The bales were heavy. It was hard work shifting them, packing them into the cargo bay. Tayvis muscled the latest one into place, webbing it securely. He paused, catching his breath, leaning against the bale. Dace did this and enjoyed it? He shook his head. That didn't matter anymore. She was marrying Vance. Don't think about her, don't let the pain in.
He pushed himself upright and headed for the doors to load another bale. The work was good for him. It took his mind away from the past, gave him something else to focus on. It was the long stretches between, when he had little to do, that he tended to brood. He'd volunteered for kitchen duty as often as the others would let him, which was most of the time. It didn't involve much, though. The galley consisted of a reheater unit and a recycler. Doing the dishes took less than ten minutes.
Most of the crew played endless games of Comets or dice. Tayvis rarely joined in. They gambled for money. When they played a friendly cutthroat game for points, he played with them.
He stopped by the cargo doors. There were voices outside raised in anger. One of them was Captain Jefferes. His ears pricked up, trying to listen without being seen. It was an old habit that had served him well in the past. He saw no reason to break it now.
"You have no right," Jefferes shouted.
"Legally, we do," the other voice answered, calm and reasonable even if it was loud to be heard over the Captain's shouting. "Emergency provision passed by the Council of Worlds just last week."
"It's piracy, pure and simple."
"It's expediency," the other man answered.
Tayvis frowned, the voice was familiar. He risked a peek around the door frame.
Captain Jefferes and his second in command, a burly man named Peit, were surrounded by silver uniforms. Most of the Patrol held guns and looked ready to use them. Their leader, wearing a sector commander's clusters, held a sheet of mem paper. Tayvis swore under his breath, he knew the commander. He'd had the misfortune of serving with him once. It had been mutual distrust and dislike.
Captain Jefferes took the paper, grumbling loudly.
"This ship and all personnel on the crew manifest are now auxiliary Patrol, vessel and crew, under my command," Commander Wexford said pompously. "You will assemble your crew immediately. And Captain, they had better match the crew listings. We wouldn't want to have to arrest you for smuggling, piracy, or consorting with the enemy."
"And what of my cargo?" Jefferes protested. "Food shipment for Rugravia. Tell me that isn't high priority right now and make me believe it." The rumors of food shortages were widespread and beginning to cause panic.
"Your shipment will be redirected," Wexford said. "That is no longer your concern. Patrol logistics will see that the food is delivered."
Not to Rugravia, Tayvis thought. Rugravia was too far down the pecking order, too poor to pay the requisite bribes. It was only a couple tons of grain and yeast cultures, but it represented normalcy in the Empire. It would stave off food riots for a few more days.
"Your crew, Captain," Wexford said impatiently. "They will assemble here, immediately." He snapped his fingers at the Patrol uniforms standing behind him, they spread out, heading for all possible exits from the ship. "My men will see that you comply."
Captain Jefferes' comment was vicious enough to peel paint from the ship. Wexford merely smiled, all teeth and cold as ice.
"What's going on?" Lyvert, the cargomaster, asked behind Tayvis.
"Congratulations," Tayvis said, "we're all part of the Patrol now."
Lyvert's jaw dropped. "They can't do that, they can't make us."
"According to him," Tayvis jerked his thumb at the scene out the hatch, "the Patrol now has the authority, given by the Council."
"You used to be Patrol, didn't you?" Lyvert asked. "We've seen your mark."
Tayvis had a diamond tattoo on the inside of his left wrist, all Enforcers had one. "What about it?" He resisted the urge to tug his cuff over the tattoo.
"At least you got something to bargain with," Lyvert said. "Me, I got three convictions. I was all mixed up until Jefferes took me on and straightened me out. They're going to shoot me."
"Commander Wexford will probably shoot me, too," Tayvis said. "We weren't exactly friendly. I left him in charge of a garrison on Kluger Outpost."
"Kluger Outpost is an unmanned science station," Lyvert said. His eyes widened as the implications came clear.
"Exactly." Tayvis couldn't help the half grin on his face. It had been the perfect practical joke on a pompous newly promoted Commander.
"Wait a minute," Lyvert said, his face wrinkled in thought, "you put him in charge? That means your rank—"
"Don't go there," Tayvis said. "You don't want to know."
Lyvert gave him an odd look. "You ordered him. Why are you on this ship working cargo?"
"It's a really long story."
"You there," a man in a silver uniform shouted. "Out with the rest. Now." He motioned with his blaster.
They stepped out of the cargo bay and onto the plascrete. The rest of the crew assembled outside, most muttering curses under their breath. Tayvis glanced around. There were six ships in a port built for dozens. That little fact started to take on more significance. Someone had known about the actions of the Council far enough in advance to warn the ships. Most of them, anyway.
