There were three Aboriginals on the bridge, already deprived of their weapons. “Who is in command here?”
All three of them made to speak, but, seeing each others’ motions, held back.
The first to recover was the tall, spindly male. “I am in command. Piet Brackman, First Officer and pilot.”
Nezdeh glanced at the others. The female — a small, distinctly Asian subtype from what Earth experts called “the Pacific Rim”—had no reaction to the statement. The other, a Eurogenic specimen who was small for his sex and flabby, seemed to become thoughtful at the ostensible first officer’s claim. It was not credible that command succession was unclear after the death of their captain, whose body and station were conspicuous among the fifty-two Aboriginal corpses in the cargo marshalling module. Consequently, something was being withheld. That was unacceptable, both in terms of gathering intelligence and in establishing dominion.
Nezdeh drew her liquimix pistol slowly. “I was born and bred to command. I will not tolerate lies or disobedience.” She raised the weapon, aimed it at the tall human male’s forehead. “Of the three persons on this bridge, I know you will lie to me. A true commander would have spoken quickly and assertively regarding his or her place in the chain of command. And there would have been no uncertain glances.” She snapped the safety off. “Because it would be useful to have your cooperation, and because you are ignorant of our ways, you have one opportunity to redeem yourself: identify the actual commander.”
The human named Brackman swallowed—piteous, she thought, how openly they display their anxiety—and explained, “There was a…a disagreement about command.”
“How so?”
“I was the XO. Not common for a pilot, but I have seniority. But when Captain Velho left the bridge, he put Ms. Tagawa—” the tall Aboriginal glanced at the small Asian female—“in charge of negotiating a surrender in the event that we lost control of the Arbitrage. But he didn’t change the chain of command.”
“I see. So he did not trust your judgment?”
“I get angry. Easily. So I guess he didn’t think I’d be a good negotiator.”
“Interesting.” The main lights reilluminated suddenly, as did the external monitors. The life-support system sighed into renewed activity. “We have restored your electronics and restarted your computer. We have also accounted for the entirety of your armed crew, who seem to be wearing national uniforms, not those of the Colonial Development Combine. Explain.”
The tall Aboriginal’s stare suggested that he had only heard the first phrase in Nezdeh’s second sentence. “You have ‘accounted’ for the — my — prize crew? What does that mean?”
“It means precisely what you conjecture. They have been eliminated.”
“All of them?”
Nezdeh closed the distance between them so fast that the low-breed male blinked—good; it is time to acquaint them with our innate superiority—and she slashed the pistol barrel across his face. The Aboriginal staggered, almost fell, but caught himself on the helm console. “You answer questions; you do not ask them. I am patient because it has been several centuries since any of your cultures have embraced the truth of the will to power, as does ours. But you shall learn. Or die. Now, I ask you again: why is this crew comprised of two distinct groups, one national, one megacorporate?” Peripherally, she noted that the other male’s eyes had widened slightly when the blow fell. The small Asian female had not reacted at all. Excellent training and possibly excellent genelines, but that could also be problematic. Time will tell.
Brackman was rubbing his jaw. But what the Aboriginals lacked in readiness, they made up for in spirit: although at the wrong end of a gun barrel, the male’s eyes were wide, bright, furious. “This ship, the Arbitrage, is a megacorporate hull. Which means it belonged to traitors.” He glanced at the other male, and the look in his eyes changed from fury to hatred. “When we kicked their invader cronies off Earth, we took over their shift carriers, but we had to crew them with loyal personnel from the merchant or colonization services. Like me and Ms. Tagawa. But we had to keep a core staff of the CoDevCo crew; they know the ship best.”
“Very well. Now, why is this ship in this system?”
The human frowned. “We’re just refueling to—”
Nezdeh had to repress a sigh. “You will find that while I do not relish violence for its own sake, I am ready to embrace it where it is an effective tool. Now, I will ask again, for you know the intent of my question: how is it that a shift-carrier from Earth, which cannot reach this system directly, is here at all?”
The male shrugged. “We had help.” Nezdeh made sure her move to strike him again began at an inordinately slow pace; Brackman stepped back, hands raised. “The Dornaani. They gave us what we needed to make a shift to deep space.”
“Gave it to you? Their modification is presently integrated with your drives?”
“No. They came aboard, modified our guidance systems. Added things to it — I don’t know. I’m not sure they let anyone know exactly what they did, including the officers who came on board with them. Then, right after we arrived here, they removed it.”
“And your ship acted as a tanker, carrying the fuel for the rest of the fleet that moved directly on from deep space to carry out the attack against this system, and then Homenest?”
“I guess so, yes. Look: they didn’t tell me — us — much.”
Which made unfortunate sense. The information in the Arbitrage’s databanks — the first thing she had accessed when the system started rebooting — had some small but important gaps, particularly in the recent navigational and operational archives. “So, what orders are you carrying out now?”
“We’re refueling.”
“Do not be obtuse. I refer to your current, and your contingency, orders.”
“We’re to shift to join the fleet in Sigma Draconis.”
“When? You no doubt have a projected departure window.”
Brackman glanced away, looked as though he might throw up. “Forty to forty-two days, depending upon skimming conditions.”
“And how soon will there be an inquiry if you do not arrive at Sigma Draconis?”
“Well, we — Immediately.”
“Immediately?”
“Yes.”
Nezdeh smiled. “Thank you. You have been very helpful. Unfortunately for you, you are not at all a convincing liar.” She raised the pistol and fired twice.
The first round hit Brackman square in the forehead, but had barely enough energy to make an exit wound. The second popped open a dark red hole just to the left of his sternum; that round did not emerge from his back. Nezdeh had reduced the propellant not only to reduce the recoil to zero, but to prevent overpenetrations, and hence, damage to important ship’s systems.
Brackman hit the deck with the odd gentleness of all limp bodies that fell in low gee. Blood spread out slowly from the back of his head, giving him a round red martyr’s nimbus that shone in the overhead lights.
Nezdeh turned to the two remaining Aboriginals. “A commander would not have a moment’s uncertainty regarding the response protocols to be observed if his ship was overdue. Besides, a search would not be ‘immediate’; this hull adds no appreciable combat capability to your counterinvasion fleet. It is an auxiliary, and an increasingly redundant one.”
“Which makes it perfect for our purposes,” added Brenlor as he entered the bridge with Vranut and Idrem. “If there was one ship your fleet could afford to lose, it was this one.”