Third contact envoys boo.., p.4
Third Contact (Envoys Book 1), page 4
Wepps rubbed at his arms as Chipper let go of him and swayed a little as he found his balance. “Inquiry will sort it out.”
Stines growled, “Sarge, you’re taking this well. She shot you.”
“With a stunner.” Wepps yawned.
“It could’ve been set on kill.”
“And it wasn’t.” Wepps reached out and slapped the man’s webbing. “Help the corpsman carry Westermann out of here, Peacer. Put your energy into useful things.”
When the man had grabbed his end of the stretcher, Chipper told Wepps, “That woman, Jogianto, she said it was the other chick who stunned you, sir.”
Wepps raised an eyebrow. “Chick?”
“Er … lady. Woman. That one with the scar who was behind her in line.”
“She said she shot me?” Another yawn.
“She actually said ‘it was her’.”
Wepps rolled his arms and took an experimental step then had to grab hold of Chipper’s webbing to stay on his feet. “Well, Corporal, whichever one of them did it, I can only hope the Captain will kick their ass for me. Coz this is truly an unpleasant experience.”
“Why have those two feeds gone down?” Gregory called to Captain Pan.
Pan just shook his head, clearly irritated with the ambassador’s interruptions. Well, get used to it, Bubba. I’m meant to be in charge here.
It was left to the XO to answer. Commander Wisdom Chinyama turned his ever-patient face toward Gregory and told him, “Signal reads as if it’s scrambled. Might be a magnetic field. Or the pirates may have scramblers down there.”
“So how do we find out what’s happening?”
Without turning, Pan said, “The old-fashioned way, Ambassador. We wait. And they tell us later.”
1.3
The well-lit area beyond the tunnel was a dock, a cube cut into the asteroid centuries ago. Blast doors had been set into both ends. The doors at Ana and Fowler’s end were open, retracted into the floor. The ones at the far end were sealed, separating the business area of the dock from the giant airlock beyond it, a failsafe against exposing the asteroid interior to vacuum. The dock was largely devoid of cover—devoid of anything except for the two vessels in it.
Warlord Luján had lost most of his fleet in the cat-and-mouse engagements of the past year, some here in “home-spread”—as Xerxians like Ana thought of Xerxes system—and some outside of it. Upon entering the “east” dock at the asteroid’s far tip an hour earlier, the away team had found and disabled a scout-ship. Here in the “west” dock, Luján had two ships waiting: a small, single-occupant fighter, and a larger Halcyon-6 freighter.
The latter craft was the center of the activity inside the dock, activity transmitted to Ana and Fowler’s retinaids by the tiny roachbot Fowler had a minute earlier sent scuttling along the wall. She and Fowler were still tucked back around the curve of tunnel beyond the blast doors closest them. Luján had three of his people with him, all male. One was a pilot, visible through the freighter’s cockpit windows as he powered up ship systems. Another was helping the warlord shift a repulsor-trolley laden with supply crates toward the freighter’s ramp—they were still a good twenty meters from it, but once Luján vanished inside the Halcyon-6, Ana’s rifle would be useless. She would have already tried for him, were it not for the third pirate who’d been posted as a sentry and holding a grenade-launcher. Though the man didn’t know they were there, his weapon was angled in their direction.
“Hack,” she whispered, imagining a grenade detonating against the wall or ceiling near her. “He fires that, we’re done.”
“Then we don’t let him fire it, do we?” Fowler whispered back. Crouched behind her, he fussed with the roachbot controls on his datapad. The tiny drone’s camera tilted straight down toward the floor as it transitioned from wall to roof and continued toward the sentry’s position. “You’ll get about five seconds once this goes off. Make them count.”
She nodded and pushed away from the wall, hidden by the tunnel’s curve, but weapon up and ready to dart sideways and start firing.
The roachbot was above the sentry now. It stopped moving.
“All right,” Fowler whispered. “Arming now.”
