Captain Navarre, page 11
“Still, without anything, why has nobody ever done anything about these people?” she countered.
“You gonna bomb a junkyard from orbit, M-E?” Piet laughed. “Which pile of rocks and scrap will you target first?”
That got a round of chuckles, but she’d hit on the key point. They both had.
“Nobody had ever done it because attempting a military solution is a guaranteed failure,” Djamila reminded everyone. “That is, unless you assembled a massive fleet capable of holding off and destroying the horde, at which point they’d laugh at you and run away, forcing you to chase them hither and yon through space, staying several steps ahead of you. Eventually, you run out of patience or funding and have to go home, having accomplished absolutely nothing.”
Javier had learned not to goggle at the woman when she sounded like that. So unlike the spit-and-polish, stick-up-her-ass Dragoon who had first punched him in the face.
At the same time, Neu Berne was a distinctly militant culture. And all that training did rub off, even on grunts like her.
She was absolutely right.
There was no way for an outsider to destroy the pirates. Ergo, you had to seduce them into doing it to themselves. That was where he came in.
Javier didn’t want to admit that he was probably the local expert at fucking things up. At the same time, he wasn’t going to lie and deny it.
Too many years of partying instead of dealing with himself and his issues. Two ex-wives. Hopefully only two and Behnam intended to keep him. Now, he just had to make sure he made it home.
Because home was the candle in the window that would keep him from doing the stupidest shit.
Behnam.
“Navarre, how do you want to handle this?” Sokolov asked.
To an outsider, there was always confusion, even back in the Storm Gauntlet days. Sokolov commanded, but both he and Navarre had the ranks of Captain.
It was when it came time for the killing that the distinctions sudden became crystal clear.
“Assume that nobody in orbit is in charge of hassling us,” Javier replied, feeling his mind shift over into that guy. “We’ll call when we get there, and deal with the folks in charge.”
“Intel reports say that Zhenya Kovalev is still in charge, as of most recent,” Bethany spoke up. “Do we assume any different?”
“If somebody managed to knock her off, we’d have heard, unless we outran the news here,” Javier said. “So we presume the woman is still the boss. And that her organization has remained relatively stable. Everyone agrees that the same folks have surrounded her for a few years now. We’ll assume competence on their part.”
“What’s that get us?” Bethany asked, but she’d turned to Djamila. Javier wasn’t offended. The Dragoon was the expert there.
“They will be more likely to listen rather than shooting immediately,” Djamila said. “Looking for ways that Navarre is a threat or a possible ally, but nobody they will trust. Ever. He comes with a reputation and an organization of his own, so he could simply kill them all and supplant the horde if he wanted to.”
“Openings?” Stacia asked.
“At lower levels, we can probably spall off a few folks,” Javier said. “Don’t take anything anybody says even remotely seriously. Especially if they volunteer a betrayal. It will be a setup. A mole to get inside our team and report back to Kovalev. Folks like this, we’re more likely to have to kill them than get them to see the error of their ways on the road to Damascus. Tell me immediately, then don’t be surprised at my response.”
“Brutality?” Stacia asked, locking eyes with him across the bridge.
“They chose to be predators,” he replied solemnly. “Any one of them could have sailed off somewhere else and started quiet lives of contemplation and commerce. They don’t get to complain when someone bigger comes along to eat them.”
She paled a bit, but that was to be expected. As far as he knew, she was the only person in the room that had never killed someone.
He’d happily get her back to Valadris with that streak intact, but wasn’t holding his breath on it.
“What do we have in orbit?” he asked Suvi. And Tobias, but mostly Suvi.
“Nothing important,” she said. “Mostly a couple of freighters it looks like, climbing out or heading in.”
“Start tagging them with transponder codes,” he ordered. “Stacia will need to know everyone doing business with these folks, so she can go after them when she gets home.”
Suvi and Stacia both nodded. Breaking the pirates wouldn’t be a cake walk, but he also didn’t think it would be all that impossible.
Keeping the next set of folks from waltzing right in later and replacing them would require that the folks on Valadris who were funding this mess were removed from the equation.
Not his job. Not his planet.
Stacia had that on her shoulders, but he figured she was capable enough.
He was just the guy setting her up for a career in politics later. Hopefully, she’d be good at it.
“So, Navarre, normally about now a halfway-competent ship should be about ready to make a jump inward that drops them at orbit,” Piet spoke up. “I want us to present in the middle of the pack. Too good and we frighten them. Too bad and they begin to suspect that we’re sandbagging them for later.”
“Handle that as you think best,” Javier replied, catching Zakhar’s nod. “We’ll spend a few hours in orbit, watching to see who comments or responds. Similarly, we’ll maintain the standard to shoot at any provocation.”
“Any?” Mary-Elizabeth asked with a twinkle in her eyes.
“Anyone who shoots at us will be destroyed,” Zakhar ordered. “Blown to glowing rubble to deorbit. That is the standing order. Suvi, consider yourself unlocked until notified otherwise.”
Javier nodded. A few folks shivered.
Sentient warships were supposed to only engage under direct orders from the ship’s commanding officer. Specific, spoken orders.
