“I don’t doubt the potential benefits,” Grady said. “But there are risks, too.”
“Risks?” Lorcan said.
Grady almost bit his tongue. He didn’t want to disclose the possible threat represented by the energy vampires. Mainly because it hadn’t yet been proven, but also, he didn’t know if the creatures could move between realities—the danger may only exist in his iteration of the multiverse.
Besides, he didn’t want this first meeting with people he hoped would become allies to end on a sour note. Better not to share what Fidelon had told him until the need arose. And if the Manteku remained rooted in his home dimension—unable to bridge realities—then the risk to the inhabitants of this one was non-existent.
“It’s only that we know nothing about the other parts of the multiverse,” Grady said, hoping no one had noticed his momentary hesitation. “Not everyone may welcome the sudden arrival of strangers from another reality, no matter how benign their intentions.”
He sat forward and placed his hands on the table. “But remember, right now we’re stuck here. The whereabouts of Fidelon, our only means of returning home, are unknown. I can’t even be sure of getting my own ship and crew back to where we belong, let alone facilitating interdimensional travel for anyone else. Chances are at least fifty-fifty that we may be stuck here for an extended time.”
“Then the sooner we verify your story, the better,” Lorcan said. “That way, we can begin working together, particularly if you and your crew are indeed stranded here.”
“Music to my ears,” Grady said. He glanced at the ceiling. “Meanwhile, Mal, have you been monitoring this discussion?”
“Aye, Matey, I’m all ears,” came the AI’s voice from the roof-mounted speakers. “Figuratively speakin’, that is, since I’m a digital, non-corporeal entity. And anyway, a physical being who is composed of ears and nothin’ else sounds bizarre to me. How would they get around, for starters? Then there’s the insurmountable—and gross—difficulty of eatin’. Ugh.”
Grady sighed and said, “The material I mentioned earlier.”
“Already prepped and ready to send to the lead rebel ship, so it is, Cap’n. Shall I hit the virtual button and release it to our putative brethren?”
“Affirmative.”
“Will do, arrr.”
Lorcan sat back, his eyebrows almost meeting in bemusement. He chuckled and said, “You have the strangest AI. Are they all like that, where you come from?”
Before he answered, Grady couldn’t help noticing that Lorcan seemed willing to accept they were from another dimension, even if his second-in-command continued to harbor serious doubts. “I think it’s safe to say our AI is one of a kind. He figured since Cavill declared us to be pirates in control of a stolen Earth Galactic gunship, he might as well act the part for as long as we are in the Badlands.”
Lorcan uttered a ringing laugh and pushed to his feet, followed by Zhou and Myers. “Unique indeed, as has been this entire meeting.” He looked Grady in the eye. “I’m still not entirely sure what to make of you, your crew, and this ship. You’re either a clone of my friend, with all his mannerisms pretty much as I remember them, or the real deal. Since human cloning is both outlawed and, as far as we know, not viable, that leaves me wondering if you’re telling the truth.” He took a last sip of coffee, set the mug on the table, and looked from Grady to Zoe and Chalmers. “I still have tons of questions, which the footage you sent will help answer. After it’s been vetted, of course. Meantime, thank you for your hospitality.”
“My pleasure,” Grady said. “But before you go, I have a question of my own, if you don’t mind.”
“Go ahead.”
“We were attempting to sneak into the Badlands in search of a repair facility to fix our unstable fusion drive, expecting to encounter pirates and slavers. Instead, we find rebel ships, with the Interstellar Coalition calling the shots. Where we come from, the IC steers clear of the Badlands. What gives?”
Lorcan smiled. “That’s a question for the chief.”
With Myers and Zhou trailing after him, he stopped at the threshold and turned. “If we’re satisfied with the material you provided, and the scout I’m dispatching to search for the Earth Galactic fleet verifies your report, then I’ll escort you to our base in the Badlands myself. I’m sure the chief will be most interested to meet you.”
9
Starlight glinted off the ominous bulk of the colossal starcarrier as it hung in space, maintaining a steady position thanks to short bursts from its maneuvering thrusters. Unlike when Grady and his crew encountered her, Ganymede was no longer alone. She now formed the focal point of a growing armada of vessels of varying sizes and shapes, though none rivaled the sheer mass of the Earth Galactic Space Navy’s flagship.
Brice Cavill stood on the spacious bridge with his feet shoulder width apart and balanced, his finger tracing the contours of his meticulously groomed mustache. Irritation at the escape of the rebel gunship the previous day still rankled, and he had taken considerable delight in venting his spleen on the two surviving chase pilots when they returned to the carrier. Despite the greater maneuverability afforded by the fighters the pair flew, the stolen gunship outhandled and outmaneuvered them, before escaping into the void.
The actions of the gunship’s captain, who, for reasons unknown and bizarre, had assumed the identity of a deceased—and disgraced—junior officer, had been nothing short of brazen. He had closed in tight, skimming the starcarrier’s hull. With the fighters in close pursuit, Cavill had no choice but to order the ship’s point defense system to track the enemy craft but not engage it, for fear of hitting their own pilots. Had he known that they would allow the enemy to slip away, he might have given approval for the carrier to open fire, regardless of the consequences.
