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- Brothers In Arms: Part Two

Brothers In Arms: Part Two
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 English

 Writer’s Note: Brothers In Arms: Part Two was published originally in Jump Point 3.6. Read Part One here.
Gavin left Walt on Cassel. There was a time, back in his single days, when an extended stay on a resort world was the perfect sequel to a crappy job. Now he had a better offer waiting at home and two bottles of chilled Kōen Shōchū riding shotgun in the cockpit beside him. The better offer, of course, was Dell. The shōchū was his best hope to reboot his homecoming from Oberon.

It wasn’t exactly the grand entrance he’d planned on making. He felt his cheeks warm and was glad to be alone. With a sigh, he squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall back into his seat. His helmet bumped against the cockpit frame. When he opened his eyes again, the HUD had died. He rolled his head to eye the waiting bottles of shōchū. Perhaps he needed the alcohol more than she did.

Rhedd Alert’s hangar was still. The lights were dialed down to a dull, sapphire glow. But while the hangar was quiet, Vista Landing never slowed down. The sounds of the complex were a pressure all around him; a constant hum of life that seemed intrusive after a long stint flying solo.

Gavin shed his flight suit and then grabbed the helmet and bottles of shōchū. The helmet got dumped unceremoniously onto a workbench. The shōchū went with him to their apart­ment. It was dark inside — he was too late. Dell was already asleep.

He leaned against the door while his eyes adjusted to the courtesy lighting in the bedroom. Dell lay on her side with her back to him. Her hair was a dark fan against pale pillows and sheets. There was no trace of the playful blue-dyed tips in the low light. He looked instead to the curve of her hip and the long line of her covered legs.

He left the bottles on a table, not wanting to risk waking her with light from the fridge. He stripped off his shirt on the way to the little closet. She’d left it open, and piles of clothes made odd shapes in the low light.

They smelled like her. He’d forgotten how much he loved that. He leaned forward, his head slipping between her hanging shirts and jackets. They didn’t have much, but this was home. They were settled, with no desire for any more living out of cockpits and dirty cargo bays. But if he couldn’t make this work, that’s exactly what they would be back to.

Gavin stooped and picked up the discarded shirt. There was work to do. Things to fix.

He closed the door as quietly as he could when he left.

He was at a workbench in the hangar when the light pad of Dell’s bare feet on the cold hangar deck sounded behind him.

“Hey, Slugger.” Her voice was playful, teasing him about the scrap with Walt. The taunting tone was good news, in a way. It meant that she wasn’t quite so angry. Regardless, he was still embarrassed about the fight and didn’t rise to her bait.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said instead.

She rubbed her hand across his shoulders, bumped him aside with her hip and then took a seat next to him on the bench when he moved. “I was asleep, but it sounded like a herd of Shoone came tromping through the apart­ment.”

He felt better hearing the smile in her voice. “Huh . . . I guess I’m glad I missed that.”

“What are you working on?”

Gavin started running through his list, wondering where to start. He gave up somewhere north of fifteen and simply replied, “Everything.”

“Did we get paid?” He nodded and her look of relief was frustrating. Depending on Dell’s ex-boyfriend for financial salvation wasn’t exactly how he’d envisioned his role as a business owner.

“How’s Boomer?” he asked.

“He can’t keep doing this. They patched him up, but he’s been banged around way too much.”

It was true. Dell’s dad had been put back together more than any other pilot Gavin had ever met. Maybe a few military pilots had had more rejuvenation treatment, but their facilities had to be far better than anything civies like Boomer had access too.

“You’ve got to get him to take it easy, Gav. Let him fly sup­port in the Freelancer or something.”

“Let him fly support? This is your dad we’re talking about. He’s at least half as stubborn as you are. And you know how he flies. He’s cool as gunmetal in a dogfight, but he flies like a crazy . . . flying . . . kind of . . . person.”

“Will you at least try? Please?”

There was no way Boomer was going to listen to him, but Gavin agreed. It wasn’t worth fighting with Dell about it. They’d been over that ground before. Plenty of times.

He prodded at the wiring harness of his helmet.

“The heads-up out again?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Here, let me do it.” She pulled the tools closer and set to work. “So . . . Walt stayed to drink his paycheck away with Barry?”

“Walt worked as hard as anyone in Oberon. Harder than most, actually. He can do what he wants with his cut.”

“While we’re dumping all of ours into repairs and supplies?”

“I brought you some shōchū,” he offered.

“I saw that.” She snuggled into his side and slid her arm around his waist. “Mmmmm . . . thank you.” A peck on his cheek. “I put it in the fridge.”

“You should have brought a bottle with you.”

She unwound herself from him and went back to work on the helmet. “It might work out better for you if we save that for a night when I’m not exhausted.”

That killed the mood. Gavin shifted the tools around on the bench. Dell must have sensed his change of mood. She sat up straight, her tone growing somber. “I’ve been doing some math,” she said.

“How bad is it?”

“Not good.”

He hoped that the grimace he made was reassuring. It probably wasn’t.

“Selling the salvage will keep us out of the red for a couple months,” she said. “Good job on that, by the way. I don’t know about the Idris, but that 325a is actually quite sell­able. Unless you want to keep it, that is.”

Gavin thought about it. “Sell it,” he said. “We can’t afford to upgrade any of our people, and I’m not bringing on any more pilots until we land some steady work.”

“On that topic, did Barry have something new for us, or did he come to Goss system just to carouse with your brother?”

He told her about the turret job and she brightened.

“This is good, Gav. You think this could turn into a steady stream of work?”

“Maybe, but we’ve got a team of combat pilots, babe. They’re not going to stick around for this kind of work.”

“Then screw them. Let them leave, and I’ll fly with you.”

“You fly worse than your dad. Besides, you wanted to be here to run the shop.”

“I’m here because I want this to work.” She put her tools down and entwined her fingers with his. “Believe me, I’d much rather be flying with you and Dad.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t want you out there. Bringing Boomer back in stasis is one thing, but you . . .”

She extracted her fingers and patted his hand, pulling away. “That’s an idea you’re going to have to get used to. Dad won’t be flying that old Avenger forever. Eventually, she’ll be mine. But right now,” she leaned in and gave him a quick kiss, “I’m going to bed.”

Dell stood, pressed his helmet’s wire housing into place with a click and left.

Gavin picked up the helmet and peeked inside. The glow from the reticle display shown within. She’d got it working again.

They had a good thing going, he and Dell. But chronic, nag­ging financial worry would eventually tear that apart. He just needed work that paid and that his pilots would stay for. Work that would keep Walt from chasing something shiny, interesting, and new. What he needed was that Tyrol escort job.

Gavin pushed the helmet and tools aside on the bench. He keyed up the console and placed a call to Barry’s mobiGlas. The accountant accepted the call.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

“Barry. Good, you’re still in-system.”

“Just about to leave Cassel, why?”

“What would a bid need to look like for someone to be com­petitive on that Tyrol contract?”

“Gavin,” Barry’s voice grew serious. “You’re new to this, but you have to know that I can’t give out that kind of information.”

Gavin’s mobiGlas vibrated against his wrist with an incom­ing message.

“I’m sorry, Barry. I wasn’t trying to cause troub—”

Barry cut him off. “Now, what I can do is point you toward the proper registration and submission forms. How you manage the pricing is your concern. Understand?”

On Gavin’s mobiGlas was a message from an unknown contact. The message was simple, containing only a Credit sign and a number.

A big number.

Yes!

“Thanks, Barry. I appreciate it and understand completely.”

It took four days to clear just two turrets from the mouth of the first cave. Walt took out the first within seconds of arriving. He did it with what he swore was a purposeful and carefully aimed shot.

The second turret pulverized Jazza’s Cutlass, and they had to tow the wreckage back to Vista Landing for re­pairs. Jazza herself went home in stasis after taking hits to a shoulder and both of her legs. She did not rejoin them for the moon mine job.

On the fourth day — running low on patience, ammo, and foul language — they finally came up with a solution. It was ugly. It was dangerous. But as they worked deeper into the moon, it was the only thing they found that worked.

“All right, Boomer,” Gavin said, “hold behind that outcrop­ping.”

Boomer’s Avenger crept to a halt beside him. Deep inside the warren of caverns, the moon’s rotation was enough to give them a sense of up and down. Still, holding a relative position inside a small spinning moon was not as easy as one might think. Stabilizing thrusters fired continuously in short, irregular bursts.

Gavin checked his orientation and distance from the walls. He was in place. The tag team system they’d come up with had been working pretty well, using one ship to draw fire while a second swept in to blast each turret. It was tedious and sphincter-tightening work, but the moon was nearly cleared. Only a small handful of tricky defenses remained intact.

“Okay,” Gavin settled his hands on his flight controls. “On my mark.”

He left the mic open and triggered a timer on his navsat. He watched Boomer’s ship ease slowly into the turret’s line of sight to the steady countdown of the timer. Right on cue, Gavin hammered his thrusters and sped into the cave, just as the first blast from the turret struck Boomer’s shields.

Gavin yawed to the left, swinging the nose of his ship until he could see both the turret and Boomer’s ship. The old man’s Avenger bucked under the constant fire. The shields held, but the blast forced the Avenger back out into the tunnel before Gavin could take a shot.

Gavin fired, and the turret’s twin barrels swiveled with such impeccable precision and speed that they looked like identical empty dots. “Oh, sh—” the barrels erupted in a fusillade of crimson light.

Gavin fired again and had no clue if he was anywhere near the mark. The turret’s aim was flawless, however. There was an odd pulling sensation when the cabin lost pressure and his suit pressurized, squeezing around his limbs and chest.

Another barrage hammered into him and he felt the Cut­lass crunch ass-backward into the wall of the cavern. The ship rolled, nose pitching wildly to one side. Gavin saw an open blackness of empty space yawn into view. He punched it, hoping he was heading back out into the tunnel and not to his death inside the smugglers’ cave.

Relieved, he saw Boomer’s Avenger flash by beneath him. But dread gripped him again when the walls of the narrow tunnel loomed to fill his entire view. He reversed thrust, hunched tight around the controls and braced for impact.

It was bad.

He hit hard, and the impact sent him careening down the cavern. He tumbled over and over, willing his ship to hold together. When he finally forced himself to release the flight controls, the ship righted itself.

“Holy hells,” Boomer breathed. “Gav? You alive, buddy?”

His chest heaved like he’d been running. “I seem to recall some idiot bitching about this job being boring.”

Walt, exploring a tunnel in another part of the moon, an­swered, “That sounds like it was directed at me. You two okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. I just got blown up!”

“Simmer down, son,” Boomer said. “I’ve been blown up plenty of times. That was nothin’. I, uh . . . I don’t think you’re taking another crack at that turret until we get your ship patched up, though.”

