Radio Silence, page 1
RADIO SILENCE
DC MARRAKESH, BOOK FOUR
OPERATION MARRAKESH
BOOK 4
BLAZE WARD
KNOTTED ROAD PRESS
CONTENTS
Prelude
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Read More
About the Author
Also by Blaze Ward
About Knotted Road Press
PRELUDE
Log: Directorate Cruiser, Tactical Transport Marrakesh (CTT)
Station: Horwin
Attached Special Mission Modules:
A+B) Forward Repair Depot (Double Pod)
Mission: Forward Survey and Rescue
Project: L72-S5R73V41
Security Clearance: 5+
1
Padraig studied the waiting room. His ship, Marrakesh, was again on Horwin, the capital world of the Sovereign Collective Directorate of A’Zedi.
He was back in the building that was was not part of the Ministry of War. As an A’Zedi sailor, and a captain to boot, he’d spent most of his adult life either in War Ministry offices or aboard warships. Today, he was in a place that he understood belonged to A’Zedi Intelligence Services. Nobody had to confirm nor deny for him now.
Padraig was in his best uniform, though he'd have stood out even in fatigues among the people coming into this building.
Civilians, almost every one of them.
Spies, though that rubric could be expanded to cover him now. He remained in uniform at all times, generally.
A’Zedi mulberry and mauve.
Today, he had hardly sat down on the hard wooden bench, alone in the waiting room with an older woman guarding the other side of the counter, when a door behind her opened and a second woman entered.
Mariami Gelashvili, Permanent First Secretary, A’Zedi Intelligence Operations.
“Captain Boru, could you join me, please?” the Secretary asked.
Padraig rocketed to his feet and was already walking. Across the large room with the hard, pitiless marble floor. Through a swinging half-door that was as good as a moat to keep people at bay. Through the far door and into a hallway.
He followed her to her office. Went to the seat on the right and stood waiting behind it.
Depending on how you wanted to view it, this woman was his boss. One of them, anyway. On paper, the Ministry of War still owned him. At least he thought so. It was hard to be sure.
He was merely a captain, in command of the last of the old M-boats still in service, the Tactical Transport Marrakesh.
What he did for Intelligence Operations probably made him a spy, anyway.
“Please, sit, Captain,” she said, doing so. He followed suit.
The same desk he had come to know. Dark-stained oak from the look. Polished surface with a small name placard to remind you who she was, and a holder with a pen. No electronics visible. No art on the wall behind her or to either side.
Madame Gelashvili was a tall, heavy-set woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties. Hair dyed a golden-brown with reddish tones underneath, and hazel eyes, both of which were fairly rare in A’Zedi. Reasonably pale skin, compared to most of A’Zedi, as well.
Padraig’s darker skin and black hair was the most common around here.
Gelashvili looked more like someone from the United Technocracy of Wronlori, which, he supposed, made a bit of sense, if she’d really been a spy when she was younger.
“I would have invited Squire Taggart to accompany you,” Madame Gelashvili began without preamble. “But she is currently completing a training course off somewhere and will rendezvous with you on the ship. How quickly can you be ready to depart for a deep-space mission of indeterminate length, Captain?”
Padraig juggled numbers in his head quickly.
“We’ve just come off a refurb,” he told her. “Depending on how long it takes to dock whatever modules you need loaded, we would need to transfer consumables aboard. And get Taggart aboard. Everybody else is under a recall order, so nobody has left the station where we’re docked. I’m probably the last to board, having to travel the greatest distance, ma’am.”
“Excellent,” she nodded. “I’ll put in a call when you leave here and get you moved to the top of the priority list for load-out.”
That sort of power still left his mouth dry. That she could just call some Deputy Minister of War somewhere and instruct said person to act?
And they would. He’d seen it happen. Jump, and ask how high on the way up.
He’d done that, too.
“What’s the mission, ma’am?” Padraig asked.
He might be a spy, but he was a sailor first and foremost. And he had a ship and crew that was going to cause a lot of his old classmates to start sending jealous hate mail one of these days.
And Intelligence Operations intended to send Marrakesh into harm’s way.
As they should.
“I believe the term you would use is ‘Search and Rescue,’ Captain,” she replied, nodding once to make a point of her seriousness. “The Patrol Cruiser Northwind was on a mission for us and failed to check in on time. They may have encountered enemy forces, but we would have expected some message, however bleak or abrupt, to be sent home via their Aetherial communications array, so the working assumption is that something happened to the ship itself, too quickly to say anything. You will go find them, find out what happened, and get them back safe if possible. Past that, I rely on your demonstrated ingenuity and professionalism to accomplish the task.”
