Chapter Four

“Red Fox you are third in queue.” The automated voice was level and calm.

“Acknowledged, Dockmaster. Standing by,” Captain Bedford said over the open channel. He drummed his fingers on his chair. He adjusted his harness. “XO, how’s it looking?”

“The same as it did thirty seconds ago, sir,” Henderson replied flatly.

Bedford nodded. His ship hummed like she should. He could feel it in his bones. The various repairs and tweaks done had righted some of the lingering damage from before. He could tell she was impatient to leave the station and stretch her wings and he was right there with her.

The bridge crew was all at their posts. It wasn’t a large bridge by any stretch. Bedford’s chair was in the center of the bridge, and raised up a step from the rest, giving him a complete view of the crew stations as well as the best view outside of the ship. Navigator Thompson and Ensign LeRoy were at their stations in front of him. XO Henderson’s station was on his right, while Chief Davis’s station–currently occupied by Journeyman Engineer Hank Sutton–was on his left. Chief Warrant Officer Bergeron manned the weapons station as a backup to Ensign LeRoy.

The blast shields were down, letting the windows show a panoramic view of the dockyard as they waited for their turn. The Red Fox herself was visible as the ship stretched out in front of the bridge, her running lights on, blinking a lazy blue and red in turns. Her “Bonnie Blue” had been repainted. Even if she hadn’t had the flag boldly blazoned, the gunmetal gray had them standing out from the other ships, many of them brightly–at times garishly–painted. Bedford wished Aveline were here to see it, but he had her keeping an eye on Pierre in the barracks; a task she didn’t seem too excited to undertake, even if she couldn’t fault Bedford for it. He was sure if push came to shove, she’d side with the other French agent, but for now, he was going to use her obvious reservations about Pierre to keep tabs on him.

The main holotank tracked all the ID tags the others emitted. A thick cloud of tags clustered around the station. Bedford was unsure about which ones mattered the most to track, so he tracked them all for now, counting on the ship’s capacity to handle that much data.

“Bridge to engineering, stand by for artificial gravity as soon as we are out of the station,” Bedford said over the ship’s intercom.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Davis replied loudly.

“Dock to Red Fox, you are cleared. Good luck and clear skies.”

“Copy, Dockmaster. Thank you.” Bedford nodded to Thompson. “Ship’s all yours.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

There was a slight tugging feeling as the Red Fox dove straight down through the exit port, the station falling away at a comfortable speed as Navigator Thompson accelerated. Within minutes, they had dropped into deep space, pointed away from the station. Gravity had loosened her grip on the ship and crew, and they were starting to feel the effects of their acceleration, being pushed up against the back of their seats.

“Engineering, engage gravity,” Thompson ordered.

The field generators were brought online. Bedford’s arm hairs stood on end as the fields interacted with each other until the harmonics aligned. They all settled into their seats as the artificial gravity kicked on. The Fox hummed happily to be free of the massive station that had held her.

Numerous other ships orbited around the station, coming and going. They ranged from small personal crafts, shuttles of various sizes, intrasystem transports, to massive freighters–hauling raw materials to be sorted, shifted, extracted, and smelted into something that could be packaged, weighed, and sold on the market. The Fox was on the smaller side of the spaceships around the station; her lean lines were in sharp contrast to the blunted edges and swells of the frigates and haulers.

The Red Fox could be run completely from the bridge, but whenever Bedford left a foreign port, he liked to involve more of his crew. There was something about having more eyes on the process that settled his nerves.

“Navigator Thompson, how long until we jump?” Bedford asked.

“In an hour, we’ll be safely out of Forge VII’s gravity field, sir.”

The hour crawled along. Bedford busied himself by reviewing the information from the ship. Everything he really cared about was green. XO and Davis really outdid themselves. He made a note to add commendations to their files. It didn’t mean too much out here, but when they returned home, those would be something of value. Assuming they’d have a home to return to. He shook his head to dismiss those thoughts. Last time he didn’t, he ended up in that bar.

