12. Run
Normalcy prevailed over the freighter pads, at least relative normalcy. The sounds that escaped the port were sounds of efficiency, the sounds that any pilot accepted as part of the job. The maintenance drones hummed along from ship to ship as fuelers glided back and forth from the pads to the storage depot. Mechanical arms clanked about as the grind of tractor belts echoed throughout the vast open spaces.
Rath didn't shy from this clamor; it comforted him, eased his tensions. For a moment, it even erased his pressing alarm. The urgency that gripped him, hastened him to leave Janus, could not keep him from taking this stroll of tribute. He walked the pads freely without worry of a landing freighter or a launching shuttle; the Orbital Control panel highlighted the “Clear Space” signal. He took a roundabout path to his scout, surveying the docking bays for what he thought might be the last time.
He didn't see any other pilots, just a few haulers working the loader belts. He nodded as he walked by, cascading his glance about the port in general. It felt like home, and he was leaving it. He would miss this place. It satisfied his expectations, satisfied his needs. Away from most people, away from the noise and confusion they brought with them; here he could exist in peace with a mind to his memories and the possibility of future scouts.
Future scouts? He didn't think so, not from here anyway. He could not imagine life returning to normal. He might find a new freighter port in some obscure sector, but he had grown accustomed to this one, and he wondered if he would ever get the chance to become comfortable with another.
He climbed through the access hatch of his scout. He had certainly learned to appreciate this new vessel. He equipped it with everything he ever wanted and a whole lot more. A dream ship to be sure. Flying it over his old scout represented a change he accepted eagerly. Maybe the same would apply to a landing port once he found a new home.
Problem was, he just didn't know where that would be, and he didn't know what he would do when he got there. He heaved a heavy breath at the sensation; no where to go, no true destination. He stepped up to the cockpit and settled into the pilot's chair.
Maybe he was overreacting. That was what Lar thought, and he respected the middleman. But Lar wasn't at the Planning Station near Fenrir when everything went bad. He didn't feel the tension in the Authority officers, didn't see Jack lose control. And, of course, there was the little matter of the Fenrites.
How could he just shrug that off? And how could he continue with his life without always looking over his shoulder? He wasn't about to solicit scout bids from Janus again. He knew that would be a mistake. He'd basically be telling the councils exactly where he'd be alone, out in space near some unexplored planet. What an opportunity that would be.
Maybe he could change his name, adopt a new identity. He'd have to pay for that, and obtain a brand new scouting license.
But then again, maybe now he was being paranoid.
He shook his head.
"Not paranoid," he whispered to himself. "Realistic. The Fenrites weren't there, and that's a fact."
He cursed that thought, the one revelation that plagued him. He spoke to the empty space of the cockpit as if he expected a response.
"They're trying to cover something up, and they're not going to want me around. If I figured to check the maintenance logs, they're bound to check the same soon enough."
He groaned at a new thought. He requested a direct download from the port logs to his ship. That was stupid. There'd be a record of the transfer. They'd know. They'd know he had inspected exactly what they wouldn't want him to see. His frustration mounted.
"Crap! Why did I do that? I could've picked up an anonymous portable and downloaded it to that." He slapped his palm harshly against the arm of the pilot's chair. "Now, they're not going to have a choice. They're going to have to shut me up. I have to tell somebody." He looked about as if searching for an answer. "Maybe the media, but will they listen? They may think I'm just another nut. Or maybe I can go directly to the council. I can tell them what I know, and that I won't talk. Yeah right. I'll be dead before I hit the floor. But what else do I have?"
He didn't want this, didn't want adventure or excitement. He just wanted to sail through the stars, walk on planets with nothing but rock. He thought of his scout landings, how the ship used to shake and make him sick to his stomach. Right now, he felt worse, and he would have accepted a hundred such atmospheric entries to get out of this. He just wanted to be left alone.
"I've got to find someone that can use this, someone that can get me out of this, someone in a deeper fix."
An idea lit in his mind, a small spark that he latched a desperate hope upon. He brought up the current event files he had downloaded to his portable. He entered a single search word. Pirates.
#
Espial agents, the intelligence branch of Regency with ties to both the Authority and Regency Govern, reached Janus literally three standard minutes too late. Before altering the maintenance records of the freighter port, they confirmed all previous downloads. They tracked a single data transfer to Rath Scampion's scout vessel. Had Espial been given the task to deal with Mr. Scampion at the outset there would have been no such sloppiness as to leave such logs in existence.
Undeterred by the temporary setback, they cleared the logs. They purged all indications of a maintenance check being performed on Rath's old ship. All references to the scout's landing and unloading of emeralds and rubies were also deleted. There would be no official record that Rath ever landed on Janus after his initial trip to Fenrir.
Under high priority, they then identified Rath's new scout and visually confirmed that the vessel remained docked at the freighter port. A consideration was given to boarding the scout and deleting all files, but since that would not confirm the destruction of data from Rath's portable, the decision was aborted. They made no advance upon the vessel and did nothing that would keep the ship from launch.
Remaining at a far distance, but keeping the craft under surveillance, the agents acquired their subject. After watching Rath enter his scout, they transmitted a simple warning that the mark just got its wings.
#
Jack stepped lively through the docking corridor, moving from a transport to the SH-4. A strange experience. Landing curtains veiled each ship as they orbited Janus' moon. The bridging arm that allowed access to both ships was now enveloped by each of their curtains, an overlap which created a visual disorientation in the translucent tube. Jack steadied himself with a firm grip on the hand holds as he moved to the opposite end of the passage. He fixed his focus on one spot ahead of him, a point within a vacuum of light where he knew the porthole to the SH-4 waited. As he closed upon the far end, the hull finally came into view just as the blackness of space swallowed the transport behind him.
He pulled open the hatch and stepped inside. Unfortunately, very little waited within the hi-tech ship to help him regain his orientation. The SH-4, fourth generation spy class vessel, was engineered for stealth and speed. The interior hull sloped in flowing curves. Design techniques used to make the ship invisible to most forms of radar left the coordinator with an overwhelming sense of imbalance. It took him long moments to assure himself that he stood erect and that up was up and down was down.
Once on sure feet, he moved directly to the cockpit, ignoring the three other Espial operatives manning control and surveillance terminals. He sat down in the empty co-pilot's chair and nodded a greeting to the pilot.
"What's your name, captain?"
"Taranson, sir. Captain Allen Taranson."
Jack perused his portable. "Earth born, fifteen years in the Authority, another seven in Espial. I see you have fifth level clearance. Very impressive for a captain."
"Pilots of the SH spy class vessel require heavy clearance, sir. We remain at captain level because that's how we want it."
Jack raised a single eyebrow. "You don't want to be a colonel? Or maybe even a general?"
The pilot almost laughed out loud. "No, sir. Much better to be a captain. Enough rank to have privileges, not enough to be held accountable."
The coordinator nodded in understanding. "I see that you're very comfortable with your position. I also realize that if you have level five clearance you have a good idea of what's going on here. You probably even know who I am."
Jack paused to inspect the pilot's reaction. There was little, only a wry smile. Jack tested the good humor. "You know I have the power to take away this comfortable station of yours, if I have to."
The pilot laughed again, catching Jack quite off guard.
"Something funny about that, captain? Or maybe you don't believe me."
Taranson maintained his amusement even as he shook his head. "I believe you have the power to reassign me, but only if I really screw up. I don't know what your particular deal is, and to tell the truth, I don't care. Bottom line for me is one thing - I follow orders while telling you what is and isn't possible. I don't get caught up in power struggles. I let you make the decisions. If you really have anything on the portable of yours, then you should already know that."
"I do know that," Jack replied simply. "That's why you were chosen for this mission. I just want you to understand the margin for error is a great deal smaller. I may ask you to do things that seem impossible. Even so, I want you to follow those orders. Understand?"
"I thought that was already clear."
Jack finally returned the smile. "We're going to get along just fine."
#
Rath rubbed his temples as he read the news briefs. He kept coming back to one name, a name he really didn't want anything to do with. Angelo.
Pirates who hired and paid for their own mercenary forces were dangerous; dangerous to freighters and merchants, dangerous to miners and colonies, dangerous to the Authority, and dangerous to scouts. But the Authority apparently had their fill of Angelo and they now targeted him as a top priority. The job fell upon some reassigned Station General. The Authority actually bragged during a mediacast that they intended to end the threat of the marauders and Angelo once and for all.
A good deal of speculation existed as to what would happen, how the conflict might unfold. Most thought there would be no battle. Most believed that Angelo would escape. Simply up and move his operation to a new corner of the galaxy. They wouldn't find him if he ran, and why wouldn't he run, especially since the media revealed the new directive through galactic feeds.