“Oh, really? Ya think?” Gavin’s comms flashed on an incom­ing line. “Hold on, guys. Call coming in.”

Boomer laughed, saying, “They probably heard us planet­side and want us to keep the noise down.”

“Very funny. Actually, it’s Dell. Now shut it.” Gavin accept­ed the incoming line.

“Gav?” He couldn’t tell if Dell sounded scared or angry, maybe both. “We got a problem, babe. Jazza’s out of here. Says she’s taking a ship unless she gets her cut of the turret job before she goes.”

“What? What do you mean ‘out of here’?”

“She’s leaving,” Dell said. “Leaving the company, I mean.”

Walt cut in on the squad channel. “Hey Gav, I’m all finished in here. You want me to come take a look at tha—”

Gavin juggled channels. “Hold on, Walt.” He squinched his eyes closed, sore, frustrated and confused. “Dell. Where’s Jazz going? You mean she’s quitting?”

Boomer kept the chatter going on the squad channel. “Sounds like he’s getting an earful, Walt. Glad she didn’t call me.”

“Tell her Gavin just got blown up.”

“That would improve her day significantly.”

They both laughed.

Gavin spread his hands in an open-armed shrug for no one’s benefit but his own. “Would you please shut the hell up?”

They did. Dell did not. “What did you just say to me?!”

“Not you, babe. Walt and . . . you know what? Never mind all that. Just tell me again, what’s going on with Jazz?”

His mobiGlas vibrated. Gavin swore silently and balled his fists to keep from shooting something. From within his pressure suit, it was difficult to activate the mobiGlas. He managed it while Dell filled him in on Jazza’s desertion. She was going to look for work with one of the smuggling outfits hidden in the Olympus Pool. Paying work. Blah. Blah. Deserter.

Gavin finally powered on his mobiGlas display. There was a message from a contact marked “unknown,” but Gavin knew exactly who it was from.

“Dell.”

“I tried to talk her out of it, Gav,” Dell sounded close to tears. “I really did.”

“Dell, listen to me.”

“What?”

“Get Jazza back. All right? Do whatever it takes.”

“I’ll try, Gav, but . . .”

“Whatever it takes, okay? We’re going to need her. We’re going to need everyone and then some.”

“What’s going on, Gavin?”

He keyed his mic to transmit on both channels, “Everybody, listen up. They only got two bids on the Navy contract. We’re the low bid.”

“Is low bad?” Boomer asked.

“Dell,” Gavin said, “have Jazza join us in Oberon. We’re working ’round the clock until we’ve cleared the last few turrets.”

Gavin sat in his damaged Cutlass, cheeks stretched in an unfamiliar grin.

“Guys,” he said, “we just won the Navy job.”

“Go on in, Miss Brock.” A lieutenant held the door open for her. “Major Greely and his guest are already inside.”

The major’s guest. How wonderful. Morgan Brock smoothed the front of her pleated skirt and then swept through the doorway into Greely’s conference room. The major and his “guest” stood near the head of the table. Greely was looking more Marine than Navy in his shirt sleeves. The man had arms as thick as most men’s legs.

“Brock. Good of you to come personally. Let me introduce you to Gavin Rhedd, one of the co-owners of Rhedd Alert Security.”

Rhedd was younger than she’d guessed, a handsome man with a sturdy frame. He’d made the curious decision to wear a weathered, civilian flight suit to the meeting. Per­haps he needed to convince everyone that he was, in fact, a pilot. Still, the rig fit him well. He looked uncomfortable but not self-conscious standing beside the granite slab that was Major Greely.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Brock.”

She refused his extended hand and put an end to the pleasantries.

“So you’re the cherry that low-balled my contract.” She made it obvious that it wasn’t a question. “Let me be en­tirely clear. The termination clause stipulates that I par­ticipate in a transition meeting. Let’s not pretend that I’m pleased by the opportunity.”

“Well okay, then,” Greely said. “I suppose that will do by way of introductions. Let’s get started, shall we?” He took a seat at the head of the table and motioned for each of them to sit. “Now, the award and protest periods are over.”

“There will be an appeal filed,” she said.

“I don’t doubt that, Morgan. But my office and Navy SysCom have every reason to believe that the award will be upheld.”

“I’ve invested two years cleaning up the run through Min and Nexus,” she said. “And we both know the workload is scheduled to increase dramatically. I’m not handing that over without a fight.”

She stopped when Greely held a hand up, “The UEE wants us to find ways to enfranchise independents in those systems. You want to argue that point, do it with the politicians. But right now, I need a mission brief, and I think we’d all appreciate this meeting moving along quickly.”

Brock let the major win the point. If nothing else, she knew when to pick her battles. There was nothing to be gained from antagonizing him. There were more profitable targets for her ire. Content with the cool tenor of the meeting, she turned her attention to Gavin Rhedd.

“Yes, well,” the young man cleared his throat. His fore­head glistened where it met his close-cropped hair. “I’ve read through the, uh . . . the After Action Reports.” Rhedd swiped through several projections on an old clunker of a mobiGlas. “Every ten days we escort a new shift rotation to the Haven research facility on Tyrol V. But what can you tell me about the security require­ments for the staff transfer between the transport ships and Haven?”

The kid didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Maybe her Tyrol contract wasn’t quite the lost cause Major Greely made it out to be. Brock’s smile felt genuine as she started describing the ship-to-settlement transfer process.

This job was going to eat Rhedd Alert Security alive.

Min system was dark. In Goss, the jump points flowed with shimmering cascades of color. They boiled the Olympus Pool’s bands of gold, amber, and blood-orange in a dazzling display of celestial mystery. Min, on the other hand, was entirely different, and Gavin wondered how many ships and lives Min’s jump gates had claimed before they were suc­cessfully charted.

The approach was well marked now. Nav beacons lit a ten-kilometer channel leading six Rhedd Alert escorts and their charge, a Constellation Aquila with UEE designations, to the jump gate. The automated beacons broadcast a steady stream of navsat and transit status data in addition to lighting the visual entry vector.

The gate itself loomed large. It was an empty disc, invisible if not for the faint light from the beacons. That light bent, distorting into the maw of interspace that, if entered cor­rectly, would disgorge them out into the Nexus system. Stumbling onto an unknown jump point had to be a terri­fying experience. He’d seen images of dark gates, like the ones in Min, when the beacons were offline. Even knowing what to look for in those images, it was difficult to distin­guish the subtle smudge that represented a portal through time and space.

“Gate Authority Min,” Gavin read from a scripted authori­zation request, “this is Rhedd Alert Security, performing in compliance with Naval Systems Command regulations, approaching VFR and in support of UEE research vessel Cassiopeia. Request clearance for transit from Min to Nexus and confirmation of the approach.”

They didn’t need the call and response to make the jump to Nexus, but their contract required record of specific communications at all jump gates, as well as of the UEE staff transfers at each end of the run.

The gods only knew how many times he and Walt had hopped systems unannounced. In reflection, it probably should have felt strange entering a jump gate with legal tags and without local law breathing down his neck. But times change, and if Gavin got his way, they were changing for the better.

He received the expected challenge and responded with ship IDs that matched the tags for each member of the convoy. Gavin had stumbled over the formal exchanges on the first few missions. No one had complained, but he felt better now that he had a degree of comfort with the cadence and timing of the exchange. Hopefully, that degree of comfort inspired confidence in his new pilots and the UEE scientists aboard the Cassiopeia.

They got their clearance and Gavin sent the order to enter the jump gate. He took point with Jazza, each of them in place along either side of the Aquila. They slid into the gate with a familiar falling sensation. The cockpit seemed to stretch, elongating out and away from him in a rush of sound and color. It felt like someone had set a hook in his insides and pulled, stretching his gut tighter and tighter. Then something snapped and he was reac­quainted with the increasingly familiar constellations of Nexus space.

“Gate Authority Nexus,” he said, “this is Rhedd Alert—”

“Gavin,” Jazza’s voice was crisp. He was already check­ing his navsat displays when she continued, “We’ve got three ships inbound. Three hundred kilometers. Make that two-fifty! Gods, they’re moving fast.”

“Jazz, take Mei and Rahul to see what our new friends want. Walt, you and Boomer play goalie. If these guys take a run at the Cassiopeia, make them reconsider.”

A chorus of “copy that” erupted on comms and Gavin switched channels to address the UEE crew aboard the transport. “Cassiopeia, this is Red One. Accelerate in line with my mark and do not deviate from course.”

“Contact,” Jazza sounded calm, clinical. “They’ve got three F7 Hornets in a variety of configurations. They’re beat to hell with patchwork armor, but coming in fast.”

“They have any markings or insignia? What are their tags?”

“Nothing I can see through the mismatch of weapons and scrap parts.”

“Look out, they’re firing!” Mei said. “Holy hells, these guys are quick.”

“Gav,” Walt asked, “do we run?”

The After Action Reports from Brock showed a steady decrease in aggressive actions over time. Letting a new pi­rate outfit establish a foothold at one of their critical jump points seemed like a very bad idea.

“We fight,” he said. “We can’t afford to retake this ground every two weeks if we run scared now.”

“Whatever you’re going to do, do it fast,” Jazza said. “It’s three-on-three over here, and it seems these guys like to play with their food.”

“Walt,” Gavin said. “Take point. If they have friends, I don’t want to get herded into a trap.”

“Copy that.”

“All right, Jazz. I’m on my way to you.” Gavin pulled up hard, inverted over the Cassiopeia and accelerated toward the jumble of fighters.

Gavin had survived dozens of scraps before starting Rhedd Alert, but always as the aggressor. Being on the defensive was something new. It seemed strange that these crazy bastards were hitting six armed escorts.

“Jazza,” he was a couple hundred clicks out and had a good look at the scrum, “I’m coming up underneath you. Time to make this an unfair fight.”

“These guys are good, Gavin.” She grunted and her Cut­lass rolled in a loose corkscrew, putting her behind one of the marauders. She fired and its shields blazed. It pitched, nose down and thrusters reversing, to push up and above Jazza’s ship. The other two marauders swung into position on either side, and the three of them slashed toward Gavin like a knife blade.

He rolled to his port side and tried to accelerate around them. At least they couldn’t all fire on him at once that way. Rahul strafed overhead, pouring fire into one of the Hornets, but the marauders held their formation.

“Jazza, form up on me. Let’s split these bastards up.”

“Got it.”

They met and swept around to rush the trio of mis­matched Hornets. The marauders found Mei before he and Jazza were in firing range.

“Ah, hell . . .”

A barrage of precise bursts from wing-mounted laser cannons tore into Mei’s ship. It ripped entire sections from the hull, and escaping oxygen belched out in a roiling ball of flame.