“Ensign LeRoy, we’ve pulled in enough data from the other ships. Clean up our display and tag only targets of possible concern.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” LeRoy began to sort through the data, looking for good ways to filter.

Navigator Thompson kept an eye on his instruments. “Captain, we’re clear now.”

“Thank you.” Bedford toggled ship-wide comms. “Crew, we’re jumping as soon as Navigator Thompson gives the go-ahead. Prepare all stations.” He closed the channel. “Waiting on your call, Navigator.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Thompson worked his console, charting a course from normal space into jump space, then back again.

Bedford could feel his ship gathering herself for the jump. The engines took on a different tone, the humming turned into more of an eager whine, and the faint vibrations were subtly different.

“Course laid in, sir.” Thompson double-checked the course and had the Fox confirm. “Jumping now,” he announced.

The engines whined more with a slight buzz right at the edge of human hearing. There was a feeling like everything was falling away–then nothing. The blast shields lowered, sparing the crew from staring into the abyssal black outside. Bedford had heard tales of men going mad from spending too much time looking into jump space. The Confederate Navy certainly took no chances about that; all the ships were designed to automatically close off all viewports while jumping.

Bedford and Thompson let out a sigh of relief when the Red Fox reported her successful entry into jump space.

The captain keyed his comms. “We are now in a jump. Estimated time of arrival is 84 hours. Duty rotation is now at skeleton crew.” Which really didn’t mean much for his crew–they were already running at almost that level now–but it was a formality and expressly let the men do whatever they wanted between shifts. A small comfort, but one he could give. “See your section chief for duty details. And, men? I’m proud of you all. Captain out.”

Bedford stretched and released his harness. “Henderson, you have the Conn.”

“Aye, aye, sir. XO has the Conn!”

Bedford headed out to check on their guest. Officer Bergeron followed behind him.

“Captain, requesting to accompany you,” Bergeron said as he caught up to Bedford.

Bedford shot him a side glance, weighing the man’s motives. “Granted. Any particular reason?”

Bergeron adjusted his new uniform. He still wasn’t used to the additional marking on his sleeve indicating his promotion. “Well, sir, from your description, I have my doubts about this Agent Pierre.”

“I agree with you there. But what are you going to do about it?”

Bergeron frowned. The man was twenty-six and had joined the Navy later than most. Hard-worker, he didn’t show much promise as an officer, but Bedford had a gut feeling the man just needed the right push in the right environment. Under different circumstances, Bedford might have passed him over for the promotion, but now, it was a calculated risk he took.

“Well, Captain,” Bergeron started to say as he ran a hand through his sandy hair, “since the Fox isn’t set up to have guests like him, I’d at least lock down our important areas and consoles and explain to him clearly his bounds.”

“Already did that earlier. Chief Davis is working out some of the details, but we’re handling him how we handled Aveline when she first came on board.”

Bergeron stiffened and nodded slowly.

“But your direction is sound, officer. We happen to have more experience in this is all,” Bedford said not unkindly. “What else would you do?” he probed as they walked.

“Make sure the brig can handle a guest, sir, and then take him on a tour of the facility.”

Bedford laughed and clapped him on the back. “Not a bad idea, Bergeron! You have my permission to do that whenever you see fit.”

“Sir. But aside from not-so-subtle threats, sir, I’d have all critical areas monitored closely, without informing either agent.”

Bedford nodded. “It’s on you, then, to follow through with that plan.”

“Aye, sir.”

The barracks were a simple affair for the enlisted men. Rooms holding four bunks, common bathroom for two rooms, storage lockers, a small rec center, and a tiny galley. Most of the men opted to use the better facilities for recreation, but often at night they’d hold a game of cards here.

Pierre had been shown a room without anyone assigned and shared a bathroom with Seamen Felton and Montgomery. He had stored his gear in two of the lockers. The captain and Officer Bergeron found him lounging on the lower bunk, reading his tablet, already in his flight uniform.

