The Treasure of Lei Fong Wu

Chapter Fifty-Three

DELTA TEAM -43:08 “It just plain ain’t gonna work,” Kaylee said, a note of disgust in her voice. “I done tried every workaround I know – and some I made up on the spot – but there ain’t no way to get that gorram gun up an’ runnin’ without full power. Take three reactors the size o’ Serenity’s to do it.” “And if we had full power, then we wouldn’t need to kill the drones – they couldn’t hurt this ship under power,” Master Lei concluded, his face on the monitor grim. “Why not use missiles?” Wash asked. “A tub like this should have missiles sprouting from every nook and cranny.” “Plenty of missiles,” grunted Master Lei. “But they wouldn’t work. Not only could the drones see them coming and go to an evasive orbit, starving them for fuel, but that gorram frigate has plenty of lasers to take them out long before they reached their targets.” “Gorram frigate,” Wash echoed. “That’s gonna be a problem eventually.” “Indeed,” agreed the monk. “The boarding parties have already sparked more aggressive defenses from my ancestor’s cunning program. It isn’t giving me any particulars, but it keeps dropping maddening hints of the dire state of affairs.” He grunted dismissively. “That’s for the infantry to deal with. We must focus on this problem. I am open to suggestions.” “How about a broad-spectrum EMP?” Kaylee inquired, chewing her littlest fingernail. “We could at least disrupt their guidance and nav computers.” “Won’t work,” Wash said, shaking his head. “Those things are designed for long-term deep-space operations, in any kind of environment. Massive shields. If they can take the EM field of an active star, any little EMP we could generate they wouldn’t even notice.” “Perhaps a hack?” asked Master Lei. “Any way we could redirect them? Preferably against that frigate?” “Mr. Universe might be able to do it,” Wash said, reluctantly. “But he’d have to be here. Couldn’t do it over the cortex, too many security protocols. Anyone else would fail. That’s rock-solid Alliance military code. We couldn’t begin to get past all that ice.” The pilot rubbed his eyes tiredly, then stared at the auxiliary monitor where the twelve little blips seemed to mock. “I’m out of ideas, guys. I’ve been awake way too long, and the coffee quit working hours ago. If we can spare a few hours, I think some sack-time might kick my brain back into action.” “You’re right,” Lei agreed. “We all need a rest. Say three hours? Perhaps the solution will suggest itself. I will continue quizzing my ancestor’s ghost, and exploring the capabilities of this warship. We cannot be totally helpless against such insignificant machines!” After the old monk signed off, Wash let loose a tremendous yawn. “Oh, my,” he said, when his mouth could finally close again. “Well, sorry you had to tear into that gun for nothin’, sweetie.” “Oh, it weren’t nothin’,” Kaylee said, dismissively. “I never had a chance to see a big laser’s innards afore. It was impressive. Hope Cap gets the main power up – I’d like to see it shoot, just once.” “I’d like to get the power back just so I could quit worrying about escaping and get a dozen hours of sleep,” Wash countered. “I’m sure Master Lei wants it up so he can drive this big boat. Must be every pilot’s dream, to fly something like the Sun Tzu.” Wash scoffed. “Not really. Boat this big is like trying to fly a city. Ain’t much fun to pilot – hardly worth calling it piloting. You mostly just tell the nav computer where you wanna be, an’ it gets you there.” “So flyin’ freighters is what every pilot wants to do?” “Aw, hell, no. Scoutships, a fast racer, preferably. Something with a lot of response to it – a ship that rolls over and shakes hands at your slightest whim. Some shuttles can do that. Or . . .” Suddenly, Wash’s eyes shot open. “Juh jen sh guh kwai luh duh jean jan! Kaylee, you’re a genius!” “I am?” Kaylee asked, dully. “Thanks!” “I mean it! I’ll have to check on a few things . . . can you hold down the fort here? Just listen in on the radio. Not much chance of traffic, but still, be best if someone minded it. I’ll be back shortly.” “Wash? Where you goin’? I thought you wanted a nap!” “More than the sweet breath of life, itself, but I got an idea that I gotta explore!” He leaped up with a lot more energy than Kaylee expected and kissed the top of her head. “Back in a flash!” he said . . . and was gone. “Have . . . fun . . .” Kaylee called weakly after him. She could feel her eyelids creeping shut. She couldn’t sleep, she told herself. As tired as she was, the Captain was missing, and Inara and Shepherd Book. And Johnny. And Zoe and the Tams – Simon! – they were out there somewhere, too. It wouldn’t be right to rest when they were in trouble. Maybe wounded, or . . . she didn’t explore that thought further. The Cap’n and Zoe and Jayne could take care of themselves. They were soldiers, damn good ones, too, and