Mixed Messages: Vincent Chen, #4

By Steve Rzasa

Everything on the line…

Vincent Chen is loyal to a fault. That's why the Intelligence Service of the Realm has tasked him with finding a lost operative—Izzara Neoh, the woman who broke his heart. He stopped her from stealing secrets from the Realm of Five, but ISR had different plans for their wayward spy.

Vincent's not the only one searching for her. An old adversary is one step ahead, determined to claim the same storied treasure from a legendary starship the spies are tracking.

It could be filled with unfathomable riches.

It could hold terrible dangers.

And when all else fails, it will cost Vincent everything he thought was valuable to stand against unyielding greed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Rzasa
• Release date: Jun 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781094670584

Steve Rzasa

Steve Rzasa is the author of a dozen novels of science-fiction and fantasy, as well as numerous pieces of short fiction. His space opera "Broken Sight" won the ACFW Award for Speculative Fiction in 2012, and "The Word Reclaimed" was nominated for the same award. Steve received his bachelor’s degree in journalism from Boston University, and worked for eight years at newspapers in Maine and Wyoming. He’s been a librarian since 2008, and received his Library Support Staff Certification from the American Library Association in 2014—one of only 100 graduates nationwide and four in Wyoming. He is the technical services librarian in Buffalo, Wyoming, where he lives with his wife and two boys. Steve’s a fan of all things science-fiction and superhero, and is also a student of history.

Book preview

Chapter One

Wanderriver Star System

The warship is waiting for me when I exit the long jump between stars.

Maybe warship isn’t the right word. Havoc is technically property of the Intelligence Service of the Realm, making her a spy vessel. Since her midnight hull makes her all but invisible against deep space, and that same hull’s armor prevents all but the galaxy’s best scanners from divining her secrets, I won’t begrudge that designation. But she’s also crammed with weapons where she doesn’t have engines, fuel, and tight living quarters, so she performs well in a combat capacity. Her crew fought off criminals who would have killed me and my colleagues a few months back.

Which is why I’m both relieved and anxious when RMS Marconi’s sensors pick up Havoc’s engine exhaust. She’s headed my way.

I pick at the worn leather cover of the Bible tucked next to the command chair’s seat cushion. This is crazy. Not part of my job. Nowhere in MarkTel regs does it say Interstellar Communications Ferry Deployment and Maintenance Specialists like me are authorized to lend assistance to the primary intelligence agency of the Realm of Five. Much less fake logs that show my ship, Marconi, should be a star system away, replacing a malfunctioning comms ferry.

And still, I’m a willing participant.

Havoc hails me. I ignore the signal, my brain ravaged by contradictory thoughts. Took them a few days to make the rendezvous, I mutter. A couple of minutes won’t kill them. Except their message was urgent. Izzy’s in danger. You have to move.

Sigh. Talking to myself. Again. Not out of the ordinary, to be sure, when the rest of my crew is composed of two dozen maintenance bots. It’s an easy habit to fall into. I try not to indulge.

My fingers won’t leave the Bible cover alone. Pick. Pick.

Havoc hails again.

Pick.

I toggle the comms console, acknowledging the transmission and preparing a reply. "This is RMS Marconi, Captain Vincent Chen commanding."

There’s a handful of seconds lag time as the signal zips across a few million kilometers, gets listened to by my visitors, and earns a reply. The voice that filters through the comms speakers is clipped, stern, with an edge that reeks of impatience—Ray Ward, ISR operative. "Marconi, this is HMS Havoc. Stay at your current speed and maintain your present trajectory. Prepare for intercept and docking."

That’s it? That’s all the explanation I get after accepting their summons? Again, this is not typical of my job. Then again, little has been during the past few months. Not like I have any questions.

Ack. There I go again, with the talking to myself.

A blue indicator lights up on the main monitor. The navigation computer paints a glowing green arc for Havoc’s course, one that wraps around the inside of Marconi’s spherical bridge. It’s just my command chair and the attendant consoles perched at the center of this big, flashy nav display—more a work of art than basic tech. Numbers appear next to the blue indicator, dwindling as it moves. Havoc will meet me in 12 minutes.

Time enough for me to speculate why ISR wants my help to find Izzara Neoh, former spy and current criminal.

The woman I rescued and then helped these guys arrest.

THANKFULLY, IT’S RAY’S partner, Julianna Verge-Ward, who meets me at the airlock. She smiles, her eyes blue-gray stars, and nods. Captain Chen.

Operative Verge-Ward. My irritation allows only a civil greeting.

Enough chit-chat, I guess. Show me to your bridge. Julianna smirks, reminding me of my sister Lily when she’s feeling mischievous. Julianna’s a bit younger than me, I think, with auburn hair curling at the collar of a navy blue shirt. The white jacket ISR favors is as bold as a deep space beacon in the corridor’s dim lighting.

