The hand came down on the desk with an unmistakable clap of finality.
"The answer, Miss Silvestri, is no. Now, will you kindly step out of the way so that I may help someone with legitimacy?"
Gail's ice-cold demeanor held in the entirety of her hot frustration as she stared squarely into the man's ginger eyes. Gazes locked, they glared silently for only a breath or two. And then he gave.
Gail let him back off completely before coming out of her hunch over the desk, frustrations still masked, but tinged, now, with smug satisfaction. He might have won, but it had cost the prig some face; she could tell by the way he shame-facedly glanced side to side, and she could see it in the eyes of his nearest of co-workers.
"Well then, Mister Harston, if
you're not willing to honour the Mercenary's Code, I guess we'll just have to
find someone who is." With that she pivoted on her heel and made to walk away.
"Miss Silvestri," he called after her. She stopped, paused deliberately, and
turned as if surprised, before walking back to his desk.
"Look, Miss Silvestri, you know as well as I that Lanza named someone else as
his successor. I know about your service record, I know you were his right-hand
officer, but on this, I just can't bend.
"Do you have any idea what kind of legal trouble this bureau would find itself
in if it started letting every merc's lover, cousin and postman just randomly
take over when they die? There are rules for this kind of thing, and,
believe it or not, I have job to do here. I'd really like to keep it, if that's
all the same to you. See, I promised the wife a week in the Pennatons, next
month, and if I start handing out jobs to anyone who walks in the door, I find
myself without a paycheck, understand?"
She arched an eyebrow, pierced him with another gaze, happy to see she could
still make him squirm. "So..." she began slowly, as she tilted her head a bit
to the right, "You're telling me that I get to be the one to tell eighty-five
people— please don't forget we have some married folk among us, as well— that
they don't get to maintain employment, eat, or have a place to live, because
you want to— what was that again? Yes. Take your wife to a lush tropical
paradise. Do I follow you, Mister Harston," she asked with a small, innocent
grin.
Harston dropped his head into his right palm, resting his right elbow on his
desk, and sighed heavily. "Look...Miss Silvestri. This isn't just about me.
This isn't just about you, and it's not even just about the eighty-some-odd
beings you've got working for you.
"Every day, I get to watch hundreds if not thousands of different merc
units coming through this office, every last one of them with the same sob
story you just handed me. If I were to just throw the rules out for you, where
would it end, huh? You going to tell twenty five thousand other
mercenary units that the laws don't apply to ex-lover seconds like you, just
because you've got a bunch of people who knowingly signed into a hit and miss
career?
"I'm sorry, Miss Silvestri," he said, shaking his head, "but it just doesn't
work that way. But before you go, lemme tell ya' just one last thing." He
motioned for her to lean in closer. She obliged, and he whispered, "If you're
dealin' with red tape, it's not usually a good idea to mess with the guy
holding the roll, right? Now please, go do whatever you need to get some
legality behind your operation again. Wouldn't want anyone to starve."
Harston straightened, lifted a hand over his head, snapped his fingers and
said, "Next."
Forty-five minutes later, the six, remaining senior officers found themselves
brooding around what passed for a conference table in the small debriefing room
of the ODS IWildcard/I. The gray paneling and dim,
fluorescent lighting did nothing to lift the somber mood that filled the room,
wafted on waves of stale cigar smoke and an undertone of unwashed bodies.
Gail knew she should probably have seated herself in the chair reserved for the
captain of the ship, but she just couldn't feel right about it, especially in
the face of a rather scathing reminder that she really did ino/It
have the same level of rightful claim to it as the crew pretended she had.
And she just couldn't usurp Sterling's memory like that, even if it were only
in her own mind.
Taking in the room in one, even glance, she mentally tallied that at least the
right people were in attendance. Seated just to her right was the marine
commander Vrala Sudhallas, a Sniv, and long-time friend of the late Sterling
Lanza. While it had taken her a while to adapt to the accent and the almost
cheerfully laid-back attitude of someone who regularly led men and women to
what could easily end up as their deaths, she had to admit that she could see
why Sterling had befriended the lizard, and kept him around for a half-century
To his right was Commander Panocha, the ship's bulky— and sometimes boisterous—
political officer. Worthless when it came to anything combat related, but an
absolute genius at political warfare. The man had managed to land jobs for the
Daggers during a time when even the Interstellar Guardian Fleet had started to
feel a pinch from the job market, not too long after the Scourge were wiped
out.
