Willful Child (5 page)

“So it is. I’d forgotten about that. I put you on comms rotation, did I?”

“Well, substation comms,” Jasper replied. “Deck Eighteen. But, uh, a lot of people passed out, so my number came up.”

“Whatever,” Hadrian said in a surly growl. “Start monitoring. I’m sure a few people are lining up to talk to us. And someone kill those alarms—they’re giving me a headache. And in the future, Ensign Jasper Polaski—”

“It’s ‘Sawback,’ Haddie. I legally changed it, since I was going to—”

“You did what? Fat chance. You’re a Polaski through and through. I just have to look at you. If you had anything of the Sawback in you, don’t you think I’d know it? Well you don’t, and best not forget it. Now, as I was saying. In the future, you will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘Captain,’ am I understood? Good. Now, prioritize the hails, and get on with it.”

Hunched over and suitably cowed, Jasper said, “System Central Command, sir, on private channel.”

“Private? Everything’s secret with them, isn’t it? Secret this, private that, encrypted whatever. Well, on my ship it’s all out in the open, whether they like it or not. Put them on, Polaski.”

Flinching at the name, his cousin complied. “Ready, sir.”

Hadrian rose and squared his shoulders. “Hell, get the commander onscreen, too.”

The commander who appeared on the main viewer looked pale and shaky, and seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

Sighing, Hadrian said, “Now, Commander. This is Captain Hadrian Alan Sawback, of the Engage-class starship
Willful Child.
I understand you have something of a smuggling problem originating in this system of yours. Indeed, your inability to bring this issue to a satisfactory conclusion has been noted at High Command. Well, I’m here to clean things up. Now, first things first. Please transmit your ship registry for all active space vessels in your system, including automated ships. I’d like to get on with it.”

“Captain, is this on a public channel?”

“The only kind I permit on my ship, Commander.”

“I insist, Captain, that we continue this conversation from your stateroom.”

“Actually, I turned my stateroom into a games room, with a low-g Ping-Pong table and everything. I do have an office, however, which was originally a bridge-access components locker. A tad small, I grant you, but still roomy enough, all things considered.”

The man on the screen seemed to be experiencing discomfort, cause unknown. But he finally managed, “In your office, then!”

Hadrian sighed. “Must we?”

“Captain, I insist!”

“I’ll agree to it this time. But one day, why, we’ll all be free to say whatever we want to each other, with billions if not trillions of strangers listening in, and if they want to comment on what we’re talking about, why, I see no problem with that at all. One day, Commander, all this secrecy stuff will be a thing of the past. Your every secret will be known and given a score of some kind—I don’t know, a gross-out score—and votes will go up and votes will go down, and everybody will be happy.” He straightened. “Polaski, reroute this to my office, standard encryption blah blah.”

Back in his office, and taking his seat behind his desk, Hadrian gestured and an image of the commander resolved in front of him. “Fine,” said Hadrian, “here I am. Now, I’ve got criminals to hunt down and destroy, so can we get on with this?”

“Have you lost your mind, Captain?”

“People keep asking me that.”

“You were clocked at point seven-three-nine—”

“Sloppy,” cut in Hadrian. “I asked for seven-five.”

“A full report will be made of this incident, Captain Sawback, and if it’s the last thing I do, I will see you swinging a pick on some penal moon!”

“Stop prevaricating, Commander,” Hadrian snapped. “As for your penile moon, why, you know where you can stick it. A crime syndicate is operating right under your very nose in this system, which leads to this very pointed question. To whit: Are you a) really that incompetent, or b) corrupt as all hell? Well, I’m here to find out which answer is correct.” Hadrian leaned forward. “Know your ancient history by any chance, Commander?”

“What?”

“There was this thing, back in the stone age of the twenty-first century, or thereabouts. It was called ‘extraordinary rendition.’ Ever heard of it?”

“No! Listen!! What—”

“Let me explain about ‘extraordinary rendition.’ It’s where a government decides one of its own generals is, and I quote: ‘terrible, and indeed terribly engaged in terroristible activities,’ and yes, that is a quote. Leading that government to swoop in, covertly, and kidnap that general and throw him into a guano-filled cell—that’s right, guano-filled. That was actually specified. Granted, the Benefactors’ rogue EM burst scrambled records a bit, but we’ve recovered plenty. Plenty! Once in that cell, the general was tortured with boards and water, which is assumed to be the evil side of surfing.” Hadrian leaned back. “Kidnapping. Torture. All … acceptable behavior, so long as it comes from the good guys. Just to make this present situation clear to you, Commander. Either you’re incompetent or corrupt, but either way, it’s an act of
terroristibleness.
”

“Are you threatening me? With …
kidnapping and torture
?”