they knew their business. But the idea of her sleeping while they were still out there, in the bowels of the ship, that was unacceptable, she told herself. Maybe if she just rested her eyes for a moment . . . She was startled awake fifteen minutes later by an excited voice from the radio: “. . . Gamma team to Delta team. Gamma to Delta. Come in. Gamma team to Delta team. Wash, you there? Simon? Come in!” Kaylee scrambled to get the mike to her mouth as she tried to force her tired brain to work. “Johnny, that you?” Kaylee answered, relieved. “Where are you? Is the Cap’n with you? Inara and the Shepherd?” ““Not right now,” Johnny said, sounding guilty. “I think they were captured. We’ve lost two men, dead, and I’ve got Fong with me. He took one in the shoulder, but he’s walking. The others were taken prisoner.” Kaylee was horrified. “Ai ya! Oh, Johnny, that’s terrible! Who took ‘em?” “There are thousands of old Imperial infantry soldiers in hibernation down here . . . but the men who took the Captain and the others, they are from a special unit, loyal only to the old Tyrant . . .” Johnny kept talking, and most of her mind focused on that. The other part was doing cartwheels in her head – they were alive! Somewhere, out in that maze of steel and plastic, they were alive. She was still tired, of course. But that news blasted her awake and threw off every notion of sleep she had. They were alive!

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HAMMERSTRIKE TEAM TWO -42:44

“Get yer arses movin’!” the commander shouted from up ahead. “Y’all are the slowest, sorriest gorram excuse for gallows fruit I ever saw!” They were used to the man shouting by now, and truth be told Rel was strangely comforted by it. This whole situation was powerful strange, and all the men were skittish as they loped down the dimly-lit corridors into the unknown. He had had the worst luck of late. First that botched hold-up – Damn A.G. to hell for all of eternity and an extra weekend! – and then the judge’s order: a seven-year indenture in lieu of (his advocate had explained that that meant “instead of”) restitution, exile, and transport away from St. Albans. Several weeks later he found himself on a leaky barge headed for the hell-hole known as El Diablo, where he would likely not have out-lived his indenture. El Diablo was a mining colony, fully corporate owned. They utilized his ass as a resource, and the Company didn’t under-utilize any resource. It had been the worst situation he’d ever been in. Mere protein for rations. The water tasted like machine oil. No time off. No hope of escape on the poisoned, heavy-gravity planet. One six-hour period out of twenty-four for rest where he had to fend off other slaves at night to protect his virtue. Rel fell asleep every night, tears in his eyes. He thought he would die after that first week, and then again after the second. They had him loading an ancient conveyer with foul-smelling ore. It was a highly dangerous job – his predecessor had lost a hand doing it, and they hadn’t even bothered to clean up the blood. After the first week, he had started to suspect that the maiming had been intentional. After that second week Rel was tempted to do the same. Sacrificing a hand in return for lighter duty seemed a better and better proposition. Then one day a soldier in a business suit had showed up and looked him over. He asked him a few questions dealing mostly with his proficiency with firearms, and then bought out his indenture from the company on the spot. Rel had cried tears of joy as he walked away from the conveyor. The three weeks of military training on Madonna were nothing – not after El Diablo. They weren’t that bad. Hell, a winter in the hills of St. Albans was worse. They fed him, gave him a warm place to sleep, and best yet they had given him the finest firearm he’d ever held: a 7.62 mm Oldfield Assault Rifle, made on Isis, with all sorts of fancy features. He still had a revolver on his hip, a police-issue .45, but he had grown to dearly love that rifle. His ass was now wholly owned by the Hammer Group, and he was now a deputized bounty-hunter. He wore their smart logo on his armor vest, and even drew a minimal stipend against good service – it was said that if this mission was successfully completed, not only would his indenture be cancelled, he’d be issued a generous grubstake and sent on his way. That had suited him just fine. And then they had come to this place. This ship. It was an old one, but not a wreck. It was a warship but there weren’t any people on it – not that he’d seen. Some of the other men had whispered that it was haunted, but he hadn’t seen no haints. All he saw was corridor. Lots of it. They had been walking for a few hours, now, all forty of them. The real Hammer men had been leading, of course – there were six of them, total, and they had far fancier repeaters than his Oldfield – and the rest of them had been slogging along in a lazy, careless sort of way. Like they were a bunch of petty thieves and out-of-work mercenaries instead of soldiers. Which wasn’t far from the truth. “What the hell is ‘gallows fruit’?” demanded Hito Morales. Morales had been a security officer for the Company back on El Diablo before he had signed up with the Hammer Group. He was a short, mean-looking Hispanic man with a bright gold tooth. Until recently his experience had been almost exclusively beating up slaves in the mines. He was a flashy, overbearing prick, Rel had discovered, whose pompous manner was epitomized by the huge ring he wore – a sapphire set in a silver band. A family heirloom, he had said – over and over. Morales was descended from Mexican nobility, he repeated to anyone who couldn’t run away fast enough. His family had been wealthy, once, titled on Merovingia and attendants of the King, himself. How they got from there to him being a thug on a deadly mining colony was a mystery – unless the rest of his family was at all like him. Then it was easy to see how. Morales made a habit of pissing people off. Rel snorted. “It means we shoulda been hung,” he explained. “Hung? They hang people? To kill ‘em?” “Where I’m from,” Rel admitted. “Rope’s cheaper’n bullets. How they execute a fella where you’re from?” “I grew up on a station. They just space you there. Cheaper’n rope.” “Takes all kinds,” admitted Rel, swallowing hard. If he’d had to choose, he’d pick hanging. It seemed more . . . humane, somehow. More personal. “I’m gettin’ sick o’ this,” Morales continued to grumble. “All the time with the insults. And the orders. Gorram it, we deserve some gorram respect!” Rel kept his mouth shut. As spooky as this place was, it was better than El Diablo. He tried changing the subject – the Hammer men were not fond of dissention in the ranks. “Where the hell we goin’, anyways?” “Engine room,” Morales said flatly. “Wherever the hell that is. I don’t think they know. Bunch o’ feh hua, y’ask me. We after those two bad-guys – well, a bad guy an’ a bad girl – why we need to go t’the engine room? Y’know what I think?” he asked. A high-pitched whined interrupted as a silver sphere shot out of a doorway directly in front of them and kept Rel from ever knowing what the little man thought. Rel’s hunter’s reflexes took over – anytime a rabbit popped out of a hole, you froze so as not to scare it. He didn’t move a muscle for two long seconds, and it saved his life. Morales grew up on a space station, though, where there was a depressing lack of rabbits. He took a step back and scowled. “What the—?” he began. The sphere calmly split in half and sent a stream of tiny darts into his face at high velocity, peeling the flesh from the bone and gouging out the eyes before they could even blink. A shower of hot blood and bits of rent flesh splattered over Rel’s face. Then the seeker fell out of the air and rolled peacefully away, like some discarded kid’s toy. Morales was trying to scream through the ruin that was his mouth and neck. A few of the other men involuntarily yelped, and one started bellowing for a medic. Lieutenant Hansford came up quickly from the rear and swore as he inspected the scene. “Where did it come from?” he demanded. Rel wordlessly pointed at the doorway the sphere had issued from. Hansford inspected it for a long moment, ignoring the choking and gasping man on the deck. “Gorram it! Must have been on delay. Thank god it only took out this pimple.” He knelt next to the screaming Morales. “Hito! Hito Morales! You got religion?” The man’s strangled cries were pitifully unintelligible. Shrugging, Hansford drew his automatic and put it against his bloody forehead. With a grunt he pulled the trigger, ending Morales’ struggles. Rel looked on in shock. “Go through his pack, salvage his ammo, water and rations. Leave his personal effects. If we got time we’ll get the body on the way back.” He walked off to confer with the other officers. Rel just stood there for a moment, watching Morales’ blood pool at his feet. He had seen a lot of cold players in his short life – A.G. among them. He had seen men killed before. But not like this. He stared at the shredded mass that used to be . . . well, not a friend. Morales had never been what you’d call friendly. But a business associate. Rel had never been particularly religious, but as he sorted through the man’s pack he said as much of a prayer for the dead he’d heard once that he could remember. Morales deserved that much. The silver ring with the blue stone on his left hand, however, that he didn’t need anymore, and it found its way into Rel’s pocket by the time he was back in line. “Let’s pick up the pace!” Hansford called out from behind. “Looks like we only got another few miles to go before we get there!” That was a relief. Of course, after they got to the Engine Room – then what?

