Queen of Chaos, page 24
part #3 of Sequoyah Series
“Why are you telling me?” Moire asked, leaning forward.
He wasn't sure himself. He'd killed others on Fimbul, but this was the one that always came back in dreams, the only one that still woke him in a chilling sweat. Ennis closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. “I think—I think it's so you will know there's one person who won't judge you for having to make those decisions. Even if that person is a murderer,” he said with an edge of bitterness.
Ennis could feel her breath on his face, then her hands. Her fingers were cold, and he covered them with his own. “I resent the implication that I would ever love a murderer,” Moire said. “You can't believe everything you read in the circulars, you know.”
He couldn't help the chuckle that suddenly escaped. He couldn't help reaching for her and holding her tightly, his face buried in her hair, as if she were the only source of heat on Fimbul. The warmth was back in her voice. She'd do what she had to do to save Sequoyah. Just like he would do whatever he had to do to save her.
¤ ¤ ¤
Moire dropped out early when they reached the Sequoyah system, with the ship signal–dark. Inathka and Yolanda Menehune were both on the bridge, keeping a careful eye on the comm and scanner boards.
“No ships in–system, Captain,” reported Inathka. “Somethin' hot on the big moon, but no signal. Um, got a stray power buzz dirtside.”
“Note everything you see, intensity and location. You'll hand that off to Alice and wait for her to look it over in case she has questions. Yolanda?”
“All quiet. Shall I give 'em the yell?”
Moire nodded. They'd already set up a crude system for ship identification. Right now it was just specific frequencies and initial code words. They'd need something a little more sophisticated after Toren figured out where they were.
“Ding dong, Avon!” Menehune said. She glanced over her shoulder at Moire. “What the hell does that mean, anyway?”
“Sometime after the war is over I'll do a series of lectures on Ancient Stuff. It involved a thing we called a 'doorbell'. Most importantly, nobody now knows about it.” Moire kept a careful eye on her scan board as they approached Sequoyah. Still nothing ship–size. Which, considering the hulks they had in orbit when she had left, meant people had been busy.
A click from the captain's earring, and then she heard Gren's voice. “Carlos Montero is learning to make cookies from Madele.”
That was the other cross–check that she hadn't told everyone about. She wouldn't land until she heard from Gren, and the first thing he said to her had to mention one of the original crew from Ayesha. If he didn't, that was the signal that the ground team had been compromised in some way.
“Anybody eat one and survive?”
“They aren't that bad. Well, except the batch he set on fire. How was Kulvar?”
“We set it on fire. No, really. I'll tell you about it when we get down. Short version: we're screwed. Any visitors? And why does Coyote have a hot spot now?”
She heard an audible sigh on the other end of the commlink. Gren was probably gritting his teeth and rubbing one hand over his forehead, like he always did when he was trying to keep a grip on his temper.
“I should have gone with you,” he muttered. “Yeah, we had some visitors, but just in pieces like before. Bigger pieces this time, and hot. Most of the reactor. Couldn't sweep up all the debris quickly, and there'll just be more coming. Figured we might as well give 'em something to find that was clearly theirs, that way if some of our stuff gets detected they'll maybe think it was just more wreckage. Crashed the reactor on Coyote with some of the other pieces.”
She didn't like it, but from what Gren had said it was probably the best thing to do in their situation. Toren was going to come looking, and chances were they couldn't hide well enough for a full spectrum scan. They needed decoys.
“We gotta hide everything we've done dirtside, or give it a shield. Think you can fake a crash on top of those buried ships we've got? That could mask a lot.”
He grunted. “Yeah, between me and the construction guys we should be able to.”
“Get them thinking about it. I'll be down shortly.”
The cave at New Houston was startlingly empty. Moire had gotten used to it being cluttered with crates and tents and supplies, and to see as it had been when she'd first landed on Sequoyah over eighty years ago woke old memories. She supposed they were only bad memories from her perspective—the crew of Bon Accord had all been alive here, sheltering in the cave, trying to fix their ship so they could go home.
Gren was waiting for them at the blast door to the underground section. They'd also managed to camouflage the door with an impressively solid wall of rock, the same rock the cave was made of. It looked like it had been there forever.
“What's this about setting Kulvar on fire?”
“We shot it up a little,” admitted Ennis. “Our old friend Kolpe Anders was there, in a can, and working with Zandovar to grab her,” he said, pointing to Moire. “When that didn't go like he wanted, he started a takeover, and it was one big happy civil war when we left.”
“Then we stopped by to meet with Palmer,” Moire added.
Gren shot a glance at her face. “He wasn't there?”
“Oh, he was there, all right. Along with his ship in several pieces, since he got attacked when he met his contact and barely made it out alive. He's in the dropship. I want Madele to take a look at him—he took some drugs to survive and he's still not back to normal. He may need some tinkering. So, I would really, really appreciate hearing only good news from your end because we are now completely cut off from civilization. I expect Toren will show up any minute now, with our luck.”
Gren halted. The lights in the tunnel, clearly scavenged self–powered emergency lights from the wrecks, gave his brown skin a greenish hue.
