CHAPTER ONE

Captain Lucas Bedford signaled the bartender for another. At least, he tried. Instead, he made a half-wave at the glasses around him. The squat bartender understood his customer’s request, and poured another glass of synalcohol, then plunked it down in front of the captain.

Bedford nodded his gratitude and took a sip. He hated it. He had hated every glass since he sat down at the dark bar. He should have stayed back at the ship, but right now, he wanted to drink alone. Stupid, he knew. Especially here. At least the bar wasn’t crowded. Midday drinkers tended to keep to themselves.

It had only been two complete twenty-eight cycles here, and Lucas was already going stir-crazy. He chalked it up to the stress. He had to get some space from the ship and crew to clear his head.

Of course, he ended up in one place where that wasn’t going to happen. That he would have chalked up to fate, but since he was already at least two-sheets to the wind, he admitted he just didn’t want to think about things for a few hours. He certainly didn’t want to think about the ongoing war they weren’t there for, or how much time it was taking to get out of the Kingdom of Martinique.

Nothing but problems and issues since they ended up here. He felt like they were sailing against the wind, no matter how he changed the tack. He took another drink of the gut-rot, feeling it harshly burn down his throat. Terrible stuff.

“Captain!” called out Ensign Eric LeRoy from the doorway, flanked by Petty Officers Holt and Norwood.

Bedford ignored the tall, bald ensign, mostly because he was irritated at him for tracking him down. And that sober part of him didn’t want his crew to see him like this, drinking alone during the day.

LeRoy repressed a sigh. The captain was one of the best officers he had ever served under, but the man wasn’t without his faults.

“Holt, Norwood, help the captain to his feet while I settle the tab,” LeRoy ordered.

“Aye, sir!”

Norwood took the captain’s right side while Holt stood on his left.

“Up we go, sir,” Holt said, helping Bedford to his unsteady feet.

“I can walk,” Bedford slurred grumpily.

“Of course, sir,” Norwood said as the two petty officers guided the captain out of the dim bar.

“How much?” LeRoy asked the bartender.

The bartender slid over a tablet with the amount displayed.

This time, LeRoy sighed. He tapped his wristband against the surface, deducting the francs from the ship’s meager account. With the tab settled, he followed the others out of the bar.

LeRoy didn’t notice a figure leave a darkened booth in the back and trail after them.

The station Bonnes Fortunes was in a key location. The system Domaine des Forges didn’t have any habitable planets. Its two solid planets were rich in minerals with gravity lower than galactic standard, while its three gas giants held abundant gases for industrial processing. The space station orbited the second giant, Forge IV, far enough on the edge of the system that gravity from the system’s bright, bluish-white star wasn’t a concern for shipping and transport out of the system.

The bar was tucked just off a main concourse of bustling activity. “Seedy” was too harsh to describe this level on the station, but upscale it was not.

Not wanting to carry the captain like so much baggage in the open, LeRoy pulled out the sheet he picked up at the docking bay. Since the captain had left his communicator back at the ship, it was the only way LeRoy located the bar. The sheet showed a map of the local area, highlighting places offering goods and services ranging from simple textiles to legal offices handling mineral claims. He traced a line to avoid most of the traffic, double-checked it, and nodded to his companions.

“This way,” he said as he led them away from the bar and into the crowd of people. They had to cross over to a less trodden concourse of shops and rented spaces of less allure than what the main streets offered.

Holt and Norwood had draped the captain’s arms over their shoulders and held him upright between them. Bedford could walk, that was certain. Which direction he’d head was not.

“Easy, Cap,” Holt said as his captain stumbled.

“I’m feeling better,” Bedford insisted.

“No doubt, sir, but baldy there would have us scrubbing the outside hull for the next year if you fell,” Norwood said, jutting his chin at the retreating back of the ensign.

“During a jump,” Holt added.

Bedford laughed, then misjudged a step. His two petty officers helped him keep upright and his dignity.

“I suppose I might have had a little too much,” Bedford admitted ruefully.

Several turns later, they found themselves in a back alley behind some shops. The metal walls curved slightly, cutting off their view. The ceiling was low and the lighting poor. They picked their way around scattered piles of old detritus. As they followed the wall’s curve, the alley came to a dead-end.

LeRoy looked at the map. The sheet showed the path leading past the wall that stood in front of him. He narrowed his eyes, examined the map, examined the captain, then traced a new path through a more populated stretch of the level.

“Back we came,” LeRoy ordered.

The captain swung himself around, already steadier on his feet than before, with minor assistance from the petty officers. LeRoy pushed past and led them back down the alley.

Not more than a dozen steps later, the ensign stopped and held up a fist. The others halted. He lowered his arm. They all waited.

