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Damian Heath stepped into the tavern aboard Farside Station, nostrils wrinkling at the stink of smoke, spilt drinks, and a dozen species’ sweat gone stale. He could make out a few examples of these by the poor, red lighting of the establishment, their inhuman forms—sometimes clawed, sometimes tentacled—flowing in and out of shadows. Bluey holographic glare shined from behind the bar; holomedia broadcasts, sports of some very odd varieties, white noise.
“I’ll say it again,” Harlander growled from his left. “I don’t like this.”
“There’s very little about it to like,” Heath hissed back. “But this is what our ‘partners’ insisted upon.”
The general babble of the tavern dropped to a grumble at the sight of the Golgothans standing in the entrance. Heath, Harlander, and the trio of Fang operatives accompanying them wore the olive drab overalls of free traders of indeterminate origin. But they might as well have been wearing the black-with-red-trim of the Star Empire for all the stealth their disguises provided.
From behind the bar came the clearing of a throat. “New to Farside Station?”
Heath eyed the speaker. Backgrounded by the holograms’ lurid, swimming lights, the bartender was more silhouette than man. Apparently human, but so marked with tattoos along his knotted arms, up his chorded neck, and across his grimy scalp that it left it at least a little in doubt, he gestured them over. A toothpick danced between thin, grinning lips as he waited for them and his eyes remained hidden behind thick goggles—likely augmented with sensors. One of the bartender’s hands darted down, out of sight, and Heath was veteran enough to know it likely caressed a hidden blaster.
“New, yes,” Heath replied, stepping up to the bar and leaning over its scarred, tacky surface. “Just passing through.”
“Where from?”
“Avalon,” Harlander rumbled over Heath’s shoulder, giving the code phrase before he could, “by way of Sanctuary-space.”
The toothpick ceased its wiggle as the bartender clenched yellowed teeth at them. “Would’ve guessed something closer to the Golgothan border.”
Heath’s scalp prickled and he took in his surroundings out of the corner of his eye as his right hand crept closer to the blaster tucked into his cargo pocket. Most of the tavern denizens had gone back to their drinks and diversions, the susurrus of conversation hiding the barkeep’s quip. But Harlander and his Fang goons had gone live-wire taught.
Obviously seeing this, the bartender hurried to add, “Avalon is a quiet corner, if you’re moving dried goods.”
The tension eased from Heath’s sinews at the planned counter-phrase, provided by their allies. He gestured for Harlander and his thugs to take places at the bar and not appear so outwardly out of place. “It is indeed,” he replied as they did so, and leaned further over the counter. “Would we find buyers for such here?”
“The buyers are on the station,” the barkeep replied with his bug-eyed goggles clearly scanning Heath and his companions. “But they were waiting to hear from me that you’d arrived, before crossing to this side.” He smirked, made a snake-like tattoo across his cheek squirm. “Their kind aren’t fond of being seen on the wild side.”
“Our kind aren’t fond of being kept waiting,” Heath replied through bared teeth.
The bartender’s lips pressed together around the toothpick. He looked about to reply when a womanly laugh lilted to them from the right. Turning that way, Heath saw a scantily-clad Morvenan leading a numb-looking spacer in rumpled coveralls from a hall emerging back from behind the bar. A jolt passed from skull to crotch at the sight of her, taller than her companion, curvy, and painted with phosphorescent makeup that matched her glowing eyes. He loathed and lusted for her at once, couldn’t help it—and knew it was as much mental presence as physical.
“Ateela,” the barkeep called to her. “Business.”
“Already?” she groaned, patting her companion on the shoulder fondly, yet dismissively. The lust-struck spacer shuffled away. Her expression crinkled as she took in the Golgothans. “And all at once?”
“Business,” the bartender repeated harshly.
And her features smoothed, became something more calculating than those of a simple space station slut. She blinked once and nodded. “Of course.” She locked gazes with Heath and a wave of cool perspiration tingled across face and neck. He felt her eyes inside him. “Just that one,” she said, gesturing at him.
“Me, as well,” Harlander growled with what sounded like effort.
She scowled at him but shrugged. “Fine. But the muscle stays out here.”
Harlander nodded to his thugs, who settled in wordlessly to drinks as the bartender poured for them. The Morvenan turned and stepped down the back hallway. Long strides carried her instantly from sight and Heath and Harlander had to scramble to catch up. She led them past a couple curtained booths to a bolted door. Sliding back its locks, she drew it open and waved them in. Sidling by almost forced Heath into contact with her and he clenched every muscle to control the desires warming his blood.
The compartment beyond had the look of a break room, sparsely-apportioned and smoke-stained, reeking of poorly-washed bodies, drug-use, and probably other hurried, illicit activities. Clanking the door shut at their backs, Ateela folded her arms and regarded them. Those eyes pulled like tractor beams.
“I am your contact.”
“Get out of our minds, witch,” Harlander rasped at her. Sweat jewels stood out across his brow and clenched fists shook.
A twitch of smile turned up the corner of her lip and the glare of her eyes seemed to lessen. A weight lifted from Heath’s thoughts and the runaway lust in his loins eased. Breaths came deeply from flaring nostrils and his palm itched for the blaster in his pocket. The violation...how dare she?
“You are one of them,” he rumbled.
“I am Shala, yes,” she replied, leaning back against the wall by the doorway. “Though not some be-robed, precious priestess, leading a public meditation.”
“And not who we were expecting, either,” Harlander seethed. “We were led to believe—”
Heath held up a hand for silence. He knew that would be an argument later, but damn the man. The witch had unhinged him!
“We came for a meeting,” he told her patiently. “At your superiors’ request, we came to this place, at no small risk.” He folded his arms. “I presume they’ll join us?”
“Shortly,” she replied. “As Coolly said at the bar, they were waiting on our signal. Their secrecy is critical.”
“As is ours!” Heath snapped back, but calmed himself quickly. “Forgive me if I continue not to understand the need for a face-to-face meeting.”
“Yes,” she sneered. “You’d prefer to conduct one from the safety of encrypted transmissions and the” her faced deformed momentarily into disgust “cloaking of your Benefactors’ powers.”
“That’s so,” Harlander hissed.
“But transmissions can be intercepted,” Ateela said. “And ship-to-ship rendezvous can be interrupted.”
“Still far safer than this,” Heath retorted.
Ateela worked her jaw, appeared to be deciding what to reveal next. Heath again felt the weird pressure of her mind upon his and clenched inside. That got a reaction from her, seeming to sense his resistance as she said, “Sometimes, Golgothan, it is best that one has the physical sense of another when certain kinds of deals are made.”
Heath frowned. “What kind of deal?”
“A larger one,” she replied. “I’m not empowered to say more. But know that my superiors’ timetables are significantly accelerated.”
Heath glanced at Harlander. “And why is that?”
Boom...
Heath instinctively reached for and set his palm upon the room’s single table as the deck plates shivered beneath him. Things rattled in lockers along the walls, then settled. An eerie silence followed.
Sweat broke out anew across Heath’s flesh, icy and instantly-dousing. Having no small experience of deep space combat, he knew the gut-punch quiver of explosive decompression reverberating through a hull. He turned, had his mouth open to shout a command to Harlander...
BOOM!
The second shockwave flung him forward onto the table, both arms flailing to prevent a tumble. Harlander staggered backwards, struck the wall behind him while Ateela wobbled and half-slid to one knee. Heath’s stomach flopped up and then over within him as Farside’s station-wide artificial gravity fluctuated. Alarms blared distantly, then re-echoed closer and closer as successive compartments received warnings.