He hadn't bothered to check the registry of any other ships at the ports they'd stopped at. He'd been too wrapped up in his own personal pain. Now he mentally kicked himself for being stupid. He'd noticed there seemed to be far fewer ships than normal, but he'd attributed that to the war with the Federation, assuming the other ships must have somehow crossed the border, leaving the Empire. Now he wasn't so sure.
He stayed at the back of the group, keeping his head down in the vain hope that Wexford wouldn't notice him. Commander Wexford strutted back and forth in his perfectly polished boots and creased uniform while his underlings checked the crew listing against the actual people present. There were other groups at other ships in the port. Tayvis could see the mingling of uniforms and shipsuits. Why was the Black Rose singled out for the personal attention of Commander Wexford? Probably because it was the biggest and newest of the almost decrepit ships currently in port. That wasn't saying much about the Black Rose.
The underlings read off the crew manifest, comparing names and prints. Each crew member was required to step forward as his name was called to scan his hand for an id match. Tayvis briefly entertained the idea of sneaking away. That was impossible. There were at least ten guards watching them from all sides.
"We seem to have a problem, Captain," Wexford said before they'd reached the end of crew members waiting. "Your crew manifest lists eight. I count eleven from your ship."
"We aren't required to list cargo haulers," Captain Jefferes said, with a sharp glance at his crew.
"They are still part of your crew," Wexford said. He eyed Jefferes suspiciously.
"Temporary labor, I don't have to register them unless I offer them permanent berths," Jefferes objected. "Check your regulations, Commander. The ones for private, independent cargo ships."
"You will be paid, Captain," Wexford said. "Your crew and your company will be reimbursed according to the currently accepted—"
Jefferes said something extremely rude and anatomically impossible involving the Council of Worlds and the Patrol and their payment schedule. Wexford's lips tightened. Tayvis silently cheered Jefferes. He had run into his share of disagreements with Patrol procedure when he was wearing the uniform. Then he was required to live with it, now he didn't have to. There were advantages to being a civilian.
"The other unlisted members of your crew will step forward," Wexford ordered.
There was a general shuffling of feet among the crew. None of them were happy about this new turn of events. Most of the crew of the Black Rose wanted to stay anonymous. That wasn't possible anymore, so they did the next best thing. They offered up the three unlisted crew in the vain hope that their own shortcomings would be overlooked. The end result of the foot shuffling was that Tayvis and two others were left standing at the front of the crew.
Wexford stared at Tayvis, his gaze fixed and steely. It made him resemble a constipated lizard. Tayvis wisely didn't say that out loud.
"What are you doing on a ship like this?" Wexford blurted out.
"Moving cargo," Tayvis answered.
Wexford eyed him up and down, slowly and carefully noting each detail from the shabby jumpsuit to the tattered gloves Tayvis wore. He snapped his fingers at one of his men.
"Take this one into custody aboard my ship," Wexford said. "Deal with the others as per your orders."
"Why?" Jefferes demanded, shoving his way between the Patrol grunt and Tayvis. "He's a passenger, working his way out—"
"I really doubt that, Captain. Not when he could buy your ship and half a dozen others just like it if he wanted."
Jefferes shot a suspicious look at Tayvis and stepped back.
"You've stooped to snooping through private records now, Rik?" Tayvis asked Wexford. "Because if that's what you're basing your comment on, you need to check your sources."
Commander Wexford bristled at the assumed familiarity. "Arrest him," he snapped at his men. "I'm sure there's something we can charge him with."
Tayvis shrugged and let the Patrol officer tug him away from the ship.
"You and you," one of Wexford's sergeants shouted, pointing at Lyvert and one of the engineers. "You are reassigned to duty on a Patrol cruiser. You three," he pointed at others, "are reassigned to planetside duty." His voice faded as Tayvis walked farther away.
The crew was going to resist, Tayvis knew. They weren't going to be happy about being arbitrarily assigned somewhere else. It was the Patrol method, but it wasn't going to work well on independent spacers. He understood the logic behind it, divide them up, put them in unfamiliar situations, and they usually gave up and did what you ordered. But with this group, they were going to rebel. The fireworks would be spectacular when the spacers got organized. Too bad Tayvis wasn't going to be there to see it. The officer escorting him away took him to a shuttle parked across the plascrete landing field. The Patrol emblem on the side blazed in the afternoon sunlight.
Tayvis didn't see any reason to fight. He even let them cuff him to a seat inside the shuttle. He sat and waited, biding his time. Rik Wexford was certain to make his appearance before too long. Tayvis could verbally rip him to shreds then.
Rik hadn't made his appearance when the shuttle lifted off several hours later. Tayvis woke from a doze as it rattled its way into space. There weren't any viewscreens where he was sitting. He shifted to a more comfortable position and went back to sleep.
They docked with a ship. The interior of the ship was very familiar, though he'd never been on this particular one. His guards took him to a tiny cabin. They took the cuffs off before shutting the door. He heard the lock engage as the door clicked shut.
