Third contact envoys boo.., p.6
Third Contact (Envoys Book 1), page 6
“How many more pirate and insurgent groups are out there?” Pan added.
“Captains please,” Gregory intervened. While he admired their honest anger, he had to at least give the impression of keeping this solution-focused.
“It’s all right, Ambassador,” Nguyen said. “We’re certainly not in denial of our history. And the short answer is that, from the information we have, this is the last of the groups we need to worry about.”
“That doesn’t answer the question,” Pan muttered.
Like the politician she was, Nguyen went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “So, yes, thirty-six light-years from here and travelling outward from the DCHC core. We believe they discovered and resettled an old Chinese black site created in the old times. They have a small fleet, one we’d be hesitant to confront on our own since Xerxes is only now assembling an official navy of her own under strict DCHC observations. Hence the support of Assured and Bountiful is, in a word, vital.”
Pan had been tapping away at his datapad; now he passed it along to Gregory. “That’s the Pollyanna system. No habitable worlds.”
Nguyen said, “They don’t need worlds, they have sealable asteroids and they have their fleet. Pollyanna is where they work from.”
“The name of this faction?” Gregory asked.
Nguyen paused for a moment then she said, “Clan Lobos.”
If Gregory had thought the room was wound as tight as he could get, he was wrong.
Pan barked, “What!”
Farahaji actually facepalmed.
Wepps and Chinyama both abandoned their usual professional stoicism to gasp. Grace swore colorfully beneath her breath.
“Clan Lobos?” Gregory asked, doling out the syllables slowly.
Nguyen said nothing. Fowler was nodding, watching them keenly like a Caultan snow wolf.
Pan was on his feet now, leaning on his fists on the table top. “Clan Lobos were wiped out during the Battle for Centauri seventy years ago. This very ship took out their last three vessels.”
“So we believed too. However, we discovered that they didn’t commit all their forces to that blockade. Enough remained in hiding that they have repopulated, built new ships, stolen others …” She gave a shrug. “The worst thing is we now believe them responsible for the recent Heavens Gate Adventure Cruise massacre.”
Farahaji groaned. “That was them?”
“Apparently, yes.”
“My XO’s mother was on that cruise,” she said quietly. “Her and ninety-five other innocent people.”
An ominous silence settled over the room for a long time, each person lost in their thoughts and Nguyen giving them the time to digest her revelations.
“You have proof?” Gregory finally said.
“I do.”
“Send it. Please.”
“If that last claim is true,” Pan added, “then Assured would be happy to help you.”
“Bountiful too,” said Farahaji.
Gregory wished the two Captains hadn’t said that. As they’d already made clear, they couldn’t make promises without official approval.
“Send the information, Chancellor,” he said. “We will get back to you as soon as possible.”
“A good day to all of you,” Nguyen said shortly before the holo field broke back up into static.
In the moments that followed, nobody made to leave. Gregory put his finger inside his collar and scratched.
There was a lot to discuss here.
Gregory wished they could do it without Fowler in the room.
2.4
The sleeping quarters assigned to the Tacticals was a glorified passageway. It had a wash basin by the entry doors at each end and three double bunks along each wall—that was pretty much it. Above the existing bunks, the Confed navy had pulled out two more tiers of them and replaced them with cupboards.
When Ana returned from her inquiry, Tactical Manolo was rummaging through one of these cupboards, standing in the narrow aisleway and forcing Ana to make herself skinnier to get past her. Shorter than the Peacer with the soulful eyes, Manolo probably rivalled him for weight. She maintained a lot of bulk—her calves were the thickness of Ana’s thighs.
“Nothing but first aid gear,” Manolo complained, her husky voice louder than it needed to be. “Could’ve at least chucked a little booze up there for us.”
“Booze is at Caultan prices and you get it at the ship’s bar,” Umbrano’s deep voice rumbled from one of the lower bunks. Ana knew he was quoting from the briefing Fowler had given them twenty-six hours ago before they’d boarded the Confed ship.
