Chapter Two - MacLeash
The smell of day-old whisky made MacLeash’s stomach rumble. The ritual of celebrating a capture had long since become a habit he indulged in nearly every day. Empty bottles clanked and clanged in every corner of his cabin. Elbow draped over his face, MacLeash sighed, and the scent of his own breath nearly sent his stomach into revolt. The clock on the cabin wall was stopped at eleven hundred hours. How long had it been stuck there? Did it matter? His addled brain contemplated it for a moment, decided it didn’t, and he closed his eyes. The bed was spinning, he was certain of it. His mouth tasted foul.
What had Jonas called it? The little dragon came along and shit in your mouth? MacLeash chuckled.
Poor old Jonas. Miss your smelly arse.
Jonas and the rest of the poor dumb bastards who lived out here thinking they could push the vacuum around were all cocksure and aggressive. All of them risked death on a daily basis. They were modern day pirates, collecting satellites and secrets, and charging for them. Most of them had scoffed when MacLeash had decided he was going to go legit. They’d derided him, telling him the next time they saw Cardiff on a job, they’d shoot first and ask questions later. Their remarks had lasted two months. He captured a contract from the Americans to collect old spy satellites for thirty million Euros, with a bonus of fifty million for delivery of all twelve critical birds within six months. Everyone who raided the belts had sat up and paid attention. Some had signed on with him as successful subcontractors. Life had been good.
Then Tyler Harris had ruined his life.
They’d been working out in super-sync for the first time, with Harris along as an assist because of the cargo capacity of his home-built Remnant. Twenty-four thousand miles above Earth, the capture was low-risk, high-yield—a milk run. The old geosynchronous birds were enormous beasts, built in the years before miniaturization became the norm and components that used to take up city blocks could fit in the palm of a human hand. The scope of the target was enormous, an array more than forty meters long and ten wide, once part of a plan to store energy from the sun and beam it as microwave radiation to large receptors on the ground. As with all great scientific follies, political favor waned, and the funding followed suit. Only one bird had been launched, and another had been repurposed into a handful of classified defense projects. The bright side was that the only ground receiver big enough for it, Arecibo, was easily configured into a radio telescope. The bird, however, was left dormant, waiting for an activation sequence that never came. Fully fueled and ready, the bird posed logistical problems no one had faced before in orbital salvage; hence the need for Remnant and a full complement of vacuum vets to cut the beast apart for retrieval.
The capture had been easy. Arriving first, Cardiff latched on with a manipulator arm attached to the narrow forward hull. Cargo holds open, the extravehicular activity teams had free rein to come and go as they pleased through a number of airlocks and special compartments. MacLeash’s hand hovered above the push-to-talk switch but engaged a separate frequency.
“Heather, Remnant is about ten minutes away. Get out there and get us going.”
The love of his life chuckled in his ears. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
“Be safe.”
“Safe as I can be,” she said, completing their ritual like always.
And they were off. With the vacuum vets out, MacLeash pulled up the schematics of the satellite and issued orders to the approaching Remnant.
“Harris? I want you at the one-eighty of my position.”
There was a pause. “Negative, Cardiff. I can’t grab the bird from that position. My max reach is fifteen meters.”
MacLeash laughed. “Size matters, Remnant.”
“I’ll try and remember that,” Harris answered. “My best hold point is thirty degrees off your port side. Opposite end of the satellite beneath the solar array.” MacLeash nodded approvingly. Maybe the kid knew what he was doing after all.
Remnant approached quickly enough that MacLeash grabbed the controls to whisk Cardiff and the satellite away. The gray and white vessel pivoted to a nose up position and froze all relative motion in one smooth maneuver. The short manipulator arm under the nose grabbed the hold point and stabilized.
“Capture,” Harris called over the radio. “Starboard side hull access opening now. We’re ready to load.” Remnant had no additional crew, mainly because the kid hadn’t established a reputation for himself. He did possess a second manipulator arm that swung easily over the hull from port to starboard. Using the arm, he could retrieve smaller satellites in one piece. For this operation, he’d grab the disassembled solar panels first, and then work to secure major components that Cardiff didn’t have room for. MacLeash looked into Remnant’s spacious hold with a fair amount of envy.