“What the hell's going on? Why all this, right now? They are throwing ships away trying to find us.”
“I don't think all of it is connected. We know Toren has some big plan in progress. We just don't know what it is,” Ennis said from the shadows. “At least, Umbra isn't telling me. Somehow this planet is important to that plan, and they need it now. Toren probably also was behind the attack on Palmer.” He hesitated, looking at Moire for a moment. “Umbra has been watching them for some time. My guess is Toren knows that, and has been watching them in turn. Palmer got caught in the middle.”
Gren's shoulders sagged, and he turned and continued down the rock corridor. “So where are these Umbra guys and when are they gonna help out here?”
“I'm working on that,” Moire said. “They have to know where to go first. How many more ships came through?”
“Gonna show you that,” Gren said. He turned down a side tunnel to a room filled with screens and electronics. “Three more, one just scrap but the other two were in bigger pieces than before. We also saw this.” He tapped at a small screen surrounded by the most wires and attached devices of any screen in the room. “Not sure, since we only saw the one. But if that gravitic wake thing you told us to put together is working, this ship was in webspace and it didn't get wrecked.”
Moire stared at the blurry glow on the screen. “Dammit. Did they get picked up when they dropped out?”
Gren shook his head. “May not have dropped out here, or not close enough for us to tell. We got most scans on low power so we don't get found.” He rubbed his chin. “So if they don't know where we are, how come they are sending so many ships right here?”
“Probably from what they found on Bon Accord,” Moire said. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, remembering. “When we came here the ship was already damaged. We had to jury–rig a lot of the computers for the gravitics, and one that got scrambled was the nav log. We tried to record the data best we could, but there was so much…I know we wrote down what we knew about the gravitic anomaly, so that survived. But the coordinates and nav data didn't. They know to look for an anomaly, but the rest is guesswork.”
Gren swore. “So there's even more wrecked ships we don't even know about?”
“Probably. Look on the bright side. The more they wreck the fewer they can land here. Speaking of which, how are the prisoner transports going?”
“I don't like 'em. I know we need a lot, but I can't promise they will last the maximum exposure time. They need more tests, and—”
“We don't have the time or the people. I promise you, we are going to dump them out right at the standard approach distance of very busy stations. You've got the broadcast beacons, right? If nothing else the station people are going to remove debris from the entry lanes. They just have to be airtight for a few hours, tops.” Gren sighed and nodded. “We need to get moving. Get those containers loaded up and Kilberton on his way as soon as possible. I don't want any Toren prisoners here to be helpful when their buddies show up.”
“How are you going to load up?” Ennis asked as they left the electronics room. “That could take a while, if they don't cooperate.”
“We drop off the containers and broadcast that we are stopping the food drops and they have an hour to load themselves. Then we have the trainee fighter teams go in and hunt down any stragglers with stun rounds. Whoever is in command has live ammo, just in case. None of those criminals are worth endangering my people.”
By now they had reached the big main command room. Gren started calling people over and giving orders. Moire looked around. Everyone was alert, some watching her, but she didn't see any signs of panic. They actually looked like they thought they could win. It was her job to keep up that illusion as long as possible. Until the cavalry showed up or a miracle occurred.
“Hey, you want me to go round up some of those Toren pukes?” Lorai Grimaldi's expression said she was looking forward to it. “I hear we are gettin' rid of the bastards, finally.”
“Maybe, but first you need to find that xenobiologist. He can get sent back with the others if he wants.”
Lorai looked dubious. “I dunno, last time I talked to him he was pretty happy where he was. Might not want to go.”
“He doesn't get a choice,” snapped Moire. “Nobody up top except our armed teams. He can stay with us if he can make himself useful. No weapons for him, though. But before you get him, pick up our other solitary prisoner and bring him to me.”
“That would be the other pilot. The one you didn't sell to Zandovar,” Ennis said thoughtfully.
“Enver. Yes. He said he wanted to help, and I think he meant it. It's a dangerous job, but redemption doesn't come cheap. If he pulls it off, he's earned his freedom.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
Moire sighed. “He's going to deliver a message for me.”
¤ ¤ ¤
He had expected to be afraid. They'd given him a lightweight suit, the kind of thing a passenger or a tourist might use, not a working spacer. The station ahead would be close, if he were in a ship and not clinging to a cable fastened to a cargo container. He had to leave. If they found him here the carefully constructed story would collapse.
Enver carefully swung the bulky bag in front of him and opened it, first checking and checking again that his clip was attached. The device was clunky, awkward, and looked like it had been put together in a hurry, which it had. The man who had made it looked like some of his devices had a habit of blowing up in his face, which did not inspire confidence.
Unfolded, it looked better. Working around his clip line, Enver fastened the harness around him, attaching the bag as well. Nothing left behind. He checked the controls, unclipped the line, and flipped back the toggle switch to start it up.
The propulsion harness wasn't very fast, by design. There was a temporary override if he needed to avoid something quickly, but at this speed he would be more likely to be taken for random debris. He also had to figure out a safe approach. The leader—Captain Cameron—had sketched out some likely locations but she hadn't been able to give him a complete map.
