Berserker

by

Steve Jordan

Berserker e-Book edition is copyright © Steve Jordan. All rights reserved. This e-Book edition is intended for private use only. Berserker e-Book edition does not apply Digital Rights Management (DRM). It is the desire of the author to promote the use of e-Books, and the reading of his own e-Books, with a minimum of DRM issues for the reader to deal with. He is therefore assuming that the majority of readers are relatively honest and benevolent, and would rather read a good book than take advantage of someone.

Please do not reproduce this book for the purposes of mass distribution without the express permission of Steven Jordan. After all, he’s just a guy trying to make a few bucks. What, you don’t think people can afford a couple lousy bucks for a full-length novel? What are you, an anarchist or something?

The characters in Berserker are fictional, and do not represent actual persons, living or dead. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, are coincidental and unintentional. For further information, contact steve@stevejordanbooks.com, or visit www.stevejordanbooks.com. Thanks to pretty much everyone I know, and quite a few I don’t, who contributed to making me a better person. To the ones who tried to make me a worse person: Bite me.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Afterword

Prologue

When the deck heaved the second time, there had been no collision alert sounded. That was not good. It meant that the bridge was either too busy fighting off attacking Spider ships, or dealing with damage control, to have time to issue alerts.

It also meant that when the deck dropped away, it sent dozens of crewmen, many of them in full run from one place to another, pitching into the air unexpectedly. They came down everywhere, many of them tumbling into each other in alarmed, painful knots. One such group of three crewmen sailed across the corridor, collided with the deck, and slid in a tumble across the floor, to impact against the wall and pin a fourth body that had already fallen there.

The crewmen cursed and shoved as they tried to untangle themselves. They seemed to be having limited success, until a voice emanated from the body they had pinned against the wall.

“Get it together, Rangers!”

This seemed to do the trick, giving the crewmen the impetus to straighten themselves out and regain their feet. The last one up looked back down at the person who had been pinned to the wall, and his eyes winced in apology. “Sorry, Commander.” He offered a hand, and the woman on the deck used it to lever herself back to her feet.

“S’okay. Get those power packs to your stations. Go!”

The crewmen gathered up their packs and bounded off down the corridor, leaving the Commander there with the other three-dozen crewmen strewn about the deck. Most of them were on damage control, made necessary by a barrage of particle fire from the Spiders that had caused a power surge and blown out the conduits throughout the section. The Commander had been closest to the section, and she knew how close the damage was to some vital shield cooling systems they could not afford to lose. So she had immediately taken over damage control organization.

Unfortunately, it already looked like the systems were too far gone... and if the coolant lines blew out, they would release a toxic cloud that would fill the corridor in seconds. While the Commander gave orders, she expected at any second to have to evacuate the section.

“We’re back up, Commander!”

She turned to see one of the maintenance teams slapping the access plates back down on an access box they had just finished patching.

“All right, lock that down and get out of this section! I want minimum personnel in here until—”

Her orders were cut off when the deck jumped out from underneath them again. And something different: A force that struck her from behind, accompanied by a deafening noise. She was pitched into more flailing crewmen, and landed in a heap with them.

Being on top of this heap, she was up quickly this time, and swiveling her head about to assess the damage. The far end of the corridor was filled with a peculiar colored smoke, obscuring the space beyond. That wasn’t the color of the coolant, she knew.

Then she became aware of a noise... a keening, high-pitched wail that grew louder and more insistent. Her heart jumped.

“Hull breach!” She cried out, and pitched forward. There had been crewmen just a few meters into that cloud, and she couldn’t see them now. She had to see if anyone needed help. “Everyone out except damage control! Prepare to seal off this deck!”

She advanced into the cloud, waving her arms in an attempt to see. She could feel a slight breeze, but it did not seem to be too insistent yet... and it wasn’t dissipating the odd cloud... so she continued on. She almost tripped over the first crewman she found, slumped against the wall. She moved close to him, checked his pulse, and breathed a sigh of relief to realize he was still alive. As quickly as she could, she pulled the unconscious crewman’s arm over her shoulder and used it to lever him onto her back. He was much larger than she was, but she managed to position him so that she could half-carry, half-drag him away.

As she turned to leave, she saw something on the opposite wall, a vague shape in the fog. She took only one step towards it, straining to make out the shape. Then she recognized the telltale nosecone, the shattered glass ports on each side, and the cryptic markings ringing the ports.

“Oh, shit...”

She spun about fast as she could, struggling with her unconscious burden. “Somebody help me with this m—”

An incredible blow to the small of her back cut her off. The Commander went flying in one direction, her burden in another, and both of them ended up on the deck. She almost lost consciousness herself, so hard did she hit the floor... until a wail emanated from within the cloud, a noise that turned her blood cold. Pure adrenalin forced her to struggle upright, and she spun around to face a nightmare. The shape came out of the cloud, bellowing, swinging massive arms and clenched fists. No sooner had the Commander regained her feet, she doubled back down, and its first swing missed... following through, the Commander instinctively swung about to land a foot in her attacker’s midsection. But her attacker was fast, too: Before she knew what had happened, her foot was caught in a viselike grip, and she was yanked off the ground. The Commander felt herself swinging through the air, her head almost striking the opposite walls of the corridor. Her breath was gone, her captive leg burned as if about to tear free of her hip, and she was completely disoriented. She was absolutely sure that her life was now over. Then her foot was released, and she sailed wildly through the air. She hit the wall, and this time, consciousness did leave her. The Commander slumped to the floor, limp as a rag doll. Her attacker, meanwhile, had jumped on the poor unconscious crewman she had tried to drag out, and in three swift barehanded strokes, had managed to rip off both of his arms and his head. Then it bellowed again, the noise booming through the corridor, and it charged out of the cloud, right at the unconscious Commander.

Suddenly the corridor was filled with a flash of light. A finger-thin beam of reddish energy lanced across the corridor, catching the attacker full in the chest. There was a scream, and the smell of burning flesh, and suddenly the attacker was in several pieces. Most of those pieces continued their forward momentum, falling to the deck and skidding several meters, before coming to a stop.

“Got him!” “Watch for more!” Instantly the corridor was filled with people, most of them heavily armored, and carrying particle rifles and handguns. They swarmed into the corridor, brandishing their weapons and watching every unmoving body closely.

One of the soldiers stepped close enough to nudge the severed torso of the wild attacker they had just cut down. “Oh, damn... that’s Drew Franks, he’s in my section... look, he dismembered that guy...”

“Try not to think about it,” another soldier advised him.

They moved into the corridor only as far as the edge of the cloud. The lead soldier peered into the cloud for a moment, then backed off, fumbling at the mask dangling from his neck. “Berserker! Everybody out!

Masks on! Seal off this deck!”

The soldiers began to back out of the corridor, wasting no time. All were silent now, and many of them held their breath as they struggled with their masks. Near the leader, another bent down to grab the unconscious Commander slumped against the wall.

“What are you doing?” the leader batted his hand away. “Leave ‘er!”

“Lieutenant—”

“Leave her, I said!” the Lieutenant snapped. “She can’t be helped... she’s infected!”

“We can’t leave her!” the soldier protested. “That’s Commander Kestral!”

“I know,” the Lieutenant said, looking down at her. “And she’s as good as dead.”

Chapter 1

The cloudless, cobalt-blue sky was not the amazing thing about Kyxha Spacedock. After all, the best spacedocks in the Oan Galarchy all seemed to have cloudless skies, many filled with stars even during the day, and the sky over the planet Kyxha was always cloud-free.

The incredible number of Oans was not the amazing thing about Kyxha Spacedock. After all, more and more Oan planets were being terraformed to accommodate more and more people every day, and the human race was on another one of its famous population surges.

The amazing thing about Kyxha Spacedock was the columns.

On Kyxha, spaceships were berthed on the tops of columns. Due to Kyxhian environmental regulations, ships’ exhaust emissions were highly controlled on the ground. When the Oan Galarchy specified the need to put a spaceport on the planet Kyxha, the Kyxhians refused to accept the compromising of their atmosphere with ships’ emissions. And considering how much work and expense had been put into creating a viable atmosphere on Kyxha, they had every right to complain. Although the Galarchy had the power of ultimate law on all of its planets, it strove to avoid dictating local policy whenever possible, and deferred to Kyxhian desires in the matter.

So Galarchy engineers created a system of columned berths designed to limit the amount of emissions that would reach the ground. With literally thousands of berths, some almost half a kilometer high, arranged in a perfect geometric pattern and filling a plateau that stretched to the horizon, Kyxha spaceport was inarguably the most unique and fascinating spacedock in all the Galarchy. In fact, it drew tourists from all over the Galarchy just to see it.

The woman striding down the main avenue was clearly not interested in the forest of columns she passed through. That set her apart from the gawking tourists. So did the white business suit she wore, an outright anomaly among the working class personnel from old transports and cargo loaders that passed all around her.

But what separated her from the crowd most was the woman herself. Her looks were striking, by any human standards. She was tall, taller than the average man. The well-tailored suit she wore served to highlight her lean, strong figure. And she walked with an air of authority, pride, and assurance. As she marched down the avenue, many men turned to watch her go past, and many of those smiled in appreciation. A few women turned as well, but to most of them, she may have been looked upon as competition, not attraction. Even a few native Kyxhians, who generally exhibited a complete lack of appreciation for the unaltered human figure (probably due to the height difference), took note of her passing.

The attentions of her fellow Oan citizens were lost on her, however. She was giving all of her attention to where she was going, occasionally looking at the plaques mounted on the columns that indicated berth numbers and avenue names.

Eventually, she noted a plaque and veered left... the only turn she had made since entering the spacedock. She continued on, past six more columns, then approached a column to her right. A standard door was open in front of her. She pressed a hand on the announcer plate by the door, and waited.

“Come on in!”

The greeting had been in standard Oan, not local Kyxhian. The woman stepped slowly through the doorway.

Like most of the columns in the spacedock, this one contained a full fabrication and servicing facility at its base and extending upward to its apex, designed to allow the occupant to repair most ships, or to build one from scratch. Most of the heaviest equipment was anchored to the walls of the column, leaving the floor largely empty except for control consoles, and the gantries that gave access to the upper areas of the column.

A solitary man stood at a console roughly in the center of the column. Despite the greeting in Oan, he was Kyxhian... a bit shorter than the standard human norm, with a barrel-shaped chest and arms clearly shaped for heavy labor. He waved at the woman to come in, did a final few manipulations at the console, then stepped around it to approach the woman.

“Good morning, Commander! You’re right on time... didn’t have any trouble finding the place, I see.”

“Not Commander,” the woman stated, her voice echoing through the column. “I’m not with the Rangers any more. I told you that before, Mr. Fefgren.”

“Ah, so you did, so you did.” Fefgren met her halfway across the column, and offered a hand. “Ms. Kestral, then.”

“You can call me Carolyn,” she said, and took his hand. “Especially if you’re finished.”

“Of course I’m finished! It’s the 15th of Gena, isn’t it? My name is Tar Fefgren, isn’t it? I never finish a commission late!” Fefgren smiled widely and glanced up over their heads. “I just finished charging the batteries and calibrating the restart systems, and everything tests perfect. Ready to go up and see it?”

“Oh, yes,” Carolyn Kestral nodded and smiled.

“Then let’s go.”

Fefgren led her over to a platform mounted to a rail that ran straight up along the column wall. They stepped in, and he tapped at the small control panel on the railing. The platform started upward at a brisk pace. As they rapidly left the ground behind, Fefgren glanced over at Kestral to see how she was handling the ascent. She seemed perfectly at ease, leaning casually against the rail and watching their ascent as they continued up.

“No problem with heights, eh?” he ventured. “Must be all that Ranger training.”

“Not everything I am comes from the Rangers,” Kestral commented, not looking at him. Fefgren’s friendly smile faded a bit. “You never said that was a sore subject.”

Kestral looked at him then. Her eyes softened. “Sorry. I’m just looking forward to starting the next chapter of my life, that’s all.”

“Ah... understandable,” Fefgren nodded soberly. “In that case, welcome to your next chapter.”

He gestured towards the open gantry, where banks of spotlights flooded the center of the Column interior, and the craft anchored there.

“Nothing more beautiful than a brand new star ship, ready to take off for the first time,” Fefgren commented.

For the first time since she’d arrived, Kestral grinned widely. “Except maybe when it’s yours.”

Fefgren returned the grin and nodded knowingly, and joined her in examining the ship above them. Even for a small freighter, the ship looked handsome. The hull was aerodynamically tuned to allow it to function in atmospheric conditions... it was no bird, but it would not be too ungainly in the air. The twin thrusters mounted to the massive wing and backbone that extended across the top center of the ship, looked powerful, efficient, and fast, even without power. The alabaster hull was largely free of open ports or outside mechanisms, and it fairly glowed under the glare of the spotlights. Its lines were clean and efficient, but not entirely inelegant.

“One Quicksilver-class star freighter,” Fefgren stated proudly. “Rated 20-40, top speed 3.5C, standard crew quarters for ten. Comes standard with one remote sensory drone and one backup, a self-updating Oan map database, two standard defensive particle cannons, and four tractor field emitters. The additional two cannons are already installed...” Fefgren gestured... “there, and on the opposite side.”

“Very good,” Kestral nodded. “Is the drone active?”

“Yes,” Fefgren replied, “and already keyed to you.”

“Let’s see it.”

“Right here, Ma’am.”

Kestral swung her head to the left, away from Fefgren. Less than a meter away, a featureless dark oval slightly smaller than a human head floated in the air, keeping pace with the rising platform. A play of lights flashed underneath its glassy, nearly-opaque surface, but otherwise, no moving parts could be seen.

“I am the sensory drone of this Quicksilver-class freighter,” the oval stated. “This ship is registered to Carolyn Kestral.”

“I am Carolyn Kestral,” she replied.

“Please allow me to confirm your identity for ship’s systems.”

“Go ahead,” Kestral nodded.

The oval swung in front of Kestral and hovered there for a few moments. “I have confirmed your identity with Oan databases, and have added an identity scan to the ship’s database. What are your orders?”

“Full sensory sweep of the ship, running a comparison against construction specifications,” Kestral replied briskly. The drone abruptly flashed away, and Fefgren regarded Kestral amusedly.

“Don’t trust my work?”

Kestral smiled and shook her head. “Just giving it something to do. I’m sure your work is impeccable. You come highly recommended.”

“On that dubiously positive note,” Fefgren smiled wryly, “shall we go inside?”

The platform stopped at the top of the gantry, and a solid-feeling flooring led to the crew hatch of the ship. Kestral and Fefgren crossed the space between the platform and the ship, and Kestral took the time to run a hand appreciatively along the hull alongside the crew hatch. Then she stepped up the ramp of the hatch and into the ship’s foyer.

The design of the interior was as clean as the outside, with numerous storage compartments, and the ship’s plumbing, concealed behind panels that covered the walls, floor and ceiling. An open alcove at the hatch provided storage space for environmental suits and gear, and included a lockable compartment just large enough for a small complement of hand tools or weapons.

“The Elite interior package you asked for,” Fefgren smiled. “Looks good?”

“Looks good,” Kestral agreed. “Same in all rooms?”

“You bet.” Fefgren led her to the crew corridor, and tapped the announcer outside of the first door. The door popped partially open, and Fefgren pushed it open the rest of the way. Kestral stepped inside and admired the well-appointed crew quarters, nodding as she gave the bunk, workspace and partitioned bath facilities the once-over. When she was satisfied, she turned to Fefgren.

“Let’s see the bridge.”

Fefgren led Kestral to the bridge, paused at the closed hatch and looked pointedly at her. Kestral took her cue, stepped up and triggered the hatch herself.

The bridge she walked onto was a model of efficiency. A Captain’s station, placed at the center of the room, took in the helm and operations stations before it, and provided a view of the monitoring systems throughout the room. Unlike a typical military setup, where consoles were limited in design to very specific single functions, the Captain’s station had a full control console before it, allowing the Captain to closely monitor and control most of the ship’s systems from there if necessary. There were more automated systems than Kestral was used to seeing, but then, a freighter wasn’t a military ship, and she hadn’t been planning on hiring two-dozen people just to monitor every on-board circuit throughout the day.

Fefgren motioned to the chair at the center desk. “The Captain’s station awaits you.”

Kestral smiled and took the seat. She examined the controls and dual displays embedded into the console’s surface. She tapped at the controls, and one by one, the surrounding stations came online, monitors came to life, and the bridge slowly filled with the muted sounds of ship activity.

“Is the ships systems check ready?” she asked no one in particular.

“Yes, Captain,” came a voice from seemingly everywhere in the bridge... the voice of the ship. And appropriately feminine, Kestral noted. “The ship corresponds to all standards for a newly-minted Quicksilver-class vessel. Close examination reveals no substandard parts or construction techniques, and manufacturing methods accomplished to an average of one hundred ten percent of specified tolerances.”

“Very good. Thank you.” Kestral turned to look at Fefgren, who had an expectant look on his face. She smiled widely and said, “I’ll take it.”

Fefgren puffed up and beamed at Kestral. “It’s yours! Congratulations... Captain Kestral.”

Kestral’s smile faded for a moment, as she considered his words. Then her smile returned, together with an expression that Fefgren hadn’t seen before.

“Captain Kestral,” she repeated. “I like the sound of that.”

“Wow.”

Kestral stood in the main cargo bay of the ship— her ship—and stared about. “You know,” she said to Fefgren, “I’ve been inside a loaded Quicksilver... and I’ve seen holograms of them... but now that I’m inside a real one, completely empty... this thing is big.”

“It’ll carry a hell of a lot,” Fefgren agreed. “40,000 metric tons is a lot of cargo. The outer nacelles are great for bulk compounds in solid, liquid, gas and even transitional states. And if you want, you’ve got the space to put in encapsulated environmentals, to carry more sensitive cargo... livestock, rare plants, that kind of thing. Or additional rooms for passengers. And don’t forget, Quicksilvers can tow trailer rigs. Good money in trailers.”

“Trailers,” Kestral nodded absently. “Maybe so.”

Fefgren regarded her for a moment. “Do you have a crew yet?”

Kestral shook her head. “No... I haven’t had the chance yet.” After a moment, she turned to him. “Why do you ask?”

Fefgren smiled slyly. “You see right through me, don’t you? Yes, as a matter of fact, there’ve been two people loitering about here for most of the past month, ever since they found out I was commissioned to build a Quicksilver. They want to talk to you about signing on. I think one of them is certified to boss on a Quicksilver.”

“Really?” Kestral considered. “Sounds like someone I should meet.”

“I’ll call ‘em up for you, then,” Fefgren nodded. “Do you have a place to berth yet?”

“Do I need one?”

“Well, you will in about ten days,” he replied. “That’s when my next commission comes up. In the meantime, you can keep her here.” He snapped his fingers. “By the way... have you got a name for her?”

“Oh, yes,” Kestral replied without hesitation. “Her name is Mary.”

Chapter 2

The more Carolyn Kestral wandered about her new ship, the more she noted differences in the way civilian and military ships did things.

The engine room she now stood in was a perfect example. To begin with, the engine itself... a UnitPlant 880 tristream fusion plant, complete with preheaters. A beautiful engine, powerful, short response curve, well-made and reliable. But not as flexible as a military-grade engine, with its triple-redundant systems and quick-access everything. More automatic control systems evident, which meant fewer options to bypass the automation and do things manually. She’d have to get used to the idea of potentially lengthy down-time when the engines were out or under repair. Not that that was expected to be a regular occurrence, with a top-of-the-line engine.

And the Tesser field system, essential for faster-than-light flight... it was practically sealed! There was no way to manually reprogram the spacetime field emitters on the fly. Then again, that skill was rarely needed outside of combat situations. Still, just knowing you had the option... Kestral’s reverie was interrupted by a chime, followed by the voice of the Mary. “Captain, you have two visitors requesting permission to come aboard. They say they were sent by Mr. Fefgren.”

“Very good,” Kestral said. “I’ll see them in the foyer.”

The two visitors... a human male and an Avian female... were speaking to each other as Kestral reached the foyer. They made an interesting pair: He was taller than Kestral and a bit on the burly side, and she was of the typically slight build of all Avians, shorter than Kestral, with a mane of feathery hair on her head that tended to dance in even the slightest breeze, thick feathery lashes, and eyebrows that touched the temples of her hair. They stopped speaking and turned as she came around the corner, but Kestral had already seen how close together they stood, and how friendly their conversation had been. Clearly they were already well acquainted.

“I’m Carolyn Kestral,” she announced as she came into the foyer. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually,” the human replied, “we were hoping to be able to do something for you, Ma’am. This,” he indicated the Avian, “is Tirri Riza, and my name is Sarander Fi.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ma’am,” Tirri Riza smiled and bowed slightly. “We understand you need a crew for this new ship of yours. We’re here to offer our services.”

“So, you’re Fefgren’s loiterers, eh?” Kestral smiled. “I understand one of you is certified to boss a Quicksilver.”

“That would be me, Ma’am,” Sarander admitted.

“As a matter of fact, I was just up in the engine room.”

“And probably wondering what you’re going to do with all that sealed plumbing when something springs a leak,” Sarander grinned. Kestral inclined an eyebrow in his direction, which he took as a sign to continue. “Fact is, Ma’am, the Quicksilver is a damned fine ship, built to take a lot, and even when it’s straining, it can get you where you need to go. The design isn’t easy access, no. But there are ways into most of that hardware, and through the most closed software, if you know where the entry points are. I’ve served as pilot on one Quicksilver, and boss on another, and I assure you, I’ll get that ship through any hoops you point it at.”

“I see,” Kestral nodded soberly. “Could you reconfigure the tesser to sideslip an impact object?”

“Sure,” Sarander quickly replied, “but why bother, when you can simply throw a field extension out and alter the speed of the object?”

Kestral smiled. “Good answer.” She turned to Tirri. “And have you served aboard a Quicksilver?”

“No, Ma’am,” Tirri replied. “I served on the Blue Pacific for the past three standard years, captained by Barry Walsh. I was his cargo officer.”

“The Blue Pacific?” Kestral’s smile faded. “During the Sett campaign?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Tirri nodded. “My team rebuilt the medical modules after pulling the Bok Six Firebird out of the firefight. I also received field training as a medic there.”

“I’d call that good experience,” Kestral admitted. “Tell me, do you two come as a package deal?”

Tirri smiled meekly and ran a hand over her feathered head. “If at all possible, Ma’am. See, we’ve been married for five years, but spend most of our time on separate runs.”

Sarander added, “We were hoping to get a gig together for a change.”

“I see,” Kestral said. “Well, I’m still working on lining up my first load. But if you can help me get this ship prepped for her maiden voyage...” She stepped forward and extended her hands to both of them.

“You’ve got yourselves jobs.”

“Thank you!” the both of them said in unison, taking Kestral’s hands warmly.

“You’re welcome,” Kestral replied. “You’ll both start at standard rates plus commission, until we get our first run. Then we’ll evaluate your work.”

“Fair deal,” Tirri nodded.

“Where should we start?” Sarander asked.

Kestral considered. “Tell you what: The Mary hasn’t left this berth yet. I want to touch space the morning after tomorrow, and do a dry run. Go pick out some quarters... oh... I guess you only need one room. Rooms three and four are good-sized for two people. Then meet me on the bridge.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” “Thank you, Ma’am!”

“Oh... one other thing. This is a freighter, not a star destroyer. You can call me Carolyn. Or Captain, if you need to be formal.”

Tirri and Sarander exchanged understanding glances. “Okay, we got it,” Sarander said. “We’ll go get our gear.”

“All right. I’ll see you later.” Kestral then turned and strode away, back into the Mary. Tirri and Sarander stood respectfully and waited until she was out of sight around the corridor. Then they turned and jumped into each other’s arms, hugging and kissing delightedly.

“That’s what I assigned you quarters for!” came Kestral’s shout from up the corridor. Sarander and Tirri immediately broke apart, sheepishly, and backed out of the ship. “Yes, Ma’am... uh, right, Carolyn—Captain!” “We’ll just go get our gear!” “Thanks again, Captain!” “Be right back!”

Around the corner, Kestral listened to the couple bounding out of the foyer, and grinned to herself. Then she said, “Mary, check employment data for those two. Do their stories confirm?”

“Checking.” It took just a few seconds for the ship to access and query Oan databases and confirm Tirri and Sarander’s employment records. “Yes, they do.”

“Good. Thank you. Are there any other responses from my advertisements?”

“This came in while you were interviewing the others: a candidate for pilot, named Doshu May.”

“Qualified?”

“I’ve confirmed his qualifications.”

“All right, let’s talk to him.”

As it happened to be fairly close to local noon, Kestral decided to meet her prospective pilot over lunch. After identifying a nearby restaurant that served standard human fare (or a reasonably close approximation of it), she had Mary contact Doshu May and arrange a meeting there. When she arrived, she was pointed to a table, where a man sat quietly. He saw Kestral approaching the table, and stood before she reached it.

“Afternoon, Captain,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Doshu May.”

“Afternoon,” Kestral greeted him. “Thanks for meeting me here.”

“That’s okay, I was about ready for lunch,” May replied, and they both sat back down. “I’ve been working on a Stinger rebuild this morning.”

“You’re a mechanic, too?”

“Every pilot ought to be a good mechanic,” May stated. “You should know why your ship flies the way it does, and if it doesn’t fly the way you want it to, you ought to be able to make it.”

They took a moment to order from the menu, before Kestral carried on the conversation.

“What else have you piloted?”

“Well... JP 40s and 50s... Zips... a K’LiDo freighter... a couple of Cano freighters... And, of course, the Quicksilver. That was for Captain Jon Lang, out of Terra73.”

“Don’t know him,” Kestral responded to his unspoken question.

“Good Captain, nice guy, all business. We mostly did contracted runs between Terra73 and Maille’s Outpost, but we also ran luxury cargo around that sector. What are you looking to run, Captain?”

Kestral shrugged. “I’m open to suggestions... I just bought the ship.”

“Oh, really?” May’s attitude shifted just a bit. “If you don’t mind my asking, what kind of background do you have for this?”

“I’m a retired Ranger,” Kestral told him. “Served as Commander for the last four years on a Ranger cruiser.”

“Saw action?”

“Oh, yes. I was on the line.”

“That why you retired?”

It was a blunt question. Kestral responded just as bluntly: “No.”

After a second, May nodded, and his attitude softened. “Fair enough. Begging your pardon, but I have no interest in working for some clerk who doesn’t know how to use an airlock.”

“I understand,” Kestral nodded back. “The Mary is tasting space the morning after tomorrow. I’m offering standard wage plus commission, then a re-evaluation after our first run. Still interested in piloting?”

“Yes, I am,” May said, just as a small bot arrived with their orders. “Ah... a good omen, I like that.”

“Looks like good food, too,” Kestral noted. “Have you eaten here before?”

“Only when I’m accepting new piloting jobs,” May grinned, taking a sip of his cider. “Mmm. Good year.”

As the platform ascended to the gantry berthing the Mary, Kestral became aware of a man standing by the crew hatch, and Mary’s drone hovering next to him. The man seemed to be holding his hand, palm-up, to the drone, and the drone floated just inches away from his hand like a curious puppy.

“Can I help you?” Kestral called out when the platform reached the gantry flooring. The man turned at the sound of her voice, and his hand dropped a bit, remaining palm-up.

“Are you the Captain?”

“Yes, I am,” Kestral replied. “And you are?”

“Angel Shakra,” the man said, offering his free right hand... he continued to hold his other hand up. “I’m looking for work, Ma’am.”

“Doing what?”

“Mate and cook,” he replied simply. “Every ship should have a mate. But I’m a damn good cook, too, which every ship really needs.”

“Mate...” Kestral considered, dubious.

“Oh, I know,” Shakra said, “you can buy a few bots to do most mate work. But truth to tell, no bot has the eye of an experienced mate. You want your ship to look good?... you need a live mate, to do the job right.”

“Uh-huh,” Kestral replied, still not convinced. “I’ve eaten standard flight fare for the last ten years, and I—”

“And I’ll bet it’s been just as long since you smelled this.” Shakra slowly moved his hand under Kestral’s nose. She started to protest... then her eyes widened, and she looked down at his hand. She took a deep sniff, and involuntarily, she closed her eyes and smiled. When she opened them again, she said, “Real coffee beans?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Shakra nodded.

“Where did you get them?” she asked reverently.

“I can grow them,” he replied. “If you can give me some space in the hold, I can grow authentic terran coffee, spices, vegetables, beans and fruits. Had any cinnamon lately?”

“Good lord, no!” Kestral fairly goggled at him. “Um... how much space do you need?”

“One of the upper flank holds in there will do it,” Shakra stated. “I can maintain it, cook, and do my other mate duties, as long as it’s understood that the food comes first, with me.”

Kestral considered only briefly, glancing again at the aromatic beans in his hand. “Pick out some quarters. We’ll discuss wages after I try your first meal.”

“Breakfast, tomorrow morning at local nine,” Shakra smiled, and shook her hand. “Thanks, Captain!

You won’t regret it, Ma’am! I’ll go get my gear right now!”

Shakra headed quickly for the platform, waving once more at Kestral as he started to descend. Kestral waved amiably back, and started into the Mary. She glanced at the drone, still hovering nearby. “Those were real coffee beans, right?”

“Authentic terran coffee beans, grown aeroponically.”

“If he can brew them as good as he can grow them, I may never sleep again,” she mused aloud. Kestral found Tirri on the bridge, standing over the ops console. She was about to ask where Sarander was, when she heard his disembodied voice ring out. Tirri started to respond to Sarander’s voice, when she noticed Kestral. The feathered hairs on the nape of her neck stood up slightly, a sure sign to Kestral that she had surprised her.

Kestral took a few steps forward, silently craning her neck about the bridge. When she was around the Captain’s station, she saw a pair of legs protruding from underneath the ops station. She smiled at Tirri, and leaned forward. “Everything ship-shape down there, Sarander?”

“Captain?” Sarander shoved himself out from under the console, saw Tirri first, then Kestral standing next to her. “Oh, hi. I was just doing a bit of... rewiring.”

“To a brand new ops console?” Kestral cocked an eyebrow, and looked at Tirri, who seemed disinclined to respond to the question. “May I ask why you would do that to my ship... without asking me about it first?”

Sarander pursed his lips and averted his eyes a moment, looking like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. “We... wanted to surprise you?”

“Mission accomplished,” Kestral said sarcastically. “Now give me a good reason not to tell you to undo whatever it is you just did.”

“Ops locks.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ops locks,” Sarander repeated, standing up slowly. “See... the Quicksilver uses a customized telemetry system designed to allow the drones to function outside of the ship during C travel, and which allows the drones to control ship’s systems remotely. It’s tied into the Tesser system to compensate for field variations outside of the ship, which—”

“Ops locks,” Tirri cut him off.

“Ops locks,” Kestral emphasized.

“Sorry,” Sarander said. “Uh, Quicksilver systems can be tapped into from outside, through the drones and... all of that... and the ops system can be hacked into and controlled remotely. It’s a design flaw. I’m installing a lock that will prevent an outside signal sent through the drone from hacking into ops. The drone will still be able to remotely control ship’s systems, but only on orders from recognized controllers... us.”

“I see,” Kestral said, after a moment. “And exactly how did you get past the Mary’s security systems to apply those locks?”

Sarander responded by holding up a small device, about the size of his closed fist. Kestral stared at the device, then at Tirri, and back to Sarander. “Let me guess: An omni broadcaster?”

Sarander replied quickly, “You only need it to start the process—”

“You hacked into my brand new ship!” Kestral snapped.

“Yes!” he blurted back. “But now no one else can!”

Tirri finally chimed in, trying to support Sarander. “It really does work, Captain, I’ve seen it done on—”

She stopped speaking when Kestral held up a finger in admonishment.

The bridge was silent for long moments. Sarander slowly lowered the hand that held the hacking device. Tirri regarded Kestral hopefully, but did not move otherwise.

Kestral lightly cleared her throat. “You know how much trouble I could get into, if anyone finds out that thing is aboard? If I get asked, I’m going to deny that I even know you two. And two seconds after that, you’re both walking home. Is that clear?”

“As a vacuum,” Sarander replied.

“Good.” Kestral glared mock-seriously at each of them once more, before her eyes softened. “Carry on. Set aside an upper flank hatch for Angel Shakra, our new cook. Prep it according to his needs for life support systems. I’ll be in my quarters.” With that, she turned and strode off the bridge. Tirri and Sarander continued to stand as she left. When she was out of sight, and well out of hearing, Tirri whispered, “‘Don’t worry, hon... this’ll get us in good with the Captain. Just you watch.’” She glared at Sarander.

Sarander winced. “I guess this means I’m sleeping on the wet spot tonight.”

“What makes you think there’ll be one?” Tirri countered.

Chapter 3

Waking up for the first time aboard a new ship was one of those sensations that, for Kestral, never got old. It always felt like the beginning of a new stage of life for her, one that she had always relished. And even now, it made her unintended new profession a bit more bearable than it had felt the day before. She dressed (having bathed, as was her habit, before going to bed) in a working jumpsuit not too dissimilar from the one-piece overalls she had worn in countless years of Ranger service, but sporting a light green tone with orange piping... much more colorful than the boring white of Ranger uniforms. Then, gathering up her personal tablet, she headed out of her quarters.

The first thing that reached her, immediately upon opening her door, was the unmistakable aroma of real, fresh coffee wafting through the corridor. Kestral took a deep whiff of the stuff, grinned, and instantly turned in the direction of the galley.

The second thing that reached her were the voices of Tirri and Sarander, from inside their quarters. Kestral had nothing against married couples aboard her ship... but placing at least one set of quarters between hers and theirs had been no accident. After all, the walls of ship’s quarters were never completely soundproof, and she knew from experience how... distracting the activities of married couples could be. She expected Doshu May would take the quarters between hers and theirs, a single bunk room, or the next single on the other side of the couple. Either way, she didn’t expect to hear much commotion out of them, which would be fine with her.

Continuing on down the corridor, Kestral turned to the wing that accessed the common. Half of the common area included a living area with numerous built-in chairs and sofas, various table games, and access terminals to the ship’s computer. The galley took up the other half of the common area, itself divided into the food preparation area and a table large enough to seat ten. The galley lights were on, and she found Angel Shakra busy at the preparation station. The coffee brewed in a pot on the stove.

