Delagarza clutched at his head. The feeling of distortion intensified, becoming a skull-splitting headache. If any other person, at any other point in his life, had told him such a story, he’d have reported them for insanity.
But he knew, right to the very core of his being, that Kayoko was telling the truth. It was like he’d heard that story before.
Isabella Reiner.
“Why tell me this?” he whispered. Every word he said felt as if signing his own death warrant.
Nanny Kayoko gestured at the screens and the data vanished. She grabbed at Delagarza, her eyes burning with an intensity unlike anything he’d ever seen.
“You’re the one who gave me the files. Sam Delagarza does not exist, he never has,” she said. “Your real name is Daneel Hirsen, and something has gone terribly wrong.”
12
CHAPTER TWELVE
CLARKE
Free Trader Beowulf approached planet New Angeles at five percent of the speed of light, with the ship’s torch aimed toward the planet and its nose directly away from it.
The same amount of fuel used to accelerate Beowulf to such speeds would be used to decelerate it before reaching the planet. In practice, this meant the crew had to spend another couple of days strapped to their seats while the ship accelerated in the opposite direction from their current vector.
Clarke spent the first day in the Beowulf’s bridge. Since he was now, officially, part of the EIF’s suicidal mission to rescue a woman straight out of history books, he had no reason left to avoid the rest of Antonov’s team. Next to his g-seat, Julia and Pascari avoided visual contact with him. The three tried to burn as many hours as possible on the media systems of their g-seats without having to interact with each other.
For what the ship’s contractors had told Clarke, Julia and Pascari had slept together recently. Although he didn’t expect the news, Clarke was surprised by how little he cared after he found out.
Julia and Pascari lacked his zen-like approach to the situation. Julia wouldn’t hold his gaze, and Pascari’s anger at him had only intensified.
Antonov, on the other hand, didn’t care about the team’s emotional tribulations.
“When we arrive at New Angeles’ spaceport,” he told them over a private channel that included Captain Navathe, “there won’t be time for a long leave. The Independent fleet is a mobile force, never hidden in the same coordinates, so I must contact them by special means, in-planet. After the rendezvous is scheduled, the EIF will bribe the starport to get Beowulf’s altered flight plans past customs. Once that’s done, we’re out of here. The Independent flies straight to Dione. God willing, Daneel Hirsen will be waiting for us with Isabella Reiner.”
Clarke welcomed Antonov’s explanation. Anything to get his mind working in real problems.
“What about the Sentinel fleet?” he asked. “They’re headed for Dione too, sir.”
Fighting a planetary garrison was one thing. In fact, Clarke had the certainty he could get the ships planet-side to surrender without spilling a drop of blood.
The Defense Fleet was another matter entirely. Unless your name was Mississippi, there was no winning against the Edge’s SADF.
“Yes, but we have the lead on them,” said Antonov, “about ten cycles, give or take, more than enough to beat them to Dione and be long gone before they arrive.”
And then, a lifetime of running away from the SA, always in hiding, fearful of every shadow.
Clarke grinned. Everyone died. He refused to face the music while shivering in fear.
“Understood, sir,” he said.
A part of him was jubilant. He was back in a chain of command, he had a purpose, and it was a good one. Another part of him wanted to bang his head against his headrest. The EIF and the SA should be united against Commodore Terry and Earth. Not wasting lives and ships fighting against each other.
Captain Navathe’s voice interrupted Clarke’s ruminations. “We have a problem,” she said.
Nothing good ever came from that phrase. The problem never was something trivial, like having forgotten to fill a landing application. This time wasn’t the exception.
“We’re being hailed by a merchant freighter five hours away from us. It’s an emergency signal, they claim to be in trouble. An engine malfunction.”
Clarke winced. Engine malfunctions could be a death sentence, even in a star system.
“You trust them?” asked Antonov.
“My CO ran the freighter’s ID on our database, but found nothing.”
It wasn’t damning evidence. Ship’s databases were limited by the speed of light, same as all information. If they hadn’t been in a system’s starport in a while, it could mean the database was merely outdated. Many corporations used couriers to keep their ships’ databases updated, but Free Traders lacked those kinds of resources.
The freighter could simply be a newer model, recently put in circulation.
It could be a Tal-Kader black flag operation waiting for them.
If the EIF has spies in Tal-Kader, for sure there’re spies in the EIF, Clarke thought.
He ran the numbers in his head. A spy in Jagal warns Tal-Kader about the EIF’s intentions. They send a courier vessel to New Angeles. They own Jagal, so they can get the courier out faster than Beowulf. Since couriers are tiny, their Alcubierre Drives are faster than other ships. So, they arrive two to three days before Beowulf.
If Tal-Kader had a patrol near that sector of space, yes, it could be done. The freighter could be an ambush.
Probably a frigate, used to protect corporate traders from pirates.
But in that case…
Clarke used his wristband to connect to the ship’s systems. As a member of Antonov’s team, he had access to Beowulf’s systems. He sent a request to the Communications Officer to send him all the data on the freighter.
“The risk is too high, then,” said Antonov. “Claim we’re having a malfunction too, and we can’t change course.”
“It’s Tal-Kader,” proclaimed Pascari. “I know it. Let’s blast the fuckers apart before they have a chance.”
That’s a terrible idea, thought Clarke.
“That may be a good idea,” said Antonov. “We strike first, disable their systems, and get away.”
To Clarke’s dismay, Antonov and Navathe paused to consider it instead of instantly dismissing the point.
“Sir,” Clarke said, “the Beowulf is armed with four defensive turrets that have never been fired during combat. If that’s a Tal-Kader frigate, it’s equipped with a single cannon that can deliver a personalized nuclear winter to our doorstep long before we get our turrets into effective fighting range. If you really believe it may be a Tal-Kader ambush, the best course of action would be to accelerate past New Angeles and hope we reach an Alcubierre point before they think to fire a torpedo at us.”
“Spoken like a true fucking coward,” came Pascari instant response. “You think a revolution is won by avoiding risk and hiding from every tiny danger out there? Antonov, sir, let’s show this snot how real men fight.”
There’s fifty innocent men and women aboard this ship, you motherfucker, Clarke thought. For a second, his vitals flashed a warning in his g-seat display, alarmed by his sudden blare of rage.
But rage wouldn’t get those sailors out of this mess. Clarke made an effort to steady his voice and said: