Shadows Of Conspiracy

After four days at hyperspeed, the Trajectory had finally returned to port. Looking out the viewport from his quarters, Reventon Alzer scowled at the approaching sight.

“Earth... what a fuckin’ – mmmhh – cesspit. To think... that damn shrew actually wanted to live here, even with my captain’s salary... if not for maintaining appearances for the sake of my rank, I’d have divorced her years ago, just for that bloody – uhhh – stupid... sentimental streak. We could’ve moved to a resort world like Pisarion Invicta or Sol Serra Prime... but no! Honouring Terran tradition is more – mm – important to her. Homeworld... or what’s left of it! What is even left to – hnn – honour? Radioactive puddles, industrial antimatter smog, and being overcrowded with immigrant xenos? Fuck Earth...” – he broke off his tirade with a mirthless headshake.

There was some – latent tension – in his tone, as he observed the dirty-blue and gunmetal-grey world, sitting placidly in space, interspersed by remnants of sickly-green looking oceans. Whatever the original landmasses looked like was long-since lost, to history.

“Ywwh... whwtewwr!” – a woman’s voice, muffled, came from under his desk.

Some distance behind the sprawling, modular complex of Port Alphonse, built in close-orbit around Earth’s Moon, and connected to the massive surface installations and drydocks on the moon’s surface, with a network of suborbital mag-train lines... the once-glorious planet was like a dirty, sickly stain on the splendour of the stars beyond.

Half a milennium ago, Earth was a jewel of the known galaxy. But those times had long since vanished, replaced by the run-down, modern 29th century reality of a hyper-polluted, overpopulated pit of a world, where Terran culture and history had all but vanished, or had been transplanted offworld through corporate initiatives of historical preservationism, while the rest was submerged into a mottled melting pot of many different xeno influences, legal and illegal alien settlers of a dozen different species. Real-estate was cheap and plentiful, which attracted the underprivileged from all over the known galaxy, and kept those lower strata of Human society stuck there, unable to afford to move offworld. Or those few Terrans, like Reventon Alzer’s wife, still stuck in the past, subsisting on legends and history holodocumentaries, believing that the ancient glory of the homeworld could ever be recaptured.

With upwards of fifty billion people, humans and aliens living in perpetual gloom and smog of heavy industry and antimatter pollutants, half-drained oceans that mostly turned into acidic radioactive puddles, it was a congested hellhole. Seasons had mostly vanished, the planet’s electromagnetic atmospheric layer had decayed, the ozone cover had long-since dispersed, leaving the surface searing hot, and exposed to stellar radiation and solar flares. Most animal life had long since become extinct, or transplanted offworld, and those few species that managed to adapt, became vicious, radioactive abominations, prowling Earth’s wastes. But it was dirt-cheap to live on, as long as one accepted living in radiation-shielded settlements or corporate industrial megazones and being exploited as expendable industrial workforce, paid in scraps.

Once upon a time, the expression ‘hell on Earth’ had been just that, an expression. Now, Earth was the closest analogue to actual hell, that existed within Conglomerate space.

Port Alphonse however, was one of the five principal staging bases for the Earth Conglomerate naval forces, and the EC fleet’s operations centre for the Sol System and it’s surrounding sector. It administered the Luna Shipyards, the surface part of the entire complex, as well as provided a central nexus for all the other colonies within the Sol System, such as Mars Federated States, an actual – decent, if not really exceptional – place to live within the Sol System. It had been fully terraformed centuries ago, augmented with artificial gravity-enhancing underground grids, to simulate Earth-Standard gravity, and a home to a decent percentage of middle-class society of the Consortium. And the many mining operations of Saturn and Jupiter’s moons, plus the outer early-warning stations lining the edges of the system.

Reventon Alzer was in his quarters aboard the battered battlecruiser Trajectory, just having finished limping back home, after a near-escape from the Sahel system, and the Insurgent ambush there. The massive vessel was on final approach to one of the service berths.

Leaning back in a comfy real-leather chair behind his desk, his uniform coat unbuttoned, exposing his moderately-muscled chest, he tensed harder, with a guttural grunt. Despite his rapidly-approaching middle age, the captain was still quite a hunk, under that uniform.

“Nhhh... keep it up, Anni! Damn, your mouth is heaven.” – the graying man growled, buckling slightly, pressing his left hand to the top of the woman’s head. With his slightly-trembling right hand, he reached for a padd containing the latest ship status report.

Under the desk, squatting between his legs, Annike Rand was hard at work, methodically, persistently sucking his cock. One strong hand gripping his ballsack tightly, enough to cause slight pain, while the other pumped his shaft rhytmically, her tongue swirling around his glans, scooping up every drop of precum he released.

