Angeleyes - eARC (11 page)

CHAPTER 12

The Captain said no.

I’d been afraid of that. Now she needed bodies. There are no non-necessary slots aboard ship; you only take what you need. I was filling one slot and half of two others, and we expected more casualties. I doubt she’d transfer me off, given the choice, unless it was to a small in-system craft who needed all three slots filled.

What I did next was a disciplinary violation, but I needed to. And what could they do to punish me? Put me on a warship in combat, outnumbered and overtasked?

I would have to leave everything here and replace it later, or recover it, circumstances permitting.

Of course, I didn’t even know where I was, precisely, other than inside the Grainne system.

I made several passes of the docking umbilicus, and determined the schedule. I’d have about three segs after my first shift to get on it. I’d be reportably late by the time it arrived at the station. I’d be AWOL as soon as they figured it out. Since I’d asked about leaving, that wouldn’t take long. Once again, I should have kept my mouth shut.

But I did it. I pulled sutures from the same engine tech I’d put them into, checked a couple of others, scanned in my notes, and excused myself. I hurried through passages, and found a small box of something on the way. It was a crate, it had labels, it would give me cover.

With it in hand, I jogged for the lift. Just around the radius from it, I left the box inside a lock, then sprinted.

“Hold, please,” I called, as they were about to button up.

I was already late for my shift, and hadn’t been in the twelve days I’d been aboard.

No one in the tube said anything to me. There were ten of us, three carrying boxes, two with terminals I recognized as Logistics scanners. The rest hung onto stanchions and waited quietly.

Someone said, “I wish I knew where this was. But as long as they have uniforms, I can at least get some of my section taken care of.”

“Good luck. Though I’d deal with civvies if we could get another ship for joint ops.”

A Drive officer said, “Or a phase drive unit.”

“Yeah, good luck. I’m sure Brandt’s offices are locked up tight.”

One of them glanced my way, and I recognized him. He recognized me.

“Hey, RecSpec,” he said. That was rude. RecSpecs aren’t mentioned in public except by rank or except as part of Emotional Health.

I nodded marginally and hoped he’d stop talking. The warrant leader next to me gave him that “are you that stupid?” look. He seemed to take the hint.

Through the tiny port, I saw the station approach. It was a black something against the background of stars. It was some kind of planetoid, not inflated, and about as invisible as it could get.

We disappeared into the receiving lock, thumped into place, and the plenum connected.

The lock opened and I tried not to cut past the others.

I was third out, and since I wasn’t carrying anything, the Mobile Assault troop on security duty just waved me past. He did make a point of checking all incoming containers with a scanner and by eye. I signed the station log roster and it spat a badge at me. I’d been afraid it would ask for clearance back from
Mad Jack
, but it seemed happy just to log me. Likely because we still didn’t have everyone accounted for.

I got down the passage fast without looking as if I was fleeing. Behind me, someone shouted, “Hey, Kaneshiro!”

Then I ran. Or rather, bounded and skidded at.12G. I realized they were rotating the rock to even get that much G.

I got around a corner, around another, and slowed.

I found a sergeant, and asked quickly.

“Hey, Sergeant, I may be lost halfway around the station. Where’s Intel?”

“Nah, you’re not far off. Two down, one left, three forward.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

I was near a ramp, and took it down, then headed across to get the left out of the way. Down again, and forward wasn’t hard. Nor were there that many people. I used hands on railings and stanchions and barely touched the stone deck. The railings were just bolted to regolith.

I got to the intel office and buzzed for entrance.

“Identity, please.”

“I have movement intel on UN craft I need to give you,” I said. It wasn’t entirely false. “I need to be discreet.”

I was buzzed in.

There was an orderly at a window that was obviously well-shielded, as well as being thick ballistic polymer.

“ID, please.”

I slid over my passports, both Grainne and Caledonia.

“Kaneshiro. You were just reported AWOL from the
Jack Churchill
.”

“I felt it was important enough to get here to tell you. I didn’t want to tell them.”

“You didn’t want to tell your commander about ship movements?”

“I would like to speak to an agent or investigator. I’ve got more than that.”

“Stand by.”

He turned and talked into a hush veil, for about three segs. I stood and waited. I was used to waiting. It’s part of spacing.