“Bitch!” Harlander regained his balance and ripped a blaster from inside a chest pocket, aimed it at Ateela. “This is your doing!”
The Morven flung up her hands, waved them frantically. “I promise you; I know nothing of whatever this is!”
“Harlander...” Heath growled at his companion, holding up a hand to calm his; the other still planted on the tabletop to manage the shivers still passing through the station. “Magus—”
A crash sent the door to the room splintering inward. It slammed into Ateela from behind and sent her flying forward onto the table. If half-buckled under the impact and she flopped off it onto the floor, blood splashing from a gash on her forehead. Harlander’s Fang thugs burst into the room over her, weapons out and panning over her before reflexively swinging about to train on their master’s aimed weapon.
“Fools!” Heath shrieked. “Stop!!!”
The bovine-faced leader of Harlander’s party flinched at his tone, but lowered his blaster obediently. “The station is under attack.”
“Obviously.”
Harlander shook his head, lowering his weapon at last. “But by whom?”
Heath glanced at the supine form of Ateela, moaning on the floor, but clearly caught as unaware by events as she claimed. “Doesn’t matter,” he snapped. “We need to get out of here! Back to the ship!”
The Fangs led the way out into the hall and back along its dimly-lit length, into the strobing, smoking chaos of the bar area. Folks of every description were scrambling for the door, toppling tables and one another in their panic. Glass shattered and throats yowled. The station alarms continued a grating warble in the overhead speakers. Warnings issued in a dozen tongues, blending together into an incoherent cacophony.
“Ateela?”
The shriek came from Coolly, behind the bar. The man’s tattooed visage went from confusion at the sight of the Gologthans, to fury clenching about his goggles as he noticed the absence of the Morvenan. He lunged for something, came up with a compact blaster rifle.
The Fang leader fired first, a three round blast that shattered all other racket from the air with its deafening screech-whumps. Bar top exploded from cyan bolts, spewing fiery splinters and shattering one of the holographic projectors in a cascade of sparks and distorting imagery. Coolly flopped back from the volley, partly aflame and his weapon spinning aide.
The rest of the bar patrons crumpled to the floor with screams and pleas. Heath thought to scold the Fang for the recklessness, but saw the futility of it. Fangs were recruited for brutality and obedience; not deep thought. Besides, the thug’s decisiveness had cleared the way.
“The ship!” Heath repeated, emerging from the cantina into the open space of Farside’s promenade deck.
The station was a spoked disc arrangement, not unlike a huge bicycle wheel in space. The “tire” of the wheel was a fat, circular corridor, winding around to various docking hubs, but also supporting what amounting to a long mall, complete with seedy haunts like Coolly’s bar, all the way up to luxury hotels.
Heath’s party had docked two hundred meters around the curve of the station, having come in a light freighter drafted for the purpose. An unarmed light freighter, Heath recalled with a seething of the guts. They really had to get out of there.
An explosion tore around the promenade to their right on the lower of its two floors, flinging debris and bodies. A billow of black smoke roiled up towards the upper-floor walkway, looking as though it would swallow the Golgothans before they could flee. A second crash rent the vast space and Heath’s ears popped as the smoke sucked back with a howling rush. Only a desperate grapple for the walkway railing saved him as decompression forced the air from the space.
Something struck the side of his head, nearly took him with it. Through a dazzle of sparks across his vision, he saw one of the Fangs swept off his feet and down into the tornadic vortices as fumes sucked out into space. The body struck something in midair, flashed with a lightning-like pop, and then dropped straight down, lost in smoke suddenly bunching against a crackling emergency forcefield.
“Go!” Heath wheezed and waved for the others.
The emergency fields may have prevented the rest of the chamber from emptying its contents into the void, but they didn’t stop the violence that had rent the hole. Blaster fire screamed from the lower decks, playing around the sealing half-glove of the shimmering barrier. Panicked forms scurried against fluttering flames, crumpled as cyan whipped through them.
Feral figures emerged from the haze, firing wildly, obviously more intent on terror than any sort of real fight. Hodgepodge attire and gear suggested criminals, but coordination and some hint of professionalism suggested experience. Facemasks fashioned like birdlike beasts of prey hid identities, but the lithe, long-legged strides of the attackers told Heath these were no humans—moved, in fact, like Morvena.
“Don’t stop!” Heath hollered as blaster bolts began licking up into the second level overlooks.
Harlander scuttled by him, followed by one of the Fangs. The second paused as a cyan streak snapped past his head and straightened to aim two-handed down into the mall area.
“Fool, don’t—”
The Fang got off a single shot, took one of the attackers squarely in their masked face as it looked up. The headless body hadn’t struck the floor before their comrades turned their weapons for the walkway and a deluge of blaster fire thundered into it. The Fang flew backwards in a sleet of exploded shreds and fire. The volley left very little left of him to fall.
Heath flinched away from the storm and scrambled after Harlander and his remaining henchman. Protected by the angle of the walkway, the pair of them were at a sprint. Heath stretched into full strides after them, breath tearing in lungs stung by the momentary bite of vacuum and the seared-metal stink of blaster fumes. Scattered shots glanced off the promenade ceiling, began to multiply. The attackers were on to them.
Harlander reached the docking ring and was waving for Heath to hurry. The remaining Fang had settled on one knee, half-hidden by the lip of the cylindrical entry orifice and aiming his blaster back the way they’d come. Heath had barely got past him when his weapon triggered. Yelping at the closeness, he shouldered into the space behind the man, jamming Harlander back, and turned with his own pistol raised.
Attackers were coming up a stalled escalator onto the walkway to their left. One aimed a weapon over the top tread and, without risking a look, fired wildly. The Fang at Heath’s side replied with a single, precise shot, coherent energy bolt slicing a hand off at the wrist and sending the blaster rifle clattering back down the stairs as someone screamed.
Harlander was hollering something into a comm plate on the wall. An instant later, the airlock to the light freighter whisked open. Two Golgothan spacers forced their way out and took up positions beside the Fang, blasting away. One shoved Heath backward unceremoniously, but he didn’t resist, retreated into the passage.
“Get the engines lit!” he screamed over his shoulder.
“We never took them off idle,” a voice hollered from inside the lock. “Brother-Captain, we have to go! One attack ship has made dock and a second one is circling!”
“Then do it!” he bellowed back and strode for the interior of the ship.
The firefight faded at his back. If the defenders weren’t inside when the lock sealed and the freighter pulled away, that was going to be their problem.
***
“CAPTAIN, WE ARE NEARING the Morvena System. ETA, three minutes.”
“Very good, Ensign Zovga,” Dath replied. “Prepare to decelerate for Morvena orbit, dropping to sub-light drives at the gravity well.”
“Aye, sir.”
Dath made himself not glance Ylura’s way, at Systems, but wondered what it had to be like for her. She’d only been gone six months, determined to resume a Sanctuarian life, and now, right back. And more, he knew what complications awaited her.
But they all had problems.
The trip out, at least, hadn’t been one of them. For all Rougan’s fretting over the new Hypernaughts, Tenacity had made good time. The crew crackled with eagerness, none of the fractiousness and simmering nerves of a long voyage having settled in, yet. Everything felt light and good, with the space lanes stretched out endlessly ahead of them like the future before a young man’s mind.
Young man. He smiled to himself. I’m sure not that, anymore. But damned if he wasn’t thrumming with a youthful energy, with the oppression of his private life’s ruin left far behind on Sanctuary.