“Caultan prices!” Manolo mock-spat and slammed the cupboard. “For what we done today, we should be getting a bottle each for free.”
“Of whatever we want,” Umbrano agreed. “Make mine Polluxan vodka.”
“Scotch,” Manolo said wistfully. “The really good stuff from Foucault.”
They were the only two Tacticals in the bunkroom apart from Ana. Despite it being the early hours of the morning, everyone else was busy. Fowler was at some big-heads meeting center-ship. Olesco and Dayang were rostered on weapons-checks down in the hangar armory. And Hecate … well, Hecate was no doubt sitting in that conference room lying through her teeth.
Ana’s bunk was above Umbrano’s. She hauled herself up and sat with legs dangling. “We’ll get standard bonuses for yesterday’s takedown. We can afford the booze.”
Manolo gave her the evil-eye for a moment before climbing onto her own bunk. A lot bigger than Ana, she had to duck her head to sit up there. “Not enough for Caultan Scotch.” Her dangling feet were bare.
Ana put a heel on the bunk base and started untying her laces; putting boots back on after her shower had been almost as annoying as having to go the damn inquiry. Almost.
Manolo was speaking again and it took Ana a moment to realize it was directed at her. “As long as you don’t cost us that bonus.”
Ana stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There’s talk the Confeds gonna tax us. As punishment for friendly fire.”
“Helldamn,” rumbled Umbrano.
“There’s talk?” Ana said. “What talk? Who’s telling you that.”
“Hecate said.”
“Ah. Hecate. Of course she did. Well, sister, if our pay does get docked, you can blame Hecate and not me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Bitch tripped me. That’s how I shot that Wepps guy.”
Umbrano hooted a laugh.
“Ain’t funny, Umbi!” Ana yanked off one boot, tossed it behind her and started on the next.
“Looked pretty hackin’ funny,” he said, “you skidding through the dirt and firing stun bolts off.”
Unamused, Manolo seized control of the conversation again. “Well, I was right behind Hecate and I didn’t see nothing.”
“That’s coz you’re blind!”
“What!”
That sent Umbrano into paroxysms again—and set Ana’s bunk shaking. The big man’s deep guffaws bounced around the small space like shrapnel. “Blind! That’s … that’s a good one, Jogi! Remember … remember that time … that time she walked … into that glass door?”
Manolo reached up, yanked open a cupboard and threw a bottle of antiseptic at him. It must have hurt, but Umbrano only laughed harder, gasping for breath.
Small things, Ana thought, but she was glad that Umbrano had drawn Manolo’s attention. She shouldn’t have insulted her like that. With Hecate gunning for her position, Ana needed all the friends she could get. With both boots off now, she turned and lay back, hands under her head.
Friends. Sure. I got lots of those.
“So, what was the inquiry like?” Manolo asked her. She seemed to have forgotten the insult and the prospect of an impending fine. “They shoot you full of truth drugs?”
“They don’t do that.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.
“They fit this rig to your head—it looks a bit like a squimmid.”
“Squimmid!” Umbrano barked. His laughter hadn’t stopped yet and now it morphed into a coughing fit.
Ana shook her head slightly. And small minds.
“What’s the rig do?” Manolo asked.
“I’m guessing it measures brain activity, skin temperature, crap like that. They probably think it tells them if you’re lying or not.” Was it stupid that she hoped the rig hadn’t worked for her but had worked for Hecate?
“So, did ya?”
“Lie?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t lie about Hecate, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Shit, Ana, she wouldn’t trip ya.”
“She did.”
“Nah. And if she did, it was an accident. Maybe you moved too slow and got in her way.”
Apparently, that wasn’t funny, because Umbrano’s laughter finally waned, his coughing passing too.
“I didn’t move too slow. We’ve been a unit for years. Have you ever seen me move too slow?”
Manolo scooted off her bed, dropped to the floor and started going through the cupboards above the next set of bunks. “No, but I never seen Hecate trip anyone neither.”
“She’s been giving me the evil eye for weeks. Ever since the talk of Fowler moving on. She wants his job.”