“Mhmm... Stop lookin’ at that dirtball out there Revvie, and stop thinking of your wife! And start filling my fuckin’ mouth, or I’ll bite you off! Haven’t had enough protein today yet...” – the woman momentarily paused with a lascivious grin, eyes glassy with lust, some cum dripping off her lips down her chin. Her duty uniform was unbuttoned to mid-cleavage, the fourth button from the collar, perilously under pressure, trying to contain the woman’s divinely tight, mostly natural breasts, as she licked his testicles briefly, then got back to sucking him dry, shifting her hand on his balls, to roughly fondle her breasts, her expressive eyes unblinking on his.

“Bad... bitch.” – Alzer grinned, tightness still on his face, crossing one leg behind her neck, to keep her pressed-in firmer. Annike was very talented, when it came to oral attention, creating an airtight vacuum of pleasure on his hyperstimulated penis, to a point that he wondered many times, if her past occupations included adult holoentertainment, or escort work, before she joined the Corps. She was that good when it came to pleasing sexually, and loved it that much, with literally no hard limit, on what she would do. Upon asking on occassion over the months she’d been on his ship, the woman never gave a straight answer, for obvious reasons. But that lack of a straight answer, only fueled Reventon’s imagination. So did her pierced nipples, tongue, and clitoris.

He’d already come twice into her mouth, over the past forty minutes that they’d been here in his quarters, and she kept demanding more. By now, his balls were literally starting to ache from production. She was milking him dry.

In response to his comment, he felt teasing teeth on his glans for a moment, making him inhale sharply. He moaned.

“Sorry... ! GOOD bitch... !” – thru his clenched teeth.

Feeling a bit lightheaded, he tried to bring his breathing under control, then shook his head firmly, trying to focus on the padd, and the status report on it. He took no small amount of pride, from the fact that he trained himself to be able to work without being distracted, while his slutty SysCon chief engineer worked him over. It was definitely an acquired skill, and the wired, toned, shapely, insatiable whore never missed a chance to put it to the test! Even more so for the past four days, since Sahel... almost as if she wanted to – fuck – away the lingering anger she felt, over her ex-boyfriend’s betrayal.

Mentally partitioning between the increasing tension in his loins, well on the way to his third climax, and the report in his hands, he noticed something odd.

“How come you ordered the... nhh... aux. conduit flow... shut off... mmm... in surplus storage? The... chem tanks in particular?”

Annike Rand pulled his cock out of her mouth to answer, while still jerking him off, thumb rubbing his glans.

“Tank 03′s been compromised remotely, when Ron flooded 15 with Tyth. I’ve been coordinating with Security, and having a team rewire the flow controls to manual, for all chem storage tanks. No remote code-access anymore.” – the woman scowled, switching near-instantly from a lustful slut, into a career Corps engineer.

“Anyone ever wanna pull that shit on us again, they’ll have to do it at the tanks themselves, by hand! And be authorised by the resource duty officer and the security team in the surplus bay.” – she added, before going down on him once more with gusto.

Inhaling sharply, feeling the tension down there spike another notch, Alzer grimaced. Not – strictly - regulation, and the additional step would certainly impact efficiency, if the content of the tanks was ever needed for legitimate purposes... but the faces of the thirteen dead Marines, suffocated by Tythanine, their bodies liquefied upon autopsy in MedOps, reminded him of the price of lax security. It was sensible... if unsanctioned.

“I would like to have been... mmhh... consulted, Anni! I AM the captain of this ship, you know. Modifications... hnnngg... to logistical operations... hnnnhh... always go.... hnnng... through the captain!” – he growled, mock-menacingly, emphasising it with three hard thrusts, making her gag briefly. Then he forcibly pulled his cock out of her mouth again, giving her a cockslap across the cheek. Once. Twice.

“You are a BAD bitch after all, you know that?” – to which the sporty succubus gave his shaft a teasing, none-too-soft bite, making him clench his teeth with a growl.

“Will you punish me for my breach of protocol, Revvie? Cuz if you keep being soft with me, I’mma take over this ship! Fuck my mouth...” – with a grin, feral lust and challenge, in her glassy gaze. Then she gave his hyperstimulated ballsack, already sore from production, a sharp tap.

A pained grunt escaped the man’s lips, dull pain pounding between his legs for a moment, staggering slightly as he stood up, before he cockslapped her a few more times, to which she let out a lustful purr, licking his sore jewels. She was evil!

“Yes. I will. Might even put you on report for mutiny! Whore...” – he snarled, pulling her painfully by her hair to the centre of the room, kneeling on the carpet, before he spat into her open mouth. In the process, his hip hit the desk, knocking the padd off it, to the carpeted floor.