“Okay, let’s get this bird apart, just like we planned.” MacLeash looked out the window as the team converged on the satellite, tool kits dangling from their suits. He started the mission counter, expecting to load the first major components from the satellite, the communications array, within one hour. Meticulous planning was Heather’s idea, and to MacLeash’s chagrin, she was right more often than not.
The communications array entered Cardiff’s hold at fifty-two minutes, followed by the electric motors and gimbals for the solar arrays at an hour and forty-two minutes.
“Cardiff, I’m going to pivot to get these arrays in the main hold,” Harris called. MacLeash could see the problem. Even with a fully maneuverable arm, the angle of the leading edge wasn’t right. A small pivot would work. Something on the order of five degrees, and well within the risks.
“Roger, Remnant, proceed.”
MacLeash turned his attention back to the EVA team, watching them wield laser torches with consummate precision. They’d cost him a great deal, but they were worth it.
Suddenly, he felt a shudder through the frame of his ship. The solar array, still attached to the satellite, oscillated wildly. What the—?
“Emergency evac, my starboard side!” Harris screamed over the radio. Remnant’s engine section was swinging fast on an arc that was going to impact Cardiff, then the satellite. The EVA crews were between them, pulling off components and passing them like water buckets into Cardiff’s auxiliary bay.
MacLeash looked out the cockpit window and tried to gauge the timing. He looked down into the void between them and realized it was already too late. “EVA, abort! Abort! Get clear!”
The five crewmembers wearing hardsuits and mobility packs scurried in every direction. He couldn’t watch them. Disengaging from the satellite, MacLeash grabbed the thruster controls for Cardiff and applied maximum boost up and away from the bird and the rapidly accelerating Remnant. Looking to port to see Remnant’s wild yaw maneuver from above, MacLeash saw two of his crew dangerously close to the satellite.
“Get out of there!” MacLeash screamed at them. He watched both pivot to face him, jets of propellant appearing from their packs. There might be just enough time for them to get clear. He could see the colored identification bands on their legs. The blue one, Yeung, would get clear. The other one, with the yellow bands, wasn’t going to make it. MacLeash felt the cold electric shock go down his spine.
“Heather! Maximum thrust!”
“I’m trying!” she screamed back at him. “Ian!”
Time slowed as Remnant continued to accelerate. He could see the plume firing from the malfunctioning thruster. The gray and white spacecraft, with its cobbled-together surface panels flashing less than twenty meters from MacLeash’s cockpit, swung into the satellite, and a cloud of debris erupted in all directions. The thruster kept firing, joined by another, and Remnant departed controlled flight. MacLeash watched the wildly oscillating satellite fall away from him, and the delivery bonus with it. Thirty million would barely cover his expenses. Among the debris, tumbling away, was a severed hardsuit with yellow bands on the legs. MacLeash froze on the controls.
Heather!
There was no doubt she was dead. As Remnant tumbled away, he saw another part of Heather’s suit. There was no way she’d survived. The arm was ripped away, shreds of material around the hole. Catastrophic depressurization.
Tears formed, and he let them come. Debris warnings chimed in the cockpit, and automatic systems turned the lights to red, as if he needed a reminder to focus on saving his ship and the remaining crew. Voices were calling him on the radio. Something about opening the emergency hatch.
Heather tumbled away. There was nothing he could do to save her.
Nothing.
Remnant was Tyler Harris’ problem, goddamn him.
MacLeash took in a deep breath, held it, and released it slowly. The memory faded. He’d never said goodbye to her. He wanted to say he loved her one more time. All the future he’d ever wanted had been in Heather’s arms.
There had only been enough fuel onboard to recover her body or secure the now-rogue satellite. He’d chosen the satellite, giving him enough money to retire. He’d lasted a total of three days in Tahiti before he was back on Cardiff’s bridge, filing a flight plan and leaving the berth behind. For two weeks, he’d searched for Heather’s body. At least that’s what he told himself, while he drank and numbed his pain. When he returned to port, unshaven and unkempt, his friends had abandoned him. Crewmen refused to sign aboard, superstitious about their work and station aboard ship. There were enough contracts to keep him flying, but only after he’d spent five million on upgrading Cardiff with new dual robotic arms and automated systems to reduce the need for a dedicated crew. He could fly Cardiff with one, perhaps an occasional second, crew member.