“Good morning, Angel,” Kestral greeted him brightly as she entered.

“Morning, Captain!”

“Carolyn is fine. We’re not formal here.”

“Okay. Help yourself to some coffee. It’s only eight, but if you want me to hurry breakfast—”

“No, nine is fine,” Kestral replied. “I’ve got plenty of things I can take care of first. I’ll want to see how you’ve got everything stowed for takeoff tonight, after dinner.”

“I’ll have everything stowed two hours after dinner’s done,” Angel said. “No problem.”

“Okay. See you in an hour.”

Actually, Kestral reflected, she didn’t have that much to do before breakfast. She just wanted to take the time to familiarize herself with as much of her new ship as possible, and the hour before breakfast was another hour she could use in simply wandering around.

This time, she ended up in the bulk storage hold, above the occupied levels of the ship. Kestral felt a particular need to familiarize herself with every part of the Mary that was significantly different than her former Ranger ships, and this area was that different.

It wasn’t that Ranger ships didn’t need to carry their own supplies... of course they did. But Ranger ships had matter compilers, capable of creating most basic elements, and even many compound elements, directly from the atoms of which they consisted. Even water was broken down to stores of hydrogen and oxygen, and recombined as needed. Once elements were used and discarded, they were broken back down into their component atoms and stored for later use. But a civilian ship rarely carried such elaborate and power-hungry equipment as matter compilers. For the Mary, raw storage tanks, bulk waste processing tanks, pumps, filters, septic systems, recyclers, and quality monitoring equipment, were the technology of the day.

And that was only one of the things that were so different from being on a Ranger ship. Kestral felt that, to be a good captain, she needed to instinctively know these differences. It may not be a matter of life and death, the way it could be on a Ranger ship. Then again, they would be alone in space, without high tech and dozens of Ranger technicians backing them up... it might indeed make that much of a difference someday.

Everyone met in the galley at nine for breakfast (with the exception of Doshu, who wasn’t expected for a few more hours). To everyone’s delight, Angel delivered as promised, preparing a delicious breakfast of hash browns, vegetable omelettes, and fruit salads. “You think this is something,” Angel told them. “Wait

‘til I get my farm going.”

After breakfast, and Kestral’s agreement to deliver on her promise of good wages based on Angel’s performance, the four of them discussed the day’s work. There was a lot of preparation that went into the maiden voyage of any ship, and the Mary would be no exception. There was much checking and testing that went on before she could even lift off, most of which had to be manually prepped and monitored.

Kestral had studied the manuals, and taken a lot of notes, but she found herself relying on Sarander to cover all the systems she had not thought of, including a few that were not in the manuals, but were known by someone who knew the ship. Sarander proved to be that person, simply judging by his encyclopedic knowledge of Quicksilvers and their needs, and he quickly put Kestral’s questions about his expertise to rest. Between Kestral and Sarander, they quickly organized an outline for the prelaunch tasks, and Kestral divvied those tasks out for all four of them.

Work progressed smoothly throughout the day, giving Kestral a chance to evaluate Tirri and Angel as they ran their assigned tasks. She was more than satisfied with Tirri’s ability to work with Sarander, as the two of them apparently had a close rapport, but did not waste time in idly socializing while working. Angel’s work was good, as well, although clearly he deferred most of his responsibilities to his “farm,” as he called it, where he had brought in an incredible load of hardware and begun to set up his aeroponic gardens. Still, he hustled when told to hustle, so Kestral could not complain. Even with Angel’s prelaunch work outside of the galley, he still managed to get dinner on the table right on time. The four of them rejoined in the galley, where they ate heartily and went over the day’s progress. As Kestral had planned, everything would be ready for the morning launch of the Mary.

“Hey,” Tirri asked as they worked on dessert, “weren’t we supposed to have a pilot by now?”

“Yes, we were,” Kestral admitted sourly. “Doshu May... he was supposed to be here hours ago.”

“Not a good way to start your first day on the job,” Sarander commented.

“A fact that hasn’t been lost on me,” Kestral stated flatly. “I’m going to have to find out what—”

At that moment, a call came in. “Incoming message for Captain Kestral.”

“Is that Doshu May?” Kestral called out. “If it is—”

“It is not Doshu May,” the Mary responded. “A prospective client.”

“I see,” Kestral said, looking meaningfully about her crew. “I’ll speak to him in my quarters—”

“The client is waiting at the crew hatch, Captain.”

“Oh. In that case,” Kestral said, standing, “tell him I’ll be right out.”

Kestral headed directly for the hatch, and palmed it open. The man standing just beyond the opening hatch was human, though his slightly greenish-bronze tan marked him as someone most likely raised on Palin’s Planet. He was not as tall as Kestral, but he was far from slight. In fact, despite his immaculate business suit, Kestral imagined that he seemed a very physically-capable man. The man looked up when the hatch opened, and waited until he could see Kestral’s face. “Captain Kestral?”

“That’s me,” Kestral said, stepping down and offering her hand.

“My name is Gellen So.” The man shook her hand in a very business-like way and smiled curtly. “I am in need of a cargo transport, and I am told you are looking for an assignment.”

“Sure,” Kestral smiled. “What have you got?”

“Just a small load of ores going from here to Terra212. About five tons.”

“Just five tons? That is a small load. Anything special about the stuff?”

“No... just inert ores,” So shrugged.

“Well...” Kestral paused, not sure why this man was bringing her such a small load to transport. “Pardon my saying so, but this sounds like something more suited to a small cruiser or hauler, not a freighter. Why—?”

“Well, our usual transport is down for repairs, and we can’t upset our schedule... I’m sorry... don’t you want the job?”

“It’s not that,” Kestral replied. “It’s just that, for the cost of operating a freighter—”

“We’re in a hurry. You’re here. We’ll pay 20 million odds for the run.”

“Sold,” Kestral said quickly, and shook his hand again. After all, she mused, business is business. And 20 million in Oan Dollars easily covered her operating costs. “Um... when do we leave?”

“As soon as you can pick up the crates and go... they’re ready now, stored on the southwest corner of the spacedock.” So handed her a small data chip. “This is the cargo manifest data, and it includes the storage column number. As soon as you can get there, you can load it and go.”

“Okay...” Kestral did some quick thinking. “Tell you what... we were just starting to secure things for the night. Would first thing tomorrow morning work for you?”

To her delight, So nodded. “Yes, that will still give you time to make our schedule. First thing tomorrow, then.”

“Great!” Kestral beamed. “We’ll see you in the morning, bright and early!”

They shook hands again, and Gellen So turned and left. Kestral waited until he was out of sight before saying under her breath, “Assuming we can actually fly...”

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

Kestral had just rejoined the crew in the galley, where they were starting to clean up from dinner. She had surprised them, breaking into their casual conversation. So they all paused and focused on her.

“I hate hearing that from a new boss, my first day at work,” Angel said as casually as possible. “We’re not fired, are we?”

“No,” Kestral replied. “You’re all still hired, and we’ve got a job.” Sarander, Tirri and Angel all gave appropriately enthusiastic responses, and Kestral waited for them to finish. “That’s obviously the good news. The bad news is, we’re expected to pick up our cargo tomorrow morning, and we haven’t even gotten this hunk of metal off the ground yet!”

“Hey, we’re ready to fly!” Sarander insisted. “All the checks were perfect!”

“Well, you’re going to have to prove it. We’re taking a test orbit inside of two hours.”

“But our pilot—”

“I’ll worry about finding May,” Kestral assured them. “You all just get busy... Angel, stow your gear asap and help out wherever you’re needed. Sarander, start prelaunch. I’ve got some calls to make... I’ll be on the bridge.”

Kestral spun on a heel and headed for the bridge at a trot. Sarander quickly gathered the last of his dishes and utensils and deposited them unceremoniously in the sink. “Well, that’s it! Tirri, do me a favor and check the rear load monitors while I heat things up. Let’s go, guys! Work work work!” Tirri followed Sarander, tossing her dishes more at Angel than at the sink. Angel deftly caught them as she rushed by and disappeared down the corridor. Angel stood a moment longer, watching Tirri depart, then taking in the remains on the table to be cleaned and stowed.

Then he shrugged, smiled, and got to work.

Within eighty minutes, the Mary was as ready for her initial flight as she would ever be: Sarander had the engines cycled up, taking them through every pre-launch checkpoint by the book, and in record time; Tirri had sealed and secured the ship, and run all possible ground-based pressure tests; Angel had secured the galley, and was doing a miscellaneous check throughout the ship for loose tools and other items; and Kestral had split her time between assisting Sarander with his system checks, and trying to locate Doshu May.

So far, Doshu May was the only part that hadn’t worked out.

“I don’t believe this!” Kestral hissed to herself. Tirri, working at the ops station in front of her, glanced back at her, but said nothing. Kestral returned the glance stonily, and continued to work at her console.

“Who thought I’d have to tie a bell around his neck just to find my own pilot—”

Sudden activity on the com cut her off. “Hailing the Mary. Hailing Captain Kestral of the Mary.”

Kestral slapped at the com’s reply button. “Doshu, is that you? Where the Hell have you been? Listen, I’ve got a job lined up, we’re ready to go, and you’d better have a good reason that you’re not here in front of me right now!”

“Sorry, Captain... I’m not flying with you.”

Tirri stopped what she was doing, and she and Kestral stared at each other for two seconds. Then Kestral demanded, “Why the Hell not ?”

“Because I’ve done some checking of my own.”

“Stand by.” Kestral muted the radio. “Tirri, go make sure Angel has all of his gear stowed.”

Tirri swung about in her seat. “Angel? But—”

“Just go,” Kestral ordered. “I need the bridge.”

Tirri stared at Kestral, debating challenging her new boss, but Kestral’s face did not seem to invite debate. So she stood up and left the ops station. Kestral remained silent while Tirri left the bridge. As Tirri continued on down the corridor, she heard Kestral resume speaking, but in such a low voice that Tirri could not hear what was said. She was tempted to hover, but decided to do as she was told. Tirri trotted down to the galley, and made a quick inquiry with Angel. “Sure, everything’s ready,” he said. “Why didn’t you just use the com?”

Tirri waved a hand and smiled. “Just checking.” She turned and trotted back towards the bridge, leaving Angel staring after her in confusion.

When she reached the bridge, Tirri saw Kestral sitting at the Captain’s station. The radio was silent. Kestral was also silent, and unmoving. Although Kestral’s back was turned to her, Tirri could see from her vantage point that her fist was clenched tightly, poised at the edge of the table. A number of seconds passed before Kestral seemed to realize someone was nearby. She spun around to see Tirri at the threshold to the bridge, regarding her silently. Kestral returned her stare, but did not speak.

The silence was broken by Sarander, on the intercom. “Okay, we’re all charged up. What are we doing?”

Kestral paused for barely a moment. “Tirri, request an immediate launch from the dockmaster.”

“We don’t have a pilot,” she whispered.

“We’ve got Sarander. Advise the dockmaster.” Tirri did not move immediately. “Do it, Tirri. We’ve got to go.”

Tirri finally stepped forward and took the ops chair, her face dark with concern. “Calling dockmaster,”

she replied curtly.

Kestral keyed the intercom. “Sarander, get down here. You’re taking us up.”

“What! I mean, what about our pilot?”

“He’s not coming! You said this ship is ready to fly!”

“Yes, but—”

“Then get down here and fly ‘er, boss!”

When Sarander arrived on the bridge, he headed straight for the pilot’s station. “So,” he said as he passed Kestral, “should I ask why our pilot is a no-show?”

“We’ll discuss it later,” Kestral told him. “Right now, we’ve got clearance. Let’s get airborne.”

Sarander settled into the seat, and began working over the pilot’s controls. “We’ve got the dockmaster’s flight plan on the board... I have positive response on all thrusters, and all avionics.” He chanced a glance at Tirri, still at ops. She returned his glance silently, but her eyes were stern and alert. So he could only say, “We’re ready to go, Carolyn.”

“Then let’s go.”

Sarander nodded and began working his helm controls. Tirri alternated watching him and the ops board in front of her. Kestral watched them both, while keeping an eye on the various monitors around the bridge. Outside, the main thrusters were slowly swiveling their noses into the air and tuning their exhaust manifolds to maximum liftoff thrust. As the engines rose in pitch, and the thrusters began to fire, none of the systems cried out for attention.

And slowly, the Mary began to rise.

There was little vibration... in fact, what little vibration Kestral could detect from the seat of her pants served as confirmation that the dampeners were working as designed. So, too, were the counter-sonic generators effectively muffling the engine noise behind them.

Sarander seemed satisfied with the Mary’s responses so far, and he gave her an experimental quarter-turn in place. Then, nodding to himself, he tapped at the controls, and Kestral could feel her weight increasing as they rose into the sky.

“Mary, is the drone outside?” Kestral called out.

“Yes, maintaining station below and astern.”

“Give me a visual of the ship, please. On channel one.”

A moment later, the left bridge screen and Kestral’s station monitor came to life with a view of the Mary rising upward, its thrusters leaving twin columns of shimmering air trailing below. Sarander allowed the Mary to leisurely angle her thrusters forward, bringing the ship from vertical ascent to forward motion, a steep climb. As Kestral watched the monitor, the ship rapidly approached a cloud ceiling... and as the Mary slipped through the vapors, Kestral was sure she could feel the clouds sliding along the hull. Almost involuntarily, she smiled at the familiar sensation, allowing her senses to reach out and feel the ship and its motion, to feel as one with her ship.

Soon, Kestral was aware of a lessening of the level of sound around her, and she knew what that meant. Sarander confirmed when he reported, “We’re non-atmospheric.”

“How does she feel, boss?”

“Mint perfect,” Sarander replied.

“All right,” Kestral nodded. “Put us in our orbital plot, then put it on auto.” She stood up. “Tirri, let’s get started on our vacuum pressure checks. If they’re good, we’ll do a short C-hop.” Kestral left the bridge, as Tirri secured her station and got up. Tirri paused next to Sarander, and the couple locked eyes for a moment. But instead of replying to his unspoken question, she merely shook her head and followed after Kestral.

Sarander watched her go, then turned back to his final maneuvers into their orbital plot. Sarander wasn’t the best of pilots... he found himself teasing the controls just a bit more than should have been necessary... but he was able to smoothly enter their orbital plot as specified. Once he had nailed the plot, he set the ship on autopilot, and secured the station.

“This better be good,” he muttered as he left the bridge.

Tirri caught up with Kestral at the port atmospheric station. She did not look at Tirri as she walked up to her, but she knew Tirri was there. “Tirri, check the station on the other side of that bulkhead. The calibration on this one doesn’t look right.”

“Sure.” Tirri moved past her and into the next section, where another station resided on the wall. After a moment’s tapping at the station controls, she said, “I have a calibration setting of 14.3 at one standard atmosphere.”

“Okay, I have 14.7,” Kestral responded. “Watch that one while I reset.”

Kestral worked in silence. Tirri watched her, and watched the monitor in front of her. After long seconds, Tirri finally asked, “What happened?”

“I have 14.4,” Kestral stated. “What do you have?”

Tirri looked at her monitor. “14.4.”

“Okay. Let’s move on.”

“What happened, Carolyn?” Tirri asked again.

“We’ll discuss it when we’ve landed,” Kestral replied as she stepped past her and continued down the corridor.

Tirri started after her. “With all due respect, Carolyn, don’t you think this is important enough to discuss now ?”

Kestral responded by stopping dead in her tracks and swinging back around to Tirri, who almost ran into her.

“No,” Kestral stated in a calm but firm voice. “It will wait until we’ve landed, and everything’s checked out. Then we’ll all discuss it fully.” Tirri stared at her, clearly unsure what to do. “Trust me on this,”

Kestral added. “If I thought there was any problem at all, we wouldn’t be here.”

Tirri regarded Kestral for long seconds, silently weighing the situation. Finally, she relented. “Let’s get to the next station.”

“Okay,” Kestral nodded, turning and leading the way.

As they moved out of that section of the corridor, they did not see Sarander step out of the shadows on the far end of the bulkhead. He paused to stare after them and consider what he had heard, before he turned and headed for the engine compartments.

Fefgren had returned to watch the return of the Mary from her maiden voyage. She descended slowly, easily, her thrusters keeping her perfectly balanced as she eased back into the gantry. The column’s air scrubbers made more noise than the ship itself, as they recovered the exhaust gasses, filtered them, and vented them back upward. Mary hovered in place, just half a meter above its gantry supports, for five seconds... then settled down in place, respectably close to its take-off position, and immediately began to cycle down the thrusters. Fefgren’s practiced eye scanned the outside of the ship for telltale signs of leaks or stresses and, detecting none, he smiled broadly.

He approached the ship and tapped the announcer by the crew hatch. “Congratulations!” he bellowed out, almost loud enough to hear through the closed hatch. “A successful first run! Did you test the tessers, I hope?”

He expected to see the hatch opened for him. Instead, he heard Kestral’s voice over the outside com panel. “Yes, we did, and everything went perfectly. Fefgren, please excuse us, but my crew and I have to have a conference. I’ll get back to you.”

Fefgren started to protest, when he heard a click from the speaker that indicated that she’d closed the com. He stood there in confusion for a moment. Then muttering to himself, he shuffled away. Kestral set the radio to non-interruption mode, and settled back in her seat. At the pilot and ops stations, Sarander and Tirri regarded her and exchanged glances. Sarander finally said, “All right, can we now discuss what—”

“Wait,” Kestral interrupted him, “until Angel gets here.”

“I’m here,” came a voice behind Kestral. Angel stepped onto the bridge, stopped, and looked around the room. “Um... is our pilot invisible or something?”

“Or something,” Sarander responded, staring at Kestral.

“All right,” Kestral said, motioning Angel in and pointing him at a free chair. “Now it’s time to discuss, as Sarander almost said, ‘what the Hell is going on.’ Doshu May backed out on us... we have no pilot.”

“Why did—” Tirri started to ask, but Kestral waved her question aside.

“It’s not important. What is important is, we have a job for tomorrow morning. Obviously, this isn’t what I intended for our first run. But the Mary just performed flawlessly on her maiden voyage. Right, boss?”

“Uh...” Sarander shrugged. “Well, yeah...”

“Okay. I feel completely confident that we can get this run accomplished, even without a permanent pilot. Sarander, you’ll fly her, and I’ll get a crash course in backing you up. And when we finish the run, we’ll get a permanent pilot.”

Everyone looked at her dubiously, especially Sarander, who was now aware of how busy he’d be on their first trip. Kestral smiled apologetically. “Look, I’m sorry, guys. But look at it this way: The sooner we get this run done, the sooner you all get paid. And without a fourth crewman, you’ll all get larger shares of the commission. Okay?”

At first, no one moved. Then slowly, they all acquiesced with small voices and non-committal shrugs.

“Okay,” Kestral nodded to them all. “Then we’re go for tomorrow. Come on, let’s get everything locked down and get to sleep... we’ve got a busy day ahead of us.” She stood up, and stopped when she realized no one was moving after her. She reached over and slapped Angel, the nearest, on his shoulder. “Come on! It’ll be fine, trust me! There’s always a few bumps when you start something new. If this is our bump, everything after this will be easy!” She got an arm around Angel, pulled him up out of the chair, and the two of them headed off the bridge and down the corridor. Sarander and Tirri paused a moment longer, before they got up. Sarander made a wry face at his wife and whispered, “Yeah, this ought to be fun.” He followed Kestral and Angel off the bridge, leaving Tirri standing there with deep concern on her face.

Chapter 4

The Mary drifted downward over the warehousing column, and landed only slightly rougher than the manner in which it had returned to its gantry the night before. Gellen So stood at the opposite end of the column, on an elevator platform that held numerous identical crates, stacked three-high behind him. Instead of the crew hatch opening, the main cargo door on the port side began to descend in a song of motors, becoming a wide ramp into the cargo bay. So looked that way, and saw Carolyn Kestral riding the edge of the bay door. When it was almost down, she stepped off and headed for the elevator. Gellen So met her halfway. “Right on time. Good morning.”

“Morning, Mr. So,” Kestral greeted him. “Is this the entire cargo?”

“This is it,” So confirmed.

“All right,” Kestral motioned behind her, and two cargo loaders rolled out of the bay, Tirri and Angel at the controls. Tirri expertly headed her loader straight for the closest pallet, while Angel ran his loader at a more inexperienced speed for the pallet beside it. “As soon as we’re loaded, we’ll be on the way to Terra212.”

“Excellent.” So reached into his pocket and produced an envelope. “Deposit receipt, already applied to your account. Balance gets paid at the other end. The coordinates are on the chip in the envelope.”

“Thank you,” Kestral smiled, glancing over at Tirri and Angel as they gathered up the first crates. “This shouldn’t take long...”

Sarander walked up then, nodding to So and turning to Kestral. “We’ve got confirmation for departure, Captain.”

“Okay,” Kestral replied. “Keep Mary warmed up. We’re gone in thirty.” Sarander nodded to them again and walked away. When Kestral turned back to So, he had a strange expression on his face.

“What?”

“Your ship is called Mary?” he asked.

“After my niece,” Kestral replied.

So smiled. “Mm.” He glanced at Tirri’s loader as she rolled off of the platform. “Well. I’ll leave you to it. Thanks again, Captain.”

“My pleasure.”

Tirri and Angel had the Mary loaded, and the crates secured, in twenty minutes. Soon the bay was sealed, and Sarander confirmed all ship’s systems as go.

“Then let’s get going,” Kestral suggested. “I’ll take ops.”

Kestral and Sarander returned to the bridge, Kestral sitting at the console next to the pilot’s board. Sarander settled into the pilot’s seat, and in seconds, the engines cycled up. They went through their takeoff checks quickly and efficiently, and a moment later, Sarander was coaxing the thruster controls alive. The Mary eased off the column, revolved a quarter-turn, then ascended smoothly into the air. Kestral glanced at Sarander and said, “You like those quarter-turns, don’t you?”

Sarander grinned back. “Everyone ought to have a trademark.”

From the safety of the elevator platform, Gellen So watched the Mary taking off. As he stood there, he was approached by another man. When the man reached So, he stopped and stood in a rigid military posture next to him. The man alternated watching So, and the ascending Mary, all the while remaining standing ramrod-straight. After a moment, So glanced at the other man.

“She’s on her way,” So said. “Better call it in.”

The man nodded. “There’s something else. Apparently, she has no pilot. Her boss is flying the ship.”

So looked at him. “She spoke to a pilot.”

“He’s not there now.”

“Look into it,” So ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

The man turned briskly and moved off, leaving So staring up after the Mary. On the bridge, Kestral and Sarander worked side by side at helm and ops. Sarander did most of the work, Kestral’s job consisting mostly of monitoring the operations console, and occasionally calling out a reading change to Sarander. In some instances, Sarander would give her an instruction to alter an ops setting, never taking his eyes off his own station and the piloting he was doing. Kestral gave silent thanks that her ship’s boss had turned out to be a more than competent pilot. In minutes, the Mary was free of Kyxha’s atmosphere and gravitational influence, and Sarander swung her about in the direction of her deep-space course plot. When he was set, he turned to Kestral. “Ready for some C traveling?”

“Kick it,” Kestral smiled.

As he had the night before, Sarander worked over the console that controlled the tesser systems. When he was satisfied with the readings, he keyed the ship’s com. “Stand by: We’re going C.” Then he tapped a single activation stud.

There was no sensation of a change of movement within the Mary. But outside, the dual power fields of the tesser system deployed, assuming their specified roles acting against each other, and squeezing the Mary through a narrow band of doubly-warped spacetime. Almost instantly, the Mary was covering distance faster than light itself.

“We’re cruising at three-C,” Sarander confirmed. “On schedule for our fuel stop at High Amarillo in sixty-six hours.”

“Good job,” Kestral nodded. “Lock it down and I’ll set the forward deflectors to max.” She smiled to Sarander. “Welcome to our first freight run.”

“I’ll be here for awhile,” Sarander commented. “You think Angel has any of that coffee left from breakfast?”

“If you want,” Kestral told him, “I’ll have him make you a fresh pot.”

Sarander nodded gratefully. “We will be getting a pilot, right?”

“I promise,” Kestral replied. “We’ll get a pilot. And in the meantime, give me another lesson in flying, so I can give you a break later.”

“All right,” Sarander agreed. “Let me show you how the thrust balancers work...”

“I found out what happened to Mary’s pilot.”

Gellen So turned to the man who was walking up to him. “So she did have one.”

“Kestral spoke to a pilot named Doshu May. We confirmed that,” the man said. “But May apparently contacted an acquaintance in the Rangers who knew Kestral’s history.”

Gellen So’s face fell visibly. “No...”

The man nodded. “The acquaintance told him about the berserker.”

“Damn!” So gritted his teeth in anger. He stood silently for a moment, then he looked at the other man.

“There’s an old saying, goes all the way back to 20 th century Earth: ‘Loose lips sink ships.’ Ever heard it?”

The man shook his head.

“Well, May’s buddy may have sunk us all.”

“Tirri, are you in here?” Angel strolled into the main cargo bay with a cup in his hand, craning his neck about.

“Over here.”

Angel stopped and turned, and saw Tirri at one of the wall consoles to his left. He headed in her direction, absently glancing about the mostly-empty cargo bay around him.

“The last of the coffee from breakfast,” he announced, holding out the cup. “Thought you might like some.”

“Yes, thank you,” Tirri smiled, taking the cup. She took a sip, and grinned. “This is a good drink. Sarander’s occasionally mentioned it, but he never drank it regularly, so I had no idea it could be this good.”

Angel nodded and leaned casually against the bulkhead. “Where did you two meet?”

“On Gem’s Planet.”

“Oh, really?” Angel’s eyebrows shot up, and he grinned widely. “Don’t tell me one of you were working there?”

“I was on leave,” Tirri replied, “and Sarander was between jobs and taking some R&R. We met at a party for someone neither of us even knew.”

“Last time I was on Gem’s Planet,” Angel admitted, “I could hardly stand to leave. Too many temptations. And that orange liquor they sell makes sex...” He searched for the right word.

“Magic,” she finished for him.

“Magic,” he agreed, then paused and regarded her closely. A moment later, Tirri smiled at Angel and batted feathery lashes.

“How do you think I got him?”

Angel returned her grin. He indicated the panel she had been working on. “Checking the cargo already?”

“Just making sure we had the load balancers set properly,” She replied. “It’s supposed to be the boss’

job, but with Sarander flying this thing, he doesn’t have time to check things like this right now.”

“Well...” Angel tried to think of something positive to say. “At least he can pilot, so we didn’t have to write off this first job. I suppose Carolyn will find us a pilot after we deliver at Terra212. Then Sarander will be just the boss.”

“I suppose,” Tirri replied.

“You don’t sound too sure.”

Tirri started to speak, but she paused before doing so. “Well... you weren’t there, but Carolyn shooed me off of the bridge when we got the call from Doshu May.”

“Our pilot?”

“Yes. Before she sent me out, I heard him say, ‘I did some checking on you’.”

“On me?” Tirri fixed Angel with a cold stare. “Oh! Sorry... you mean he checked on Carolyn. So, what does that mean?”

“That means,” Tirri explained, “that something he knows about Carolyn made him decide not to be her pilot.”

“Well... okay,” Angel nodded. “But that doesn’t say much. Maybe this guy May is just real particular about who he works for. Maybe... maybe he doesn’t like working for ex-Rangers. Who knows?”

“Well, I think maybe we should find out,” Tirri said. “I mean, sure, it might be nothing. But it might be something, too.”

Angel shrugged. “So, what are you gonna do?”

“Well, I can’t do anything until we get to High Amarillo, our fuel stop. Once we’re there, and out of C, I may be able to make some calls and check some things.”

“Or,” Angel pointed out, “you could just ask her.”

“She already blew off the question once. Do you think she’s likely to say anything now?” Angel shrugged at Tirri’s response. “Whatever it is, it’ll probably wait until we get to High Amarillo. By then, she might do something to give it away anyhow. So I’m not going to say anything. And you shouldn’t either.”

“Mm.” Angel pushed off of the bulkhead. “I’m going to check on the farm, if anyone’s looking for me.”

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“Any time.” Angel ambled over to an access ladder, and headed up for the upper bays. Tirri watched him go, before turning back to her console.

Angel’s “farm” was, so far, not much. After all, he had only arrived on the ship two days before. Still, anyone who visited it would be able to recognize what it would eventually look like. Angel had already set up tiers of thin carbonate scaffolding, running the length of the cargo bay in multiple rows. The scaffolding included spray nozzles that would eventually pump out the nutrients the plants would need to grow, as soon as Angel had them hooked up. He had a few plants already arranged on the scaffolding, and large storage cubes along one back wall were apparently filled with harvested vegetables, beans, tubers, and more plants for Angel to arrange throughout the room. A specialized air-filtering system sat quietly in a corner, creating a more palatable atmosphere than the standard air that the freighter’s systems provided. He had also installed some specially-designed light tubes in the ceiling, and placed a few mirrors strategically about the corners of the bay. Thanks to the light tubes, the room was bathed in a light that was virtually identical with that of Earth. Angel was soon busy unpacking one of the packing cubes, filled with more plants to arrange on the scaffolding, when he heard footsteps coming down the corridor to the bay. As he looked up, the bay door opened and Kestral stepped through it.

“Hello there,” Angel said, grabbing a nearby cloth to wipe his hands and standing up. “Did you need me for anything?”

“Oh, no,” Kestral said. “I just came to see how things were progressing up here.”

“Actually, pretty good,” Angel replied, joining her in looking around the room. “I know it doesn’t look like much right now... getting the scaffolding up, and the plants on the scaffolding, is the time-consuming work. Once that’s done, I’ll get the aeroponic systems hooked up, and set up the controllers. Then it’s mostly light maintenance, and I won’t have to spend so much time up here.” He looked around the bay.

“Still, maybe we should see about installing an intercom station inside here, instead of just the one out in the corridor.”

“I don’t know why they wouldn’t have installed coms inside every bay anyway,” Kestral admitted. “I’ll talk to Sarander about it.”

“Is he still flying?”

Kestral nodded. “I’ll be spelling him later.”

“Well, it’ll wait. We’re making a fuel stop along the way, right?”

“Yes,” Kestral replied. “High Amarillo. It’s a small asteroid depot about a third of the way to Terra212.”

“Asteroid? I guess I won’t be picking up any food supplies there.”

“No, probably not.”

“I guess you’ll have time to send out inquiries for a pilot, though.” Kestral looked at him. “You know,”

he continued, “spread the word. Maybe that way you’ll have a pilot waiting at Terra212.”

Kestral nodded and smiled lightly. “Maybe so. Good thought.” She took another look around. “Well, it’s looking pretty good. I’ll leave you to it. See you later.”

“See ya.”

As Kestral walked out of Angel’s “farm,” she mentally kicked herself. She’d known exactly what Angel was alluding to when he’d made those suggestions about finding a pilot. He was checking on her intention to actually try to get one. Following Sarander’s double-duty discomfort and Tirri’s suspicions at being chased off the bridge, she knew now that she had already damaged her crew’s trust in her.

“Some Captain I’m turning out to be,” she muttered to herself.

Chapter 5

Kestral remained in her quarters during the rest of Sarander’s first shift at pilot. No one called on her, and she called on none of her crew.

At the agreed upon time, she left her quarters and headed directly for the bridge. Opening the bridge hatch, she was not surprised to find Sarander and Tirri sitting at the pilot and ops stations, talking together. They did not seem to be particularly conspiratorial in tone, but they did both stop speaking and turn her way when she came through the hatch.

“Okay, I’ll take over,” Kestral announced in as neutral a tone as she could manage. “Sarander, maybe you should take a look about and make sure none of us have screwed up your systems. Then get some rest.”

“Yeah, sure.” Sarander stepped away from the pilot’s station, and Kestral sat down silently, taking a moment to familiarize herself with the controls as he had shown her hours earlier. “Um... holler if you need anything.”

“Oh, I will,” Kestral replied, managing a thin smile. Then she settled in for her shift. After a moment, Sarander turned and headed for the hatch. He stopped at the hatch and glanced back at Tirri, who continued to sit at ops.

Tirri alternated her glance at Kestral, then Sarander, clearly torn as to what to do. Sarander continued to watch her. Kestral, for her part, stared at her instruments, and avoided eye contact with Tirri. Finally Tirri came to her decision: She stood up from ops, and followed her husband off the bridge.

“Wait.”

At the sound of Kestral’s voice, Tirri and Sarander stopped and turned to face her from the hatch. Kestral turned in the pilot’s seat to face them, and looked both of them in the eye when she spoke. “I know we’re getting off to a bad start. I’m hoping I can make it up to you. But I just want you to know... I won’t try to force you to stay on, after we reach Terra212. Please tell that to Angel for me, too.”

Her voice was even, but she did not bother to hide the resignation in her tone. Tirri clearly reacted to her statement, and she looked to Sarander for his response. Sarander seemed to consider her words carefully, taking time before he responded.

“Just find us a pilot, Carolyn,” he finally said, without rancor. Then he left the bridge, Tirri following him silently.

High Amarillo was typical of the asteroid-based fuel depots throughout the Galarchy. Most fuel depots consisted primarily of living facilities encased inside an asteroid, or inside asteroids joined together, and docking slips built about the outside of the asteroid. Many of them, especially the larger of the depots, would have extensive constructions jutting out of the asteroid in every direction, allowing space for hundreds of ships of every size and shape. The fuel was often only stored on the asteroid for short periods, for many of the depots utilized remote fuel processing facilities set up on a nearby asteroid, and transported the fuel to the depot on demand.

The asteroid itself would generally offer some amount of rest and recreation facilities, although it was usually spare on lodging (after all, if you were there on a space ship, you already had a place to stay). And depending on its location, it would have a constantly updated Galarchy map database for visiting ships to use to update their own databases, as well as facilities to permit connection to other Oan databases and systems.

As the Mary approached, now out of C and slowing, High Amarillo looked like nothing more than an immense maze of platforms and gantries, a carbonate spider’s web that had seemingly captured dozens of ships. Kestral, her turn at the pilot’s station, received slip coordinates from the dockmaster, and was about to call Sarander to handle the docking, when he and Tirri arrived on the bridge and quietly took over. So had it been for the past two days, everyone doing their job, but saying little to each other outside of the demands of duty. It had been tense, and Kestral had suppressed the need to scream on more than one occasion, but it had gotten them this far. Kestral took her place at the Captain’s station and let them work, while she silently accessed the message she had composed in her quarters, and sent it to the databases at High Amarillo.