Knowing what was coming and not wanting to soil her uniform, and that her face, chest and stomach would soon be covered by cum and saliva, Annike hurriedly unbuttoned her uniform top fully, down to the waist, exposing her large, firm boobs over a rock-hard midriff and visible abs, small piercing studs adorning each, now firmed up nipple, while she slid a forceful hand into her uniform pants and panties beneath, shoving the middle and ring finger up her wet vagina, while the index and pinky stimulated her pierced clit. The burn scar from a needler-graze at her side, was only a slightly pinkish-white mark, by now.

Oh yeah... I’m gonna have a fuckin’ sore throat for the evening! Just the way I like it...

He began facefucking her rapidly, thrusting into her mouth with force that made his stone-stiff shaft reach all the way to her throat, as he interlaced the palms of both of his large hands behind her vertex.

She gagged, taking it in, her hooded, insatiable gaze steadily on his, his ballsack rhytmically slapping against her chin. Her hand at her breasts slid behind him, slapping him HARD on the ass as incentive – once – twice - which left a red mark on his skin, before she shoved two fingers up his rectum.

“HNNNNNNGGGHHH!” – he let out a guttural groan, continuing to plow the woman’s mouth and throat, minutes away from the third climax.

Minx! I swear... if I don’t die in the line of duty... you’ll give me a heart-attack, Anni! But I’ll die happy...

***

TacOps, Bridge, at the same time...

~“ECW Trajectory, this is Alphonse Dock Authority; you’re cleared to begin final approach towards Berth 9. Welcome home, and prepare to present a full damage report to our evaluation crew. Upon docking, Captain Alzer is to disembark and report to Rear Admiral Masteras for a full debriefing and inquiry into the events which transpired in the Sahel system. Rest of the senior staff will undergo individual debriefing and inquiry as deemed appropriate. The crew is free to make use of station-based amenities and shore facilities, for the following week until inquiry’s end. Dock Authority out.“~

The XO grimaced. No big surprise... given what happened, he imagined Fleet Command had many questions. Most of which would be up to Reventon Alzer to answer. He didn’t envy his superior officer.

“Great... Admiral Master Ass is gonna be on our case! Couldn’t they have sent someone else... ? That fuckin’ paper-pusher’s tongue’s so deep in Board’s asshole I’m surprised he don’t breathe brown fumes. And he never liked Alzer to begin with...” – the nav officer’s voice floated across the wide area, laced with sarcasm.

“Yeah... you’d think they’d make time for a formal memorial service first, given how many people we lost?! Maybe give us a few shiny medals for getting out of that hell alive? But nooo... let’s interrogate us first, for a fuckin’ week! Assholes.” – the helmswoman hissed under her breath.

Several other officers and crew around the bridge and TacOps pit, could be seen nodding in agreement.

“Stow that talk! You know the protocol.” – he snapped under his breath at the two, even though he didn’t disagree with the sentiments expressed.

“It’s just for a week. Look on the bright side, we’ll get to stick around and make sure those dockrats don’t turn the Trajectory upside-down while making a repair schedule!”

“If they don’t, IA sure will... who wants to bet they’ll send their own anti-spook team aboard, to ruffle through all personal belongings of everyone on the crew? Not just Skitt and anyone he knew.” – the nav officer murmured in response.

XO remained silent, but he knew the man was right. Internal Affairs would make the upcoming week even more tense. And he could make an educated guess, on who would be their prime focus.

Rand... I never liked you, but you did go above and beyond! You don’t deserve to be under the IA microscope for a week. Nobody does.

He sighed, the nodded at the helmswoman.

“Take us in.”

The 784 metre long warship glided slowly towards the massive suborbital lunar frameworks, on its way toward Berth 9. While outwardly, the antimatter and particle scoring, buckled hull plates and open gashes across her flanks and stern were obvious, the Trajectory still presented an image of sleek, menacing power and quiet dignity, as she approached her resting place.

Not a final resting place of course. The damage, while significant, was not crippling, or worthy of decommission. However, the battlecruiser would be spending a good few months in drydock being repaired and probably refitted, during which time the crew would likely be shuffled-around on interim assignments aboard other vessels in the fleet, after a few weeks mandatory leave. Assuming the inquiry went well, of course.

***

Port Alphonse admin areas... sometime later

Looking out the shaded chromosteel viewports lining the hallway, at his ship, cradled gently between Berth 9′s construction scaffolds and the myriad of robotic arms scurrying across its battered hull surface, Reventon Alzer allowed himself a smile.

You’ve earned yourself a long, relaxing vacation, my lady... longer then any of us will get! Enjoy.

He loved his ship. The Trajectory was one of the first Deliverance-class vessels commissioned into the Conglomerate navy, six years ago. The third one of her class, in fact. While he wasn’t the first captain, he was the first one that actually took her into battle.

