The Absconded Ambassador Page 6

  “The ambassador is receiving the best care the station can afford. Give her forty-eight hours. By your accounts, most of the shipments will not be ready to load out until then, anyway.”

  The Yai thought a bit more, wringing her hands, then nodded. “So it will be. Please pass on my best wishes to the ambassador for her recovery.

  “But of course. Thank you for your time, Honored Reeve.”

  The Yai stood, and the women traded bows, Shirin’s a shade deeper.

  Once the woman was out of the room, Shirin slumped back in her chair. “One down, twenty-five to go. Who’s up next?”

  “Ugn Fa, assistant to the Nbere ambassador. It looks like he’s complaining that his boss is being seated next to the Gaan. He says they stink.”

  “This one will at least be easy.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t give a crap about this complaint. He just wants to be heard.”

  “Got it,” Leah said, heading to the door to let the Nbere in.

  Six: Rescue Op

  IT HAD TAKEN FIVE HOURS, three calls, and a generous transfer of cash, but by 1600, Roman and King were strapping in to a Fader-7 HX with an after-market pulse cannon and a thoroughly illegal Ethkar cloaking system.

  Commander Bugayeva pulled rank and got them jumped ahead in the flight schedule, cleared for departure at 1610.

  Roman loaded the coordinates they’d gotten from Zoor, setting the computer’s navigation system to the task of plotting a course that would bring them to the hideout with minimal exposure and maximum speed.

  “How certain of this lead are you?” King asked as they squared the gear away.

  “It fits the region’s tale types, and presents a good, rounded story—we go and fight on the rescue op while Shirin and Leah cover. This type of world pulls on me differently than the rest of you. We’ll each have a couple of twists along the way, but my gut tells me we’re on the right path.”

  King nodded. “Then we’re on the right path. Are we forgetting anything?”

  Roman tapped a few more controls, then left the pilot’s seat to grab one more crate from the docking area, dragging it inside.

  “Almost. This here’s our doorknocker.” Roman patted the crate. Gently.

  “That’s not what I think it is,” King said.

  “Unless you outright say what you think it is, we have plausible deniability. You can call me reckless once we’ve gotten in and secured the ambassador.”

  “I’ll call you reckless any damn time I want to. But if it works, it works.”

  “It’ll work,” Roman said. “I’ve had to lean into the Action Hero archetype, so let’s use it. Keep me from going overboard, and let’s sew this up quick.”

  King pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly not comfortable with the risks Roman was suggesting they take. “Finish up the start sequence. Let’s get this disaster on the road.”

  * * *

  Ten hours in, Leah wanted to throttle someone. Many someones. Gray people, green people, brains-in-jars people, and four-armed contrarian people.

  Every meeting, Leah had to digest another lump of background information, political history, cultural context, species dimorphism, and beyond.

  Possibly worse than the information overload were the dinners. So. Many. Dinners.

  At 1500, they’d moved from Laran’s apartment to a nearby restaurant, where they’d taken five back-to-back dinner meetings, each running around 45 minutes.

  “Sharing a meal is a powerful social adhesive, not just for humans,” Shirin had said when their partners for dinner number three walked into the restaurant.

  Now, hustling to another restaurant for dinner number six, Leah’s stomach sloshed like she was an overfull water cooler. Thankfully, one of the dinners had been nothing but tea (Nai), and another — the one with the Xenei guildmaster — just involved little fish being dumped into the guildmaster’s fishbowl, whereupon the brain opened up a fleshy maw and gobbled the fish up.

  Leah’d excused herself to the restroom, but managed to keep her three dinners down.

  Tolerance, Leah, she told herself. Chances were, the Xenei would think human eating was just as disgusting.

  “Can I just have water at the next one?” Leah asked, as plaintive as she could manage while keeping her food down.

  “Of course not,” Shirin said. “This next meeting is with a Gaan prelate, and he notices everything.”

  “Can we at least explain that this is our sixth dinner, and that when I say I really couldn’t have another appetizer, it’s not politeness, but physiological reality?”