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35th T.A.U. -43:21

“Master, are you well?” asked the Major, his respectful tone belying his anxiety. The question had many levels. Men did not always come out of hibernation . . . unaffected. Especially after such a long period of suspended animation. He could not swear that he, himself, was completely recovered. He had three men who were addled – two were nearly catatonic, one had lapsed into hysterical fits and had to be terminated. He had sworn to obey the Master unto death – even if his Master was an imbecile. “Quite, Major,” the old man’s throat rasped. “I seem to be fully intact. Can you tell me . . . why is this question even pertinent?” The tone was gentle, but the Major knew better. His Master seethed. “You were betrayed, Warlord. Your ministers . . . I have yet to discover the particulars, but you were apparently deposed in a coup d’etat and imprisoned in this living death. I believe . . . I believe a significant amount of time has passed.” “How significant?” The old man’s voice barely quivered. “Over a century, Warlord. That has not been established for certain, but that is my best reckoning.” “A . . . a century? What of Yuan?” “Part of a federal Alliance, I am informed. The empire, it seems, is at an end.” “Then . . . where are we? On a ship, I presume.” “Aboard the Sun Tzu, Warlord, in orbit over the remote colony world Hecate. The ship is unmanned, and was apparently lost to the Black for that long duration. It seems to be intact – even armed – but it has started to attract the attention of scavengers.” “Our assets?” “We have eighty-two White Tigers, Warlord. With full kit, weapons, and ammunition. We have yet to establish full control of the ship, but that has been my first priority – after finding you, of course.” “Excellent. You anticipate this occurring when?” “Within the next few hours. Our first target is the Engine Room. Once we control that, we can move to the Bridge and the other sections of the ship.” “So . . . our empire is gone. Our planet is subject to foreign domination. Yet we have our most elite force and our greatest warship at our disposal – once we control it.” “Yes, Master.” “Then we are not completely helpless. Our enemies are all dead. We may return to the Core and begin the re-conquest of our empire. And, further, much of out work has been done for us. If this . . . Alliance truly controls many worlds, then we may conquer it and automatically gain them. Consolidation of power is always difficult. With this mighty ship, we will gain control of this new Alliance at one stroke and re-found our empire on a grand scale. This pleases me, Major, despite the obvious difficulties involved.” “They should not prove arduous, Master. Your Tigers are with you, and we will follow you to the very depths of hell to the glory of your name. ‘True victory requires but a stout heart and eternal devotion; nothing less will suffice.’” “You quote my own words back at me? From my ‘Meditations on War’, I believe. Thank you, Major.” The old man paused, rubbed his eyes, then looked at him piercingly. “It occurs to me that a lesser man would not have awakened me, considering himself free from his oath. A lesser man may have taken this opportunity to carve out his own empire among the stars with this great ship, and left his Master to sleep for eternity.” “I have sworn an oath to you, Master. I have accepted your sanction freely,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I am yours to command. Always.” “You are indeed a man of honor, Major. Your family was always my most loyal support. You shall be rewarded, in time. A regency, perhaps.” “Serving you is the only reward I crave, Master.” The old man reached out and touched the soldier’s arm tenderly. “How could any stand long against us? Some men are born to rule, Major. Men like you and I.” He turned and drew on a long, ivory-colored coat with powder blue trim that had been brought to him from his quarters. “But let us focus on the most immediate problem: taking this ship. You have sent men to the Engine Room, you said?” “Yes, Master. A reconnaissance squad, only. Much of the way is blocked and trapped against easy passage. But we shall persist.” “And why are we now here, in this dank region of the ship, when there are more suitable areas for a command post?” “We encountered some bandits, scavengers who have invaded the ship and sought to take it before we awoke. Most of them have been driven off. We removed ourselves here to avoid their detection while we gathered strength and searched for you. But I am already preparing to move our command closer to the Engine Room. We have more men than our present location can comfortably hold. I have selected a wide bay near to it for our