Five men rounded the corner. They were scruffy, clothes patched over, rough-looking with a hungry look in their eyes. The leader was taller than the others, almost as tall as Ensign LeRoy. He had a patchy beard, and clothes with too many buckles and spikes. He sauntered over to the Confederates with a fake smile plastered on his pockmarked face.

“Looks like you boys are lost. We can help fix that, for a fee, of course.” His French had a guttural tone, local to the station, unlike what they had heard elsewhere.

His gang guffawed and grimaced.

“Sir, I must apologize,” LeRoy responded in a polite drawl in his best French. “While we are slightly off-course, we haven’t the funds to do you justice for your services. We must muddle on the best we can.” He gave a slight bow.

“Eh? Whatever.” The leader flicked out a small vibro-knife and the low hum was audible. “Just give us all you got and ain’t no one gets hurt!”

Bedford straightened up, adjusted his flightsuit, and stepped forward and past the ensign, hands up to placate. “Gentlemen, I see you are men of action. I applaud your dedication, but I’m afraid we are meager pickings, at best. How about we part ways?”

“Get a load of thi–”

“Wait!” Bedford implored. “Let’s come to a compromise. We don’t have anything on us now, but we can offer food and drink back at our ship, The Red Fox.”

The low drone of the knife hung between them.

The captain noticed the other four glanced at each other. He couldn’t tell if they were interested or just annoyed. None of them had weapons. He held his ground.

“So’s what you’re saying is you tourists are broke?” the leader asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Yes,” Bedford replied.

The gang leader snapped his blade closed. He cursed. “Just our rotten luck!” He spun on his heel and walked off. “Come on,” he grunted as he gathered his gang.

“The offer still stands,” Bedford called after their retreating backs.

The Confederates waited for a few minutes to allow their would-be assailants to clear the area.

“Let’s go,” Bedford ordered. He strode away, not showing any signs of his drinking binge from earlier. His crew followed.

As soon as they were back in the crowds of the station, Bedford slowed down. Holt trotted up to him.

“Hey, Cap, you feeling alright?”

Bedford eyed the petty officer. “You drew the short straw, didn’t you?”

Holt rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“I’m fine, Petty Officer.” Bedford paused. “I’ll have one killer of a hangover tomorrow, though,” he grimaced ruefully.

Holt laughed. “Norwood has just the cure! He swears by it. Works every time, he says. Something with raw egg, chili powder, hot sauce, leftover coffee grounds, turmeric, and a bunch of other stuff.”

“Have you tried it?”

“Oh, Heavens no, sir! It sounds disgusting!”

Bedford laughed and slapped Holt on the back.

They walked along a main concourse now, taking in the sights of this level of the station. Bedford set the pace, walking with just enough determination to keep the various street peddlers from trying to make their pitch without seeming rude.

“How did you find me? I didn’t tell anyone where I was going,” Bedford asked LeRoy.

“Navigator Thomas said you’d be a that bar,” the ensign replied.

“Oh? How did he know?” Bedford pressed.

Ensign LeRoy shrugged. “He tapped into the station’s directory on these lower levels, scrolled through the list, and said we’d find you at The Salty Song.”

Bedford pondered that while they walked.

“I’ll never understand that man,” he finally said with a shake of his head.

“Neither will I,” the ensign admitted, somewhat reluctantly.

The rest of the journey back proved uneventful, which suited everyone. Bedford placed his hand against the docking bay security panel. The doors rolled up, letting everyone inside a large room. The doors slammed down as the lights flickered on.

“Name?” came the voice over the speakers.

“Lucas Bedford.”

There was a pause as the station identified his voice, matched it against the original recording, and confirmed him with a palm scan.

“Cleared.”

The doors on the opposite side from where they entered snapped up, letting the crew into the dockyard where the Red Fox berthed.

Bonnes Fortunes bustled with mining and refinery activity. The Crown recognized the enormous potential of the system’s minerals and materials and had decreed the space station to be the official port for the entire system. Everything coming and going had to pass through Bonnes Fortunes and the Crown took its cut. Wisely, the Minister of Commerce years ago had put a hard cap of no more than two percent taxes and no more than five percent in fees and permits. Keeping the money flowing was the important part, not squeezing out every franc possible. And it worked.

Fortunately, the station didn’t just cater to the biggest players in the system, but had expanded to meet the needs of small-time operators and businesses, and even just the odd individual hoping to strike it rich on one of the lesser moons or a tract of land too rough and harsh for the large corporations to bother with.

The Confederates had secured a berth in one of the lowest decks in the smallest dockyard paying the least amount for the docking fees.

The captain led his men through the busy yard, stepping around piles of equipment, as owners worked on their ships. The ones with more money on hand had hired a few engineers and technicians working for them. The result was cacophony.

Despite the madhouse, they made good time back to the ship. There, Chief of Engineering John Davis and Lieutenant Commander David Henderson were engaged in a heated debate. Again.