“Ah, Captain! Here to check up on me?” the agent called out cheerfully as he peered over the top of his tablet.

“Actually, yes. I wanted to see if you’ve settled in and if you were in the need of anything.”

As they conversed in French, Bergeron struggled to keep the thread of the conversation, his face deepening into a frown.

“It seems, Captain, your man here is feeling lost,” Pierre pointed out.

Bedford glanced over at Bergeron. He switched to Standard. “Not all of us are linguists,” he commented without rancor.

“True. I apologize, I will speak Standard around your crew,” the agent responded, also without rancor.

“Most gracious, sir,” Bedford said with a shallow bow.

Bergeron cleared his throat. “I appreciate it, sir. If it’s not too much of an imposition, Agent, if you wish to access other parts of our ship, I would be grateful if you checked with the Captain or myself, for your safety and the ship’s.” He, too, gave a shallow bow.

Pierre laughed, showing his white teeth. “That was the politest threat to stay out of someone else’s business I’ve ever received. Message received.”

Bedford straightened stiffly, detecting the dismissal in the agent’s tone. “I can assure you, sirrah, that we will present you with the utmost hospitality,” he drawled in Standard. “Chief Warrant Officer Bergeron is new to his post, granted, but his sincerity is without question and his focus singular.” He stared down at the agent.

“No offense intended,” Pierre said smoothly.

“None received, sirrah, merely expressing my sincere feelings on the matter.”

Pierre studied the captain’s face for a second. “And I have no doubt about that.”

“Mess is at 1900 hours, ship time,” Bedford finished. He nodded before he turned and left. Something about the agent rubbed him the wrong way, even if he never did anything untoward. Bedford felt as if the man was laughing at him and his crew behind their backs.

The captain did his rounds, checking in on every department. Bergeron followed along, and each time Bedford stopped, he checked the security measures, starting with door access and security cameras.

Chief Davis started waving Bedford back out as soon as the captain entered Engineering.

“Captain, not to sound rude, but I have a list a kilometer long and too few men to work it,” the chief said curtly. Behind him, the various displays and machines blinked and hummed. Engineering Journeyman Sutton jogged past, carrying a satchel of tools, his nose buried in a datapad, muttering to himself.

Bedford gave the chief an appraising look. Davis did look tired. He had been pushing himself for days now. “Chief, if I don’t see you and your department for mess, I’ll have Bergeron toss you in the brig for the night.”

Davis cracked a weary half-smile at that. “Will do, sir.”

Bedford clapped Davis’s shoulder. “I’m serious, Chief. You and your men need to take some down time. We don’t have anything critically wrong right now.”

“But–”

“That can wait. If you are spent and then something does happen, where will we be?”

Davis’s shoulders slumped. “Aye, Captain.”

“All done, sir,” Bergeron reported.

Bedford clapped the chief’s shoulder again and took his leave.

The other departments fared about the same.

Bedford wrapped up his tour with Gunny.

“Cap! How’s the Fox looking?” the Gunnery Sergeant asked. He was at his workbench, cleaning another rifle.

“We’re in much better shape than when we arrived in this system, Gunny. How are things here?”

Bergeron got to work while the other two talked.

Gunny shrugged. “I wanted to restock all our munitions, but the budget didn’t allow for it. I wrangled as much as I could while restocking, bringing us up to 80%, and enough raw materials to produce our own ammo, at least for a battle or two.”

“I never thought I’d miss our supply ships this much,” Bedford admitted.

“Same here, Cap. Listen, when are we going to get the details on this weird mess Aveline pulled us into?”

“Tomorrow, ten-oh-hundred hours, ship time.”

Gunny nodded. “I won’t pester you with questions until after.”

“Appreciate it, Gunny. Anything else?”

The big man shook his head.

“Good. See you at mess.”

“Aye, Cap.”

“Bergeron, you good?”

Bergeron looked up from the console he was using. “I don’t think I can do anything. Everything is already locked down.”

“This about security for our new guest?” Gunny rumbled questioningly.

