably, or must we dicker? Oh, wait – forgive my bluntness again, but were you the ones who killed Slokkran?”
That certainly was blunt, especially for a slug. 78 and Brant looked at each other, and Karl and Toh eyed the rest of the room. The zoltan, meanwhile, inhaled deeply of the drug pipe. “Why would you ask such a thing?” Brant asked.
Mabra slowly exhaled a stream of drug vapor over Ozzog’s head and torso, and the slug luxuriated in the cloud. “Ohhh my…that is nicccce. Ah….as I sssaid, I dislike dodges and vagaries, and when I asssk a question, I prefer an ansswer. But if it will facilitate an honest ressponsse: I have sscanned your ship and matched the ssignature on ssseveral of your weapons to systems that Slokkran had in his inventory. Slokkran was like a ssson to me. I mentored him. I worked with him. He had negotiated a prosperous reproductive arrangement with my daughter.” Mabra blew another puff of smoke onto Ozzog’s body, and the slug again wiggled with delight. Brant found it obscene in the extreme. “And now I hear that his ship was found blown to pieces in the Cloud. Did you kill him?”
“Did business with him a week ago,” 78 said. “News to us that he is dead.”
“Yeah, we just robbed him and left him defenseless in a bad part of space,” said Brant, figuring it’d be better to err on the side of honesty rather than have the slug assume something worse or pluck the truth from her mind. “We didn’t actually kill him, if that makes things better.”
“I’m afraid it doess not. There is now a blood vendetta between us, and honor requires me to charge you an additional 10% on all of our transactions.”
Brant narrowed her eye. “5%.”
“9.”
“6.5.”
“7.5.”
Brant gave the slug a cautious, sidelong glare. “Done,” she said.
“Excellent,” Ozzog declared. He reached over and tapped the data slate, and the final bill went up accordingly. Brant passed it to 78 to peruse. “Let us start fresh then. I know more about your actual identities then you may suspect, but there are gaps in what I’ve heard and what I can read. Forgive me – I never remember the rules of propriety with your species, but I simply must ask: are you actually screwing the engi?”
Brant smirked. 78’s screen flashed slightly red at the suggestion as he passed her the slate; Brant wondered if that was a reaction native to the engi or if 78 had learned it from humans. “That information would cost you, Ozzog. Do we continue with the bargain as we’ve struck it, or must we dicker further?”
Ozzog laughed aloud. “Indeed! Ah, I like you, Captain Brant. Yes, yes, we have had some visitors asking after a Federation captain of your description, so your identity is not hard to surmise. We have not been notified to post any sort of bounty, and those Rebels who ask after you and your crew invariably pretend to be your comrades; they think I am an absolute idiot, I swear. I must wonder what it is you have on them to inspire such a secretive and determined manhunt, but I will not ask. I should think that your pursuers would go even so far as the Magna Sector to hunt you down.”
“Why wouldn’t they? The Magna Sector is all Rebels; they’ve used it as a staging ground for their cordon around the Federation core worlds,” Brant said. Toh nudged her, and she realized that everyone in the room was staring at them now. “What? What’s happened?”
Brant’s heart leapt for a moment. That could mean hope. It could mean a hole in the Rebel blockade and a change in the Federation’s fortunes. But the dozens of ship outside, the thousands crammed into this station, told her there was something more sinister afoot.
“Abandoned?” 78 asked.
“Oh I’m sure there were those who could not leave. Some of them may yet be alive. But all who could leave have left – the Rebels consolidating inward toward your beloved Federation, and civilians fleeing in any other direction. They say that, uh…” Ozzog reached across the table and gently took the data slate away.
Brant narrowed her eye. “Yes?”
Ozzog leaned across the table to Brant. She could smell the medicinal stink of drug vapor around him. “You must understand that I am a sensible trader. The sort of stories coming out of the Sector of late...if not for their consistency, their frequency, and the evidence of my own eyes, I would never stoop to pawn such old sailor nonsense off as actual news. But…they say that ancient evil has stirred in the abyss. They say that demons swim in the void, devouring ships and choking the life from innocents a mere glance. They say…”
Karl burst out laughing. Brant stood up angrily, 78 following quickly.
“Oh, no no. I will not be made a fool of,” Brant threatened, shoving a finger in Ozzog’s face. “If you think I’m trading good supplies for stories of space monsters, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“Shall I lie, then? What reason for the flight of an entire sector would you find more agreeable, hm?” Ozzog asked, indignant. “Do you not think I reacted the same, the first time I heard the stories? But what can I think, when ship after terrified ship comes with the same harrowing tale on their lips?”
Toh sat utterly still. He spoke for the first time in that exchange, and even in his uninflected voice, Brant could clearly hear terror. “What…do they call this evil?”
The table of rocks in the corner turned and stared intently at Toh. The largest of them spoke. “You know what they are called, brother.”
Ozzog’s rock bodyguard nodded. “If you keep to scripture, then you know what is written.”
“Oh, Shaper…” Toh muttered.