In her retina feed, a red blinking asterisk announced that the roachbot had been converted from mobile camera to grenade. Its legs detached from the roof. The feed from the camera plummeted toward the bot’s target. The sentry let out a cry of alarm a second before the bot detonated with a whump! and a flash of orange.
Ana took two fast steps sideways then four forward, weapon angled toward Luján’s position. She halted for a steadier aim. The rustle of clothing told her Fowler was doing his best to follow close. Across the dock, Luján’s offsider was wheeling around, one hand pressed to his ear in the aftermath of the explosion that had taken out his comrade, the other hand plucking at the handgun at his hip. The warlord had abandoned both the trolley of resources and the idea of fighting. He was sprinting for the ramp.
Ignoring the man with the handgun, Ana trained her weapon on her designated target. Ten meters from the ramp now. Eight. Six. A moment before squeezing the trigger, she shifted her aim a millimeter ahead of him. Ana fired into the gap between the ramp and Luján. The blue-white pulse streaked through the air space between them. In the space of a half second, the warlord went from running to collapsing. Though his body curled and folded unnaturally, Ana had already seen that he’d lost a chunk of his head.
Her attention shifted to the final hostile in the dock and she darted left, away from the direction she had heard Fowler moving behind her so as to avoid friendly fire. Her weapon tracked back toward the hostile. He had his pistol up. His focus was on her. It would be close.
Fowler fired first, his rifle barking from behind her right shoulder. Three stun rounds in quick succession. The pirate’s arms spread wide as he toppled back, his handgun flying loose.
The colonel appeared beside her and gave her that demonic grin of his, pointing his weapon toward the fallen warlord. “Oops,” he said.
She started forward again. “The ramp.” A moment later, she was jolted backwards as Fowler tugged at her webbing. “What—?”
Then she saw it too. The ramp was rising. Beyond the freighter, a red light, a globe as big as her whole body, began pulsing. The signal for airlock opening.
“Helldamn,” Fowler growled.
“The Confeds can mop him up,” she said and then make a yik sound as Fowler tugged her backwards again and spun her to face him.
He jerked his head back the way they came. “We need to get that blast door closed in case the autos don’t kick in. Pretty old asteroid, this one.”
“What? Why?”
If the colonel thought the airlock would expose them to space, he was losing his mind. The outer doors simply couldn’t open until the inner lock doors closed.
Unless …
“The freighter has tri-cannons?” she asked.
“The freighter has tri-cannons,” Fowler replied. “He shoots out those doors, this dock won’t seal fast enough to save us. Or our comrades back there.”
As they raced for the blast door controls back where they’d been sheltering along the tunnel, a burst of heated air rippled past them. It had lost enough heat to be safe to them, but it was also a sign the freighter was moving. Clanks and deep gongs declared that the door mechanisms had engaged between dock and lock.
Reaching the control panel, Fowler struck the button as Ana skidded to a halt beside him. Nothing happened.
“They locked it off?” she asked. “Those bloody bakas!”
Fowler snapped, “Light!”
Ana flicked on her rifle flashlight and shone it on the panel. Fowler drew a smartwire from a pouch on his chest webbing, connected it to his datapad and stuck the other end into the port in the panel. He called up a hack-window and started some super-fast three-finger typing.
A loud clunk from the dock told them the middle doors were fully open. The freighter engines whined as the pilot steered it through, hovering above the dock floors.
“Hurry,” she hissed, forgetting her place for a moment.
Fowler ignored her, bottom lip clamped between his teeth, typing fingers a blur.
A new whine, deeper than the engines, started up out in the airlock. Weapons powering up.
“Holy Mother,” she whispered.
When Ana had turned fourteen, her grandfather had insisted she get a St. Mary tattoo on the back of her left hand. “I don’t believe it, of course,” he’d said, “but just in case.”