“Damn it!” Gavin couldn’t see if Mei got out. He and Jaz­za blasted their way through the marauders’ formation. The Hornets scattered and reformed again behind them. “We’ve got a man down. Walt, we might need your help over here.”

“That’s what you get for staying to fight, Gav. We should have made a run for it.”

“We can talk about ‘shoulda’ later,” he said. “Get back here and . . . wait. Belay that.”

“They’re running,” Jazza sounded bemused. “Feels like they had us on the ropes, but they’re bugging out.”

Gavin watched thruster trails from the retreating ships. In moments, they winked out of Nexus space.

“Cassiopeia is secure,” Walt said. “Are you guys clear?”

Jazza didn’t exactly answer him. “Now what do you think that was all about?”

Gavin’s HUD looked clear. Relieved, he found Mei’s PRB. Everyone was alive and they appeared to be alone on the Nexus side of the gate. Walt and the Cassiopeia were nearing the extreme range of his display.

“Walt, hold where you are. Stay sharp and sweep ahead. I can’t for the life of me figure out why they attacked three-on-six.”

“Maybe,” Jazza said, “they knew they’d kick our ass.”

“Or maybe this was a feint,” Gavin said. “Let’s not get caught with our pants down if there are more of them out here. Jazz, you and Rahul watch my back while I get Mei. We’re taking the first shots if they come back through.”

There was a general clamor of agreement. Gavin was beginning to suspect that military comm-chatter was much more sparse and far less democratic than Rhedd Alert’s constant banter. Still, aside from Walt second-guessing his every move, Gavin was proud of the team.

“I wonder if they’re waiting on the other side?” Jazza asked.

Walt was quick to respond. “We are not going through that gate to check.”

“Relax, Walt,” Gavin said. “A win is a win. And good rid­dance.”

At this point, Walt’s objection wasn’t a surprise. “Lucky win, you mean. In a fight we didn’t need to have.”

Gavin ignored him.

Though she was unconscious, the biometrics in Mei’s suit reported only minor damage. Her ship, on the other hand, was another story completely. Gavin started running some mental math, tallying the costs of parts, labor, and med tech fees. The results were cringe-worthy.

The attack would make this mission a financial loss, but the contract was still the leg-up Rhedd Alert needed. And the attack was probably an aberration, Gavin reflected, re­minding himself that Brock’s After Action Reports showed a steady decrease in hostilities over the past several years.

Unfortunately, they were about to find out just how little those reports meant.

TO BE CONTINUED…

 Writer's Note: Brothers In Arms: Part Two wurde ursprünglich in Jump Point 3.6 veröffentlicht. Lesen Sie Teil Eins hier.
Gavin verließ Walt auf Cassel. Es gab eine Zeit, damals in seinen einzelnen Tagen, als ein längerer Aufenthalt in einer Ferienanlage die perfekte Fortsetzung eines schlechten Jobs war. Jetzt hatte er ein besseres Angebot, zu Hause zu warten und zwei Flaschen gekühltes Kōen Shōchū Reiten Schrotflinte im Cockpit neben ihm. Das bessere Angebot war natürlich Dell. Die shōchū war seine beste Hoffnung, seine Heimkehr von Oberon aus neu zu starten.

Es war nicht gerade der große Auftritt, den er geplant hatte. Er fühlte seine Wangen warm und war froh, allein zu sein. Mit einem Seufzer drückte er die Augen zu und ließ seinen Kopf wieder in seinen Sitz fallen. Sein Helm stieß gegen den Cockpitrahmen. Als er die Augen wieder öffnete, war der HUD gestorben. Er rollte mit dem Kopf zu den wartenden Flaschen von shōchū. Vielleicht brauchte er den Alkohol mehr als sie.

Rhedd Alert's Hangar war still. Die Lichter wurden auf ein mattes, saphirfarbenes Glühen heruntergefahren. Aber während der Hangar ruhig war, wurde Vista Landing nie langsamer. Die Klänge des Komplexes waren ein Druck um ihn herum; ein ständiges Summen des Lebens, das nach einem langen Stint aufdringlich wirkte.

Gavin verlor seinen Fluganzug und packte dann den Helm und die Flaschen von shōchū. Der Helm wurde kurzerhand auf eine Werkbank geworfen. Die shōchū ging mit ihm in ihre Wohnung. Es war dunkel im Inneren - er war zu spät. Dell schlief bereits.

Er lehnte sich an die Tür, während sich seine Augen an die Höflichkeitsbeleuchtung im Schlafzimmer anpassten. Dell lag auf ihrer Seite mit dem Rücken zu ihm. Ihr Haar war ein dunkler Fächer gegen blasse Kissen und Laken. Von den verspielten blau gefärbten Spitzen im schlechten Licht war keine Spur zu sehen. Er blickte stattdessen auf die Kurve ihrer Hüfte und die lange Linie ihrer bedeckten Beine.

Er ließ die Flaschen auf einem Tisch liegen und wollte nicht riskieren, sie mit Licht aus dem Kühlschrank zu wecken. Auf dem Weg zum kleinen Schrank zog er sein Hemd aus. Sie hatte es offen gelassen, und Stapel von Kleidung bildeten seltsame Formen im schlechten Licht.

Sie rochen wie sie. Er hatte vergessen, wie sehr er das liebte. Er lehnte sich nach vorne, sein Kopf rutschte zwischen ihre hängenden Hemden und Jacken. Sie hatten nicht viel, aber das war das Zuhause. Sie waren besiedelt, ohne den Wunsch, mehr aus Cockpits und schmutzigen Laderäumen zu leben. Aber wenn er es nicht schaffen würde, dass das funktioniert, wäre es genau das, worauf sie zurückkommen würden.

Gavin beugte sich vor und hob das weggeworfene Hemd auf. Es gab Arbeit zu erledigen. Dinge, die man reparieren muss.

Er schloss die Tür so leise wie möglich, als er ging.

Er war an einer Werkbank im Hangar, als das leichte Polster von Dells nackten Füßen auf dem kalten Hangardeck hinter ihm erklang.

"Hey, Slugger." Ihre Stimme war verspielt und neckte ihn wegen des Streits mit Walt. Der höhnische Ton war gewissermaßen eine gute Nachricht. Das bedeutete, dass sie nicht ganz so wütend war. Trotzdem schämte er sich immer noch für den Kampf und stieg nicht zu ihrem Köder auf.

"Ich dachte, du schläfst", sagte er stattdessen.

Sie rieb ihre Hand über seine Schultern, stieß ihn mit ihrer Hüfte zur Seite und nahm dann neben ihm auf der Bank Platz, als er sich bewegte. "Ich schlief, aber es klang, als ob eine Herde Shoone durch die Wohnung trommelte."

Er fühlte sich besser, als das Lächeln in ihrer Stimme zu hören. "Huh.... Ich schätze, ich bin froh, dass ich das verpasst habe."

"Woran arbeitest du?"

Gavin fing an, seine Liste durchzugehen und fragte sich, wo er anfangen sollte. Er gab irgendwo nördlich von fünfzehn auf und antwortete einfach: "Alles."

"Wurden wir bezahlt?" Er nickte und ihr Blick der Erleichterung war frustrierend. Abhängig von Dells Ex-Freund für die finanzielle Rettung war nicht genau, wie er sich seine Rolle als Geschäftsinhaber vorgestellt hatte.

"Wie geht es Boomer?", fragte er.

"Er kann so nicht weitermachen. Sie haben ihn zusammengeflickt, aber er wurde viel zu sehr herumgeschlagen."

Es war wahr. Dells Vater war wieder zusammengesetzt worden, mehr als jeder andere Pilot, den Gavin je getroffen hatte. Vielleicht hatten ein paar Militärpiloten mehr Verjüngungsbehandlungen gehabt, aber ihre Einrichtungen mussten viel besser sein als alles andere, was Zivilisationen wie Boomer hatten.

"Du musst ihn dazu bringen, dass er sich beruhigt, Gav. Soll er die Unterstützung des Freelancers fliegen oder so."

"Soll er die Unterstützung fliegen lassen? Wir reden hier von deinem Vater. Er ist mindestens halb so stur wie du. Und du weißt, wie er fliegt. Er ist cool wie Gunmetal in einem Luftkampf, aber er fliegt wie ein Verrückter.... fliegt... fliegt.... irgendwie... Person."

"Wirst du es wenigstens versuchen? Bitte?"

Es gab keine Möglichkeit, dass Boomer auf ihn hören würde, aber Gavin stimmte zu. Es war es nicht wert, mit Dell darüber zu streiten. Sie waren schon einmal über diesem Boden gewesen. Schon oft.

Er stieß auf den Kabelbaum seines Helmes.

"Die Vorwarnung ist wieder raus?", fragte sie.

Er nickte.

"Hier, lass mich das machen." Sie zog die Werkzeuge näher heran und machte sich an die Arbeit. "Also.... Walt blieb, um seinen Gehaltsscheck mit Barry zu trinken?"

"Walt arbeitete so hart wie jeder andere in Oberon. Stärker als die meisten anderen, ehrlich gesagt. Er kann mit seinem Schnitt machen, was er will."

"Während wir alle unsere Sachen in Reparaturen und Lieferungen stecken?"

"Ich habe dir ein paar shōchū mitgebracht", bot er an.

"Ich habe das gesehen." Sie kuschelte sich in seine Seite und schob ihren Arm um seine Taille. "Mmmmmmm.... danke." Ein Kuss auf seine Wange. "Ich habe es in den Kühlschrank gestellt."

"Du hättest eine Flasche mitbringen sollen."

Sie entspannte sich von ihm und ging zurück zur Arbeit am Helm. "Es könnte für dich besser funktionieren, wenn wir das für eine Nacht aufheben, in der ich nicht erschöpft bin."

Das hat die Stimmung getrübt. Gavin schob die Werkzeuge auf der Bank herum. Dell muss seinen Stimmungswechsel gespürt haben. Sie setzte sich aufrecht hin, ihr Ton wurde düsterer. "Ich habe etwas gerechnet", sagte sie.

"Wie schlimm ist es?"

"Nicht gut."

Er hoffte, dass die Grimasse, die er machte, beruhigend war. Wahrscheinlich war es das nicht.

"Der Verkauf der Bergung wird uns für ein paar Monate aus den roten Zahlen halten", sagte sie. "Übrigens, gute Arbeit dabei. Ich weiß nichts über die Idris, aber diese 325a ist eigentlich durchaus verkaufbar. Es sei denn, du willst es behalten, das heißt."

Gavin dachte darüber nach. "Verkauf es", sagte er. "Wir können es uns nicht leisten, einen unserer Leute aufzurüsten, und ich werde keine weiteren Piloten einstellen, bis wir eine feste Arbeit haben."