First one was at Proxima, leading a battlegroup to dislodge a pirate base there, used as a staging area against SynCorp’s holdings in that sector. As the second-largest megacorporation on the Conglomerate Board, and the largest shipbuilder of the Earth Conglomerate, SynCorp’s assets ranked very highly on the Fleet’s defence priority list. Ironically enough, the Deliverance-class of vessels were not actually a SynCorp design. The corporation focused more on small and midsize assets.

The second one was a skirmish with Erellian xeno mercenaries, following the ceding of Arsekia II colony. The aliens, emboldened by their diplomatic victory there, launched a pirate raid on a Terran supply station in the sector, Station Apex 62. Unsanctioned, Alzer took the Trajectory to assist the beleaguered station and it’s defenders, after receiving the distress call, rather then contacting Fleet Command for orders, as was the protocol. He had chased off the xenos, but his initiative didn’t earn him any friends in the Board, since it jeopardized the newly hatched trade-deal with the Erellians.

He didn’t care. It was the right thing to do, despite corporate interests. A formal reprimand was entered into his file, and he had to attend a hearing, but his popularity in the Fleet, and the pressure from his friends in the Admiralty, kept him from being cashiered out of the Corps. Yet, he made enemies. Enemies that no doubt waited for another opportunity to end his career.

The man walked on, down the hallway, eyes narrowing. Thinking about it... Skitt’s defection and this whole mess in Sahel system... it could’ve been the machination of one of those enemies, to smear his reputation. The fact that Rear Admiral Masteras was assigned to preside over his debriefing – a Board functionary, his naval rank only for show – was sending yellow alarm bells ringing in Alzer’s mind.

Speaking of enemies...

He frowned suddenly, glancing at his chrono. Twenty minutes left to his scheduled meeting with the rear admiral. Quickening his pace, he made a turn away from the turboshaft to the Admiralty level, and headed in the direction of hypercall booths in the crowded central lobby below.

Let’s make a few calls to old friends, before I meet Master Ass... I get the feeling I’ll need some flag support, to keep that son of a bitch from pulling a fast one on me. Especially if he’s got IA stooges in there with him.

The man thought grimly. Finding a secluded hypercall booth in one of the corners of the lobby, he sealed himself in, and Interfaced with the first contact on his mental list.

~“Rev?! That really you, back at Alph already? From the afteraction reports I’ve been getting on Arcadia, I wasn’t sure we’d see the Trajectory back in one piece! Hey listen, I’m not in the sector right now, but I hear Master Ass has been assigned to debrief you. Just thought I’d give you a heads-up.“~ - the wrinkled, grinning face of Vice-Admiral Starsi, one-time Alzer’s commanding officer, during the then-Lieutenant’s first post-Academy assignment twenty years ago, appeared on the holoscreen. The grin faded a bit, at the end of that sentence.

“Good to see you again, old man! And aye... that is what I’m calling about, actually.” – Reventon smirked humourlessly, “...I get the feeling I’m walking into another minefield, the moment I set foot in his office. You know he and his corpo bosses have had it in for me, ever since A62.” – to which Starsi gave a nod.

~“That I do. And I also know IA has taken an interest in your crewman – Skitt, right - defection. They’ll have a representative with Masteras, to figure out if he absconded with any classified data.“~

“Given that they didn’t see fit to brief me on an ex-Switcher on my crew, and that I had to dig that out of his classified profile, they better not try to lay the blame on me here! Or any of my crew.” – Alzer growled.

Starsi shrugged.

~“Regulations say they don’t have the grounds to, true. But with your history of begging forgiveness instead of asking permission, and thumbing your nose at the Board’s policies – they might be able to find a loophole, especially with Masteras there to feed the bias.“~

Alzer resisted the urge to say something that could be construed as seditious, over a potentially-monitored hyperchannel, and get him into deeper trouble. He did connect a trace-scrambler to his neural receiver, but... why risk it.

Policies... I bet those poor colonist bastards that got sold out at Arsekia, and are now slaving away in some Erellian industrial sweatshop for the rest of their lives, or dead, would have a few choice terms to use, about our ‘policies’. Even if we gained a xeno trading partner in return, and benefitted from tech exchanges with ’em... sometimes I do get the point of the Insurgency. Putting opportunities and the bottom line, above our own people...