The Authority was also taking too long. That in itself added to the conjecture. They announced their intentions, but seemed to be taking their own sweet time about deploying a force. They knew where Angelo set up his base of operations. It wasn't a big secret. Semele; the planet Angelo was supposed to scout years ago, a planet he simply took over for himself. But with the wealth he had accumulated from trading with pirates, rebels and outcasts, he could leave Semele; find a new planet, an entire system of planets.
Others argued he might stay, fight it out to defend his new world. Reports identified other rebels joining up, hoping to make a stand against Regency Imperialism. That in itself offered an explanation for the Authority sluggishness. Perhaps they wanted all the rebels to join together at Semele.
Too political for Rath. He didn't want to be caught up in this kind of thing; he didn't care about imperialism or Regency, but if Angelo was really going to make a war out of this, then it created a possible way out of his own mess. Angelo would want everything he could use against the Authority, even information.
But handing over his files to marauders contained its own risks, certainly more than approaching the media. Rath kept debating the issue in his mind. He wanted to drop off copies of his logs to the news agencies, let them handle it - a whole lot easier and safer than trying to find a pirate. But that last newscast ended any hope of an easy solution. He simply couldn't bet his life that the media wasn't under the Regency control. Not that betting his life on someone like Angelo was any more comforting. That was like the zebra asking the tiger for protection from the lion. But what else could he do?
He transmitted a call for launch clearance from Orbital Control. Immediately, he began to think of all the things that could go wrong. He held his breath as he waited. Did they already know he was trying to leave? Would they try to stop him? He wondered what he would do if he wasn't cleared. He felt worse than when he was on his way to Fenrir to steal gems. He felt trapped and scared.
He almost exploded with relief when he received final clearance, but all of his fear wouldn't fade. Something nagged at him again. This time it wasn't something he forgot or overlooked. It was just a feeling, a bad feeling. And paranoid or not, he began to trust his feelings.
#
Jack pointed to his portable. "Espial agents, your guys, just transmitted that our bird is getting ready to fly the nest."
Taranson checked the upfeed from Orbital Control. "Scout vessel on a freighter pad near Terhit just got clearance to take off. Launch detected. The ship is away and taking orbit. High altitude course, and through the atmosphere. It's now pulling away from Janus, holding a course for system departure, probably loading course codes into the Boscon navigational computer right now."
Jack scanned his own portable before confirming the ship belonged to Rath. "Absolutely. That's our little birdie, trying to get away. Question is where is he going to go? I don't know if I'd make a bet on this one."
Jack lasercabled his portable to the SH-4 navigation computer. "I'm downloading a tracking program into your computer. It traces a beacon from that ship. Whenever Mr. Scampion is not in Boscon, we should be able to pick it up if we're near the same system."
"Planted a little tracking insect, eh? Espial do that for you?"
Jack just smiled. "No, the pilot did it all by himself, ordered a bunch of Authority equipment and installed it himself. I just asked the supply officer to attach a beacon to one of the stabilizers. That's the one thing this pilot of ours won't fool with. He doesn't like rough flights."
"Cute."
"Thanks, but that's only going to help us when he's out of Boscon Push. It's up to you to hold him when he goes hyperlight."
"Which is what he's doing right now," the pilot added. "Ship off all screens, and off of Orbital Control. He's gone."
Jack nodded. "Not a surprise."
The pilot called pack to the Espial agents manning the detection devices. "Report."
A burly voice from the rear control announced current status. "Boscon Push distortions picked up on all receptacles. Identifying patterns and submitting solution. Signature established, highly defined."
"It's a good pattern," Taranson offered to the coordinator as he checked the signature himself. "It'll stand out nicely for at least three days standard."
"What about the tracking gun?" Jack asked tersely.
"Moving into firing position now."
Taranson eased the spy vessel into the remnant wake of Rath's scout. With voice command, he engaged the tracking gun. A small barrel propelled a tiny microchip at hyperlight speeds in the direction of Rath's course. The chip, equipped with its own miniature source of Boscon propulsion, headed out into space with a dual purpose; to track the Boscon distortions and to leave a resounding trail for the SH-4 to follow.
For long drawn out moments, however, Taranson kept the spy vessel at sublight speed and made no attempt to fully engage the Boscon Props on his own ship.