Sarander donned a pair of goggles with domed lenses, as Tirri called out readings from her station. The goggles were designed to create a visually-immersive three-dimensional representation of whatever the pilot felt he needed to be viewing, whether it was a normal visual of their immediate surroundings, a sensor-enhanced overlay of their course plot, or a graphic representation of the ship’s systems. Within Sarander’s point of view, the Mary became a ghost, allowing him to see the outer envelope of the ship, and the scaffolding around them, as if he could literally see through the ship’s hull. He brought the Mary about slowly, using the thrusters in light puffs, and guided the ship into the gantry waiting for her. He occasionally asked for a reading from Tirri, who supplied it directly. Kestral took note of how well-coordinated they worked, which only made her more regretful that she had probably already driven a permanent wedge between herself and them. As she silently watched, Sarander slid the Mary smoothly into her gantry, with only the slightest of jolts to signal their docking.

“Okay, we’re in,” he said, systematically shutting down the engines from his station. “I’ll supervise the fuelling.”

“Great,” Kestral nodded, standing. “Well, we’ve got a couple of hours here. I’m going to the administrative offices. Call me if you need anything.” She left the bridge behind Sarander, turning for the crew hatch as he continued on back to the engines.

The Mary’s hatch was mated to an access umbilical that led into the asteroid. The umbilical was essentially a flexible tube, with interior handholds to facilitate moving through it, and numerous cables and lines running along its exterior that allowed the Mary’s systems to be connected to the asteroid’s facilities. Kestral pulled herself hand over hand through the umbilical, which had no gravity generators built into it. When she approached the first seal-off point in the umbilical, she hesitated only briefly before pushing herself through. At this point, she knew the biosensors in the umbilical were looking her over, and if they found any organisms that were considered hazardous, the umbilical would close ahead of her, preventing her from leaving the Mary. She did not expect it to stop her, but she was mildly relieved when she passed through the second seal-off point unchallenged.

When she reached the entry into the terminal corridor, she quickly righted herself in the gravity field and touched down deftly, drawing a few impressed glances from bystanders who had probably not acclimated to the asteroid’s gravity fields as well... and not a few who simply admired her figure. The interior of High Amarillo turned out to be as typical an asteroid depot as the outside. Spray-sealed rock walls formed corridors wide enough for three humans, with doors sunk into the rock, or branches that joined the main corridor.

The people Kestral saw were also typical of depots like this. Humans from dozens of terraformed worlds abounded, their various shapes and sizes occasionally punctuated by the distinctive appearance of a non-human... an Avian, like Tirri, or a Tauran, Klannan, Kyxhian, Digit, or Waldo. Non-human was, actually, a misnomer... all of these races were descended from humans, originally. However, the needs of expanding the human race about the galaxy had soon revealed that humans were not necessarily suited to the environmental conditions of most planets, even after terraforming. In many cases, humans had to be genetically altered to some extent, in order to be able to survive on a new planet that could not be completely made over to an Earth-type environment. On those planets, generations of genetic manipulation had produced new “branches” of humans, some of which looked only slightly different from genetically unaltered humans, like the Taurans, Kyxhians and Klannans... and some, like the Avians, Digits, Waldos and Hell’s Angels, who looked significantly altered and... well... alien. But they all shared a common heritage, and generally, there was little animosity towards someone of another “race” evident. And since they all had that shared heritage, there was also a common language between races. It made for a better situation than that of the highly-imaginative fiction writers who used to postulate a future galaxy full of completely dissimilar alien species, which would nonetheless somehow manage to work together, share common goals and interests, and all speak the same language. In hindsight, scientists and sociologists generally thanked whatever makers they worshipped that the galaxy had not been filled to the brim with sentient aliens, for they knew that such a utopian situation would never have worked out, and probably would have resulted in outright genocide by one side or the other. At least, if the Oan’s meeting with the Spiders was any indication.

A lot of buying and selling was going on in various hollowed-out alcoves and promenades Kestral passed. She watched the activity intently, taking note of the way people bargained, dickered, argued, cajoled, and worked out their purchases. After so many years as a Ranger, she was still not used to living in a cash economy... having everything paid for by the Rangers, she reflected, was one of the service’s biggest perks. But now that she was not a Ranger, she could see for herself how people dealt with Rangers who moved around the shopping areas. Invariably, the Rangers were politely dealt with. But once they were out of hearing range, Kestral heard criticisms and epithets directed at them. At least one comment hinted that the value of the item a merchant had sold a Ranger would not be half what the item was actually worth, and would cost them dearly in profits.

Chances are, the merchant was exaggerating somewhat... the Rangers would not intentionally underpay for merchandise, and merchants typically delighted in selling their wares for much more than reasonable profit demanded. Still, it was clear that no one seemed to like selling to Rangers, and many seemed to consider it tantamount to giving merchandise away.

Kestral filed away the mental note, and continued on to the administrative area. Instead of standard signs directing visitors at every intersection, various styles of signs, in many languages, and many of them hand-made, were scattered haphazardly on the walls, on the doors, vents, and next to access panels. It took Kestral a bit of time to identify the route to the administrative offices of the depot, but eventually she found herself at the entrance hatch and walked in.

There were a few workers, and some Rangers, in the office (Kestral had taken note of a Ranger scout ship among the depot’s visitors), going over the usual documents and discussions heard in administrative offices everywhere. Upon Kestral’s walking into the room, quite a few people, including all of the Rangers in the room, stopped working or talking and looked at her. The change in the room’s ambient sound level prompted everyone else to stop and look, and in seconds, the entire room was silent and staring at her.

Kestral took them all in, and maintained an outward calm. She started to ask aloud where she would find the Chief Administrator’s office, when she saw the plaque for the CA’s office across the room. Without a word, she started for the door. As she passed one Ranger, the officer seemed to lean away from her slightly. The sight of it caused Kestral a slight pause, and she regarded the officer pointedly. The officer did not change his position, but he did not apologize for it either, nor did he take his eyes from hers. For a split-second, Kestral considered pretending to lunge at him, to see how fast he could do a backflip over the table behind him and avoid her touch. But decorum, if nothing else, made her decide against it. Instead, she leaned slightly towards him and whispered, “Boo.” Then she continued on to the CA’s door.

She knocked and waited. Presently, the door opened. Kestral took one more glance over her shoulder at the roomful of staring people, before she walked calmly in.

“Are you out there scaring my people, Carolyn?”

Kestral sighed, realizing she had been taut as a bowstring until that moment. She smiled in exasperation at the woman behind the desk before her. “Ciana, you don’t know how close I came to hurting one of them out there.”

“Was one of my people rude to you?”

“No, a Ranger.”

“Oh, well. Be my guest, hurt all the Rangers you want.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” The woman stood up and came around the desk, and the two promptly hugged one another. “Carolyn, it’s so good to see you! It’s been too long!”

“And you, Ciana,” Kestral replied. “Or should I call you Administrator Prinz now?”

“Only if you want me to call you Captain Kestral,” Ciana responded. “On the other hand, I’ll bet you wouldn’t mind that one bit, would you?” Kestral smiled slyly. “Nice, isn’t it? You’re a Captain, now. Congratulations!”

But Kestral’s mile faded quickly, and she shrugged. “Captain of a freighter. Big deal.”

“Don’t be that way,” Ciana shook her head, steering Kestral into a seat next to the desk, and leaning on the edge of the desk herself. “It’s your command, Carolyn. It’s the least you deserve. Never forget that.”

“Forget... today, I want to forget. Just before we left Kyxha, I had a pilot bail on me. He had a Ranger contact.”

“Oh, dear.”

“That’s not the word I used,” Kestral admitted sourly. “I just had my boss fly us here without a pilot. My crew... all three of them... are already suspicious of me, and if I still have them after my first run...”

Kestral stopped letting the words rush out of her, and gathered herself together. “I’m sorry. So far my first command is starting out under less than auspicious circumstances.”

Ciana nodded. “I was surprised myself, at how fast word spread around here when we received your flight plan. After three years of not seeing you, to being told that ships are leaving because you were coming...”

“What!” Kestral’s mouth fell open. “Oh, Ciana, if I knew that I was going to cost you—”

“You’ve cost me nothing,” Ciana assured her. “Nothing I can’t afford to lose, anyway. That’s the nature of business, after all. As you’ll soon find out.”

“You don’t regret leaving the Rangers?”

“Not one bit,” Ciana replied. “Ten years as cannon fodder was enough for me. Oh, sure, a lot of things were easier as a Ranger. Not paying for anything. Full run of everywhere. Matter compilers. The Ranger Database. But you know what? Plenty of civilians live without those things every day. I have for three years, and so will you. You’ll get used to it.”

“If that’s all I have to get used to,” Kestral said, “that’s easy. But I have other issues to deal with.”

“That, too, shall pass,” Ciana told her positively. “In fact, the more you keep going, the less anyone will be worried about your medical history.” She paused before she asked her next question. “Is that why you expect your crew to leave you?”

Kestral winced at the thought of her crew. “Actually, I haven’t told them.”

“Oh, Carolyn,” Ciana screwed up her face and leaned her head back. “You’re still thinking like a Ranger, aren’t you, now? You can’t work with civilians on a need-to-know basis, and expect them to blindly accept that.

“Take this advice,” Ciana said, leaning forward on the desk. “Talk to them. I know you, and you’re a good judge of character. If you hired them, they’ve got to be on-the-ball. Tell them the whole truth. Let them decide to stay or go, based on the facts, not on guesses.”

Ciana laid a hand on Kestral’s shoulder. “You might be surprised.”

After a moment, Kestral nodded. “You’re probably right. I plan to tell them. I will soon.”

“Good. The sooner, the better. Say, have you eaten lately? I was just about to break for lunch. Join me?”

Kestral shrugged. “Sure. What do you do for food around here?”

“Well, when I don’t want to upchuck it right afterward, there’s this great place I know. Come on.”

No depot would be complete without places to eat and drink. High Amarillo had all manner of both, from a single high-quality bar and restaurant combo, to numerous seedy diners, watering holes, and dens of iniquities. Ciana Prinz led Carolyn Kestral down the corridor that connected most of the better eating establishments, the two of them arm in arm as only old friends could be. Their obvious closeness was not lost on those who clearly knew Ciana as Administrator, and Kestral’s history, but there were no direct comments made as they passed by.

Finally they turned into one of the eateries. “This isn’t the fanciest place on High Amarillo,” Ciana explained to Kestral, “but in my opinion, it’s the best place to eat.”

Kestral took in the small tables and booths on one side of the room, the long bar and numerous patrons at the other. She also noticed the number of men at the bar who pointedly looked their way as they walked in. “You’re sure you’re not bringing me here to fix me up with someone?”

“You never know, do you?” Ciana replied slyly, and waved at a man at the far end of the restaurant. The man waved for them to approach. “Perfect... an out of the way table. Come on.” They threaded their way through the restaurant until they reached the man, and the table that was being set for them by a waiter. “Good afternoon, Taj. How’s the Benny’s today?”

“Good afternoon, Madame Administrator,” Taj greeted them with a bow. “You wouldn’t like the Benny’s today, Madame. Extra dry out of the vat.”

“Good,” Ciana grinned as they sat down. “Bring one for my friend, and I’ll have a Green Green Grass.”

“Very good, Madame.” Taj headed for the bar, as a waiter appeared and deposited two menus in front of them.

“Everything on the menu is human certified,” Ciana explained. “I can recommend the gino stroganoff, the cassus tips, the... on second thought, everything’s fantastic except the pizza.”

Kestral laughed, and gave the menu a quick once over. “In that case, I’ll have the spinach casserole.”

“Good one. Herb,” she addressed the waiter, “bring me a linguini alfredo.” The waiter headed off, just as Taj returned with their drinks. “Ah, such excellent service,” Ciana crooned.

“Only the best,” Taj replied, “for the one who could shut me down at a whim.”

“Cheeky! Just for that, I’m having your kitchen checked for skitters again!” Ciana teased. “Consider that fair warning, you have until eight tonight to clean the place up.”

“Warning duly appreciated, Madame,” Taj returned jovially. “T sic libe kellen si mir!”

Ciana laughed again, as he departed the table. Kestral asked, “What the heck language was that?”

“Belludin, I’m told,” Ciana replied. “It’s an old saying, translated as, ‘enjoy your drink as if it is your last.’ Cheers!”

“Very funny,” Kestral said, as she tasted her drink. “Mmmm... for a Benny’s this good, I could live with it being my last.”

“Thought you’d like it.” Ciana started to say something else, when she was distracted by the sight of someone who had entered the restaurant. “Oh... isn’t it always the way? You can’t find someone for days, and when you’re finally off-duty, that’s when he turns up!”

“Who—?”

“Oh, just a local trader who’s been rumored to be carrying controlled substances. Please excuse me, but I really need to speak to him. I promise, I’ll be back in just a few minutes.” Ciana stood up from the table. “If the food shows up first, scream for me.”

“Will do.” Kestral watched as Ciana moved across the restaurant and confronted a man who had apparently just walked in. She was too far away for Kestral to hear what was being said, but she continued to watch for a few more seconds, more idly curious than anything else.

“Ah, the rigors of administration.”

Kestral turned to find the source of the offhand comment, which was a small booth adjacent to her table. She was forced to blink, in an attempt to get a better view of the commenter. This was because his skin, literally as black as ink, was all but lost in the low light of the room. Further, he wore a gray outfit, which was also near-invisible in the low light. This left only his snow-white hair and the whites of his eyes to focus upon, features which seemed to float in the air like disembodied spirits. Such was typical of Sables, as Kestral knew they were commonly referred... they had the uncanny ability to almost disappear in dark places.

The Sable inclined his head towards Ciana and the man she was speaking to. “I meant, so often being forced to abandon pleasure for duty. A thankless job, that.”

“Those things happen,” Kestral commented. “Mister...?”

“O’Bannon,” the Sable replied, bowing his head slightly. “Mark O’Bannon. I couldn’t help but notice, your accent sounds like it’s from Earth.”

“That’s right,” Kestral replied.

O’Bannon nodded. “Someday, I have to visit Earth. Yes, I’m one of those people who are born right next to a place, and have never actually visited it myself.”

“I know what you mean,” Kestral told him. “I’ve never been to Mars, myself.”

“No? Well, trust a native when he tells you, you haven’t missed much...” O’Bannon stopped speaking suddenly, and took a hard look at her.

“What?” Kestral finally asked.

“You’re Commander Carolyn Kestral, aren’t you?”

Kestral’s face clouded perceptively. “No. As a matter of fact, I am not in the Rangers.”

“Oh, yes, forgive me... I had heard you retired from service. I meant no offense. It’s just that I didn’t recognize you at first.”

“You know me?” Kestral asked guardedly. “Did we serve together?”

“I was on the Relize for two years, when you were a lieutenant there,” he replied. “I was stationed in the fighter bay, part of the pilot pool. I didn’t get to the command levels much. I also know why you left the Rangers.”

“Doesn’t everybody?” Kestral commented dryly.

“Around here, quite probably,” he agreed. “But for the record, I think what they did to you stinks.”

Kestral smiled, but did not seem inclined to continue along the subject. “Are you assigned to that scout out there, then?”

“Oh, no,” O’Bannon replied. “I’m not with the Rangers any more.”

“No?”

O’Bannon shook his head. “When I signed on... well. I expected more exploration, more diplomacy, more conflicts decided with words. Less fighting. Less bloodshed. The Rangers are simply unnecessarily violent, as far as I’m concerned. Too violent an organization for me. Once I understood that, I resigned.”

“Oh. What are you doing with yourself, then?”

“Oh, odd jobs. Some ship’s mechanical work. Manpower. Piloting.”

“Piloting. I see.” Kestral nodded quickly, took a quick swig of her drink and silently prayed to herself.

“Tell me: Have you piloted anything larger than a shuttle?”

“Sure,” O’Bannon replied. “an RJ-90, a Cano short-hop, a Red Shift...”

“A Cano?” Kestral repeated, stopping him. “Ever flown a Quicksilver?”

O’Bannon shrugged. “Been a few years. But my Cano rating includes Quicksilvers. Why?”

“Mister O’Bannon,” Kestral explained, leaning across the space between table and booth, “I happen to be looking for a pilot—”

“Call me Mark.”

“—Hm?” Kestral blinked. “Oh! Of course, Mark. I just purchased a brand new Quicksilver, and I’m looking for a pilot for freight-hauling runs.”

“Pilot, huh?” Mark seemed to consider the offer. “Well, I am currently between gigs... what are you planning to haul?”

“Whatever,” Kestral replied. “I want to haul anything, go anywhere, wherever and whenever I can.”

“What about military cargo?” Mark asked.

“The Rangers have their own cargo carriers. They don’t need me.”

“And controlled substances?”

“Depends,” Kestral replied evenly. “I want to haul cargo, not get shot at.”

Mark O’Bannon smiled then. “Then let’s talk.” He stood up from his booth seat, and almost collided with Ciana, who was just returning to the table.

“Oh! Excuse me,” Ciana said, starting as she realized she’d almost run into him. She squinted a bit to make out his features in the dark. “Mister... O’Bannon, right?”

“Right,” he replied. “Call me Mark.”

“Mark. And have you been entertaining my old friend while I was away?”

“More than that,” Kestral told her. “I may have found myself a pilot.”

“Really!” Ciana quickly slid a chair from another table, and pointed Mark toward her own seat. “Then please, join us!”

Lunch passed pleasantly between the three, Mark allowing Kestral and Ciana to do a fair share of reminiscing between themselves. Occasionally, he would strategically excuse himself from the table, when he picked up the impression that their conversation was getting into more private territory, and spend a few minutes at the bar under the aegis of getting fresh drinks.

On the third occasion when he stepped away from the table, Kestral remarked to Ciana, “He’s nice. Do you really know him?”

“I know of him,” Ciana replied. “I run the place, so I know of a lot of people. He seems to be here a lot, looking for freelance work of all sorts. Except for violent work... I’m pretty sure that every time mercenaries have come through here picking up every able-bodied gun handler they could, Mr. O’Bannon was always still here.”

“That’s fine with me,” Kestral admitted. “That’s the last place I want to be, anyway.”

“Still,” Ciana said, “I hear he was missed by some when he left the Rangers. He was good. Smart. Capable. If it weren’t for his peaceful streak, he’d probably be an officer some day.”

“He may still,” Kestral said. “I don’t have a first officer—”

Mark casually watched their conversation from the bar while he waited for his next drink, silently calculating how long he should wait before rejoining them at the table. He paid particular attention to Kestral, watching her speak as best he could from across the room. Although he was too far away, and the bar too noisy, for him to hear what was said at the table, he seemed satisfied with the direction the afternoon had taken.

His musings were cut short, when he was suddenly aware that his light had just been eclipsed. He looked up, to see two burly Lokians in Ranger uniforms hovering uncomfortably close over him. And

“over” was the apt word... they were both almost a head taller than Mark, thick and wide-shouldered. And they were both glaring down at him.

“You see?” one of them said to the other. “I told you I was right. I did see a disgraceful Ranger Kella across the bar.”

“Yes, you did,” the other replied. “You certainly called it.” He sneered down at Mark. “Hello, O’Bannon,” he said acidly.

“Hello, Buker,” Mark said, turning fully towards them and leaning casually against the bar. “Who’s your friend? I thought cloning sentient species for spare parts was illegal these days.”

Buker smiled thinly at Mark. “This is Cole. He was just telling me the other day that he’s never seen a Kella before. He also said that, if he ever did see a Kella , that it would be his duty as a Ranger to put it out of its misery.”

Mark frowned. “So... does this mean you won’t buy me a drink, for old times’ sake?” He motioned toward the bartender and his glasses. “A Boston Brand, please.”

“I’d much rather snap your neck like you did mine,” Buker snarled. “For old times’ sake .”

“Oh, what are you complaining about? It healed, didn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, mine did. But you know what? It still hurts when it’s hot. And it’s so hot in this bar.”

“Why don’t we step outside,” Cole suggested, “where it’s cooler?”

Mark glanced past the two of them. In a short moment, he saw Kestral and Ciana, and most of the restaurant, for that matter, watching the drama unfolding at the bar... he saw Taj, the owner, certainly hoping there would be no violence in his place... and he saw the bartender bring a glass over to him.

“Ah, my drink,” Mark said, calmly reaching about. He grabbed at his other glass, and poured what was left of the old drink into the other. Then he slowly raised it to his lips and toasted Buker and Cole.

“Come on, O’Bannon,” Buker said. “Let’s step outside. Where it’s cool.”

“Can’t I bring my drink?” Before the Rangers could reply, Mark took a sip from the glass. Then he seemed to acquiesce to the Rangers’ suggestion, and started away from the bar carrying his glass. Back at the table, Kestral and Ciana saw Mark being led away from the bar. Kestral started to get up and go after him. Ciana quickly put out a hand, keeping Kestral at her seat. She smiled in Mark’s direction.

“Wait for it.”

At that moment, Mark stopped, after taking only three steps from the bar. And he lurched, as if in pain. The Rangers, on either side of him, turned at his unexpected movement. Cole eyed him suspiciously, and Buker sneered. “Can’t hold your liquor either, eh, Kella? ”

Mark’s eyes abruptly bulged, a comical sight when framed by his ink-black features, and he doubled over. Everyone in the restaurant stared openly. Both Rangers started to laugh openly at him. Then Mark tilted his head up and coughed.

It was much as if a pressure valve had popped open unexpectedly. A violent jet of dense steam blew outward from Mark’s mouth, crossing a half-dozen meters in less than a second and obscuring the immediate area. Buker and Cole were both caught in the steam, as well as half the patrons at the bar. Almost as violent as the explosion from Mark’s mouth, came the exclamations of rage and alarm from the nearby patrons, many of whom dived for cover as if they expected Mark to literally blow up. The jet of steam itself seemed to do no real damage to anyone, other than alarming those nearby. The two exceptions, however, were the Lokian Rangers, who both bellowed in pain and threw hands to their faces. Buker, caught off-balance, fell backwards, his massive shoulder striking a nearby table and upending it loudly, and he crashed into the hard floor head-first. Thereafter, he did not move. Cole, however, was still standing. He dropped his hands from his face, which was now bright yellow, his eyes completely closed behind puffed and mottled skin. Bellowing with rage, he charged forward, one massive arm swinging in a wide arc. But Mark was already crouching low, and the block-like fist of the Lokian whizzed over him. Mark continued his motion forward, bringing his body into Cole’s just below the waist. Cole’s forward motion caused him to pitch forward, his legs losing contact with the ground. With a mighty grunt, Mark stood up. His action caused Cole to upend, his legs arching straight up in the air. He seemed to hover there for impossibly long moments, upside down and astoundingly high off the ground. Then he, too, came down with a crash, head-first on the hard barroom floor. His body toppled sideways like a felled tree, and when it landed, the entire room seemed to shudder from the impact. The room was silent. Mark stood over the unconscious Rangers, and waved a hand desperately at the bartender. “Mother’s milk!” he gasped out.

Kestral and Ciana reached the bar as the bartender rapped a bottle of milky-white liquid onto the bar next to Mark. “Thanks,” he rattled, taking the bottle and raising it full to his lips. Kestral looked to Ciana, who regarded Mark with a bemused expression.

Kestral finally said, “All right, I give up. What just happened?”

“I’ve heard about this,” Ciana responded, while Mark still drank from the bottle. “Mr. O’Bannon is renowned for his knowledge of ways to diffuse conflicts. We just saw a sample of his mixing the alcohols in his drinks together, to form—?”

“A gas that is especially reactive to Lokian skin,” Mark finished for her, his voice hoarse but strong.

“The mother’s milk,” he continued, holding up the bottle, “diffuses the alcohols. To make sure I don’t end up with an ulcer.”

Taj walked up to them at that moment, looking pointedly down at the Lokians, and the overturned table next to Buker’s prone body. “Sorry about the table,” Mark said quickly. “I thought I had him angled so he wouldn’t hit any breakables on the way down.”

“Rangers too violent for you, huh?” Kestral said sarcastically. She looked down at the Lokians. “How long will they be out?”

“Maybe an hour,” Mark replied. “Sometimes less. Lokians are notoriously tough.”

“Not to mention vindictive,” Ciana added. “It’s a good thing they started it, or you two would be in serious trouble.” She looked at them both meaningfully, and Mark was the first to catch her unspoken suggestion.

“Carolyn... do you still want a pilot?”

“Yes, I do. And...” she consulted the chronometer on her wrist. “...and Sarander should have the Mary fuelled up by about now...”

“Mary?” Ciana interrupted. “You named your ship the Mary?”

“Ciana, I believe it’s time for us to go,” Kestral declared, pointedly ignoring the look Ciana gave her.

“Of course, dear,” Ciana said, giving Kestral a loving hug. “I’ll make sure things are taken care of here, don’t worry about it. You two go. Good luck in your new profession.”

“Thanks,” Kestral and Mark responded together, then took one last glance down at the Rangers on the ground. “Better tell your Sarander to get those engines warmed up,” Mark suggested.

“Way ahead of you,” Kestral nodded, as they stepped smartly out the door. As Kestral stepped out of the umbilical and onto the deck of the Mary, Sarander stood there waiting, looking slightly irritated. “Got your message,” he said. “Engines are up. Are we in a hurry?”

“Yes, we are,” Kestral nodded.

Mark stepped out of the umbilical after Kestral. He pulled two large duffel bags after him, the sum total of his possessions, and dropped them on the deck.

“Who the Hell is this?” Sarander snapped.

“Say hello to our new pilot, Mark O’Bannon,” Kestral told him.

“Welcome aboard, Mark O’Bannon!” Sarander, instantly changing from irritated to amiable, shot out a hand and shook Mark’s enthusiastically. Now smiling broadly, he turned back to Kestral. “I’ll be in the engine room, doing boss work. Let’s get this shipment moving!”

“That’s the spirit,” Kestral grinned, and headed for the bridge, Mark trailing behind.

“He seemed happy to see me,” Mark commented.

“You have no idea.”

They reached the bridge, where Tirri sat at ops. Upon turning to see them enter, she promptly asked,

“Who’s this?”

“Mark O’Bannon,” Mark introduced himself. Tirri looked inquiringly to Kestral.

“Our new pilot,” Kestral explained.

Tirri smiled widely. “Pleased to meet you!” Then, to Kestral, she asked, “Are we in a hurry?”

“Yes, we are,” Kestral and Mark said together. Mark slipped into the pilot’s seat, and instantly began tapping at the console and checking his readings. “Ready to go,” he announced. Kestral settled into the Captain’s station, tapped at her com controls, and asked, “High Amarillo, this is the Mary. Do we have clearance?”

“Clearance just granted, Mary, ” came the reply. “Regards from Administrator Prinz. Have a nice flight. ”

“Thank you,” Kestral responded, closing the com. “Okay, Mark, let’s see what you can do.”

Mark nodded and worked over the controls. The Mary responded instantly, pulling out of her slip smoothly and quickly. Mark’s fingers literally flew over the console, as the ship cleared the gantry, and swung about to face deep space.

“Color us red,” Mark commented. “We’re out of here.” Whereupon a strong but smooth acceleration set in, and the Mary pulled away from the asteroid. Mark set the ship into a wide and graceful curve, swinging her about to point in the direction of her intended course to Terra212.

“Take us to C when you’re ready,” Kestral told him.

Mark watched his console. “I have us locked on course... now. Tessers are synched. Going to C... now.” He tapped the console, and the Mary’s drives sang out. Within a second, their stop at High Amarillo was a distant memory.

The small screen on Administrator Prinze’s desk showed the Mary arc gracefully away from the dock. A moment later, there was a mild glow from the ship, preceded by the craft’s vanishing from sight as it moved to C. Ciana smiled as it vanished. “Godspeed, Captain Kestral. Have a good life.”

Chapter 6

“We’re at three-C, Carolyn.” Mark deftly worked the controls of the Mary, and it showed... somehow, the ship seemed to fly smoother under his hand, than under Sarander’s. “On course to Terra212.”

“Good,” Kestral nodded, and tapped the ship’s com. “Angel and Sarander... please come to the bridge, as soon as it’s convenient.”

Mark looked over at Tirri, who was staring significantly at Kestral. She gave Mark a quick glance, too, before turning to Kestral again. Mark looked at the two of them, then said, “Forgive me, I’m new. What’s going on?”

“We’re going to have a conference,” Kestral replied, “when the others get here.”

“Conference? What about?”

Kestral regarded Mark. “Nothing you don’t already know about.”

At Kestral’s remark, Tirri swung her head at Mark, and her feathered lashes flashed. “Hold on! Does he know why we left without a pilot?”

Instead of responding to Tirri’s outburst, Mark returned Kestral’s look with one of surprise. “You didn’t tell them?”

Kestral shrugged sheepishly. “I didn’t think it would be such a problem.”

“You’re kidding.”

“What don’t we know?” Tirri snapped.

“Relax, Tirri,” Kestral told her. “As soon as Sarander—”

“Sarander and Angel are here,” came a voice from the bridge hatch. Sarander stepped through, followed closely by Angel. Sarander glanced at Mark and cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, good... you’re still aboard.”

“Was I not supposed to be?” Mark asked.

“It’s okay, Mark,” Kestral said. “Sarander’s being funny. Sort of. Guys, take a seat and get comfortable. It’s time for me to tell you what’s going on.” As Sarander took a seat by the wall consoles, and Angel leaned up against an empty stretch of bulkhead, Kestral glanced at Mark. “To bring you up to speed, this all started when we were about to leave Kyxha, three days ago. We had a pilot arranged. But at the last minute, he backed out on me. More to the point, he backed out because he apparently spoke to a Ranger about my background.”

Angel blinked. “What? Were you arrested or something?”

“No, nothing like that,” Kestral told him. “I was... honorably discharged, due to medical circumstances.”

Kestral paused, taking in their reactions so far: Sarander was clearly wondering what this had to do with a missing pilot; Tirri just stared at her; Angel just seemed confused; and Mark quietly took it all in, waiting to see the reactions of his newfound fellow crewmen when the hammer dropped. But she didn’t want to drag out the moment. “I was on the Ranger star destroyer Adamant during the battle at James’

Hole against the Spiders. At that time, I came into contact with the berserker virus.”

“Oh, Christ,” Sarander gritted, and visibly leaned back in his seat. Tirri’s mouth fell open. Angel, seeing Sarander’s reaction, took a step further away from Kestral. “Virus? What kind? I mean, is it contagious?”

“No, it’s not,” Kestral replied, which seemed to be enough to keep Angel from taking another step back.

“The Spider’s virus?” Tirri asked. Kestral regarded her silently. “Then why aren’t you berserk?”

“Berserk?” Angel repeated, goggling at Kestral.

“Hey, yeah,” Sarander said, relaxing his backward lean and coming forward a bit. “Everybody goes berserk! Then they die.”

“Die?” Angel bleated.

“So it was a mistake. ‘Cause you can’t have the virus,” Sarander finished. He looked to Tirri, and back to Kestral. “Can you?”

“If that’s what you think,” Kestral replied, “then let me be the first to educate you. Point one: Not everybody who is infected by the Berserker succumbs to it right away. Sometimes, it lies dormant in the body, to be triggered later, by no one knows what. Point two: With most of those people, the dormant virus can be detected and removed. If it’s removed before you go berserk, you won’t ever go berserk, and you won’t die.”

“So,” Sarander concluded hopefully, “you had it removed?”

Kestral chose her next words carefully. “I was treated,” she said finally. “But... and this is point three... in a small percentage of cases, the treatment is not completely successful. There are still minute traces of the berserker in my system. The doctors don’t know if it is enough to ever be triggered. But they also cannot remove what’s left.”

“Oh, Christ,” Sarander muttered again.

“Because of the... unsuccessful treatment,” Kestral continued, “I was issued an honorable discharge from the service. And that brings us here.”

“Sitting on the bridge of a potential berserker,” Sarander added. “Great.”

“All right, look,” Kestral said, folding her arms defiantly. “All of this happened fifteen months ago. As of today, that means I have survived longer than any carrier of the berserker virus by fourteen months.” She leaned forward for emphasis. “If the virus hasn’t activated in all that time, it never will. I’m safe .”

“Then why aren’t you a Ranger any more?” Tirri asked.

Kestral lowered her eyes momentarily, unsure of what to say.

“They blacklisted her.”

Everyone turned to Mark. He took them all in and folded his arms across his chest. “She was in line for a Ranger command, before she caught the virus. But even though she never showed a single symptom of the virus, no one trusted her. No one believed that she wouldn’t eventually go berserk, or spread the virus. And no one wanted to work with her. So she was passed over for promotion, and she was denied command of a ship.”

“How do you know?” Sarander asked.

“I was there,” Mark replied. “I was a Ranger when it happened.”

“Wait,” Angel complained, “who are you, anyway? And who else on this ship is an ex-Ranger?”

“You said you were honorably discharged,” Tirri stated, ignoring Angel’s remark.

“Yes,” Kestral admitted. “It was their way of getting rid of me, after I pestered them for a command, and defied them to prove I was a risk. They couldn’t prove it. But they wouldn’t promote me. So they got rid of me. I was given enough of a severance to combine with my accumulated earnings and buy this ship. And here we are.”

There was silence on the bridge. Kestral looked to each of them in turn, including Mark, who silently nodded his support. “Okay, now you know the facts,” Kestral finally said. “Even if I am positive that the virus will never be triggered... I realize it was wrong not to tell you before now. For that, I apologize.”

She dropped her head. “I also realize that my apology really isn’t enough. I’ve compromised your trust in me. I know an apology won’t fully win it back.”

She raised her head again, and looked to each of them. “I told you all before: If you want to quit, once we get to Terra212, I won’t stop you.”

Kestral slowly stood from the Captain’s station. “Well, that’s all. Mark, Sarander, I’d appreciate it if the two of you would work out a schedule to give Mark some breaks at pilot. If not... call me, and I’ll give Mark breaks.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Sarander replied quietly.