  “No.”

  “Also, how are you keeping up without hurling? Aren’t metabolisms supposed to slow down when you get older?”

  Leah was a half step behind Shirin, but she could see the older woman’s smile move her hair. “I didn’t eat anything for breakfast.”

  “You told me I needed to get my strength!”

  Shirin turned the corner and stopped. “Yes, and you did. I’ve learned to portion out my strength. Plus, I dealt with this a lot growing up. You should see the dinner parties I went to as a teen. Five hours, twelve courses, and pots of tea so caffeinated you could practically see through time.”

  Leah caught up to Shirin and saw the new restaurant, which looked like a wallow. Actually, it was a wallow. A wallow with flattened stone disks beside muddy pools, Gaan servers carrying platters on their noses.

  “Really?” Leah asked.

  “Hey, at least here we get to recline. It’ll be good for your digestion.”

  “But the mud! And none of that looks like food?”

  “Keep your voice down. We don’t want to offend. The prelate is there, third from the left. And don’t comment on his size.”

  When in Rome, Leah recited to herself, putting on her polite smile as she followed Shirin through the less-muddy parts of the artificial wallow, making their way to the prelate, already on his side, covered in mud.

  “Prelate!” Shirin said, throwing her arms open wide. “It’s been too long.”

  The prelate snorted in response, trunk rising and waving in a more-than-passable imitation of a diplomatic wave.

  It’s just another improv sketch, Leah told herself, trying to stay cool as she sat down (in mud) to converse at length with a talking, nude, and self-bathing elephant-lizard-person.

  Like you do.

  * * *

  The artificial floor only looked muddy. So while Leah was still lying prone beside a mud pit, the prelate half in the pit and still bathing himself, she was not herself asked to bathe herself or sit in dampness.

  Luckily, Shirin was even more at home, charging ahead conversationally.

  “But Prelate, certainly you can’t be thinking of rescinding your endorsement. You and I both know what happened to the last prelate who stepped back on a treaty.”

  The prelate lifted a strip of barely cooked meat with his trunk and dropped it into his mouth. He spoke while chewing (which Leah’s wrist-screen said was a mark of trust and respect and should not be met with grimaces, despite teeth).

  “Prelate Mevk’s failures are his own, his time is his own. The broken promise here is Reed’s, not mine. I will support a healthy alliance, but the Terran has let a simple illness waylay her from this historic agreement. How are we to partner with a people so delicate? How can I entrust Gaan lives with such fragile Terrans ?”

  The Gaan were very proud of their toughness, they valorized it. Her dossier included a half-dozen Gaan sagas and when she’d glossed over the summaries, it seemed like they were all about persevering, stoicism, and the like.

  She cut in, tired of holding her tongue. “But doesn’t that mean that Terrans know all too well the value of life? We live on a razor’s edge, and so we empathize, we come together and gather friends so that if we fall, someone is there to pick us up. And we don’t forget those that help us.”

  The Gaan snorted a huffing exhale. Leah couldn’t tell if it was dismissive or something el
se. “Well said, child.”

  Shirin jumped right in and took the conversational reins.

  “Terrans’ mortality is one of the major reasons we build alliances. We seek out those who complement our skills. We have many trade hubs, but a marketplace without goods is a crossroads without carts.”

  The Gaan chuffed again. Which meant he was still angry, or these were positive expressions.

  “Of course, but surely you know this illness is just a cover for the ambassador’s kidnapping. An illness is one thing, but if the crown jewel of the Terran’s trade hubs is not secure, how am I to entrust my people to you?”

  Boom goes the dynamite.

  Leah snuck a look to Shirin, and that bomb shook even her still-as-deep-waters poker face.

  There was no way they could have kept it all under wraps, but if the prelate knew, then word would be getting around. This wouldn’t be the last they’d hear about it. And things would deteriorate quickly.

  Leah wished she had enough room in her stomach for a drink.