A ping sounded.
Now Dath did look Ylura’s way, brows furrowing. “What is that, Systems?”
“Long range scanning, sir,” she replied, frowning as her hands played over her console. “Single tachyon wake, moving to intersect our course at Void Speed Five. I’ve got her signature.” The tension left her voice instantly. “She’s Grakan.”
The main screen partitioned off to show a tactical display and the two points of light closing with one another. A schematic appeared beside the second and showed a design of paired disc modules, linked by a narrow central hull which, itself, sprouted a single Void Drive.
“Signature matches the registry in our computer as the Rrudalor,” Ylura said. “Private merchant vessel.”
“She’s signaling on the open,” Clemens announced.
Dath smiled. As a younger officer, he’d been assigned as military attaché to the Grakan Fleet. The rough-and-tumble of their service and society had suited him well, and they were among the Republic’s closest allies. They were not especially warm with the Morvena, however, and it surprised him to see one here.
“Put it on screen,” he told Clemens.
A moment later, the image of a Sanctuarian dog grown to human proportions and posture reclined in a chair before him. A face of dark-brown hair streaked in white that ran back along rows of stubby horns glowered, a single canine protruding from under a lower lip.
“Garrasta,” the Grakan officer announced, “Captain of Rrudalor, Free Trader.”
“Raker,” Dath replied with gruffness and informality that would be more respected by the furry being, “Captain of Tenacity, Republic of Sanctuary Fleet.”
“You are known, Captain.” The Grakan bore his full set of teeth in what could either be smile or fury. “I was kin to Roorazz.”
Dath nodded respectfully, at the same time feeling a twinge. Roorazz had been at Crossroads, had gone down fighting there. He’d also been an old friend. “May he be resting in the Sun of the Beyond. I knew him well. He died with his teeth in the enemy.”
“He considered you passable brawler,” Garrasta replied, ears twitching in obvious pleasure at the honor, “for a human.”
Dath nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. “What brings a Grakan out to Unity space, Captain? You’re not known to frequent these parts.”
“Capitalism, Captain!” the Grak chuckled. “Nothing else would put honest Pack creatures amongst these witches.”
Dath kept his grin polite, tried not to notice Ylura’s sigh of offense.
The Grak was holding up an off-white carving. “One of my clients has fondness for oddities.” His brow crinkled, bringing out the wide splash of his whiskers. “This is kaivak bone, caught from Sea of Thardu. Witch artists make pretty of them.” He shrugged and set it down on his armrest. “Very rare, and my client has a great hunger for them. So, we are here.” He leaned forward a little in his seat. “Question now is why does Raker, Golgotha-smasher, come all the way out here?”
“Republic business,” Dath replied stiffly.
Another ping, slightly hoarser in note, cut in. A regional display materialized on the main screen, partially obscuring Garrasta. This, in turn, zoomed in on Movena, itself, second planet out from its primary and looped by two moons. Motes of light glittered about the planet and one of these, a frantic stirring, as though someone had waved a hand through a swarm of gnats.
Dath looked again Ylura’s way. “What have we got, now?”
“Picking up heightened activity, lots of tachyon wakes. Looks like several ships entering the system at once.”
Dath tensed, not yet alarmed, but pulse quickening. “Problem?”
“No, sir. Signatures are consistent with Ayaza-class cruisers, inbound as well as ships already present in-system. Looks like elements of the Defense Force mustering.” She pivoted in her seat to look at him. “Heavy comms traffic, mostly encrypted.”
“Can confirm,” Clemens said from her station. She was listening intently at her earbud as Dath turned to her. “Mostly restricted communiques—I can’t read them. But the channels are lousy with it.” Eyes tightened, then widened. “We’re being hailed, sir!”
“I’m afraid the trading of further insults will have to wait, Captain Garrasta,” Dath told the Grak.
“Perhaps we speak again, later,” Garrasta replied with a nod, “and I show you how to do it right.” The transmission cut.
Chuckling, Dath stood from his seat and gave his uniform a tug, straightening his slightly-shorter cut jacket and non-regulation six buttons, as opposed to the standard eight. The stiffness of his back and the folding of his hands behind it could’ve been Fleet perfection, though, as he nodded to Clemens. “Put it up, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir.” She pivoted back to her station, fingers pattering on the holo-wafer surface of her console. “Subspace standard, incoming now.”
Another quadrant of the main screen divided off into a fluttering rectangle that dissolved after a pixelating moment into a harried-looking Morvenan face. Female and sharper of features than even Ylura’s narrow visage, her black hair was held back by gold clasps at the sides, seeming to serve some ornamental function, and a blue-black cape of the Morvenan Service hung over her shoulders, while an orange sash indicated her House of origin.
Pins on the latter made her the equivalent of a Sanctuarian Admiral and Dath straightened even further. “Greetings! This is the RSN Tenacity, inbound from Sanctuary, Captain Dath Raker, commanding. We are expected.”
“And greetings to you, Captain,” the Morvenan officer replied, looking like a hunting bird startled by a sharp noise. “I am Third Shield Rela Mogran, speaking on behalf of the Morvenan Defense Force. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Nor have I,” Dath answered with a polite half-nod, noting Ylura out of the corner of his artificial eye; she showed no sign of recognizing this official, though.
“Apologies for the state of our welcome,” Mogran was going on. “The Council of Colors had something more ceremonial prepared for our friends from the Republic, but that had been overtaken by events, I’m afraid.”
“No apologies necessary,” Dath said and smiled curiously. “Something we might assist you with?”
Mogran’s face creased with tension and Dath got the sense of her more advanced age. “You’re more-timely than you know, Captain. We’ve had an incident.”
She left the statement hanging in the way Morvenans sometimes did with species that didn’t share their telepathic-empathic link; that pause for their aura or their mind to be sampled. He cleared his throat. “Something you’re free to speak to?”
“There has been a...” she glanced off screen at someone or something “...terrorist attack on Farside Station, at the edge of our frontier, bordering Wild Space.”
Dath frowned and glanced towards Ylura, who was already typing furiously. Another angle of the main screen sectioned off at her command to show a star map. An icon blinked at its center, bordered by the gray of the Unity, the blue of the Republic, and a vast dark expanse, sprinkled with widely-spaced stars. A globular sub-display popped out to show a schematic of a wheel-shaped space station, textual notations scrolling down beside it indicating number of docks, capacities, timeline of establishment and recent history.
“Farside,” Dath murmured as he scanned it. “That’s an intergalactic waystation.”
“Indeed,” Mogran replied. “A major trading hub of ours and meeting place for independent worlds engaged in commerce with the Unity.” She drew in a long breath. “More importantly, dozens of visiting citizens, including no small number of prominent businessfolk, were there, conducting private affairs, when this attack occurred.” Chords stood out along her angular jaw as it clenched. “They are now hostages.”
Gah...incident, indeed. He nodded. “Hence your sudden state of preparedness.”
“That’s correct.” Mogran leaned back in the chair she occupied. Behind her, similarly-uniformed Morvenans scuttled this way and that, as stirred as the ships on the regional display. “But it goes beyond that.” Again, she paused and glanced at someone out of sight. “Captain,” she resumed in a low voice, “I’m empowered to relay to you that several members of House Red were also present, and are also known to be hostages.”
Gah. Dath could feel Ylura’s stare across the side of his face but didn’t look at her, kept his gaze fixed straight upon the hologram before him.