“Thank you,” Kestral nodded. “Anyone wants me, I’ll be in my quarters.” She turned and left the bridge, pulling the hatch closed behind her.

The bridge was silent for long moments. Angel was first to break it, turning to Mark. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Angel Shakra, mate and cook.”

“Mark O’Bannon,” Mark offered. “Pilot.”

“Nice to meet you.” They shook hands. “You knew about Carolyn’s virus-thing?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you still want to fly for her?”

“Yes, I do,” Mark replied. “I have no doubt that we’re in good hands.”

“Why aren’t you a Ranger any more?” Angel asked.

“Any medical conditions we should know about?” Sarander added.

Mark shook his head. “I didn’t like the Rangers. Too violent for me.”

“Uh-huh,” Sarander said non-commitally. “I’ll give you a break in four hours, okay?”

“Sure,” Mark agreed. “Thanks.”

Sarander nodded, and headed for the hatch. Tirri got up and followed him out, giving Mark a backward glance as she stepped out.

Angel and Mark watched them go. When the hatch closed, Mark turned back to the pilot’s console. Angel turned to Mark. “Martian, right?”

“Skin gives it away every time,” Mark said.

“Want something to drink while you’re up here? I make a mean red gator.”

Mark turned to him, surprised. “You’re on.”

Angel smiled, nodded, and headed out. At the bridge hatch, he turned and said, “Welcome to the Mary.” And he headed off down the corridor.

Mark waited until he could no longer see Angel, before turning back to his console. “Thanks.”

Tirri looked up when Sarander came through the door to their quarters. “There you are... I was looking for you.”

Sarander waited until he had closed the hatch before he spoke. “I had to round up some tools.”

“Tools?”

Sarander reached into his pocket then, and held up a small gadget that fit in the palm of his hand. Tirri could see that it was something Sarander must have fabricated, but she could not divine its purpose.

“I give up. What is it, and what’s it for?”

“It delivers a hefty jolt of electricity,” Sarander said.

“What for?”

“Hopefully, to drop a berserker in its tracks.”

Tirri stared at it, then at her husband. “You’re not—?”

“Only if she turns on us,” Sarander replied. “I’ll make one for you, if you want.”

Tirri looked at it again, then shook her head. “No.”

“Do you want me to—”

“No, it’s fine. Keep it.”

Sarander eyed his wife. “You’ve thought about this, too, haven’t you?”

“Well,” Tirri shrugged. “Not about that, exactly.”

“But?”

“I know what I want to do,” Tirri explained in a low voice. “I think I like Carolyn, and I’m okay working for her. And if she really is okay... fine. But if she does go berserk...” She paused for emphasis. “If something happens to her, this ship’ll be ours.” She looked pointedly at the gadget in Sarander’s hand.

“But only if she goes berserk. Okay?”

Sarander nodded. “That’s fine by me. Hell, we’ve both had worse gigs.” He slowly put the device back in his pocket. “Do you think she won’t, then?”

In response, Tirri looked at the cabin wall as if she could look through the bulkheads and see Kestral in her cabin.

“I hope she doesn’t.”

When Kestral returned to the bridge later, Mark glanced back and waved a hand. Kestral smiled. “You look like that seat suits you.”

“Quicksilvers are easy to fly,” Mark told her. “I’m very comfortable.” He had on the external viewing goggles, but he had switched off one lens, and his left eye was clearly visible when he turned her way.

“So... You waited until now to say anything to them.”

Kestral sat down at the ops station. “I did.”

“Do you think you’ve salvaged the situation?”

“Truthfully, I wish I knew,” she replied. “When I left the Rangers, I was confident in the knowledge that I was clean. I didn’t think I’d have to explain or justify anything to anyone.” She dropped her head slightly. “I thought it was ancient history.”

“It should have been,” Mark agreed, and sighed. “It seems to have been just dumb luck you had to tell anyone. I guess some ghosts take time to be rid of.”

“I guess.” Kestral settled back in her seat. “What about you? Any ghosts still following you?”

“Actually, you saw two of my best on High Amarillo. There seem to be quite a few Rangers who have something against my resigning.”

“Why is that?”

“Probably,” Mark replied evenly, “it has to do with my resigning after refusing to take my scout into a battle.”

Kestral inclined her head towards him quizzically. “This sounds like a story I’d like to hear.”

“It’s a short story,” Mark advised her. “I was in my scout on my way back to my ship, when I received a distress call from a civilian ship caught too close to an impending battle. I was ordered to leave them, return to my ship, and prepare for battle. I ignored the order, picked them up in the scout, and removed them from the battle area.”

“However,” Kestral asked, “did you avoid going to the brig for desertion?”

“The fact that my ship was so badly beaten in that battle that it was determined that my leaving the area probably saved the civilians’ lives. Bad for my ship, but good for the civilians. And oh, yes... The battle, which our side initiated, turned out to be a mistake. They thought they were attacking an arms depot, and it turned out to be food stores. I knew that, and they knew I’d go public with it if they imprisoned me. So they ‘let’ me resign.”

Mark turned to see Kestral’s response. After long moments, she simply said, “Interesting.”

“Every so often, I run into a Ranger who knows about my history.” Mark shrugged.

“Ghosts,” Kestral said.

“Ghosts.”

“At least my ghosts aren’t as big as yours.”

“Fortunately for me,” Mark grinned, “my ghosts tend to be stupid.”

“And speaking of which: How often have you had to put down Lokians in bars?”

“That was the second time I was approached in a bar like that,” Mark admitted. “The first time, the Lokians forced me to go outside. They were standing behind me. I simply ran away. Lokians are tough, but they’re also notoriously slow runners.”

“Which was why, this time, they were ahead of you on the way out of the bar,” Kestral observed.

“Yes,” Mark nodded. “But I’d done some reading since then... I didn’t expect the same trick to work twice, either. And I came across that drinks trick.” He shrugged. “I don’t like to fight. But, when pushed into a corner, I don’t prefer to roll over and get my ass kicked.”

“What does ‘Kella’ mean?”

“The name of an infamous Lokian, apparently,” Mark replied. “Kella was renowned amongst Lokians as being a coward, from a family of cowards, and willing to sell his children to save his own neck. I’m not sure if he’s an actual or mythical figure.”

“Now I know what not to call you, if I want to stay on your good side.”

“A good thing to know,” Mark agreed wryly. “Especially when you’re not sure how many friends you have on board.”

“Tell me about it.”

Chapter 7

Terra212 was, as its name implied, one of hundreds of planets that humans had co-opted for their own use. To date, 609 planets throughout the Oan Galarchy had been partially or fully terraformed and settled by humans.

Terra212, known by its inhabitants as Coel, was one of the planets that had been pre-settled and partially terraformed. But although the humans who settled there had had themselves genetically altered to survive, the alteration was very mild, a slight adjustment to the chemical filtering processes carried out in the kidneys that allowed their bodies to more easily process some of the complex chemicals found in the Coelian biosphere. So there were no outwardly noticeable characteristics that distinguished the Coelians from any other humans.

This became evident to Kestral when she called Terra212 to arrange to deliver the Mary’s cargo. The Coelians she spoke to looked and sounded human, and if it weren’t for the uniquely-styled clothing they wore, there would have been nothing to indicate that she was speaking to anyone other than another human.

As Mark brought the Mary slowly down through Terra212’s atmosphere, they could see that the city looked, too, like any other human city in a sub-tropical environ. It was bright and open, with countless plazas, open courtyards, balconies and occupied rooftops, from the smallest house to the tallest building. The entire crew was on the bridge, everyone watching the approaching city through the viewscreens, with the exception of Mark, who took it all in through the external viewing goggles.

“Pretty place,” Tirri commented. “Looks like a nice vacation spot.” Kestral glanced her way, but said nothing. She still did not know what her crew were likely to do, once they had delivered their first cargo and were all paid, and she did not want to risk saying anything that might swing a decision away from her. So she swallowed the joking remark she had been tempted to make, and concentrated on Mark’s landing.

Not that Mark needed anyone spotting him. If his skills as pilot had not been established by his deft handling of the Mary in transit from High Amarillo, they were now clearly demonstrated by his smooth descent into Terra212’s atmosphere, his easy approach into the city, and now his gentle arc about the spaceport fields, angling the ship for their landing space. Sarander had come down to the bridge, also to watch Mark land the ship, but based on Mark’s progress so far, Sarander didn’t seem inclined to bother him. Mark’s right hand danced over the control console, while his left hand held steady on the attitude controls, and the ship swung gracefully into position over the designated space, near a storage warehouse, and slowed. Then, almost as forward motion had stopped altogether, the Mary touched down on the tarmac with a barely-perceptible bump.

“I bow to an impresario,” Sarander complimented Mark, who smiled back as he cycled the engines down.

“I concur,” Kestral added. “Great job, Mark... and everyone else. Okay, let’s see about unloading.”

They all went down to the main cargo bay, where the ore crates waited. Tirri triggered the starboard bay hatch, and it eased open with a hiss of pressure seals and a hum of machinery. Kestral stood at the edge of the hatch, and was first to alight when it touched the ground, looking around for someone to speak to. Mark wasn’t far behind her, and Sarander stepped out to take a quick look around the outside of the ship.

Motion from the nearby warehouse alerted Mark to an approaching figure, and he signaled Kestral by nodding in that direction. Kestral turned to see a woman, dressed in a teal robe that extended from a straight collar at her neck, down to her ankles, and cut so straight that it betrayed no sign of her figure underneath it. The effect was that of a column of fabric, with a head mounted atop it and tiny feet shifting it along. She walked with a minimum of body movement that could be detected under the robe, yet she still crossed the space between the warehouse and the Mary in a reasonable time. As she neared, Kestral and Mark could see that she had a young and lean face, alert eyes, and a soft smile.

“Welcome to Coel,” the woman greeted them when she was within a few steps. She held out hands to Kestral. “Captain Kestral, I presume?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Kestral replied, taking both of the woman’s hands in hers.

“My name is Ferrin Elliot. I’m an administrator here at the spaceport.”

“Oh?” Kestral cocked an eyebrow. “I thought this was just a simple cargo delivery. Is there something I should know?”

Sarander, under a nearby engine pod, whispered to himself, “Has anything about this trip been simple?”

“Not at all,” Ferrin was explaining to Kestral. “It’s just that the cargo you are delivering has some special delivery requirements that demand I be here to supervise.”

“I see,” Kestral said, as she noted four cargo haulers rolling out to the Mary from the nearby warehouse.

“Do you want us to just offload them right here, then?”

“Yes, that will be fine,” Ferrin replied. “Our people will haul the crates away from here.”

“So, if I may ask, where are these ores going that requires such supervision?”

“Directly into the Coelian treasury vaults.”

“Treasury?” As Kestral repeated the word, Mark and Sarander turned to look at them.

“Yes,” Ferrin replied. “These ores will be mixed with local metals here, at which point they will become part of our financial depository. Oh, they’re not worth much as they are. But once combined with the metals on this planet, they form a compound that is invaluable to atronics control processes. The introduction of these ores will raise our planet’s net worth by almost fifteen percent.”

“Wow,” Kestral breathed. Mark and Sarander exchanged surprised glances. “We had no idea we were transporting a king’s ransom for you.”

“Nor were you meant to, of course,” Ferrin smiled. “For the sake of security. You understand.”

“Certainly... no harm done,” Kestral assured her. “We plan to be here for... a few days. Where should I arrange to park my ship, once it’s offloaded?”

“You can leave it parked here, if you wish,” Ferrin told her. “The spaceport is secure, and this is a government section of the facility. Your crew is free to travel anywhere on Coel that is not restricted to authorized personnel only. Oh, yes... and the balance of your payment is being deposited in your specified account, as we speak.”

“Thank you very much,” Kestral smiled. “It turned out to be a very successful first run for us.”

“Your first run? Really? Well, congratulations to you!” Ferrin took Kestral’s hands again. “Captain, I know it’s a long way from Kyxha. We are having a small reception connected to this transaction, in the main building. You and your crew are welcome to join us for refreshments there.”

“Thank you very much,” Kestral nodded, then gestured meaningfully at Mark, who returned the gesture and headed off to inform the others. “Once we have everything offloaded and get the ship secured, we’ll be glad to join you there.”

“Excellent,” Ferrin replied. “Anyone in the warehouse can tell you how to get there. We’ll see you soon, then.”

“See you soon.”

As Ferrin turned to leave, Kestral turned back to the Mary. She could see Mark speaking to Tirri and Angel, from their perches on the cargo loaders, and the two of them appeared to be happy to hear the news. Glancing Sarander’s way, she saw him return her glance with a look of satisfaction. She couldn’t help but smile at the prospect of a genuinely happy crew, and she barely refrained from showing her exultation as she headed for the cargo bay to help unload.

Kestral led her crew happily down the corridor of the main building, where a guard had directed them to the reception. The five of them had taken the time to clean up a bit and put on fresh clothing, not knowing exactly how the rest of the people at this reception would be dressed. When they walked into the room they had been directed to, they all stopped and looked at those who were already there. To a man and woman, all of them wore the straight robes they had seen on Ferrin earlier that day. There were few variations on this robe design, other than two obvious aspects: One, the robes seemed to come in every color of the rainbow, irrespective of the sex of the person wearing it; and two, men’s robes all seemed to have horizontal piping decorating it, while women’s robes had similar but diagonal piping. In this assemblage of local costuming, the crew of the Mary stood out strikingly, and all of them had a hard time deciding if their conspicuity was a good or bad thing under the circumstances. They were soon noticed, of course, and momentarily, they were greeted by Ferrin again. “Hello, Captain... so glad you could all come,” she said pleasantly.

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Kestral replied, taking her hands in what she had already divined was a common greeting gesture.

“Please,” Ferrin said, sweeping her hand to encompass the room. “There are refreshments, and I’m sure there are many people who would love to meet visitors. Allow me.”

And Ferrin suddenly stepped past Kestral and moved next to Mark. Positioning herself next to him and taking his hand in hers, she pulled him in the direction of a distant table surrounded with people. “Coel has so few visitors, you see. I’ll bet there will be a great deal of interest in you all. And especially handsome men like yourself. You are the pilot, I understand...?”

“Uh, yes,” Mark smiled, allowing himself to be led along. “Call me Mark...”

Kestral and the others watched bemusedly as he and Ferrin strolled away. Moments later, they followed them into the reception room. They were quickly surrounded by friendly people, and as Ferrin had surmised, there was a great deal of interest in each of them. They were offered plates of food, all of which tasted either sweet, or spicy, but not much between... and delicious fermented juices. Somewhere, light music played. All in all, the atmosphere was very cordial and comfortable. In short order, Kestral and her crew found themselves to be the nuclei of fluctuating small and large groups, Tirri and Sarander being the only ones who stayed close together. Kestral, Mark and Angel especially found that they were not only centers of attention, but that there seemed to be no shortage of handsome men and women who seemed keen on attaching themselves to their arms and acting as their personal hosts or hostesses.

As the reception wore on, the questions directed at Kestral’s crew slowly waned, and they were able to start asking a bit about their hosts. Coel, it was revealed, was populated with approximately two million people, a very small number compared to most terraformed planets. It was explained to them that the small population was due to the need for genetic manipulation of the inhabitants to be able to survive on the planet in its early stages of terraforming, a process that was difficult and time consuming, and could not be done on large populations at once. Further, the genetic manipulations were no longer needed on Coel, now that the terraforming process was finished, and Coelians were already beginning to mix with non-altered humans from other colonies, sparking the beginning of a recent rise in the planet’s population. Coel’s chief export was expertise in fabricating and calibrating atronic control systems. The atronic systems were essential to balancing the opposing fields in a tesser drive and creating the time-space

“compression” that propelled vehicles beyond light speed. And Coel’s systems were some of the best in the Galarchy. This seemed to be a surprise to everyone but Sarander, who was very familiar with Coel’s reputation as premier atronic designers. “The atronic systems in every Quicksilver-class ship are designed here,” he commented knowledgeably, earning him impressed and proud reactions from his hosts, and from Kestral.

The atronic design process depended on the application of certain composites to the fabricating machinery, which allowed the Coelians to produce essentially pure systems. It was the unfinished ores the Mary had brought, that would be applied to the composite process and increase their production capacity significantly. And as the entire planet profited from selling atronics, it was clear why everyone was so appreciative of their delivery.

“Well,” Kestral said, “it’s obvious what Coel gets out of this delivery. Did finished atronics products pay for it?”

“Not this time. It is payment for me.”

Everyone turned at the sound of the reply. The man who had appeared at the fringe of the group was tall and broad-shouldered... that much, at least, was apparent under the Coelian robes he wore. His grace was evident as well, from the way he glided forward. Many Coelians’ faces stopped smiling, and assumed an appearance of respect, even reverence, as the man approached and stopped near Kestral.

“My name is Moamet Jones,” the man introduced himself, and offered his hands to Kestral. She accepted them. “Carolyn Kestral.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said politely.

“The pleasure is mine,” Kestral replied. “How do you mean, the ore is payment for you?”

Moamet Jones smiled at the question. “Allow me to be specific. I have a piece of equipment we’ll exchange for the ore. I am the person who runs the machine. I will be taking it to Deep Abignon tomorrow. So, in a way, the ore is payment for me.”

“I see,” Kestral said. “What is the equipment for?”

Moamet Jones smiled at her. “I’m sorry, but I cannot say. It is classified. Need to know. That kind of thing.”

“I understand.” Kestral returned his smile, and raised her drink to him. “Well, I wish you a safe trip to Deep Abignon.”

“Thank you,” he bowed. “And I wish you and your crew Godspeed on your next journey. Tell me: Do you know where you are bound for after you leave here?”

Kestral smiled wryly. “I have no idea, Mr. Jones.”

“Please, call me Moamet. If you have no immediate destination, you should definitely take advantage of the time to enjoy our city. It is especially beautiful to see at sunset.”

“Is it?” Kestral cocked an eyebrow his way.

“I do not leave Coel until tomorrow,” he said, offering a dazzling smile. “If you’re interested, it would be my pleasure to show it to you.”

“The pleasure would be all mine,” Kestral assured him. She glanced about to check on her crew: Angel was engaged in lively conversation with a small crowd of people, not a few of them being beautiful women; Sarander and Tirri had apparently paired off with another couple, possibly fascinated with Tirri’s exotic feathered appearance, and were deep into an intense conversation about something; and Mark seemed to have a comely young girl grafted to his side, a predicament he seemed to have no complaints about whatsoever. Mark happened to notice Kestral’s glance, and he gave her an encouraging nod, plus a nod in Moamet Jones’ direction.

Kestral turned back to Jones and said, “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

“Ready? Here it comes.”

The sky over the city was already a deep hue of red, the setting sun a monstrous disk on the horizon, and easily dim enough to allow Kestral to gaze directly at it. As she watched, the sun changed, growing visibly larger and brighter in moments. At the same time, the deep red of the sky was replaced with an almost painfully vibrant orange, growing brighter by the second, as if the entire sky was about to spontaneously combust. Then, the orange rapidly faded, the sun visibly shrank, and dusk rushed upon them faster than on any planet Kestral had ever seen.

“Beautiful... incredible,” were the only words that would come to her. She looked at Moamet Jones in delight. “It always sets like that?”

“Yes,” he replied, smiling proudly. “It’s a natural atmospheric effect, due to the composition of the upper atmosphere... not that I can tell you any more than that. It doesn’t happen to be my discipline. But they tell me that our sunset is one of the prettier ones in the Galarchy.”

“It’s certainly within the top ten, I’d put money on that.” Kestral turned and put her back to the balcony wall, as the natural light rapidly dimmed and artificial lights began glowing throughout the city. “And it is a beautiful city. I hope your business doesn’t keep you from enjoying this often.”

“On the contrary,” Moamet Jones told her. “I enjoy traveling. It’s nice to see new places and things. And it helps you to better appreciate what you have at home.” He waved at the city beyond.

“That’s true,” Kestral agreed.

“Do you have a place you call home?”

“Not at the moment,” she replied. “I’d been in the Rangers for almost ten years. Now I guess the Mary is my home. I haven’t set down any roots in awhile.”

“Well, I’m sure your time will come,” Jones nodded, smiling. “After all, there is no rush. You have many years ahead of you.”

Kestral regarded him and considered his words. “Yes,” she finally replied, “many years.”

“On Coel,” Jones said, “we like to say: Today is the first day—”

“Of the rest of your life,” Kestral finished for him, laughing. “That’s an old Earth expression, too.”

“Hm. So that’s where we got it,” Jones nodded wryly. The darkness almost obscured his features, but Kestral could still see his eyes shining at her. “Something else we say around here: There’s a reason some expressions never go away.”

“It’s a very good expression,” Kestral admitted. “Words to live by.”

“I wonder how many other expressions we have in common?” Jones asked. Kestral moved closer to him. “We should find out.”

They walked about the city for hours. As the evening wore on, Moamet Jones entertained Kestral with stories about the city, about Coel, about its history. He was intelligent, charming, occasionally funny, and always focused on her... something that was not wasted on Kestral. To be sure, the events of the day had been very uplifting: Delivering her cargo successfully; her crew giving the impression of being willing to stay on, or at least not intending to simply bolt on her; the attention lavished upon them at the reception; all of these had put Kestral in a powerfully positive mood. So it was no wonder that this handsome, charming man was also beginning to have a more powerful impression on her. Eventually, they ended up back at the building where the reception had been held, and where Ferrin had told them guest quarters had been set up for the Mary’s crew. An officer directed them to the quarters that had been set aside for Kestral, and she and Jones made their way to the wing on the east side of the building.

They arrived at the quarters, and the door opened automatically when Kestral placed her hand on the announcer plate on the wall. The quarters were made up of multiple suites, the main suite featuring a sumptuous entertainment area, including a luxurious pile of pads and pillows in the center of the room, and a large balcony overlooking the city. Kestral’s overnight bag had been placed in the room, at the door to what appeared to be the bedroom beyond the main suite.

“It’s beautiful,” Kestral smiled, and turned back to face Moamet Jones. Jones smiled down upon her and said, “The night does not have to end just yet, does it?”

Kestral smiled, but shook her head. “You did say you had to leave very early in the morning... you said you had things to prepare.”

Jones blinked, and his smile faded. “Well... yes, but... but I thought... I thought we...”

“We did,” Kestral told him. “And I had a wonderful time. But you do have duties, and you should attend to those.”

Jones seemed mildly taken aback, but after a few moments, he nodded his assent. “You’re... probably right. I should go. Carolyn Kestral, I had a wonderful time, too.”

He bent his head down, and Kestral kissed him softly. Jones lingered on the kiss, cradling her head lightly to keep her from pulling away too soon. Then, he removed his hand, and straightened up.

“Good night, Carolyn,” he said quietly.

“Good night, Moamet.” Kestral took a step back, and allowed the door to close. Jones stood there a moment longer, his eyes darting back and forth as if trying to figure something out. Then, muttering a soft, “Damn,” he walked away from Kestral’s door.

Chapter 8

When Kestral awoke, it was already morning, which saddened her. She had been interested to see if the sun put on as much of a show upon rising, as it had in setting. But she had been up late, so it was understandable that she had slept through it.

She was also disappointed that she had been forced to make Moamet Jones go. After such an enjoyable evening with such a handsome and charming man, she had wanted him to stay. And he clearly had not wanted to go, either. But she knew that she had no right to do that to him, when he had important duties to perform the next day. It was a shame: Chances are, she would never see him again. And surely, a man like him had other women to... do whatever with.

Kestral did not get out of bed right away, but instead allowed the experiences of the night to replay in her mind, before thinking about her next tasks... namely, to set up another run, and to make sure she still had a crew to make the run with her.

The latter thoughts eventually put her back into a businesslike frame of mind, and she let the events of last night pass into memory. Then she reached across the bed and grabbed a small com from the lapel of her shirt.

“Mary, can you hear me?”

“This is Mary,” came the voice over the com.

“Mary, please access local databases through Terra212 networks. See if you can find a cargo run for us, ready to leave from here anytime, or from a nearby planet within the next few days.”

“Understood.”

“Is the rest of the crew on the ship?”

“No,” came the reply. “Angel Shakra is the only member of the crew currently aboard.”

Kestral considered Mary’s words, and tried not to make assumptions... after all, they all had guest quarters here, and Kestral had not given them any specific time to return to the Mary, so there was no reason to expect them to be back on board yet. “Thank you,” she finally said. “I’ll check your progress when I arrive on board.” She switched off the com and replaced it in her shirt lapel. Finally she threw the covers aside, got up, and padded into the bathroom to wash up.

She took her time washing and dressing, as there was no reason to rush. She remembered parts of the city that she had visited the night before with Jones, and that she’d considered seeing in full daylight later. As it seemed like the perfect time, she decided to take a scenic route back to the ship. Picking up a piece of fruit in a small basket in the main room of the quarters, Kestral headed for the door. She took her first bite as she opened the door to leave.

The sight that greeted her outside of her door made her stop, fruit still jammed into her mouth, and stare. The sight was Moamet Jones, standing there with a large silver case. He was not smiling at her... indeed, a slight frown furrowed his brow. He had apparently just walked up to the door, as his hand was poised alongside the announcer plate, and had not pressed it only because Kestral had opened the door first. Moamet Jones looked at Kestral, and said simply, “I need to talk to you.”

Kestral finally pulled the fruit out of her mouth, so she could speak. “I thought you were going to Deep Abignon.”

“I was,” Jones nodded. “That’s what I have to talk to you about.”

Mark O’Bannon walked leisurely along the tarmac to the landing pad where the Mary waited. He had a broad smile on his face, and he carried his overnight bag lightly on his shoulder, outwardly indicating that he had had an extremely enjoyable evening.

As he came within sight of the Mary, he became aware of an object in the air, slowly approaching him from the ship. It was the Mary’s remote probe, floating softly on the air as it neared him. It stopped near his head, somewhat closer then casual speaking distance would warrant, and causing Mark to stop suddenly and regard the probe.

“Mister O’Bannon, I have a message from Captain Kestral.”

“Yes?” He glanced past the probe to the ship. “Is something wrong?”

“The Captain asks you to join her in the administrator’s office in the main building,” the probe responded in a low voice, set in pitch and tone to guarantee it would not carry very far. “She is waiting there for you now. She wanted me to specify that this is priority B-1.”

“I see,” Mark replied, though he was not sure that he did. “I’ll go there directly.”

He turned and headed for the main building, leaving the probe to float back to the Mary. He surreptitiously glanced about, to see if anyone in sight might have been watching. His response was prompted by Kestral’s message, and her mentioning of “priority B-1.” Such a designation was a standard Ranger code, an order not to discuss his orders until he met with his commanding officer. Mark considered her words sourly, as he approached the main building and walked inside. An officer directed him to the administrator’s office. As he reached the office and the door opened automatically for him, he saw Kestral and Ferrin sitting at opposite ends of Ferrin’s desk. “Carolyn,” he began, “there’s a reason I don’t call myself a Ranger anymore.”

“I know,” Kestral replied, standing up. “I’m sorry, Mark. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t say anything to anyone, and I knew you’d know the code—”

“And speaking of which,” he interrupted her, “why are we sneaking around keeping secrets? We’re not—”

“I know we’re not Rangers, Mark,” Kestral snapped, her obvious acquiescence of that point cutting him off. “I said, I’m sorry. But something important has come up.”

Without another word, Kestral looked past Mark to the back of the office. Mark, following her gaze, slowly turned. He saw Moamet Jones in the corner of the office, sitting quietly in a chair. A large, silver case sat on the floor next to him.

At the sight of Jones, Mark’s face shifted from irritation to confusion. “Hey... aren’t you supposed to be going to Deep Abignon?” Jones did not immediately reply, and Mark looked to Kestral and Ferrin.

“What’s going on?”

“We don’t know yet,” Ferrin answered him from her desk. “We expected a courier craft to arrive early this morning to take him to Deep Abignon. It hasn’t arrived, and we haven’t been able to locate or contact it.”

“Do you know for sure that it left?” Mark asked.

“We have confirmation that it left on time,” Ferrin told him. “But now, it’s not turning up on any astral scans.”

“Not that that’s conclusive, if they’re going at C,” Mark pointed out.

“True,” Ferrin nodded. “However, they missed a checkpoint contact. They are officially listed as lost.”

Mark looked to Jones, to Ferrin, then to Kestral. “Am I going to want to hear this?”

In response, Kestral shook her head. “Moamet Jones has asked us to take him to Deep Abignon. I’m prepared to accept his offer.”

“Why?” Mark shrugged out of Kestral’s grasp and looked at Jones. “This is supposed to be some classified military mission he’s going on. Call for a Ranger ship to get him.”

“It’s not that simple,” Kestral told him. “Come on, you’ve had strategic training, think about it. If the scout was intercepted en route here, they may or may not have revealed their mission to anyone. If they did not, then dispatching another Ranger ship here will potentially tell another party what they need to know. If they did, then any dispatched Ranger ships will also be intercepted, or will be ambushed on the way to Deep Abignon. Either way, the mission is compromised.”

“So how do we fix this?” Mark asked, though he already knew Kestral’s response.

“We’ll do a cargo run to a planet that lies along the route to Deep Abignon, and we’ll take Jones with us. No one will be stopping freighters on legitimate, commercially recorded runs. We can drop Jones off, and no one will be the wiser.”

“Carolyn—”

“Mark, we can do this,” Kestral assured him. “It’ll be an easy run, with a little side trip... that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Mark kept his voice even, but his eyes smoldered at Kestral. “We’re civilians, Carolyn. We’re not Rangers. We’re not supposed to be doing their dirty work for them. With all due respect to Mr. Jones,” he said, inclining his head in Jones’ direction, “let them send a new ship and let them worry about it! It’s not our job!”

“Mark...” Kestral began, then let her voice trail off. She looked at Jones, who seemed to know what she was going to say, and he started to protest. “Please, Moamet,” she said, “I need Mark to be on our side in this. We should tell him.”

“‘Our’ side?” Mark asked suspiciously, cocking an eye at Kestral.

“Moamet, please.”

Moamet Jones considered, and looked to Ferrin for guidance. After a few moments, Ferrin nodded, and that seemed to decide it for Jones.

“Mr. O’Bannon,” Jones began, “I am transporting an incubator to Deep Abignon.”

Mark stared dubiously. “An incubator,” he repeated.

“Yes,” Jones replied, looking down at the silver case at his feet. “It is specially designed to take a sample of an antiviral agent, and produce large quantities of it in a very short time. We’ve found a way to introduce a stable tesser field to the apparatus, to speed up the process. A sample that would have taken months to process in the past, can now be processed in minutes.”

Mark was shaking his head. “So. A really fast incubator. But I don’t recall hearing about any epidemics requiring vast amounts of vaccine to be ready by tomorrow.”

“Actually, there is a virus that it is intended to be used for,” Jones told him. “It is fast acting, highly contagious, and almost always lethal... to the carrier, and to those around them.”

Mark almost asked what virus he was talking about. Then he looked at Kestral. She returned his stare evenly, unblinking. That told him all he needed to know.

“The berserker,” he said in a low voice.

Jones nodded. “There is an antivirus in the incubator for the berserker,” he explained. “Once delivered to Deep Abignon, it will be replicated in large enough doses to be transported throughout the Galarchy, starting with all Ranger ships and outposts.”

“The berserker virus could have wiped out the entire Ranger fleet,” Kestral added. “It may be the greatest weapon the Spiders have against the Oan Galarchy. If we can rob it of its power, we will have gained a major advantage over them.”

“The Raians ,” Mark countered, using the proper name for the race of beings Kestral referred to as

‘Spiders’, “can always create a new virus.”

“Not with the same lethal ability as the berserker,” Jones told him. “The berserker virus is uniquely designed to not only accelerate the human body and burn it out, but to create an imbalance in cognitive functions specifically designed to create irrational, violent tendencies. It targets specific areas of the human nervous system. The antivirus will not only protect the body from the berserker, but from any virus that attempts to trigger the same reactions, even in similar but different ways.”

“You see why it’s so important that the antivirus gets to Deep Abignon?” Kestral asked Mark.

“All I see,” Mark replied, looking pointedly at her and Jones, “is why it’s so important that you get the antivirus to Deep Abignon.”

Kestral saw both implications in his remark, and she colored deeply, but she didn’t speak further. She continued to stare at Mark, waiting for a decision from him. Jones and Ferrin also waited silently for his next words. Mark, ignoring Jones and Ferrin, returned Kestral’s glare for long moments. He said nothing, but Kestral could see in his eyes that Mark was honestly considering everything he’d heard. Mark finally broke the silence by asking Kestral, “Are you going to tell your crew about this one?”

“They don’t need to—”

“Forget it,” Mark said flatly. “Find yourself another pilot. I’m leaving.”

As he picked up his bag, Moamet Jones said, “We’ll tell them.”

Mark stopped and stared at him. Kestral said, “Moamet, you don’t have to—”

“They should be told,” Jones replied, standing up, never taking his eyes off of Mark. “We will tell them.”

Mark turned to Kestral. “We’ll tell them,” she agreed quickly.

After a few more moments to consider, Mark finally nodded, though he still did not seem satisfied with the outcome. “Fine. You’ve got a pilot. Do we have a cargo arranged?”

Ferrin replied, “We’re in the process of doing that now.”

“Uh-huh. When it’s set up, call me on the Mary and I’ll get ‘er ready.” He turned to the door.

“Thank you, Mark,” Kestral called after him.

Mark stopped at the door, turned, and took in Kestral, Ferrin and Jones, all looking upon him. “Sure, Captain.” And he walked out.

Kestral watched him go, and was aware without looking that now Ferrin and Jones were looking at her. She tried hard not to look too saddened by Mark’s reaction. She wondered how she could ever make it up to him. And she suspected that she’d never get the chance.

At the same time Kestral and Mark were discussing a trip to Deep Abignon, Angel was wandering through an open market not too far from the spaceport, a large sack slung over his shoulder. Since it would be a while yet before his farm was ready to produce substantial crops, he knew he would have to provide meals from purchased goods for a while, at least.