"Zu diesem Thema, hatte Barry etwas Neues für uns, oder kam er zum Goss-System, nur um mit deinem Bruder zu kuscheln?"

Er erzählte ihr von dem Turmjob und sie erhellte sich.

"Das ist gut, Gav. Denkst du, das könnte sich in einen stetigen Strom von Arbeit verwandeln?"

"Vielleicht, aber wir haben ein Team von Kampfpiloten, Babe. Sie werden nicht für diese Art von Arbeit hier bleiben."

"Dann fick sie. Lass sie gehen, und ich fliege mit dir."

"Du fliegst schlimmer als dein Vater. Außerdem wolltest du hier sein, um den Laden zu leiten."

"Ich bin hier, weil ich will, dass das funktioniert." Sie legte ihre Werkzeuge nieder und umwickelte ihre Finger mit seinen. "Glaub mir, ich würde viel lieber mit dir und Dad fliegen."

"Ja, nun ja. Ich will nicht, dass du da draußen bist. Boomer in die Stasis zurückzubringen ist eine Sache, aber du..... . .”

Sie zog ihre Finger heraus und klopfte auf seine Hand und zog sich zurück. "Das ist eine Idee, an die du dich gewöhnen musst. Dad wird diesen alten Rächer nicht ewig fliegen. Irgendwann wird sie mir gehören. Aber jetzt gerade", lehnte sie sich an und gab ihm einen kurzen Kuss, "Ich gehe ins Bett."

Dell stand auf, drückte das Drahtgehäuse seines Helmes mit einem Klick in Position und ging nach links.

Gavin hob den Helm auf und schaute hinein. Das Leuchten von der Absehenanzeige, die darin angezeigt wird. Sie hatte es wieder zum Laufen gebracht.

Sie hatten eine gute Sache laufen, er und Dell. Aber chronische, nagende finanzielle Sorgen würden das letztendlich zerreißen. Er brauchte nur eine Arbeit, die sich auszahlt und für die seine Piloten bleiben würden. Arbeit, die Walt davon abhält, etwas Glänzendes, Interessantes und Neues zu verfolgen. Was er brauchte, war der Tiroler Escort Job.

Gavin schob den Helm und die Werkzeuge auf der Bank zur Seite. Er richtete die Konsole ein und rief Barry's mobiGlas an. Der Buchhalter nahm den Anruf an.

"Rede mit mir, Süße."

"Barry. Gut, du bist immer noch im System."

"Ich verlasse gerade Cassel, warum?"

"Wie müsste ein Angebot aussehen, damit jemand bei diesem Tiroler Vertrag wettbewerbsfähig ist?"

"Gavin", Barrys Stimme wurde ernst. "Du bist neu hier, aber du musst wissen, dass ich diese Art von Informationen nicht weitergeben kann."

Gavins mobiGlas vibrierte gegen sein Handgelenk mit einer eingehenden Nachricht.

"Es tut mir leid, Barry. Ich habe nicht versucht, Ärger zu machen."

Barry hat ihn unterbrochen. "Nun, was ich tun kann, ist, dich auf die richtigen Anmelde- und Einreichungsformulare hinzuweisen. Wie Sie mit der Preisgestaltung umgehen, ist Ihr Anliegen. Verstanden?"

Auf Gavins mobiGlas war eine Nachricht von einem unbekannten Kontakt. Die Nachricht war einfach und enthielt nur ein Guthabenzeichen und eine Nummer.

Eine große Zahl.

Ja!

"Danke, Barry. Ich schätze es und verstehe es vollkommen."

Es dauerte vier Tage, um nur zwei Türme von der Mündung der ersten Höhle zu räumen. Walt nahm den ersten innerhalb von Sekunden nach seiner Ankunft heraus. Er tat es mit dem, was er schwor, war ein zielgerichteter und sorgfältig gezielter Schuss.

Der zweite Turm pulverisierte das Entermesser von Jazza, und sie mussten das Wrack zur Reparatur nach Vista Landing schleppen. Jazza selbst ging in Stasis nach Hause, nachdem sie Schläge auf eine Schulter und ihre beiden Beine bekommen hatte. Sie kam nicht wieder zu ihnen für den Mondminenjob.

Am vierten Tag - mit wenig Geduld, Munition und übler Sprache - fanden sie schließlich eine Lösung. Es war hässlich. Es war gefährlich. Aber als sie tiefer in den Mond vordrangen, war es das Einzige, was sie fanden, was funktionierte.

"In Ordnung, Boomer", sagte Gavin, "halte dich hinter dem Ausbruch zurück."

Boomer's Rächer kam neben ihm zum Stehen. Tief im Inneren des Labyrinths der Höhlen reichte die Rotation des Mondes aus, um ihnen ein Gefühl von Auf und Ab zu geben. Dennoch war es nicht so einfach, eine relative Position innerhalb eines kleinen sich drehenden Mondes zu halten, wie man denken könnte. Stabilisierende Triebwerke feuerten kontinuierlich in kurzen, unregelmäßigen Impulsen an.

Gavin überprüfte seine Ausrichtung und den Abstand zu den Wänden. Er war in Position. Das Tag-Team-System, das sie sich ausgedacht hatten, hatte ziemlich gut funktioniert und ein Schiff benutzt, um Feuer zu ziehen, während ein zweites einfiel, um jeden Turm zu sprengen. Es war eine mühsame und sphinkterstraffende Arbeit, aber der Mond war fast geräumt. Nur eine kleine Handvoll kniffliger Abwehrmaßnahmen blieb intakt.

"Okay," Gavin legte seine Hände auf seine Flugsteuerung. "Auf mein Zeichen."

Er ließ das Mikrofon offen und löste einen Timer auf seinem Navsat aus. Er beobachtete, wie Boomers Schiff sich langsam in die Sichtlinie des Geschützturms zum stetigen Countdown des Timers bewegte. Auf Anhieb hämmerte Gavin seine Triebwerke und raste in die Höhle, als die erste Explosion vom Turm die Schilde von Boomer traf.

Gavin gierte nach links und schwang die Nase seines Schiffes, bis er sowohl den Turm als auch das Schiff von Boomer sehen konnte. Der Rächer des alten Mannes buckelte unter dem ständigen Feuer. Die Schilde hielten, aber die Explosion zwang den Rächer zurück in den Tunnel, bevor Gavin einen Schuss abgeben konnte.

Gavin feuerte, und die Zwillingsfässer des Turms drehten sich mit so perfekter Präzision und Geschwindigkeit, dass sie wie identische leere Punkte aussahen. "Oh, sh-" die Fässer brachen in einer Fusillade aus purpurrotem Licht aus.

Gavin feuerte wieder und hatte keine Ahnung, ob er irgendwo in der Nähe des Ziels war. Das Ziel des Geschützturms war jedoch einwandfrei. Es gab ein seltsames Zuggefühl, als die Kabine den Druck verlor und sein Anzug unter Druck stand und sich um seine Gliedmaßen und Brust drückte.

Ein weiteres Sperrfeuer schlug in ihn ein und er fühlte, wie der Entermesser den Arsch rückwärts in die Wand der Höhle knirschte. Das Schiff rollte, die Nase neigte sich wild zur Seite. Gavin sah eine offene Schwärze des leeren Raumes, die in Sichtweite gähnte. Er schlug es und hoffte, dass er wieder in den Tunnel zurückkehren würde und nicht zu seinem Tod in der Schmugglerhöhle.

Erleichtert sah er Boomer's Rächer unter ihm vorbeiflitzen. Aber die Angst packte ihn wieder, als die Wände des engen Tunnels sich auftürmten, um seine gesamte Aussicht zu erfüllen. Er kehrte den Schub um, krümmte sich eng um die Steuerung und stützte sich auf den Aufprall.

Es war schlimm.

Er schlug hart zu, und der Aufprall ließ ihn die Höhle hinunterfliegen. Er stürzte immer wieder um und wollte, dass sein Schiff zusammenhält. Als er sich schließlich zwang, die Flugsteuerung freizugeben, richtete sich das Schiff selbst auf.

"Heilige Scheiße", atmete Boomer. "Gav? Lebst du noch, Kumpel?"

Seine Brust hob sich, als ob er gelaufen wäre. "Ich erinnere mich an einen Idioten, der darüber meckerte, dass dieser Job langweilig war."

Walt, der einen Tunnel in einem anderen Teil des Mondes erkundete, antwortete: "Das klingt, als wäre er auf mich gerichtet gewesen. Geht es euch beiden gut?"

"Nein, mir geht es nicht gut. Ich wurde gerade in die Luft gejagt!"

"Beruhige dich, Junge", sagte Boomer. "Ich wurde schon oft in die Luft gejagt. Das war gar nichts. Ich, ähm.... .. Ich glaube nicht, dass du noch einen weiteren Versuch an diesem Turm machst, bis wir dein Schiff repariert haben."

"Oh, wirklich? Findest du?" Gavins Kommunikation blinkte auf einer eingehenden Leitung. "Wartet mal, Leute. Ein Anruf kommt rein."

Boomer lachte und sagte: "Sie haben uns wahrscheinlich am Planeten gehört und wollen, dass wir den Lärm leiser machen."

"Sehr lustig. Eigentlich ist es Dell. Jetzt halt die Klappe." Gavin akzeptierte die eingehende Leitung.

" Gav?" Er konnte nicht sagen, ob Dell verängstigt oder wütend klang, vielleicht beides. "Wir haben ein Problem, Babe. Jazza ist weg von hier. Sie sagt, sie nimmt ein Schiff, es sei denn, sie bekommt ihren Anteil am Turmjob, bevor sie geht."

"Was? Was meinst du mit "raus hier"?"

"Sie geht", sagte Dell. "Die Firma zu verlassen, meine ich."

Walt hat sich auf dem Squad-Kanal eingeschalten. "Hey Gav, ich bin hier drin fertig. Du willst, dass ich mitkomme und mir das ansehe...."

Gavin jonglierte mit Kanälen. "Warte mal, Walt." Er zwinkerte mit geschlossenen, wunden, frustrierten und verwirrten Augen. "Dell. Wo geht der Jazz hin? Du meinst, sie kündigt?"

Boomer ließ das Geschwätz auf dem Squad-Kanal laufen. "Hört sich an, als würde er mir auf die Nerven gehen, Walt. Schön, dass sie mich nicht angerufen hat."

"Sag ihr, dass Gavin gerade in die Luft geflogen ist."

"Das würde ihren Tag deutlich verbessern."

Sie lachten beide.

Gavin breitete seine Hände in einem offenarmigen Achselzucken aus, zum Wohle von niemandem außer seinen eigenen. "Würdest du bitte die Klappe halten, verdammt noch mal?"