MacLeash snorted. There were two others aboard now. One was the best first mate he’d ever known, and the other was a pathetic excuse for a man he’d snatched from an upscale bar on Luna. The man hadn’t come easily. MacLeash had thought a quick shot of anesthetic while the guy was grabbing a beer with a few of his engineer buddies, and all he had to do was drag him to the ship and lock him away. Little bastard had put up a hell of a fight. MacLeash smiled. Drew a little blood, too. Not like it hurt him. What mattered was the contract. With one of this magnitude, a little bit of kidnapping was worth it. Nobody would miss the little engineer. He could get what he wanted and then space the bastard. Accidents happened all the time on Luna, but multi-million Euro contracts were few and far between. Especially with so many others churning through the belts, looking for junk that would be someone else’s treasure.
The contract was for a bird with a nuclear engine, the kind outlawed by the United Nations long after the target was in orbit. The research value of the engine was astronomical, and the parts of a space-flown and still functioning nuclear engine would make him rich. At least that’s what Big Tex had said. What kinda guy calls himself Big Tex? The whole damned conversation had made no sense, but the shadowy benefactor from Earth had never steered him wrong before.
“We’re talkin’ a hundred million Euros flat fee, Mac,” the voice came over the radio speakers. “You in?”
MacLeash struggled to concentrate in his hungover state. “Ya want me to take a job from a man I never met before, that I can’t even see, and ya promise me a hundred million for it?”
“It’s a big job, Mac. You’re gonna need some help.”
MacLeash belched. “Don’t need anybody’s help.”
“I’ve already contracted Tyler Harris to start transit to the target. You sure you don’t want this job?”
MacLeash found himself nodding before he even answered. “Harris, eh? Yeah, I’m in. Junk rights to the first one there.”
The Texan laughed. “Whatever you want, Mac. As long as you’re in. I need the two biggest …holds out there for this one. How fast can you get there?”
MacLeash looked at the beer in his glass, sitting at the worn, faux-wooden bar of Molly’s on Concourse A, Tycho City. “Eight days,” he said fully meaning less. “We can be wheels up in an hour. Need a full load of provisions and fuel, though.”
“Done. Station teams will be on your ship in five minutes.” For some reason, MacLeash didn’t doubt the man. Everything about their conversation said power and money. A laudable combination, to be sure.
“Anything else?”
“You might want to study up on nuclear engineering, too,” the Texan had said before hanging up.
MacLeash snorted and smiled. When he’d told his first mate about the nuclear comment, the bitch had said they didn’t have time for that shit.
“What do you want me to do?” MacLeash snarled.
“Grab an engineer,” his first mate had said. Bronze-skinned and blonde, Dana Cirefe looked tough and smart, but pretty enough to disarm a man with a smile. She’d leaned across the table. “I know a couple of them. Go ask for Paul Normandy. You’ll see what I mean. Get him aboard, and we’ll clean house.”
They left port an hour later, with Normandy sleeping off the drug and Dana at the controls. MacLeash swore he’d have one drink and then he’d be ready to face Tyler Harris for the first time since Heather’s death. Instead, he’d spent the last fourteen hours staring at pictures of her, smiling memories from a time he couldn’t even fathom, and drinking a bottle of scotch. How many more days would he do it to himself?
Eight days.
Lying sack of shit, MacLeash thought. Harris was likely already on a high-speed transit. MacLeash rolled over and punched the intercom button. “Dana?”
“Yeah?”
MacLeash blinked hard to clear his bleary eyes. “What’s our ETA to the target?”
“A little over four and a half days.”
MacLeash smiled. She knew him pretty damned well after all. “Good thinking. I want to be latched on to the bird when that sonofabitch arrives.”