“Cap! Captain!” Henderson shouted as soon as he noticed Bedford. “Can you tell this obstinate mule that he’s wrong and should be facing time in the brig to clear out whatever’s stuffed between his ears!”

“Captain!” Davis responded. “Our XO has decided for himself that he knows the Fox better than I do, inside out!”

Bedford groaned internally, cursed himself for his weakness, put on an impassive face to hide his growing headache, and marched over to the two men. “What’s all this about, sirrahs!” he demanded sharply.

They both talked over each other.

“Aaaaatten-TION!” Bedford bawled over them.

Both of them snapped into attention, ramrod straight, arms at their sides. “SIR!”

“Now, let’s go over this. Calmly.”

“Sir!”

“XO?” Bedford asked.

“Sir, it’s a question of resources. The Chief here wants to fix everything wrong with the Fox and we simply don’t have the money to do that. We need to restock on essentials, mostly water, and–”

“That’s a bunch of horsefeathers!” Davis interrupted Henderson. “It’s critical sy–”

“Chief!” roared Bedford, stepping up and into his face. “WHAT DID I SAY?”

Davis flushed red. “Calmly, sir.”

Bedford stared directly into his eyes for a second before stepping back. “Continue.”

“Well, uh, that’s the heart of the matter,” Henderson said. “I have Quartermaster McElroy yelling we’re going to starve or die of dehydration, depending on whichever list he checked last. Gunny’s requesting raw materials for munitions. Doctor Pickering handed me a list of medical supplies just a minute ago. We can’t afford all this already, and the Chief is demanding most of the budget for his projects.”

Bedford nodded. “Understood.” He waited a beat. “Chief Davis?”

“Sir. I realize all that, but what the XO is missing is how important my requests are. It’s to keep the ship from suffering catastrophic failures for the engines, environmental and life support systems, navigation, defenses, waste processing, kitchen, well, you name it.”

Bedford’s headache was starting early. He examined the mess of supplies on the platform in front of his ship. “I take it you bought some things already?”

“No, Captain, all that is from our stores. The last of our stores,” Davis said with emphasis.

Bedford nodded. “General meeting, all senior staff in three hours.”

“Aye, sir!” the Chief and XO said.

The captain glared at them for a minute longer. He’d have to chew them out later for acting like this. At least they had the good graces to look abashed.

To get his mind off his senior officers and his budding headache, Bedford looked up to take in the sleek lines of the Red Fox. Even nestled here in this confusion of ships and crews, she looked dangerous. Clamps held her in place, over the abyss that led out of this docking yard and into deep space. Bedford crossed the short gangway and entered his ship through the shuttle bay. Both shuttles were docked and in working order. Davis had seen to their repairs after Saint Anna.

Bedford patted them both on their sides as he passed the small spacecraft. They weren’t horses, but he felt like they should be. Lucas had spent many a summer on his grandparents’ farm, riding their horse from dawn-to-dusk some days. He missed those beasts.

The lower decks hummed differently than the bridge. Bedford felt at home. He knew every inch of the Fox and knew her moods. Right now, she was grumpy. Chief Davis was right; the ship needed repairs. The work done at Saint Anna helped them out of that region and the jump drive had been performing adequately–it was the rest of the ship that needed an overhaul.

He made his way to the bridge, checking different information nodes as he went. It took him some time, but when he finally dropped in his chair, Bedford had a better understanding of what the ship needed. While all the data was sent to the bridge, Bedford found doing it this way calmed him and gave him a more hands-on understanding of his ship. Drove Henderson nuts, too.

The bridge was blissfully empty with the only sounds from the ship talking to itself. Bedford hadn’t settled in very deeply into his chair when Aveline burst onto the bridge.

“Captain!”

Bedford winced, his headache was in full bloom now. He had to do something about it before the meeting. He wasn’t trying to avoid Doctor Pickering, at least, not intentionally.

“Special Agent Aveline, how can I help you?” he asked politely.

Special Agent Aveline had promised she’d ensure the Red Fox left the kingdom of Martinique-controlled space, which meant she was accompanying them until then. Of course, such a deal came with strings attached, and Bedford had a feeling this was going to be a big tug.

“Lucas, I have an assignment,” she said, excitement clear in her voice.

“Congratulations, I suppose, are in order?” he replied in French, curious as to why she was this worked up.

The petite blonde huffed. “You are to be my transportation. I can’t leave you to your own devices, and I must accept this particular assignment.”

Bedford scratched his cheek. “Aveline, we can’t just take off. We have–”

“Supplies to restock and things to fix. Yes, yes, I know! That’s what makes this assignment a win-win! I have a budget to spend.”

Bedford sat up straight, headache mostly forgotten. “Go on, Special Agent.”