Das haben sie. Dell nicht. "Was hast du gerade zu mir gesagt?"

"Nicht du, Schatz. Walt und ...... weißt du was? Vergiss das alles. Sag mir einfach noch einmal, was ist mit dem Jazz los?"

Sein mobiGlas vibrierte. Gavin fluchte leise und ballte seine Fäuste, um nicht auf etwas zu schießen. Aus seinem Druckanzug heraus war es schwierig, das mobiGlas zu aktivieren. Er schaffte es, während Dell ihn über Jazzas Desertion informierte. Sie wollte sich mit einem der Schmuggler-Outfits im Olympus-Pool nach Arbeit umsehen. Bezahlte Arbeit. Blah. Blah. Deserteur.

Gavin schaltete schließlich sein mobiGlas-Display ein. Es gab eine Nachricht von einem Kontakt mit der Aufschrift "unbekannt", aber Gavin wusste genau, von wem er kam.

" Dell."

"Ich habe versucht, es ihr auszureden, Gav", klang Dell fast wie Tränen. "Das habe ich wirklich."

"Dell, hör mir zu."

" Was?"

"Hol Jazza zurück. In Ordnung? Tu, was immer nötig ist."

"Ich werde es versuchen, Gav, aber...."

"Was auch immer nötig ist, okay? Wir werden sie brauchen. Wir werden jeden brauchen und noch einiges mehr."

"Was ist los, Gavin?"

Er schaltete sein Mikrofon ein, um auf beiden Kanälen zu senden: "Alle mal herhören. Sie haben nur zwei Gebote auf den Vertrag mit der Marine erhalten. Wir sind das niedrigste Gebot."

"Ist es schlecht?" fragte Boomer.

"Dell", sagte Gavin, "lass Jazza uns in Oberon begleiten. Wir arbeiten rund um die Uhr, bis wir die letzten paar Geschütztürme geräumt haben."

Gavin saß in seinem beschädigten Entermesser, die Wangen gestreckt in einem unbekannten Grinsen.

"Leute", sagte er, "wir haben gerade den Navy-Auftrag gewonnen."

"Gehen Sie rein, Miss Brock." Ein Leutnant hielt ihr die Tür auf. "Major Greely und sein Gast sind schon drin."

Der Gast des Majors. Wie wunderbar. Morgan Brock glättete die Vorderseite ihres Faltenrockes und fegte dann durch die Türöffnung in Greelys Konferenzraum. Der Major und sein "Gast" standen neben dem Kopf des Tisches. Greely sah in seinen Hemdsärmeln mehr nach Marine als nach Marine aus. Der Mann hatte Arme, die so dick waren wie die Beine der meisten Männer.

"Brock. Schön, dass du persönlich gekommen bist. Darf ich dir Gavin Rhedd vorstellen, einen der Mitinhaber von Rhedd Alert Security."

Rhedd war jünger, als sie es sich vorgestellt hatte, ein gutaussehender Mann mit einem robusten Rahmen. Er hatte die seltsame Entscheidung getroffen, einen verwitterten, zivilen Fluganzug für das Meeting zu tragen. Vielleicht musste er alle davon überzeugen, dass er tatsächlich ein Pilot ist. Dennoch passte ihm das Gerät gut. Er sah unbehaglich aus, aber nicht unbewusst, als er neben der Granitplatte stand, die Major Greely war.

"Schön, Sie kennenzulernen, Miss Brock."

Sie verweigerte seine ausgestreckte Hand und beendete die Höflichkeiten.

"Du bist also die Jungfräulichkeit, die meinen Vertrag unterboten hat." Sie machte deutlich, dass es keine Frage war. "Lass mich das ganz klar sagen. Die Kündigungsklausel sieht vor, dass ich an einer Übergangssitzung teilnehme. Lasst uns nicht so tun, als ob ich mich über die Gelegenheit freue."

"Nun, okay", sagte Greely. "Ich nehme an, das wird zur Vorstellung reichen. Lasst uns anfangen, sollen wir?" Er setzte sich an den Kopf des Tisches und bewegte sich, damit jeder von ihnen sitzen konnte. "Jetzt sind die Vergabe- und Protestzeiten vorbei."

"Es wird eine Berufung eingelegt", sagte sie.

"Das bezweifle ich nicht, Morgan. Aber mein Büro und die Navy SysCom haben allen Grund zu der Annahme, dass der Preis bestätigt wird."

"Ich habe zwei Jahre investiert, um den Lauf durch Min und Nexus aufzuräumen", sagte sie. "Und wir wissen beide, dass die Arbeitsbelastung dramatisch zunehmen wird. Ich werde das nicht ohne Kampf übergeben."

Sie blieb stehen, als Greely die Hand hochhielt: "Die UEE will, dass wir Wege finden, um Unabhängige in diesen Systemen zu befreien. Wenn du diesen Punkt diskutieren willst, dann tu es mit den Politikern. Aber im Moment brauche ich einen Missionsbericht, und ich denke, wir alle würden es begrüßen, wenn dieses Treffen schnell vorankommt."

Brock ließ den Major den Punkt gewinnen. Wenn nichts anderes, wusste sie, wann sie ihre Kämpfe austragen musste. Es gab nichts zu gewinnen, wenn man ihn gegen sich aufbrachte. Es gab profitablere Ziele für ihren Zorn. Zufrieden mit dem kühlen Tenor des Treffens richtete sie ihre Aufmerksamkeit auf Gavin Rhedd.

"Ja, nun", räusperte sich der junge Mann. Seine Stirn glitzerte, wo sie auf seine dicht beschnittenen Haare traf. "Ich habe die, ähm.... die After Action Reports durchgelesen." Rhedd stolperte durch mehrere Projektionen auf einem alten Klunker aus einem mobiGlas. "Alle zehn Tage begleiten wir einen neuen Schichtwechsel in die Forschungseinrichtung Haven auf Tirol V. Aber was können Sie mir über die Sicherheitsanforderungen für den Personaltransfer zwischen den Transportschiffen und Haven sagen?"

Das Kind kannte seinen Arsch nicht von einem Loch im Boden. Vielleicht war ihr Tiroler Vertrag nicht ganz der verlorene, denn Major Greely hat sich das ausgemalt. Brocks Lächeln fühlte sich echt an, als sie anfing, den Transferprozess von Schiff zu Siedlung zu beschreiben.

Dieser Job sollte Rhedd Alert Security lebendig auffressen.

Das Min-System war dunkel. In Goss flossen die Sprungbretter mit schimmernden Farbkaskaden. Sie kochten die Bänder des Olympus Pools aus Gold, Bernstein und Blutorange in einer schillernden Darstellung des himmlischen Geheimnisses. Min hingegen war ganz anders, und Gavin fragte sich, wie viele Schiffe und Leben Min's Sprungtore beansprucht hatten, bevor sie erfolgreich kartografiert wurden.

Der Ansatz war jetzt gut ausgeprägt. Nav-Beacons beleuchteten einen zehn Kilometer langen Kanal, der sechs Rhedd Alert Eskorten und deren Ladung, eine Constellation Aquila mit UEE-Bezeichnungen, zum Sprungtor führte. Die automatisierten Baken senden einen stetigen Strom von Navsat- und Transitstatusdaten und beleuchten zusätzlich den visuellen Eintrittsvektor.

Das Tor selbst war groß. Es war eine leere Scheibe, unsichtbar, wenn nicht für das schwache Licht der Baken. Dieses Licht beugte sich und verzerrte sich in den Schlund des Zwischenraums, der, wenn er richtig eingegeben würde, sie in das Nexus-System ausspucken würde. Auf einen unbekannten Sprungpunkt zu stolpern, musste eine erschreckende Erfahrung sein. Er hatte Bilder von dunklen Toren gesehen, wie die in Min, als die Baken offline waren. Selbst wenn man wusste, worauf man in diesen Bildern achten musste, war es schwierig, den feinen Fleck zu unterscheiden, der ein Portal durch Zeit und Raum darstellte.

"Gate Authority Min", las Gavin aus einer Skript-Autorisierungsanfrage, "das ist Rhedd Alert Security, die in Übereinstimmung mit den Vorschriften des Naval Systems Command, der Annäherung an den VFR und zur Unterstützung des UEE-Forschungsschiffs Cassiopeia arbeitet. Beantrage Freigabe für den Transit von Min zum Nexus und Bestätigung der Vorgehensweise."

Sie brauchten den Anruf und die Antwort nicht, um den Sprung zu Nexus zu machen, aber ihr Vertrag verlangte eine Aufzeichnung der spezifischen Kommunikation an allen Sprungtoren sowie der UEE-Personaltransfers an jedem Ende des Laufs.

Die Götter wussten nur, wie oft er und Walt unangekündigt die Systeme gewechselt hatten. In der Reflexion hätte es sich wahrscheinlich seltsam anfühlen sollen, ein Sprungtor mit legalen Tags zu betreten, ohne dass ihm das lokale Recht im Nacken sitzt. Aber die Zeiten ändern sich, und wenn Gavin seinen Willen durchsetzen würde, würden sie sich zum Besseren wenden.

Er nahm die erwartete Herausforderung an und antwortete mit Schiffs-IDs, die den Tags für jedes Mitglied des Konvois entsprachen. Gavin war bei den ersten Missionen über den formalen Austausch gestolpert. Niemand hatte sich beschwert, aber er fühlte sich besser, jetzt, da er einen gewissen Komfort mit der Trittfrequenz und dem Zeitpunkt des Austausches hatte. Hoffentlich hat dieser Grad an Komfort das Vertrauen seiner neuen Piloten und der UEE-Wissenschaftler an Bord der Kassiopeia geweckt.

Sie bekamen ihre Freigabe und Gavin schickte den Befehl, das Sprungtor zu betreten. Er ging auf Jazza ein, jeder von ihnen an seinem Platz auf beiden Seiten des Aquila. Sie rutschten mit einem vertrauten Fallgefühl in das Tor. Das Cockpit schien sich zu dehnen und dehnte sich in einem Rausch von Klang und Farbe aus und von ihm weg. Es fühlte sich an, als hätte jemand einen Haken in sein Inneres gesteckt und gezogen und seinen Darm immer enger gestreckt. Dann schnappte etwas und er lernte die immer bekannteren Konstellationen des Nexus-Raums wieder kennen.

"Gate Authority Nexus", sagte er, "hier ist Rhedd Alert-".

"Gavin", Jazzas Stimme war knackig. Er überprüfte bereits seine Navsat-Displays, als sie weitermachte: "Wir haben drei Schiffe im Anflug. Dreihundert Kilometer. Das macht zwei zu fünfzig! Bei den Göttern, sie bewegen sich schnell."