He forced himself to terminate that line of thought, with a mental headshake. It was oversentimental, borderline seditious, and ultimately pointless. Earth Conglomerate ran on a cost-to-benefit principle, and it generally worked out for the better, even if it lacked – heart – at times. ComDiv salaries were evidence enough of that, as well as generous retirement plans, and compensations for families of lost crewmen. Ambition and drive to succeed, was rewarded. As for other branches, and less glamourous civilian occupations... they weren’t as well off, but – they had plenty of sidehustles to turn to, without having to rely on them. Again, ambition got results. Terran economy had definitely been on the upward trend, ever since the corporations took over civic governance, which also reflected on military spending. And – it was only eleven thousand colonists, after all. Given the number of fledgeling colonies the Earth Conglomerate had all over the Fringe Territories, many of them in fact illegally established by adventure-minded pioneers... one more or less really didn’t make much of a difference.

Sentimentality and fixed values, were self-destructive. One of the founding precepts of the Conglomerate. One only had to look at the state Earth was in, to see the application of that mindset. Use it ’till you break it, then move on. People like Alzer’s wife, like Ron Skitt – and the Insurgents – were relics of the past, seeking to recapture something the species had moved beyond. Something that belonged in the past.

So instead, he bit his tongue, and nodded, only slightly reluctantly.

“Makes sense. I’ll be appropriately beggy for forgiveness, I guess.” – he growled in disgust, resisting the urge to spit to the side, “...but I still want to know who put Skitt onto my crew. And I get the feeling whoever IA has in that office with Master Ass, won’t give me a straight answer.”

The older man laughed heartily.

~“I see that nick stuck! Just be sure not to use it with him around, Rev! Anyway...” – the laughter turned into an intent expression, “...yes. Not the right question to ask them right now. You want to project the ‘earnest captain who just survived a bad situation and is regretful’ vibe. Kiss ass as needed, be vague and clueless as needed, stick to protocol and bureaucratic minutiae and use it to your advantage if you can. But I’ll do some digging on my end. Being a Vice-Admiral has its perks. And... I’ve got my own contacts inside IA, and the Board. I’ll get you a name you can grill for information, sooner or later.“~ - with a conspiratorial wink.

***

En-route to the Moon’s surface...

Annike Rand, now dressed in casual fluorescent-dark purple synth slacks, platform shoes, a fake-leather black tank top with exposed midriff, and fluorescent-dark grey synth jacket with auto-correcting shades on her face, sat in a corner seat on a mag-train on it’s way to the Moon’s surface, and the commercial/entertainment dome of Port Alphonse. With her were a number of other Trajectory crewers, looking to unwind and relax in one of the many shore facilities available at base.

The past three hours were a grueling slog. First, as the ranking SysCon officer, she had to take the station’s maintenance evaluation crew on a comprehensive tour of all the damaged systems and components aboard the Trajectory, so they could make the repair schedule. That took a good hour and a half. Then, she was summoned to a debriefing with one of the station’s command staff, who identified herself as an aide-de-camp to Rear Admiral Masteras.

The paper-pusher asked her a lot of questions, but strangely none at all about her association with Ron Skitt, which struck Annike as more then a bit strange. Instead, the interrogation was focused mostly on mundane things, such as the performance of her department, her assessment of the Insurgent forces they faced, her – state of mind – after what happened on Deck 15, and tellingly – her relationship with Captain Alzer. This got Annike to clam up, and start quoting protocol guidelines, avoiding any in-depth answers. She couldn’t help but get a feeling that somehow... Command knew of their – unsanctioned relationship. Knew, or suspected.

Be that as it may, she gave nothing away, but stilted replies of a career Corps officer with a regulation-stick up her asshole. She knew how to deal with official inquiries, and experience taught her that protocol worked both ways. It hindered her at times, but it also hindered anyone else looking to dig up dirt on her.

Following a round of congratulations on a job-well-done, she was let go... right into a pair of Internal Affairs investigators, who were much less ambiguous about their agenda. She was shown a search warrant, and ordered to show them her quarters aboard ship, which they turned upside-down looking for any ‘evidence’ that might connect her with Ron Skitt’s defection. Finding nothing, they then began interrogating her about her and Skitt’s past relationship.

With no protocol to fall back on, since they knew the two were involved – Annike had no choice but to provide details. She told them how she never knew about Ron’s prior Insurgency affiliations, carefully avoiding to implicate the captain and the classified report he shared with her, that evening in the Scapperia. Aside from that, she filled their ears with many banal anecdotes of her and Ron’s time together, including some juicy intimate details that she hoped would cross into the TMI territory, and make the investigators uncomfortable or irritated enough, to avoid pressing further.

As anticipated, that did happen. After a warning in no-uncertain-terms about what would happen to her career, if they discovered she was witholding relevant information, the two IA assholes gave up and left... not being treated Rand’s private victorious smirk at their departing backs.

Finally having a chance to get out of her uniform and take a shower, the woman then disembarked, and made a beeline to the nearest mag-train to the surface.

“Hey guys, anyone up for a round at Bishop’s Delight?” – she looked around at the handful of other crewers with her in the train, grinning, as the doors opened, and people began filing out.