Mabra sipped at a tall glass of a thick, white zoltan intoxicant, a drink with the consistency of concrete. “Another hit, sir?” she asked with a more pronounced slur.
“Oh, I think it’s that sort of night, yes,” said Ozzog. “I’ve heard this sermon before. Shall you favor us with it, master rock?”
“Toh? What are they talking about?” Brant asked.
“Our scriptures…they say that a long time ago, before any of our people had learned space travel, the galaxy was ruled by the crystal folk. The Shaper and Preserver favored them more than any other creature, but they made war without end against each other. He gave them reason, and language, and the use of tools, but each blessing they used in the service of war. Finally, he gave them his greatest blessing, the secrets of the jump drive, but still they failed to find the Peaceful Way and put an end to their violence…so…he gave the keys of the cosmos over to the Breaker and Destroyer, who unlocked the nine doors of the abyss…and out of the abyss, he summoned the Lanius.”
Karl was still snickering a little, but as he looked around the room and saw the looks on everyone’s faces, he shut right up.
“I do not believe that,” Ozzog said flatly. “I follow galactic events enough to say that we all probably deserve to be devoured by hungry avenging angels, but it pushes credulity. I fervently hope that a superior explanation for these phenomena emerges soon.”
Brant…sat there. This was certainly a change in the winds, and that was about all she could augur from it. “Thoughts, 8?”
“Oh, lots,” 78 said. “Not many of use. Except…Rebel presence in sector has advanced into Federation space?” Ozzog nodded. “Something troubling is happening in sector – that much is clear. But…time runs short.”
Toh’s eyes went wider and hotter than Brant had ever seen. Brant had a feeling she knew what was going through his head.
She turned to Ozzog. “I want to talk to some of your refugees, and I want the most up-to-date information you have. Charts, conditions, anything you have…” She swallowed, in which time she realized that every other sound in the room had gone quiet. “I don’t care if it’s the end of the universe and we’ve got to fight through demons of mythology. We’re getting to Federation space, and we’re getting there now.”
http://www.amazon.com/Off-Campus-Charles-E-P-Murphy-ebook/dp/B015UIIPSA/ref=sr_1_18?ie=UTF8&qid=1446665428&sr=8-18&keywords=off+campus
Heh, you've come this far now? I remember when you started this thread. :3
I'll check it out.
Ozzog begged them to reconsider. Brant hadn’t even known slugs had tear ducts, let alone the capacity to weep in response to duress, until she saw the hub director tearing up over their departure. The Kestrel, he insisted, could profit richly from the refugee situation, and without compromising their moral fiber – many at the hub would gladly offer themselves into slavery to escape into civilized space. Brant and her crew would get rich, they’d help the unfortunate, Ozzog would take a cut, everybody would win. Diving into certain oblivion was one thing; wasting an obvious opportunity for profit, quite another.
Brant immediately rejected this offer. If she ever survived to write a memoir about all this, she’d of course have to say that duty surpassed all other concerns. Really, she just knew the Rebels would quickly find her and make a nasty debris field out of her and her ship if she veered off their current course at all. Brant had no speck of doubt that the pursuing fleet would destroy them if they ever caught up and cornered the Kestrel; even monsters out of alien eschatology gave them better odds, and so they gathered intel, capped off their fuel tanks and missile stores, and entered the long jump toward the Magna Sector.
They would have thirty hours in jump between sectors. It was time to tie up loose ends.
When she and 78 strode into the medbay, the freshly-bandaged Grisham and Angel were lying on the auto-doc beds, firmly bound to the beds with manacles around their wrists and ankles. McRee was sitting at a bare table, similarly restrained against the chair and facing her comrades. Ahab sat patiently next to her with his sewing supplies and his coat. Brant sat down across from Ahab and McRee, pushing her chair out enough to see Angel and Grisham on the beds too. She laid a data slate on the table, and 78 walked over to stand by the wall.
Brant let the moment breathe. She sat and focused on her breathing, looking calmly at her prisoners. Ahab barely looked up from his sewing. 78 didn’t move at all.
“Awkward silences are the worst, right?” McRee said. “It’s like, is it rude for me to force meself into the quiet and try to shake it up, or is it ruder for me to jus’ sit there and let the mood fester? Never had much in the way of social finesse.”
“No?” asked Ahab. “I’ve found you quite charming.”
“Oh, thank you. You hear that, Charlotte? The green one likes me,” McRee said. Brant looked at her for a moment, then let her gaze drift back to her men.
“Is she being real intimidating, Mac?” Angel asked. “I can’t see nothing through the bandages.”
“Oh, she’s being super intimidating. Not saying nothing at all. Practically soiling my britches,” McRee said. “Though word to the wise, love. If you’re trying to freak out your captives, engi and zoltan aren’t exactly nightmare material.”`
Brant brought up her data slate without looking at McRee. “I wanted to bring you folks up to date on our situation. We just came back from the Tefinix Hub, and we are now en route to the Magna Sector. I wanted to see if any of you know anything useful about the situation there, but I’m not going to pressure you.”