“My mandate is the truth, Commander, and if that takes me down into the cesspit of your command structure in this system, well, the only one coming up smelling of roses will be me.”

“Are you insane?”

Hadrian waved a hand. “Geniuses field that particular question every day. Now, I believe we’re approaching your station. Have you sent us the registry list, Commander? I don’t really want to waste time in this cruddy armpit of the Affiliation. Let’s get on with it and the sooner that’s done, the sooner I can get out of your hair.”

“You have threatened to kidnap and torture me, Captain! And now you expect me to cooperate with you?”

“Relax, I won’t be kidnapping you. Why would I? I can tell already that I don’t even like you. Ever heard of Stalkerhome syndrome? What with your talk of penile moons, the last thing I want is you hanging around. So, let’s get together on this detail: the more we work together here, the faster we can see the last of each other.”

“Fine!” The commander threw something at Hadrian’s image. The connection fizzled and winked out.

Hadrian rose from his chair, adjusted his lime-hued polyester shirt, and then returned to the bridge. “Comms, we got that registry list yet?”

“Just came in, Captain,” Polaski replied.

“Good. Now, separate out the automated vessels. We’ll track them down and request their ship logs.”

Sin-Dour moved up to stand beside the command chair even as Hadrian was sitting down. “Captain, the likelihood of a suborned AI being engaged in smuggling is very remote. This is surely an activity involving real people.”

“Of course, somewhere down the rabbit hole, there’s probably a corpulent, pimply twat at the very heart of the operation. I am aware of that. But that arch-criminal Dr. Wu or whatever his name is, well, he’s smart. He thinks outside the FedEx box. I’ve taken the measure of the local fleet commander and I’m pretty sure he isn’t corrupt. There’s a more obvious reason why he hit the ceiling and ended up in this backwater. So, think, 2IC—wouldn’t that fool follow the Book on investigative procedures? Of course he would, and so he did, and found nothing. No, Sin-Dour, just take my lead on this, and we’ll end up in a bed of clover.”

“Uh, of course, sir.”

Polaski said, “Captain, we have the courses and destinations logged, and all have confirmed they are presently where they should be.”

“Helm, set a course to take us to each automated cargo vessel in turn.”

Sin-Dour had returned to the science station, and must have been studying the particulars of the AI vessels, for she now said, “Captain, one of the AI ships is not a cargo ship.”

Hadrian spun in his chair. “Really? What is it, then?”

“Private pleasure craft, sir. No crew—no biologicals aboard at all.”

“Ship history? Who was privately taking the pleasure of this craft?”

“Rather vague,” Sin-Dour admitted, frowning at her screen. “But worthy of note: there’s no evidence of this craft ever taking on consumables.”

“Since when does an AI decide to become a pleasure craft so private no one’s allowed on board? Is that strange enough for you, 2IC?”

“It is, Captain,” she said, straightening to face him, and did he note a hint of admiration in her regard?

“Helm, let’s pounce on that yacht. Forget the rest for now. Sin-Dour, what’s the ship’s name?”

“
IPS
Tammy Wynette,
sir. No, wait—it now identifies itself as
The Black Hand
. Oh, not anymore. Now it’s the
Catch Me If You Can.
”

Joss Sticks shouted, “Target vessel has changed course and powered up!”

“Pursue, Helm! On screen!”

“Now it registers as the
Crap They’re On To Me—
”

“Never mind the ship’s name, 2IC! Track and tag its antimatter signature—it’s heading into that swarm of inner satellites and junk. Screens at full. Red alert!”

FOUR

“Lieutenant Galk! Combat cupola on the double!”

The Varekan’s voice was laconic as it replied via ship speaker.
“Presently emplaced, sir. I am tracking the rogue vessel.”

“Electronic invasives, Galk. Shut the engines down on that yacht.”

“Negative, Captain. All efforts blocked—this AI is able to counter even the most sophisticated suborning routines.”

“Really?” Hadrian squinted at the main viewer. “Where is it, anyway?”