After handing the pilots a severe dressing down, he fumed in his cabin. He was tempted to plot a search grid in an attempt to locate residual fusion particles from the gunship’s departure course before the trail dissipated, but quashed the notion when fresh orders were received. Fleet Admiral Miranda R. Casey was set to arrive the following day to take command of the task force assembling to strike at the heart of the Badlands in an operation planned for several months. She would direct the campaign from Ganymede, which would carry her flag.
Cavill should feel honored. Instead, as he surveyed the well-drilled efficiency of his bridge crew, he ground his teeth, his lips curling into a silent snarl. It should be him leading the fleet, not some desk-bound bureaucrat with little actual combat experience. Casey was said to be a brilliant organizer, meticulous and clever. And had friends in high places, the highest. She and Grand Marshall Zhang, supreme commander of all Earth military forces, were old friends. Close friends, and perhaps more. Rumor had it they had been—perhaps still were—lovers. Malicious gossip added this was why Casey had been given the plumb assignment of rooting out the last remaining rebel strongholds in the sector, starting with the Badlands base.
But only when Earth Galactic had assembled one of its largest fleets of spacecraft ever. Enough firepower to overwhelm even the stiffest resistance the Interstellar Coalition could mount in this remote, but little known, sector of space. After all, it wouldn’t do to have one of the Grand Marshall’s favorite paramours—she was reputed to be prolific when it came to the bedroom—embarrassed by a failed mission.
The admiral would assume operational oversight of the fleet, including Ganymede, upon her arrival. That wasn’t until tomorrow. Today, Cavill had an assignment of his own to hand out. One that need not concern the admiral or her powerful lover.
“ETA?” he asked in a crisp, clear voice.
A junior lieutenant looked up from the holo facing her as she sat at her station a few feet away. “Approximately twelve minutes, sir.”
“Very good,” Cavill said. “Have them escorted directly to briefing room three as soon as they disembark.” He didn’t bother responding to the lieutenant’s hurried confirmation of his order. Instead, he looked at the officer seated in the command chair. “You have the bridge, Hoffman.” The woman acknowledged with a curt nod and a simple, “Captain.” Satisfied, he turned on his heels and strode for the exit, nodding to the armed marine stationed at the doorway as he passed.
Several minutes later, Cavill found himself seated alone in a small conference room, the overhead lighting harsh and furniture sparse. Located two levels below the bridge, it was at the end of an isolated corridor, with easy access to the nearest bank of elevators. Ideal for convening meetings with contacts who favored anonymity, preferring to avoid general scrutiny. Such as the people—he used the term loosely—he was about to meet with now.
As he waited, his fingers drummed an upbeat cadence on the smooth, white, plastiform surface of the small rectangular table fixed to the deck. His thoughts drifted to the peculiar communication with the commander of the escaped rebel gunship. The man had the effrontery to call himself Jack Grady. He even sounded like the dead officer, as far as Cavill could recall. What was that all about? Whether pirate or rebel, why the strange subterfuge? What was to be gained by such an odd deception?
A deeper search of the ship registry had yielded a result. A gunship with the same numerical designation as the rebel vessel was reported destroyed during an engagement about three years ago. Now it reappeared. Although modified and enlarged, it was the same craft, without doubt. Not the first time a vessel classified as lost was claimed as salvage by the enemy and repurposed. No great mystery, then. But the identity of its captain puzzled him, like an itch in that spot low-down between his shoulders he felt compelled to scratch but couldn’t quite reach. It was unfinished business. And he hated unfinished business.
Cavill ordered Ganymede’s AI to display a holo and, using his captain’s authorization, called up the service record of Lieutenant Jack Grady. He subconsciously licked the underside of his mustache as he perused the information. Born on New Ireland colony. Joined the Earth Galactic Space Navy five years prior. Posted to the Gany as a Sub-Lieutenant after completing basic training with distinction, finishing in the top echelon of his cohort. Popular with his peers. A capable officer with a promising career ahead of him.
Then came the rebellion, which threatened to consume Earth Galactic’s far-flung colonies and space stations like a flame to dry tinder. Cavill recalled the day it reached the Gany. As second-in-command, he’d organized a network of informants among the thousands of men and women of diverse backgrounds—many not born on Earth—who constituted the crew. He smiled to himself, recollecting how he even went so far as to let it be hinted in certain circles that he harbored secret sympathies for the rebel cause.
It was a lie, of course. But it worked. He heard whispers about a possible mutiny. Even though the details were sparse, and the date unknown, he surreptitiously placed a heavily armed marine contingent on twenty-four standby, ready to quash the uprising. And warned Captain Bauer.
With a snort, Cavill leaned back, his gaze unfocused. Bauer was an old fool, nearing retirement. He refused to believe the danger was real. “Not on my ship,” he declared, stamping his foot, when Cavill disclosed details of mounting sedition aboard the starcarrier. They’d met in this very conference room, just the two of them. “My officers swore an oath of loyalty,” Bauer had asserted, pinning Cavill with a piercing glare, his spittle-flecked lips quivering. “They would never debase themselves or shame their families by joining the revolt. Never.”