“That dive? Damn LT, I thought you had class...” – one of the MedOps ensigns rolled his eyes.

“Don’t listen to Vikter, he’s just germ-o-phobic! The only glass he ever drinks from is a lab beaker, triple-disinfected in his own piss!” – another medic laughed.

“Fuck you, Clemm...” – Vikter growled, giving Clemm a shove, then pushing his way out of the train, while several others, a pair of SysCon enlistees, male and a female one, and a bald-shaven female Marine, burst-out laughing, including Annike.

“Now that’s a mental image I’m gonna sleep on tonight...” – she giggled, then made her own way out. Vikter had to crack a smile himself, not wanting to look like a triggered baby.

“Let’s go! I’m buying!” – Annike motioned down one of the alleys criscrossing the pressurised dome, overflowing with neon signs of various businesses set up to cater to the many ship crews that routinely came down here for R&R.

The six headed down the dingy alley, chatting and laughing, before the female Marine pointed at one of the signs nearby, above a comparatively clean-looking doorway leading into a recently set up hab structure.

“Look at this... I didn’t know ImpregInc opened a practice on the Alph! Way to go... !”

The young female SysCon enlistee made a face.

“Those baby-butchers... If there was any justice, the Board would shut ’em down!”

Annike frowned, along with most of the others.

“What do you mean? You know how much good they’ve done, pumping-up natality rates in the Inner Worlds? Hundred to fifty years ago, we had a real demographics problem from Proxima to Cygnus! Folks dying out... ever since Impreg got on the scene, we could barely keep up with the population boom!”

The female Marine shook her head as well, giving the enlistee a pitying glance, as she crossed her muscular arms.

“Yeah... don’t tell me you’re one of those weirdo nattie-types that harps on how spending 9 months preggo is the only good way to pump out a kid?” – she laughed derisively, “Get on with the times, girl! Fuck a decent sanctioned donour, a week’s worth of holding it in, then artiwomb transfer, and you can get on with your life. And it’s good money. You know that every time you shoot out a fetus for Impreg, you get a 3% bonus to ANY salary you make, for the rest of your life? And it stacks! I’m up to 27% now! Hope to get a few more stacks, if I could just get my fuckin’ ovulation in order...” – she grinned, glancing at Annike, clearly pleased with herself.

27% for nine fetuses... ? Not bad. Of course with MC salary, she needs all the help she can get, to afford a decent living standard. Still. If that shit stacks indefinitely... maybe I’ll get a bonus or two, sometime. I definitely fuck around enough to begin with, so... why not do my contribution to humanity? And no strings attached... yeah. Like it.

Annike Rand thought with a flash in her eyes, but just winked at her in approval, deciding not to comment.

The young woman sniffed, avoiding to meet either of their gazes. She felt – uncomfortable.

“Maybe...” – she began hesitantly, “...but it’s not just about being nattie – a baby needs a real family, a loving mom and dad, not to just get dumped into the Impreg system and get picked-up by some random couple with money to buy and raise... or do whatever sick shit they want with. I’ve seen newsfeeds about child sacrifices, cannibalism, and all other kinds of crap! Or end up in Board-sponsored facility to be raised by the system! It’s just... just... I couldn’t imagine giving up my child for a percentage!” – she finally looked up, conviction in her eyes.

The burly female Marine’s face twisted into a scowl, as she took a menacing step towards the enlistee.

“Well look at li’l Miss Preachy here! You know, you sound a little like Innies and their sedition crap... maybe I’ll smack that outta you!” – with an evil smirk, winding-up her right arm for a backhand, as the young enlistee visibly flinched, shuddering. She took a pair of steps back, pressing her back against the alley wall in fear.

“HEY! Stand down, Corporal! That’s an order.” – Annike stepped-in between the two, shoving the female grunt away firmly.

“Everybody’s got their opinion, and are welcome to it. Got it?” – pinning her with a glare.

For a moment, the larger bald woman’s jaw worked, but she just nodded. Different branches or not, Annike Rand was an officer, thus her superior. She stiffened at-attention.

“Yes, ma’am! Sorry... I just don’t need nobody’s sanctimonious bullshit. I’ve been raised in Vexon Creche on Karron, and turned out just fine!” – scowling past Annike’s shoulder, at the enlistee. The young woman glared briefly, but then lowered her gaze with an exhale of relief. Pushing this ripped jarhead’s buttons was clearly not a wise idea. If an officer hadn’t been here...

“I-- I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you. Honest.” – offering a hesitant, apologetic smile. Vexon Creche, she knew, was one of the state-sponsored child rearing operations, with subsidiaries on most of the Inner Worlds, Karron being one of them.

The bald woman’s face was locked in a scowl a moment longer, then she offered a brief half-smile back.