staging area. Once we control the ship we can remove to better quarters.” He paused, hesitating to ask a favor. “Warlord? It might be good for morale if you were to make an appearance before the men. They are confused by their long sleep, and the notion that everyone they have ever known is now dead. It would be a comfort to them if they were to be reminded of your beneficent presence . . . and their oaths.” “There is dissention?” Shan Yu inquired. “No, Warlord. Not even muttering. The men seem as committed to you now as . . . as they were a century ago. No, it is merely a commander’s intuition.” “And as a former commander, I respect your intuition. Very well. I would like to reintroduce myself to those who have sworn to die for me. High morale will be essential to the task ahead of us. We will literally be taking on the entire universe – no greater task has ever been attempted by so few. But you are quite correct: a reminder of their oaths would be wise. After that we can prepare to move to this new location – provided it is clear of scavengers.” “From what we have been able to determine from the prisoners, Master, the scavengers have been trying to achieve the Engine Room, but have had little success. In all likelihood it is clear.” Something he said perked up the white-haired old man significantly. “Prisoners?” he asked eagerly, his eyes gleaming. For the first time since the conversation began, the Major began to feel really confident. He knew that look. His Master was back, and as well as he had ever been. Soon the screams that would echo through the corridors would prove it.

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HAMMERSTRIKE TEAM ONE -42:18

“Sir! Possible trap ahead!” Julian scowled as he peered down the corridor passed the disheveled trooper. It was well-lit and clear, but he felt it, too. Some sort of danger lurked there. He could feel it in his bones. “Get Karst up there to check it out. Everyone else take five – except for the gorram rear-guard, this time, if you please.” The man gave a lazy salute and moved on. There had been all too much danger on this supposedly “derelict” ship. There were no signs of the Tong or the Tams as of yet – no signs of anyone at all. But cunningly built security devices had already wounded one of his men, and killed one in the second team. He had learned that when the jamming that had prevented their communication had mysteriously stopped a while back. The second team was well on its way to the Engine Room, they had reported, and apart from the traps they had encountered no opposition. Julian wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, yet. It would have been too much to expect for all of his prey to be in one room, just waiting for him to make the capture, of course. They had obviously made their way to the main control centers of this maze of a ship. But that had him concerned. The Bridge was always defended, and defendable, on a warship, and he didn’t expect this one to be any different. “Are you certain we travel in the proper direction, Sir?” asked Singh respectfully. “And would not the lift be a more efficient form of transport?” “We are on course for the Bridge, and no, the lift wouldn’t be faster. It would be a deathtrap. Imagine if you held the bridge, and had a platoon of infantry trying to take it away from you. Now imagine all of your foes crowding into a lift car – a car you control. Would you merely suspend them between lift stations, effectively neutralizing them? Or would you gas them asleep? Or would you depressurize the car completely and kill them all?” Singh paused. “You make excellent points, Sir.” “We keep going on foot like this. We won’t make very good time, but we won’t be easy to hit, either. Even going this slowly, we should make the Bridge in a few hours. And then the real fun begins. We have to assault a well-fortified position. That’s where you’ll earn your bonus.” “As you wish, Sir,” Singh said with a bow. He wasn’t happy with that idea, Julian could tell. But Singh was just good enough of a commander to keep his men in line for a fight. That didn’t mean they could win it, but they would fight. He wasn’t as certain about the other team’s dregs. “Sir!” called Karst from further down the corridor. “I think I found it!” Julian went forward, passing relaxing mercenaries who stepped deferentially aside, until he came to where his electronics expert was. The man was grinning widely and holding up a device that trailed wires. “Notice anything?” he asked. “Just my life slipping away, moment by moment. What am I looking at?” he grumbled. “Notice how you feel better about this place?” Karst prompted. Julian stopped and considered. “Well, now that you mention it, yeah, I do.” “Subsonics,” Karst said sagely, brandishing