“Yes,” Bedford confirmed, with a half-grin.

“Already done. I did it when Aveline came aboard.”

Bedford chuckled. “Good man. Maybe I should have made you head of security,” he said, winking at Bergeron.

“Good Lord, Captain, do you hate me?” Gunny retorted.

Bedford laughed as he left.

Mess was a lively affair with Pierre being, for good or ill, the center of attention. After the pastor had said grace, Pierre was bombarded with questions.

After the agent adroitly fended off a series of questions without really saying anything, Bedford cleared his throat. That settled things down and the men turned back to their meals.

“I must apologize, Agent Pierre, for my men’s curiosity,” Bedford said.

“It is of no concern,” Pierre responded graciously, putting down his knife and fork. “If you will indulge me, it’s gratifying to see interest. I’ve been to too many assignments where my presence is seen as more of a… a…”

“A challenge not to escort you to the nearest airlock?” Aveline asked sweetly.

“A guest representing the Crown’s might, which invokes a strain on any interactions,” Pierre finished, as if the other agent hadn’t spoken.

“That’s easy enough to explain,” Aveline said. “While these men view our Kingdom with respect, they hold no awe. You are a curiosity, removed from the threat of overwhelming power.”

“Hmm,” Pierre responded.

“In other words, my dear agent, you are of the same interest to them as a monkey in a suit would be.” Aveline flashed a smile at Pierre.

Pierre flushed for a second, then relaxed with a laugh. “I imagine you know about performing monkeys, my dear. I have read your file.”

This time, Aveline’s face was warm for a second. “Then you know I’m qualified to make such an assessment.”

“Indeed, I’d wager better than anyone else here,” Pierre said with a slight tilt of his head.

“Agent Pierre,” Henderson interjected, “is it common for the Crown to employ non-subjects for missions like this?”

“Not too often,” Pierre admitted, “but sometimes it’s easier knowing as long as the money flows, the mercenary stays loyal. That, and not dealing with the red tape of trying to requisition resources, does make your kind as a palpable solution at times.”

“In other words, we got lucky,” Henderson said with a wry grin.

Pierre chuckled. “Yes.” He paused as he thought, looking over the crew. “Although…never mind.”

“I assume both you and Aveline have seen much of the Kingdom,” Bedford said. “What are your favorite planets?”

That started a discussion about different places and favorite features shared by both agents, with plenty of questions and interest from the crew.

The next day, true to their word, the agents briefed the entire crew.

Bedford stood silently as Pierre and Aveline recapped what they had told him privately.

“Great, but who is this ‘Pelican’?” Gunny asked pointedly.

“Auguste Champollion,” Pierre answered.

“Does the Vatican know of this?” the pastor asked quietly.

Pierre nodded. “He has a special Papal order to investigate any leads, signed by Pope John Pious CXXXV.”

“John Pious?” Blanchard asked, frowning. “He was Pope before I was born. Just how old is this Champollion?”

Aveline shrugged. “State secret. Even I don’t have clearance to know.”

Pastor Blanchard leaned back in his chair. “Huh,” he mused.

Ensign LeRoy opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again.

“Ensign?” Bedford asked.

“If I recall correctly,” LeRoy began slowly, “Monsieur Champollion had several controversial papers published, challenging the accepted theories on a number of subjects considered established.”

“That’s correct. How do you know about those?” Agent Pierre asked sharply.

“But the most controversial that became a scandal was his stance on the age of civilizations,” LeRoy continued. “Monsieur Champollion has defended his position that there’s a much greater gap between the fall of the first Earth Empire and the rise of the second. Kingdoms, like this one, had started much sooner than originally believed.”

The agent nodded curtly, his lips pressed to a thin line. “It seems you are quite well-read, Ensign.”