She turned that hand over, kissed the tattoo, and raised her eyes to the roof. She had never believed either. But …
“Yes!” Fowler gasped and joined Ana in the middle of the tunnel to watch the inner blast doors come to life. The ancient iron structures made as much ruckus as the others had.
In the airlock, something boomed. The hostile pilot had fired at the doors. Ana kissed the tattoo again. There was no point running. A moment later she realized they were both still in place. No sudden vacuum sucking them out into the void.
“Didn’t penetrate,” Fowler said.
Another whine came from the other side of the rapidly closing blast doors. Another power up. Another attempt. It would be close. But even then, if the animal in that cockpit decided to rotate the ship one-eighty, fire at these doors …
The inner blast doors clanged shut. Ana heard the whine of magnetics sealing them. Beyond them, another boom. Ana and Fowler held each other’s gaze, both obviously awaiting the same moment. Again, she thought, there was no point in running. If he got the outer doors open and turned his cannons on these, the doors at the far end of the tunnel might seal, but she and Fowler wouldn’t make it in time.
One more muffled boom inside the dock airlock. And then the whoosh of a ship leaving.
Ana sagged with relief.
Fowler, on the other hand, gave no sign of emotion, returning to the wall, unplugging his datapad and stowing it. “The Confeds will no doubt get that guy. But at least he did us the favor of venting Luján’s body to space.”
“Oh,” Ana said as his meaning hit her. “No one needs to know.”
“Exactly. You stunned him. I got the other two. Pilot screwed it up for his people before we could get them out.”
“And if they recover the bodies?” she asked. “They probably will. Confeds are goddamn fussy about things like that. Their forensic tests will show I killed the Warlord.”
“Then I’ll take the blame for lying. We’ll revert to the original story, that your kill setting must have been selected during your fall. I’ll say I was covering our asses, but in the end, we would have accomplished the mission anyway. One dead warlord isn’t a bad thing, after all.”
“And … what about Hecate tripping me?” she asked.
He shrugged. “If she did, then maybe it’ll show up on her ECF, or those of the people behind her. I’m sure it’ll all become clear at the inevitable inquiry.”
“Inquiry? What’s an inquiry?”
This time, when he touched the webbing over her shoulder, it was almost sympathetic. “Something the Confederation is very fond of. When you arrive back on Assured, you’ll get about an hour to shower, eat, and brush your teeth. After that, you’ll find out exactly what an inquiry is.”
Part 2
March 12, 3014, Old Earth Calendar
2.1
“Is your name Tactical Enforcer Second Rating Antonia Jogianto?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. Antonia Jogianto is my name. Enforcer Second Rating is my ranking.”
“Please refrain from semantics for the remainder of this inquiry.”
“Not semantics. Specifics. Cultural differences. Can’t help those.”
A pause.
“Very well. You discharged your weapon into Peacekeeper Sergeant Wepps. Do you deny this charge?”
“Charge? Being tripped is a crime?”
“You were tripped by someone else?”
“As I’ve been saying for the past three hours, hell yes, I was tripped.”
“This is why you shot Wepps?”
“I didn’t shoot him on purpose. Blame Hecate.”
“You are referring to Tactical First Rating Hecate Morales?”
“You mean Second Rating. Unless … oh, shit, she’s been promoted?”
“Please refrain from profanities.”
“But she’s been promoted, yes?”
“I don’t know. The information in front of me states her rank as First Rating. Please allow me to ask the questions.”
“Then ask your questions. Faster we’re done, faster I get some shut-eye. It’s goddamned one a.m. ship time, three a.m. by my body clock.”
“You are claiming that Hecate Morales tripped you intentionally? And that this caused the weapon discharge?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Are you claiming that she meant you to shoot Sergeant Wepps?”
“How would I know that?”
“Are you claiming that she meant you to shoot—”
“No, alright? No. I’m telling you she pushed me over and caused an accidental discharge of my weapon.”
“Your finger was inside the trigger guard of your rifle?”
“It was.”
“Why?”
“Why!”