“Who doesn’t?” Umbrano said.
“That’s why she tripped you? What makes you think you’re next in line?”
“Er, a little thing called rank.”
“Well, she’s ahead of you now on that one alright,” Umbrano said. “Promoted to First.”
“Exactly. She planned the whole thing. She’s been doing a bunch of ordinary stuff for weeks same as me. Then she makes it look like I do one bad thing. Bam. She’s promoted. I’m overlooked. Telling ya, she wants that job.”
“Tell ya what I want?” said Manolo. “I want that Wepps guy you shot. Ya think ya can go past his bunk later and stun him again for me?”
From below Ana, Umbrano’s hooting started up again.
Gregory’s personal yacht was moored inside Assured’s hangar bay and he headed for it the moment the meeting broke up. He marched up the long entry ramp, turned left at the top, clomped through the yacht’s circular lounge and went straight for the drinks station in the corridor behind it.
Coming out of his small cabin, his pilot Piers, stopped and stared at him. “Straight scotch? Must’ve been a crap meeting.”
The statement made Gregory instantly cranky.
Crankier, he corrected himself.
Without turning, he said, “This would be a great time to give me some space, Piers.”
Piers said nothing. Seconds later, Gregory heard his boots on the ramp, headed down.
Good. At least someone around here cooperates.
He moved out into the lounge, a compartment five meters across with a semicircular couch on each side of it and small tables fixed in front of those couches. Gregory leaned a hip against the portside table. He got one good sip of scotch before more footsteps sounded on the ramp, headed up.
“Ah, crap,” he whispered.
A moment later, he found himself face to face with a very angry Grace Renny. His assistant and bodyguard loomed in the access-way between lounge and cockpit, hands on hips, glaring daggers. Grace was long of limb and long of body. When on-duty, her shoulder-length red hair was captured in a tight bun. Grace was rarely not on duty.
Gregory held his glass toward her. “Scotch?”
“How ‘bout I hold you down and tip it in your eyes?”
Gregory screwed up his face. “Rather you didn’t.”
“Nice trick, getting me stuck behind the officers while you do a runner for the lifts.”
“I wanted some alone time.”
She pointed at him, hard. “You get alone time in the shower, in your bed, and on the can. That’s all. As I keep reminding you, you’re a diplomat and your ass belongs to the DCHC—and because my ass does too, and because my job is following your ass around and keeping it safe, it burns my ass that you keep finding ways to give me the slip.”
Gregory sipped whisky. “You said ‘ass’ a lot in that sentence. Long sentence, by the way.”
“Thanks, don’t need an editor. Need a boss who behaves himself.”
“Grace. I’ve had one of the crappiest days in a long, long time. I need some space. I need a couple more of these.” He raised the glass and sipped more scotch. “Then I need to think about how I’m going to talk my bosses out of signing off on something stupid.”
She frowned. “Not happy about this Clan Lobos thing, huh?”
“Great deduction, detective.”
“Tell me. Talk it out.”
“Sure. Why not? In a nutshell, now we’ve cleaned up Sevens’s rival faction—the rogue faction that was meant to be the final rogue faction—and we’ve killed several human beings for them, apparently there’s a whole other rival group they want us to go neutralize, one that’s no doubt twice the size of Luján’s. And which is also thirty-something light-years from here in the wrong direction.”
“You’re pretty good at long sentences too.”
“And,” he continued, “the Xerxians have the gall to say they won’t join the Confederation unless we help. As if they are doing us the favor by joining.”
“In a way they are,” she said slowly.
“Wow. Helpful thoughts.”
“The Silvers have been—”
“Xerxians,” Gregory admonished her.
“The Xerxians have been the worst thing that happened to humanity’s interests in space since the PBT virus. Bringing them into a stable relationship with the broader society where they abide by our laws keeps us all safer long term.”
“I have heard this argument, you know.”
“And I happen to agree with it.”
