Rogue Galaxy Episode 2: Command Material Read online

  As she watched the pair interact with stiff formality, her mind flashed back to a conversation she’d had with Miller yesterday, while the ship was still in hyperspace en route to Bayawah. “Watch out for Beach,” he’d said grimly. “The kid’s got a grudge against Summers, and that will extend to the captain by association.”

  Blaine had known that if her friend and subordinate had had any hard evidence of misconduct by Beach, he would have formally reported it. That meant they were just talking about a non-specific bad vibe he was picking up on. “I don’t know,” she’d said. “Seems natural to me that there should be some hard feelings. But I doubt either of them will act on that.” Frankly, she’d been surprised to find Miller so preoccupied with Beach—usually, it was the danger posed by Summers’s werewolf status and her not-quite-appropriate relationship with the captain that seemed to keep him awake nights.

  He’d shaken his head, though, and said, “Justified or not, I get the feeling Beach is letting those grievances fester—I have a strong hunch he’s hiding something. Besides, Beach is a Christian. I know it’s not polite to point stuff like that out, but there it is.”

  That remark had not sat well with Blaine, and she’d let Miller know it. “Christians get enough flak without us placing them under automatic suspicion,” she’d said. Christians had become a minority during the Thaumaturgic Revolution, when the majority of Earth’s population had predictably converted to paganism. Now there was a common, prejudiced view of the sect that held them to be stubborn and grudge-holding. On top of that, a relatively high proportion of the Provisional’s leadership was Christian. Blaine had been worried that cliques within the Galaxy crew would eventually start taking that fact out on members of the minority. She was not willing that it be her friend Roy Miller, of all people, who instigated such a backlash.

  But he’d stuck to his guns. “I’m sorry, Commander, but there is an issue with trusting Christians,” he’d insisted, and then parroted a common argument: “You can’t trust someone who’s so willing to lie to himself.”

  “Quit being a jerk, Roy. I may not believe in the stuff, but the fact is there’s no reason why a monotheistic belief system should necessarily conflict with the workings of the universe as we know it.”

  To that, Miller had just stood there with his mouth shut and his chin jutting, staring into space. He somehow managed, without being insubordinate, to convey that the only reason he wasn’t commenting was in order to avoid being insubordinate.

  Now, on the bridge, Blaine looked again at the back of Beach’s head where he sat before her, down at the helm. So Miller was acting like a bigot. Generally speaking he was still a fine Security head, and it would be foolish of her to wholly disregard his suspicions. Especially considering that Beach did, after all, have a relatively legitimate gripe against the captain and his werewolf lover—at least, some people might think so.

  Maybe it was because the memory of Miller’s suspicion had roused her own paranoia. But in watching the status reports as they flowed across the small monitor set into the command chair’s armrest, she suddenly noticed that Beach seemed to be doing something fishy.

  Or then again, maybe not. Maybe. He was running power surges from the helm through various other systems. That was a fairly common way for a helmsman to keep busy during a lull: it was a way of insuring that, if the helm was cut off from its own power supplies because of battle damage, it would be able to wrest power suddenly from one of the other, less essential systems without burning anything out, even if there wasn’t time to modulate the diverted voltage.

  Right now he was sending spurts through the communications system. Again, that was nothing unusual. But something made Blaine halt the flow of data across her screen, highlight the reading that gave the history of his manipulations of the communication system over the last minute and a half, and isolate it.

  Blaine frowned at the record of what Beach had been up to over the last couple minutes. He should have already been able to gather enough data by now to assure that the communications system would be able to handle any demands put upon it. But he continued to test it.

  And it looked like the surges he was sending through it had a rhythm to them. A pattern.

  Possibly a code.

  Anyone looking at Galaxy in the right sort of way, or “listening” closely enough, ought to be able to detect the power leakage from the communications system, in the pattern Beach was using to punch it through.

  She uploaded the data into her private AI, whose data was sealed off from any prying eyes (or was supposed to be, anyhow), and once it was there asked the computer if this was a message in any recognized code. The AI told her it matched no known code.

  Blaine checked if he had used the same pattern to check all the systems. He had, including those for which there should be no data leakage and which therefore could not be used to transmit covert messages, so far as was known. Maybe he had only done that to avoid arousing suspicion by treating the communications system differently, or maybe it was just a way to pass the time, nothing more than a peculiar version of whistling “Shave and a Haircut” over and over. After all, the pattern was extremely simple, it wouldn’t cost one much trouble to idly tap it out.

  All this had taken Blaine only a few seconds to think through. Now she briefly hesitated over what to do. One possibility was that she could simply ask Beach what he was doing, but she decided she’d prefer him not to realize she had noticed. She had her AI flag his operation with a query, instructing it to make the flag look as if the computer had randomly generated it, as often happened when the ship’s AI noticed mildly unusual activity. Such queries were generally no big deal, and there was no reason to expect it to cause Beach to panic or anything. She was just curious to see what he would say.

  But right as the flag popped up, Beach logged out of the system, having finished with all the diagnostics.