"Jazz, nimm Mei und Rahul mit, um zu sehen, was unsere neuen Freunde wollen. Walt, du und Boomer spielen Torwart. Wenn diese Typen im Kassiopeia einen Lauf nehmen, lassen Sie sie das noch einmal überdenken."

Ein Chor von "copy that" brach auf Funksprüchen aus, und Gavin wechselte die Kanäle, um die UEE-Besatzung an Bord des Transports anzusprechen. "Kassiopeia, hier ist Rot Eins. Beschleunigen Sie gemäß meiner Markierung und weichen Sie nicht vom Kurs ab."

"Kontakt", klang Jazza ruhig, klinisch. "Sie haben drei F7 Hornissen in verschiedenen Konfigurationen. Sie sind mit Patchwork-Rüstungen zur Hölle geschickt, aber sie kommen schnell rein."

"Haben sie irgendwelche Markierungen oder Insignien? Was sind ihre Tags?"

"Nichts, was ich durch das Missverhältnis von Waffen und Schrottteilen sehen kann."

"Achtung, sie schießen!" Sagte Mei. "Heilige Scheiße, diese Typen sind schnell."

"Gav", fragte Walt, "laufen wir weg?"

Die After Action Reports von Brock zeigten einen stetigen Rückgang der aggressiven Aktionen im Laufe der Zeit. Es schien eine sehr schlechte Idee zu sein, ein neues Piraten-Outfit an einem ihrer kritischen Sprungbretter Fuß fassen zu lassen.

"Wir kämpfen", sagte er. "Wir können es uns nicht leisten, diesen Boden alle zwei Wochen zu wiederholen, wenn wir jetzt Angst haben."

"Was immer du tun wirst, mach es schnell", sagte Jazza. "Es ist drei gegen drei hier drüben, und es scheint, dass diese Jungs gerne mit ihrem Essen spielen."

"Walt", sagte Gavin. "Übernimm den Punkt. Wenn sie Freunde haben, will ich nicht in eine Falle getrieben werden."

" Verstanden."

"In Ordnung, Jazz. Ich bin auf dem Weg zu dir." Gavin zog hart an, drehte sich über die Kassiopeia und beschleunigte auf das Gewirr der Kämpfer zu.

Gavin hatte Dutzende von Fetzen überlebt, bevor er mit Rhedd Alert begann, aber immer als Angreifer. In der Defensive zu sein, war etwas Neues. Es schien seltsam, dass diese verrückten Bastarde sechs bewaffnete Eskorten schlugen.

"Jazza", er war ein paar hundert Klicks entfernt und hatte einen guten Blick auf das Scrum, "Ich komme unter dir hoch. Es ist Zeit, dass wir einen unfairen Kampf daraus machen."

"Diese Typen sind gut, Gavin." Sie grunzte und ihr Entermesser rollte in einem losen Korkenzieher und setzte sie hinter einen der Marodeure. Sie feuerte und seine Schilde brannten auf. Es neigte sich, die Nase nach unten und die Triebwerke drehten sich um, um das Schiff von Jazza nach oben und über das Schiff zu schieben. Die anderen beiden Plünderer schwangen auf beiden Seiten in Position, und die drei von ihnen schlugen wie eine Messerklinge auf Gavin zu.

Er rollte zu seiner Backbordseite und versuchte, um sie herum zu beschleunigen. Zumindest konnten sie auf diese Weise nicht alle gleichzeitig auf ihn schießen. Rahul stürzte sich nach oben und goss Feuer in eine der Hornissen, aber die Marodeure hielten ihre Formation.

"Jazza, mach dich bereit für mich. Lasst uns diese Bastarde aufteilen."

"Verstanden."

Sie trafen sich und fegten herum, um das Trio der ungleichen Hornissen zu überrennen. Die Plünderer fanden Mei, bevor er und Jazza auf Schießstand waren.

"Ah, zum Teufel..."

Eine Flut präziser Ausbrüche von flügelgelagerten Laserkanonen riss in Mei's Schiff. Es riss ganze Abschnitte aus dem Rumpf, und der austretende Sauerstoff schlug in einem dampfenden Flammenball heraus.

" Verdammt!" Gavin konnte nicht sehen, ob Mei rauskam. Er und Jazza schossen sich durch die Formation der Marodeure. Die Hornissen verstreuten sich und wurden hinter ihnen wieder reformiert. "Wir haben einen Mann am Boden. Walt, wir brauchen vielleicht deine Hilfe hier drüben."

"Das kommt davon, wenn man zum Kämpfen bleibt, Gav. Wir hätten weglaufen sollen."

"Wir können später über'hätte reden sollen'", sagte er. "Komm zurück und warte. Belassen Sie das."

"Sie rennen", klang Jazza verwirrt. "Fühlt sich an, als hätten sie uns in die Seile getrieben, aber sie hauen ab."

Gavin beobachtete die Spuren der Triebwerke von den zurückweichenden Schiffen aus. In wenigen Augenblicken blinzelten sie aus dem Nexus-Raum.

"Kassiopeia ist sicher", sagte Walt. "Habt ihr euch verstanden?"

Jazza antwortete ihm nicht gerade. "Was glaubst du, worum es dabei ging?"

Gavins HUD sah klar aus. Erleichtert fand er Mei's PRB. Alle waren am Leben und sie schienen allein auf der Nexusseite des Tores zu sein. Walt und die Kassiopeia näherten sich der extremen Reichweite seines Displays.

"Walt, bleib, wo du bist. Bleib scharf und fahre voraus. Ich kann nicht mein ganzes Leben lang herausfinden, warum sie drei auf sechs angegriffen haben."

"Vielleicht", sagte Jazza, "wussten sie, dass sie uns in den Arsch treten würden."

"Oder vielleicht war das eine Finte", sagte Gavin. "Lass uns nicht mit unserer Hose erwischt werden, wenn es hier draußen noch mehr von ihnen gibt. Jazz, du und Rahul passt auf mich auf, während ich Mei hole. Wir machen die ersten Schüsse, wenn sie wieder durchkommen."

Es herrschte ein allgemeines Einvernehmen. Gavin begann zu vermuten, dass militärisches Komm-Getuschel viel spärlicher und weit weniger demokratisch war als Rhedd Alerts ständiges Scherzen. Doch abgesehen davon, dass Walt jeden seiner Züge in Frage stellte, war Gavin stolz auf das Team.

"Ich frage mich, ob sie auf der anderen Seite warten?" fragte Jazza.

Walt reagierte schnell. "Wir gehen nicht durch das Tor, um zu überprüfen."

"Entspann dich, Walt", sagte Gavin. "Ein Sieg ist ein Sieg. Und eine gute Befreiung."

Zu diesem Zeitpunkt war Walts Einwand keine Überraschung. "Glücklicher Sieg, meinst du. In einem Kampf, den wir nicht brauchten."

Gavin ignorierte ihn.

Obwohl sie bewusstlos war, meldete die Biometrie in Mei's Anzug nur geringe Schäden. Ihr Schiff hingegen war eine ganz andere Geschichte. Gavin fing an, etwas mentale Mathematik zu betreiben und zählte die Kosten für Teile, Arbeit und Medizintechnik. Die Ergebnisse waren erschreckend gut.

Der Angriff würde diese Mission zu einem finanziellen Verlust machen, aber der Vertrag war immer noch der notwendige Aufstieg von Rhedd Alert. Und der Angriff war wahrscheinlich eine Verirrung, dachte Gavin nach und erinnerte sich daran, dass Brocks After Action Reports in den letzten Jahren einen stetigen Rückgang der Feindseligkeiten zeigten.

Leider wollten sie herausfinden, wie wenig diese Berichte bedeuten.
h3. WIRD FORTGESETZT......

 Writer’s Note: Brothers In Arms: Part Two was published originally in Jump Point 3.6. Read Part One here.
Gavin left Walt on Cassel. There was a time, back in his single days, when an extended stay on a resort world was the perfect sequel to a crappy job. Now he had a better offer waiting at home and two bottles of chilled Kōen Shōchū riding shotgun in the cockpit beside him. The better offer, of course, was Dell. The shōchū was his best hope to reboot his homecoming from Oberon.

It wasn’t exactly the grand entrance he’d planned on making. He felt his cheeks warm and was glad to be alone. With a sigh, he squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall back into his seat. His helmet bumped against the cockpit frame. When he opened his eyes again, the HUD had died. He rolled his head to eye the waiting bottles of shōchū. Perhaps he needed the alcohol more than she did.

Rhedd Alert’s hangar was still. The lights were dialed down to a dull, sapphire glow. But while the hangar was quiet, Vista Landing never slowed down. The sounds of the complex were a pressure all around him; a constant hum of life that seemed intrusive after a long stint flying solo.

Gavin shed his flight suit and then grabbed the helmet and bottles of shōchū. The helmet got dumped unceremoniously onto a workbench. The shōchū went with him to their apart­ment. It was dark inside — he was too late. Dell was already asleep.

He leaned against the door while his eyes adjusted to the courtesy lighting in the bedroom. Dell lay on her side with her back to him. Her hair was a dark fan against pale pillows and sheets. There was no trace of the playful blue-dyed tips in the low light. He looked instead to the curve of her hip and the long line of her covered legs.

He left the bottles on a table, not wanting to risk waking her with light from the fridge. He stripped off his shirt on the way to the little closet. She’d left it open, and piles of clothes made odd shapes in the low light.

They smelled like her. He’d forgotten how much he loved that. He leaned forward, his head slipping between her hanging shirts and jackets. They didn’t have much, but this was home. They were settled, with no desire for any more living out of cockpits and dirty cargo bays. But if he couldn’t make this work, that’s exactly what they would be back to.

Gavin stooped and picked up the discarded shirt. There was work to do. Things to fix.

He closed the door as quietly as he could when he left.

He was at a workbench in the hangar when the light pad of Dell’s bare feet on the cold hangar deck sounded behind him.

“Hey, Slugger.” Her voice was playful, teasing him about the scrap with Walt. The taunting tone was good news, in a way. It meant that she wasn’t quite so angry. Regardless, he was still embarrassed about the fight and didn’t rise to her bait.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said instead.

She rubbed her hand across his shoulders, bumped him aside with her hip and then took a seat next to him on the bench when he moved. “I was asleep, but it sounded like a herd of Shoone came tromping through the apart­ment.”

He felt better hearing the smile in her voice. “Huh . . . I guess I’m glad I missed that.”

“What are you working on?”

Gavin started running through his list, wondering where to start. He gave up somewhere north of fifteen and simply replied, “Everything.”

“Did we get paid?” He nodded and her look of relief was frustrating. Depending on Dell’s ex-boyfriend for financial salvation wasn’t exactly how he’d envisioned his role as a business owner.