Eventually he turned around.

“Door on your left.”

“Thank you.”

It was almost a lock, since it had a gasket seal. I waved it open and went in. The space inside was cut from the rock and had sealant over what were probably fissures. The desk was a slab of extruded poly with four tubular legs, and the chairs were fabbed folding slat backs.

I assumed the woman at the desk was the investigator. She displayed ID that glowed with airmark.

“I am Special Agent Jeanette Garweil, Freehold Military Intelligence.”

I examined her ID briefly. I had no reason not to believe it.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“Ms. Kaneshiro. Angloyce?” she guessed, reading from her tablet as he offered a hand.

“Angelica,” I corrected, and shook hers with a bow.

“That’s an interesting spelling.”

“My parents were alt-agers. That’s not important right now.”

“Agreed,” she said, with a return bow that was mostly nod. I got it. She was busy.

“You need intelligence,” I said.

“Lots of it. I gather you have some.”

“Yes. I saw a lot of UN uniforms in jump point stations recently.”

“That’s not news. Unless you know the units?”

“Some. I managed a few images, too. I also danced with a few in clubs in NovRos and Caledonia.”

“That’s more interesting. What did you find out?”

“Some contact addys and names. I didn’t know what to ask. But I can ask if you tell me what you need.”

“Ah. I see. We do have intelligence specialists for that. You’re a medic, yes?”

I wanted her to figure it out, not to blurt out a story that would sound boastful.

“Sure. Do your intelligence specialists have friends and lodging pre-staged in NovRos, Caledonia, Earth, Govannon and Alsace? I have accounts, lockers, regular bunkies and clubs, contacts, and I know all the main passages and a lot of the clandestine and service passages.”

“You mean to tell me you’re familiar with every jump point station in the galaxy?” she asked incredulously.

“Well, not all,” I said. “Only about fifteen.”

“You have lodging and possessions, established presence, and know the club staff?”

“That’s what I said,” I replied. “Also make-out cubbies, rental racks, access passages and cargo bays.”

She almost quivered. She was obviously thrilled.

“Yes, then thank you for not mentioning it aboard ship. Things like this are much better kept close.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“Are you offering this information? Maps, charts, whatever you have?”

“It’s all in my head,” I said. “If you have charts, I can give you what I know, and you’re welcome to use my accounts and any gear. I can give intro letters to my friends. I figure there’s people you need to extract and information you want to find.”

She said, “We do have all their schematics and maps. They’re complete.”

I said, “No, they’re not, especially on older stations. Stuff gets rebuilt, shifted, covered over. Volume gets adapted for use. If people are lazy or crooked, the updates don’t get logged. Each mapping is only complete within itself, and often doesn’t show bends or shifts as long as the terminal ends are correctly placed. That’s assuming your copies are up to date, and no one notices you trying to hack in fur updates.”

“That’s valid,” she agreed.

She sat and thought.

“Specialist, that’s a very generous offer, but it won’t really help.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry, then. Can I request you excuse me back to
Churchill
?” I felt embarrassed. I was all ready to be a useful asset, a low-level hero, and it was all pointless.

She replied, “I can, but I need to elaborate. There’s no way to relay that intel quickly, or answer questions on location. You’d know what you were looking at, any assets wouldn’t really. If you were already trained as an intel operator, it might be workable, but even if we ask the right questions, you don’t know how to phrase the answers. “

Damn. “That makes sense. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It might still be useful. Could you redeploy to those locations and provide real time intel to any assets we had on station?”

“Yes,” I said. “The problem is I don’t have any way to justify that kind of money for jumping around, and getting work passage takes time. I’d have to have weeks to get into position.”

“I can arrange to get you into position. There are two problems. The first is that you’re neither trained for intel, nor properly vetted for clandestine warfare. I can’t read you into the things you’d need, and if anything happens, it could be a huge war crimes issue if you don’t. The second is that it’s incredibly dangerous.”

I said, “In the last month, I’ve avoided being tagged by the UN, hopped systems twice, made it out of the blowout, saved a little girl and was on
Mad Jack
when she got hit. Before that I spent seven years floating around tramp freighters and station docks. I know what all this means.”

“Then I will transfer you to our branch. I will call your ship,” she said.