  To her massive credit, Shirin recovered. “And isn’t it an indication of the potential of the Alliance that someone would go to the audacious lengths of kidnapping a Terran ambassador off a Terran station? That kind of boldness comes only from great fear.”

  This snort was clearly a dismissive one. “Or from great confidence. To know your target so weak that you can strike without reprisal.”

  “Without reprisal?” Shirin asked, waving a dismissive hand. “By initial reports, at least three of the attackers were killed in the attempt. And I have heard from Commander Bugayeva herself that she has her top agents hunting down the kidnappers even now. They will be brought to justice, and the Alliance sealed. When the story of this mighty Alliance is sung, do you wish to be the reluctant prelate without vision who was won over after his doubts, or the resolute leader of a proud people whose resolve never wavered?”

  “Ever the optimist, Shirin. The galaxy could use more with your vision and your boundless hope. But my responsibilities are deep, and wading through them is far less comfortable than this fine wallow.”

  The prelate gestured to the pool around him with his trunk. “For now, I will stand by. The Xenei have said they will give the Terrans two days. That is enough time for your agents to retrieve the ambassador and show that they can protect their own people.”

  Two days to find the ambassador, get her out of the mercs’ hands, and back onto the base. Leah hadn’t gotten to the information about space travel yet, didn’t know how fast ships could really move if they needed to get somewhere yesterday. She tapped out a note on her wrist-screen, another question to ask later. Her list was up to thirty-eight such questions. She’d have to do triage since their schedule showed no signs of letting up.

  Shirin kept up niceties for a few minutes more, then the senior Genrenaut excused the pair and they departed, leaving the prelate to his luxurious wallow.

  “Now off to a dinner party. They’ll just have appetizers there, you’ll be safe.”

  “Thank God,” Leah said. “Two days? Is that viable? And what if the word gets out to everyone else? Will we be facing riots and shit?”

  “Two days will have to be enough time. It has to be. The mercs only had about an eighteen-hour lead on Roman and King, and our informant said that the hideout was only a twelve-hour burn away. The timing should line up.”

  “Which dinner party is this again? There were like three.”

  “We start with the Xenei, then the shipwright’s guild, and then we round the day out at Laran’s small soiree for Alliance diehards. At least we get to end the day with a friendly crowd.”

  “Remind me to pick up a stim habit before we come here next time. This is insane. My feet are going to fall off any minute.”

  “At least we’re not making you wear heels,” Shirin said.

  Just a block’s walk away (or what Leah mapped in her head as a block, since the station had branching hallways like no one’s business, every hundred feet or so), they came across a thick crowd, all waiting in line for something.

  “Is this the party?”

  “Yes. Oonar Th’Nal is a major information broker, and his parties are paid events—there’s nowhere better to dig up information or trade favors. Today’s was just announced three hours ago. Oonar never misses an opportunity to capitalize on a crisis.”

  The crowd included several other Xenei, hovering anxiously on their classic UFO-shaped discs. Representatives of every race were there as well, the same cantina-ready mix she’d almost actually started getting used to. There were more Xenei than she’d seen together elsewhere, and fewer of the pink race. A quick check of her wrist-screen reminded her that those were in fact the Nai, the hippie-communist ones.

  “Do I actually get to talk this time?” Leah asked.

  “Of course. I’ll need to go off and work my magic, and there’s too much going on for us to not split up. Don’t engage in any conversations where you feel you’re out of your depth, and don’t be afraid to lean into your character.”

  The pair rounded a corner and found the end of the line, more than two hundred persons deep.

  Leah restrained a sigh. “How long is this going to take?”

  “As long as it takes to introduce everyone ahead of us.”

  “At least I don’t have to wear a ridiculously frilly dress.”

  “I thought you were more the Captain Tightpants type, anyway.”

  “True story.”

  Seven: Graveyard Pit Stop

  SIX HOURS INTO THEIR FLIGHT—almost halfway to the coordinates Zoor had provided—Roman picked something up on his radar. They were flying around a patch of debris from a centuries-old battle, the mass of a wrecked behemoth carrier ship forming a gravitic biome. The ship was Ra’Gar, left over from the last invasion.