“I happen not to. The Xerxians become signatories to the constitution and they can vote on laws, suggest laws. Won’t that be fun? We’re bringing into our civilization a bunch of feudal-minded savages who put on educated accents and clean clothes and pretend to love peace but really just want power. And we’re handing it to them. On their terms.”
“And?” she asked. “What else?”
“What else? Oh, I’ll tell you what else. This right here is my life, Grace. My life’s work. And I completely and absolutely detest it. For eighteen years, I’ve been sucking up to tiny-brained despots and economic bullies, signing treaties that make me nauseous. And now apparently my job is to support killing people on behalf of one of those despots. I became a diplomat to achieve important things. Noble, worthwhile things. But there are none of those left anymore.”
“For example?”
“For example, there’s no alien species around to build relationship with. I was born centuries too late to negotiate the personhood of the Anachromites. I hadn’t graduated in time for the mission to reestablish contact with the Jarinyi. So, I get to spend my time working with humans. And what fantastic work that is. Thirty years ago, my father got the meaningful and rewarding task of bringing Foucault, Pride of Mao and Centauri together to kick off the Confederation. I get to sanction murderous Xerxians committing more murder!”
He realized his voice had risen so loud, he’d been shouting at her by the end of his rant. He threw back the rest of the whisky, and turned his back, feeling guilty. He didn’t like people who yelled at their staff. Especially when those staff were as close to him as Grace and Piers were.
“Very well,” she said after deliberating a moment’s thought. “I’ll allow you two more belts of scotch. You can have your pity party. And you can have your thinking time. As for giving you space, I’ll lock down the yacht and nap in the cockpit. Anyone calls for you, I’ll tell them to bite me. When you eventually need something or when you’re going to bed, you buzz me.”
He turned back and tried on a smile. “You’re a good assistant.”
“Better than you deserve, ya numpty.” She began to turn and froze halfway with an amused sparkle in her eye. “Oh, and when you pour your next scotch, be sure and bring me one too. There’s a good boss.”
At 0245 ship time, Gregory sent his datapack off to the Minister back on Foucault. In it, he had copied all of Nguyen’s data, the record of the Ready Room meeting, the various ECF recordings from the away mission and his own strong recommendation that the DCHC immediately suspend Xerxes’ pending signatory status with the Confederation Constitution. The recommendation was well-argued, well-phrased and Gregory knew there wasn’t a chance in hell that the Minister would accept it.
2.5
Chipper and six other Peacers piled into an elevator, commandeering it. While Chipper repeatedly pounded the close doors button, three more Peacers raced past outside, headed for maintenance tubes and stairways.
“Why we’re running, I don’t know,” Stines puffed from beside Chipper. “There’s twenty callbooths. And ten of us.”
“Then you won’t mind if you’re last one out of the lift,” Red Team’s “Widowmaker” Bradstock said from where he was squashed against the back wall. Bradstock was older than the other Peacers, his buzzcut hair a steel wool grey, and it was said he’d enlisted twenty-seven years back to assist the Centauran government against sectarian violence on their smaller continent.
“Screw that,” Stines scoffed. “And get the doors shut, will ya?”
“Trying,” Chipper responded and pounded faster.
Just as the doors began to respond, an approaching ship’s nurse appeared, wanting in. Snarls and swearing from the occupants made him change his mind. He too had turned for the stairs before the lift doors shut.
“I closed ’em, I get out first,” said Chipper.
“The hell you say,” Stines growled.
Others echoed Stines’s sentiment but unlike Stines, their comments were good-natured. They jostled Chipper for position, but he held his ground, breathing deep after the run from hangar deck. They weren’t getting out before him. Today he got to call home for the first time in a month, talk to his parents for the first time in a month. Yes, sir. Once those doors opened, it’d be a sixty-five-meter sprint down Six Deck’s main arterial corridor and thirty meters more across the recreation hall and then he’d be in one of those booths, calling Oceana. Two minutes ago, at 1140 hours, they’d all been standing at ease in the hangar while Red Team Sergeant Ouw issued them an access code for ten minutes callbooth privilege. And the moment she had uttered that wonderful word dismissed, all of them had set off running.
