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Alexander Fleming no longer heard the incessant low-frequency hum of a ship underway. If he was being perfectly honest, he felt the subtle vibrations in his bones far more than the ears. The sensation tingled at the base of his skull and tailbone. It pulsed in the pit of his stomach, soundless yet ever-present. He likened it to a bizarre new kind of inverse tinnitus that droned instead of whined. At first maddening, then fascinating, and ultimately forgotten as one became accustomed to its presence.
The captain of Maid of Orleans explained that the feeling had as much to do with artificial gravity as it did the quarter-million tons of equipment that kept their frigate moving. Sufficient to prevent unpleasant biological adaptations over long periods underway and necessary for preventing acceleration inertia from liquefying organs, the interlocking fields of anti-gravitons had a way of tweaking the inner ear in just the right manner to drive a traveler mad if they were not acclimated to it. Fleming’s initial bout of deep-space sickness had been a memorable week of vomiting and headaches, though he could hardly remember it now. Now his nervous system and inner ear were as seasoned as any dust-crusted spacer’s, and the drone and hum went unnoticed.
He blinked in the darkness of his cabin while the fog of sleep retreated and cognition slowly asserted itself. Something moved next to him in the narrow bed, and he felt the bare thigh of Captain Miranda Sloane slide along his hip. Memories returned, and he smiled. Fleming considered himself to be a sophisticated and cosmopolitan man. Educated, urbane, and well-traveled, he never missed the opportunity to sample the delights this vast universe took the occasion to offer him. Until recently, he could not say that he had ever known the amorous touch of a feared warship captain, and he regretted every moment of his life wasted getting to that singular experience. Sloane combined the ferocity of a warrior, the passion of an artist, and a military attention to detail in ways that made the most expensive escorts in the galaxy appear rather pedestrian in comparison. Fleming suspected himself to be quite ruined for other experiences now.
Sloane stirred again, rolling to her back and stretching with a sigh. “We’re about to gate into Enterprise,” she said without a hint of drowsiness. Fleming decided the captain must be far too highly tuned for sleeping. He suspected that Sloane merely closed her eyes at night and waited. “I need to check the relays and see where that corvette is.”
Fleming let his hand rest on her thigh. “Right away? They were here before us, and one can only assume that they have left for Earth by now. I don’t think we need to leap up and get right to work, do we?” He let his hand wander. Sloane’s hand closed over his and locked it with a firm, but not ungentle grip. “Work first, then play,” she said. “This is a warship, not a pleasure barge. Lights.” The cabin lights began to glow.
Fleming threw an arm across his eyes to shield them from the growing brightness. “It’s starting to get hard to tell the difference, Captain.”
“I don’t care how hard it gets, Alex.” She rose and rolled over Fleming to escape the sheets with a smooth, agile turn.
Fleming could not tell if her double-entendre was a deliberate jab, or accidental. Sloane’s inscrutable delivery left ample doubt as to either conclusion, though clever wordplay seemed out of character. He laughed out loud. “That’s not what you told me last night.”
“I talk a lot of shit when I’m trying to get laid, Alex.” This time, Fleming could hear the flinty humor in her voice.
“Of that, I have no doubt, Captain.” Now he started to rise. “Might as well get up and get after the day, then.”
“Exactly.” Sloane wrestled her way back into her uniform. Fleming watched the process without shame. Her muscles stood out against her skin without bulging, her frame both lean and strong. She kept her dark hair closely cropped. Long hair and 0-G were a bad combination, she had explained. To call her beautiful by any standard of fashion would have been inaccurate, yet she glowed with a strange intense sexuality. It was not her looks, though no heterosexual male would ever call her ugly. She possessed a certain presence that demanded you look at her and listen when she spoke.
In all things, Sloane acted with a sort of inexorable purpose. No matter how trivial, every task she undertook bore the sort of brusque alacrity of prior deliberation. The uncanny calm and aura of utter self-control surrounded her like a forcefield. Fleming understood why seasoned spacers followed her into battle. She simply never lost, and that made her a legend. Friend and foe alike called her “Sloane of Arc” when they thought she could not hear, and they said it with respect.
Miranda Sloane did not command this ship and crew because she was their captain, Fleming realized. She was the captain because she took command. The distinction seemed like no distinction at all until you witnessed the woman in action. After two months on board, any fool could see that her title and uniform were meaningless accoutrements to the inevitable conclusion. Fleming saw her power, a power he did not understand but could feel all the same, and his desire for her followed with an intensity that astonished him. Why she reciprocated he had not figured out yet. The mystery only heightened his desire.
Once Sloane finished covering the more appetizing parts of her body, Fleming gave up on his leering and began his own morning ablations. He tried to catch Sloane peeking in the same manner he enjoyed and found the captain entirely indifferent. The woman was a maddening, fascinating enigma. With a sad internal sigh, he went straight to business. “I have already secured a key asset to retrieve the memory core. I expect to hear soon that he has been successful.”
“What kind of asset can handle the cyborg and his crew?”
“One who has dealt with them before. A former Red Hat out of Venus. Highly trained assassin. One of those crazy killer hermits they train.”
“A Balisong?”
Fleming was not surprised to find her familiar with the group. “Yes.”
“Well, then competence won’t be an issue. But aren’t they rabidly anti-augmentation? Skilled or not, that cyborg is close to indestructible, and Mindy Carter is a known threat across the galaxy. Those fixers will eat him for lunch, Alex.”
“I said a former Balisong. This gentleman has changed his stance on biotech since leaving his order. His tab with OmniCorp’s bio-enhancement division is well into seven figures at this point. I assure you, he is very much equal to the task.”
“You extended that kind of credit to this guy?” Sloane cocked her head. “He must be very good, then.”