  Blaine again looked down at the back of his head, and blew a sharp breath out her nose in frustration. The flag had popped up maybe half a second before Beach had logged out. It was impossible to tell whether he’d failed to respond to the query because he’d just missed it before shutting those windows down, or whether he’d hastily logged out in order to avoid answering the query. On the one hand, it looked like he had been pretty much done with all the diagnostics, and so it was a natural moment for him to quit. On the other hand, it did seem awfully convenient.

  Blaine tightened her mouth. Damn it all—she wanted to believe Miller’s hunch was nothing but a mixture of his own bigotry and paranoia, combined with the fact that Beach’s not-entirely-pleasant personality tended to put people off. But what he was doing did seem suspicious.

  She instructed her private AI to keep tabs on everything Beach did from now on, and resolved to do the same. Calling him out now would be useless—she wasn’t even certain he had done anything. Better to keep an eye on him, see if he really was up to something, and, just as important, see if he was up to it along with anyone else. The gods knew that a conspiracy might be enough to tear the crew apart.

  Blaine narrowed her eyes at the back of Beach’s head. If he did turn out to be a traitor, it wasn’t like there were any higher authorities they could hand him over to, for a proper trial. So she’d just have to blow the kid out the damn airlock herself.

  Three

  Farraday announced that he’d forgotten to bring over a trunk of goodwill items for Chavez and his entourage. He sent a communiqué to Shinjo asking him to send a courier to the Galaxy’s airlock to pick up the trunk and transport it back to his quarters.

  Miller wasn’t thrilled. “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think I would have recommended doing that.”

  “I know it’s a little rude to take advantage of Bayawah’s hospitality this way, but they really seemed not to mind. And they swore not to tamper with the contents. You know what a strong reputation Bayawahn oaths have.” Noting how unhappy Miller still looked, the captain added, impatiently, “They’re just kn
ick-knacks, Lieutenant-Commander Miller. You and your people already inspected them months ago, when they were first brought aboard.”

  Miller’s reservations about the trunk were nothing compared to how unhappy he became when Farraday ordered him to keep himself and Cosway scarce till after the meeting with Chavez. He protested that as head of Galaxy’s Security Department he couldn’t simply leave his captain alone with the representative of a hostile power. The whole point of Miller’s presence on Bayawah was that regulations stipulated that, on the rare occasions that a ship’s senior officer had to leave the ship for a dangerous mission, he must be accompanied by the senior Security officer, as well.

  Fine, the captain cheerfully agreed. Miller had accompanied him, thus obeying regulations. Now it was time to obey the captain’s orders, too. He should be safe enough; Bayawah had demanded the same powerful oaths of non-violence from Chavez and his people as from the Galaxy. Supposedly they had, anyway. But if Bayawah Spaceport was playing dirty with them, then they were so screwed that it almost didn’t bear thinking about.

  In the end there wasn’t anything Miller could do about it except lodge his protest and say “Aye-aye, sir.” Which was good, because Farraday wanted to get a nap in before Chavez’s arrival.

  He undressed, dimmed the lights even more, and lay down on the comfortable bunk provided. He didn’t actually manage to sleep, really; his mind roiled with memories of Chavez, and of his mother; with thoughts of his lover Jennifer Summers and the Provisional’s standing order to kill her, of the precarious fate of his ship and crew and of the civilization they’d all sworn to serve.

  He got up a minute before his alarm was set to go off, got back into his dress uniform, turned the lights up as bright as they would go, and sat down at the table to wait for Ferdinand Chavez, Special Envoy of the Provisional Government of Earth and Her Holdings, usurpers (or liberators, depending on one’s side of the table) of the Democratic Empire of Earth.

  Naturally the door chime rang at precisely the appointed minute of their meeting. Farraday got up to answer. Standing there in the corridor, also bereft of any retinue, was the creased, white-bearded, strong-featured face of Commodore Chavez. Maybe a little more creased, and maybe with an even whiter beard.

  Chavez smiled paternally. “Terry,” he said.

  “Hello, Professor.” Farraday had decided to address the commodore as “Professor,” since it allowed him to diplomatically use an honorific without having to address Chavez by a rank that, as far as Farraday was concerned, the man’s treachery had stripped him of. Besides, to Farraday, the man would always be “Professor Chavez.”

  Farraday invited him in and closed the door behind him. The quarters had come with some glasses and a bottle of Pellurian wine, which Farraday had never tasted but which had a reputation for being delicious and low in alcohol content. Farraday poured them each a glass. The men sampled the drink and agreed that reports were true about the first part, and that they would find out about the second.

  They leaned back in their chairs at the little table. Farraday had the urge to loosen the high tight collar of his dress uniform, but Chavez didn’t look like he was about to do any such thing, so neither did he.

  “I see you sent your entourage away,” said Chavez.

  “I knew you would come alone.”

  “Terry Farraday,” mused Chavez, shaking his head. “Who would have thought we’d ever find ourselves like this?... And how is Jennifer Summers? A lieutenant now, good for her. She was one of my best students, you know. And you two are lovers now?”

  “Correct, Professor. You shouldn’t have to ask, we registered our relationship with Fleet Command as per regulations. Or perhaps you’ve lost access to those records?...”