“Thank you.” That was good at least.

“We have our own lodging in this space. You will be locked in. We all are. You can leave with notice, but we don’t want a mole doing what you just did to your ship,” she said, with an almost-smile.

“I understand,” I said.

A div later all my personal gear was delivered to their outer door. A note attached indicated I was transferred from
FMS Jack Churchill
to
Station
[Redacted]. I still don’t know the name or location of the rock they used. I never actually got to say goodbye to anyone.

I felt like crap about that.

CHAPTER 13

The lodging was more than adequate. Much better than a bunkie or a ship rack. I had a king bed I could sprawl in, vidcom, fridge and stove, a separate desk, and a bathroom with a shower big enough to play in, with multiple jets. It was even better than Lee’s. At .12G I slept and showered great. It was still only about three meters square, but I could stand and walk.

I spent two days summarizing the stations I knew, club names, everything I knew about staff and the dates I knew it, cubbies, ships I’d crewed on, even shop names. They didn’t ask for details, but listed my contacts as “professional,” “personal” or “intimate.”

Garweil had the report up on her desk when I saw her next. While she read, I looked at the stone behind her. It had interesting bubble texture, unchanged by gravity. I’d never been on an unblown rock.

“That’s a lot of personal and intimate contacts,” she commented. She didn’t sound like she was insulting me. She sounded impressed. I don’t know if being impressed was strictly professional, or also personal.

“Yeah, I know a lot of people.” I was young and uncommitted. When I wasn’t spacing, I was having fun. I had lots of space to play in.

She said, “That can be helpful, but also a hindrance if they recognize you.”

I said, “They’re almost all people who’d keep their mouth shut. It’s a transient thing. Also, I’m pretty good at not being IDed, when in civvies.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, I’d like to introduce you to an element you’ll be working with. I’m convinced it’s worth the risk. Do you understand the risks?”

“I think so,” I said. “We might be killed in battle. We might die in space. We might get hurt doing something we shouldn’t be doing but will anyway. We might get captured. We might even intercept a load from our own people if they don’t know we’re there.”

“That’s succinct,” she said. “So why are you willing to do it?”

“Because I like my freedom and won’t have any if they tag us all. I don’t like the delays in getting through their system. I’d rather just travel when I need to. Their way is about like living in a prison anyway. They’re also willing to hurt people to accomplish it. So I’m willing to hurt them to avoid it.”

We’d talked about this before, but I knew she wanted to be convinced that I was serious, and that I wasn’t a mole.

“I expect to kill a lot of people,” I told her. “Or help others do so.”

“Exactly,” she said. “You will be an attached contract asset, not military. That way we can deny you if there are certain repercussions.”

“What happens then?” I asked.

She said, “Exactly that. We don’t know you, and you’ll be on your own. The element you’re attached to are military, but they’ve been covered multiple ways to avoid IDing them. Even if we took you at rank, you’d still not really be on file anywhere except here.”

“That’s the part that has me worried,” I said. I really was. I was nobody, and they could flush me.

“I understand,” she said. “If it’s too much, we can revert you to medic and find you a billet. But if you can do it, we really could use your help. It just has to be unofficial.”

“Do I get paid at all? Or is this strictly volunteer?”

“Contractors get paid,” she said. “I had in mind equivalent to a major, with bonuses.”

“I don’t think that’s enough to be completely deniable. On the other hand, I want to make sure you don’t have reason to lose me, so I expect a penalty clause that pays my family or an estate if I don’t make it.”

“That’s fair,” she said. “Of course, you’re trusting us to keep it filed.”

I said, “I trust you or I wouldn’t be here, ma’am. I don’t know who else to trust.”

“You also don’t know who’ll win,” she pointed out.

“That gives me incentive, then, doesn’t it? I do expect to be well paid,” I insisted.

That got a rise from her. “Aonghaelaice, the entire Freehold is at stake here,” she said.

“I know, which is why I’m doing this,” I said. “But afterwards, I expect a tidy chunk for betting my ass on your terms. I’m not a line soldier, and I’m risking my life here. You do need this info, no one else has it, and I have good odds of getting jailed or shot by the UN.”

She looked a bit put upon now. “I thought my offer was generous.”