“How’s Boomer?” he asked.

“He can’t keep doing this. They patched him up, but he’s been banged around way too much.”

It was true. Dell’s dad had been put back together more than any other pilot Gavin had ever met. Maybe a few military pilots had had more rejuvenation treatment, but their facilities had to be far better than anything civies like Boomer had access too.

“You’ve got to get him to take it easy, Gav. Let him fly sup­port in the Freelancer or something.”

“Let him fly support? This is your dad we’re talking about. He’s at least half as stubborn as you are. And you know how he flies. He’s cool as gunmetal in a dogfight, but he flies like a crazy . . . flying . . . kind of . . . person.”

“Will you at least try? Please?”

There was no way Boomer was going to listen to him, but Gavin agreed. It wasn’t worth fighting with Dell about it. They’d been over that ground before. Plenty of times.

He prodded at the wiring harness of his helmet.

“The heads-up out again?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Here, let me do it.” She pulled the tools closer and set to work. “So . . . Walt stayed to drink his paycheck away with Barry?”

“Walt worked as hard as anyone in Oberon. Harder than most, actually. He can do what he wants with his cut.”

“While we’re dumping all of ours into repairs and supplies?”

“I brought you some shōchū,” he offered.

“I saw that.” She snuggled into his side and slid her arm around his waist. “Mmmmm . . . thank you.” A peck on his cheek. “I put it in the fridge.”

“You should have brought a bottle with you.”

She unwound herself from him and went back to work on the helmet. “It might work out better for you if we save that for a night when I’m not exhausted.”

That killed the mood. Gavin shifted the tools around on the bench. Dell must have sensed his change of mood. She sat up straight, her tone growing somber. “I’ve been doing some math,” she said.

“How bad is it?”

“Not good.”

He hoped that the grimace he made was reassuring. It probably wasn’t.

“Selling the salvage will keep us out of the red for a couple months,” she said. “Good job on that, by the way. I don’t know about the Idris, but that 325a is actually quite sell­able. Unless you want to keep it, that is.”

Gavin thought about it. “Sell it,” he said. “We can’t afford to upgrade any of our people, and I’m not bringing on any more pilots until we land some steady work.”

“On that topic, did Barry have something new for us, or did he come to Goss system just to carouse with your brother?”

He told her about the turret job and she brightened.

“This is good, Gav. You think this could turn into a steady stream of work?”

“Maybe, but we’ve got a team of combat pilots, babe. They’re not going to stick around for this kind of work.”

“Then screw them. Let them leave, and I’ll fly with you.”

“You fly worse than your dad. Besides, you wanted to be here to run the shop.”

“I’m here because I want this to work.” She put her tools down and entwined her fingers with his. “Believe me, I’d much rather be flying with you and Dad.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t want you out there. Bringing Boomer back in stasis is one thing, but you . . .”

She extracted her fingers and patted his hand, pulling away. “That’s an idea you’re going to have to get used to. Dad won’t be flying that old Avenger forever. Eventually, she’ll be mine. But right now,” she leaned in and gave him a quick kiss, “I’m going to bed.”

Dell stood, pressed his helmet’s wire housing into place with a click and left.

Gavin picked up the helmet and peeked inside. The glow from the reticle display shown within. She’d got it working again.

They had a good thing going, he and Dell. But chronic, nag­ging financial worry would eventually tear that apart. He just needed work that paid and that his pilots would stay for. Work that would keep Walt from chasing something shiny, interesting, and new. What he needed was that Tyrol escort job.

Gavin pushed the helmet and tools aside on the bench. He keyed up the console and placed a call to Barry’s mobiGlas. The accountant accepted the call.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

“Barry. Good, you’re still in-system.”

“Just about to leave Cassel, why?”

“What would a bid need to look like for someone to be com­petitive on that Tyrol contract?”

“Gavin,” Barry’s voice grew serious. “You’re new to this, but you have to know that I can’t give out that kind of information.”

Gavin’s mobiGlas vibrated against his wrist with an incom­ing message.

“I’m sorry, Barry. I wasn’t trying to cause troub—”

Barry cut him off. “Now, what I can do is point you toward the proper registration and submission forms. How you manage the pricing is your concern. Understand?”

On Gavin’s mobiGlas was a message from an unknown contact. The message was simple, containing only a Credit sign and a number.

A big number.

Yes!

“Thanks, Barry. I appreciate it and understand completely.”

It took four days to clear just two turrets from the mouth of the first cave. Walt took out the first within seconds of arriving. He did it with what he swore was a purposeful and carefully aimed shot.

The second turret pulverized Jazza’s Cutlass, and they had to tow the wreckage back to Vista Landing for re­pairs. Jazza herself went home in stasis after taking hits to a shoulder and both of her legs. She did not rejoin them for the moon mine job.

On the fourth day — running low on patience, ammo, and foul language — they finally came up with a solution. It was ugly. It was dangerous. But as they worked deeper into the moon, it was the only thing they found that worked.

“All right, Boomer,” Gavin said, “hold behind that outcrop­ping.”

Boomer’s Avenger crept to a halt beside him. Deep inside the warren of caverns, the moon’s rotation was enough to give them a sense of up and down. Still, holding a relative position inside a small spinning moon was not as easy as one might think. Stabilizing thrusters fired continuously in short, irregular bursts.

Gavin checked his orientation and distance from the walls. He was in place. The tag team system they’d come up with had been working pretty well, using one ship to draw fire while a second swept in to blast each turret. It was tedious and sphincter-tightening work, but the moon was nearly cleared. Only a small handful of tricky defenses remained intact.

“Okay,” Gavin settled his hands on his flight controls. “On my mark.”

He left the mic open and triggered a timer on his navsat. He watched Boomer’s ship ease slowly into the turret’s line of sight to the steady countdown of the timer. Right on cue, Gavin hammered his thrusters and sped into the cave, just as the first blast from the turret struck Boomer’s shields.

Gavin yawed to the left, swinging the nose of his ship until he could see both the turret and Boomer’s ship. The old man’s Avenger bucked under the constant fire. The shields held, but the blast forced the Avenger back out into the tunnel before Gavin could take a shot.

Gavin fired, and the turret’s twin barrels swiveled with such impeccable precision and speed that they looked like identical empty dots. “Oh, sh—” the barrels erupted in a fusillade of crimson light.

Gavin fired again and had no clue if he was anywhere near the mark. The turret’s aim was flawless, however. There was an odd pulling sensation when the cabin lost pressure and his suit pressurized, squeezing around his limbs and chest.

Another barrage hammered into him and he felt the Cut­lass crunch ass-backward into the wall of the cavern. The ship rolled, nose pitching wildly to one side. Gavin saw an open blackness of empty space yawn into view. He punched it, hoping he was heading back out into the tunnel and not to his death inside the smugglers’ cave.

Relieved, he saw Boomer’s Avenger flash by beneath him. But dread gripped him again when the walls of the narrow tunnel loomed to fill his entire view. He reversed thrust, hunched tight around the controls and braced for impact.

It was bad.

He hit hard, and the impact sent him careening down the cavern. He tumbled over and over, willing his ship to hold together. When he finally forced himself to release the flight controls, the ship righted itself.

“Holy hells,” Boomer breathed. “Gav? You alive, buddy?”

His chest heaved like he’d been running. “I seem to recall some idiot bitching about this job being boring.”

Walt, exploring a tunnel in another part of the moon, an­swered, “That sounds like it was directed at me. You two okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. I just got blown up!”

“Simmer down, son,” Boomer said. “I’ve been blown up plenty of times. That was nothin’. I, uh . . . I don’t think you’re taking another crack at that turret until we get your ship patched up, though.”

“Oh, really? Ya think?” Gavin’s comms flashed on an incom­ing line. “Hold on, guys. Call coming in.”

Boomer laughed, saying, “They probably heard us planet­side and want us to keep the noise down.”

“Very funny. Actually, it’s Dell. Now shut it.” Gavin accept­ed the incoming line.

“Gav?” He couldn’t tell if Dell sounded scared or angry, maybe both. “We got a problem, babe. Jazza’s out of here. Says she’s taking a ship unless she gets her cut of the turret job before she goes.”

“What? What do you mean ‘out of here’?”

“She’s leaving,” Dell said. “Leaving the company, I mean.”

Walt cut in on the squad channel. “Hey Gav, I’m all finished in here. You want me to come take a look at tha—”

Gavin juggled channels. “Hold on, Walt.” He squinched his eyes closed, sore, frustrated and confused. “Dell. Where’s Jazz going? You mean she’s quitting?”

Boomer kept the chatter going on the squad channel. “Sounds like he’s getting an earful, Walt. Glad she didn’t call me.”

“Tell her Gavin just got blown up.”

“That would improve her day significantly.”

They both laughed.

Gavin spread his hands in an open-armed shrug for no one’s benefit but his own. “Would you please shut the hell up?”

They did. Dell did not. “What did you just say to me?!”

“Not you, babe. Walt and . . . you know what? Never mind all that. Just tell me again, what’s going on with Jazz?”

His mobiGlas vibrated. Gavin swore silently and balled his fists to keep from shooting something. From within his pressure suit, it was difficult to activate the mobiGlas. He managed it while Dell filled him in on Jazza’s desertion. She was going to look for work with one of the smuggling outfits hidden in the Olympus Pool. Paying work. Blah. Blah. Deserter.

Gavin finally powered on his mobiGlas display. There was a message from a contact marked “unknown,” but Gavin knew exactly who it was from.

“Dell.”

“I tried to talk her out of it, Gav,” Dell sounded close to tears. “I really did.”

“Dell, listen to me.”

“What?”

“Get Jazza back. All right? Do whatever it takes.”

“I’ll try, Gav, but . . .”

“Whatever it takes, okay? We’re going to need her. We’re going to need everyone and then some.”

“What’s going on, Gavin?”

He keyed his mic to transmit on both channels, “Everybody, listen up. They only got two bids on the Navy contract. We’re the low bid.”

“Is low bad?” Boomer asked.

“Dell,” Gavin said, “have Jazza join us in Oberon. We’re working ’round the clock until we’ve cleared the last few turrets.”

Gavin sat in his damaged Cutlass, cheeks stretched in an unfamiliar grin.

“Guys,” he said, “we just won the Navy job.”

“Go on in, Miss Brock.” A lieutenant held the door open for her. “Major Greely and his guest are already inside.”

The major’s guest. How wonderful. Morgan Brock smoothed the front of her pleated skirt and then swept through the doorway into Greely’s conference room. The major and his “guest” stood near the head of the table. Greely was looking more Marine than Navy in his shirt sleeves. The man had arms as thick as most men’s legs.