Mogran was nodding slowly. “You can appreciate that this is a delicate political situation, all around.”
“I can.” He raised his voice. “Zovga, take us down from Void Speed, if you please. No sense barreling head-first into a charged situation.”
“No, Captain,” Mogran spoke up before the last word was out of his mouth and held up a hand. “By all means, get here with all speed. I am further empowered to extend to you a request.”
Dath’s brows beetled together. “Oh?”
“I understand you have something of an...expert on our internal workings aboard,” Mogran said.
It took a force of will for Dath not to look at Ylura now. And he sensed others on the bridge doing so, anyway.
“So,” Mogran went on, “I presume you have a notion of the tension this incident has triggered. The Colors are awash, as our saying goes.” She shook her head and the glow of her eyes took on a smolder. “Red wants action and is prepared to take it themselves, if the Force isn’t mobilized. Others want mediation.”
“You said hostages, Third Shield,” Dath said. “Has there been contact with these terrorists? Do they have demands?”
Mogran’s lips worked as though she’d bitten into something bitter. “They are the T’Sona.”
And now Dath did look over at Ylura. She met his gaze with a shimmering light to her human blue eyes and he could feel her distress, knew it was the connection between them, probably let slip with her stress; she certainly hadn’t let it happen to this point.
“Are you briefed on them?” Mogran asked.
“I am.” Dath swallowed back the dryness in his mouth. “What do they want?”
“A public airing of grievances.” She shook her head in obvious disbelief and disgust. “They’re demanding that we cease our jamming and allow them to broadcast on full subspace, to the entirety of the Unity.” Those glimmering Morvenan eyes burned through the hologram into his. “Captain, I’m not at liberty, even on this secure line, to divulge further; but I can assure you, the Unity has no interest in allowing that. The harm to public order would be extreme.”
“I understand.” Dath didn’t, not completely, but held up his chin with confidence as he asked, “What can we do to help, Third Shield?”
The Morvenan officer’s eyes flashed with what he took as gratitude. “You can make orbit as soon as practical and be prepared to take several members of the Council of Colors aboard.” She paused. “Will this be a problem?”
“Of course not. It will be our pleasure.”
“I fear there will be little pleasure in the conversation, Captain. The Republic has long been a friendly trading partner and good neighbor to the Unity. The Colors value that and hope those warm regards are reciprocated.”
“And I can assure you, they are.”
“That is good,” she replied and smiled grimly, “because your neighbor is about to presume upon that good will.” A deep breath prefaced her next words. “Captain, the Unity is going to want to borrow your starship.”
***
AUTOMATED BOSUN’S PIPES skirled from the overhead and the hastily-gathered welcoming contingent stiffened to attention as the Morvenan shuttle settled on its landing gears in the Tenacity’s bay. Ylura stood at Dath’s side and thought of giving her uniform a last once-over but abandoned the impulse as the shuttle’s side hatch cracked and unfolded. Her guts tickled with a flutter like insects loosened within.
Ridiculous, she thought to herself. These are your people. But the words acquired instant edges and she shifted on her feet. That was the problem; could she say that, as she stood there, waiting for them in Sanctuarian blue?
“Problem?” Dath whispered from her side.
She grimaced to have her discomfiture noticed. “Nothing, sir.”
“That’s good,” he muttered back, “because here we go.”
A pair of Morvenans resplendent in silver and gray enameled battle armor stepped down the shuttle’s boarding ramp, tall even from their kind and having to duck on their way out. Chrome Guards, Ylura thought as she watched them take places to either side of the ramp and stare expressionlessly at their greeters. Answering directly to the Council of Colors, they were the equivalent of Republic Drop Troopers—elite and, judging by the ceremonial but clearly functional blaster pikes they balanced against the shoulders, quite deadly.
Muttering from within the vessel presaged the appearance of a pair of smaller, but still tall by human standards Morvenans. One of these wore enameled faux-armor finery similar to the Guardsmen, but with a fiery crimson sash draped over it crosswise from right shoulder to left hip. A thin circlet of red metal held gray-streaked black hair from this one’s face, studded with gems that winked as he said something to his companion.
The second wore a somber suit of black, trimmed with silver, the jacket long-tailed and ornate, with a sash of shimmering green fabric. This one held up a hand in apparent irritation with what the first said and ended their conversation as they came to stand on Tenacity’s landing deck. Ylura’s sinews tightened to near-snapping intensity as both their glimmering eyes noted her. More, she felt the not-at-all subtle brush of their psyches probing her aura, almost rude in their presumption. Knowing she was a social inferior, here, she merely obscured her thoughts, rather than actively resisting.
She knew, too, both these men, by reputation and holomedia files: Counts Evalka Gorrod and Raval Avla of Colors Red and Green, respectably.
The pressure of their mental scrutiny faded abruptly and a chilliness swept through her, so omnipresent she couldn’t suppress a shiver. Goosebumps stood out across her flesh and the air seemed to quiet, to still, as a presence strode down the ramp behind the Counts. Clad in simple robes of gray that were, nevertheless, of highest quality, and bearing a plain staff of black-gray iron that clanked rhythmically in time to each of his steps, this visitor she didn’t know at all, but knew what he was.
“What?” Dath muttered.
“He is Shala,” she whispered back. “Third Circle, at least; a Master.”
This Morvenan took up a spot behind the others almost casually, made no attempt to present himself to his hosts. But his mind blanketed all. Against this, Ylura did resist, reflexively, as the Shala tasted every aura in the bay. That her stubbornness was noted was obvious in the momentary pulse of the Master’s eyes, passing over her. The corner of his thin lips quirked in apparent amusement.
A final pair of Morvenans issued from the shuttle behind him. Admiral Mogran strode down the ramp, smiling at something, likely a telepathic exchange with her companion, who shared it. The latter’s smile spread to his eyes as he looked out across the compartment and saw her. The cool of the Shala Master’s presence warmed before the glow of this one’s aura. Like the Guards, he had to duck as he exited the shuttle, a willowy, stern specimen of elder Morvenan, but charged with mirth Ylura had known since childhood.
Count Oron Arrakka of House Orange.
Uncle, she reached out telepathically.
My child, he replied with unvarnished joy and, she noted with a flutter of unease, relief. My contacts in the Republic got the message!
“Esteemed guests,” Dath called from beside her and touched his fist to his chest, crosswise in salute, “welcome aboard the Tenacity! I am Captain Dath Raker” he paused to gesture at Ylura to one side and Varley to the other “these are my officers, and we welcome you aboard!”
Of course, they did, Ylura thought to her uncle, ignoring the formalities. Were you concerned they wouldn’t? I understood this to an invitation.
Dath was saying something else, and Avla of Green replying pleasantly in kind, in that soft, not oft-used voice of a folk that communicated usually in silence. Arrakka smiled and made to pay attention to the exchange, his stare fixed politely on Dath. But his voice rang in Ylura’s skull.
Oh, it is, he replied to her. But what gets out of the Council these days is not always clear. There is much maneuvering. She felt the simmer of his anger in her nerves. Even the composition of this delegation was the subject of fraught debate.
She kept her own thin smile in place, her back stiffly at attention, even as her guts cooled at her uncle’s words. Things have grown that divisive?
“Thank you, Captain,” Count Gorrod spoke up loudly, cutting off Avla’s exchange. “Very gracious.” There was very little to the word as he said it. “But please, and don’t think we don’t appreciate the ceremony” he took a step forward, positioned himself at the head of the group “but I fear we have a great time pressure.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Dath’s scarred visage. But he recovered quickly, and with one of his handsome-ugly grins that Ylura knew meant mischief. “Completely understand,” he replied and pivoted to one side, held out his arm to the far side of the bay and the turbolifts there. “My senior conference room awaits us. If you’ll follow me?”