Like the ones just given.
Javier had long since edited all those files to offer her a much greater degree of autonomy, especially in combat. Hadn’t saved them against Storm Gauntlet, that first time, but there was nothing she could have done, back in her little probe-cutter. Not against a heavy corvette with ionization weaponry.
Today, however, she didn’t need to issue alerts. Or ask for permission.
Suvi was already free to kill anything she wanted. Zakhar was reminding her of that. And everyone else.
Personally Javier doubted that the dumbasses on the planet below would be that stupid. But at the same time, making a terminal example of the first one to try it would either provoke all of them, or back them off.
Wasn’t like he cared how the pirate menace was ended.
They jumped. Short hop like that was almost a long blink, then the planet was directly below them.
Orbital space was empty. No stations. A few communications satellites, almost as an afterthought.
No warships. No bodies.
“Suvi, I’d like detailed maps of the ground at the sharpest resolution you can manage,” Tobias said. “Updated as we parallax on orbits and as shuttles fly down. If you can hack into one of the weather satellites, that would be a bonus.”
“I’ll try, but not making any promises there,” she said. “They look pretty dumb. The toaster in the kitchen probably has more processing power.”
“That’s because it’s more important,” Tobias laughed. Then he turned to Javier and got serious. “Your target is fourteen degrees south of the equator, right ascension twenty-seven degrees from the main city. Planetary surface reads warm and dry, with a couple of extremely salty oceans that are not connected. Do we care about anything under sands in wastelands?”
“Only if you see packed tracks leading to it,” Javier nodded. “Recent ones. Focus most of your attention on the sprawling base compound where Kovalev keeps her ships, then loop outwards from there until you start finding other places where they have junkyards.”
“On it,” Tobias replied.
Javier rose. He’d been dressed casual for this. Relaxed. Comfortable.
Time to turn into a killer.
Part 2
Del considered his cockpit. They called it a bridge, but he hardly ever let anyone fly up here with him. Then, usually only the Dragoon when she wanted to man the guns against a hostile landing.
It was his cockpit.
Nameless shuttle. Nothing but alphanumeric identifiers from the transponder, because he was willing to admit some level of superstitions. Every craft he’d ever flown that had had a name had gone down. Blown up. Something.
He’d had this shuttle for more than a decade. It had no name. The gods of karma had not seen him challenging them, and had left him alone.
He was too damned old to be crashlanding on hostile planets anymore.
Or slamming into mountaintops at high speed with just enough English on the ball to not end up splattered.
He reached out a hand to touch the fur on the wall. Pink. Just like a Merankorr brothel. Most folks forgot these days that Zakhar had bought the thing already furnished like this out of a junkyard sale. Del had merely refused to let them change it. The ship it had been flying on had been destroyed in an asteroid mishap. The shuttle had been fine.
Nameless. Safe. Del let the pink fur sooth him.
’Cause he could hear someone coming up the steps behind him from the cargo and personnel bays below. Two someones.
Preflight was mostly done, but for the little stuff. He took both hands off the flight yoke and twisted around enough to confirm Djamila and Javier. Navarre. Whoever the git was supposed to be.
Both of them were in costumes that made them look silly, but who was he to judge? His entire wardrobe consisted of baggy gray pants with pockets on the thighs and a rainbow of fourteen different bright, floral print shirts of an ancient style still called Hawai’ian. Gray hair gotten a little long and starting to go fully white now, like the beard, and he was just as much a character as they were.
Maybe worse.
“I’m on the turret,” Djamila announced.
Del shrugged. Not like he was surprised. Not like he could stop her.
Javier, however…
“I wanted to have a chat, without all the other folks listening,” the man said seriously.
At least as seriously as Aritza ever got.
Del glanced down the staircase to main deck. Javier reached a hand and pushed the button to close the hatches at both ends. Secondary airlock, when you needed to void the bay to space for something. Usually hauling cargo from a derelict.
Del shrugged again and watched Javier move into the co-pilot’s chair that nobody ever used.
“Don’t touch anything,” Del growled reflexively, but Aritza was keeping his hands off things.
Last thing Del needed was a yahoo messing with the flight controls.
Good way to wake up the karma gods on the wrong side of the bed.
Javier nodded and strapped in. Del checked everything.
“Flight control, we’re ready to exit the bay,” he told Suvi on the secured line.
“Stand by for flight, shuttle one,” she said. “Local space is clear. Bay doors are retracted. You are free to depart.”
Del lifted the ship on her toes, then hopped lightly into the air and rotated. He could, in a pinch, slam full reverse thrusters and back out of the bay like he was being chased. Hadn’t had to do that since…
Nope, statute of limitations hadn’t expired yet.
So he flew sedately. At least until he knew what these two wanted.
Djamila, he could understand. Unknown planet. Possible hostile locals. She’d have guns. Nothing significant enough to matter against anything big, but the pirates weren’t supposed to be flying warships and strikefighters.
Only junkers and half-half rebuilds.
Darkness. Stars and planet, but darkness.
Del pitched the nose over and down. They had coordinates. Supposedly even an invitation to land and chat.