He prowled the tiny cabin. What game was Rik playing? And why did he bother caring? Habit, mostly, he answered himself. He'd spent too many years playing Lowell's games. It was ingrained in him to watch and listen, to work out the advantages and angles in a situation.
Time crawled past. Hours of time with nothing happening. He finally gave up and slept on the bunk. With any luck, Rik would be so tied up trying to stop an incipient mutiny that he would forget Tayvis was here. Not that it was likely to happen. Rik had too many grudges against Tayvis.
He woke hungry and restless. No one had bothered to feed him. He paced in the tiny cabin. He'd been here too long. He stopped in front of the door panel.
This was a regular cabin, not a brig holding cell. The lock was designed more as a warning to stay put than a physical barrier. Tayvis wedged his fingers around the door plate and pulled. He couldn't get a solid grip on it. The panel was almost flush with the wall.
He opened the storage lockers and bins in the cabin, searching for anything useful. All of them were empty. He stopped, studying his boots. They were old, scuffed and worn. They were the one piece of his uniform he'd kept, mostly for sentimental reasons, but not the ones most people suspected.
He sat on the bunk and pulled off the left boot. There was a hidden compartment in the sole. He wriggled it open and slid out the slender piece of metal inside. It was one of Dace's lockpicks, he'd managed to hold onto it for over two years. This pair of boots, with the hidden lockpick, had been left in storage while he went on duty with Exploration and ended up on Trythia.
He twirled the bit of metal in his hand, remembering. She'd given her lockpicks to him when he arrested her. He knew she was innocent of treason, not of breaking several dozen other laws and regulations. He loved her all the more for doing what she was convinced was right, even if it meant shooting him. He'd forgotten he had the pick until he found his boots in the storage locker. He had planned on giving her back her lockpicks when he saw her again. He hadn't planned on it taking so long. He hadn't planned on Vance.
"How could you, Dace?" he whispered to himself. It didn't matter. She had. And it hurt.
He shoved his foot back into his boot. Running away hadn't worked. He'd have to find something else, some other place so deep he wouldn't hear her name ever again. And maybe, eventually, he'd forget her. It was wishful thinking. The stars would all go cold before he forgot her. Even now, after her betrayal, he couldn't help but remember her.
It made it easier to pick the lock on the cabin. He didn't care if he ended up in prison. He jammed the lockpick behind the door plate and pried it loose.
It only took a moment to cross the wires and short the lock. The door obediently slid open. He stepped into the hallway.
He was disappointed. No one was there. The ship felt almost deserted. He stopped, closing his eyes and listening. The pulse of the engine was faint, normal for holding orbit. They must still be at the planet.
He prowled silently down the corridor. He wasn't sure why he'd picked the lock. Mostly to prove he could. Partly in the hope that Rik would be that much angrier when he met him again. He wanted a fight, something he could hit with his fists. He wanted something he knew how to deal with.
The crew quarters were empty. He headed up a deck. The layout of the ship was much too familiar. All Patrol cruisers were built with the same plans.
He slipped into the engine control room. One engineer was on duty, currently adjusting some part deep in the complex mass of machinery that made the ship fly. Tayvis stood at the window of the control room, looking down at the engineer. The man never looked up, never noticed him.
Tayvis went back the other way, up through the ship to the command deck. He stopped outside the door to the bridge, listening to what sounded like a crisis in progress. The murmur of voices made a steady drone.
"Shuttle seven, you are cleared for docking," a crisp voice said, the only one he could clearly hear.
Tayvis stepped through the open door and leaned against the frame, waiting to be noticed. Rik was bent over a tactical display, the ship's captain and ranking officers gathered around him. The only officers not in the huddle were the com tech and a pilot. Both were intent on their own stations. No one noticed him.
Tayvis stayed where he was, listening and watching. Rik was dealing with the anticipated rebellion. Tayvis almost smiled.
"They're running, sir," one of the officers bent over the board said. She sounded stiff, too formal. She was probably low ranking and afraid of being in close proximity to a sector commander.
"Hold your fire," Rik said. He sounded tired, frustrated, but resigned. "We have four of the ships. Let the other two go." He turned towards the com tech. "Relay orders. All ships are to report at Besht within a week. Admiral Flanigan will have orders waiting."
"And the other ships?" the captain asked.
"Let them go," Rik answered. "I can't blame them for running. Make sure the food shipments get through to their original destinations."
"How?" the captain asked.
"By letting them run," Rik answered. "The shipments on the other four ships will have to be rerouted at Besht." He turned as he talked, finally noticing Tayvis lounging in the doorway. "Send the recall to all officers in port," he told the com tech. "How did you get out?" he asked Tayvis without a pause. There was no look of startlement on his face, it was almost as if he'd expected to find Tayvis out.