“After you, Captain.”
Dath nodded agreeably and turned into a stride for the lift, Gorrod falling in at his side. The pair spoke quietly, but Ylura could tell from Dath’s tone of voice it was meaningless small-talk. Varley fell in behind them with Mogran at his side, and their conversation was rather more honest, chatter about the layout of the ship. Ylura waited rigidly for the Shala Master to pass, joined by Avla, before bringing up the rear with her uncle at her side. The Guards clanked obediently at their heels.
Divisive would be euphemistic, Arrakka answered her at last. Affairs have become poisonous. Tensions were running high before this attack. Now, the House Red radicals are agitating for martial law. He nodded ahead of them. Gorrod, there, argued against me being present for this meeting, at all, claiming our relationship would taint it.
Ylura looked at her uncle sharply. I can excuse myself.
Do not, he replied sternly. That would only embolden him. Your presence here is at our Color’s request, as is Tenacity’s. He would have you all depart and leave this matter to our internal forces.
Perhaps that would be for the better, she suggested.
Arrakka’s thoughts had the iciness of a polar gale. I can assure you, it would not.
The group reached the turbolift and, as Ylura knew would be the case, all quickly realized it would be a tight fit. Dath good-naturedly stepped to the far corner with Varley at his side. Ylura stepped through the little procession to take up position at his other. The rest shuffled in, Arrakka finding a way to sidle close to her, the others awkwardly shifting so as not to crowd too much, especially with the huge Guardsmen having to stoop in the space. The door whisked shut and the car whirred up the chute. Ylura imagined a strained note to its anti-gravity motor.
House Red has characterized the attack on Farside as an affront to their honor directly, Arrakka went on in her head. They’ve taken advantage of it raise their voice loudest on the Council. Some of the other Colors, already wavering, have refused to resist.
Frowning, Ylura thought back to him, Farside Station is closer to Orange systems than Red’s. How can they position themselves so?
One of their own was on the station and is now a hostage. Arrakka’s hesitation was laced with dread. Count Krazmyb.
Ylura sucked in a breath loud enough to draw looks from the others. She hid the reaction by cupping her mouth, as though holding in a sneeze. Most of the others turned away at that. But the Shala Master’s gaze lingered a bit longer, frosting her very nerves with its glimmering ice glow.
Forcing herself to ignore him, she asked, What was a Count of the Colors doing all the way out there?
Red claims personal business. Arrakka’s scoff resounded between their minds. But it is immaterial. He is confirmed among the prisoners.
Ylura made herself look at the Shala once more. A mane of gray-lined black draped down to his shoulders. He was not particularly tall, not even by human standard, but seemed to fill the space.
Uncle, who is this Master who accompanies? I...fear him. She shook her head, tried to shake away the chilled numbness about her thoughts. I can’t explain it.
You would not be alone. Dread returned to Arrakka’s mind-sharing. He is Voadd of the Order’s Gray Ring.
The chilliness became nearly frostbite of the mind. Gray Ring? Ylura asked. What are they doing involved in this? I would have expected one of the Inner Masters, if the Order intends to mediate.
As would have I. But my Peers in the Order remain remarkable quiet about it. There is division, even amongst the Shala, it appears, though no public signs of it have slipped. But there’s certainly another explanation for his presence. Arrakka audibly drew in a breath. He is not here to broker a peaceful solution; he is here to clean up a mess.
What do you mean?
Arrakka half-turned to her, met her eyes with his blazing own. Guard your thoughts against him carefully, my dear. Especially now. He is wily and skilled. I have felt him peeling away at my thoughts this whole time, as I’m sure you have.
She nodded back. It’s appalling, and rude. Ylura couldn’t say for certain, but she thought she caught the faintest smile crinkling the corner of the Master’s face.
And he does not care, Arrakka answered. He is Gray Ring, empowered to investigate any internal matter of the Shala. And you of the First Circle are as much of interest as I am. But it goes beyond even that.
What? When he didn’t immediately answer, and she sensed the conflict of his emotions churning so violently within it overrode his normally unperturbable discipline, Ylura turned fully to him. Uncle, what?
His angular purple features pinched and darkened as he looked at the floor. My dear, you know already that it’s the T’Sona that seized Farside. What they haven’t told you, yet, is who leads them. I have seen, from holo-recordings and the hostage demands, themselves.
He looked up, eyes simmering. It is Tahna.
***
ROUGAN STOOD, LEANING against the back wall of the conference room, wondering why Raker had asked him and the rest of Tenacity’s senior staff to attend the pow-wow with the Morvenan brass. More, he wondered how long he’d have to suffer through it. Last night’s bout with the flask lingered behind his eyes like an icepick point through the temples. Skin felt clammy and back ached, and Raker had insisted they arrive in formal blues—which did Rougan’s midsection no favors.
“As near as we can tell,” began the tall Morvenan lady-Admiral, standing and touching a control on the tabletop, “by scraps of sensor readings that got out from Farside before she was hit, the attackers came from the Wild Space side of the border.” A star map materialized, illustrated her point. “In fact, trajectory and Void Drive wakes give us some hint as to their origin.”
“They could have taken a roundabout course,” Raker suggested, seated himself, and leaned back in the chair meditatively, “to throw off back-tracking.”
“This is certainly possible,” the Admiral—Mogran, Rougan remembered from the briefing packet—replied. “I merely thought to mention.” She touched the holographic control again and zoomed in on a sensor replay, the space station at the center, surrounded by icons of ships coming and going. A pair of these lurched inward. “They came in aboard two vessels; a heavily-modified freighter, which docked and brought the main storming parties” she paused and looked up a Raker “and a T5-series frigate of Sanctuarian manufacture.”
“T5?” Raker muttered with a scowl. Seeing all those unnervingly glowing Morvenan gazes turn to him, the captain held up his hands submissively. “Gentle beings, I can assure you; that ship did not come from us!”
“You expect us to believe these T’Sona scum manufactured it themselves?” the Morvenan noble with the red sash growled.
“Of course not, Count Gorrod,” Dath replied. “But the T5’s have been out of service and consigned for scrap for two decades. Some were stripped of sensitive gear and their chassis sold off to private security firms.” Frowning, he turned in his seat to meet Rougan’s gaze. “Tom, give these readings a look, if you would?”
Rougan touched fist to chest and replied, “Yes, sir.” He turned to the auxiliary screen in the corner, relieved to have an excuse not participate further, relieved to have anything to do. Fingers pattered over the holo-wafer panel, cast the sensor readings onto the separate screen. He began prodding the records with queries, honing in on the frigate. To his left, Lieutenant Aval lingered, obviously trying to remain inconspicuous. She glanced over at him as he worked.
“Nevertheless,” Gorrod was sneering, “the terrorists would not have had the means themselves to purchase a Void-capable warship without someone knowing it.” His pause dripped with accusation. “Unless they had a benefactor of some sort.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting something, good Count...?” came the answering rumble of Aval’s uncle.
“There’s plenty of suggestion to all of this, already, Arrakka,” Gorrod snapped. “And again, I have to object to your involvement in this, at all. And hers!”
Aval sucked in a breath sharply enough to startle Rougan’s attention from his work and look over his shoulder, where Gorrod was stabbing a purple finger her way.