“I don’t understand how that squares with the timekeeping measurements from Terra?” LeRoy asked, leaning forward in his seat. “The Galactic Pulse has been measured down to the millisecond with a predictable oscillation of variance, requiring adjustments every sixty-seven years, then every three hundred and twenty, and finally every one thousand and forty. Terra’s Chronological Society publishes reams of data yearly; anyone in the known Galaxy can access the reports and resolve local time to Galactic Standard.”

Pierre shrugged. “You’ll have to take that up with Monsieur Champollion. I only know of the controversies, not the details of his theories.”

“The Society is supported by the Vatican,” Pastor Blanchard pointed out.

“Yes! Thank God!” Pierre enthused. “Having the support of the Vatican has ensured smooth operation for centuries!”

“That’s not what I meant–”

“Spare me,” Pierre interjected flatly. “Whatever your personal religious struggles are, they are none of my concern.”

Blanchard flushed red.

“Pierre,” Aveline started softly.

Pierre turned slightly and stared down at the smaller woman. There was a hard glint in his eyes.

“Yes, Agent?” His voice was hard as steel.

Aveline looked away. “Blanchard isn’t challenging you.”

“Again, spare me.”

“Back to the task at hand,” Bedford interjected sternly.

“Of course, Captain,” Pierre said smoothly. “Our task is to escort Monsieur Champollion from his current station to one closer to the sun, and keep him in one piece without creating any sort of political fallout. Simple enough for even you Confederates, no?”

Bedford gave a shallow bow. “As you say.”

“Good.”

“All hands, dismissed!” Henderson said sharply.

The evening ended with Bedford and Henderson on the observation deck. The shutters were still closed, but the soft lighting fit both men’s moods.

“Beer?”

“Nah, Cap, I have an early shift tomorrow.”

Bedford nodded and settled back into the lounge chair. He had a lot on his mind, and the companionable silence suited him just fine.

After several minutes, Henderson cleared his throat. “Say, Cap…”

“Go on, XO.”

“Well, this might sound odd, but I was talking to the men, and LeRoy suggested something that sounded wrong at first, but now that I have time to chew on it for a bit, it makes more sense.”

“Okay…”

“It’s just this, we’re not sure our new agent is honest with his emotions.”

“Say what?” Bedford turned to look at the other man, a frown starting.

“Well, LeRoy suggested the man is acting, showing the emotions he expects us to see, more than actually feeling them. Like how Aveline can get a rise out of him almost every time, but her jabs are fairly mild. Hell, you and her have m–”

Bedford cleared his throat loudly.

“Oh, lay off it, Lucas, we all can see you two like each other a lot.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bedford said flatly.

“Sure it does. You wouldn’t be the first man to have a fling far from home.”

“I’m married,” Bedford retorted harshly.

“Cap,” Henderson said gently. “She filed for divorce before the accident.”

“But it hadn’t gone through and that means I have to see it to the end before…”

Henderson nodded. “Well, whatever you decide, we’ll support you.”

Bedford blew out a sigh. “If I had–as you said–a fling, how could I ask you to trust me again as your captain?”

Henderson barked a laugh. “Lucas, if you didn’t realize it by now, we’d march behind you to the gates of Hell, piss on old Scratch himself, and march back!”

“But–”

Henderson laughed again, stood, and snapped a salute. “My oath says I follow the Confederate Navy, and Navy assigned me to your command as captain. And that’s as far as it goes.”

Bedford groaned. “Are you sure you are Dave Henderson and not the devil come to tempt me further?”

Henderson chuckled and relaxed his salute. “All I am saying, Cap, is your life is yours and as your friend, I stand by your decisions.”

Bedford scrubbed his face with a hand. “Fine. Thank you. You aren’t making this situation easier, you know.”

Henderson grinned. “What sort of friend would I be if I did?”

This time, Bedford laughed. “Got me there.”

“Hate to cut this heart-to-heart short, but I need to turn in if I don’t want to get chewed out by my captain for looking like roadkill tomorrow.”

Bedford chuckled. “Dismissed, XO.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Henderson said with a grin.

The two men went to their respective quarters, Bedford’s head was too full thinking about one French agent to worry about the other one.