I said, “I am a medic. You’re asking for stuff outside my MTS. If I get caught, I won’t be a Detained Combatant, I’ll be executed as a spy.”

She twisted her mouth and said, “That’s outdated. They should still detain you.”

“I may have spent more time around these systems than you, lady. They could just press me out a lock with a little extra air for delta V, and say they never heard of me. It would save them so many problems.”

“True. What did you have in mind, then?”

“I want a good contract salary and lifetime Residency status paid. Start offering,” I smiled.

She nodded, offered an adequate salary that I sneered at, then made a more reasonable offer. I held out until she cringed, then accepted.

I would never have to work again. I could travel where I wanted, work if and when I wanted, and be completely free.

If I survived.

The next morning I was taken to a literal hole in the wall space and introduced to nine people. They had folding seats with one for me. There was barely enough room for all of us.

Garweil said, “There are no real names here.” I figured that was for my benefit.

“Troops, this is the facilitator you have been advised of. She has traveled extensively in civilian craft and through numerous stations. You will consult with her on travel and cultural climate, and take her advice accordingly on maintaining cover and concealment.”

She looked at me. “A, you understand that they will choose their mission parameters and you will advise them how to accomplish them within the scope of your knowledge. They have ultimate say, but I expect they will defer to your judgment when possible.”

“I understand,” I said. “And none of this will be archived or recorded, of course.”

“Correct. It’s an entirely free form operation, and you’re an attached, consulting, subject matter expert. You are not a combatant under their command, but may engage as one when necessary, reverting to rank for the duration.”

“Just the duration of combat, right? Not permanently.” I had an image of shooting back at someone and getting my pay slashed.

“Correct. During engagements, pay reversion if they happen to last more than half a day. And if they’re logged on return. It’s a legal matter, so you’re a soldier during those times, not a mercenary.”

“Understood,” I agreed.

She said, “Then I’ll leave you to get introduced.” She stood and bounded out of the room. As the door closed, a faint hiss of jamming started.

There were nine of them. Two women, seven men. They were all young, fit, and could mostly pass for crew.

“Are you all space qualified?” I asked.

“Very,” one said. “I’m the ranking member.”

“I’m Hazel, I guess,” I said. That was my grandmother’s name.

He grinned. “It’s fine if you use a real first name. Unless it’s something really off the wall.”

“No, call me Angie, then.” That part was normal enough. “I assume you’re all Blazers,” I said.

“Most of us have been to the school,” he said. “Among other skills. The technicians,” he pointed at three, “have relevant support training. We’re good in space, on the ground, on surface transport including ocean, and pretty good with accents and languages.”

“Then where do you want me to take you and how do we get there?”

“Well, to start with, we have a transport, registered out of Alsace, and we can ID as crew.”

“I’ve been to Alsace recently,” I said.”They’re pretty strict on documents.”

“I’m told they were. The ship is real. We have these names for that purpose.”

“Okay,” I said. So, these were professional spies. This was something they’d been working on.

He said, “I’m Juan Sylvestre Gaspardeau.” He extended hands, we shook. “I’ll be acting captain.” He looked about twenty-five our years, very fit. They were all very fit. Far too fit for lifetime ship crew. I mean, you can maintain that shape, but it takes a lot of work. I carry weights in G, and try to gym when I can, then go dancing. I’m in good shape, but not what I was when active duty. This guy was. Toned, tan, dark/dark hair and eyes, and a faint arch to his nose.

“Shannon Patrick,” offered the guy next to him. He had ruddy-blonde hair a shade lighter than mine, lighter skin, was quite tall, and lean to the point of being wiry. “First officer.”

Sebastian Rujuwa was a rock. He was huge all over, not just fit. He looked like he could move cargo cubes by himself. He looked to be a mix of Zulu and Chamorro.

“I do engines,” he said, and I wondered how he’d get into most access tubes.

Roger Chalfant was almost normal looking, just toned. He had a glint to his eyes that made me wish I’d met him socially. He was measuring me for dinner. He was the purser.

Dylan Rausch was an odd mix I couldn’t place. “Maintenance,” he said. “Of anything.”

That group had one woman.

“Mira Chesney Zelimir,” she said. She was my size, of very mixed ancestry, and looked like a gymnast, only too tall, taller than me. “Astrogation, life support, and equipment.”