“Ha!” Grisham laughed. He cut his chuckle short with a pained expression, clenching his bandaged stomach.
“Here’s our intel for you,” Angel said. “You’re all gonna’ die out there.”
“Boys,” McRee said somewhat sharply. “Why don’t we just let me do the talking, right?”
Ahab stopped sewing to hold the mended sleeve out for inspection. “It would be droll of me to point out that if this ship is destroyed, your lives will end with it,” he said.
“If this ship is destroyed, then our lives end with the satisfaction of an accomplished mission,” McRee spat back. “And you’ve got to remember that, no matter what intel you might squeeze out of us. We’ve lost a lot of good men on this job already. We’ve got three lives left to pay to see it through to the end, and that’s cheap enough.
“So yeah, Charlotte – everything you heard about the Magna Sector is true, but so much worse. The Lanius are back, and they’ve got tech like we can’t even imagine. Nothing we do is going to matter because the old gods are back, and they’re hungry. Or…am I only telling you that so that you’ll panic and abandon your mission? That’s probably it. No, yeah, the Sector’s all secure, the whole Lanius thing was just mass hysteria caused by a few malfunctioning deep space probes and some irresponsible media reporting. Getting through will be a total cakewalk, unless I’m just trying to get your guard down. In that case…”
78 slammed his claw against the table and whined at an excruciating pitch. “Enough. Patience thin.”
“Oh, frack! An angry engi!” Angel shouted. “Oh, help us, Jesus! Don’t let the vicious engi hit us!”
The Rebels chuckled. 78’s face flashed red and orange, and Brant raised a hand at him to ease off.
“Like I said, I won’t pressure you. It would be too risky to base any decisions on your hearsay. I was just curious what you might say,” Brant said. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why there isn’t a bounty out for us, either.”
“Who said there wasn’t?” McRee asked. “Who says your buddies on the hub haven’t just signaled to our advance scouts and collected a hefty fee for it?”
“I don’t know what route we’ll be taking through the Sector, but it’s the fastest way to Federation space. The Rebels don’t need someone to tell them that. What they need, Lilian, is someone who can stop us. So why isn’t there a bounty for someone to do just that?”
“Oh, I don’t think you need me to tell you that, either, Charlotte,” McRee said with a grin. “But I’m not sure why you’d trust my opinion there, either.”
“I really wouldn’t, you’re right. So I won’t pressure you there, either,” Brant said. She tapped the dataslate, placed it on the table, and pushed it over to McRee. “So let’s cut to the chase. Two months ago, our agents infiltrated a covert Rebel facility on the outer edge of the galaxy and stole a wealth of highly-classified intelligence. Our people only had time to transmit it to the Federation’s last base in the area before getting all blown up, and Admiral Ur-Curda only had time to throw it on his fastest ship before his base got all blown up. We would be that ship, of course, and our orders, in the continuing absence of a functional Federal comm network, are to deliver this intel to Admiral Tully and the High Command.”
Brant started flicking her finger across the dataslate, scrolling the screen through a variety of images – documents, blueprints, photographs, and others.
78 whirred with some pride. “Have decrypted most of it already. Not easy – Level-7 encryption, mostly. Fortunately, have had plenty of time.”
Brant nodded. “It’s all very sensitive stuff – detailed ship schematics, locations and staff of all research installations, the aliases and whereabouts of Rebel deep-cover agents, that sort of thing. The last bits we were able to extracts were internal affairs documents, detailed profiles of Rebel leaders with extensive evaluation of their vices, psychological hang-ups, and criminal histories. Did you know that Vice Admiral Geiss made her living smuggling psychotropic drugs before she joined the Rebellion?”
The two men smirked, and McRee chuckled. “That’s what we call an open secret there, love. You may have evidence to firmly link her to the stories, but everyone assumes they’re true anyway and no one gives a crap.”
“Yeah, and there it is. We’ve decrypted almost everything we stole, and none of it’s stuff you’d want our High Command to know about. But it wouldn’t turn the tide at this point. The Federation can hang on for one more year, tops; it has lost all its strength outside of its core worlds, and nothing we’ve discovered will change that.
“And that really begs the question, Lily: Why devote a whole fleet – not a couple of specialized spy hunters, mind you, a whole fracking fleet – to running down a couple of idiots in a bum ship with mostly harmless secrets?”
Brant leaned back and watched their captives. Ahab looked up curiously from his coat as a heavy silence fell over the room. Brant flipped at the dataslate a few more times, and the images and documents began to scramble.
“One data packet left,” 78 said. “Level-10 encryption. Unable to break.”
“One packet left. One secret. Whatever it is, your people have been willing to devote an absurd level of resources for an absurd amount of time to stop it from getting in the wrong hands. And we don’t even know what it is! The hardware and personnel at our primary base might be able to decrypt it, on the off chance that we ever get there, but the only thing that would work for sure is a high-level Rebel clearance.”
Brant nodded to Ahab, who calmly rose and put on his coat. The zoltan strolled over to the captives on their beds and pulled up a tray of surgical tools. “This is where we start pressuring you.”