Jack, not completely briefed on the new technology, questioned the tactic with obvious annoyance.
"Well, why aren't we moving?"
"We can't, not just yet," Taranson explained. "We have to wait fifteen standard minutes to allow the microchip to follow the target's wake and leave a trail that can be picked up by the receptacle in our nose cone. If we leave too early, we can overshoot the trail. As long as we keep firing the chips in standard intervals and allow them to set the path, we can move without ever going off track. We make up the lost time by traveling at a faster push. This ship is equipped with the new beryl-based Boscon Prop. Our maximum speed is nearly three times greater than our targets, but we have to remain at least fifteen minutes behind the last chip for as long as the target remains in Boscon Push."
"Make it ten minutes," Jack said.
The pilot tilted his head, offered the consequences of such a decision. "The chances of losing the path set by the chips increase."
"I'll take the risk."
"Your call." Taranson just shrugged, but offered a second alternative. "You know, we can fire a Boscon propelled torpedo with something similar to the tracking gun. The torpedo can follow the chips just like we can, but it can catch up to target, knock out our bird while it's still in Boscon."
The thought was enticing, but Jack held off. "No. I want to know where he comes out before we fire on him."
#
Rath did not set his navigation course directly for Semele. He chose a point in the populated Popai system instead. It was in the same general direction from Janus as Semele, but not so close that it would give away his final destination.
There was really no good reason for this ploy, nothing concrete anyway. He was free of Janus, out of the system and in full Boscon Push. This small deception seemed almost laughable. There was no indication he was in any further danger and no reason to think he couldn't make it directly to Semele, and Angelo, but that feeling of foreboding kept nagging at him.
Not satisfied with this small deception, he decided to add to his craftiness, make a move completely out of character.
In mid Boscon Push, he cut the props. A procedure, in fact, which set off automatic warnings. He set no course changes and allowed for no computer computation. He did not allow for gradual speed reduction. He simply killed all forward propulsion. Not safe by any stretch of the imagination.
Without the force of the props, the laws of physics took hold of his ship and returned it forcibly to a sublight speed. Nothing existed in deep space for sound to bounce off, but Rath swore he heard the echo of a metallic groan coming from the exterior of his ship. Alarm lights flashed all around him. Monitors gauged the integrity of the hull as the computer warned of intolerable heat and stress levels, but he himself was in no position to analyze them.
His body pitched forward as if a mule kicked him square in the back. His breath simply halted and he felt his innards compress. If he hated atmospheric entry, this was worse. Even the Authority issued stabilizers could not keep the cockpit from shuddering. For a moment, he thought he must have crashed into an asteroid, and his ship, as well as his body, was being torn apart by the unforgiving vacuum of space. Rath tried to focus on the nav panels, but the force threatened to drop him into unconsciousness. He peered through the barely open slits of his eyelids. His course was preset by the navcom, but any such assurances of clear passage faded away the instant he killed the props. For all he knew, the scout could be spinning out of control and ninety degrees off its original course.
Slowly, the force of the abrupt halt diminished. Rath began to breathe again, though somewhat painfully. Knowing the dangers he now faced, he urgently flipped viewing terminals to various magnifications as he looked to the viewshields. Blinking his eyes, he finally saw the specs of tiny stars in the distance. The ship remained on a steady course and was not engaged in a spin of any sort.
Scanners sent out wave patterns, but they data return was painfully slow. Not a single solid object appeared around him. Not ready to accept such luck, he focused on his heading, fixed an exterior camera upon his forward path. He took hold of the flight stick, ready to maneuver clear of an asteroid or even a star, but there was nothing ahead of him but empty space.
With no immediate threat, he became aware of a pounding throb in his head, compliments of the rough ride. His shoulders ached as well. This was something he definitely didn't want to do again, but for some reason, he felt better about it. His sense of concern wasn't as burdensome. That in itself offered a welcome change and perhaps even made it worth the risk of what he just went through.
He gave himself a few minutes to relax as his navigational computer scanned the open space trying to find a nearby system. After long moments, the computer switched to a star recognition program and fixed the scout's position without having wave scanned a single object in space.
"No one would believe I'd do something like that," he said to himself. "I guess if I ever wanted to lose someone that would've been the best way."
