The Oncoming Storm (19 page)

“I agree,” Kat said simply. “We can’t take the chance.”

“Then I will write a formal report for Marine HQ,” Davidson said. “Can you send it with your message?”

“Yes,” Kat said. Her father might try to use what she’d sent for political advantage. If the report went to Marine HQ too, it would be harder for him to suppress it. “And I’ll also suggest reinforcements be sent before anything else happens.”

She dismissed them both, then sat back in her chair, feeling very old. Part of her hated the idea of sneaking around a senior officer—and that, she knew, was precisely what she was doing, no matter how she tried to disguise it. Admiral Morrison wore the same uniform and she was conspiring against him. Yet she knew there was no choice. The condition of 7th Fleet grew worse every day.

Slowly, she reached for her private terminal and started to write.

“Transit completed, Captain,” Weiberg reported.

“Good,” the captain said. “Set course for the rendezvous point.”

“Aye, Captain,” Weiberg said. “Estimated flight time: two days.”

William nodded to himself, knowing the die had been firmly cast. He and the captain had spent the last four days writing a careful summary of their observations, attaching a number of off-the-record comments from his contacts on the fleet, then uploading it into the StarCom message buffer. The codes the captain had been given, he’d been told, should ensure that the message would be transmitted at once, then wiped from the buffer. It should be impossible for any unfriendly eyes to read the report without the correct codes.

And if we’re wrong about that, he thought morbidly, our careers will be in the shit hole.

He pushed the thought aside as he watched the display update. Ten freighters—another had joined them at Cadiz—were slowly making their way through hyperspace, shadowed by the giant heavy cruiser. William rather doubted the ships would be attacked, particularly if the Theocracy was backing the pirates, but he knew better than to take that for granted. After all, it would look even more suspicious if Theocracy-bound freighters were the only ones spared pirate attacks.

A dull quiver ran through the ship and he smiled. They were on their way. There had been some good-natured grumbling from the lower decks about the shortage of shore leave—he’d ended up giving some of the crew only a few short hours on the planet’s surface—but it felt good to be heading away from Cadiz. He didn’t want the lethargy affecting the fleet to infest Lightning—and it wouldn’t, not while he was XO. Even if Admiral Morrison insisted on keeping them at Cadiz, he would ensure an endless series of training exercises to keep the crew sharp.

He looked at the captain’s blond head and felt an odd flicker of affection. It had been brave of her to tell him the truth, knowing he might start disliking her again—or take it to the admiral. Her career would probably have survived, but no one would ever have trusted her again. What CO would trust an officer who had spied on another officer? She might start spying on him next.

But her father was right, he had to admit. There was something deeply wrong at Cadiz Naval Base. He’d gone through the records and watched, in alarm, as standards had slowly dropped ever since Admiral Morrison had been appointed CO. Maybe it was deliberate after all, he wondered, although there was no way to tell. And, if so, was it for political reasons or outright treason? The sooner the IG carried out a full audit, the better.

“Mr. XO,” the captain said, formally. She turned to face him. “You may conduct your inspection of the Wandering Soul.”

“Aye, Captain,” William said.

He saluted, then turned and walked through the hatch towards Marine Country, where Davidson, a platoon of Marines, and a handful of inspectors were already waiting for him, the Marines carrying weapons and looking thoroughly intimidating. William wasn’t expecting trouble onboard the Wandering Soul, but it was well to be prepared. He hadn’t bothered to tell the freighter’s CO there would be an inspection. It would only have upset him ahead of time.

They scrambled into the shuttle, then launched from Lightning and flew towards the Wandering Soul. Like most freighters, William noted, she was ugly as hell, little more than a boxy superstructure with a drive section attached to the rear. There were no weapons, according to the manifest, although that meant nothing. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find a handful of weapons fittings mounted on the starship’s hull.

He keyed the communicator. “Wandering Soul, this is Commander McElney,” he said. “I intend to board and inspect your vessel for contraband goods. Please open an airlock for my shuttle.”

There was a long pause. “Commander, I must formally protest,” a belligerent voice snapped. “My ship was inspected at Cadiz and we have not made landfall elsewhere . . .”

“We have authority to inspect any freighter traveling in convoy at any moment,” William said, cutting him off. He already knew the ship had been inspected—or at least that the records claimed the ship had been inspected. “If you do not comply, your ship will be boarded and seized—and you and your crew will be held in custody.”

“An airlock has been cleared for you,” the voice said quickly. Too quickly. “But I must warn you that I will file a formal protest.”

“Take us in,” William ordered, ignoring the protest. They were within their legal rights—and besides, if they found anything illegal he knew the protest would fade away. “I want to search the ship as quickly as possible.”

They docked, then swarmed onto the ship, weapons at the ready. No one offered resistance; William was mildly surprised, at least at first, to discover there were no women in the crew. But it made a certain kind of sense if they were dealing with the Theocracy. Captain Norton, a burly man who looked too big for his uniform, protested loudly, then reluctantly passed William his papers. William inspected them while the Marines checked the ship and then allowed the inspectors to go to work.

“You don’t seem to be carrying very much,” he observed, lifting his eyes from the manifest. “Why do you think you can sell civilian-grade sensor suites?”

Captain Norton smirked at him. “We already have a deal with an agent,” he said. “They’ll take as many suites as we can deliver for thirty percent over the market rate.”

“Odd,” William noted. He could understand the Theocracy wanting military-grade sensors, but civilian grade? They could obtain the plans just about anywhere in the Commonwealth and then produce the systems for themselves. “Do you know what they want with them?”