“Planning to. Give him the bad side.” Meaning put Cardiff into a position where Harris would be looking into the sun for the better part of the time. This was getting better and better. For a moment he saw Remnant swinging toward him again, and Heather’s dismembered body tumbling through space. “Anything else, skipper?”
“Nah,” MacLeash mumbled. Then he changed his mind. “Let me know when you can see ‘em.”
“You got it,” Dana said. “How’s our passenger?”
MacLeash thumbed off the switch without answering and let his head sink back to the pillow. He didn’t care a shred for Paul Normandy, and wouldn’t until the pasty-faced little engineer helped him get the goods. Until then, he wasn’t worth the time or effort. He took a long, last look at the picture of Heather he’d taped to the bulkhead by the intercom switch and slept.
* * *
Sixteen hours later, MacLeash woke and made his way to the EVA section. At the oxygen station, MacLeash strapped an emergency mask to his face and adjusted the intake to one hundred percent oxygen. Almost immediately, his head felt clearer and the effects of his drunk were localized to his churning stomach. Food would be in order, if he did not vomit first. He sat by the console on the floor, mask still in place, and breathed. Eyes closed, he began to plan the recovery, but not like Heather would have. She would’ve been concerned with where to grab, what to detach first, and where to store it. That wasn’t going to work this time.
There were other priorities this time. First, determine where the nuclear engine was and position Cardiff so only they could grab it. Second, scan for major components and get the ones with the highest reward potential. Most satellites didn’t have any type of memory unit, but if there were, it was a priority. Communications arrays were always good, as were solid state electrical components. The target was an old bird, and some of the archaic technology could be worth a fortune; vacuum tubes and that shit brought good money. Same for the microwave emitter. Find that, and he’d pocket an extra million easily. Leave Harris with the solar panels… again he shook off the memory.
Focus.
The word he had used for years failed to clear his head this time. He brought his legs under him and leaned forward so he could rest his masked face in his hands. Control wouldn’t come, and he slammed his eyes shut and squeezed them for good measure. There was no time for tears.
“You all right?”
Dana. He took a last deep breath from the mask and took it off. He looked up at the blonde woman and nodded. “Gettin’ there.”
“Thought I heard you banging around out here. Had to go calm our passenger down.” She smiled. “He’s a feisty little bastard.”
MacLeash grinned and pointed to the cut on his brow. “Gave me this.”
“Wouldn’t have figured him for the fighting type,” Dana said, raising her voice to an almost falsetto, the implication clear.
MacLeash laughed. “Me either. Help me up?”
Dana took his hand and easily pulled him to his feet. They were close to each other, and Dana didn’t pull away. It had been over a year since he’d found her at a street cafe in Barcelona, and she was as competent a pilot as he was. The cool brown eyes that had caught his that humid night studied him now, and he found himself wanting her for the thousandth time. He made no move. The last time he’d tried to kiss her, she’d put him into the wall before he knew what had happened. Not her type, he remembered, and left it at that. She wanted to be a professional, and she was. She was all bitch, yet here she was checking him out. Like she knew what had happened to him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You haven’t been that drunk before.”
“The hell I haven’t, woman!” MacLeash felt the anger rising from his gut and didn’t stop it. Letting it out felt good. “The day I can’t handle my drink will be the day I quit flying.”
“Spoken like every lush fighter pilot I ever knew.” Dana shook her head. “Cut the bullshit. You’re sitting here gulping oh-two like it’s going out of style. What’s the deal?”
MacLeash shook his head and let his eyes drift from hers. “None-a your fuckin’ business.”
Her hands grabbed his shoulders and she shook him. “Hey! You need to get your shit together!”
“I’m fine,” MacLeash grunted. “Leave me alone.”
“No,” Dana said, her hands gripping his shirt tight, “you’re not. Tell me what’s going on.”
MacLeash threw her hands off and stomped away. He stopped in the passageway and looked back at her. She was a striking woman, and there were times he could see a bit of Heather in her face. Like now; the soft white light caught her eyes just right and shot a dagger through his heart. “Tyler Harris killed my wife, Dana. Is that enough for you?”