The end of the war saw six digits worth of mercenary units— started overnight
to capitalize on the enormous demand for any kind of fighting units,
during the twelve cycles know as "The Scourge War"— suddenly without anything
else to do. Well over three-quarters of them folded as quickly as they had
risen, turning loose hundreds of thousands of disgruntled, unemployed ex-mercs
upon Rim systems with shattered economies. The resulting spike in unemployment,
on many of those worlds, also caused them to collapse, and more colonies had
ended up abandoned than Gail cared to remember.
iWhat was I thinking, trying to pull that job myself? Nice going Ms.
"Big shot" wannabe Lanza./i
She ceased her mental self-beration, and finished her silent cataloguing of her
company. Seated at the end of the table was Pren'taal O'krite, the Zallun head
of security. While he said next to nothing, unless directly spoken to, he did
his job with almost mechanical precision, and the results he consistently got
were nothing short of impressive. He had been offered command of the Dagger's
armoured company, but turned it down on some odd principle, until Lanza had
essentially just pinned the title of "Tanker chief" on him, leaving him to
be compelled by his powerful sense of duty to take the reins.
The tankers very quickly learned a rather efficient form of sign-language and
subvocalized commands, which, while Gail assumed was based on O'krite's
reticence to speak, had actually upped the communication efficiency of the
tankers by some considerable measure.
IStill not enough to save him. Driggit, Gail, you knew you should
have forced him to stay. You knew. You knew./I
Quartermaster/chief engineer Diablen Fanthiyr— one of only three Kitarans to
find their way into the Daggers— was perched in his usual, tentative manner
just across from Jared, and Gail mutely shook her head as she watched him
tinkering with some gadget or other, looking for all the galaxy as if the
little device were the focus of the universe, never mind silly staff meetings.
Last, just opposite Vrala, was Chief Medical Officer Dr. Brynn Hall. He
regularly annoyed the crew with his age-born crotchetiness, but his bed-side
manner made up for it, and he had acquired a good few anecdotes that he
regularly (and repeatedly) shared with his patients, convinced that, even with
currently medical technology, laughter really was the best medicine still on
the market.
Satisfied that the senior staff was in place, Gail sat, and tapped the edge of
her briefing papers on the desk, ensuring they were all aligned properly.
"Okay, people, let's get this moving, shall we?" The low-level chatter dropped
off, and she took a moment to look each of them in the eye before continuing.
"Today, we were just handed our heads on a paper platter, if you'll pardon the
metaphor. I know you're probably all thinking I was unwise in choosing to leave
Commander Panocha behind while I went to get us a job, and I'll have to concede
that point. But," she added carefully, "We've also been told, in no uncertain
manner, that this operation has lost its license with its late commanding
officer. The Bureau of Mercenary Affairs and Business welcomed us to Peridon V
by reminding us that Captain Lanza, for reasons he has chosen not to disclose
with any of us," inot even with me,/I "has included a
rather unusual clause in his will that binds us to either disband, or to find a
new commanding officer at once.
"Well, I don't see what the problem is," Hall spoke out. "I might have to
badger you to get sleep, every now and then, but what kind of stick is up whose
orifice, if they think we don't have a commanding officer? I'll be honest,
Gail, you may be young, but you're as fine a commander as many I've served
under." He punctuated his remarks by standing and rapping a fist on the table,
adding, "I say we just invoke the Code, and elect Gaily, here, as the new
Captain."
A hearty round of agreement was heard, but Gail just shook her head. "I
appreciate the flattery, Doctor Hall, but it doesn't quite work that way. I'll
turn it over to Commander Panocha to let you in on some of the details of the
will. Commander, if you will?"