“Good? Miranda, this man is pure magic. Even before his enhancements, he had numerous kills against augmented targets and even armatures.”
“Have I ever heard of him?”
“I doubt it. He’s been working as a bounty hunter for the last year or two. He’d be top of the boards if he bothered to go for juicy targets.”
“He doesn’t like big paydays?”
“I think he’s working through a lot of residual psychological damage, Miranda. He’s limiting his hunts to slavers, murderers, terrorists, and con artists for the most part. None of those pay particularly well compared to corporate espionage and political assassinations, but he’s quite obsessed with killing scumbags.”
“He hardly sounds reliable, Alex.”
“Oh, he’s reliable all right. Just angry, too. He was a pure zealot until he discovered that his Red Hat masters were just as duplicitous and evil as the people he fought against. He was there when Lincoln Hardesty sold the Red Hats out to OmniCorp.”
“I assume he did not take the news well, then.”
“Hardesty’s wake was closed-casket. In truth, by the time my man Grimes had worked through his disappointment, they could have buried the man in a shoe box.”
“This is why I do not deal with zealots, Alex. Too unstable.” She straightened the seams of her jacket and cracked the bones in her neck. “But if you want to use insane terrorists as operatives, who am I to argue? When do you expect results?”
Fleming zipped his shirt and turned to face her. “I do not like to tell my contractors how to do their jobs. I hire experts because they know what to do without being managed. Grimes will move when he feels success is probable, and that might be today, or a week from today.” Fleming shrugged. “He will succeed, and I expect sooner rather than later. He is a man of singular drive and purpose.” Fleming winked at Sloane. “You’d like him.”
“I hate assassins as much as I hate zealots,” she replied. Her face locked into what Fleming liked to call her “command scowl,” and she turned to key the cabin door. “I’m headed to the bridge.”
“I’ll see you up there, Miranda. I’m going to log in and check the progress and intelligence reports first.”
“Suit yourself. We’ll be gating soon, and I expect a not-so-warm welcome from Enterprise Station. Pike’s people will keep trying to slow us down, so prepare for lengthy inspections and legal objections.”
“Will they be a problem?”
“No. This is a free trade zone, and our papers are in order.”
“Then the delay will be immaterial.”
“I figured,” said the captain and stepped through the door into the passage beyond. In a moment, she was gone, leaving Fleming somewhat bewildered by his situation. He shook his head and stepped into the bright light of the corridor himself. He made his way to a small office that Sloane had set aside for his private use and sat down at the terminal there. It took several minutes to navigate all the necessary encryptions and security protocols, and Fleming used the time to fix himself a cup of terrible coffee from the room’s ancient coffee machine. By the time he forced the first acrid sip down his throat, the screen lit up with the day’s reports. He scowled as he swiped through the boring and banal reports. He knew he should pay closer attention, but he simply did not have the energy to read about the other initiatives in OmniCorp’s multifaceted plan for reinvention.
He stopped scrolling when his eyes fell upon an urgent communique from Prospectus. Dr. Halstead remained his customary combination of brusque, condescending, and shrill. Fleming would have been inclined to ignore the message, except Halstead had a tendency to reveal more than he should when fear colored his thinking. The Prospectors were a treasure trove of profitable technology, and every time the good doctor felt the sting of panic, he would inevitably dangle another carrot in front of OmniCorp to secure greater assistance.
This time proved no different. The message was abrupt and unsubtle. In no uncertain terms, Halstead’s control of his colony’s management caste weakened with each passing day. In order to shore up his future, the arrogant old fool offered to release firmware upgrades for the Protean androids he had already sold to OmniCorp. Fleming felt his eyebrows rise when he saw the potential upgrades, and a plan began to form in his brain almost on its own. He checked the comms status between Gethsemane and Prospectus. Even with Anson relays, there was no way to communicate in real time over these distances, so he could not confer with Halstead about the matter. This bothered him for a full three seconds before he realized he did not care one whit for Halstead’s input on the matter. He took another sip of his coffee and approved Halstead’s request without even looking at the proposal. The cost would be irrelevant in a few weeks anyway. Once he had that memory core, he intended to simply steal whatever he needed. How Halstead had not figured this out yet Fleming could not say. Sometimes the smartest people in the room were also the stupidest. Fleming also ordered another lot of Proteans with orders to ship them to Dockside directly. This proved difficult, as all the smuggling channels OmniCorp would normally use to accomplish this were connected to those damned fixers. Using alternative assets engendered enormous costs and more than a little risk. Fleming decided it was worth it.
The best project managers built their plans around failure points, and Fleming considered himself to be the best at what he did. If they ever managed to get that core to Earth, Tankowicz and his crew would find their homefield advantage all but nonexistent upon arrival. Interference from Gateways might be an issue, though he almost wanted them to jump in at this point. Gateways and Dockside remained inextricably linked by both money and mutual interests. If OmniCorp fomented conflict on the home front while its best defenders were away, the pressure could force Gateways out of the shadows and onto the open field as well. Docksiders hated corporate interference. The whole town would go to war over it, weakening Gateways and exposing OmniCorp’s chief rival to enormous downside risk. It was no secret that Gateways hired Tankowicz and his team to avoid direct action in the volatile district. If things went to plan, Fleming was going to force Gateways to pick a side definitively, ruining their tenuous alliance with the criminal organizations in Dockside. Gateways might double down and take the risk, or they might abandon their assets and cut losses. Either way, OmniCorp would have fertile ground to exploit the consequences.
He leaned back in the chair and digested this new plan, looking for weaknesses that he might have missed. There were a few failure points to be looked after, sure. However, the overall thrust placed OmniCorp in a very favorable position. If nothing else, Sloane would be pleased with his idea.
She loved a good war, after all.
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