Gaspardeau pointed at the others and said, “Our technical staff can provide pretty much anything we need. At first it was a challenge, now it’s just hilarious.”

“Jack Geranio,” said the one. He was plenty fit, but not the obvious gym monsters the rest were.

Teresa Kusumo looked Indonesian and European, very common for Grainne, not that common anywhere else. She was also a bit mousy-looking. “I do equipment maintenance.”

“Mohammed Larssen,” the last one said. I could just see the Arabic under the Scandi, under the Grainne tan. He was my height and didn’t look as imposing, but that was because his torso was a tube. He wasn’t fat, he just had a very straight build.

Gaspardeau said, “Call me Juan, Angie. Or ‘Captain’ when we get into flight.”

“Will do, Juan.”

“We need to get you ID to go with ours. Then we have to load up. Teresa, get her going.”

“Will do. Angie, I need to ask details.”

She got all my vital stats, then faked things like my birthdate and place. A div later I had a new set of cards, chips and scans for my neck wallet. They all looked well-used and well-stamped. In fact, they covered most of the places I’d been professionally. It did say I’d been with this crew for a month, and they even gave me some velcro patches to show I was contract crew. My Alsacien ID said I was “Angelie Brigitte leBlanc.” It sounded very pretty. I spent a few minutes getting the pronunciation right. I was half Alsacien, quarter Japanese from (notmeiji) and a quarter Caledonian. I had no idea how well those IDs would hold up to detailed analysis, but I didn’t think they were supposed to. They were just supposed to pass checkpoint scans. They looked good enough for that, and I had no idea about database interaction.

Then I told them everything I knew about what I’d seen recently, and they asked nonstop questions.

“Does this insignia look familiar?”

“How many space engineers? Either ratio or numbers?”

“Did you see any of their equipment?”

I was able to ID some units by insignia, and some of the crated gear. I gave the numbers I could, locations, and we compared it to the lodging capacities of the stations and my perceptions of available space.

Garweil was present for some of this, and had a tablet with notes. I sat with her and noticed the screen listed “Facilitator Angeleyes.”

“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” I asked.

“No one knows your name except me. It’s in a sealed file not attached to any net. There will eventually be another encrypted log sent to HQ. It’s a reference only used in this context so I can find the file.”

“That’s good,” I admitted. “What happens if you die or the station gets melted before that gets sent?”

“Then you never existed and you don’t get paid.”

“Uh huh,” I said in disgust.

She shrugged. “If it comes down to that, none of us are likely to survive anyway. I was completely serious about this being war to the knife.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.

I was a spy. I had no idea how to be one. I should probably get some loads on the subject when I could.

I was pretty sure spies didn’t live long.

I wondered if I’d figure out how to bail if I needed to.

The rock had a long portable docking assembly, something the engineers had put together from either spare parts or some made-for wartime kit. It swayed in odd bounces from the harmonics of people and loaders moving through it.

I saw
Mad Jack
at the end. Before that were three smaller boats, two supply tugs, and two others that looked like old civilian or conversion craft. The first one was my destination.

It didn’t have a name on the lockway. I knew it was named
NCA
Henri
Pieper
. The hull design looked fifty Earth years old, which wasn’t great, but I knew of older ones.

I swam aboard and realized this was already starting out hazardous.
Pieper
was not in great shape.

Juan was waiting, and said, “Yes, she’s rough. We had to take what we could get, cheap.”

“I understand,” I said, as I brushed some peeling laminate off the lock controls. That would have to come off before it clogged vents or got into someone’s eyes.

The galley was old. The infirmary had adequate civilian gear, but nothing for serious battle trauma. Many of the meds were within months of expiration. That’s not as critical with modern storage and the ability to reprocess, but it’s still less than ideal.

I was glad I didn’t know anything about engines. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what they were like. I did recognize the controls. I’ve been on ships fifty E-years old. I changed my guess to seventy. I had no idea where they got spare boards. Then I realized some of them were newer boards mounted in cases fastened to the existing cases. The air plant was old, with lots of brazed and epoxied repairs, but it seemed sound. I assumed the tech crew trusted it. They’d be as dead as the rest of us if it failed.