  The shattered ship looked like an imploded grenade, all yellow metallic sheets and sharp edges. Around it floated wrecks of Terran, Nbere, and other ships, ranging from fighters close to the size of their own ship to mid-level cruisers, nearly half as big as the Ra’Gar behemoth. The last alliance had only brought together three civilizations, but from the reports of new Ra’Gar movements, it’d take a hell of a lot more to stop them this time.

  “Radar ping, two hundred thousand klicks out. Looks fighter-sized, but it could just be hot debris or a meteor.” His adrenaline kicked in, ramping up his reaction times and making him giddy. He kept a lid on the giddy, as it unnerved his teammates. Even King.

  King roused from the rack in the back room and made his way up to back into the copilot seat. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and studied the readouts. “Could be, but let’s not take that chance. How long will the cloak on this last?”

  “Ten minutes, with a ten-hour recharge.”

  “What’s the sensor range on commercial fighters?” King asked.

  Roman sorted through his mental inventory of systems available. Every member of the team had their genre specialties, and this region was one of his. He could look up the information on the wrist-screens, but if all he did was rely on the database, there was no reason to be a specialist.

  “One hundred and fifty thousand klicks at best. Unless they’ve got a satellite booster nearby, a sentry or the like.”

  “That seems likely. Come in under the sensor shadow of the debris so we can get a better sensor read. We don’t want to break hearts before the final hand.”

  “As long as we can make it to the final hand. There’s room for any number of traps in this debris field, boss. It’s a great scavenger’s hunting grounds.”

  King clapped Roman on the shoulder. “Then it’s good that our best pilot’s at the helm, isn’t it?”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “I have my moments.”

  “You could stand to be a little more kind and back me up on the sensor suite. Start on thermal and radioactive. Most of the traps big enough to cripple a ship run hot enough to give off a signature.”

  King flipped some swi
tches, and several screens blinked off for Roman, popping up in the copilot seat.

  Roman leaned into the controls, banking close around a wrecked Terran transport, lazily spinning head over stern in place, the same spin that had been born of its doom. Void-crawlers would have picked any biological matter clean long ago, leaving only the metallic corpses.

  “Sensor suite extended to maximum,” King said. “The ship is locked in a consistent patrol route, orbiting this location.” King highlighted a point in space and swiped the display back over to Roman’s screen. Free space on his screen zoomed in to show a sensor readout of the ship, its route, and a stable hull of something at the center.

  “Any bounce-back?” Roman asked.

  “Nothing yet. Coming up on jamming range.”

  “Shut them down before they see us. If the scout can rabbit and inform the rest of the Dark Stars, we’ll be up to our ears in lead the moment we set foot on that station. But get us within range before the scout twigs and we’ll be fine,” Roman said, cutting main thrust and pushing the attitude adjusters, turning up to slope over a cluster of shattered fighters, keeping a solid chunk of the Ra’Gar ship between them and the solo fighter.

  Roman turned and twisted and snaked his way through the ship graveyard until they were within sensor range, but shielded by the still-hot cores of a trio of frigates.

  “I’ll jam, you scan,” King said. Their fingers danced across the consoles, lights blinking, alarms and acknowledgments beeping as they worked. Roman ran a deeper scan on the ship, pulling IFF information as well as ship specs.

  It was a retrofitted freighter flying under Nbere tags, though he doubted that a Nbere was at the helm. The Nbere were happy to sell ship tags to anyone who could pay, so the void was full of “Nbere” ships. They were the Panama of space, and all an Nbere tag told you was the owner wanted anonymity. The IFF, however, was clearly spoofed, a weak cover proclaiming them as an Nbere messenger easily penetrated to reveal a Dark Stars IFF signal, running the same ping address as Zoor had indicated.

  “It’s a Dark Star, alright. Flimsy-as-hell IFF. They need a better tech.”