“Your family’s shadow darkens these affairs so thoroughly as to make a mockery of them!”
“And I assure you,” Arrakka was beginning to rise from his seat, “as I have done repeatedly, that our perspective on these matters is quite sound.”
“House Green is simply going to sit there, without comment?” Gorrod seethed, spinning to the emerald-sashed Morvenan to his left. “That is his niece!” He leaned in close on his peer, hissing, “Her cousin! They’re all mixed up in this together!”
“Have a care, Count Gorrod,” came the blood-cooling voice of the gray-clad Morvenan, seated across the table from Gorrod at Arrakka’s side. “This is a Shala affair as well. Tahna Yddisa was a student of great, even troubling gift, and her desertion a shock.” He leaned forward, salt-and-pepper brows arching. “Unless you suggest the Order’s involvement darkens affairs, as you said?”
Gorrod leaned back in his chair with a squirm of his features. “Of course not, Master.”
Chill silence lingered around the table, the Count and the Master eyeing one another while the others looked on. Raker cleared his throat and looked over his shoulder.
“Lieutenant Commander Rougan?”
“Sir.” Rougan gave himself a shake and turned back to the auxiliary screen, touched its controls. “Yes, ah...I would need more data, but she’s definitely modified.” The schematic of the frigate expanded to extreme detail and the stubby engine nacelles separated, blinked red. “The T5’s never mounted such Drives,” he told the others, scratching his chin, “and her weapon systems have been bulked up. She’s almost over-armed.” He touched another part of the schematic and examined the engine emissions. “The powerplants can’t even support all that at once.” He turned a met the assembled gazes—glowing Morvenan and human, alike. “She is absolutely not a Republic vessel, anymore.”
“As I said, gentle beings,” Raker said, pivoting back to them.
“To know more,” Rougan went on, shaking his head and stepping away from the screen to fully face the others, “I’d have to get a closer look at her. With the changed-out Drives, I can’t match her signature to anything in Tenacity’s library.” He glanced at Raker. “Serial numbers would tell us more, might even let us trace her back to buyers.”
The captain smirked. “They’re probably not going to let us have that close a look, Tom.”
“Captain,” Mogran said, “as you can ascertain, Tenacity’s arrival at this time is a happy coincidence.”
“If it is a coincidence...” Gorrod muttered.
“Several star-nations’ citizens were on Farside at the time of its seizure,” Mogran pressed on as though she hadn’t heard him. “The intervention of a Republic starship, in tandem with our own Defense Force, lends whatever operation we intend to launch a multinational stance. That, in turn, softens the repercussions of its aftermath, should things turn out poorly.”
“They won’t,” Raker replied without hesitation. “But what is it you intend?”
“As I noted to you before, Captain, the T’Sona’s demands are intolerable. We’re left with having to take action.” Mogran exchange looks with the other Morvenans. “We propose rescuing the hostages by taking Farside Station back by storm.”
Jesus. Sanctuarian holomedia liked to portray the Morvenans as a subtle, complex people, playing their literal mind-games in inscrutable silence. But this sounded to Rougan more like a sledgehammer approach. Clearly, something about this incident had driven them to extremes.
“Go on,” Raker said.
“Our original scheme for this was to distract the frigate, now circling the Station, with a cruiser carrying a negotiation team.” Mogran returned to the display around Farside Station, now playing out a scenario while she described it. “While the team wastes their own negotiators’ time, a second group, including the Commando Cruiser Aetann, will hit the station, crippling as many of her defenses as possible, while the Guard boards and secures the hostages. The problem with this is that the terrorists will see the second group coming. They will have to linger at a respectable distance, so as not to alarm the T’Sona. In the time one of our cruisers will have to take to cross that distance, the element of surprise will be lost.”
She fixed Raker with a meaningful stare. “A faster ship, however, could make the run in.”
Raker grinned combatively and glanced over his shoulder at Rougan. “You think those new Hypernaughts are up for a Speed Nine-point-five sprint?”
“It’s not the dash that will be the problem, Captain; it’s the deceleration.” Rougan saw the stern tightening about the captain’s scarred features and realized his miscalculation. “Oh, they’ll be fine,” he hurried to add. “I’ll keep a personal eye on them.”
“Good man.” Raker nodded and looked back at the others. “My friends, Tenacity accepts, of course.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Mogran replied. “I should say, it will be no simple thing.”
“It rarely is for us.”
Mogran nodded at her hologram. “Tenacity will have to sweep in and hit Farside’s dock defenses with precision fire, so as not to risk the hostages or the structural integrity of the station, itself. At the same time, she will be subjected to whatever defensive fire the terrorists manage. And she will have to hold position, providing cover for the Aetann to come in a make dock. It is going to be a pounding, Captain. In addition, the frigate is likely to break off and charge back to Farside. Tenacity will have to deal with them, too.”
“Well, I’m glad it’s a simple job,” Dath chuckled. “And in the interests of fostering success, allow me to add even more to our contribution. Jaxan!”
The Security officer, leaned back against the wall at Rougan’s other side stiffened to attention. “Sir?”
“Think your Security toughs are up for a special operation?”
She smiled thinly. “I trained on hostage-rescue with the Drop Corps, myself, sir.”
The green-sashed Morvenan sat up and squirmed a little, glanced at his peers. “I don’t know that that will be necessary.”
“It will be our pleasure, Count,” Raker replied smoothly, but clearly brooking no debate. “Besides, as Third Shield Mogran said, this is a multi-national issue. And I will note” he touched the controls before him and brought up a text list “that no small number of Republic citizens and expatriates are recorded as being aboard.” He looked up from this, smiling rather more dangerously. “Lieutenant Jaxan’s team will accompany your Guard aboard the Aetann.”
“They will be pleased to have their expertise, Captain,” Mogran replied.
“Count Krazmyb’s rescue is of paramount concern.” Gorrod’s expression contorted for a moment. “A member of the Council of Colors and my own brother. Our last communique with the terrorists indicated he was alive, but likely under heavy guard. He must be your priority.”
“We all have our priorities, good Count,” the gray-clad Shala rumbled and locked gazes with Raker. Rougan was glad not to be the subject of that, shivering nevertheless, as though caught by a wintry gust through a door allowed to flap open. “Your people, Captain, should be particularly on their guard against Yddissa. As I said, her gifts are of high potency and will certainly be used against them.” He waved a hand dismissively. “We are less concerned with the rest.”
“There are other Shala deserters amongst the T’Sona?” Lieutenant Aval squawked from the corner where until that moment, she’d been nearly invisible.
The Shala Master looked up at her very slowly and Rougan wanted to sidle away from her as the frosty blast of his attention bit to the marrows, a physical thing he knew must be the Morvenan’s mind powers. The other officials squirmed with varying degrees of discomfort at her interruption. Gorrod openly scowled. Raker offered a studied non-reaction.
“They are a mix,” Mogran spoke up at last, “drifters, political dissidents, anarchists, and yes, a large proportion of Shala-gifted individuals.” Her lips pinched to a stylus-thin line against her purple flesh. “All might attempt resistance by telepathic means.”
“Though not likely at the level of Yddisa,” the Shala added.
Mogran nodded. “It is something to be aware of, Captain.”
Damn. Rougan found himself almost wishing their troubles merely amounted to Golgothan marauders. But the impulse brought a spidery, scuttling memory to the fore and he shivered again, so noticeably Jaxan frowned at him. His brow slickened with cool sweat and the drink he’d been craving seemed like an oasis just out of reach.