The market was fairly complete, as far as produce went. Coel had bountiful farms, which produced versions of most terrestrial crops, albeit many with a minor variation in taste or texture caused by the slightly different soil of a terraformed planet. Angel took note of which vendors offered samples to taste, which gave him the best indication of whether a particular fruit or vegetable would be the same as terran varieties, different but workable, or too different to be used. He largely ignored the rest. Occasionally, he came across a vendor that was selling terran seeds, ready for planting. Angel already knew to avoid these in general. Very few vendors actually carried terran seeds, despite the fact that they all claimed to... it was one of the biggest cons in Oa to offer “authentic” terran seeds. To confirm his suspicions, he saw an occasional shopper produce a compact apparatus at the seed vendors’ stalls, the inevitable result being the vendor shooing that person away. Angel recognized the apparatus as a Hortiscan, an expensive but effective tool for examining seed composition from trace elements to genetics, and reporting on its actual origin planet (or lab). The Hortiscans were prized tools, and very few could afford them—most that he saw were attached by a carbon monofiber to a belt around the owner’s waist, to prevent theft. Every seed vendor in the market knew that his seeds would not pass muster against one of those, and pointedly kept their owners at arm’s length. Despite the bogus seed sellers, there were plenty of good, palatable fruits and vegetables to be had. Angel also found plenty of ingredients for pastas and breads, most of which he could make with his own utensils, thereby saving on buying pre-prepared foods. He did select one or two pre-prepared desserts, which he would save for special occasions. And he was an experienced bargainer... he made sure he was not overcharged by merchants.

As he bought items, he arranged them in his shoulder bag, to keep things from getting damaged or crushed. His bag was already getting heavy, and he hadn’t bought much yet. He noted in passing a Ranger officer who seemed to be shopping aimlessly about. Occasionally, he would see something he fancied, and simply point. “That. That. Two of those. The red one.” As he went, a small hovering drone much like Mary’s sensor drone followed him, apparently taking note of what he was selecting. The drone somehow communicated to the merchant the delivery information and payment instantaneously, and the merchant would remove that item from his counter for later delivery to the Ranger’s ship. The Ranger, however, was clearly not buying enough food for any ship. He didn’t need to... Ranger ships stored food as raw chemicals, recompiled when needed in matter compilers. He was more likely buying a few goodies for his own personal stores, or perhaps as gifts for others. It was also notable that the Ranger was not asking about the cost of a single item. Rangers were the only Oans that could do this, as the Galarchy had long ago arranged to reimburse merchants for any produce a Ranger wanted, with very few exceptions, and Rangers took full advantage of this. It would have been a great arrangement all around, except that the Galarchy did not reimburse the full value of the produce, but took a processing tax from the merchant off the top ... so the merchant actually lost money, the more he sold to Rangers. This explained the polite but sour looks merchants gave the Ranger as he passed their stalls. Thanks to the mild distraction of the aimless Ranger, Angel almost missed a meat vendor at a large corner stall... they were in a very prominent spot for people entering the market from that end, but as Angel had come from the other direction, he had not seen the telltale sign of stylized meat cuts until he was almost under it. He immediately turned and approached the counter. A woman smiled at him from behind the counter. Angel tried not to goggle at her, which took an effort. This was because the woman was shorter than Angel, but she was almost as wide as she was tall. Her arms practically stuck out at her sides, her bulk preventing them from hanging downward. She pivoted her massive arms onto the top of the counter and said, “Good morning! What can I do for you?”

“Are these locally grown?” Angel asked.

“Yes, sir. All of our meat is grown on Coel.”

“Could I see your plant specs, then?” he asked, producing a handheld tablet from his shoulder bag.

“Certainly,” the woman nodded, reaching for a small keyboard embedded on the counter, and tapping out a combination. “You’ll get the operations specs, cuts grown, full chem breakdowns, and genetic patents there.”

“I’m getting it,” Angel nodded. As he watched his tablet’s display screen, data being broadcast from the stall downloaded and arranged itself. The woman watched his face as he watched his screen, and Angel did not see her risk a glance around, to make sure no one else was in earshot.

“Sir?”

Angel looked up casually. “Yes?”

“If it’s to your liking...” The woman looked around again, and continued in a lower voice. “If you’d prefer... although it’s not per ordinances, I do know some people who sell pen-grown meat...”

“Live animals?” Angel snapped, although he consciously kept his voice down too. “No thanks, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention that again... I just had breakfast.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman replied. Then, in a noticeably louder voice, she said, “As you can see from our data, our suppliers grow only high-grade meat, individual parts only. We use the best patents, and the healthiest nutrient mix available!”

“So I see,” Angel agreed, nodding over his tablet. It was common enough to occasionally find meat producers that used live animals, especially on planets with smaller or primarily agrarian populations. However, as individual cuts of meat could so easily be grown in processing plants without raising and slaughtering live animals, they were the preference of most meat eaters. Angel was not quite as disgusted as he let on, but he had no interest in buying pen-grown meat, and it was best to make that clear up-front.

“Looks good. So... you have tenderloins?”

Mark was on the bridge of the Mary when Kestral and Moamet Jones walked in. He looked up and asked, “Do we have a job?”

“We have a job,” Kestral confirmed. “The cargo is being brought to the spaceport now, and we’ll start loading it as soon as it arrives.”

“What is it?”

“What else?” Kestral smiled. “Atronics packages. A good-sized shipment, bound for New Paropolis.”

She paused, and her smile weakened a bit. “It’ll be a very profitable run for the Mary.”

“That’s nice to hear,” Mark stated, but his tone was flat.

Kestral seemed about to say something, but refrained. Moamet Jones picked up her body language and deduced its meaning for himself. “Excuse me,” he said quickly. “You showed me where my quarters were. Perhaps I’ll go and... settle in.” Without another word, he picked up the large silver case and his shoulder bag, turned and left the bridge. Mark and Kestral silently watched him go, waiting until he was out of sight before turning back to each other.

“Mark,” Kestral began, “I know how you feel about this. But I consider this a humanitarian mission, okay? And I think it’s worth it.”

“Worth the risk to your crew?” Mark asked. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the Raians are probably the ones who intercepted that scout. If they intercept us, and find Jones and a berserker antivirus on board, what do you think they’re going to do to us?”

“We’re probably the best chance Jones has of getting that antivirus to Deep Abignon,” Kestral stated.

“We’re the least likely ship for the Raians to stop. If they do, they’ll see that we have legitimate cargo, and let us be on our way.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Sure enough to take the chance.” Kestral set her hands on her hips. “Mark, I’m not going to force you to go.”

“You’re right. You’re not.” Mark stood up then, and approached her. He stopped just inches from her and looked her directly in the eye. “But I’m going to go anyway. I have a feeling you’re going to need a good pilot to get you out of this.”

Without waiting for her answer, he stepped around her and headed for the bridge hatch. “I’ll go round up the crew.”

Kestral let him go without another word.

“So, that’s the situation.” Kestral looked to Sarander, Tirri, Angel and Mark, all standing or sitting about on the bridge. To her left, Moamet Jones sat quietly and watched Kestral steadily. “I realize that working for the Rangers isn’t the kind of thing we intended...” she paused, reconsidering her words. “...I intended for us to be doing. But, as I told Mark earlier, I consider this a humanitarian mission. We’re doing this to save lives. And yes, there is a risk. But I believe that we are taking all sensible precautions, and that even the Raians wouldn’t be able to see through our ruse.”

She took a deep breath. “I also already told Mark that I wouldn’t force any of you to go. I’m going, and I’ll fly the Mary myself if I have to, but you are all free to decide for yourselves. It’s your decision.”

The crew of the Mary exchanged glances. Sarander looked to Mark as if for confirmation of Kestral’s comments, but Mark simply sat at the pilot’s station, arms folded, silent. Finally, Sarander said, “Let me get this straight. We have a legitimate paying run. And on the way, we drop off a guy who has the cure for the berserker virus. But if the Spiders stop us, we tell them he’s...?”

Mark cocked an eyebrow at Kestral, and waited for her to answer. “Personal yeoman?” he offered dryly. “An engineer,” Kestral replied finally, returning Mark’s snide look. “An expert on atronic systems, coming along with the cargo to assist the buyers in installing them.”

“Good answer,” Moamet Jones offered.

“Suppose they find this incubator?” Angel asked.

“It is designed to mask its function, its operation, and its contents,” Jones replied. “If they find it, they won’t know what it is, that it’s running, or that anything is in it. It will look inactive and harmless.”

Sarander, Tirri and Angel exchanged glances once again. Finally, Sarander shrugged. “Sounds do-able to me. Sure, I’m game.”

At her husband’s acquiescence, Tirri nodded. “Okay. I’m in, too.”

Everybody looked to Angel. After a moment, Angel smiled. “Hey, you guys gotta eat, right?”

Kestral smiled gratefully. “Thank you, everyone. The cargo will be here within two hours. As soon as it’s loaded, we’re gone. Angel, do you need to do any food shopping for an extra mouth, before we go?”

“No, I picked up plenty already,” Angel replied. “They’ll hold us until we reach New Paropolis.” He turned to Moamet Jones. “Unless there’s something special you need in your diet—?”

“Not at all,” Jones shook his head. “Your food will be fine.”

“Okay,” Kestral said. “Let’s see if we can get the preliminary flight checks done before the cargo arrives, shall we?”

The Mary’s crew had their pre-flight checks done well before the cargo arrived. Once the four trucks of crates arrived at the warehouse, Tirri, Angel and Sarander all assisted in transferring the crates from the trucks to their loaders, and into the Mary’s hold. Moamet Jones looked on from the hold, taking the time to study the crates and familiarize himself with the cargo they would be carrying. Kestral checked the manifests as the crates came aboard, and spoke occasionally to Mary’s drone, which hovered by her shoulder. Mark, having long since finished his pre-flight work, had gone to his quarters to take a quick nap before departure.

To all outward appearances, the Mary was quickly and efficiently taking on cargo for a standard run. The crates were loaded in half an hour, and at Kestral’s signal, Tirri hit the ramp controls, and the cargo bay began to close up. Kestral signed off on the shipment and handed the pad to a nearby warehouse worker. Then, smiling and shaking hands, she turned and boarded the Mary by the crew hatch. Moamet Jones met her at the hatch. “Does everything look in order?”

“Yes, it does,” she replied. “I don’t know how likely it is that anyone was actually watching us, but we might as well make it look good, just in case. And I’d say we looked like a freighter crew.”

“Like a very good freighter crew,” Jones complimented her.

“Thank you,” Kestral smiled. “Now, it’s time to get going.”

She headed for the bridge, Jones following her. Upon reaching the bridge, Kestral immediately took the Captain’s station and called the spaceport’s dockmaster, as Jones found a seat at a monitor console along the back wall. Kestral confirmed their filed flight plan to New Paropolis with the dockmaster’s office, neither of them speaking of a planned detour to Deep Abignon along the way. Then the dockmaster gave them clearance to take off within a twenty-minute window, commencing in ten minutes.

“Thank you, dockmaster,” Kestral replied, and switched to the ship’s com. “Mark, we have clearance to take off in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be there,” came Mark’s reply.

Tirri called in next. “Carolyn, we’re all balanced back here. Ready to go anytime.”

“Got it,” Kestral replied. “Thank you.”

“I stand corrected,” Jones said. “An excellent freighter crew.”

Mark and Sarander arrived on the bridge at the same time and took their stations at helm and ops. They ran through final checks on the ship’s systems, and when they were satisfied, Mark slowly rotated the Mary’s main engines into their downward position, and brought them up to idling speed.

“Everything on my desk is nominal,” Mark said aloud.

“Sure is nice flying a brand new ship, huh?” Sarander asked him. “No nagging old problems... no rattling hull plates... no systems blinking off and on at their own whim.”

“You’re not kidding,” Mark agreed. “‘Course, this kind of thing spoils you after awhile. Just wait... I’ll bet the first burnt-out wire on this ship, and you’ll be screaming bloody murder.”

“Then fly ‘er easy, so she won’t burn out any wires,” Sarander chuckled. Then he turned to Kestral.

“We’re at our launch window, and we have final clearance from the dockmaster.”

“Okay, boss,” Kestral nodded. “Let’s go drop off some cargo.”

At her signal, Mark brought the engines up to full power, then trimmed the exhaust ports for maximum thrust. The Mary lifted off at once, smoothly, and eased into forward motion. Within seconds she was climbing, making rapid headway for the edge of the atmosphere.

Moamet Jones watched Mark and Sarander, and the other miscellaneous screens and readouts around the bridge, and gave Kestral a wide smile. Kestral noticed his expression and said, “You look like you’ve never been up in a space ship before.”

“Oh, I have, of course,” he answered. “But usually, it is a large cruiser, and you can’t even tell you’re moving. This is much more fun!”

“Amen,” Mark grinned, flashing a look at Sarander.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Sarander admonished him. “Remember the wiring.”

“You remember the wiring, boss. I’m just a pilot.”

Within minutes, the Mary was leaving the upper atmosphere of Terra212 behind, and sliding into an orbital plot that would bring it around and angle it towards New Paropolis. Fifteen minutes later, Mark nudged the ship out of orbit and announced, “We’re free of Coel’s influence. Ready to go to C in about forty minutes.”

“You’re the pilot,” Kestral told him. Then, standing, she said to Moamet Jones, “I don’t believe I’ve given you a tour of my ship. Interested?”

“Of course,” Jones replied, standing with her and waving amiably to Mark and Sarander. Kestral led Jones off the bridge, and the hatch closed behind him.

A few moments after the two were gone, Sarander turned to Mark. “They sure are friendly.”

“Aren’t they, though?” Mark replied without looking up.

Sarander gave Mark a sideways look. “You think there’s something going on between them?”

“Couldn’t say,” Mark told him.

Sarander considered his answer. “Do you think it might have something to do with why we’re doing this?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so, too.”

“But hey,” Mark added, “she’s the Captain. If she decides to bring her own harem on board, and we spend all our time flying around looking for thongs and pasties, that’s her prerogative.”

“I guess,” Sarander nodded. “But the Spiders don’t board you looking for pasties.”

Mark looked at Sarander. “I hate to point this out, but now is not the time to be having second thoughts about this trip.”

“I’m not,” Sarander told him. His hand drifted into his pants pocket and toyed with something, but he didn’t remove it from the pocket. “I just want to make sure I know what’s going on.”

Chapter 9

Even at speeds faster than light, journeys between star systems could take days, weeks, even months. Mary was running at her top cruising speed, and her tesser drives were generating at just below the redline, which had her traveling at a rate generally referred to as “3.5C.” Although many people who didn’t understand the design of the tesser drive system assumed that this designation meant that the ship was traveling at three and a half times the speed of light, this was not, in fact, the case. In fact, the designation “C” was in itself misleading... in the tesser system, “C” did not refer to the speed of light, but the proportional compression effect created by the dueling time fields that accelerated the ship forward in time. And finally, the compression effect was not measured linearly, but logarithmically, making the designation “3.5” a significantly larger figure than three and a half times light speed. All of that said, it is still difficult for humans to really appreciate the vast distances between star systems that the tesser drives allow them to traverse. Nor are they easily able to accept the idea that taking twenty days to go from star to nearby star is an outright miracle, as opposed to an inconvenience. The Mary was officially on course to reach New Paropolis in sixteen days. Eleven days into the trip, the Mary was unofficially planning to take a detour, a mid-course change that would that would take them to Deep Abignon in three days. It was hoped that, by the eleventh day mark, no one would be tracking the Mary, so a change of course would not be detected until they were already at Deep Abignon. In fourteen days.

Large star ships with equally large crews generally dealt with long intersystem trips by imposing various duties and chores among the crew. Much of that type of work was “busy-work,” that is, just something to keep the crew sharp. But smaller ships, especially privately-owned ships, handled long voyages differently. Some ships’ crews indulged in quiet hobbies or personal vices when off-duty. Some crews played elaborate games, or even play-acted. Some would read, or sit around watching pre-recorded entertainment or sports programs. Some crews indulged in all-out sexual orgies. And some crews simply sat around and talked.

The crew of the Mary had not been together long enough to work out any sort of group activity to occupy their time. So they tended to do whatever came to them, their activities occasionally interrupted by an order from Kestral to tend to some ships’ housekeeping duty. Even Mark, who by nature of his position spent most of his time at the helm, still managed to enjoy some choice literature and cinema selections he had brought along.

Angel was perhaps seen in more places on the Mary than anyone else. He was one of the few people who frequented the upper cargo bays, as his farm was there to be tended. He cooked the meals, two a day plus preparation of mid-day snacks and occasional sandwiches. And he roamed the ship, keeping things neat and orderly.

Sarander and Tirri tended dutifully to ops and the cargo, occasionally together, but this took only a moderate amount of their time. Much of the rest of it was spent in casual proximity anywhere there was enough space to lounge about, including in their quarters. After a few days, everyone on the ship caught on to the fact that, when the door to their quarters was open or ajar, it was all right to stop by or come in. If the door was closed, they expected privacy, and generally got it. Moamet Jones, having no duties on the Mary, was often seen wandering about the ship, engaging in polite conversation with the crew, or perhaps sitting in the common and reading. Although he had indicated to Kestral that he was willing to assist in any ship-related duties that may need to be done, Kestral had reminded him that he was their guest (as opposed to unofficial cargo), and would not be expected to work for his passage.

Kestral herself tried to spend as much time about her ship and crew as possible. She often sat at the Captain’s station, even when she had nothing she needed to do there, just so she could pass the time in conversation with Mark. She visited Angel’s farm, looked in on Tirri’s cargo, and wandered about in Sarander’s engine and drive areas. She walked the fine line between friendly inquisitiveness and regular nuisance, and seemed cognizant of when she had overstayed a welcome. Most of all, she was slowly breaking down the walls that had been built up between her and her crew, or as she tended to think of it,

“damage control.” And it was working: Day by day, the crew seemed to relax and warm to her, and to each other, until they all began to function and act like a coherent working unit. And as for Moamet Jones...

Ever since the night on Coel when she had had to turn him away from her quarters, Kestral had thought about Jones. She had wanted him to stay then, and only denied herself the pleasure of his company in order not to jeopardize his mission. But now that Jones was here, and coincidentally not going anywhere for at least the next twelve days, she did not see any reason why they could not pick up where they had left off.

So, on the third day out of Coel, Kestral was delighted to invite Jones to her quarters, after discovering in casual conversation that they shared a taste in Benyan art. They both happened to have holocopies of their favorites, so they decided to share them with each other, and compare opinions. When Jones arrived at Kestral’s quarters after dinner, she immediately noticed that his robe, while being the same cut as standard Coelian clothing, was noticeably lighter, and allowed a bit of his build to show through. “So,” she said jokingly, “you’re not all shaped like columns under there, after all.”

Jones smiled, taking the joke, and the complement, as it was intended. “And I see that your hair is capable of relaxing, as well.”

Kestral self-consciously glanced upward at her hair, which she had let down for the first time in days, and returned his grin. “Well, after all, you’re my guest. I want you to be able to relax and enjoy your trip.”

“Well, I certainly am enjoying it so far,” Jones admitted. Then he held up a small pouch. “And speaking of which?”

“Oh, yes,” Kestral smiled. “Come in. I have my holocopies stored in the ship’s memory. How do you have yours stored?”

In reply, Jones reached into his pouch and withdrew four small cubes. “We commonly use dhc’s on Coel. If your ship cannot read them, I can use my personal processor to access it, and you can read it from that.”

“That’s okay. Mary can read these.” She took one of the cubes and walked over to a small desk nestled against the bulkhead. A computer console and monitor were built into the desk, and a small depression resided next to the console. Kestral placed the cube into the depression, and they could both hear the soft hum of the computer processing the information stored within it. Kestral tapped a quick instruction into the console, and the lights in the room dimmed. A moment later, a glow appeared in the air before them. Within the glow, like an image slowly coming into focus, an object appeared and solidified.

“Ooh,” Kestral breathed. “The Garden Wind. One of my favorites!”

“You pulled up one of my most favorite, as well,” Jones told her. “Do you have this one?”

“No,” Kestral replied, “but I’ve seen it before, many times. I’ve always admired the way it defines shapes with empty space...” she pointed. “...there, and there. You can actually see...” she searched for the right phrase, and looked to Jones for help.

“The shape of the wind,” he finished for her.

“Yes. The shape of the wind.”

“It has a very flowing, melodic shape,” Jones added. “Very soft. Very sensuous.”

Kestral turned to him. “Yes... very sensuous.” They regarded each other silently for long moments, before Kestral turned back to the console. “What else do you have in here? Aon’s Task? Or maybe The Lost Child?”

“I don’t have The Lost Child,” Jones told her. “But I know of the piece. A small animal, proud but knowingly fragile, debating whether to come out of her safe alcove and brave the world.”

Kestral nodded. “I used to look at that piece, and wonder to myself if the animal ever came out.”

“I’m sure she did,” Jones said, moving closer to her. “She may have known the dangers she would face, but I was always confident that she would gather herself together and take that first brave step.”

“She?” Kestral repeated. “I wasn’t aware of any gender displayed on the animal.”

“Maybe not,” Jones admitted. “I may be projecting my own impressions upon it. Or maybe I am cognizant of the present company.”

Kestral smiled. “Do you see me as that animal?”

Jones inclined his head. “Proud. Defiant. Knowingly fragile. Temporarily safe in the shadows, but knowing you will eventually have to brave the world. Actually, I think it defines you very well.”

And he kissed her. Kestral remembered the night on Coel, and how she had wished they could have spent the night together, from exactly that moment on. Jones seemed to be aware of it, too, for he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, making sure she could not dismiss him again. Fortunately, dismissal was the last thing on her mind, and she held him as tightly as he held her. Long moments passed, before their lips parted and they looked into each other’s eyes. Kestral whispered, “I’m glad we got this second chance to be together. Let’s not waste it.”

“Time spent with you,” Jones told her, “could never be wasted.”

“Come on,” Kestral inclined her head towards the bedroom. “You’ll see I’m not as fragile as you think.”

Tirri rolled over in the bed and, still asleep, extended an arm across the bed to find her husband. She came slowly awake upon not finding him there. Looking groggily around, she saw Sarander standing by the wardrobe, putting his trousers on.

“Ohh... is it time already?”

Sarander turned at the sound of his wife’s voice, and smiled. “Have to spell Mark.”

“Let him work a bit longer,” Tirri protested. “Come back to bed.”

“Go back to sleep,” Sarander replied. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

But Tirri was already propping herself up in the bed. “Next time, we sign on to a ship with two pilots.”

“We did,” Sarander reminded her. “I am the second pilot.”

Tirri made a face at him. “Fine. Go, and leave your wife all alone. I’ll just have to find comfort with someone else, then. Maybe Angel is still up.”

“Angel?” Sarander chuckled. “That rube? Your pubic feathers would scare him to death.”

Tirri grinned wickedly. “I’ll bet Mr. Mark O’Bannon is more worldly and experienced. I wouldn’t scare him to death.”

“No,” Sarander admitted, “I’d bet he’d scare you. Besides, you’d never find him in the dark.”

“Ha!” Tirri considered. “Then our guest, Mister Jones.”

Sarander smiled widest at that. “You’ll have to pry him out of our Captain’s cold, dead fingers.”

Tirri leered at the wall, in the direction of Kestral’s quarters. “You think?”

“I know,” he replied, also glancing at the wall. “And you would, too, if you weren’t such a sound sleeper.”

Conversation aboard the Mary was more friendly and animated at breakfast the next day. Angel prepared potato pancakes, sausages, fruit salad, bread and jam, with paleen juice and coffee to wash it all down, and everyone treated the meal like a feast.

“Nice to see you could join us for this meal,” Angel said to Mark, who sat at one end of the table. Mark had placed a large tablet on the table next to his plate, which he consulted occasionally while he ate. Mark smiled. “This sector is relatively free of anomalies, so I can move around a bit for a few days,” he explained for everyone’s benefit. “Mary can call me if something comes up, and I’ll have plenty of time to react.”

“Can the Mary fly herself?” Jones asked him.

“To an extent, yes,” Mark replied. “It can handle basic maneuvers, cruise between systems, and even handle simple landings. But there are often little obstacles that get in the way, especially in the more crowded systems, and Quicksilvers are designed to fly efficiently, not smoothly. Sometimes, you just need a live touch to get the best performance out of her.”

Jones pointedly avoided looking at Kestral, who had quickly stuffed a forkful of pancake into her mouth and regarded her plate with great interest. Instead, he indicated the tablet at Mark’s elbow. The flat silver device was dominated by a touchscreen, with just a few small mechanical buttons along the bottom. “Is that monitoring the pilot’s station?”

Mark nodded. “And the main sensory array. With this, I can keep an eye on what’s going on at helm, how the ship’s flying, and what kind of space we’re flying into. I can even use this to fly the ship, if need be... although the controls aren’t quite as fine as the manual controls on the bridge.”

“You can fly the ship from here?” Angel asked.

“I could fly ‘er from my shower,” Mark replied. He held up the tablet for Angel and Jones to see. The tablet’s screen depicted a number of readings that were mostly incomprehensible to the others, with the exception of Kestral and Sarander. They could all recognize a series of images, all of which represented the view forward of the Mary, processed through the ship’s navigational sensors to provide information significantly more useful than a natural view outside of the ship. There was no standard visual image... the tesser drives’ interaction with incoming light caused light to separate, prism-like, into a full spectrum of hues, and arc around the leading edge of the ship as it passed, giving the visual impression that the ship was encased in a lens-like crystal swimming upstream through a rainbow. The view abruptly ended at the equator of the field, since no light behind the ship could catch up to them at translight speeds. This left a featureless, perfectly black hemisphere surrounding the rear of the ship, an effect which had been known to give people headaches if stared into for too long, and had even sparked mental unrest and psychological disturbance in some. To be sure, it was a fascinating effect that passengers invariably loved to experience, but navigationally speaking, it provided no useful information.

“Without this,” Mark indicated the tablet, “I wouldn’t leave the pilot’s station while we were flying at C, ever. It’s just too dangerous flying out here without always monitoring the ship and the space you’re flying through.”

“And we all appreciate your diligence,” Jones told him.

“And I’m just glad I can occasionally eat with everybody else,” Mark added. “You know, on the last few jobs I’ve flown as pilot, I’ve usually ended up pretty much locked at the helm. Most privately-owned ships don’t have much in the way of automatic piloting systems.”

“But I know a number of small ship owners,” Jones said. “They often let the ship fly itself while they sleep.”

“That,” Mark said, “is because they’re crazy. They think they can react fast enough if something comes up, but they’re fooling themselves. Most of those ships, if they suddenly flew into an uncharted field of anything, they’d be hulled in seconds without a pilot there. Thing is, it very rarely happens... there’s a lot of open space out there, and most recreational ships avoid busy areas. But all it takes is once, you know?” He took a bite out of his fruit salad. “That’s why professional ships keep the helm manned at all times. They know what’s at risk: Their profits. The entire cargo, plus a ship and its crew, that they’ll be liable for. So they keep it covered.”

“I see,” Jones nodded. “And I suppose that’s why military ships keep their helms manned, as well.”

“Well... not exactly.” Mark stole a glance at Kestral, but she gave no sign that she disliked the direction of the conversation. “See, on an Oan military ship, they have the latest and greatest automation systems, including systems that can divert the ship, or particle cannons that can forcibly move any object it’s approaching, without manual assistance.”

“Then why man the helm?”

“To give soldiers something to do,” Mark grinned. “You don’t want soldiers sitting around doing nothing while on duty. So you have a lot of busy-work aboard ship... including things that automation can do even better than the soldiers. It’s to keep them sharp and skilled, and it provides a backup in case the automated systems fail... which they sometimes do, and especially during battle.”

“Isn’t it as important,” Jones asked, “for civilians to know their ships’ systems, in case of problems?”

“Not really,” Mark replied. “After all, if your engine has a problem, you can take your time to fix it... generally nobody’s shooting at you at the same time.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“Should we assume, Dr. Jones,” Tirri asked, “that your past research has not been related to military projects?”

“No, it has not,” Jones admitted. “All of my prior research has been along civilian medical grounds, concentrating on physical acclimation to terraformed worlds. We on Coel have devoted so much of our efforts in that direction, that we have become consultants to many worlds with extreme or unusual environments that were difficult for humans to adapt to. But the incubator represents a breakthrough that is particularly desirable to all Oans, and so the Galarchy immediately expressed interest in it.”

“Because it can incubate an antidote to the berserker.”

“Exactly,” Jones said. “It removes the threat of that weapon from the Raians’ arsenal.”

“How long have you had this antidote?” Tirri asked.

“I can’t say,” Jones replied. “Classified, you know.”

“Of course. Sorry.”

“I don’t suppose,” Angel asked, “that there’s any way we could get samples of the antidote for ourselves, instead of waiting for the Galarchy to dole it out to us with everyone else?”

“Well,” Jones replied, “I’m afraid the incubator does not have the antidote ready to give to anyone... yet. It will probably take a few more weeks to be ready. And you are supposed to just drop me off and keep going, in order to throw anyone off the track. So...”

He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished. The others ate silently for a few moments, before Mark began speaking on another subject, and the conversation steered away from the incubator and their covert mission. Kestral, who had not joined in on the earlier conversation, jumped eagerly into the new one.

Anything to keep them from thinking about the mission.

After breakfast, Mark had stayed around the galley and conversed with Angel as he cleaned up after the others. Angel was an incredible font of information about foods, much more than the average cook, due to the fact that he grew and tended his own foods. They discussed the difficulty Angel had in growing some fruits and vegetables, which were very sensitive to growing conditions, in an aeroponic environment in a spacecraft’s cargo bay.

Once Angel had finished cleaning up, he and Mark had gone up to the farm. It was the first time Mark had visited Angel’s hold, and he fairly goggled when he stepped through the bay door and took in the sight of a score of rows of aeroponic racks, bathed in artificial sunlight from Angel’s specially placed lamps. Angel had managed to almost finish setting up the farm, and the racks were full of new and already developing growth.

“Wow,” he breathed simply, and Angel grinned at his reaction. “You take care of all this?”

“It’s not quite as much work as it looks,” Angel told him. “But it’s worth the work. The quality of the food we eat depends on properly taking care of them. If you do it right, you get the most healthy produce, and the body gets the most out of what it eats. And you’re not as dependent on purchasing food, grown or processed, at every other landing you make. It can even save you money, depending on what you eat.”

“Get outta here,” Mark said. “This is economical?”

In response, Angel started into the aeroponic racks, and motioned Mark to follow. “When’s the last time you bought a Terran strawberry? Or a raspberry?” He stopped at a rack and examined a few of the young plants growing there. “When... if you find good ones, they cost a fortune. And they’re rarely fresh... they’re generally stasis-transported, and you can always tell the difference. But properly grown strawberries are so delicious. Most people say it’s worth it.” He held up a strand, which already had a group of small red buds on them. “In another few weeks, we’ll have properly grown, fresh strawberries. Quality enough to sell ourselves, if we wanted to, or to trade for other produce, meats, or goods. Ah.”

Angel found a small but recognizable strawberry, and he plucked it from the stem. He handed it to Mark, who popped it into his mouth. Even young and small, the taste and texture was perfect. Mark’s eyes popped at the incredible sensation, and he nodded at Angel.

Angel smiled and said, “Tell me that’s not worth growing. Hell, the extra treat of fresh produce alone will make for a noticeably happier crew, even if they’re doing the nastiest of jobs. Seen it a hundred times.”

Mark hung around with Angel in the farm for quite a while, while he tended to his plants and they discussed the various methods he used to produce his crops. Mark was surprised to find out that Angel had managed to create no less than six ecosystems in the one room, suitable for growing any Terran produce, most of them in their optimal native conditions. Even though his setup was only a few days old, Angel already had some produce to show off, as many of his plants were fast-growing strains of their native counterparts. Angel treated Mark to a taste of a few more budding fruits, and made him promises regarding some of the buds that were not ready to be picked or tasted. The mere thought of it had Mark’s mouth watering when he finally left Angel to his plants.

Once he left Angel, Mark descended the ladder from the upper bays to the cargo access platform, on his way back to the living deck. Glancing down into the main cargo bay, he saw Tirri and Sarander in animated discussion by a pallet of Coelian atronics crates. He waved to them as he passed, and they waved back amiably. Mark continued on down the main access corridor, swinging by his quarters to use the facilities before returning to the bridge.

When Mark did finally return to the helm, he was relaxed and in good spirits. He sat down, placed aside the monitoring tablet he had been carrying around, and did a routine check over the helm’s systems, then the external monitors, and finally the navigational sensors. A minute’s checking confirmed that everything was working as designed, that there were no unexpected navigational anomalies along their path, and of course absolutely nothing to see behind them.

Then he took his own personal tablet, which he had picked up at his quarters, out of his pocket. Selecting a novel that he had been reading for the past few days, he found the spot where he’d left off, leaned back in his chair, and settled in for a quiet day’s work.

The next four days were as uneventful as the previous four. One day Tirri called everyone to the cargo bay. Upon arriving, they discovered a volleyball net strung across an empty section of the bay, and Tirri grinning and bouncing a ball off her foot. The crew played for hours, arranging and rearranging themselves into teams, sometimes playing one on one while the others rested, and in general having a great time together.

On the ninth day there was a lot of activity outside the ship, mostly in the form of small but serious asteroid fields that required Mark’s attention at helm. Fortunately, the fields did not end up crossing Mary’s path, and Mark was not required to do any fancy flying to avoid anything. The day indeed passed quietly for Mark, and he was so engrossed with his novel that when the bridge hatch opened behind him, it took him by surprise. He craned his neck around to see Sarander entering the bridge, and waving to him.

“Wow... is it eight already?” Mark asked.

“Sure is,” Sarander confirmed. “Time flies, huh?”

“I’ll say,” Mark grinned, turning back to the helm. “Okay, give me a minute, then. I was planning to do a full nav check before I turned in.” Sarander nodded, and sat down at the ops station while Mark worked. A “full nav check” meant briefly dropping out of C, so the Mary’s external monitors and sensors could take a complete reading around them. The ship could then continue on at sublight speeds or re-enter translight speeds, while Mary’s processors studied the readings and confirmed that there were no anomalies that might mean a course change. Although the ship’s sensors could cover the regions ahead of them during translight speeds, it was always a good practice to check on things behind the ship on occasion.

Mark went through the procedure, bringing the Mary down to sublight, then systematically taking readings from all sensory systems. Almost immediately, a triple-beep sounded from his station. Mark stopped his other checks and turned his attention to the external monitors. Abruptly his expression changed from a relaxed calm to one of concern.