  “No, no, have no fear on that score—except in the case of the Fleet, the turnover of power was quite peaceful, generally speaking, and all records stored on Earth or in its vicinity remain intact. I only meant that things do change, you know, sometimes sadly. After all, it must have been a trying time for you both, what with the rebellion, and the loss of the rest of your allies in the Fleet, and Summers’s transformation into a werewolf.”

  “And your standing order to kill her.”

  Chavez’s face sombered as his eyebrows and his voice lowered. “Not mine, son. I hope you do believe that. The order to terminate Lieutenant Summers hurt no one more than it did me.”

  Actually, Farraday would have been willing to bet that it had hurt both himself and Jennifer more. But for the moment he set that point aside. “The Fleet isn’t ‘lost,’” he said.

  Chavez only shook his head. Farraday had to admit it was a little unsettling, how genuinely unworried he seemed by the prospect of the Fleet’s return. “You really believe you and I will live to see them emerge from that Bubble of Fakkalohn? You think they had mages and sorcerers powerful and skilled enough to pinpoint the moment of their return to within the span of a few years, much less a few weeks or months?”

  “I don’t think the Admiral would have gone into the Bubble if he hadn’t believed that to be the case.”

  “He went into it because the alternative was certain defeat, either death or capture. Oh, I don’t mean to bruise your esprit de corps, Captain, and I don’t mean to cast aspersions upon the valor or skill of individual Fleet members. But it is simply unimaginable that the Fleet could have stood up to the combined might of the Marines and Navy. They would have been catastrophically outgunned. So they created a Bubble of Fakkalohn out of desperation, and ducked into it. And despite the best efforts of the mages they had with them, I’m telling you that the strong likelihood is that they will come out of that Bubble at some completely random point in the future. It could just as easily be a billion years from now as next week.”

  Farraday shrugged. “I guess we’ll see.” He knew there was a strong chance Chavez was right, but he would never admit it. He wasn’t even willing to altogether admit it to himself.

  Chavez said, “Terry, you and your poor crew can’t afford the billion years it may take to ‘see.’”

  Farraday decided he didn’t like Chavez calling him by his first name, after all. It wasn’t like he was still the shiftless cadet he’d once been. “Listen, Ferd,” he said, childishly enjoying the disgust that rippled over Chavez’s face upon being thus addressed. “The Galaxy is not going to simply up and surrender. I assume you already know that, so I can only imagine there’s something more the Provisional sent you here to talk about.” Unless, Farraday reminded himself, they had not actually sent Chavez to talk at all, but to lure the Galaxy into some subtle trap.

  Chavez said, “No, the Provisional does not expect the fine crew of the Galaxy nor the only offspring of the legendary Admiral Theresa Farraday to cravenly surrender. But what I hope to make you understand is that what we’re asking for is not surrender.”

  “Does ‘not surrendering’ include giving up our ship and submitting ourselves to the Provisional’s authority? Because I think that’s what my mom used to call a sucker’s deal.” Immediately, he felt a flush of anger at having mentioned his mother. He’d resolved not to let the conversation be steered toward her, the way older officers liked to do when they talked to him. Now he felt like he’d been tricked, even though he’d been the one to bring her up.

  Chavez was smiling again, a nostalgic smile. “Yes, that sounds like your mother. Do you know I knew her?”

  “What a coincidence, so did I.”

  “It’s fascinating, your glibness. I wonder where it comes from? Not from her, certainly.”

  “You were saying, about us not surrendering.”

  “Very well. Yes, I’ve been authorized to offer you a temporary deal, whereby you retain command of the Galaxy and a large degree of autonomy, but agree to coordinate your activities with ours and return to the vicinity of Earth’s holdings, agreeing not to stray more than seventy-five light years from Earth for the duration of the agreement.”

  Farraday was startled. “What kind of ‘cooperati
on’?”

  Chavez leaned forward, placing his elbows upon the tabletop and interlacing his fingers. “We have our differences of opinion, Captain. But the best chance for peace on Earth and its holdings is if the Provisional maintains power.”

  “The only chance for a just peace is if the rightful government of the Democratic Empire is returned to power.”

  “The ‘just’ bit is where our difference of opinion comes in. Disregarding that, what I said holds. I think you’ll agree, if you consider the question rationally.”

  “Wasn’t the Provisional Government meant to be, well, provisional?”

  “What’s in a name? And what’s one more political flip-flop if this one can bring peace to our little corner of the galaxy? And you can talk all you like about the Democratic Empire, but let me remind you: the bulk of the population stands with us. With the rest of the Fleet having disappeared into the Bubble, you and your ship are the last major bastion of support remaining to that defunct power....”

  “If the population of Earth stands with you, that’s because you people practiced a planetary-scale enchantment to cloud the minds and emotions of its citizens....”

  “Oh, nonsense!” snorted Chavez, throwing himself back in his chair. “Our enemies have been saying that, but it doesn’t make any sense. Maybe it would be possible to practice such an enchantment briefly—maybe. But it’s been months. You really think the whole planet is wandering around under the fog of a spell so subtle that it’s able to radically change their political loyalties, without having any other noticeable effect on cognition or behavior?”