Del wasn’t that dumb. Dragoon on the guns might be useful. Might not.
He was still expecting some goober to get up in his face, thinking that they were in some hotrod sled with a gun mounted centerline that made them big, bad pirates.
Del got more dangerous toys in his breakfast cereal.
Still, Javier was here. Del pointed down like a javelin and let his fingers tease things just right while he looked over at the man.
“You know where we’re going,” Javier said.
Del nodded. Smiled, even. Old man might still have a few tricks up his sleeve, but Javier had never seen the need to acquire any sort of high-speed combat courier for him. The kind where you took out the internal missile bay and replaced it with passenger accommodations. Made them faster, because people didn’t have nearly as much mass. Keep all the guns, though.
“The rat’s nest,” Del replied.
“As good a description as any,” Javier nodded. “Figured I’d fly with you for two reasons.”
“Oh?” Del asked, trying to think of the other one. It was Javier.
“One, as you expect, they might get surly,” he grinned.
Del nodded. Not a surprise there.
“And two, you’ve got better seats up here, in case we have to maneuver crazy getting there. Let the others look pale with shock at the flying. I want to walk down that ramp looking like I just came from a mani/pedi.”
Del laughed at that. Folks below rode in flip-down jumpseats with five point harness. Cockpit had real crash stations. And Javier was buckled in. Djamila would be, as well, forward in the bow turret.
“Do we bother announcing our flight plan?” he asked.
“Shit, no,” Javier laughed back. “Navarre wants to know how junior varsity these punks are. And if they can even keep up.”
“Doubt it,” Del said. “Let’s see.”
Part 3
Del was lower than he would have flown on a normal run. Down where the shuttle’s stubby wings acted as lifting surfaces rather than merely air brakes he could deploy while coming in to land at some boring, civilized place.
Scanners had picked them up a ways out. Probably before those fools realized he’d seen them. A group of small ships flying above his flight path.
There was a risk coming in low like this. Underneath them from the west. The fools had gone to a more standard six thousand meters to hang out. Bullies in a hallway. Or on a stoop. Waiting for you to walk by.
Del could have avoided them. Flown high and dropped on them like a hawk. Circled around either edge.
Didn’t want to look like he was afraid of the punks. That would never do.
Instead, he needed to teach them a few things. Common courtesy would probably be an impossible lesson, but he had a few easier ones on the docket today.
Flying like a professional was merely the opening bid.
Del looked over at Javier and noted the man taking a moment to cinch his harness an extra bit tighter.
Just ’cause, as it were.
Del didn’t mean to laugh maniacally. It just came out that way.
“All hands, brace for turbulence,” he announced, like they’d wandered into a storm or something. “Check your harness and close all drink containers.”
Syntha was a dry world. Not a lot of rain ever fell, so the only storms you had to worry about were usually levitated sand, which carried an electrical charge that could short things out if you weren’t paying attention.
Like Del was never paying attention.
“Dragoon, let’s not engage them on the first pass,” Del said on the private channel to the killer in front of him. “They might prove hospitable.”
Her response probably included flying pigs, but he’d already tuned her out.
The shuttle was coming in hot from an angle, and a bevy of hawks had just decided to fall out of the sky to chase him.
Silly buggers.
Del slammed the thrusters to the second highest slot, holding back one last surprise for later. He was already moving at least as fast as they were, and he had life support and surround-sound stereo while they might be using every bit of power and thrust they could generate to keep up.
One finger found a switch and the sound of steel drums filled the room. Aft, old timers would understand what was about to happen. Maybe they’d explain it to the kids.
And maybe they’d just let them find out the hard way.
Five signals. Zero-three-zero and high, so coming down on him from the right. They’d already fucked up, though, coming in at too steep an angle and the wrong approach vector, thinking they could swoop around behind him when he went by.
At these kinds of speeds, time was measured in blinks.
Del leveled off at eight hundred meters, zooming like a madman, and watched the five shift up, and over, trying to find the line that would let them get onto his ass.
Whether they shot at him or not he wouldn’t know until it happened. Pirates. Punks, too, with nobody in control telling them not to try to shoot down a visitor that their boss had invited.
Because, hey, if he could be shot down, was he all that and a bag of chips to begin with? Doing you a favor by filtering out the amateurs.
Or some stupid-ass teenage shit like that.
Del had gotten over that crap fifty years ago.
Today, he was going to put on a flying lesson.
For the ages.
And do it in a Balustrade Assault Shuttle, third hand, pink and furry like only the best Merankorr brothels.
Time to show off.
Del smiled at the punks and stood the shuttle on its ass. Thrusters down. Guns up. Inner ears everywhere screaming for mercy. Didn’t ride it long, though. Damned craft had the horsepower to get to orbit doing this, as long as you didn’t mind all that stress and vibration.
Enough to cause his five chickadees to try the same thing. Amazing thrust/weight ratios back there. The failure was in the pilots.
Del pulled the yoke back and snapped his air brakes at the same time. Not an Immelman. Not far from the ancient and famous hammer stall, but he was going over backwards, tucked in like a cliff diver.