As in, blank check because we trust you. Don’t fuck it up.
“Are you expecting us to tow Northwind home?” he asked.
Marrakesh was a tug, technically. They could do it, however slowly. If Northwind was on a mission for Intelligence Operations, it was probably in an unsafe system, surrounded by bad people.
“If necessary over the short term, Boru,” she said. “Marrakesh will be fitted out with a Forward Repair Depot for this mission. A double pod designed, as I understand it, to telescope out during deployment, that various machinery can be brought to bear on a damaged ship, in order to effect the necessary repairs to get it as far as a proper base. That is already being moved into position for your Stevedore to load. You will depart this office to the roof where a transport will conduct you to the station overhead. You will complete load-out and depart without communicating to anyone outside the vessel except myself or my immediate staff. Questions?”
“Radio silence until we’re successful, ma’am?” Padraig asked.
“At least the search part, Captain,” she nodded. “Hopefully the rescue portions as well, though obviously you will be operating with much thinner guidelines at that point. I rely on you to continue to exercise the judgment that has gotten you and Marrakesh thus far.”
She rose, so he did, stopping himself from saluting her.
Indoors, and a civilian to boot.
Still, Madam Gelashvili believed in him, and his crew. And had saved him from the sort of line command where nothing interesting ever happened save for the occasional battle, with him under the direct command of a Marshall of some sort and no chance for glory and adventure.
Sounded like this mission would have it in spades.
2
Chance Messier held the storefront while Padraig was down on the planet, meeting with his other set of bosses. Most of the crew was ignorant of what Marrakesh was up to these days, but she’d been brought in, at least partially, along with Kaitlin as Stevedore, so Chance understood what was up.
Plus, she’d been seconded to Intelligence Operations—though a desk job—while the kids had been infants, so Chance had a very good understanding of that side of the fleet. Nyssa Taggart could do things with computer systems Chance hadn’t realized was possible. Ultrasmart young woman. Coming along nicely as an officer, even if she was still a year and change younger than even the next youngest Squire who had been assigned to the ship.
Sixth youngest crew member. Possibly the smartest, though Padraig had a lot of brains when you cornered him. And Chance did occasionally.
She smiled to herself and watched on the main bridge screen as a small tug maneuvered a huge office building slowly towards Marrakesh. Her comm chirped.
“Bridge. Messier.”
“It’s Kaitlin,” the Stevedore replied. “I’m ready to shut down all local gravity systems while we dock our latest adventure.”
She cut the line and dialed a number.
“Engineering. Ahearn.”
Knight Jareth Ahearn, Chief Engineer. The man whose job it was to keep the temperamental beasts aft tamed and pouring out all that power.
“Jareth, it’s Chance,” she said. “Kaitlin’s ready, so sound the alert, then cut all of the Local Gravity Field Emitters, then stand by Damage Control parties in case anything happens with the pod.”
“Understood,” he said, a triple beep warning everyone that the moment had arrived. “Cutting in three, two, one, off.”
The lights surged ever so slightly in response. Local Gravity Field Emitters required a lot of power, all the time, so those dedicated generators hardly ever got shut down.
Except when it came time to dock and undock pods. Then Kaitlin preferred most everything shut off, because some of them, like a Forward Repair Depot, were huge. And heavy.
Double pod, so it would slide into both sockets simultaneously, making this an even greater challenge, even in station with professionals. The thing was eight decks tall instead of the usual four to six. Came with a crew of experienced engineers already stationed aboard it and used to moving around.
Ships broke down. Even the best maintained ones.
Padraig liked to say that if you weren’t using a ship up, you weren’t doing your job. Marrakesh was old and worn, but they’d refurbished it fully out of the graveyard, then Padraig’s new bosses had poured extra love and funds in, until Marrakesh was as good as any of the new P-boats being build.
Chance dialed the other line.
“Kaitlin, we’re ready at this end,” Chance told her. “Standing by.”
3
Kaitlin had retired after her thirty years in purple. Wouldn’t have come back, but for civilian pay rates and a captain like Padraig Boru. And a ship like Marrakesh.
The espionage stuff she was getting to do was really just frosting and a cherry at that point.
As Stevedore, she got to play with really big toys. Like, monstrous things, designed to slide into the back of Marrakesh like a sword fitting into a sheath. And with about as much leeway.