“The accident?” Dana’s face grew even more concerned. “Why didn’t you say something?”
MacLeash shrugged. “Thought it was behind me.”
“Hell no, it’s not,” Dana said. “We have to stick it to this asshole, Ian.”
MacLeash nodded. “Get us there first.”
“Working on it,” Dana said. “There’s some food in the galley. Beef and broccoli.”
MacLeash’s stomach rumbled at the thought of Asian food, again. “No, thanks.”
Dana smiled and jerked her thumb toward the engine compartment. “Gonna check on number three. Don’t like the way it’s compensating.”
Back to business; the moment passed. MacLeash took a deep breath and pushed his shoulders back. “Good. When you come back through, lock up the liquor cabinet.”
“Until capture?” Dana asked. The capture party was a tradition. The look appeared on her face again. “You sure you’re okay?”
MacLeash shrugged and waved dismissively at her. “Ah, you know what? Forget it. I’m fine. Promise.”
Dana nodded. “If you say so. This will be an easy one, boss.”
I thought that the last time, he wanted to say but didn’t. He nodded and felt the hardness return to his face. “Make sure the gear’s ready, and the engineer knows what the hell he’s doing in a hardsuit.”
“You’re assuming he’s going to talk to me.”
MacLeash glared. “I don’t give a flyin’ fuck one way or the other, Dana! I told you to get him ready! Get him ready!” His voice echoed down the passageway. The concern in Dana’s eyes faded away to something more like fear, and MacLeash felt as if his feet were back under him. “How long to rendezvous?”
“Three days, seventeen hours,” Dana said. “I need to get number three under control.”
MacLeash sneered. “You do that, then report to me. Clear?”
Dana hesitated, and he could feel the questions on her lips. What had she done? What was wrong? Why was he so fucking mad all the time? All of them familiar and detested. MacLeash lurched toward the galley and felt his stomach losing the fight with its contents. He stumbled into the head and vomited into a sickness bag mounted on the wall. The smell of stomach acid and alcohol made him retch again, a loud, pathetic sound. His eyes started watering. A fist slammed into the bulkhead as he fought his emotions. There wouldn’t be another incident.
And Tyler Harris is going to pay for what happened to Heather.
MacLeash’s breath caught in his throat. Vengeance wasn’t the right answer, but Tyler had to pay for what happened. The boy might have felt remorse; hell, he might have cried like a baby and sought forgiveness from Heather’s family, but he didn’t deserve it. The incident had been considered accidental by Fleet, but there was fault implied. Tyler Harris’s homebuilt spacecraft didn’t meet Fleet standards. The whelp’s attorneys argued that it wasn’t a Fleet vessel and didn’t have to comply, and that Harris was within his rights to own and operate it. The wrongful death claim MacLeash had filed had died in court. They’d locked eyes after the verdict, and Harris had smiled at him. He’d never forgotten that look. The little sonuvabitch.
Wiping his mouth on a sleeve, MacLeash stood and made his way from the head to the bridge. In his chair, he reviewed the course his first mate programmed, and saw a way to trim another six hours off the transit. He keyed in the changes, immediately causing the engines to fire.
“Skipper, what are you doing? Number three’s cowling is open!”
MacLeash swore and slapped the controls closed. “What are you trying to do, get us killed?”
“I told you I was going to look at it.” He heard her grunt twice, followed by a muffled clang. “It’s closed. You can go now.”
MacLeash shook his head. “Going to trim a few hours off our transit.” She didn’t acknowledge, which made the anger rise again in his chest. Damned woman. She could have at least apologized!
He shook his head and heard a voice much like Heather’s quieting him. Slow down and breathe. Take your time and plan the angles. You need Dana to do this the right way.
The right way, MacLeash wanted to ask the voice what it meant. But he didn’t. There was no reason to believe anybody was there speaking to him, much less the ghost of his dead wife. She was dead, and it was Tyler Harris’s fault. Nothing would change that fact. He talked to her often, but she never answered. Why bother?
She answered, in a voice he swore he could hear, “The right way makes sure Tyler Harris won’t survive.”
* * * * *