The Kassa Gambit

between. It had left him severely unimpressed with unwritten codes of honor.

“Do you have any other suggestions, Commander?”

If this was what the League had sent him for, then the woman was a League agent trying to save his life. Unless she was a plant, sent to make sure he died. He had enemies in the League—everyone in the League had enemies—and one of them could have arranged this, given the woman this clever story to lure them into making the wrong choice.

He hated having to make decisions without adequate evidence, but in this case, it was easy. There weren’t any other options.

“No, Captain, I do not. You may proceed at your discretion.”

“Then find a place to hang on, Commander. You have thirty seconds.”

Kyle retreated from the bridge, fleeing to his private stateroom. Over the intercom he asked the comm officer to let him know when the last possible moment to launch a report capsule would be. Strapping himself into a chair, he tried to compose what might be his final message.

What should he say, and who should he say it to?

His allies in the police force, the shadowy handful of men and women that sought to thwart the seemingly unstoppable rise of the League, would receive all the message they needed from his death. Anything he might say or even hint to them could only increase their risk of being discovered by the League.

His father would also be content with the mere fact of his death. They would tell the old man that his son had died in the line of duty, serving the police, the League, and the glory of Altair. That would be enough; that was all his father had ever expected. All he had ever wanted.

In this last moment, all Kyle had to reach out to was the League. And if they wanted him here, then they didn’t want him recording indiscriminate facts without knowing who would hear them. If he lived through this, he would need their favor. He had to continue to act like a loyal apparatchik. Even now.

The taint of self-pity disgusted him. He took his hand away from the console, and leaned back into the chair.

To wait.

THREE Bonds

Prudence watched the patrol boat touch down without envy. Sleek and lean, its lines appealed to the uninitiated eye. It looked fast, and the array of weapons and sensors it sported made it appear as prickly dangerous as it really was. Its skin was finely painted, smooth, and angular. As a craft of war, she could appreciate it for what it was.

But what it could never be was a home. It could never offer refuge from a hard day’s work, never be a place where friends gathered for a meal. It could never earn its keep, make people happy with its promise of new goods, bringing presents from faraway places. It would never attract a curious and happy crowd with its mere landing.

Even now, under these terrible circumstances, its presence only garnered relief. And anger, for its lateness. The refugees waited sullenly for the ship. The weapons it brought were too little, too late.

She watched as the officers of the Launceston were deluged by the bitter demands of Kassa’s survivors. She had struggled with the angry crowd past the point of pity. They had been in shock, still grateful for any help, any friendly face from the skies. Now that they were beginning to grasp the full extent of the disaster, their personal dismay would be translated into global outrage.

Prudence would share their outrage, when she was not tired beyond feeling. Nothing electrical was left functioning on the planet. Hardly any buildings were still standing. The extent of the dead was unknown. It would be months before everyone was accounted for. The only good news was that Kassa had prided itself on its outdoorsmanship, almost as if they were primitives. The bulk of the population would still be out there, hiding in the forests. Of all the worlds she had visited, Kassa was perhaps the best capable of surviving a hit-and-run raid. Any dome colonies would have suffered total casualties. Even Altair would have lost vastly more, their densely packed cities sitting ducks for orbital bombing runs.

Of course, Altair had a fleet of warships that stood between its vulnerable cities and the threat of attack. Not that there ever had been any credible threat of attack before. The nearest planet with enough population to think of itself as competition was too many hops away, too embroiled in its own internal politics to project its power across the tiny stepping-stones between there and here.

Kassa was one of those tiny stones, too small and poor to be worth stepping on. Kassa had defended its freedom with a volunteer police force and a single fusion-powered rescue boat, and that had been enough, because there was nothing here worth a conqueror’s time.

But this enemy had come to kill, not to conquer; to destroy, not to possess. The survivors, terrified by this irrationality, shouted at the officers of the Launceston, whose uniforms were the only visible sign of authority and reason left on Kassa.

“Tell them to pay us.” Garcia was quick to accept the authority of the uniforms, as well. “For our fuel, at least.”

“Why would they, Garcia? This isn’t Altair soil. They don’t owe Kassa the time of day.”

Garcia looked over the angry crowd with a new appreciation. “It looks like he’s telling them the same thing. And they don’t like it any more than I do.”

“He” would be the man in the police uniform. The captain of the Launceston stood behind him, deferring to him. Prudence felt an immediate pang of sympathy for the captain. His government might have the right to seize his ship and hand it over to a political hack—after all, they paid the bills—but it was still painful to watch.

She couldn’t work up anything but contempt for the cop, though. True, his job right now was as hard as the captain’s—he had to stand there and explain to the Kassans exactly what the price of their freedom was—but the armband he wore trumped her natural sympathy. Law and order were fine things, but what he offered was something else.

Garcia found something amusing in the scene. “If he’s recruiting League members, this is the right place to do it. Plenty of those farmboys will want to dish out a whipping now.”

“Against who?” The refugees had seen nothing but bombs. They had no more idea who their attackers were than Prudence did.

“Do you think they care? They just want to hit somebody back.”

The officers had finished with the crowd and were making their way over to the Ulysses.

“Now it’s your turn,” Garcia said.

“Don’t you mean our turn?”

“Nope. Them League guys give me the creeps. I’ll be belowdecks. But don’t forget to ask them for money. It can’t hurt.”

Garcia scuttled away, abandoning Prudence to face the uniforms alone. Jorgun was asleep in his bunk, exhausted after carrying and lifting supplies and injured people for a double shift. Melvin was AWOL, probably locked in the gunnery pod and stoned out of his mind. All of this misery was too much for him to bear. It detracted from his ability to whine about his own suffering.

That was unfair, she reflected. He’d done what he could, for the first twelve hours. It was only when it became obvious that nothing in his power would be enough that he had given up. Garcia was the one who cared the least, and thus was least scarred by the pain around them. Jorgun was protected by his simpleness. But he kept asking for Jelly, and sooner or later Prudence would have to find an answer for him.

Knowing what the answer had to be, she had not looked for it.

She wondered when she got to give up, stop caring, or just trust someone else to take charge. But she silenced that feeling before it grew into a whine. This was the price of command. This was the price of her freedom.