“Let me show you!” Aveline went to his chair and started looking at the various controls. “This is unlike the tablet you gave me, and unlike standard Martinique controls! Let’s see… no.”

“What do you need?” Bedford asked with a slight smile.

“Access to my personal communications in my decrypted storage.”

“Hand me your tablet,” Bedford requested.

She complied and he connected it to a magnetic pad on the left side of his chair. The main screen switched from showing the dockyard to the files in her personal storage.

“Open the one dated today,” Aveline ordered.

The file opened, displaying the message. Most of it was redacted.

Bedford skimmed through it.

“From the Office of the Crown, Ministry of etc., etc., by order of His Majesty, King of All Martinique and Outlying Colonies, as granted by…skipping that…Special Agent has been granted a royal permit and so forth,” Bedford read aloud. “Because of the sensitive nature of the assignment, the Crown releases funds of…” He stopped. “That’s a decent amount, Aveline.”

“Yes!”

“And we just have to pick up a passenger from,” Bedford scanned the message, “Hmm, redacted. In fact, most of it is redacted.” He looked at Aveline questioningly, hoping she’d be able to fill in what the report didn’t.

“I can’t release that information until we’ve left the station,” Aveline said apologetically. “But all travel is within this system.”

“Hmm. And what’s that clause about another agent?”

“We generally have a team for this sort of assignment, but since I have your crew at my disposal, only two agents were required,” she explained. “I, of course, am one of those agents. Another in the system will be assigned.”

“Taking liberties, are we?” Bedford asked with an arched eyebrow.

She swatted him on the arm. “You know what I mean!”

“No, you’re right. You do somewhat own us,” he admitted ruefully.

“See? Win-win! I have funds. You have need of funds. In exchange, you help me on my assignment.” She beamed at the captain.

Bedford laughed. “Well, when you put it that way, what choice do I have?”

“None! Now, I have to make some final arrangements, and I’m sure you need to discuss how to spend the money with your men.” And with that, she turned and left.

“Wait!” Bedford called after her. He disconnected her tablet.

“Yes?” Aveline called from the doorway, sticking her head back into the bridge.

“You forgot this.” Bedford tossed the device to her.

Aveline plucked it out of the air with ease. “Thanks, Captain!”

Bedford could hear her laugh as she hurried off to her personal quarters.

He shook his head, amused at how well the agent of the Crown had fit in with his crew. It made sense. After all, she was a trained assassin; he was sure she had training specifically on adapting to the people around her. Still, he hoped it was more than just that, and she was genuinely enjoying the crew’s company.

Bedford tapped a button on his chair. “Henderson, there’s been a slight change in plans. It’s an all-hands meeting in ten minutes.”

“Aye, sir.”

Bedford could hear the curiosity in his voice but refrained from fueling any speculation the XO might have. Bedford was still unhappy with how he and Chief Davis had been acting. Ending the link, he settled back in his chair as his headache came rushing back. He couldn’t ignore it any longer. Bedford stood and left the bridge and headed down to the MedBay. It was time to deal with his headache.

The MedBay door was open. Bedford walked in to see Doctor Pickering taking inventory of his supplies.

“Ben,” the captain said.

Pickering straightened up and cast a baleful look at the captain.

“Sit,” the doctor said, pointing at the examination table.

Bedford nodded and eased onto the table.

“Symptoms? Aside from being an idiot. Sir,” the young doctor snapped, his freckles standing out more than usual.

“Now, listen doc,” Bedford began, trying to explain to the younger man that there are times when it made absolutely no sense to do what he did, but one did it anyway.

“Stow it, sir. I’m just here to patch you up,” Pickering said curtly. “Headache? Dry-mouth? Aches?”

“Mostly just the headache.”

“Bright lights hurt?” the doctor asked as he shone a light right into the captain’s eyes.

“Ow! Yes!”

“Yup, result of your own moral weakness,” Pickering said.

“Fine, fine, consider me scolded. Now what?”

Pickering sighed. He went over to his cabinets and prepared something for his patient.

“Here, take this for the headache. Drink this for your dehydration. I’d recommend at least six hours of sleep, but since you won’t listen, I am going to tell you not to drink anything but water for the next day.” He narrowed his eyes. “Nothing but water.”

“Message received, Doc.” Bedford downed the pills and drank deeply from the pouch. “If a man can’t give in to his vices once in a blue moon, he’ll go mad.”

“Sounds more like something you need to tell the pastor than me,” Pickering huffed.

Bedford laughed, stood, and slapped the younger man on the back. “Thanks, Doctor.” He headed out of the MedBay, then stopped. “Don’t forget about the meeting.”

Pickering had already returned to taking inventory. “Getting ready for it now.”

“Good man.” Bedford already felt lighter. He headed to his quarters to formulate a plan.