Sarander had also noted the beep, and he clearly saw Mark’s reaction, even under the black gloss of his skin. “What is it?”

In response, Mark looked at Sarander. “Better call Carolyn up here. We’ve got company.”

Chapter 10

When Kestral stepped aboard the bridge, she saw Mark and Sarander at helm and ops. Sarander looked up when she walked in. Mark did not take his eyes off his monitors. “Mark, what is it?”

Mark said simply, “I’ve confirmed it’s a Raian ship.”

Kestral was sure her blood cooled a few degrees upon hearing Mark’s declaration. She sat down at the Captain’s station, where Mark had transferred the view from his external monitors to her screen, and had to concentrate on outwardly remaining calm.

She recognized the class of ship displayed on her screen. The Rangers called it a Sprint class... of course, no one knew what the Raians called it. The ship did not display a name or any outward identification, which was also standard for Raian ships.

“As soon as I dropped out of C to do nav checks, it dropped out of C right behind us,” Mark stated flatly. “We’re both just coasting now, and they’ve matched our course and speed.”

“Well... we knew the Spiders might check us out,” Sarander muttered sourly. “Should we charge our particle cannons or something?”

“Hell, no,” Mark replied quickly. “Heating up the pecans will make us look aggressive. They’ll hull us for sure.”

“It’s all right,” Kestral said. “We’re prepared for this.” She triggered the ship’s intercom. “Everybody man your stations. We have a Raian visitor. Be calm. They haven’t made any threatening moves.” She immediately regretted saying the last... they weren’t a military vessel, and the Raians were not known for attacking civilian vessels out in the middle of nowhere.

On the other hand, they weren’t known to shadow civilian vessels, either. The collected worlds of the Raians were far from this portion of the Galarchy, but Raian ships often traveled throughout the Galarchy when the Raians and Oans were not actively engaged in fighting each other. In fact, most battles between the Raians and the Galarchy took place on the outer edges near the Raian worlds, where Galarchic expansion was considered by the Raians to be a direct threat. Strictly speaking, Raians would not likely risk war by destroying an Oan civilian ship. However, they were here... there were no Ranger ships nearby with the power to challenge them... and sometimes, it was just easier (and infinitely safer) for a civilian to simply let them do what they wanted, and avoid ticking them off. Kestral then switched to the ship-to-ship frequencies. “This is the Captain of the Mary to Raian ship. Do you have business for us?” It was a standard merchant’s greeting to an unexpected encounter, a verbal version of a friendly wave or a polite handshake. She had no real idea if the Raians were cognizant of Oan conventions, but she had decided it was the safest way to go.

She waited patiently... as far as she knew, Raians needed translators for the Oan language, the same as they needed them to understand the Raian language. A few moments later, a strange series of sounds emanated from the ship’s speaker. Mary’s systems quickly translated, and overlaid standard Oan over the Raian speech.

“Captain of the Mary. We are here on behalf of our First Leader. What is your business?”

Mark finally glanced back at Kestral, who returned his look noncommittally. The first Raian statement had clearly indicated that the ship was not commercial, which they had already surmised. Giving them fair warning, however, was unexpected.

She toggled her microphone switch. “We’re on a cargo run, carrying purchased atronics merchandise to New Paropolis.”

After another pause, the speaker responded, and Mary translated: “Prepare to be boarded and examined.”

Kestral sighed. “We’re opening an airlock on the side of the ship facing you.”

“We are docking. Stand by.”

Mark finally turned fully to Kestral. His ebony face was difficult to read in the light of the bridge. Her face, however, was not. There was a strange light in her eyes, an expectant twist to her mouth, and an alertness that was not borne of fear, or even concern. Mark saw it, and his brow furrowed in anger and disbelief.

“We’re not Rangers,” he said through gritted teeth.

Kestral turned to Mark, and the look in her eyes abruptly changed. “Of course we’re not Rangers,” she said quickly. “That’s why we’ll get through this. Stay at helm. Sarander, come on and let’s meet them. Mary: Send the drone to the port airlock, please.”

Sarander locked down his console and started up to follow Kestral. “Never seen a Spider up close,” he muttered.

Kestral glanced back at him. “Then today’s your lucky day. And if I were you... I wouldn’t call them Spiders to their face.”

When the hatch cycled open, Kestral noted out of the corner of her eye that Sarander seemed to be holding his breath. She said nothing, however, and waited for the Raians to step aboard. The first Raian to pass through the hatch was big, even for a Raian. He had passed through the hatch with his body pivoted forward, and when he straightened up, he was a head taller than Sarander, the largest of Mary’s crew. Although he did not look exactly like a species of terran spider, it was easy to see why the mostly derogatory nickname had stuck with Oans: His two incredibly long legs and single thin arm all ended in four long, spiky, jointed appendages; his reddish body was similar in proportion to humans, but stubbier, and the legs joined the lower body not at the bottom, but higher up, almost at the waist; and the head, most striking of all, was a featureless black sphere, slightly smaller in proportion to a human head. It was hard and shiny, looking much like a helmet of opaque glass whose surface caught and reflected the light from the foyer, but let no light out from inside. Overall, there were a number of features that could remind a human about spiders. However, the notable differences... such as the apparent lack of a mouth, mandibles, or multiple eyes... probably accounted for the lack of human repulsion to the aliens. Still, their larger size made them intimidating enough.

The Raian wore a harness covered with pouches and gear, fairly standard Raian garb from what Kestral remembered. He also carried a device in his hand, which he held out in the direction of Kestral and Sarander... she had seen the weapon before, and she knew it was a lesser weapon, roughly analogous to an Oan hand pistol, and not likely a weapon to be brought to a planned slaughter. This Raian was a soldier, but he was there to provide security. So that, actually, was a good sign.

“Relax,” she whispered to Sarander. “Breathe.”

Sarander responded by emitting a light cough, and, looking slightly embarrassed, gathered himself back together and tried to look outwardly calm, and strong. He wasn’t sure whether his body language was wasted on the Raian or not.

Then another Raian stepped through the hatch. This one was close to the size of the soldier, but slightly shorter... like humans, Raians were not all alike in size and shape, or even coloring... this one was noticeably darker in hue than the first. He wore the same harness of gear, but with fewer items attached to it, and some noticeably different from the items in the soldier’s harness. Kestral recognized this one as an officer, the darker coloring marking him as older than the soldier. She also noted one device near its head, which she recognized as a Raian translator.

Kestral glanced at the Mary’s sensory orb, which floated alongside her, and which would act as her translator. Then she took one step forward, facing the officer. The Raian registered her action, stepped up to her, and stopped. He spoke, and his translated speech was broadcast from the drone.

“I am First Officer K’silk of the Raian leadership, commander of the L’t’meriad .” The drone had not bothered to translate the proper names he used, but rebroadcast them as heard. “Are you the First Officer of this ship?”

“I am,” Kestral responded, and she heard her speech translated by the device at the Raian’s head. “I am Captain Carolyn Kestral.”

Sarander looked to Kestral, trying not to appear confused. Raians commonly referred to the captain of a ship as a “First Officer,” unlike the Oan practice of referring to the second-in-command as the “First Officer.” Sarander wasn’t familiar with this fact, however, leaving him unclear as to what had just been exchanged.

Kestral then indicated Sarander to the Raian. “This is my ship’s Boss, Sarander Fi.” She turned slightly to him and said in a low voice, “First Officer means Captain.” Sarander understood instantly, and straightened perceptively. Then she turned back to the Raian. “First Officer, why have you boarded my ship?”

There seemed to be some movement from the inside of K’silk’s head, but Kestral could not be sure.

“We are investigating reports of a biological weapon being developed by the Oan Leadership. This biological weapon is reportedly designed to be used against Raians , with no other use.”

“I run a commercial freighter,” Kestral told him simply. “We do not carry military cargo.”

K’silk turned and moved perceptively closer to her. “You are an officer in the Oan Leadership. We have data on you.”

Sarander frowned, clearly not liking the tone of the Raian, and he considered the likelihood of getting his hand onto the homemade stunner in his pants pocket before they were all shot. Kestral, however, looked unconcerned. “Your data needs to be updated,” Kestral told him. “I was discharged from the Rangers. I am a civilian citizen now. So is all of my crew. This ship is privately owned by me. All of this is available in Oan public databases, you only have to access them.”

“All Oans are expansionists and opportunists. Left to your own devices, you would restyle the galaxy in your image,” K’silk said. “And Oan public databases can be... misleading . That is why we will conduct a search of your ship. If we find the biological weapon in question, it will be destroyed. All of you will be killed as spies.”

“Fine,” Kestral nodded. “If that’s what it will take to satisfy you, do your search. We have nothing to hide.”

“You will bring all of your crew to us to undergo examination on our ship.”

Kestral paused, but she knew it was useless to protest... besides, she also knew it was not a request.

“Mary, open ship’s intercom,” she said to the drone. “All hands, put all ship’s systems on automatic, and report to the port airlock immediately. This is a formality. There is no reason to be concerned.”

They waited silently. Tirri was first to arrive. Her large eyes stared unblinking at the Raians, and the feathers at the back of her neck raised slightly. She took up a position next to her husband, clasping his hand nervously.

“This is Tirri Riza,” Kestral announced, “my cargo officer.”

K’silk turned to Tirri. “Tell me about your cargo.”

“Um... Coelian atronics,” she replied. She looked to Kestral, unsure what else to say. “I can show you a manifest.”

“We will examine the cargo.”

Moamet Jones arrived next. He regarded the Raians calmly, and looked to Kestral.

“This,” Kestral said, “is Moamet Jones. He is an atronics technical expert. He travels to New Paropolis... with the cargo...”

Kestral’s voice trailed off, as she noted a change in the demeanor of the Raians once Jones arrived. K’silk and the soldier both seemed to react to his presence with some slight agitation. Or was it surprise?

Her heart skipped a beat as she suddenly feared they were aware of his identity somehow, or that something else had given him away.

But she forced herself to stay outwardly calm, and asked, “Is something wrong?”

K’silk replied, “No.”

Mark was the next to arrive. He seemed to size up the situation quickly, and stood silently next to Jones. Angel was just a few steps behind Mark, and he looked about in concern, but said nothing. “This is my pilot, Mark O’Bannon,” Kestral announced. “And this is Angel Shakra, ship’s crewman.”

K’silk and the soldier had both resumed their earlier stance, and there was no sign of the agitation they showed a moment ago. K’silk stated, “You will all be taken aboard our ship for questioning, while we examine your ship.”

Everyone looked to Kestral, who nodded her acquiescence and tried not to look concerned. K’silk turned and started through the hatch, and Kestral motioned for all of them to follow her. The drone started to follow as well, but Kestral turned to it and said, “Stay aboard the Mary. Monitor our... visitors. Do not restrict access to any part of the ship.” The drone stopped, and hovered by the hatch as the crew marched through. The Raian soldier was the last to leave.

A few moments later, sixteen Raians flowed through the hatch, each of them carrying various hissing and beeping devices, which they waved about the room methodically. They passed through the foyer and split into two groups, one group heading forward, the rest heading aft. After a moment, the drone trailed after the group moving towards the bridge.

The Raians took Kestral and her crew to a room filled with knee-high gray objects... they were oddly shaped, but after a moment’s examination, Kestral realized they were the Raian version of a chair or stool. None of them sat. Then a Raian stepped into the room and motioned for Kestral to follow him. After a calming backward glance to her crew, she allowed herself to be led to another, smaller room, where a Raian waited on a chair, and an empty chair obviously intended for her faced him. Pausing only a moment, Kestral took a seat on the chair and allowed herself to be interrogated by the Raian. Each of them was questioned in turn on the Raian vessel. Kestral’s order for Mary’s drone to remain on the ship turned out to be more trouble for the Raians, as their translators were not as adept at translating from Raian to Oan as they were from Oan to Raian. This made questions difficult to understand for Kestral’s crew, and the interrogations dragged on as questions were repeated or restated for their benefit.

When they did answer, they kept to the agreed-upon story, which was mostly true, anyway... that they were carrying atronics cargo for delivery to New Paropolis. They were all able to truthfully answer that they knew little about how atronics systems worked... with the notable exception of Moamet Jones. Apparently, he had a vast knowledge of atronics—possibly due to his being native of the planet that produced them for so many other planets—and he regaled his interrogators with copious details about atronics systems, what minerals they were made of and why, how they blended photronic, electronic and fluidic systems together, why Coel made the most superior atronics components, et cetera, et cetera. And all the while, his interrogators seemed to exhibit agitation at being in the same room with him. After only a few intense minutes, Jones was practically thrown out of the interrogation room. Once the interrogation was done, each of them was brought to the same small holding room, presumably to wait for the disposition of their ship’s search. The crew all sat or stood around, conversing quietly and waiting to be let out. Sarander seemed to be the most agitated of the group, pacing about, occasionally running a hand into his pants pocket, pulling it out again, and resuming his pacing. The Raians watched them all over a camera pickup, from another part of the ship. On the Raian bridge, K’silk stood over a monitor which showed them, and another monitor which showed the interrogation of Angel, the last to be interviewed. Two other officers hovered about him, also watching the monitors. A tone from a console was answered by one of the officers. After listening to a report, he approached K’silk. “First Officer, our examination team reports no sign of any biological agent aboard the Oan freighter.”

“Interesting,” K’silk said. “It seems our reports were inaccurate.”

“But the freighter was sent to Coel, and given a new assignment there, as we had been advised,” the junior officer stated. “And the First Officer carries our psychoactive virus.”

“Yes, yes, I could see it within her, too,” K’silk replied impatiently. He continued to watch Kestral and Jones, seated together on the bench. “I could see it in the technical expert, as well. Apparently the First Officer has infected him with it.” K’silk turned away from the monitor and faced his junior officers.

“Curious that she has not infected the rest of the crew, or that she seems to show none of the effects of the virus herself.”

“It seems to be a very small trace of the strain within her,” the other officer commented. “Perhaps it was simply not enough to cause a reaction within her.”

“Perhaps not,” K’silk agreed. “Although it does seem to be stronger within the technician. It also seems to be reacting strangely within his body. I’m sure you all noticed the odd light emanating from him.”

“It was... highly unusual,” one officer agreed. “Even painful. I don’t believe there is any record of our virus causing that effect within Oans.”

“Perhaps,” K’silk suggested, “the virus has somehow mutated within the First Officer, and the new mutated strain now works upon the technical expert.”

“There was one other thing,” the junior officer stated. “In their medical facility, there was a device that can grow viral cultures. It could be used to breed viral agents. It was disguised to appear as a portable power source.”

“Yes?”

“However,” the officer continued, “no viral agents were discovered within it, or anywhere in the medical facility.”

“I see.” K’silk considered a moment. “Disable the device.”

“And then what?”

K’silk barely paused. “Let them go. With the technical expert fully infected, the rest of the crew should contract the virus soon from him. Based on our previous experiences, we can expect them all to be dead within a few days. And if any of them hold out longer, they will infect the entire population of New Paropolis. That will certainly slow the Oan march across the galaxy. Something our Leadership will certainly not object to.”

Moments later, the door to the holding room was opened. A guard motioned for them to come out, and they did so, one by one. With Kestral in the lead, they fell silently in step behind a Raian soldier, who escorted them down a corridor, the guard bringing up the rear.

“Where are we going?” Kestral asked. But the soldier likely did not possess a translator, and so did not understand her. The soldier made no attempt to reply, at any rate. Sarander was behind Kestral, followed by Tirri. Tirri occasionally glanced down at Sarander’s pocket, idly wondering how fast he could take out his homemade stun device and use it if necessary. She even considered how fast she could snatch it out of his pocket herself. But she made no move for it.

Along the way, they met another soldier that was standing in an adjacent corridor with Angel. Angel saw the procession and asked, “What now?” The lead soldier continued on down the corridor, and the soldier behind Angel motioned for Angel to fall in line with the others. Angel did as he was bidden, and stepped into the line just ahead of Mark, who was at the rear of the group. As they walked, Angel turned and asked Mark, “Does anyone know what’s going on?”

“Not really,” Mark replied.

Angel mulled over the answer for a moment. “Do you think they’re going to kill us?”

“I doubt it,” Mark replied.

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, “unless I miss my guess, they’ve just brought us back to the Mary.”

“Huh?” Angel craned his neck past the others, and saw the airlock that led to the Mary just ahead. The lead soldier stopped and stepped aside at the airlock, leaving the path to the airlock free. Kestral regarded him for only a moment, before she started through the airlock, followed by the others. They stepped into the foyer of the Mary, and no sooner had they done so when the Raian hatch started to close behind them. Mark, the last one in, responded by closing their hatch as quickly. Once it was secured, they all breathed a sigh of relief.

Kestral immediately called out, “Mary! Scan for any foreign objects left aboard or attached to the hull by the Raians.” She motioned for the others to wait, and listened for the ship’s reply. After a full minute, the ship replied: “Ship’s internal and external scans completed. There are no foreign objects left on or in the ship.”

“Systems status report?”

“All ship’s systems are set on automatic and all functioning nominally. No settings were changed while the crew was absent.”

“That’s what I want to hear,” Kestral said. “Mark, fire up the engines and get us going. Same course and speed, like nothing happened. They expect us to clear out quickly, so clear us out.”

“You bet!” Mark replied, already running for the bridge.

“Everyone else, go double-check your areas,” Kestral told them. “Just in case Mary missed something. Call in if you find anything unusual.”

The others headed off, leaving Moamet Jones standing there with Kestral. For a moment, she stood there regarding him silently. Jones returned her gaze, his face saddened. “Carolyn, I’m sorry this happened...”

“No, don’t be,” Kestral cut him off. “After all, we got through it. The plan worked.”

“Apparently so,” Jones nodded. “Carolyn... did you notice, when the Raians were near me...”

“They seemed nervous or something?” she finished his thought.

Jones nodded. “I wondered if it was just my imagination. But you saw it, too. What could it have meant?”

“I don’t know,” Kestral replied. “Maybe whatever data they had on us didn’t include a guest, and they were surprised or alarmed at seeing you.”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

“I hope it’s accurate,” Kestral said. “And hopefully that will be the only bad scare we get on this trip.”

At that moment, Mark’s voice came over the ship’s intercom. “Raian ship is detached. Tesser drive is warming up, and we’ll be going to C in a minute.”

Kestral nodded. “And not a minute too soon.”

Chapter 11

Kestral, Tirri and Moamet Jones stood in the ship’s infirmary an hour later. They were surrounding the diagnostic table in the center of the room. Kestral’s face was one of deep concern. Moamet Jones’ face was a rigid mask. Tirri looked from one to the other nervously. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was so busy checking the cargo bays, that I only just got here a few minutes ago and found it.”

Kestral nodded absently as she stared down at the table. Atop it, was the incubation device Moamet Jones was transporting to Deep Abignon.

“You’re sure the Raians did this?”

Tirri nodded. “I had Mary analyze the burns and melted areas. She confirms burn signatures that are common residues of Raian hand weaponry. And it’s clearly not random. They intentionally fried the control components, and the inner chambers.”

“They opened it?” Kestral looked to Jones, but he returned her look impassively, and said nothing. “So the cultures inside it were destroyed.”

Tirri nodded. “There’s no sign of biological activity inside.”

Kestral’s shoulders visibly stiffened. A moment later, she muttered a sharp oath under her breath, turned, and stalked out of the infirmary. Tirri and Jones watched her go, then Tirri turned to Jones. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Maybe if I had found it sooner, we could have salvaged something from it...”

Jones shook his head, still looking in the direction Kestral had gone. “Probably not. I wouldn’t blame yourself for it. It wasn’t your fault.”

“So much for our big secret mission,” Tirri added, badly feigning disappointment. “We went through all of this for nothing.”

Jones finally turned and looked at her. There was a momentary flash of... something in his eyes, something Tirri couldn’t read. But it was gone an instant later, and his face was impassive again. Without another word, he turned and headed after Kestral.

Kestral had headed for the common, maybe beyond it to the quarters. Jones strode down the corridor, reaching the common, and realizing there was no sign of her there. He continued on, reaching the T

intersection that led to the quarters, and rounded the turn.

He was brought up immediately by the sight of Kestral, standing in the center of the corridor just past the bend. He stopped just short of running headlong into her, and gasped in surprise. Kestral glared at Jones. “Why aren’t we dead?”

“Ordinarily, I enjoy a good mystery,” Kestral was saying as she paced about her quarters. Jones sat in a chair, watching her. “They can be great mental exercise. But I admit, I get a lot less enjoyment out of them when my life hangs in the balance.”

“There was no danger to the crew from the incubator,” Jones told her.

“Oh, really?” Kestral stopped pacing, and faced Jones. “The Raian Captain told me that, if they found any signs of the biological materials they were looking for—the antivirus cultures—they would kill us.”

She paused and studied Jones’ reaction to her statement. He returned her gaze silently. “So they found the incubator,” she continued, “and destroyed it. Seems they found what they were looking for. So why didn’t the Raians kill us?”

She looked to Jones again. “Why do I get the impression that you’re reluctant to discuss this?”

Jones still did not speak, but his expression seemed to soften a bit. Kestral watched him, nodded, and resumed pacing.

“If they destroyed the incubator, it’s a sign they had the goods on us. They didn’t sabotage the ship. And it’s too difficult to intercept and destroy a ship traveling at C. So they’ve honestly let us go. That is the strange part: Not killing us will allow us to reach a port, and report on what happened to the Rangers. But they are apparently not too worried about that.”

Kestral stopped pacing, and put a hand to her chin. “I can only think of one reason, then, that they wouldn’t have killed us outright: They let us go because they expect us to die on our own.” Her eyes bored into Jones, who fairly flinched under her withering gaze. “And probably more significant, they likely expect our deaths to do some damage to someone other than us, or it would have made more sense to kill us themselves. I have Mary doing intense scanning of the ship, searching for any signs of something the Raians left us. So far, she hasn’t found anything. Not even stray biological materials aboard ship. So, at least so far, it appears that we are not a berserker plague ship.”

Kestral watched Jones closely as she continued. “Now, it’s possible the Raians were mistaken, and thought we were all already infected by the berserker. But I’m not contagious, and none of us is exhibiting the signs of berserker madness. And this is where I hit my brick wall,” she told Jones.

“Because I obviously don’t have all the pieces I need to complete this puzzle.”

She continued to watch Jones, but he refused to speak. After a long, drawn-out silence, Kestral turned away. “Fine. The Raians guessed wrong, but they also destroyed our reason to go to Deep Abignon. So the mission is off. I’ll order Mark to keep course for New Paropolis—”

“No.”

“Aha!” Kestral spun around swiftly, pointing an accusing finger at Jones. “You do still have cultures on board! I knew you were holding out on me!”

“We still have to go to Deep Abignon,” Jones stated flatly.

Kestral considered a moment. “The incubator was a blind, all along. It never had a culture in it.” She waited, and after a pause, Jones shook his head. Instead of satisfaction, Kestral’s face darkened. “You didn’t trust me enough to tell me about a second culture hidden away? Did you think you were protecting me? Or did the Rangers order you to keep it from me?”

“Carolyn,” Jones began, finally standing up and approaching her, “this is difficult...”

“No, it isn’t,” Kestral told him. “Just tell me. Is another antivirus culture here?”

“Yes.”

“In your quarters? Hidden in one of the crates?”

Jones made a wry face. “Not at this moment, no.”

Kestral’s face wrinkled up in confusion. “Outside the ship?”

“No, it’s definitely inside—”

“Where, then!” she demanded, grabbing him by his shoulders and pulling him close. “Where is it?”

Jones did not immediately respond. Instead, his eyes wandered away for long moments. When they came back up and locked with Kestral’s, his expression said volumes. Kestral was taken aback. “It’s on you.” Almost involuntarily, her eyes ran over him, and back up.

“Something implanted within you? A mini-incubator?”

“Not exactly,” Jones replied slowly. “I don’t need a device inside me.”

Kestral’s grip on his shoulders relaxed. “I think I’m at that brick wall again.”

“Actually,” Jones told her, “you’ve broken through. You just haven’t recognized what you see at the other side.

“I do have the antivirus cultures inside me,” Jones said. “I am the incubator.”

Kestral blinked, and her hands slipped off of his shoulders. But she did not back away, nor did he make a move to put distance between them. “Tell me,” she said.

Moamet Jones shrugged. “Our doctors guessed that it has something to do with my own natural healing abilities, combined with the genetic manipulations given to Coelians to allow them to survive on our planet, but they’re not really sure. At any rate, it was recently discovered that my body can be exposed to any virus, however virulent, and manufacture a sort of universal antivirus to it without danger to me. I have been the subject of two solid years of tests... in fact, this trip is the first I’ve taken outside of the research facility since I went in.”

He turned and took a step away from Kestral. “When we contacted the Galarchy with our findings, they saw an immediate use for my... talent. They realized that I might be able to create an antivirus for the berserker, something they had never been able to accomplish. My universal antivirus would be one that the Oan population could all be inoculated with, and thereby neutralize the berserker threat. I am going to a real incubator, already waiting on Deep Abignon, that will mass-produce the antivirus from my blood.”

“Your people,” Kestral ventured, “invented the incubator story to create a false target, in case you were intercepted.”

“Exactly,” Jones admitted. “And I was designed to hide in plain sight.”

Something else occurred to Kestral then. “The Raians... they were agitated whenever they saw you. We know so little about their sensory systems. They must have somehow sensed the virus within you. Possibly within both of us!” Her mouth set angrily. “They assumed that, between the two of us, we would infect everyone on New Paropolis once we arrived. That’s why they let us go.”

“That makes sense,” Jones agreed.

“But you’re not contagious, either, right?” Kestral asked. “Otherwise, you’d’ve infected my crew by now.”

“That’s right,” Jones confirmed. “I do not spread the viruses I contract. In fact, it’s entirely possible that they might get the antivirus from me, through casual contact.”

“We should do them that favor, at least,” Kestral told him. “After all, it’s the least you can do for them, after what they’ve been...”

Kestral’s voice suddenly trailed off. Her eyes darted about as she considered something else. Then she looked at Jones. “Wait. As far as I’ve been told, the berserker virus is not available for study outside of the Galarchy’s secure facilities, including Deep Abignon. And not including Coel.”

Upon hearing her statement, Jones’ face fell again. “That is correct.”

“So you had to get the virus from somewhere. You could have gotten it once you reached Deep Abignon.” Her face darkened again. “But when presented with another, closer source, you could always get an early start.”

She stepped closer to him, eyes smoldering. “Casual contact?”

“Carolyn—”

She hit him. Not an open-handed slap, but a clenched fist that connected with his jaw, and sent him sprawling. He tumbled backward, upended a nearby chair, and landed in a heap on the deck.

“It wasn’t like that—”

“Get out,” Kestral said acidly.

Slowly, Moamet Jones picked himself up. “You know me.”

“No, I don’t! Get out!”

“Yes, you do!”

Even as angry as she was, Kestral paused in surprise. It was the first time she had heard Moamet Jones raise his voice, and there was a respectable power and timbre to it. But she recovered quickly. “You and I will have no further... contact ... other than that demanded by this mission, for the duration of this mission. Is that clear?”

“As crystal,” Jones replied coldly. And with that, he turned and strode out of Kestral’s quarters. Kestral waited for the door to close behind him. She wanted to scream, to rant at the top of her lungs, to wail for all she was worth. But she marshaled all of her energy to keep control, and for long seconds, she seemed to hold herself in check, until her body lost its tension. Finally, she took a deep breath, and glowered at the hatch through which Moamet Jones had left.

“Men!”

The next morning, after breakfast, Kestral had everyone hang around in the common. Breakfast itself had been tense, as Kestral had been uncommonly quiet throughout, and never looked up from her food. Moamet Jones was there as well, but he remained at the opposite end of the room from her, and likewise hadn’t spoken. Everyone else took note of the almost palpable tension between the two, but no one had asked about it. Not until breakfast was over, did Kestral look at her crew.

“Believe it or not,” Kestral began, “Dr. Jones has managed to conceal an antivirus culture from the Raians.”

Everyone started at the announcement, a few of them looking at Jones in surprise. Tirri looked the most surprised of all, although this was more likely due to her larger avian eyes. “Where did you hide it? How did they not find it?”

“That’s not important, now,” Kestral stated. “What’s important is, the mission is still on. We’ll be making our course change tomorrow, as scheduled.” Everyone nodded their assent, and Kestral took note of their reactions. “However, there’s a concern.”

The others gave Kestral their complete attention at once. The room itself seemed to palpably tense as they waited for her next words. “There is a chance that the Raians will realize they have been fooled. They may come after us again.”

“Oh, shit,” Sarander muttered.

“All right, now,” Kestral lightly admonished him. “We all know how hard it is to track or intercept a ship flying at C. So even if they do want us, they’ll have a hell of a time finding us. All the same, I think we should make some contingency plans, in case they do come after us. Does anyone have any suggestions?”

No one spoke at first. Kestral looked to each of them in turn. When her eyes fell to Angel, he quickly replied, “Hey, I’m a cook, not a strategist.”

“If they do come after us,” Mark finally spoke up, “they’re likely to try to stop us by throwing something in our path. Make us drop out of C. Then they can take their potshots at us until we roll over. This ship has only basic defensive equipment and navigational-use pecans, and nothing that’ll help us much against a heavily armed Raian ship. Even that scout ship that stopped us has us outgunned pretty well.”

“Would they expect us to change course?” Sarander asked. “Do they know about the Deep Abignon research facility?”

“They probably do,” Kestral said. “Their intelligence is pretty good.”

“So they’ve got a good shot at intercepting us,” Sarander said.

“Then we should go somewhere else,” Angel said. “Somewhere they don’t expect us to go, so they won’t know where to look. How about on to New Paropolis?”

“They have our present course,” Mark reminded. “If we don’t change course, they’ll be able to track us easily.”

“Then somewhere else,” Angel said.

“No. We have to get Dr. Jones to Deep Abignon,” Kestral said plainly. “We don’t want to go somewhere else ... we want the Raians to look somewhere else.”

“Decoys,” Mark said.

“Yes,” Kestral agreed. “Decoy them away from the Mary long enough for us to get to Deep Abignon.”

“How do you make a decoy for a whole ship?” Angel asked.

“When you’re traveling at C,” Mark explained, “those on the outside can’t actually see you. The only way to detect you is to find your wake... in other words, anything displaced by your passing. So you don’t have to make a duplicate ship. You only have to make a wake.”

Angel regarded him dubiously. “Make a wake.”

“Exactly,” Kestral said. “We have four emergency escape pods aboard. Each has a limited one-time-use tesser battery installed on it.”

“Well, yeah,” Sarander added, “but they’re only there to provide a controlled deceleration from trans-C

speeds, if the ship has to be abandoned at C. They’re not designed to generate their own field, nor for prolonged trips.”

“Well, we’re going to see what we can do about that,” Kestral said. “Let’s see if we can’t extend one to operate for a few hours. If we can jury-rig a signal output generator that will simulate the energy signature of the Mary—”

“We have a decoy,” Mark finished.

“Right,” Kestral nodded, then turned to him. “We’ll also need a new course. Something that will buy us some time when we need it.”

“How about a sundance course?” Mark suggested.

“Oh, come on,” Kestral frowned. “Everyone and their idiot cousin knows that maneuver.”

“Sure,” Mark smiled. “But who does it with a decoy?”

Kestral thought about it a moment. Then she said, “All right. What’s your plan?”

“Do the sundance, but release the pod and allow it to continue on our original course with the faked energy signature. It’ll give the impression that we faked the sundance. By the time the Raians figure out that it’s not us, we’ll have completed the real maneuver and will be almost on top of Deep Abignon, too late for them to catch us.”

Kestral considered. “Double-fake. Okay, that sounds reasonable. Sarander, I guess it’s your job to rig an escape pod.”

“I can help,” Moamet Jones spoke up, for the first time since they had gathered. “I do have a fair amount of experience in atronics programming—”

“Okay, you help Sarander,” Kestral cut him off. “Mark, work out your course. We don’t have much time, so we’d better get busy.”

Aboard the L’t’meriad, a Raian officer approached K’silk with his spidery fingers wrapped around a data tablet. “First Officer, I have a report.”

K’silk turned to him from the monitor wall. The wall included, among other things, a track of the Mary as it approached New Paropolis. “Report.”

“The atronics expert on the Mary did indeed carry the psychoactive virus,” the officer began. “However, his physiology seems to be noticeably different from the other Oans on board, including their first officer.”

“We all saw the glow, yes,” K’silk agreed. “What was it, then?”

“According to our data, the expert’s body had a heightened immune system, making it unsusceptible to the virus. Further, his body was involved in a biological process common to Oans, but much accelerated within him. The process involves the body’s self-examination of a foreign body, then creating within itself a biological agent designed to counteract the virus.”

“Are you saying—?”

“I am afraid so, First Officer,” the officer said. “The Oan was the biological agent we were after.”

K’silk bucked and shuddered suddenly, violently. As this was the human equivalent of cursing aloud, the other officers around K’silk immediately stopped what they were doing and turned to him. K’silk took the tablet from the other officer and examined it. Then he turned to his other officers. “Do we still have a good track of the Oan freighter?”

“We do, sir.”

“Interception course at maximum speed. Execute instantly.”

“Yes, First Officer!”

The officers scrambled to carry out K’silk’s order. K’silk handed the tablet to the other officer, who took his leave of the bridge. After a few moments, K’silk shuddered again. Kestral had to admit, it was lucky that they happened to have a native of Coel, and crates full of atronics equipment with which he seemed to be very familiar. They needed those two elements dearly, to construct their decoy. However, what they were attempting was the work of experts, and none of them, not even Moamet Jones, qualified.

So, when Sarander called her to the cargo bay, a sour note to his voice, Kestral was not surprised. Sarander and Moamet Jones were sequestered in a corner of the bay, where the “decoy”—a standard emergency escape pod—was berthed. Tirri was also there, since they were working in her cargo bay, and she had opened a few of the atronics crates for them depending on what they had needed. They had the hatch open, and had run tangles of wires from within the pod, to a bench on the deck filled with atronics components. Kestral knew some of the components were from within the pod, the rest being rigged up by Sarander and Jones. It looked like a disaster, but Kestral knew how unimportant that was, if it worked.