"Thank you, Cap'n," Jared said, rising even as Gail lowered herself into her seat.
"Captain Lanza was nice enough to include a Trabled copy of his will," he said,
referring to the universal method of reading for the blind, through feeling
series of raised bump on a medium.
"Captain Silvestri has also read the plain text version, and the appropriate
verifications have been done to authenticate it. I cannot say why he chose not
to simply leave a holographic recording, but that's irrelevant.
"I have here, in my hand, several copies of his will, which I'll pass around
for your perusal. I must insist, however, that none of this leave the room
until Captain Silvestri clears it. It's not going to hurt the unit, but it will
definitely raise some eyebrows, and I'd like to keep the crew questions to a
minimum, until we get this all worked out."
Jared reached to his right, waiting for Pren'taal to take a few copies of the
will, before handing the last one to Vrala, who took it with some measure of
reverence, as if the plasti-paper were some sort of icon of an imaginary,
Obsidian Dagger religion.
"Okay, while you're all looking over the legalese garbage— he had to write it
that way, or the bureau would have been all over him— allow me to just sum this
up for you." Panocha drew in a deep breath, and let it out, slowly.
"The long and short of it is..."
"IThe frag?/I We gotta turn this thing over to a diaper
jockey?!" Brynn Hall was on his feet again, glaring in angered disbelief at his
copy of the document.
"Mister Hall, you're out of line," rebuffed Gail, and the good doctor nodded
absently, still staring at the sheet in front of him as he reseated himself.
Jared cleared his throat, and went on. "As our Chief medical officer has so
succinctly stated, Captain Lanza has deeded this entire company to his nephew,
one Matthew Sarray."
"Excuse me, Commander," queried the Kitaran, "But are you certain this document
is binding on us? Quite honestly, I'll have to agree with Doctor Hall that this
seems, well, rather farcical, and there must be some way to show BMAB that
Captain Silvestri is much more within legal right to assume command of the
operation."
"Dat' right'choo. Da kitty cat hassss a point I be thinkin'," Vrala added with
a quick bob on his long head.
Jared shook his head in frustration. "No, the will clearly states that either
Sarray takes the reins, or the unit legally and entirely disbands; this was
done over his signature, and BMAB has notorized it. Despite Captain Silvestri's
poor assessment of her performance, I must admit that even I could not have
gotten around that wall with anything short of a small-scale planetary assault
on BMAB headquarters."
"Then we allow disbandment, and reorganize under Captain Silvestri. Surely the
law will not forbid that."
The blind man grimaced, and replied, "Again, Diablen, it doesn't work that way.
You see, Captain Lanza owned this ship, and it's all part and parcel
with the turn over. We disband, the law takes the iWildcard/i,
and there's nothing we can do about it, unless you're all willing to go
pirate."
"Dat ssssoundin' like da goody plan, I sayin'," chuckled the head marine. "I
been hearin' dat all dem pirates, dey gets demselves da pretty ones, dem."
As much as she wanted too, Gail couldn't bring herself to entirely heat a
rebuke to the mellow Sniv, though she did give him a look to let him know that this
wasn't the time for jokes. The green marine merely shrugged, and returned what
passed for a grin, as Snivs went.
"Not an option, I'm afraid, Vrala. The Captain didn't start us out as pirates,
and I'd rather not have him haunting me for letting his unit get caught up in
piracy. That has already been the fate of too many other for-hire units, and I,
for one, will not see the Dagger's image thrown down the latrine like that.
"Back on what I was saying, we can't merely split and reform, at least not with
the same kind of unit integrity we have, now. We split, and the banks will all
default on the loans. Yes, we have enough to pay them, but Captain Lanza also
deeded his personal savings— all five hundred million of it— to his nephew, as
well. If the banks come calling, we get buried in debt or bankruptcy. Again,
that's just not a viable path."
"The frell was Lanza thinking," muttered Brynn. "Tells us he's there for the
team, then strings us out when he dies. You sure that thing's not just some
fake, Panocha?"
It was Gail's turn to take the floor again. "One-hundred percent sure, Doctor.