“Why was your finger inside—?”
“I understand the question, dude. I don’t think you get what it’s like to be in a firefight.”
“Procedures for both DCHC and Sevens Party state that an operative’s finger shall remain outside the trigger guard before entry into a hostile enclosed area. Only when the operative in front of you has stepped aside shall you move your trigger finger inside the guard and onto the trigger.”
“Didn’t hear a question mark that time.”
“The question is why did you move your finger inside the guard before Sergeant Wepps had stepped out of your way.”
“And I’m telling you that he had stepped aside, and I was following my CO, and I had multiple hostile targets out in front of me, and I was prepping to shoot some of them. In other words, I was doing my job.”
“You claim that Sergeant Wepps had cleared the way for you to step into the active zone?”
“Yes. And can you write down an accurate description of the pissed-off expression on my face at all these dumbass questions, please?”
“Please refrain from profanities.”
“Oh, I am, trust me. I could get a whole more profane than this.”
“How did Warlord Luján die?”
“Oh, we’re finished with the Wepps thing? You believe me now?”
“How did Warlord Luján die?”
“Goddammit.”
“Please—”
“He was sucked out the loading dock when his own pilot blew a hole in the outer airlock doors. I’m sure Fowler already told you this.”
“We are asking you.”
“And I answered.”
“The Halcyon-6 pilot destroyed the outer airlock doors after you had stunned Warlord Luján?”
“Yep.”
“How long after?”
“Yeah, sure, like I had time to watch the clock.”
“How long do you estimate?”
“Here’s the sequence of events for ya. You work out the times. We ran in. Luján and one of his guys were pushing a trolley onto the freighter’s ramp. Another guy was halfway between us and the ramp. Fowler shot the closest guy. I shot Luján. Fowler shot the last guy. That was, like, three seconds or four maybe. Before we could retrieve their unconscious bodies, the freighter engines started up, the pilot opened the center blast doors remotely and we realized the bastard’s ship was armed with tri-cannons.”
“Please refrain—”
“So. Then we leg it back to the inner dock blast door control panel. We try it. It don’t work. Our enemies disabled it, or recoded it, or something. And then it’s a race for Fowler to hack it using his datapad before the pilot destroys the outer doors. Fowler won that race, by the way. In case you hadn’t figured that out yet.”
“You claim that the Warlord and two of his men were alive after you shot them but the actions of the pilot killed them.”
“Stop this ‘you claim’ crap. I’m telling you in simple English. Want me to switch to Spanish? Will you believe me then?”
“Please refrain from sarcasm and hostility. We are simply acquiring information for the record.”
“Sure. Record this.”
“Please refrain from vulgar hand gestures.”
“Can I take this goddamn thing off my face now?”
“Please, refrain from profanities.”
“Goddamn is not a profanity.”
“It is.”
“Well, can I?”
“You cannot.”
“It itches. It’s like wearing a spider.”
“We have several details to—”
“And the light is hurting my eyes.”
“The reader does not cause pain. It has been thoroughly tested against—”
“I don’t care. I’m taking it off.”
“Tactical—”
2.2
Presumably, the spider-like device sensed the pressure of Ana’s hands where she clutched at it. It came free immediately, its legs relaxing their grip, sensors withdrawing from her skin. As it dropped to the desk, Ana felt the prickle from tiny scratches along both cheeks and her left temple.
“Put that back on!” Peacekeeper Sergeant Anthea Ouw snapped from the far corner of the room. The team leader for Assured’s other squad—the one that had stayed behind during the mission— was dressed in Peacer navy-and-grey, her hair was buzz-cut, and her teeth were bared in fury. Ouw looked as pissed as Ana felt; anyone would think it was her who got stunned—or tripped.
Temper, temper, Ana wanted to say. Ouw wasn’t the one who had to wear the suffocating thing. And no matter what the oily-skinned technician who’d been grilling her said, that light had hurt her eyes.