However, the looks on the faces of Sarander and Jones told her that it was obviously not working as planned. They all looked up when Kestral approached.

“We can’t get it to work fully,” Sarander confessed.

“Define ‘fully’,” Kestral requested.

“Well,” Sarander explained, “we’ve programmed the false energy signature into the pod. We’ve tested it, and it should fool their long range sensors. Problem is, it doesn’t hold up for long.”

“It dies off?”

“No,” Moamet Jones told her. “It functions strongly for a few minutes, but then the signal begins to fluctuate. It becomes intermittent. If they are doing a comprehensive scan, or if they get too close, they will see the pod’s normal signature underneath the false signature. They’ll be able to reason that the signal is false.”

“We’ve done everything we can think of,” Sarander told her. “Best we can do.”

Kestral considered their report, and sighed lightly. “I know you’re doing your best. Keep at it. We’re making our course correction today, but we’ve still got time.”

“All right,” Sarander agreed, but he did not sound convinced that it would do any good. Jones merely nodded, and turned back to the workbench.

Kestral turned and started off. She tried to look relaxed, but Tirri could see the stiffness in her walk. After a moment, Tirri followed her, catching up to her before the bay entrance. “They’ve managed to accomplish quite a lot, the both of them,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Looks like it,” Kestral agreed.

“Dr. Jones seems to be a big help to Sarander,” Tirri added. “I’m not sure Sarander would have been able to do this alone, given twice the time.”

“Then it’s a good thing we have Dr. Jones’ help,” Kestral commented flatly. Tirri followed her a few more paces silently, before she said, “What happened?”

“None of your—”

Kestral abruptly cut herself off, and stopped walking. Tirri almost ran into her, and jumped sideways to avoid a collision. Kestral took a deep breath and composed herself. “Sorry, Tirri. Look, let’s just get through this, okay?”

“Okay,” Tirri agreed quickly. Before Kestral turned away again, she said, “If you want to talk later...”

Their eyes locked, and neither spoke. Behind them, Sarander and Jones could be heard discussing a swap of components in their decoy. Finally, Kestral smiled weakly. “Thanks.” Then she turned and exited the cargo bay. Tirri watched her go, before turning about and returning to Sarander and Jones. Tirri noted that Jones was also watching Kestral go. His usually-pleasant expression now reflected a deep sadness.

Tirri returned to the table where Sarander and Jones worked, at about the same moment that Jones excused himself to look for a part in another crate. Tirri waited until he was out of sight, before she leaned closer to Sarander. “Maybe we should have tried to use your stun thingy on the Raian ship.”

“Stun thingy?”

“Yeah... you know, the thing you made for... for Carolyn.” Tirri looked at Sarander, and his pocket, meaningfully. “Maybe if we could have used it to damage something, they wouldn’t be able to follow us.”

Sarander made a sour face, but continued facing his work, and away from Tirri. “I don’t think it would have helped.”

Kestral had been heading for the bridge, but at the intersection in the corridor that led forward, she suddenly veered off and headed for her quarters. She reached her room, stepped lightly inside, and closed and locked the door behind her.

She paced her quarters in frustration. She could barely remember just a few days ago, when she actually felt jazzed by the mission, excited about being close to the service, “doing her bit,” again. Now, thanks to Jones’ revelation, she felt betrayed and manipulated. And worse, she had allowed her crew to be dragged into her betrayal. They were now at risk, as much as she was, and she had to keep reminding herself that they weren’t supposed to be there.

They were not Rangers.

She wished desperately that there was a way she could cancel the mission, give it all up, and get her crew to safety. But the damage was done, the Raians were already on to them... and probably already after them. And at C speeds, there was no way to get help.

They were not Rangers.

But they were her crew. They deserved better than to die because of her mistakes. No, she thought, mentally shaking herself. No one was going to die. They didn’t even know if they were being followed, and the Mary still stood a good chance of making Deep Abignon even if they were. There was no reason to condemn them.

Not yet.

They were not Rangers.

But I am, Kestral told herself. I’ll get them through this, if I have to kill a horde of Spiders to do it. They’re my crew. I’ll get them through this.

After a few more minutes, Kestral managed to regain her composure. Then she squared back her shoulders, unlocked the hatch, and headed for the bridge.

Chapter 12

“Carolyn, I really don’t think it’s a good idea to do this.” Mark was busy over his console, making the navigational adjustments for their course correction, and was speaking to Kestral without looking up.

“We can simply make our turn, and we’ll be a lot less likely to be seen by the Raians.”

“If they’re looking.” Kestral watched him work over his shoulder, and kept her other eye on the external sensors. “And if they are looking, they already have the advantage... they can track us, and we don’t know what they’re up to from behind us. Whether they’re looking or not, we need to know where they are, and what they’re doing. It’s a risk we have to take.” She took the seat at ops, where the sensory monitors were more comprehensive than those at the Captain’s station. “Let’s do it. External sensors at full. Ready for nav check. Flash us, then alter course to Deep Abignon.”

“I just know we’re going to regret this...” Mark worked over the helm controls. Kestral, who was becoming more familiar with her ship every day, could now easily hear the change in ambient sound that indicated the deactivation of the tesser field and return to space-normal speed. Mark immediately brought the tesser drive back up—to an outside observer, it would have appeared that the Mary had

“flashed” into existence, then winked back out of sight—then set the Mary in a wide turn, manually controlling the attitude as he brought them about. His sable features were fairly lost in the low light of the bridge, but the alertness of his eyes and the set of his jaw clearly indicated his concentration on his job. Kestral watched the sensor readings as they came about. Data came in bit-by-bit, assembling itself from what data they had from ahead, and the fresh data from behind, into a complete picture of their surroundings. There was nothing she could do to speed up the process, and little she would be able to discern by the naked eye before Mary would be able to report. Nonetheless, she continued to switch from setting to setting, impatiently and expectantly.

“We’ve locked onto Deep Abignon,” Mark announced. “Speed, 3.5C.” He visibly relaxed for a moment. Then he turned to watch Kestral, and the sensor readings at the ops station. They waited silently, for a minute that seemed like an hour, while the sensors pieced the data together. When the minute had passed, Mark glanced up at Kestral and said, “Could we possibly be that lucky?”

As if in response, a single beep sounded from the sensor panel. On one navigational screen, a blip appeared, accompanied by a series of numbers displayed next to it.

“Nope,” Kestral whispered, as Mark’s shoulders sagged. “This wasn’t our lucky day.” She triggered the ship’s intercom. “Attention all: We’re on course for Deep Abignon. However, the Raians were already on course to intercept us. It’s a race, now.”

And it was going to be a close race, she knew. Between Sarander tweaking and babying Mary’s relatively new engines, and Mark maintaining as direct a course as possible, there was a likelihood that they could shave off most of a day from their expected transit time. However, two-and-less-than-one-half days still gave the Raians a lot of time to catch up... their craft, and for that matter any of their military craft, could travel at more than twice their C speed. In other words, they would be very close by the time Mary reached Deep Abignon’s sun. The Raian officer approached K’silk. “First Officer, the Oan freighter’s disturbance track indicates it has altered course. It is now on a heading for system FY-48269.”

K’silk examined the data tablet the officer had brought with him. “That is a known location of an Oan biological research lab.”

“I confirm that, First Officer.”

K’silk signaled the helm officer. “Alter course to system FY-48269. Maximum speed. Intercept the freighter.”

Mark had already made the infinitesimal alteration to their course that would take them to the Abignon star, the idea being to put it between them and Deep Abignon. This was the first stage of what Mark had referred to as the “sundance maneuver.”

The intention of the sundance maneuver was twofold: First, it was designed to give the pursued ship a chance to alter its course and hide that maneuver while behind the star’s corona, thereby making it difficult for a pursuing ship to detect the course change and track them; and second, it would allow the pursued ship to “slingshot” about the star’s gravity well and pick up speed, hopefully enough to escape interception.

The course alteration was a tricky thing in the star’s gravity well, essentially forcing the craft to enter the well, then climb directly out of it. As the ship reached a perihelion, it would reverse course and dive at the sun. This is when the ship would make its course alteration, choosing a new approach angle at random that would take them around the star at a different angle than they had approached it. Then it would pull out of its dive as close as possible to the star, allowing its gravity to slingshot them around and catapult them outward.

More than a few ships attempting this maneuver had not lived to see the other side. Between the intense gravity of a star, the difficulty of pulling out of a stardive, the unpredictable vagaries of some stars, and the similarly unpredictable condition of some ships, there was a very slim margin for error. Sarander, knowing this, did the only thing he could under the circumstances: He made sure Mary’s engines would do their job. He spent the majority of his time sweating over them, running systems checks and manually checking every coupling and wiring harness he could get his hands on. He left Moamet Jones to work over the wiring for the escape pod, on the slim chance that he would come up with something that would improve the performance of their decoy signal.

Mark kept busy at the helm, and he and Sarander spent quite a bit of time on the intercom in cross-discussion over this system or that, making sure everything was functioning nominally. When she could, Kestral assisted at the ops station, or checked other ship’s systems from the Captain’s station or the various monitor panels throughout the bridge. Despite Mark’s calm assurances that he could handle the sundance, Kestral had caught him on occasion when he didn’t realize she was nearby. There was no mistaking his nervousness. She knew he was well aware of the result of a single mistake he might make during the maneuver, and there would be countless chances to make mistakes. Angel and Tirri were the only two with little to do, and by the second day, the tension exhibited by their crewmates began to concern the two. Tirri elected herself morale officer, floating about the ship and trying to keep everyone in good spirits, when she wasn’t easing someone’s burden by running an errand or fetching something for them. Angel responded in the best way he knew how, namely, food. He prepared some banana bread, which he spread liberally throughout the ship, and he was glad to see the bread was a big hit with everyone. And by dinner, he had prepared a delicious meal highlighted by a huge pizza, and finished off with red hitchberry pie. Although they were not as talkative as during previous meals, it seemed to lift their spirits noticeably.

Even so, by the end of the second day, the crew of the Mary was mentally spent. When Kestral came up to the bridge, she noticed how slowly Mark reacted to the opening of the bridge hatch.

“That’s it, bucko,” she said, and the sudden sound of her voice caused Mark to push himself upright in his seat. “You’re walking dead. Time to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Mark said immediately. “I was just waiting for the aft thruster level readings to come in...”

“You mean this?” Kestral pointed at his board, and Mark stared at it stupidly. Kestral smiled. “I already told Tirri to drag Sarander to their quarters. Now it’s your turn. Come on, up. Off to bed. And I don’t want to see you back here before seven.”

“Really, Captain, I’ll only need a few hours—”

“Did you just call me Captain? Now I know you’re exhausted!” She grabbed him by the armpits and lifted him bodily out of the pilot’s chair. “As... umph! ... Captain, I’m ordering my First Officer to get eight hours’ sleep, starting in ten minutes. Is that clear?”

“Did you just call me your First Officer?” Mark turned and looked at her with bleary eyes. “You tell me who needs a rest.”

“Come on, Mark,” Kestral huffed. “I need you wide awake tomorrow. You can barely stand now. Go sleep.”

Mark stood there thoughtfully, as if planning to put up a fight. Finally, and to Kestral’s relief, he shrugged and nodded. “Okay. I guess I can use a bit of sleep.”

“Eight hours of sleep,” Kestral repeated. “Starting in nine minutes.”

Mark grinned and headed for the corridor, almost tripping over the edge of the hatchway on his way out. Kestral watched him go, reflecting not for the first time how glad she was to have found him. Then she sat down at the pilot’s station. “Hello, helm. Remember me?” She hadn’t spent much time at helm since their first flight, so she began her night by systematically re-familiarizing herself with the controls and systems.

An hour later, she had satisfied herself that she could handle anything (short of a Raian attack) that might come along, and she settled in for the long night. She was surprised a half hour later, when the bridge hatch opened. She caught a strong scent before she turned around. “Angel, you angel, you brought coffee—”

When she turned around, however, she saw Moamet Jones standing there. He had two cups in his hand, and he held one out to her. “Angel made it. I took the opportunity to bring it up.”

Kestral’s expression fell perceptively, but she took the cup. “Thank you,” she said simply. She took a sip from the cup, watching Jones over the steam that rose around her face. Her eyes did not seem so angry as before... although fatigue may have had something to do with that... but neither did she seem willing to forgive him. “Maybe you should get some sleep, Dr. Jones. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow.”

Jones sighed heavily. “Not yet. I have to inform you that I cannot fix the decoy programming problem. It is still intermittent.”

“I understand,” Kestral replied evenly. “We’ll just have to take our chances.”

“That’s why I came up,” Jones said. “I may have an idea that might improve our chances.”

Kestral stared at him dubiously, not saying anything. After a few moments of silence, Jones said,

“Carolyn. Please. I’m trying to help. I didn’t want you to be in this position, any more than you did. And I am sorry. But as you’ve been reminding everyone else for the past two days, it’s time to put all that aside, and get through this.”

He repeated, with emphasis, “I have an idea.”

Kestral had watched him intently while he spoke, and continued to sit silently when he finished. After a long pause, she put down her coffee cup. “I’m listening.”

When the Raians had discovered the Mary’s course change, they’d altered course to intercept them before they reached Deep Abignon. And as the Mary had waited until they were closest to Deep Abignon before veering off their original course, they had performed a perpendicular course change. The Raians were now heading directly for Deep Abignon, their course intersecting the Mary’s at the apex of a triangle.

It would be close. The Raians could easily over-or under-shoot their deceleration into sub-C speeds, necessary to approach the inner system and the planet, and so could the Oan freighter. The difference could put them minutes or hours apart. But the Raian ship was far faster than the new freighter, and even a gross miscalculation would more likely work to their advantage.

As K’silk watched his monitors, the navigation officer approached him. “First Officer, new data on the freighter’s course. They are not heading directly for the planet of system FY-48269. They are heading for system FY-48269’s star, instead.”

K’silk made a satisfied hum. “They know we are pursuing them. They are attempting an Oan maneuver designed to mask their course behind the star. This maneuver is familiar to me.” He waved his thin fingers at his helm officer. “Alter course to terminate before the star of system FY-48269. We can wait for them to emerge on the other side, and we will have more then enough time to intercept them before they reach the planet.”

The officer moved off, and K’silk turned back to his monitors. “More than enough time.”

It was silent on Mary’s bridge, as Kestral considered the plan Moamet Jones had just described to her. Jones waited patiently, but after almost a full minute, he finally ventured, “Well?”

Kestral’s head had been down, her eyes darting about as she considered the variables. Finally she brought her head up and looked at Jones. “It sounds workable. Will it be ready by tomorrow morning?”

“If you ask Angel to make more coffee...”

Despite herself, Kestral smiled, and slapped at the intercom. “Angel! Go juice to the bridge, immediately!”

When Mark opened the hatch to the bridge that morning, after his eight hours’ sleep, he took one look at the helm, and froze.

There was no one at the pilot’s station, or anywhere else in sight on the bridge.

“Shit!” he snapped. “Where is... anybody?” He ran forward, lamenting loudly, “How could you leave the helm empt—”

He didn’t finish his last word, because his foot caught on something on the floor. He pitched forward, and landed violently on the deck.

“Oww!”

That hadn’t come from Mark. Mark, lying face-down on the deck, propped himself up on his elbows and looked around him... or, more accurately, under him. His legs were sprawled across another set of legs that were perpendicular to him, toes pointing upward. He craned around, following the legs across the deck, until he saw the face of Carolyn Kestral. She was on her back, her hands pushed into the innards of the pilot’s console above her head, but she was staring at Mark, a pained expression on her face.

“Carolyn... what are you doing down here?” Mark asked irritably.

“Getting pretty bruised up, thank you very much!” She reached back up into the console, and with a final yank at something, seemed to be finished with her work. “We had final adjustments to make before we reached the star.”

“We?”

“We.”

Mark swung about, to see Moamet Jones’ head, inches away from his own, underneath the ops console, and smiling broadly at him. “Gah!” Mark jumped, almost hitting his head on the bottom of the console, scrambled backwards off of his Captain, and out from underneath the rest of the machinery. Watching his distress caused Jones to grin, and forced a laugh out of Kestral.

“Yeah, yuk it up,” Mark grumbled as he gained his feet. “Now, I don’t suppose you want to tell your pilot about the ‘adjustments’ you just made to his pilot’s station?”

“We were transferring slave control over the pod to the ops panel,” Kestral explained, trying to will the smile from her face, and having limited success. “We wanted someone to be able to apply some evasive maneuvers to it, to make it look more real to the Raian sensors, while you’re flying the Mary.”

“Hm,” Mark nodded, looking from Kestral to Jones, both still sitting on the deck looking up at him.

“Okay. Good plan. You haven’t altered my controls, though, right?”

“Not a bit,” Jones shook his head.

“You don’t mind if I check, do you?”

“Not a bit,” Kestral replied, pulling herself to her feet. “In fact, it’s about time to see how we’re doing anyway.” She worked around the bridge, bringing the external sensors online. “Let’s cut C and take a look around.”

Mark took his station and began setting his manual controls, experimenting with his systems to make sure everything was functioning normally. After a few moments, he looked over at Kestral, and she gave him a nod. “Okay,” he said. “Cutting C... now.” He tapped at his control panel, waited less than one second, then tapped it again. “And back to C.”

“I’ve got readings,” Kestral confirmed from the main sensor station on the port wall of the bridge. She used the controls to switch from reading to reading, and to process the data that had come in. Moments later, she said, “I have a wake...”

She paused, examining the readings. After a few seconds’ silence, Mark said, “What?”

Kestral turned to him. “They’re a lot closer than I thought they would be. Only thirty mil away.”

“Dammit,” Mark winced, and started rapidly working his controls. “Boss,” he called into the com, “are you up there?”

“Right here,” Sarander’s voice came back from the com.

“Get me everything you’ve got, and light up the tesser,” Mark called out. “We need to go!”

Chapter 13

Although thirty million kilometers did not sound like much of a distance when one could travel faster than light, the fact that the Mary and the L’t’meriad were both traveling faster than light meant that the two ships were burning through space, but not closing the distance between each other quite as rapidly. However, the Raian ship was clearly overtaking the Mary.

This was clear from the sensor readings Kestral obtained when they dropped out of C. She had fed the updated course data into Mary’s navigational systems for Mark to reference, as he swung the ship at the Abignon star.

“I sure hope you managed to get that decoy pod ready,” Mark was saying as he altered his board’s settings to prepare for the sundance maneuver. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

“The pod’s as ready as it will ever be,” Jones said, exchanging glances with Kestral.

“That doesn’t sound too positive,” Mark commented. “Is it going to work, or not?”

“Well, no,” Kestral replied, “and yes.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Mark snapped.

“It means,” Kestral explained, “that the pod isn’t working as well as we’d hoped. But that will be just perfect.”

“It will?”

“Yes,” Kestral replied. “And I’ll tell you why.”

“First Officer.” The sensor officer turned to report to K’silk. “Oan freighter increasing speed for the star.”

“They momentarily dropped out of trans-light speed to get a fix on us,” K’silk said aloud. “They know we are in pursuit. But it matters little. We will have more than enough time to catch them once they round the star, and before they reach the planet. Prepare to alter course. We will move between the planet and the star, and await their appearance on the other side.”

The Raian helm officer complied, and the L’t’meriad changed course slightly. As the Mary approached the far side of the Abignon star, its speed increasing rapidly under the influence of the star’s gravity, the Raians angled for the near side.

“Sensors to full,” K’silk ordered. “Report as soon as the freighter appears on the far side of the star.”

Kestral, sitting at the ops station, watched as Mark’s hands fairly danced over the helm controls. They were rapidly approaching the Abignon star, and the ship was beginning to develop minor creaks and vibrations... signs that the star’s gravity was beginning to take its toll.

“It’s gettin’ awful loud back here! ” Sarander’s voice crackled out of the intercom. “How are we doin’ up there? ”

“Walk in the park,” Mark muttered aloud, without looking up from his work. He had donned his goggles, and is hands were ebony blurs over the pilot’s console.

“We’re good,” Kestral responded to the intercom. “Stand by at the pod. We’re five minutes to launch.”

“Understood. ”

Kestral turned to Mark, who shrugged. “A lot of bucking. Nothing serious so far. Mary’s flying like a dream. Considering the circumstances.”

Kestral nodded and turned back to ops. On her board, the Mary’s position was marked as it approached the star. The projection of the Raian ship was also there, and it terminated at about the point at which the Mary would disappear behind the star. She knew the Raians were familiar with the Oan sundance maneuver, and their standard operating procedure would be to swing about the near side of the star and await their appearance on the other side.

She had no way to confirm that, however. Their plan hinged on the Raians being predictable. And if the Raians followed them around the star, they would be busted.

“Three minutes to orbital insertion,” Kestral announced calmly.

“The Oan freighter is now behind the star,” the officer announced.

“Reduce speed to 90% of light,” K’silk ordered. “Stand by on all external sensors.”

“Orbital insertion... now,” Mark announced.

He had to raise his voice a bit. Mary was now bucking hard and vibrating noisily, and Mark was clearly struggling. The ship could only survive if it walked a tightrope course at precisely the right velocity, and the solar wind and gravitational torque made it difficult to maintain that course and speed. Kestral roved her eyes about the bridge, at the deck and bulkheads, as if she could see through them and visually gauge the amount of punishment being put on her ship.

“Sarander! Heat up the pod!” Kestral called into the intercom. “Stand by for release!”

“Eighty seconds to sundance climb!” Mark called out.

“We’re ready! ” came Sarander’s voice.

Kestral watched the seconds tick by, as she watched the indicators on the ops panel climb. Torque, temperature, gravity and inertial balance, power consumption, all were approaching redline values. And they hadn’t even begun their maneuver yet. It would be close.

“Sarander,” she called out. “I have pod release control... get clear!” She followed their progress on her board, her fingers poised over the controls. “Releasing in five... four... three... two... one... now! ”

On the starboard side of the cargo bay, Sarander stood by the blast hatch for the emergency escape pod, Tirri nearby at a cargo console, watching. As Kestral’s voice came over the intercom, they heard the telltale sounds of releases snapping open and outer shields popping loose. Then came a loud gong, like a monstrous bell being struck against the hull, and a flash from the single tiny port of the blast hatch. Mary barely felt the nudge in her side, but Sarander could feel the recoil caused by the pod being blown out of the side of the ship.

“Sarander to bridge!” he called out. “Pod away!”

“I have it!” Kestral answered, her fingers working over her board. “I read it’s decoy signature, operating as planned. Pod is assuming solar slingshot trajectory,” she said for Mark’s benefit. “Ten seconds to climb.”

“We’re ready,” Mark replied. “Standing by.”

Again, Kestral ticked off the seconds on her board. “Execute climb in four... three... two... one... now!”

“Hang on!” Mark cried as his fingers danced over the controls. At once, the ship groaned, and Kestral felt at least twice her weight push down upon her. Mark struggled to keep his hands steady as he worked, something Kestral could appreciate, considering she was holding on to the sides of the ops console with both hands. Somewhere behind them, a faint sound could be heard, rising in crescendo and insistence... it was Mary’s engines, screaming in exertion.

In the cargo bay, crates started shifting about, pulling against the restraining webbing that held most of them in place. The few that were not appropriately tied down, began to slide towards the stern of the ship, some of them catching on some obstruction on the deck and tumbling loudly away. Tirri took turns watching her board, and the crates around her, while Sarander hung onto a wall strut near the now-departed escape pod’s empty bay. His neck craned upward as he listened to the ship’s engines wailing away, but he dared not try to reach them during their climb... it would mean a twenty-meter fall, into the stern bulkheads. He was helpless to do anything but wait for perihelion. On the bridge, Kestral and Mark now had the distinct feeling that they were lying on their backs... the gravity and inertial balancers had been overwhelmed by the force of their climb. Mary still protested, now about being stood on her tail along with her other complaints. But Kestral could see that other readings were starting to recover, the ship winning the fight against the star as she pulled directly away from it.

“Perihelion in twenty seconds,” Mark stated. “Are we still on plan A?”

“Yes, we are,” Kestral nodded. “Fifty degree port rotation upon perihelion, and re-insertion at nineteen degrees.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

Kestral and Mark exchanged glances, and after a moment, smiled at each other. Then, the Mary seemed to lose all momentum. Mark quickly turned back to his console, rapidly tapping out course adjustments. Kestral could not be sure, but she had the distinct impression that Mark had executed a backwards loop and a barrel roll, bringing Mary about to face the Abignon star. For a moment, the ship felt perfectly weightless. Almost all motion and vibration ceased, and the sudden loss of background noise left them feeling cut off from external sensation, much like being at the eye of a hurricane. The moment the ship began to lighten, Sarander detached himself from the support strut and heaved at the nearest access ladder. He could already feel the ship’s gravity shifting from stern, back to normal... and soon, he knew, to the bow. “Tirri!” he shouted as he climbed. “Those loose crates are coming back!”

Tirri swiveled her head at the pile of heavy crates astern, which were already shifting their weight at the lessening of gravity, and which were poised to tumble directly into the cargo console where she stood. The feathers on the nape of her neck stood on end. “Oh, crap,” she muttered. Then, the Mary began to fall forward at a sickening rate of acceleration. As the vibration and rumbling began in the ship anew, Mark bellowed, “Hold on to something!”

Kestral was glad there was no forward port to stare at: Even if it wasn’t absolutely blinding, the sight of boring straight into a star was not something any human wanted to see. She felt her heart racing, and her breath was caught in her throat, the beginnings of a mild panic setting in. Ship’s gravity was rapidly shifting forward, until she felt sure she was about to pitch over the console and land headlong onto the bulkhead directly in front of Mark.

She squeezed her fingers into the sides of the ops console, until she was sure they would begin to break off at the ends, one by one. But the pain gave her something to focus on, something besides the incredible folly of deliberately falling at a star.

Tirri yelped when the first webbing line snapped and whipped across the deck. The loss of that line was just enough to allow the crates to shift about, putting their weight upon the center of the webbing. If the webbing failed now, it would be as if the crates were falling straight down, onto her head. Tirri had little choice now.

She bolted for the cargo bay doors.

Mary roared. Mark’s face was a mask of desperate concentration, his eyes wide and wild behind the goggles, his lips pursed in concentration. One hand gripped the side of the console, while the other worked his controls. Over the ship’s protestations, Mark had to shout, “Pulling out of dive! Re-insertion at... ten degrees!” His hands stabbed about, tactilely shouting at Mary’s controls. “Fourteen degrees!”

Kestral watched her board and measured Mary’s progress. They were pulling out of their climb, but not fast enough.

“Sixteen degrees!”

“We need nineteen degrees!” Kestral cried.

“Sarander!” Mark bellowed. “I need power!”

They heard no response from the intercom. Mark and Kestral looked at each other, and shouted in unison, “Sarander!”

Sarander had gained the engine room deck, and raced forward to the engine room hatch. Unfortunately, the Mary was now pitching down and racing at the star, and Sarander found that the deck he was racing along was now pitching downward at a wild angle. He was practically falling forward at breakneck speed.

When he knew he could not run any longer, he simply jumped upward... or in this case, outward. Sarander pitched downward, arching over the now-almost-vertical deck, and he twisted himself about to face the engine room hatch. He snapped out his hands as he reached the hatch, barely snagging his fingers on its edge. His grip held, and his body slammed into the bulkhead, the impact forcing a painful bleat out of him. Still, he hung there, gritting his teeth against the pain in his arms, the lack of breath in his lungs, and the stars exploding behind his eyelids.

Tirri heard the second snap, a split-second after she moved. Then three more, so close together that they almost sounded like one. The crates plummeted at her.

Tirri focused on the door, and ran for all she was worth. She was fast... as a rule, all Avians were endowed with quick reflexes, one of the genetic alterations done to adapt them to their homeworld. Any unaltered human would have been proud to be able to move as fast as she had, from a standing stop. But she wasn’t sure it would be fast enough.

As she approached the bay door, she realized quickly that she would not get the door open in time to avoid being crushed. Already, loose atronics components from the crates they had left open were reaching the bulkhead, forcing Tirri to break stride to avoid them. If more loose components fell in her way—

And in a flash, she realized she might have a chance. Eyes wide, she risked a glance at the falling wall of crates. When she saw what she was looking for, she took one step to re-orient herself, and leapt. Somewhere, Sarander heard a voice calling out to him from seemingly everywhere at once. He barely recognized his own name, along with a string of other words that made no sense to him. But he used it to bring focus back to his world, and slowly opened his eyes. He still hung at a crazy angle against the ship’s bulkhead, one foot barely able to reach the almost vertical floor now next to him. He instinctively used that foot to gain a toehold, and with a groan that rivaled that of the ship itself, used it to pull himself upward to the edge of the engine room hatch.

He levered himself over the hatch and fairly tumbled in, losing his hold on the hatch almost immediately. Fortunately, the bulkhead wall was fairly close to the hatch, and he only slid a few meters before slamming back-first into a console. He yelped in pain again, and it took a moment before he could orient himself.

Again, he heard his name. “Sarander! ”

Focus came more quickly this time. It was the intercom... Kestral and Mark, shouting at him from the bridge. Sarander turned himself over, as he was practically kneeling on the control consoles against the forward bulkhead, and scanned his readouts. The ship’s systems were already past most of the redlines, but it was clearly not enough. At the attack angle they were presently at, Mary would soon plunge into the star, ending their first job together rather definitely.

Sarander began crawling about on hands and knees, making adjustments to this board and that, at a pace that only someone who knew the ship intimately could have approached. Then he slapped at a large, orange plate, releasing the automatic inhibitors that were designed to prevent a meltdown in the engines.

And he shouted, “Give it all she’s got!”

Kestral and Mark felt the difference in the Mary’s power output, as well as a new harmonic in the chorus of noise that was their entire world.

“Give it all she’s got! ”

Mark responded to Sarander’s voice by stabbing at the controls again, as Kestral watched their course.

“Seventeen degrees!” Mark called out quickly, the lines on his face beginning to un-knot themselves.

“Eighteen degrees!”

“Come on... come on...” Kestral watched the navigational display, as their terminal course slowly altered itself. Bit by bit, the curve of their trajectory opened, flattened, widened, until suddenly, it did not touch the Abignon star, but prescribed a clean arc around it.

“Nineteen degrees!” Mark cried triumphantly.

“Increasing velocity... approaching slingshot point,” Kestral reported. “I’m activating the second decoy signal now.” She looked at Mark. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

On board the Raian ship, the bridge was silent. Officers watched their sensor stations, while K’silk watched all of them, and his navigation board.

“First Officer! I have a contact!”

K’silk turned to the officer’s station. “Report.”

“It is the Oan freighter, breaking orbit from around the star.” The Second Officer converged on his station to examine the readings. “We have a positive track on its course for the first planet of the system.”

“Interception course,” K’silk ordered. “Lock sensors and targeting systems on the freighter.”

The L’t’meriad came about and began to accelerate. The helm officer reported, “We will be within interception range within ten measures.”

K’silk said, “Good. Bring the weapons online—”

“First Officer,” the Second Officer interrupted. “Something is wrong with this reading.”

“Wrong?” K’silk left the command station and approached the sensory station. “What is wrong?”

The Second Officer pointed a bony finger at the monitors, indicating reading figures and broken graphs.

“Here... here... and here, First Officer. There is a signal from another type of craft. It only happens for a split-second, but when it does, it replaces the signal from the freighter.”

“Replaces? What do you mean?”

The Second Officer turned to K’silk. “From this distance, our sensors record specific readings of power outputs and spectral profiles, which our systems recognize as belonging to a particular type of ship. These readings,” he pointed to the more regular signal, “are those of an Oan freighter. However, these new signals that occasionally appear are from a much smaller craft. Perhaps a shuttle or an emergency landing craft.”

K’silk examined the readings. “Is the lesser signal regular?”

“No, First Officer,” the sensory officer replied. “It seems to come forth irregularly, and only for minute periods at a time.”

K’silk examined the screen, and looked to his Second Officer. “If one reading irregularly appears behind the other...”

“A feint,” the Second Officer finished for him. “They are using one signal to mask the other.”

“Officers!” K’silk snapped. “Reset sensors! Scan for another craft, immediately!”

It took only a few moments before one of the sensor officers called out: “First Officer! I have a new contact!”

K’silk and his second officer rushed to the sensor station. “I read a small craft, First Officer, breaking from the star’s orbit at a fifty degree inclination from the first reading’s orbit. The size of a shuttle or—”

“No, wait!” The Second Officer pointed at the readings. “There! And there! An irregular reading of a much larger craft.”

“Masked by the overriding reading of a small craft,” K’silk confirmed. “Another feint. That is the true freighter!” He wheeled on his helm officer. A glance at his readings confirmed that they were heading away from the new reading rapidly. “Can we still intercept?”

“It will be close,” the helm officer stated.

“Change course!” K’silk ordered. “Maximum burn! We must intercept the freighter!”

The Second Officer approached him, as the L’t’meriad came about again. “Is there a chance that the shuttle... the first reading... might carry the Oan expert?”

“There is,” K’silk acknowledged. “However, an Oan shuttle does not have as great a speed or range of the freighter. It is more likely that the expert is still with them, and that they hoped to escape detection through their ruse. And if the expert is in the shuttle, we will still have plenty of time to intercept it, once we have destroyed the freighter. They have doomed him anyway.”

The L’t’meriad closed the distance between the two craft rapidly. K’silk watched the readings, which continued to intermittently change to disclose the freighter behind the more persistent reading of the shuttle. “Target all weapons,” he ordered. “Stand by.”

“Weapons are locked,” an officer confirmed.

“The freighter has seen us,” the Second Officer abruptly reported. “It is executing evasive maneuvers.”

“We have them,” K’silk stated. “They cannot outmaneuver us. Close the distance.”

The Raian ship spent a few minutes in rapid course changes, but as the Oan ship maintained a rough bearing for the first planet in the star, it was not hard to close the distance by increments at each course shift. Finally, a targeting officer announced, “We are within weapons range.”

“Charge particle cannons,” K’silk ordered. “Confirm lock on target.”

“Target locked.”

“Fire cannon.”

There was no recoil, no bright discharge from the bow of the Raian ship. However, on the various sensory systems, a stream of charged particles were recorded lancing out into the space ahead of them. A brief moment later, a quick, bright flash appeared on the forward screens.