“My friends, fear not,” Raker boomed with a broad smile. “Tenacity is on the job!”
Rougan didn’t think it was going to be as easy as that.
***
“PRETTY SHIP,” PETTY Office Cho muttered, his voice almost inaudible as Tenacity’s Security team stepped through the airlock onto the Morvenan Aetann. But she could hear him, thanks to her augmentations, which the man likely knew. “Almost would prefer something uglier,” he went on, “for this business.”
Jaxan glanced about. The passage before them had none of a Republic ship’s hard angles and harsh lighting and grated floors, that comforting functionality; it felt almost as though they were passing into a blown-glass sculpture, opaque, but with veins of light glowing through it.
“It’ll do,” she replied with a quieting wave of her hand as a Morvenan hurried to greet them.
The body armor of Morvena’s Chrome Guard matched its wearers’ name, brushed-nickel plate over black body sleeves. Against the Fleet’s blocky gray ablative durasteel, it seemed almost theatrical. But as the Guardsmen came to stand stiffly and formally before Jaxan’s offloading detachment, she saw the shimmer of different hues as the Morvenan plate adjusted to its surroundings, chameleon-like.
“I am Fifth Blade Trytassis,” the Morvenan announced himself softly, “what in your Drop Corps service would be the equivalent of Captain, I believe.”
“Lieutenant Khiry Jaxan,” she replied with a thump of the fist to her chest plate. “And this is my team, three detachments, thirty Fleet Security troopers, at your service.”
“Pleased to have you. If you will follow?”
“Of course.”
Led by Trytassis, Jaxan and her toughs strode along a gently thrumming passage to the left before making a right that clearly led into the ship’s bowels. Security armor clanked along the smooth walls and murmurs passed between the troopers. The older hands, like Cho, would have seen enough weirdness across the space ways that their surroundings would barely have rated notice; but they had a few newer hands for this one.
Echoes ahead and a brightening of the light presaged the opening of the passageway into a wide hold. Trytassis paused as Jaxan looked out over a railing into the compartment. Below, what looked to be the better part of a company of Morvenans readied gear and weapons. They resembled a stirred insect’s nest, shining armor bodies intermixing with industrious speed and an ongoing clamor of work. But few voices, of course. Among themselves, the Morvena preferred the mind-link natural to their kind.
“Assault drones,” Jaxan noted, nodding down into the bay at a row of four bulbous shapes that looked like rolled-up pill bugs—she’d hastily read the mission packet during the shuttle jaunt over to the Aetann. “Heavy weapons, portable field generators.” She grinned at Trytassis. “You’re all ready to go.”
“We have, regrettably, had more practice lately than usual,” he replied.
“I see,” Jaxan said, thinking of that conference and its revelations. “Well, we’ll try not to be in the way.”
“I’m sure you’ll do good service,” he answered in a manner that could either be insincere or simply a function of his not having reason to speak aloud often, or to non-Morvenans. Whichever it was, he moved on without another word.
“Morvenan kit stresses particle-projection guns,” Cho was saying as they followed Trytassis. “Good for penetration, but I’ll take the stopping power of a blaster’s plasma bolt, anytime.”
Jaxan knew he was thinking of facing down the Arathra in the lower decks of Tenacity, where the explosive force of a blaster hit on chitin kept the damned, scampering things away from your face. But looking around at the artistry of the ship, she judged the Morvena had other priorities. “Something to be said for precision, though.”
“I can be pretty damned precise if I just hold down the trigger.”
Jaxan chuckled.
Trytassis led the way forward along a catwalk running the length of the hold. Holograms glowed ahead, where the lozenge-shaped compartment narrowed, Jaxan presumed somewhere just aft of the ship’s bridge. The Aetann was a cruiser in nomenclature only, barely larger than a destroyer. But her hollowed-out interior meant she carried quite the punch within.
“That way down,”” Trytassis said, pausing to gesture down a switch-backing stair that descended to the main deck. “Your people can set up down there in the cleared space.” A number of the Guard were watching from below, now, as the Republic contingent filed along above them. Their expressions were not exactly hostile—but who knew what went on behind those silent, simmering visages. “I will need you to accompany me, Lieutenant Jaxan.”
“Certainly.” She turned and nodded to Cho. “You heard the man; get ‘em set.”
“Does this mean a promotion?”
“Shut up,” she snorted and started after Tytassis, who was at a stride once again.
Hurrying to catch up, she saw what was displayed in the holograms in the forward compartment, on a wide balcony that overlooked the hold: schemata of Farside Station. As her long-limbed gait brought her close, she noted the wheel structure rotating and several points blinking. Another Morvenan officer of the Guard was manipulating the hologram controls, its bluey glow carving hard shadows from the angles of his face. That same light glinted in familiar eyes that looked up at her arrival.
“Jaxan!”
Regarding Varley, in battle armor, but with no helmet in sight, or any additional gear that would indicate readiness for a fight, Jaxan forced an impassive expression. “Commander, I wasn’t aware you were joining us.”
“Serving as operational liaison,” he replied with his annoying cheer. “I’ll be in direct communication with Regal on the bridge of Tenacity this whole time.” He nodded at the Morvenan at his side. “In tactical control is Third Blade Raynim, here.”
Jaxan clicked her heels together and snapped her fist to her chest. “At your command, Third Blade.”
The Morvena, whose left face bore a ridge of purple-black scar tissue from temple to jaw line, offered her a polite nod and said in a gravelly voice, “I was just showing the Commander what we know of the layout.” He gestured. “Near as we can tell, the terrorists seized the docking bay at the one-hundred-eighty-degree position, cut across the central hub, blasting anything that got in their way, and seized operational control at the heart. From there, they vented the rest of the station to the vacuum.”
Jaxan exchanged a look with Varley’s whose cheer faded instantly. “Killed all the occupants?”
“On that half of the ring, yes,” Raynim replied. “Terrorists, as I said.” He touched the control again, zoomed in on the hub of the wheel. “They control the Reflex Furnace and its attendant Singularity Coil. If the T’Sona decide it, they can rupture either and blow the whole Station in our faces.”
“That’ll be Tenacity’s job,” Varley said. “She’ll come in, guns blazing, and cripple the core, venting the singularity into space.”
“Farside has redundant power systems,” Raynim pointed out. “We will still be coming in under fire.”
“Like the Commander said, that’s what Tenacity’s for.” Jaxan stepped in closer, eyeing the holographic details. “Our goal is the hostages.”
Raynim nodded and gestured to a blinking module nestled along one of the hub’s six spoked conduits. “That’s Farside Control, there. As near as we can tell, the majority of the hostages of note are being held there, notably Count Krazmyb.”
“We know that how?” Jaxan asked.
“These T’Sona weren’t too careful,” Varley spoke up with a grin and a headshake. “Apparently, Farside security functions were still transmitting for some time, sending out internal readings, holocamera displays.”
“Still?”
“They finally got wise and shut the feeds down.”
“But not before we learned what we needed to know,” Raynim rumbled. “With Tenacity in place over the plane of the disc, Aetann will sweep in under her cover and make dock at the forty-five-degree position. She will deploy tractor-beam grapnels and force entry by plasma wedge, which should be sufficient to defeat blast doors and force fields and grant entry to the docking bay, there.”
“From there, it’s a short push to the Control Module,” Varley said. “Storming parties will cut across at the spoke and seize it while follow-up groups fan out to either side, taking control of the curve of the wheel.” He pointed at other blinking icons. “We know they’ve established other strongpoints and are holding lesser groups of hostages there. But they’ll come running to try to contain the breakthrough.”