Sin-Dour said, “We are presently twenty-two thousand kilometers from the vessel. It is a rather modest yacht, sir. Nine meters in length. Total mass—oh, what’s this? Captain! I’m now reading a humanoid life-form on board. Previously disguised by some kind of personal stealth device, I believe, sufficient to hide from passive scans, which has just failed due to the intensity of our active scanning.”

“Joss, extreme magnification on the target!”

Something blazed onscreen, a raging fire that bathed the entire bridge in blinding light.

“What is that?” Hadrian demanded.

“Extreme magnification, sir! I think it’s a thruster!”

“Back off a few stops, will you? I think my retinas are on fire.”

The view pulled back to reveal a slim, elegant vessel. It was sliding planetward, almost skipping the atmosphere. Plasma bloomed and then faded, and then bloomed again.

“The rogue vessel’s engines are straining, Captain,” said Sin-Dour. “Now fourteen thousand kilometers.”

“Galk! Ready a missile.”

“Shall I obliterate the enemy, Captain?”

“No! A
small
missile. Take out its in-system drive.”

“I would rather use the starboard railgun, sir. Kinetic.”

“You think you’re that good, do you? If you mess this up, Lieutenant, I’ll have you hunting dustballs with a hand-pump vacuum cleaner on Deck Twenty.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Sin-Dour, ready the gravity snare.”

Hadrian licked his lips. This was what the space age was all about. The
Willful Child
shuddered as the starboard railgun powered up, electromagnetic fields churning to insane levels along the ultracooled track. In his mind he saw the selected projectile edge free along its angled runner, rolling gently down to drop and then halt in midair, trapped in the EM fields. “Galk! What’s the mass of the projectile you’re using?”

“Bee Bee.”

“Bee Bee?”

“It is the size of a Bee Bee, sir. Copper, not lead. Not a pellet, sir. A Bee Bee. Target acquired. Firing now.”

Hadrian leaned forward. He saw a small cloud of ionized gas puff from the yacht’s stern, and the main engine nozzle flared and then went dark. “Nice shot, Galk. You get to play with the BFG a little while longer. 2IC! Snare that bastard.”

“We have it, sir. The vessel’s AI has gone dark.”

“I just bet it has.” He rose. “I’m displacing to that ship.”

“Captain! Surely a security team—”

“Not a chance.” Hadrian walked to a secure cabinet. Its sensors recognized him and the iris opened. He reached in and withdrew a Negator Gravimetrix hand weapon, Model 13.1, Officer Issue, Terran Space Fleet. The grip tingled as the weapon acknowledged his identity and powered on. The pistol’s weight was solid and reassuring. “Localize the Insisteon, Sin-Dour. On me.”

“Insisteon active on you, Captain.”

Hadrian settled into a crouch. “Start the argument,” he said with bared teeth. “Put me right in front of that humanoid.”

The Insisteon initiated its argument with the universe. The Refute-Debilitator kicked in.
Captain Hadrian is not here. He is over there!
And in a flash, Hadrian vanished from the bridge of the
Willful Child.

He reappeared on a cramped deck, with the smuggler standing before him.

A hand chopped down on his wrist and the Negator went flying.

“Damn!”

A fist slammed into Hadrian’s jaw, snapping his head back. Bellowing, he shook himself and then launched himself at the man. Grappling, they fell to the deck.

Hadrian drove one knee up into the man’s crotch, heard something crunch. His foe grunted and threw the captain to one side, where he slid across the floor and collided with a stack of crates. The uppermost crate tumbled down, one corner landing on Hadrian’s right calf.

“Ow!”

Hadrian kicked out, sending the crate across the floor. It slammed into the face of the man just as he was getting to his hands and knees. The captain rose and flung himself over the crate, landing atop the smuggler.

Who stood up anyway.

Hadrian found himself clinging to the man, staring at the back of his knees.

The smuggler then dropped down.

The top of Hadrian’s head struck the floor. A white explosion filled his skull. He peeled off the man’s back and folded up on the deck.

The smuggler kicked him in the face. Blood spurted. But, oddly enough, the impact cleared Hadrian’s head. Roaring, he surged to his feet and pounded his fist into the man’s left temple. Something crackled.
My hand!
He followed up with a punch to the stomach, and then, taking hold of one flailing arm, he executed a perfect twist, step, turn, and throw, sending his opponent slamming against the far wall.