Tayvis merely smiled. He wasn't about to admit to having a highly illegal lockpick in his possession. It was safely back in his boot. Some habits were impossible to break.
"Captain," Rik said over his shoulder. His eyes never left Tayvis. "Inform me when we're underway."
"Yes, sir," the captain answered. The group around the tactical display dispersed to various positions on the bridge.
"My cabin," Rik informed Tayvis. His voice left no room for argument.
Tayvis debated about arguing it anyway. There was something different about Rik, though. Despite every effort to remain aloof and uncaring, his curiosity stirred. Something deeper was going on here. He walked beside Rik without comment.
Tayvis could easily have overpowered Rik, but where could he go? There was only one way off a Patrol ship in orbit, only one way that left the person still alive. And Tayvis didn't know how to fly a shuttle.
Rik led him into his personal quarters. They were cramped, but much larger than any others on the ship. Rik shut the door behind Tayvis and thumbed the lock for privacy.
"Have a seat," he invited. "Drink?"
Tayvis stayed standing in the middle of the room. Something was definitely off.
"Sorry about arresting you," Rik continued. "I couldn't think of another way to get you off the planet without raising suspicions." He had his back to Tayvis. He poured two glasses of thick liquid, slightly pink and definitely fruit juice. The Patrol had strict regulations against intoxicants on board, at least ones not in the medic's quarters. He offered a glass to Tayvis.
"What game are you playing?" Tayvis asked. He accepted the offered glass though he didn't drink.
"Who said I was playing games?" Rik's smile was wide and fake as gold leaf on an engine exhaust port. "I merely wanted a drink with an old friend. How's retirement treating you? I have to admit you chose a strange venue for your recreation."
Rik walked towards a control panel set in the wall. He punched in a series of codes. The panel flickered red before resuming its usual configuration of colors.
"You can talk freely now," Rik said, dropping the casual air.
"And I couldn't before?"
"Flanigan has spies planted on all the ships. He doesn't trust his own people."
"Flanigan was always a paranoid jerk."
"You can say that, you aren't Patrol anymore." There was a question behind that remark.
"What are you hinting at, Rik? You said we could talk freely."
"Yes, just a drink between old friends." Rik settled on a cushioned chair. Tayvis followed his lead and sat. "Tell me, do you still keep in touch with Lowell?"
"No," Tayvis said.
"Pity. I could really use his expertise about now. Although the last rumor I heard was that he was wanted for dereliction of duty among other things. Flanigan issued his arrest warrant the same day he relieved him of command of the Fleet. Everyone knows you worked for him."
"Not any more."
Rik shrugged. The minutes crawled by without comment. Tayvis leaned back, studying the other man. Rik had changed. The arrogant attitude was only for show.
"What do you really want from me?" Tayvis asked.
"The truth?" Rik leaned forward and set his mostly empty glass on the low table between them. He stared into it, as if the dregs of juice held answers. "I want your help, Tayvis." He looked up, his face intent and sincere. There were no more games here, only hard truths. "Flanigan is involved in treason up to his scrawny neck, but I can't prove it. Most of the Patrol command are ready to mutiny. He's already driven three full battle groups over to the Federation. Any complaints sent to the High Command about him result in accidents for the person complaining. I want help bringing Flanigan down."
"You always were ambitious," Tayvis said cynically. "What's in it for you? A post to High Command?"
"Perhaps." Rik hadn't changed that much.
"And what's in it for me?"
"You'll be cleared of all charges currently pending. And you'll be free to go your way. You don't really think I'd believe you were handling cargo unless Lowell planted you there."
"Maybe I was. I don't work for him anymore. I can't help you."
"You would really rather be sent to Prius? That can be arranged." Rik leaned back again, seemingly at ease. "You always enjoyed the intelligence games, Tayvis, admit it. You're itching to be back at it. I'm handing you a golden opportunity."
Tayvis shook his head. "Too many people know me."
"See? You're thinking of accepting. I don't care if you really work for Lowell or not. I'm appealing to your sense of duty, Tayvis. Help me save the Empire."
"I've done that, I didn't care for it much." Tayvis tasted the drink in his hand. Much as he wanted to pretend he didn't care, he did. And the situation was tweaking his interest.
"I can set you up on my crew. Any position you want. Within reason. You're supposed to be one of the voluntary recruits from the private sector." He twisted the words, as if they were sour. "No one is happy about that order, except perhaps Flanigan."
"Then for the sake of the private sector, I'll help," Tayvis said, reluctantly shoving aside his personal feelings. Captain Jefferes deserved better than he'd been given.
"Good. And I'll pretend that little incident at Kluger Outpost never happened." But his eyes promised he'd get even.
Tayvis had to laugh. Perhaps this was what he needed. It promised to keep him busy.