“The hostages in the Control Module are the priority,” Raynim said sternly, looking at either human with eyes that didn’t just glow; they blazed. “Other losses, while regrettable, are acceptable.”
Damn, Jaxan thought, cold-blooded bastard.
“Despite whatever surprise and damage Tenacity might spread,” Raynim went on, “the T’Sona filth will have some time to react. They will be waiting for attack on one of the docks.” The Morvenan officer straightened up from the holographic controls and folded his arms before him. “Needless to say, the lead boarding parties will face a stiff fight.”
“Third Blade,” Jaxan spoke up, despite the douse of ice water through her veins as she thought of what she was about to do. “Tenacity’s team requests the honor of leading that fight.”
Raynim’s eyes brightened to a near-white-gold, the only part of his expression decipherable as a reaction. Beside him, though, Trytassis’ face slackened in shock, then tightened once more as he glanced at his superior. Jaxan could only guess at the telepathic furor passing between them.
Varley, on the other hand, was not so hard to read. Gone pale and his eyes flashing with something that could either be anger or fright, he shook his head. “And while I’m certain that’s appreciated, Lieutenant—”
“Casualties for the storming parties are likely to be extreme,” Raynim cut him off with chill words, those smoldering eyes never breaking away.
“And I understand that,” Jaxan replied, stiffening her back and dropping her gear bag to the floor with a clank as she folded her hands behind her. “But my toughs had seen hard fights before.” She held up her chin—part of her disbelieving that she’d done this, opened her big mouth, committed herself and her people to this. But she knew, even as dread chilled her, that this was the right thing to do.
“If you need someone to put these thugs back on their heels,” she added, “we’re your best option.”
The Morvenans said nothing in reply, but Trytassis continued to glare meaningfully at Raynim.
“The Chrome Guard is the Unity’s elite fighting force, Jaxan,” Varley tried again.
“They are, indeed,” Raynim replied coolly and now met Varley’s gaze. “And we have any number of veteran units eager for the opportunity.” He pivoted back to Jaxan. “But your offer makes this a point of honor, now.” He clenched his hands together before him, almost prayerfully, and bowed—Trytassis doing the same more grudgingly at his side. “We accept, with extreme respect, Lieutenant Jaxan.”
Ignoring Varley’s smoldering stare, she thumped her closed fist to her chest in response.
“Your task will be breach-and-hold,” Raynim went on, touching the hologram control to zoom in on the expected point of Aetann’s impact on Farside’s bay. “Your teams must give the follow-up groups time and space to deploy. Fifth Blade Trytassiss had been ready to lead, but, in light of this, his group can shift their focus to the move on the Control Module and the rescue of Count Krazmyb.”
“Excellent, Third Blade,” Trytassis replied in a voice that suggested anything but satisfaction.
“We have had some experience with the T’Sona.” Raynim shook his head while narrow nostrils flared. “They will throw everything at you and have little regard for their own lives. You cannot allow them to overrun the breaching area. You will have to match them for fanaticism.”
Jaxan forced a combative grin. “We’ll give ‘em a hell of a fight, Third Blade.”
“Very well.” Raynim paused a long time before pivoted to Varley. “You had something else to add, Commander Varley?”
“Not a thing.” Varley’s words had the sound of words said in place of others less-reasonable. “Lieutenant Jaxan’s people are the best.”
“We shall see.” The corner of Raynim’s lip twitched up and he shared a tiny smile with Trytassis—what Jaxan easily interpreted as cross-service rivalry of a sort. “Aetann is preparing for departure,” he continued. “We expect to be in attack position within six local hours. Whatever you need of the Unity, ask. But you use the time well to prepare yourselves. Things will happen very fast, once we’re on the move.”
He and Trytassis bowed with hands clasped before them. Jaxan and Varley responded with the Republic fist-to-heart. The Morvenans left them at that, stepped away with their black-maned heads together and eyes fluttering with what she had to guess was some mind-to-mind discussion.
And suddenly there was a hand on her arm. “Jaxan...” Varley retracted it when she bathed him in her glare of reflexive fury. “What the hell, Khiry?”
She shrugged. “A goodwill gesture.”
“One you weren’t authorized to offer,” he retorted. “I’m supposed to be liaison.” There was more than irritation to his voice; he sounded almost frantic. “Dammit, did Raker have any idea?”
“Not a bit.” She smirked. “You can tell him.”
He folded his arms petulantly. “Tell him that you volunteered the balance of Tenacity’s Security teams for a suicide mission?”
That got her hackles up, even more than the man putting his hand on her. “I don’t volunteer my people for things they don’t have a chance of succeeding at, Commander,” she hissed at him. “We’ll make this work.”
“These Guard guys aren’t fooling around.” He waved a hand after the departing Morvenan officers. “I’ve studied their plan and the station schematics already. It’s every damned bit as dangerous as Raynim is saying.”
“Don’t know what you’re so wound up about, Scott.” Jaxan forced a laugh. “This way, at least, you may not have to worry about me prying into your business, anymore.”
Varley glanced over his shoulder and stepped close to her, forcing her to meet his gaze. “And I thought I kind of made it clear,” he told her in a lowered voice, “I don’t exactly mind the prying.”
A jolt scalded away the chilliness in her nerves. Jaxan’s mouth opened with a response but she clamped it back shut, wasn’t sure what would come out would be wise, or even coherent. He was very close to her now, as close as they’d been sparring in the gymnasium—closer. What the hell does he think he’s doing? But looking into his eyes, she knew.
Even more, she knew she liked it more than she should.
“Relax, Commander,” she forced in a drawl—pretended like it was nothing; like she didn’t notice or care. “It’s not going to be that easy to get rid of me.”
Varley’s lips worked for a second, like they were holding in words. The fervor of his gaze cooled a degree, though. “Why?” When she didn’t immediately response, he added, “Really, why, Jaxan? The Guard could certainly handle it and we’re already putting Tenacity, herself, on the line for this.”
She nodded in understanding. He’d overextended himself, exposed himself, and knew it. So, he retreated into the work. She could respect that. “Something’s off about this,” she answered. “You didn’t feel it in the conference room?”
“You talking about Aval or all the other Morvenan mind-game weirdness?”
“All of it!” she snorted. “Our allies are leaving something out. I can feel it. My dad always used to say you don’t believe the first or even second story a suspect gives you.”
“Last I checked,” Varley replied, “the Morvenan Unity wasn’t the same as a bunch of South Solace punks.”
“My dad also used to say that there isn’t much difference between a political party and a gang.” She shook her head thoughtfully. “I just think it might be to advantage to get Santcuarian boots on the ground, first, and find out what we’re really dealing with here.”
“Your dad wouldn’t be too happy about his daughter putting herself on the sharp end for this one, either.”
“You’re not my dad, Varley.” She saw the sardonic upturn of his lips, realized how her words could be twisted, and held up a hand in protest. “And if the next words out of your mouth are a joke, your neck gets snapped!”
He laughed. “Fine...fine.” Shaking his head, he went on, “Alright, Jaxan. There’s no way I like it” his smile remained but his eyes went earnest, once more, and there was a faint tremor to his voice “but you’ll have my support the whole way.”
“Thanks.” Jaxan resisted the urge to reach out and touch his arm, realizing for the first time that she might be in bigger trouble with him than she thought. “Scott.”