the device. “Ultra-low frequencies. They make you fearful. They cycle below the audible range and subliminally tap into those feelings of dread and foreboding. Cheap gimmick, but effective.” “Subsonics? Interesting,” he said, eyebrows raised. “But why?” “Probably to discourage folk from going in there,” he said, pointing to a door. Julian moved to examine it. ATOMIC ARSENAL “Oh, my,” he whispered. Nukes. “The subsonics would be a good passive defense. Probably posted armed guards, too. Plus standard security protocols. What do you want to bet it’s empty?” “Your next bonus check,” Julian commented. He pushed at the door, and to his surprise it opened. He glanced inside, then looked at Karst. “Just have it transferred to my personal account. There’s at least thirty devices in there.” “Cao ni ma!” Karst swore. “At least thirty or forty nukes in there,” he said quietly. “You finish checking out the corridor. I’m going to take a look at these things. Might find a use for them.” “A use . . . for nukes?” the mercenary asked, alarmed. “Don’t worry,” Julian soothed. “If I have to use them, you’ll already be dead. Karst, I absolutely cannot let this ship remain in the hands of these people. They’re crazy. They hate the Alliance. And they need this ship for whatever evil plan they’ve hatched. So we must deny it to them. You have a spare radio?” Karst nodded, and handed a small hand-held unit to him. “Good. We’re going to need it.” “You sure about this, boss? I’m not seeing a percentage in getting ourselves blown up.” “Dead sure. This isn’t just about the money any more, son. This is about the safety and security of the Alliance. You served in the war, didn’t you?” “The 6th Special Operations unit,” Karst agreed with pride. “Then you took an oath to protect the Alliance. You weren’t released from that oath when you got your discharge. What we do here now is easily as important as any mission you took during the war.” “I figured that, Sir, but shouldn’t we have a couple of cruisers as back-up if things are so bad?” “What would happen if we did that? Huh? We’d have a couple of Admirals sitting out there waving the politicians every five minutes looking for ‘instructions’. By the time they got off their fat asses the Tams would control half the gorram ‘verse. Don’t worry – if we fail then Sinclair knows who to contact. But I think we can end this thing here and now, without calling for help. And these babies may just be the way to do it. You know anything about nuclear weapons?” “Not a damn thing, sir.” “Afraid of that. I hope I remember enough . . . and I hope that these antiques are at least remotely like the ones I’ve studied. Shouldn’t need more than one, though.” “I’m still not liking this, Sir,” Karst insisted. “No one asked you to. Just keep these rubes quiet while I work.” Karst saluted without any further argument and turned to inspect the men. “Gorram whiner,” he grunted to himself under his breath. “There’s a greater good at stake, here.” He pushed open the door and looked around for just the right weapon. In moments he had found it: a planet-busting 150 megaton brute designed for apocalyptic destruction. “That’ll work,” he said, smiling to himself. He pulled out the radio Karst had given him and got to work. He didn’t want to blow up this ship – it was magnificent, in its way, a piece of military art from an earlier, more brutal time in history. He would be quite satisfied with taking it back as a prize – he could just imagine the wealth it represented. But that was not his first priority. In truth he was relieved to find this arsenal. He had always planned on a final solution to this problem, but had suspected he would have to rig the engines to blow up – and that meant overriding safety protocols and bypassing computer controls designed to prevent such an occurrence. This, though – atomics were supposed to explode. Rigging up a deadman through the radio gave him the ultimate trump card – it didn’t matter what Dr. Tam and his minions did. They could torture him for all he cared. They wouldn’t survive. It gave him an easy out, a way to ensure that his work had not been in vain. He thought briefly of Sinclair, and hoped that he and the Relentless would be far enough away from the explosion to escape its effects, but he wasn’t even really worried about that. When he finally closed the access hatch on the bomb, he was satisfied. Dead or alive, this monster – and all aboard her – would be slain in a radioactive halo that was sure to put a new ring around the dead moon below, a cosmic testament to his Herculean effort. An astronomical tombstone that would last a thousand years and tell the ‘verse that Julian had not failed in his duty. He grinned to himself at the thought. What more could a man ask for?