She was in a small shuttle, floating off to one side, like she did whenever she had to dock a double module. Singles were pretty easy to get in, if only because you lined it on four points and confirmed verticality, then dropped.
Doubles were more like dancing. Forward Repair Depots were even worse, because huge. One big tug instead of several little ones, because you had to handle offsets in the plugs, where you started off with less than forty centimeters of allowed variance, then tightened down from there.
The final adjustments were generally in millimeters, done with a hand-held impact hammer.
“Daneelson, it’s Kaitlin,” she said into the comm, talking to the guy piloting the big tug. “Corner three feels high. Adjust that down by about a degree as you slide in and lock. Proceed when ready.”
“Yes, mother,” he replied with as much sass as Kaitlin normally expected.
She chuckled with the comm off.
Most of these workers were young enough to be her kids, though she’d never had any. Didn’t want them. Then or now. Got in the way of adventure, because she’d have wanted to stay home and spoil them.
Kaitlin watched the tug begin pushing. A LOT of mass there, but she wasn’t in any hurry. They still had resupply tractors loading from the station side as fast as they could drive in, drop a pallet, and back out for the next one. Plus, Padraig would be a bit of time getting back to orbit.
And this was a job that needed patient strength.
Just because, she took the flitter’s controls and shifted around some. Staying out of Daneelson’s way, but seeing things from a slightly different angle.
“Daneelson, what’s your read?” she asked as he slowly aimed both posts toward the sockets.
“System says I am on the beam but it feels a little wrong,” he replied. “Oh, hey, that’s perfect. Kaitlin, at some point, the pod’s central spar has bowed outwards. Not by much, but I can’t zero both bullseyes at once.”
“How far off are you?” she asked.
It happened. Equipment got old and worn. Or a ship and pod built to the same expectations were outside tolerances when you lined both up.
Marrakesh was older than most of the crew, not counting her and a few folks. Even steel can warp like taffy, especially with some of the things she’d been aboard for.
“I’m ten centimeters average off both sides, when I line up the stereoscope,” the man replied. “Suggestions?”
“Cut power and reverse engines to stationkeeping,” she ordered. It was her ship right now. “I want to check the underside.”
“Standing by.”
Kaitlin maneuvered her little hummingbird down to where the twin posts were about to enter their sockets. From here, she could see where the outer edges, fore and aft, were tilted ever so much out of true. Someone had bent the center of the pod at some point. Maybe the ship it had been docked to had flexed in battle or impact. Must have been a bitch getting it out again later, and they hadn’t said anything to anyone.
Kaitlin made a note to look up the records of the last Stevedore responsible and send some friends in the War Ministry a note. A nastygram, as her old gran would have called it.
This should have been repaired before now, or listed in the log.
Still, she could make it work. The clamps that held the pod were heavy-duty. She’d just have to get it in, then manually adjust everything until the pod itself bowed back into true.
Good thing she had a whole team of repair nerds coming aboard with it, in case she broke something in the process.
“Daneelson, go ahead and slide it in, understanding that you can’t get to zero here,” Kaitlin ordered. “I’ll fix it in the field.”
“How?” he asked.
“Magic,” Kaitlin replied.
4
Nyssa had always known she was smart. And had hidden it entirely after the first time she saw how the smarter kids were treated. If she’d been middle class or better as a child, it might not have been as bad, but her parents had been factory workers. Minimal education needed to operate presses and lathes, rather than designing things.
And the other kids in her classes had been vicious to anybody outside of the norm.
Thus, she’d played dumb, all through school, then got out and enlisted as soon as she could.
That might have been a mistake. Though, also, it might have been the smartest thing she ever did.
They’d put her through a set of tests. That had led to a second set of tests. Then a third. Then Radio School. Then more tests.
Because they’d started being nicer to her, the smarter they thought she was, instead of meaner.
Hell of a change.
Then they’d turned her into an officer. And assigned her to Marrakesh.
It had only gotten weirder after that. After Sundering Wrath and Monsanch. And Varfelis Station.
The last two weeks had been a deep immersion into cryptographic communications. The lead instructor—who had no name she’d been told—had warned her it would be a firehose.
Nyssa had handled it. Six hours of class and six hours of homework, every day. Blocks for sleeping, eating, and exercise.
Then back to the books.
This morning, they had come off schedule and pulled her out of a class where she and three others had been listening to a lecture.