“Yeah, well... You do you, girl. I’ll do the same, and we’re all good!” – turning away.

“Aww damn... and here I was hopin’ for a three-way catfight!” – Vikter threw in, with a laugh, which the other two men echoed.

Annike just rolled her eyes with a ‘keep hoping’ expression, as the female Marine threw him a mock-menacing glare.

“Careful what you wish for, doc... I could snap you like a twig!”

“Might like that, actually... damn! Maybe I could get you up to 30%, Corporal!” – he retorted, scaroused, trying to sound confident, his gaze on the bald woman’s tight muscular frame, for a long moment. As sporty and toned as Annike Rand was, this jarhead bitch was pretty much ripped, in comparison. No doubt on some pretty serious testostims. Not nearly as shapely, and almost flat in the chest, but... he had a thing for buff women.

The bald woman just smirked, and walked onwards without another word, shaking her head.

“Can’t blame me for trying!” – he called after.

Soon enough, the sextet of Trajectory crewers found their destination – a relatively run-down looking series of interconnected metal shacks at the intersection with another alley, and a flickering neon sign above the largest one’s entrance.

BISHOP’S DELIGHT

***

Port Alphonse, Admiralty, at the same time...

“I’ve been going over your Sahel battle report, Captain, and there are some issues I hope you can help me clarify.” – Masteras began, picking up one of the padds on his table, from a stack of five.

“Of course, sir.” – Reventon Alzer replied neutrally, keeping a closed facial expression that didn’t give away anything.

Eyes steady on the overweight, pudgy slob in front of him, sitting across the table. The Rear Admiral’s uniform looked uncomfortably stretched over the man’s armpits, sweat-stains visible there – even with the room’s aircon unit on full blast, clearly it didn’t do much to prevent all the layers of fat from slowly cooking this guy in his own skin like a pork chop.

Masteras’s piggy eyes sunken deeply above twin slices of bacon that constituted the man’s cheeks, watched Alzer’s face very carefully, before he returned his attention to the padd.

“Shipboard Interface Transcript 551, inside the Petkov asteroid cloud. You refused to send fighters in pursuit of the traitor that was escaping in a breach pod, because of a potential – not actual mind you – potential chance of them running into more mines. In preserving expendable assets, you have allowed the traitor to reach safety and board the Insurgent gunship waiting for him, when your fighters could have reached the pod in time, to shoot it down. Would you care to - enlighten us, on that line of reasoning?” – the pudgy man nodded to the side with an oily expression on his face.

Alzer only allowed his lower lip to twitch slightly, in suppressed anger, as his gaze flicked to the side.

The two Internal Affairs agents were watching him just as carefuly. One was a tall, broad-shouldered man about his own age, with steely-grey gaze and a carefully trimmed beard, wearing a pressed flaring-black uniform and overcoat typical of IA investigators. The other was a short, youngish blonde woman in the same kind of uniform, with pronounched cheekbones and cold blue eyes under an impeccably slicked-back haircut tied up to a bun on her vertex. She was beautiful, technically... but those cold eyes and an expression of veiled – contempt – on her face, betrayed a soulless official not seeing people as people, but as datapoints. A picture-perfect corporate functionary.

Alzer didn’t need any particular mental reminder other then that, that any sentimental appeal would be a very bad idea to trot out. These people couldn’t care less about his crew or his concern for his crew’s safety. His closed expression didn’t change, as he looked at Masteras again.

“My pilots would be required to cover our withdrawal, in the next twenty minutes. Transcripts are quite clear on that, as well. And at that point, we were yet to deploy our full complement. In my judgement, the potential loss of two squadrons was unacceptable, since it could have resulted in the destruction of the Trajectory, instead of a successful withdrawal.” – keeping his tone cold and utterly devoid of emotion, gaze unblinking on Masteras’s.

“I’m not sure I concurr with your priorities here, Captain Alzer.” – the male IA agent spoke up, his tone vaguely patronising.

“The certainty of the traitor’s destruction, versus a possibility of your vessel’s destruction. Do you consider yourself and your crew to be more valuable then keeping Conglomerate secrets out of the Insurgent hands?”

Alzer shot the tall man a dead look from under his gleaming captain’s hat, that would’ve killed the man where he stood, if looks could kill.

Five minutes alone, mate. Just you, me, and a pair of ferrosynth weighted batons, in a soundproofed chamber and no witnesses. A fair fight. And you would never dare to ask me that question again, if you could speak at all when I’m done breaking every fucking bone in your miserable body.