“Of course not,” Captain Norton sneered. “I don’t ask too many questions, Commander. I merely deliver what I’m told to deliver.”

William frowned. It made no sense . . . which probably meant he was missing something. The Theocracy wouldn’t throw away money on something they could produce for themselves. He checked the rest of the manifest and noted that it included other starship components, including a handful of drive motivators. Some of them were designs that had first been produced before the Breakaway Wars. Were the Theocrats trying to wage subtle economic warfare by buying up starship components? Or did they have some devious plan to use them against the Commonwealth?

“So it would seem,” he said, finally. “And are you carrying anything you’d hate to have us discover?”

“Commander,” Norton snapped, “we are a clean ship!”

“Remarkable,” William commented. He shrugged, expressively. “Just remember we won’t be able to help you if you run into trouble with the Theocracy’s authorities.”

“They do tend to be anal,” Norton agreed. “But they pay well, so we put up with their crap.”

My brother and you would probably get along, William thought darkly.

He keyed his wristcom, making no attempt to hide his action. “Chief?”

“We’ve opened a couple of crates,” the chief said. “So far, everything checks out.”

“I told you we were inspected on Cadiz,” Norton put in.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t trust the inspectors on Cadiz to find a spacer in a brothel,” William retorted. The inspection had either been alarmingly light or someone had merely flagged the ship as inspected, probably after being paid a large bribe. It was yet another problem caused by the lack of a unified authority for Cadiz. “And you are aware of the dangers of taking the wrong thing into Theocratic space?”

“I am a businessman,” Norton said stiffly. “I don’t care about politics.”

“Politics cares about you,” William said. He tapped his wristcom. It was tempting to spend the next few hours tearing the ship apart, but it would have triggered a more serious complaint from the independent merchant’s guild. “Open a couple more crates at random, Chief, then search the cabins.”

“Looking for women?” Norton asked. His voice was mocking. “I’m afraid we had to leave them behind on Cadiz.”

“Probably for the best,” William agreed.

He looked at Norton for a long moment. Perhaps the man could offer some useful intelligence, if nothing else. “What happens when you reach their world?”

“Well, we just off-load,” Norton said. “They search the ship, then take crates out through the airlock and tranship them to another freighter. It must cost a bomb, Commander, but they seem to swallow the cost. Then we just wait until they arrange an escort to chivvy us back to the border.”

William frowned. “Do they let you land on a planet’s surface?”

“Never,” Norton said. “They don’t offer any shore leave facilities. The closest they come to entertainment is allowing a missionary to board our ships to preach to us. We generally listen politely until he goes.”

“I see,” William said. His wristcom buzzed. “One moment.”

He lifted the device to his lips. “Go ahead.”

“We’ve found nothing illegal in the second set of crates or the cabins,” the chief said. “Do you want us to search the rest of the ship?”

“No,” William said, after a moment. They were probably just wasting their time. “Return to the shuttle, Chief. I’ll join you there in a moment.”

“I told you so,” Norton said, with some pride. “We are a clean ship.”

“I know,” William countered. “It’s very suspicious.”

He winked at the man, then turned and walked to the shuttle. Midshipwoman Cecelia Parkinson was standing just outside the hatch, looking nervous. It would be her turn to lead the next search, commanding men who had more years in the Navy than she’d had in her life. And William would have to remain behind in the shuttle and hope she didn’t screw up too badly . . .

“Nothing to report, sir,” she said. Judging by her voice, she expected to be blamed for not finding something contraband. She hadn’t found her confidence yet. “The ship appeared to be clean.”

“That’s a good thing,” William assured her. He’d rather hoped she would shape up before now. “I’d hate to be caught by the Theocracy if I did have something contraband on my ship.”

He led the way through the hatch and into the shuttle, then motioned for the pilot to disengage from the freighter and take them to the next ship. As soon as they were in motion, he looked down at the copy of the manifest and frowned. As far as he could tell, the Theocracy was spending money—well over the going rate too—on items that were practically worthless. It didn’t make sense.

Midshipwoman Parkinson coughed when he said that aloud. “Sir,” she said, “it might make sense.”

She cringed when he looked at her sharply. “I . . .”

“Theories are always interesting,” William assured her. Honestly, what did they teach young officers at Piker’s Peak? “What do you think it means?”

“They’re buying something they should be able to make for themselves,” Parkinson said, “but they’re not making them for themselves or they wouldn’t need to buy them. What are they doing with all that productive capacity if they’re not using it?”

William felt his blood run cold. Out of the mouths of babes . . .

“They’re not producing civilian-grade components for their freighters because they’re busy producing military-grade components for their warships,” the senior chief said. “It makes sense, sir.”

It did, William noted. It made far too much sense.

“I’ll bring it to the captain’s attention,” he promised. Midshipwoman Parkinson would get a note in her file commending her for the deduction. He’d see to it even if the captain didn’t. “But how much production capacity do they have?”

He mulled it over as they moved from freighter to freighter, inspecting them all one by one. There were no surprises, apart from a large porn stash one of the freighter crewmen had kept for himself despite the warnings. William warned his CO to have it confiscated and thrown into space, then ordered the inspection team to return to Lightning. He had an important report to make.

“You did good today,” he told Parkinson once the shuttle had returned to Lightning. “Take a break, then write your report. Be sure to mention your deduction as well as everything else.”

“And that your approach was textbook perfect,” Davidson added. The marine gave the young officer what was probably intended as a reassuring smile. “But you probably need to consider the unpredictable as well.”

“They’re purchasing civilian-grade starship components from us,” Kat mused as she read the report. Her Ready Room felt unusually cold. “The midshipwoman would appear to be correct, wouldn’t she?”