He watched the asteroid with its station slowly get closer, the feeling of deep calm still enveloping him. It didn't matter anymore what happened to him. He would do his best to complete his assignment, but he no longer cared about his own survival. For the first time in years he felt at peace.
At the edge of one of the medium–size craters a string of lighted structures was visible, curving to match the edge. The one at the end was small, and there was little activity nearby. Enver adjusted his heading. The best way would probably be to come in from the back, outside edge of the crater. There was even another facility on the far side, which would fit in well with his story. He kept the jets going and followed the ground until he found some large boulders he could take cover behind. He didn't dare risk footprints where they shouldn't be, or falling and damaging his light suit. This was close enough to the outbuilding he could see other tracks, and the way was smooth.
Enver quickly took off the harness, folded the propulsion gear, and wrapped it back in the bag. He took a few precious seconds to dig a shallow hole and bury it. The dust on his suit would also be a useful mask and support for his story.
The trail of footprints led him to the linked buildings. The closest one had an airlock, but the windows were dark and it didn't look like it was used very much. The next building was larger, and he could see light. The outer door had a security scanner but it also had a regulation emergency override. Enver pulled it, knowing that it set off an alarm, and stepped inside. He glanced at the simple air gauge on his suit and grimaced. He'd cut it a bit fine. Now he really had a good excuse. Unless they had a spare tank or could recharge his, they had to let him in.
Faces appeared at the inner door window. He held up empty hands, and gestured at his helmet, shaking his head. He heard a beep; the airlock was pressurized. He took off his helmet and attempted to look embarrassed.
“This isn't the main entrance. You need to go back out and down about half a klick,” a voice said on the intercom.
“I can't—I'm out of air. Look, I'm real sorry but it's only my second day on the job and the foreman sent me to the ridge to do some system checks and I got the craters mixed up. I can't get back.” Enver had seen a fairly large installation near this crater, so that seemed reasonable. He hoped they wouldn't be suspicious and ask questions he couldn't answer, like the name of the company that ran it.
“They sent you out by yourself your second day? The bastards…” The door clicked and swung open. There were three people in the room, all wearing company overalls. One woman was at a desk covered with piles of sensa–paper. Looked like construction plans. Another woman was standing by the airlock controls, a pugnacious expression on her dark face, and behind her was a grinning man giving Enver a sympathetic look.
“Got the new–guy treatment, eh? They did that to me, too.” He jerked his thumb at the women.
“Hey, we didn't stick you out on the surface by yourself with only a liter of air,” the woman at the desk said, finally looking up. “And we wouldn't send anyone out in one of those disposable suits, either. That could get someone killed. A joke's a joke, but not if you have to fill out accident report forms.”
“I'm sorry to take up your time like this. I'll be more careful next time I go out, and they should have my work suit ready for me in a day or so. Do you mind if I go back through the station entrance? I don't want to climb up the wall in this.”
“You were lucky you didn't get a big hole,” the pugnacious woman said. “That rock is sharper than it looks. We wouldn't let you go back in that thing. And hey, take your time. Let 'em worry about you.”
“Yeah, and you can leave your suit with us! Then we could take it out, and borrow that skeleton Juana's got in her office, and see who finds it!” the guy said, clearly delighted with his prank.
Enver finally escaped from his newfound friends after discouraging the skeleton–in–a–spacesuit joke and promising to tell them of his eventual revenge. They had given him a duffel back to store the suit in and avoid curious glances, since people didn't commonly haul suits around the inner station areas. Enver found an area with storage lockers and left the bag there. Now there was nothing to distinguish him from the other station inhabitants, and no link to the outside.
The cloud of detachment was still with him. He had to remind himself to stay alert, be suspicious. He still had work to do. Enver passed a crowd of excited people gathered around a wall screen. It was showing an outside view of a scow with a familiar–looking container being loaded on it. He'd never seen the whole container before—it had taken up a large part of the hold, with the others. There was writing on it. He waited until the vid got close enough to read the largest segment. NASA LIVES. There was more, but he didn't want to stay in one location too long.
First he had to find a cheap kiosk, the kind that only took credit tabs and not ID–linked accounts. Both messages went to a certain circular—one to the personal messages section, a cryptic set of words that meant nothing to him. The other was a more standard article submission. Both had been memorized.
A little of the tension in his body left when the messages were sent. Only one more thing to do. The end, the final task. He pulled up a station map. He found what he was looking for, and there was even a nearby bar.
Enver sat on a cracked plastic seat in the bar and ordered the cheapest beer on the menu. He wasn’t planning on drinking much of it. He took a small sip and washed it around his mouth, then spilled some on a napkin and wiped his face with it. The rest was dribbled carefully on his boots and inside his jacket. Nothing too visible, but now he smelled like he’d been drinking for hours.
He dropped an entire credit chip in the bar vendabot pay receptacle. There would be some patrons with a much lower tab, since the ‘bot didn't care who paid the bill. The rest of his money went to the charity box in front of the Lost Spacers’ Memorial. He didn’t need money anymore, and he didn't care what the captain had said. He still had a lifetime of reparations to make. And he was now going to make things just a little worse.