“Direct hit, First Officer!”

“We are recording debris, First Officer,” the Second Officer reported from one of the sensor stations.

“The freighter is apparently spinning out of control, and breaking up.”

K’silk first turned to the helm officer. “Approach the debris at a safe angle.” Then he approached the sensory station next to the Second Officer. “Examine the debris. Find the technical expert. I want to make sure his body is obliterated.”

They approached the site of the drifting debris, and visual screens could identify a cloud of gasses from the explosion. Other readings came in steadily. But after a few moments, the Second Officer began to shift about uncomfortably. “I do not read any bodies.”

“Then the cannon hit vaporized them all?” K’silk asked. “That is... unusual.”

“Something more,” the Second Officer said. “These readings do not seem to coincide with what we would expect to see from the explosion of the freighter. There is...” The Second Officer’s voice trailed off.

“There is what?” K’silk prompted.

“There is less of it,” the Second Officer finally replied. “Much less.”

“What are you talking about?” K’silk rushed forward. “Did they jettison escape pods before we hit it?”

“No, First Officer,” the Second Officer said, his body becoming jerky and jittery. “I mean that there is much less even than that. The readings of the debris left behind by the explosion... even including the gasses of exploded materials... are approximately equal to that of a small shuttle or escape pod.”

K’silk jerked once. “But the readings...” His voice trailed off as he examined the sensor screens. Then he jerked again. “No!” he snapped in disbelief. “They were not false! The Oans manipulated their readings to deceive us!”

He spun upon the helm officer. “Find that other reading! The real freighter!”

“First Officer!” an officer cried out. “I have the first reading! It has increased speed for the first planet! It is almost within its influence!”

“Interception course!” K’silk demanded.

“That’s it... I’ve lost navigational control on the pod. They’re on to us!” Kestral switched the ops monitors back to sensors. “Mark, if you have any more to give me, now’s the time!”

“We’re at full now!” Mark protested.

Kestral examined her monitors. Moamet Jones’ plan to take advantage of their imperfect fake sensor signals, and use a double-bluff to fool the Raians, had worked. Their pursuers had detected the dominant sensor profile of the Mary, plus the intermittent signal Kestral and Jones had rigged up that masqueraded as the sensor profile of the escape pod. It had been Jones’ idea to purposely set the fake signal to broadcast only occasionally, for split seconds at a time. As Jones had surmised, the Raians had detected the intermittent signal and, suspecting a ruse, had made the assumption that the dominant signal—the Mary—was itself a fake, being purposely but imperfectly broadcast over a barely-glimpsed second signal—the pod—and intended to hide the ship’s true nature. Detecting the opposite combination, the intermittent signal of the Mary “underneath” the real profile of the escape pod, had given the Raians the confirmation to their theory. Jones’ plan had worked.

The Raians had therefore lit out after what they were sure was the Mary, masquerading as an escape pod, and ignored what they thought was an escape pod masquerading as the Mary. And by the time they realized their error, the real Mary was scant minutes from Deep Abignon. Unfortunately, Kestral was beginning to realize, they had severely underestimated the speed of the Raian ship, and the response of its crew upon discovering they had been duped. They had intercepted the pod, destroyed it, and discovered their error quickly, far too quickly. They were now heading for the Mary... again... and Mary was still too far away from Deep Abignon to guarantee they would make it there alive.

“It’s going to be close... too close,” Kestral said aloud. She considered her options in a quick second. Then, triggering the intercom, she took a deep breath. “People, the plan worked, but not quite good enough. It doesn’t look like we’re going to make it.” Mark paused from his piloting long enough to glance in her direction, but he said nothing. “I want all of you to get to the remaining escape pods,”

Kestral continued. “Use the port side pods. Once you’ve cleared the ship, I’ll use the pecans to give you enough cover to give you time to reach the planet... once in the atmosphere, you’ll be safe. That includes you, Dr. Jones. Go now.”

She toggled off the intercom, then turned to Mark. “You too, Mark. Get Jones to the Rangers for me.”

“Carolyn!”

“Don’t argue with me, dammit!” she snapped at him, coming up out of the ops seat. “I’m not going to let you sacrifice your lives!” She grabbed Mark by his shoulders and tried to heave him up out of his seat.

“Get out of here now!”

“Carolyn, I’m not leaving you—”

“GET OFF MY SHIP!”

Before Mark could reply, one of the sensors beeped on the ops station. Kestral and Mark both stopped and stared at the panel, but even without looking, they knew what that tone meant. The Mary had picked up the Raians’ targeting scanners locking onto them.

“Too late,” Mark said quietly. “We’re all burned.”

Chapter 14

“We are within cannon range,” the weapons officer reported to K’silk. “We have a positive lock on the freighter.”

“Fire,” K’silk ordered.

From the forward emitter ports, twin particle beams lanced out at the Mary. The beams bisected the sky, their intensity creating a visible glow in the void between the ships. It took less than a second for the beam to cross the distance between them.

But a few hundred meters before it reached the Mary, the twin beams of energy seemed to strike something invisible. The beams glanced off of the invisible barrier, creating a raw white sunburst of energy. The sunburst flared angrily, casting about as if seeking a way past its invisible obstacle, but even its visible light did not seem to be able to cast beyond the invisible wall. The invisible wall between the two ships seemed to grow outward, pushing in the direction of the L’t’meriad. All at once, the Mary was eclipsed by a monstrous shadow.

“Oan battle cruiser!” the sensory officer shouted. “They have blocked our cannon with their shields!”

“Jesus,” Mark muttered. “Those things look awfully big when they drop out of the sun like that, don’t they?”

He and Kestral watched their visual screens as a Ranger heavy cruiser, gleaming like blue-white fire in the glare of the Abignon sun, descended into a position between them and the Raian ship. The cruiser’s shields had effortlessly deflected the Raian’s beams, and the Raian’s twin lances finally cut off. A moment later, they could not even see the Raians behind the cruiser’s shining bulk.

“Ranger cruiser Superman to the Mary, ” a voice boomed out of their intercom, so suddenly that it startled Mark and Kestral. “We see you’ve picked up a bad element. As soon as we clear the skies for you, we’ll be escorting you down to Deep Abignon. ”

After a moment, Kestral toggled the radio. “This is Captain Kestral of the Mary. We copy that. Thank you, Superman.”

“All in a day’s work, Captain. Stand by. ”

Of course, there was no doubt as to the outcome between the two ships. The Superman had the L’t’meriad outclassed by a factor of fifty, in armament, complement, and sheer size. Faced with such a no-win scenario, the L’t’meriad turned in the direction of Raian territory and quickly jumped to C, before the Superman had even the chance to challenge them.

In the meantime, Kestral toggled the intercom and announced, “Crisis over, everyone. Stand down. We’ve been saved by the cavalry.” She stepped back over to the Captain’s station and slumped down in her seat. “Prepare for planetfall on Deep Abignon.”

Mark also returned to the pilot’s station and, after a moment to collect his wits, began setting up his board for planetary re-entry. When he was ready, and had only to wait for Superman’s signal to proceed, he turned to Kestral. “Carolyn, I wouldn’t have left you.”

Kestral looked up from her station, and smiled. “I know that. Next time, I’ll just knock you out and throw you out, you mutinous dog.”

Mark grinned widely. “Oh, you will, will you?”

“Captain Kestral, is everything all right? Did we just hear something about a mutiny? ”

“Yes, but nothing I can’t handle,” Kestral replied, grinning back at Mark.

“Understood, Captain. We are transmitting landing course and coordinates for Research Lab Beta. Our shuttlecraft will follow you in and hold your six. ”

“Thanks again, Superman. See you on the ground.” Kestral switched the radio off and turned back to Mark. “You heard the man: Let’s get dirty.”

“You bet,” Mark replied.

Sarander met Angel as they came around the corner approaching the cargo bay. “Hey, Sarander,”

Sarander smiled. “Everything okay with the engines?”

“They performed like champs,” Sarander grinned. “How ‘bout in the common areas?”

“A bigger mess you’ve never seen,” Angel replied. “Like a tornado hit... everything not tied down is strewn all over. Still, beats being dead, huh?”

“Yeah, I’d say. Going to check on the farm?”

“Right,” Angel nodded as they reached the bay door. “Want to make sure nothing got too beat up. What are you checking?”

“My wife,” Sarander replied, hitting the door opener with his palm. “There were a lot of crates in here, and if the webbing didn’t hold...”

The bay door opened, and both men stopped and stared, eyes bulging. They were staring at a wall of crates, literally covering the entrance to the cargo bay, where they had impacted with the bay doors and piled there. As the door opened, pieces of crates that had been fractured or crushed by the impact, and loose atronics components, tumbled onto the deck.

“Christ!” Sarander exploded. “Tirri!” He lunged at the crates.

“What?”

Sarander stopped upon hearing his wife’s voice. He stared stupidly at the crates. Then he looked to Angel, and realized that Angel was calmly regarding one crate in particular. The crate was apparently open on one end, and Sarander could not see into it from his position. Angel looked over to Sarander, and motioned for him to move closer.

He stepped over to Angel, and looked into the crate. Sarander realized he recognized the markings on the inside edge of the crate... it was one of the crates they had opened and raided for atronics components for their decoy.

Tirri was sitting cross-legged inside the crate, head in one hand, looking back impatiently at them. She had a nasty cut on the back of her hand, and what looked like a swollen cheek, but she seemed to be otherwise intact.

“Baby?” Sarander whispered, mouth agape. “Are you okay?”

“I couldn’t reach the door control,” Tirri stated flatly. “It’s about time you guys got here.”

Research Station Beta had a landing pad waiting for the Mary. Actually, they had two pads waiting, side by side. Both were empty, and Mark brought the Mary down precisely in the center of the pad on the right.

A small group of people immediately streamed out of the nearby research station, upon Mary’s touching down. They approached the port side of the ship, and waited silently by the crew hatch. When the hatch finally opened, the delegation was treated to the sight of Moamet Jones, smiling down upon them. They immediately broke out in satisfied smiles, and looked to one another happily. Jones stepped down to the ground, and was quickly surrounded by the members of the delegation, who took turns shaking his hand and patting him on the back.

Kestral and the rest of Mary’s crew reached the hatch in time to watch this tableau, as well as to witness the delegation heading back to the building in a tight knot, Jones in the center. None of them spared the Mary or her crew a second glance.

“Did you ever feel more like a taxi driver than at this particular moment?” Mark asked wryly, running a hand through his snow-white hair.

Before any of them could reply to Mark, an increasing roar of engines caught their attention. They looked up to see their shuttlecraft escort dropping leisurely out of the sky. Since the Superman was too large for planetfall, it had dispatched a shuttle to provide close protection for the Mary as she landed. The Superman shuttle brought itself about until it was parallel with the Mary, and slowly positioned itself over the landing pad next to them. Then it descended smoothly, and touched down at the precise center of the landing pad with barely a jolt.

Kestral looked amusedly at Mark. Mark simply shrugged. “Decent landing. They probably did it on automatic.”

As the shuttle’s engines began to cycle down, Kestral and her crew exited the Mary, and she headed for the shuttle. As she approached, the shuttle’s hatch opened on the side facing her. When she was close enough, she called out, “Thanks for the assist, Superm—”

Her voice immediately trailed off, upon seeing the first person to step out of the shuttle. The greenish-bronze of his tan set a marked contrast against his white Ranger uniform as he alighted and strode towards Kestral. Tirri saw him from the Mary, and her large eyes blinked in shock. Angel also saw him, and said, “Say... isn’t that..?”

Gellen So extended his hand to Kestral. “It was our pleasure to serve, Captain.”

Kestral pointedly did not take his hand. Instead, she was staring at his uniform, and the Commander’s insignia on his shoulders. “You’re an officer?” Kestral snapped, her eyes fiery.

“Yes, ma’am,” Gellen So nodded. “And may I congratulate you on a successful run—”

“Just what the Hell is going on here?” Kestral barked out, leaning threateningly at Gellen So until he leaned back defensively and threw up his hands.

“I’m sorry, Captain! We could not afford to let people on Kyxha think you were going on a military run. But we needed to get you to Coel, in order to put you in a position to bring Moamet Jones here. In fact, if that pilot Doshu May hadn’t shot off his big mouth to the wrong people on Kyxha, the Raians might not have found out about you at all—”

“This was planned from Kyxha?” Kestral’s arms were rigid at her sides, and her fists knotted and opened reflexively. “You forced me into running a covert Ranger mission... with a civilian crew! Are you out of your mind? ”

Her body language was plain. She was an instant away from lunging at Gellen So, when another voice called out from inside the Superman shuttle.

“Don’t you hit my officer, Captain!”

Immediately Kestral held her lunge, and looked up to the hatch of the shuttle. A moment later, a figure stepped forward and into the outside light. Kestral narrowed her eyes to make out his features at that distance. Then her eyes widened and turned cold.

“Admiral Serle,” she grated.

“Nice to see you too, Captain Kestral.” Admiral Serle was noticeably older than the others, with a thick shock of white hair capping his head. He was also larger than most of the others, with a muscular build, although it seemed that age was slowly converting some of that muscle to fat. As he stepped down from the shuttle, he considered Kestral with a kind, almost fatherly expression. “And by the way, this is the first chance I’ve had to offer you congratulations for finally getting your own command.”

Kestral smiled acidly. “No thanks to the Rangers.”

“I do seem to remember a fairly healthy severance package,” Serle stated matter-of-factly.

“What’s going on?” Mark had arrived at the Mary’s hatch, in time to see Kestral snarling at the same Ranger officers that had just escorted them to Deep Abignon. Everyone glanced up at Mark, with the exception of Kestral, who continued to glare at Admiral Serle.

Admiral Serle approached Kestral. “Carolyn, I’m sorry we had to do things this way. But you know, you wouldn’t have agreed to—”

He was cut off, mid-sentence, once he was close enough to Kestral that she could wind back and punch him in the jaw. Serle’s head snapped around violently, and he almost spun completely about.

“No,” Kestral said, shaking her sore right hand, “I wouldn’t have.”

At the Mary’s hatch, the crew stiffened. Tirri immediately looked to Sarander and whispered, “Careful!”

Sarander looked at her. “About what?”

In response, Tirri looked pointedly at his pocket.

“Oh, that,” he said. “The Spiders took it.”

Tirri did a double-take. “They did? You mean... all this time...?”

Sarander nodded and shrugged in embarrassment. “Should I make a new one?”

Tirri considered only a moment. “No.”

Angel listened to their exchange with interest. “New what?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Tirri and Sarander said in unison.

“Oh, great,” Angel muttered sourly. “More secrets.”

Meanwhile, Admiral Serle had slowly straightened up, brought one hand to his jaw, and used the other to wave off his concerned officers and men, who were advancing upon them in defensive mode. Then he turned back to Kestral. “However,” he continued gruffly, “it was a vital task. And I knew you were the best chance of getting it accomplished. The Raians already knew too much about this mission, and any Ranger ship would have been intercepted instantly.”

“So you decided it was okay to risk the lives of a civilian crew, without granting them full knowledge of the situation!” Kestral took a threatening step towards him. “What the Hell kind of Ranger are you, you bastard!”

“The kind that knows when a mission is vital enough to risk lives, whatever the cost,” Serle said promptly. “Considering the circumstances, you of all people should understand the importance of finding a cure for the berserker.”

“I almost lost my crew! It wasn’t worth that!”

“Yes, it was,” Serle stated coldly. “And you know it.”

Kestral and Serle glared at each other silently for an extended moment. No one else around them dared speak, either, each of them waiting to see what the final outcome of this standoff would be. Kestral moved first. So quickly that Serle flinched, she spun about and headed for the Mary.

“Sarander,” she said when she was close to her crew. “See to getting the Mary fuelled up. Angel, check stores and go get whatever supplies we need.” She took one last withering glance back at Admiral Serle. Then she said, “We have a cargo to deliver. We’re off this dirtball as soon as humanly possible.”

And with that said, she tromped up the ramp, slid past Mark at the hatch and stormed into the Mary, quickly disappearing within its corridors. Mark watched her go, then turned back to look at Gellen So and Admiral Serle, standing next to each other. Serle was looking into Mary’s hatch, as if he could see Kestral within her. When confronting Kestral, Serle’s face had been strong, righteous... the kind of face you’d expect an Admiral to have. But for a moment, his façade dropped, and Mark saw a face that reflected sadness, possibly regret. Exactly the kind of face you wouldn’t expect to see on an Admiral. An Admiral who apparently felt that he had to justify his actions to an ex-Ranger, instead of simply having her arrested for slugging him.

The moment gave Mark pause, and he studied the two men at length from the top of the crew hatch, before turning and going back inside the Mary.

Chapter 15

Kestral did not come back out of the Mary until nightfall, hours later, when Sarander informed her that the ship was fuelled and ready to launch. She left the ship and headed directly for the research station adjacent to the landing pad. She was not challenged at the entrance. Walking in, she found a guard and asked directions. Then she made her way into the station, following the directions she had been given, to a corridor marked in green stripes along the walls and ceiling.

She eventually found what she was looking for, a single unmarked door, and knocked. A moment later, the door was opened by a man in a white smock.

“Is Moamet Jones in here?”

The man nodded and stepped aside, allowing Kestral to enter.

The room was not much to look at. A small but elaborate apparatus sat on the floor next to a medical chair. In the chair was Moamet Jones. His arm had a large medical cuff affixed to it, below the elbow, and cabled lines ran from the cuff to the apparatus on the floor. The apparatus made no sound, but a small yellow light blinking on a side panel indicated that it was doing... whatever it was supposed to be doing, she presumed.

As she walked into the room, Moamet Jones turned her way, and smiled. He waited for her to get closer, before he spoke. “Hello, Carolyn. I take it you will be going soon.”

Kestral nodded. “We’re all fuelled up. Next stop, New Paropolis.” She examined his chair and the cuff on his arm. “I guess you’ll be attached to that for awhile.”

“Yes,” he replied. “It will siphon off the antivirus my body produces, and use that raw material to synthesize more. In a few weeks, we’ll have enough antivirus to inoculate the entire Ranger force. A few weeks after that, the rest of the Galarchy.”

“Very good,” Kestral said.

“I certainly wish we had met under different circumstances,” he told her.

“I agree,” Kestral said evenly. “As it is, I don’t think I will ever fully believe that you had any interest in me at all.”

Kestral’s response clearly stung Jones. At first he stared at her in surprise and disbelief. Then his face fell, and he dropped his head. Finally he looked back up at her. “Why are you here, then?”

“Never let it be said that I’m without appreciation for the gravity of this mission.” Kestral laid a hand on his free arm. “Besides, your work on the sensor decoys saved the lives of my crew. I owe you for that. Thank you.”

Jones nodded. “Will I ever see you again?”

“Probably not. I don’t expect we’ll be travelling in the same circles.” She patted Jones’ arm kindly. Then she turned and headed for the door. “Have a good life, Moamet Jones.”

“And you, Carolyn Kestral.”

Kestral exited the room, pausing a moment beyond the door to collect her thoughts. Part of her had not wanted to leave like that. But she had not lied when she said that she could never fully believe his intentions, not after this. She knew she would never see him again.

Finally resigned to it, she turned and headed for the exit to the outside, and her waiting ship. As she rounded a corner, however, she unexpectedly found herself confronting a figure standing in the hallway. She pulled up short and regarded him.

“I was informed that you had visited the facility,” Admiral Serle stated softly.

“My compliments to your informants,” Kestral responded drily.

“Cut it out, Carolyn,” Serle snapped. “You don’t take that tone with me. I went to the wall for you, and you know it!”

“Maybe you should have gone through it, then.”

“Carolyn—”

“Don’t ‘Carolyn’ me!” Kestral shot back at him. “I’m not one of your pet cadets! If I can’t be a Ranger any more, then I won’t run your errands or bow to your will! I’m a civilian now, with all the rights of any Oan citizen. And that includes being able to tell you, and every other Ranger out there, to leave me the hell alone!”

“If I had left you the hell alone, do you think you’d be here to argue with me right now?” Serle countered. “No, you wouldn’t... because you’d be in a maximum security cell for life, assuming we hadn’t simply burned you alive the moment you contracted the berserker!”

“So I owe you for my precious, wonderful life now, do I?”

“You owe me nothing !” Serle snarled. “Nor do I owe you an apology. So maybe you should stop playing the injured little girl here, and grow up! Things don’t always work out the way you planned. You’re not the only one to be injured on duty, and lose a career. It’s not your fault that you can’t be a Ranger any more.”

Kestral considered his words silently. Bit by bit, her expression softened, and her shoulders visibly relaxed. Finally, she sighed heavily and said, “And it’s not your fault, either. I know that. But having no one to blame doesn’t make it easier.”

“I know, Carolyn,” Serle said softly, nodding. “Believe me, if there was anything else I could do, I’d do it. I’ve already pulled every string I could, to make sure you could get out, buy a ship, and get a commercial license, without the berserker issue chasing everything away from you. If I could reinstate you, I’d do that, too. In a heartbeat.”

“But there are some things that the great Admiral Lin Serle can’t do,” Kestral whispered. “Not even for his protégé.”

“No,” he agreed. “Not even for you.”

Kestral let out a deep sigh, and seemed to shrink a bit. A profound sadness enveloped her, and she dropped her head in contrition and resignation. There was silence between them. Admiral Serle broke the silence by asking, “So you named her Mary, huh?”

Kestral brought her head up and looked at Serle, who had a cockeyed smile across his lips. Then Kestral chuckled, despite herself, and finally smiled with him. Admiral Serle responded by gathering Kestral into his arms and giving her a bear hug. “Fly high, Carolyn Kestral.” He pulled back to look at her. “Captain Carolyn Kestral. And if you ever want to hang out with an old man, you know how to reach me.”

“I know how to reach you,” she nodded wistfully. “Goodbye, Lin.”

“There you are,” Mark said when Kestral stepped back aboard the Mary. “Angel’s back. We’re ready to go, whenever you are.”

“Not yet,” Kestral said.

Mark did a double-take. “I thought...”

“We don’t need to leave immediately,” Kestral explained. “It can wait for dawn. Give you a chance to get some sleep.”

“Oh,” Mark nodded, and grinned. “Well, if you insist...”

“I do,” Kestral said, reaching for a wall intercom and toggling it on. “Everyone, we leave at dawn tomorrow. Get a good night’s rest.” She turned back to Mark. “You all deserve it. And more. Good night, Mark.”

She smiled gratefully, then headed past him for her own quarters. Mark watched her go, and after a moment, he called after her: “Good night, Captain.” Then he secured the Mary’s hatch and, with a final smile directed at nothing and everything in particular, headed off for his own quarters. The next morning was bright, cool, and crisp, with a greenish-blue sky almost empty of cloud. The shuttle from the Superman had departed late the night before, leaving the Mary alone on the other pad. When Mark arrived on the bridge, Kestral was already there at the Captain’s station. “Good morning, Carolyn. Looks like a nice day to fly to New Paropolis, huh?”

“Yes, I’d say so,” Kestral smiled and nodded. “No rush, though. Our schedule is fairly open, so we won’t have to push it.”

“Ah, a nice, relaxing run. That’ll be an interesting change.” He grinned knowingly at Kestral, and took his seat at the pilot’s station. “Hey, boss, you up there yet?” he called into the intercom.

“Where else would I be? ” came Sarander’s reply.

“You’re the married man, you tell me!” Mark and Kestral both heard Sarander’s laugh over the intercom. “Heat ‘em up... we’re traveling today!”

Mark busied himself with his control settings as they waited for the engines to warm up. After a few moments, he said without looking up, “You seem in a chipper mood this morning.” Kestral did not respond verbally, and after a moment, Mark turned about in his seat. Kestral looked up from her console, and she smiled down on him in a way that he was sure he hadn’t seen since they’d met. “I sensed some bad feelings between you and that Admiral, yesterday,” he ventured. “I take it you two worked something out last night?”

“Yes, we did,” Kestral replied. “Everything’s fine between us.”

“And what about Dr. Jones?”

Kestral’s smile faded just a bit. “Well... not everything works out the way we’d like. But that’s life.”

“That’s life,” Mark nodded. He saw a signal on his board that indicated that the Mary’s engines were hot, and he brought them up to speed. “Was the Superman yours?”

“What?”

“I mean, was that the ship you would’ve gotten as Captain? His ship?”

“Oh, no,” Kestral shook her head. “I was up for a light battle cruiser. The Marimont.”

“Marimont?” Mark repeated. After a moment, he smiled, and turned to his console. “Mary is ready to go.”

“Then, by all means,” Kestral said, “let’s get.”

Afterword: The Trek that never was

Anyone who saw the short-lived TV series Firefly will feel a touch of deja-vu upon readingBerserker (or possibly suspect outright plagiurism), but rest assured I am using an original premise and characters, created in 2001. I am also using my original intention, which was to make the setting ofBerserker similar enough to the Star Trek universe to be recognizable to almost anyone as a potential for a Trek series. And who knows? If this concept ever became successful in print form, it could easily be the blueprint for a new television series, movies, or other graphic formats.

For my initial story, I resisted the urge to take this ex-military freighter captain and civilian crew on a galaxy-shattering save-the-universe first adventure (yes, I did develop such an idea before storytelling common sense made me ditch it). Instead, they go through a series of events that help to define Carolyn Kestral, and why she’s flying a small civilian freighter instead of a military starship for a living. Other characters are presented, but not fleshed out ad nauseam as is the penchant of so many stories and TV

pilots... I wanted to save something for future stories, of which, there are potentially thousands. Hey, how much SF has been written about working stiff freighter crews going about their business and trying to avoid military campaigns, save-the-universe adventures and alien encounters?

As with most of my stories, this one was inspired by "what if?" ideas. In this case, the "what if" wasn’t mine, but Paramount’s.

Back when Star Trek: Voyager was looking squarely at the light at the end of the tunnel, Paramount was giving a lot of thought about how to continue the lucrative Star Trek franchise. They wanted a new series to carry on once Voyager had run its course. But they did not initially know what form their next series would be. Most of the Trek fans and faithful knew this, as well, and there were no shortage of ideas pouring in to Paramount’s offices about what the next Star Trek series should be. Of course I had my ideas, too, being one of the faithful from the original series. Foremost in my mind was the fact that, after over 30 years, the Star Trek franchise had become dog-eared, tired, formula. Worse, it was becoming even more commercial and less interesting than ever, Paramount’s executives having reduced its episodes to bland sameness, diluted its messages with political correctness, and shamelessly courted the lucrative teen and young adult market by blatantly throwing babes in skin-tight outfits at them.

(To be fair, it should be noted that Paramount has had exactly this attitude towards Trek since 1966, and in fact, have never really understood what makes it successful in the first place. Given a complete lack of understanding about science fiction in general, and Trek in particular, they have simply thrown at it the same old gimmicks that have proven over the years to sell large quantities of records and laundry detergent. To date, and to their credit, I suppose, they’ve been very successful in selling records and laundry detergent.)

My take on the next series was that the Trek format had been too long obsessed with one element: Starfleet. Trek had followed their paramilitary-slash-exploration fleet everywhere, giving viewers an intimate look at what it meant to be in Starfleet’s ranks, from Academy to Admiralty. And after over 30

years, it was beginning to feel as if the only thing there was in the future was starships, plastic walls, grand adventures, epic battles and exotic aliens.

But there was one area barely touched on, in all of those years of Trek . Sure, there were always tantalizing hints of its existence, but the viewer was never exposed to it for long. I’m referring, of course, to Civilian Life. Yes, apparently some Federation citizens stayed at home, worked in mundane jobs, paid for groceries and walked their dogs! Civilians piloted personal ships and freighters, vacationed, and traded with people from other planets! And civilians were the ones who remained after Star Fleet was gone, living their lives as best they could.

Even Trek saw potential in this idea once: During the run of The Next Generation , an episode called

"The Outrageous Okonna" presented a freighter pilot in an adventure that would have made a good pilot for a new series. I don’t know how much Paramount actually considered a spin-off for Okonna, and obviously nothing came of it. But the potential for exploring the civilian side of the Federation was there. Star Trek: Deep Space Nine came the closest to portraying how the other half lived in a Federation universe. Still, it was still set on a Starfleet-controlled space station, enbroiled in life-threatening galactic conflicts, and the only civilians that were present were either passing through or selling wares... sort of like a shopping center within a military outpost. Not quite a view of civilian life... more like shopkeeper’s lives within hostile territory. Not quite the life of ordinary people. I wanted to see the ordinary people. So I developed a Star Trek series idea of my own, with actually no intention of submitting it to Paramount for consideration—I knew they’d never even find my proposal, under the avalanche of material that was being submitted by fans every day—but hoping that it would be close to an idea that, if Paramount had any sense whatsoever, they would come up with on their own, or would glean from other proposals they did see.

Instead, we got Enterprise . More same-old same-old. (For the record, I have full recorded runs of The Next Generation , Deep Space Nine and Voyager at home. I stopped before Enterprise .) Enterprise just plain never had it, and it died the ignominious death of a series that even Star Trek fans wouldn’t watch. Oh, well.

As I said, I originally conceivedBerserker to be set within the familiar Star Trek universe. However, before I wrote it, I knew that I needed a non- Trek setting for the story... after all, Paramount might never see it or show interest in it, but I still wanted to be able to present it to audiences if possible. So I set about creating a future universe that would have a similar feel to the Trek universe, but with notable differences.

To begin with, the concept of humanoid aliens all over the galaxy was one I discarded right away. It seemed to be a lot more likely that, as we explore space, we would find practically or literally no life that we could communicate, live or work with, but a lot of planets that we could live on, given some work to

“terraform” them (a familiar concept in science fiction, and one which I decided did not need to be overly described in this story). So I populated my universe with humans on these different planets. I postulated that some planets would be tough to terraform, requiring the humans there to undergo some extent of genetic, chemical or physical alteration to be able to survive there. This gave me my “aliens,” actually altered humans, which also made more sense as far as their being able to communicate, breathe our air, eat our food, and function with humans.

And finally, I did create one alien race, the Raians. I gave little detail about them in this story, which was intentional... I wanted to convey the impression that a civilian might have about them, a strange race that clearly didn’t like us. I also gave them a reason to dislike us, namely, the idea that human “manifest destiny” and our ability to alter planets for our own use was a threatening concept to them. This was intended to be a story about people, not technology, so I tried not go into serious detail about any of the other technological trappings involved in the story. I input just enough to make clear the pacing of the story. It can be difficult to justify humanscale time frames alongside the incredibly extended timeframe of spatial distances. Writers invented faster-than-light space ships to attempt to compensate for these issues... and to be honest, I believe this to be the greatest fiction in science fiction. (Okay, maybe the second after matter transporters, but the two are close.) However, as this was to be a Trek

-style story, I used it anyway, with the expectation that readers will forgive me my storytelling weakness this time.

All of this gave me a sci-fi setting that managed to stand on its own inside of modern conventions, with the added benefit of making more sense than more “traditional” sci-fi setting populated with hordes of exotic aliens and weird planets, and the unlikelihood that humans would be able to visit them at all, much less to coexist with the many life forms they would meet. I had a setting that could provide a rich landscape for storytelling, and allow me to show readers the universe from an everyman’s point of view. Then, to my surprise, came a new series by Joss Whedon, creator of Buffy the Vampire Slayer : Firefly was about an ex-military man who now captained a space freighter and a small band of mildly-dysfunctional people around the galaxy. When I first saw it, I had to laugh... other than the mildly dysfunctional crew part, there were so many similarities with my idea for the next Trek show that I almost felt Whedon and I were tapping into the same alternate universe!

Of course, Whedon went in a very different and original direction for his series, stretching the metaphor

"the Final Frontier" to its limit (although not quite its breaking point) and giving it a post-civil-war American West look and feel. He also removed aliens from space, and populated it exclusively with humans on terraformed planets. It’s a concept that sounds strange at first, but which actually makes a lot of sense, and which works on screen... especially under Whedon’s control. Although he sometimes took the western motif a bit too far in my opinion (somehow the old west’s bad grammar doesn’t seem to work), overall it paints a wonderfully rich and well-fleshed-out picture. If you haven’t seen it (and Fox did a great job of hiding it from you), go get the DVD set and prepare for a treat. It’s a shame that Firefly did not last on air, but considering it was the victim of the same lack of appreciation that that has plagued science fiction TV for... well, forever... it’s no surprise. To put that another way, TV execs are well aware that the Trek franchise has pointedly avoided running new episodes on prime time Friday nights for over a decade, and the Trek franchise is now one of the longest running SF franchises in history. No SF show scheduled on Friday prime time has ever been successful on any network... even the SciFi Channel has trouble holding ratings of its premier shows on that night. Therefore, any TV exec that schedules a science fiction show for Friday prime time is purposely throwing it away.

Fiirefly was placed squarely at primetime Friday night. End of series. Also not surprising that they would do so, since Firefly was so obviously not Star Trek , that I’m sure it weirded out the Fox executives no end. (Cattle rustlers and space ships ?!? And I don’t see no Klingons!! What the !%@$*&!%&#!! is this?!?)

Anyway, I finally decided to commit my version of a Trek series to paper (or electrons, as it were). I almost wrote it as originally intended, using clear Star Trek names and references. But in the end, I decided to set it in its own universe, for two reasons: One, I wanted the project to have a chance of life outside of the Trek universe that didn’t seem too interested in it; and two, if anything did come of it, I didn’t want to be sued by Paramount!

As it turns out, in crafting my opening story I did not quite involve as much of the details of civilian life as I had expected to. On the other hand, I was trying to write a story that would potentially fit into a 1-to 2-hour introductory movie or television production, so an opening epic was out of the question. Of course, the story of Kestral’s crew isn’t over, so there is plenty of room to embellish in future stories, to more heavily concentrate on civilian stories, to better define the point of the setting, and the overall theme. The point of the project, of course, was to set up a series that would explore in detail the lives of these civilians in a military-dominated galaxy, and to get a look at how the other half lives. You don’t have to do all of that in one book. There is a lot of ongoing potential here, potential that I may try to pursue in other venues besides text.

Nothing may ever come of it. On the other hand, if it manages to gather popularity, I might have a long-term SF series project on my hands. And I can think of worse things to do than to write about these characters for a living.

Steve Jordan

May 18, 2005

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