He didn't go back into Boscon Push right away. He let the ship slowly regroup, moving forward at sublight speed, drifting through one full system before even igniting the Boscon Props. Even then, he did not push full power. He monitored all diagnostic panels before lighting up to greater than one third push. Once convinced his engines received no damage, he entered the coordinates for Semele into the navcom. The thought of dealing with a pirate like Angelo wasn't any less troublesome, but any other concerns seemed to finally drift away.
#
Jack couldn't ignore the blank terminal which previously displayed the reception of the tracking chips.
"What happened?"
Taranson spoke abruptly. "We lost contact with the directional signal." The pilot's concentration then fixed upon bringing the SH-4 slowly and safely out of Boscon Push. He couldn't afford to continue at that speed without a preset course. The risk of smashing into a planet expanded with each second in hyperlight.
Jack didn't care much about safety, he wanted answers.
"Did we overshoot?"
"I don't think so. The pattern was tight. We were receiving the last chip's signal, but then it just stopped." He called back to another agent. "Get a fix on that last chip. Find out what happened."
"Malfunction?" the coordinator offered.
"Possible. The chip might not have been able to take the strain of propulsion, but that's happened before and they always deliver what's akin to a distress signal so we know to send out another. This chip just stopped sending."
An operative monitoring a tracking station called forward a report. "I've located the chip. It is not signaling a course. It's in a search pattern for the Boscon distortion."
"Any registered malfunctions?" Taranson questioned almost harshly.
"Negative. It's simply trying to reestablish connection with the distortion."
"Scan the system with our receptacles."
Jack looked backed and forth, not understanding the dialogue. "What's going on?"
"The chip lost the Boscon signature. It's still functioning. It's in a search pattern trying to reestablish contact, but we're not picking up any Boscon distortions in this area. There hasn't been a ship here probably in weeks."
"Then where'd he go?" Jack demanded.
The pilot could give no answer.
"Keep scanning, enlarge the field," Taranson called back to the operatives as he put a fist to his chin and stared at the blank screen before him. "There's no debris. There'd be a trail of debris if he broke up."
"You think he crashed?" Jack questioned, his own doubts obvious.
"Didn't you hear what I said? There'd be debris. No, he's in one piece. I just don't know how he managed to break off his distortion path like that." The pilot looked to Jack's portable. "Are you getting anything on that tracking device? If he dropped out of Boscon, he can't be far."
Jack looked at the terminals. "He's not anywhere near this system."
Taranson wasn't about to accept the situation. He called back again to the tracking ops. "Any indication of a Boscon distortion in this system at all?"
"Negative."
The pilot paused, looked at his screens, but they didn't hold the answer to his question. “Alright, let’s consider this logically. We had a push signature, we have no malfunction report, and we have no debris field. Let’s assume he stayed in push and something happened. There’d still be a signature in the area, something we could pick up. Problem is, there isn’t, so he can’t still be in push. That means…” He came up with an idea, one almost too difficult to accept. "No way. It's possible, but not real smart. But it would explain everything."
"What?" Jack demanded.
Taranson didn't want to say it, but it was the only true explanation. "He must have broke Boscon Push. Just killed his engines. That's the only way this could happen. Normally there's a diminishing trail, a slow deceleration the chips can identify. But there was no trail, it just ended, and the tracking chip goes flying right on through. By the time the chip realizes there's no more distortion to follow, we're about three or four systems away. That's one gutsy move to pull off. Gutsy and stupid"
Jack's eyes narrowed. "Can that really be accomplished? Just stop, just like that."
"It's risky, but yes." Taranson looked to the coordinator. "My question would be why would he do that? He can't know we're following him. He couldn't have scanned us. That's impossible. But there had to be some reason he took that precaution, and the only thing I can think of is that he knew he was being followed."
"He's scared," Jack replied, reconsidering the factors around his own decisions. "When he's scared he overreacts. Damn, I should have known. Can we find him?"
"Probably. I don't want to give you anything more definite than that. If he cut his props, the trail just ends. We'll be able to find that again. That's not a problem. The hard part is finding out where he ended up, and where he restarted his props. It's finding that new path which is going to be the trick."
The black emptiness of space as seen through the SH-4's viewshields seemed to mock any such attempt. Jack peered into the vastness that encompassed the spy vessel and grunted with defiance.
"I need to find this guy."
Taranson hid his own misgivings and simply muttered the obvious. "I know you do."