Believe me, I'm at a loss as to why the Captain followed this route as opposed
to what seemed the most logical one, but... I'm afraid that there's really
nothing we can do about it.
"At the very least, we'll still be led by Lanza blood."
"But he's inot/i a Lanza, Gail. Don't you get it? It's
something like his sister's illegitimate son, or something..."
"He was Icompletely/I legitimate, thank you," the
Poli-officer sharply cut in. Brynn narrowed his eyes and peered at the larger
man, for a moment, before proceeding in a slightly calmer manner.
"Legit or not, I'm not handing my life over to some punk kid. I mean come on,
he's what? This thing makes him out to be twenty one, twenty-two, maybe? The
frag can some twenty-year old know about spacing, about leading a bunch of
professional soldiers?"
"A-hem!"
"Present company excepted, Gaily. If I'd never had a daughter, you'd probably
have been the daughter I never had but always wanted anyway.
"'Sides you're only twenty-two on the outside."
Gail rolled her eyes and slapped the table, much the same way Mister Harston,
of the Bureau had done, less than an hour earlier. "Listen, people, we have two
options. Let the kid lead, and pray really hard that he doesn't kill us, or go
our separate ways.
"Believe me, Commander Panocha and I spent upwards of three hours going over
this with the Dagger's lawyers, as well as the leeches from BMAB. I'm sorry,
but this is the way it is. I can't force any of you to stay with us, but like
as not, he'll just recognize that he can't do it, and give it over to me. Maybe
he'll even stay out of trouble, too, while the grown-ups earn a living.
"Now, are there any Irea/Il questions?"
She was greeted with silence, and was about ready to dismiss the group when, to
her surprise, Pren'taal piped up. "Pardon, Sir, but where exactly Idoes/I
this nephew live?"
Gail blinked, unsure which had caught her more off guard—the question itself,
or that it had been asked by the tank chief.
"Um... I... let me look."
"The snot lives on some dirt ball flying 'round Celus."
"IDoctor Hall/I," Gail snapped. "Your disapproval
has been noted. I will ask—I once/I— that you refrain
from further belittlement of the Captain's nephew. For one, he's looking to be
our next captain, but if nothing else, do it out of respect for Captain Lanza."
Brynn bowed his head, and mumbled an apology.
"Doctor Hall is right, however, in that we're going to need to travel to an
agrarian world known as 'Soliven', find this Matthew Sarray, and convince him
to leave whatever it is he's doing and take command of his uncle's mercenary
unit."
"How much djoo say da Cap'n be givin' da kiddo?"
"Five hundred million."
"Dja, you be wavin' five hundred big'uns in da kiddo face, he be hoppin' aboard
lickety split, no? I'ma thinkin' we be jammin', den. Maybes to a different
dee-jay, but, ahh..."
Gail sighed, slumping forward to rest on her elbows. IYou just had
to do this to me, didn't you Sterling. Just had to take it all away and give it
to a hoodlum we don't even know is sane. I really thought you loved me,
Sterling. I really did.
You left us without a goodbye, and with nothing but letters to tell us we
weren't trustworthy enough to run ourselves after you died. I really did love
you. Why'd you do it, Sterling? Why? /I
Pulling herself upright, once more, she turned to the small assemblage. "We
have our work cut out, then. If there's nothing else?"
Heads shook around the room, and Gail got to her feet in a smooth motion that
caught the eye of at least her chief engineer. "Very well, then, let's get this
ship ready to meet her new captain." Tapping the comm panel on the desk, she
opened a line to the bridge.
"Bridge here. This is Denniman."
"Lieutenant Denniman, have the navigator lay in a course for Soliven, in the
Taelon supercluster. Best possible speed."
"Aye, Sir, plotting course now."
"Thank you. Silvestri out." With that she strode to the door, turning back to
the senior staff just before stepping onto the bridge. "Looks like we get to
take a little field trip."
With that, the cruiser ODS IWildcard/I silently slipped
orbit, and bore toward the galactic "northeast," to begin the long, circuitous
route to the small, agrarian world marked on most starcharts only as "Celus
VI."