“Brock. Good of you to come personally. Let me introduce you to Gavin Rhedd, one of the co-owners of Rhedd Alert Security.”

Rhedd was younger than she’d guessed, a handsome man with a sturdy frame. He’d made the curious decision to wear a weathered, civilian flight suit to the meeting. Per­haps he needed to convince everyone that he was, in fact, a pilot. Still, the rig fit him well. He looked uncomfortable but not self-conscious standing beside the granite slab that was Major Greely.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Brock.”

She refused his extended hand and put an end to the pleasantries.

“So you’re the cherry that low-balled my contract.” She made it obvious that it wasn’t a question. “Let me be en­tirely clear. The termination clause stipulates that I par­ticipate in a transition meeting. Let’s not pretend that I’m pleased by the opportunity.”

“Well okay, then,” Greely said. “I suppose that will do by way of introductions. Let’s get started, shall we?” He took a seat at the head of the table and motioned for each of them to sit. “Now, the award and protest periods are over.”

“There will be an appeal filed,” she said.

“I don’t doubt that, Morgan. But my office and Navy SysCom have every reason to believe that the award will be upheld.”

“I’ve invested two years cleaning up the run through Min and Nexus,” she said. “And we both know the workload is scheduled to increase dramatically. I’m not handing that over without a fight.”

She stopped when Greely held a hand up, “The UEE wants us to find ways to enfranchise independents in those systems. You want to argue that point, do it with the politicians. But right now, I need a mission brief, and I think we’d all appreciate this meeting moving along quickly.”

Brock let the major win the point. If nothing else, she knew when to pick her battles. There was nothing to be gained from antagonizing him. There were more profitable targets for her ire. Content with the cool tenor of the meeting, she turned her attention to Gavin Rhedd.

“Yes, well,” the young man cleared his throat. His fore­head glistened where it met his close-cropped hair. “I’ve read through the, uh . . . the After Action Reports.” Rhedd swiped through several projections on an old clunker of a mobiGlas. “Every ten days we escort a new shift rotation to the Haven research facility on Tyrol V. But what can you tell me about the security require­ments for the staff transfer between the transport ships and Haven?”

The kid didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Maybe her Tyrol contract wasn’t quite the lost cause Major Greely made it out to be. Brock’s smile felt genuine as she started describing the ship-to-settlement transfer process.

This job was going to eat Rhedd Alert Security alive.

Min system was dark. In Goss, the jump points flowed with shimmering cascades of color. They boiled the Olympus Pool’s bands of gold, amber, and blood-orange in a dazzling display of celestial mystery. Min, on the other hand, was entirely different, and Gavin wondered how many ships and lives Min’s jump gates had claimed before they were suc­cessfully charted.

The approach was well marked now. Nav beacons lit a ten-kilometer channel leading six Rhedd Alert escorts and their charge, a Constellation Aquila with UEE designations, to the jump gate. The automated beacons broadcast a steady stream of navsat and transit status data in addition to lighting the visual entry vector.

The gate itself loomed large. It was an empty disc, invisible if not for the faint light from the beacons. That light bent, distorting into the maw of interspace that, if entered cor­rectly, would disgorge them out into the Nexus system. Stumbling onto an unknown jump point had to be a terri­fying experience. He’d seen images of dark gates, like the ones in Min, when the beacons were offline. Even knowing what to look for in those images, it was difficult to distin­guish the subtle smudge that represented a portal through time and space.

“Gate Authority Min,” Gavin read from a scripted authori­zation request, “this is Rhedd Alert Security, performing in compliance with Naval Systems Command regulations, approaching VFR and in support of UEE research vessel Cassiopeia. Request clearance for transit from Min to Nexus and confirmation of the approach.”

They didn’t need the call and response to make the jump to Nexus, but their contract required record of specific communications at all jump gates, as well as of the UEE staff transfers at each end of the run.

The gods only knew how many times he and Walt had hopped systems unannounced. In reflection, it probably should have felt strange entering a jump gate with legal tags and without local law breathing down his neck. But times change, and if Gavin got his way, they were changing for the better.

He received the expected challenge and responded with ship IDs that matched the tags for each member of the convoy. Gavin had stumbled over the formal exchanges on the first few missions. No one had complained, but he felt better now that he had a degree of comfort with the cadence and timing of the exchange. Hopefully, that degree of comfort inspired confidence in his new pilots and the UEE scientists aboard the Cassiopeia.

They got their clearance and Gavin sent the order to enter the jump gate. He took point with Jazza, each of them in place along either side of the Aquila. They slid into the gate with a familiar falling sensation. The cockpit seemed to stretch, elongating out and away from him in a rush of sound and color. It felt like someone had set a hook in his insides and pulled, stretching his gut tighter and tighter. Then something snapped and he was reac­quainted with the increasingly familiar constellations of Nexus space.

“Gate Authority Nexus,” he said, “this is Rhedd Alert—”

“Gavin,” Jazza’s voice was crisp. He was already check­ing his navsat displays when she continued, “We’ve got three ships inbound. Three hundred kilometers. Make that two-fifty! Gods, they’re moving fast.”

“Jazz, take Mei and Rahul to see what our new friends want. Walt, you and Boomer play goalie. If these guys take a run at the Cassiopeia, make them reconsider.”

A chorus of “copy that” erupted on comms and Gavin switched channels to address the UEE crew aboard the transport. “Cassiopeia, this is Red One. Accelerate in line with my mark and do not deviate from course.”

“Contact,” Jazza sounded calm, clinical. “They’ve got three F7 Hornets in a variety of configurations. They’re beat to hell with patchwork armor, but coming in fast.”

“They have any markings or insignia? What are their tags?”

“Nothing I can see through the mismatch of weapons and scrap parts.”

“Look out, they’re firing!” Mei said. “Holy hells, these guys are quick.”

“Gav,” Walt asked, “do we run?”

The After Action Reports from Brock showed a steady decrease in aggressive actions over time. Letting a new pi­rate outfit establish a foothold at one of their critical jump points seemed like a very bad idea.

“We fight,” he said. “We can’t afford to retake this ground every two weeks if we run scared now.”

“Whatever you’re going to do, do it fast,” Jazza said. “It’s three-on-three over here, and it seems these guys like to play with their food.”

“Walt,” Gavin said. “Take point. If they have friends, I don’t want to get herded into a trap.”

“Copy that.”

“All right, Jazz. I’m on my way to you.” Gavin pulled up hard, inverted over the Cassiopeia and accelerated toward the jumble of fighters.

Gavin had survived dozens of scraps before starting Rhedd Alert, but always as the aggressor. Being on the defensive was something new. It seemed strange that these crazy bastards were hitting six armed escorts.

“Jazza,” he was a couple hundred clicks out and had a good look at the scrum, “I’m coming up underneath you. Time to make this an unfair fight.”

“These guys are good, Gavin.” She grunted and her Cut­lass rolled in a loose corkscrew, putting her behind one of the marauders. She fired and its shields blazed. It pitched, nose down and thrusters reversing, to push up and above Jazza’s ship. The other two marauders swung into position on either side, and the three of them slashed toward Gavin like a knife blade.

He rolled to his port side and tried to accelerate around them. At least they couldn’t all fire on him at once that way. Rahul strafed overhead, pouring fire into one of the Hornets, but the marauders held their formation.

“Jazza, form up on me. Let’s split these bastards up.”

“Got it.”

They met and swept around to rush the trio of mis­matched Hornets. The marauders found Mei before he and Jazza were in firing range.

“Ah, hell . . .”

A barrage of precise bursts from wing-mounted laser cannons tore into Mei’s ship. It ripped entire sections from the hull, and escaping oxygen belched out in a roiling ball of flame.

“Damn it!” Gavin couldn’t see if Mei got out. He and Jaz­za blasted their way through the marauders’ formation. The Hornets scattered and reformed again behind them. “We’ve got a man down. Walt, we might need your help over here.”

“That’s what you get for staying to fight, Gav. We should have made a run for it.”

“We can talk about ‘shoulda’ later,” he said. “Get back here and . . . wait. Belay that.”

“They’re running,” Jazza sounded bemused. “Feels like they had us on the ropes, but they’re bugging out.”

Gavin watched thruster trails from the retreating ships. In moments, they winked out of Nexus space.

“Cassiopeia is secure,” Walt said. “Are you guys clear?”

Jazza didn’t exactly answer him. “Now what do you think that was all about?”

Gavin’s HUD looked clear. Relieved, he found Mei’s PRB. Everyone was alive and they appeared to be alone on the Nexus side of the gate. Walt and the Cassiopeia were nearing the extreme range of his display.

“Walt, hold where you are. Stay sharp and sweep ahead. I can’t for the life of me figure out why they attacked three-on-six.”

“Maybe,” Jazza said, “they knew they’d kick our ass.”

“Or maybe this was a feint,” Gavin said. “Let’s not get caught with our pants down if there are more of them out here. Jazz, you and Rahul watch my back while I get Mei. We’re taking the first shots if they come back through.”

There was a general clamor of agreement. Gavin was beginning to suspect that military comm-chatter was much more sparse and far less democratic than Rhedd Alert’s constant banter. Still, aside from Walt second-guessing his every move, Gavin was proud of the team.

“I wonder if they’re waiting on the other side?” Jazza asked.

Walt was quick to respond. “We are not going through that gate to check.”

“Relax, Walt,” Gavin said. “A win is a win. And good rid­dance.”

At this point, Walt’s objection wasn’t a surprise. “Lucky win, you mean. In a fight we didn’t need to have.”

Gavin ignored him.

Though she was unconscious, the biometrics in Mei’s suit reported only minor damage. Her ship, on the other hand, was another story completely. Gavin started running some mental math, tallying the costs of parts, labor, and med tech fees. The results were cringe-worthy.

The attack would make this mission a financial loss, but the contract was still the leg-up Rhedd Alert needed. And the attack was probably an aberration, Gavin reflected, re­minding himself that Brock’s After Action Reports showed a steady decrease in hostilities over the past several years.

Unfortunately, they were about to find out just how little those reports meant.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Links
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    Text URL     here  [ https://robertsspaceindustries.com/comm-link/serialized-fiction/16942-Brothers-In-Arms-Part-One ](https://robertsspaceindustries.com/comm-link/serialized-fiction/16942-Brothers-In-Arms-Part-One)

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Metadata
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  CIG ID  16986

 Channel  Undefined

  Category  Undefined

 Series  Brothers In Arms

  Comments  22

  Published   7 years ago (2019-02-27T00:00:00+00:00)

  [RSI Article](https://robertsspaceindustries.com/comm-link/serialized-fiction/16986-Brothers-In-Arms-Part-Two) [API](https://api.star-citizen.wiki/api/comm-links/16986)