Aside from the gunner, his crew all turned to look at them curiously as they entered, wondering what was going on. Aiden ignored them as he settled in his chair, only then glancing over at Ali. “We clear to depart? I'm ready to get away from this miserable place.”
Her sensuous lips thinned slightly at that, but she nodded. “The Caretakers once again extend their thanks for our assistance, and wish us the best in our travels.”
“Speaking of travels,” Barix cut in. “What now? Back to flying around trying to pretend we're keeping ahead of the Deeks? Maybe we should've accepted your murderous robot lover's offer and stuck with the mass replicating AIs who want to fight our Deek enemies.”
Aiden bit back a sigh. He'd known this was coming, but that didn't make it any easier. “I'm more worried about a different enemy at the moment . . . Elyssa isn't someone I want gunning for me if I can avoid it. I did what I had to delivering the scientists back to HAE, but now it's time to head to the nearest allnet hub and contact her, try to sort this out.”
And if not, face the music for his decision.
His crew was looking at him like he was crazy. “So what you're saying,” Belix said slowly, “is that you want to give the crime lord with the sickeningly talented hackers, the group who can bust into a mega-corporation's computers and root around like they own the joint and who we just betrayed, an easier time hunting us down?”
“If she's coming after us, better we know sooner rather than later,” Aiden replied. He took a heavy breath, not sure he believed the words he was about to say. “Besides, she's a Stag. That still has to count for something.”
Barix snorted. “Yeah, it means she'll yell “Screw the Deeks!” as she blows us into subatomic particles.”
Chapter Twelve
Consequences
Rear Admiral Novan Granoss felt the usual combination of irritation and faint hope at the news he'd received a priority missive from Movement Intelligence.
They were always priority, even though most just reported that there was no news from the Dormant, and no sightings of the Last Stand anywhere near the Brastos system, where it had disappeared off the map. Or anywhere else in the galaxy, for that matter.
Granoss had suggested that maybe MI divert at least a modest amount of resources to searching outside the galaxy. After all, if the Movement was devoting an entire task force to this criminally overblown manhunt, the least the hackers and analysts could do was push a few buttons to check their vast intelligence network for hits.
It was almost unsurprising when his suggestion had been met with ridicule, with the argument that Thorne hadn't once left this galaxy ever since resorting to piracy, after the Stagnants surrendered following their defeat. That sort of ironclad statistical data left MI netheads stroking themselves over the accuracy of their predictions, unwilling to even entertain the possibility that the pirate captain might change his long held habits just because dozens of warships had been devoted to hunting and killing him!
Of course, the Fleet didn't make cracks about Movement “Intelligence” just for the fun of it. That idiotic agency filled its ranks with the brainwashed husks of hackers stupid enough to get caught by them, and even then the best and brightest were bookmarked for Dormant brainwashing and put to better use. The remaining staff of MI was filled out by the dregs of their field, those not smart or skilled enough to make real chits off their talents.
All things considered, what did they expect? The second Fleet Intelligence could get approval for more funding, they were going to stomp MI flat and vent their exhaust ports over whatever was left.
In the meantime, though, it was “priority” missives about how ineffective MI continued to be, while Granoss and his ships were left holding their drive pistons and selling out their services to ERI and other Movement controlled groups.
And as always, he had to retreat into his briefing room and pull up the missive on his display, smiling through gritted teeth and being on his best behavior for some low level MI flunky. Otherwise the miserable little waste dump would get offended and use their petty bureaucratic power to drag their feet in the future, making his life miserable.
Only to his surprise, according to the ID offered by the caller this time it wasn't some bottom tier functionary who'd contacted him. It was a high level administrator, one who by some perspectives might even be considered more or less equal in authority to Granoss himself.
Not only that, but one who worked on much higher priority tasks than some manhunt for a pirate vessel. Even one the Movement was as committed to destroying as the Last Stand.
He accepted the missive, and a short, pale man in finely tailored clothes appeared on his display; he looked so absurdly like a stereotypical bureaucrat that Granoss had to remind himself of the man's position to keep from smirking.
“Admiral,” the man said curtly, as if this entire conversation was an enormous strain on his limited time. “You have the honor of addressing Administrator Nor Jeres, Movement Intelligence.”
“Administrator,” Granoss replied, not having to work hard for a similar tone. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“We have news about your quarry, this Last Stand,” the pale man replied. “Our emplaced asset aboard the ship managed to plant a beacon several days ago, and we've been tracking the vessel ever since.”
Granoss couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Why wasn't I immediately informed the Dormant had given us a beacon?” he demanded, in his irritation temporarily forgetting who he was talking to.
Jeres curled his lip. “Because the beacon indicated that your quarry was