He thought darkly. Out loud, he spoke:

“Your concurrence is not required, Agent. Regulation 44-C of the EC naval charter; ‘Captain of a line vessel in a combat situation, is entitled to full discretionary authority when it comes to allocation of his vessel’s assets, in the absence of a superior figure in his or her direct chain of command.’ Translation, for you spook types: If you’re gonna question my command decisions in the field, make sure you are actually allowed to do so. Which you aren’t.” – allowing a touch of patronising tone to slip into his own voice at the end.

The man’s expression twitched, as his grey eyes narrowed in annoyance, and Reventon was gratified to see that patronising expression slip from the agent’s face.

“Your ability to command is hardly the issue, Captain. Your command priorities are a different matter.” – before the blonde woman raised a hand and took over, giving her partner a warning glance, “However, in the absence of direct evidence to the contrary, your actions at Sahel are in fact consistent with the finest tradition of Conglomerate Naval forces.” – and a lubriciously ingratiating smile, at Alzer.

He allowed his lips to twitch into an approximation of return smile. His eyes remained cold.

“I appreciate that, Agent.” – nodding his head at the woman slightly, while inwardly, he scowled, seeing the annoyed expression on Masteras’s face.

And let me guess. The moment you can either stage or conjure up such – direct – evidence, you’ll drag me across burning coal into a formal loyalty hearing, and do your best to relieve me of command, and put a more – Board-compliant – captain in charge of my ship. I’ve had it with playing contrite...

“While we’re at it, perhaps one of you can tell me why wasn’t I briefed about Ron Skitt’s prior affiliations or his acquittal of Insurgent collaboration, when he was transferred to my crew? If he was supposed to be an undercover operative on an Internal Affairs assignment, protocol is that I should have been briefed in advance, as the ship’s commanding officer. And the assignment in question.” – conversationally, his eyes still on the blonde woman. It was time to put them on the defensive, here. Not what Starsi advised him to do, but he was sick of this one-sided conversation.

The two looked briefly at each-other, and Masteras opened his mouth as if to say something – but thought better of it, just giving Alzer a hard look.

Then the male agent took over again.

“We are conducting our own internal investigation regarding mister Skitt’s assignment, and who authorised his transfer to the Trajectory. As I’m sure you’re aware, the Insurgents have their own agents within both the Navy and Internal Affairs. It is a safe bet one or more of them were involved in this deception, in order to facilitate an opportunity for him to defect!” – a very convincing note of disgust, in the agent’s tone.

Whether sincere or acted-out, Alzer couldn’t tell, as he searched the other man’s face. But given his past experiences with IA people – he really couldn’t take anything they said at face value.

“Good to know. Uh, you’ll be sure to let me know if you find out anything?! If he wasn’t transferred to my ship to begin with, none of this mess would’ve happened!” – putting on an earnestly indignant tone of his own, as if he believed the agent’s statement.

Let’s make them underestimate me. Just another Fleet drone with blind faith in the system!

“Of course, Captain. We’re all eager to get to the bottom of this. You’ll receive our contact information within a day.” – the blonde woman affirmed reassuringly, with another polished smile.

But there was a strange – glint - in her eyes as she said it, as they seemed to soften, just a touch. And the way the male agent glanced at her with clear surprise, was telling. Clearly, that was not what he expected her to say.

***

Within another fifteen minutes, the hearing was finished, and Reventon Alzer decided to get a bite to eat and a cup of stimcaf, at a dispensery back down in the Admin lobby.

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the hearing. But he couldn’t shake the impression that all three of them, Masteras and the two IA agents, gave up a little too easily, when he pushed back with regulations, and turning the tables on the two agents by bringing up Skitt’s transfer. Technically, the Rear Admiral could’ve reprimanded him right there, on the grounds of Alzer trying to muddy the issue and deflect the course of the hearing – but he didn’t. Fair enough, it would have been a very shaky reprimand, and likely overruled by the Admiralty, but... the man was petty enough to do it.

And then there were the two IA agents themselves... they didn’t seem to be on the same page as Masteras. Or at least, the female one wasn’t. The male one was definitely looking to pin him down, on the same ‘misguided command priorities’ allegation as Masteras was... but that woman – she almost seemed to run interference against that.

Curious...

Still deep in thought, the graying middle-aged man reached the dispensery and took a seat at the corner table, setting his captain’s hat down, and running a finger through his hair.

“What is your pleasure, Captain Alzer?” – a serving synthbot addressed him in a pleasant tone, approaching with a soft whirring sound, on its single gyrostabilised wheel, to come to a stop next to his table. The smiley-face on the head-screen vanished, replaced by a touchscreen menu of available options to order.

Just as the man reached a finger to the screen, to make his selections, it flickered again, and a single sentence appeared on it, for a split second, just long enough for him to read it, before it vanished, and was replaced once more by the menu.

~Level 122, Segment 11, arboretum. 0130 hours. Come alone.~