I gesture, and she steps out of the airlock. The hatch seals. I give her two steps down the corridor in mutual silence before I blurt, Where’s Izzy? What’s this all about? What happened to her?

She raises an eyebrow. I’m fine, how are you?

I’m not in the mood to play games.

Good. They’re a waste of time. Thanks for your patience, by the way.

You guys didn’t give me much choice.

My orders are to communicate as much as possible face-to-face. Less chance of this being... scrutinized. But I knew you’d be a good fit for this assignment.

No, don’t call it that. You asked, I’m here. It’s a polite response.

Nine light-years out of your way.

I sigh. Give or take. I almost lost my job because of the actions I’ve taken beyond, well, work. This can’t be an assignment, not if I want to keep getting paid and, more importantly, hold on to my ship.

Don’t worry about it. She plucks a tiny delver from her sleeve. It’s a quarter the size of the handheld device I’ve got tucked into my belt, not much bigger than a couple fingers pressed together. It lacks a screen, at least until she pulls it apart and a transparent sheet expands. I recognize the MarkTel logo and the somber countenance of my immediate supervisor, Director Solomon Margate, next to a raft of glowing text. A memorandum of understanding between MarkTel Region Six and ISR. You are hereby seconded to me and Operative Ward for the duration of this assignment, however long that may be. All MarkTel equipment aboard and including this vessel is available for our use.

She lets me hold the micro-delver, so I can read it as we continue to the bridge. If it’s a fake document, it’s a good one. And if anyone was going to falsify MarkTel orders, it would be ISR. Am I supposed to sign, or did you already fill in that blank?

She chuckles.

Seriously, Julianna. What happened? I lead her inside and gesture for her to take a seat in the command chair. Manners shouldn’t be forgotten, even in a situation such as this. Mother taught me as much. "When I left von Arco, Izzy was in your custody. Don’t tell me she escaped, because if she’s a fugitive, this is a job for the Crown Marshals, and I know one on Tiaozhan who’d be happy to oblige."

If she had escaped, I would gladly contact the marshals. She picks up the Bible. An undefinable emotion crosses her face. I’m used to getting reactions from people when they touch the book that up until twelve years ago was banned, and still not that many have encountered printed materials. Whatever she’s feeling, her features tighten. Except she didn’t escape.

Then why—oh, blast. I rub my forehead. You let her go. She’s working for you.

You are astute, no matter what Ray says.

So glad your husband came along for the ride.

He’s my partner and one of Izzara Neoh’s handlers. It’s not optional. What he lacks in interpersonal skills he more than makes up for in starship combat tactics and weapons proficiency. Julianna smiles. Plus, he’s cute.

I roll my eyes.

You’re right: we let Izzy go. That isn’t to say she’s free and clear. She has to pay for her crimes, but as we both know, locking up someone of her considerable talents is a waste. ISR is nothing if not conservation-minded.

So, what’s she doing?

We needed her to help us track a starship, one of great value to the Realm, and as such, to its enemies.

You mean the Martian Tiu.

Julianna reclaims the micro-delver from my grip. Don’t assume the descendants of the original Mars settlers are the only threat since they’re the only other military power in this part the galaxy. There’s always internal discontents that could destabilize the Realm. And if this ship were to enter anyone’s possession, well...

She streams data through the command chair and onto a huge swath of the monitor. If any organization prides systems security, it’s MarkTel, the company with a monopoly on interstellar communications. You can’t get a message from one star system to the next without dumping them into a comms ferry they own, the same kind of which Marconi carries four. That’s why my adrenaline spikes when Julianna bypasses every byte of vaunted security in a couple seconds.

But all that worry about tampering blows out of my mind like the atmosphere from a vented airlock when a ship’s schematics materialize on the screen.

The basic design is familiar to anyone who’s traveled between star systems—blazes, to any child born in the Realm, really. There’s a Raszewski sphere in the center, without which the ship couldn’t jump between the sundoor regions found around most stars. The fore and aft sections are equal in length, each one about twice the dimensions of the sphere, but they’re ragged, blocky, lacking the smooth lines of hull plating common on modern vessels. It means this is an older model. How old, I don’t realize until I count just two bulky cooling vanes branching off the dorsal and ventral hull, ahead of anti-matter drive nozzles that seem half-constructed. Those, too, are obsolete.

She’s a ten-brace, I say. About the same tonnage as the swift frigates Rescue Ops sails. Smaller than a cargo felucca, far bigger than a navastel. Why anyone’s using one nowadays is beyond me.

No one is. The ten-brace went out of style two centuries ago. Julianna points. This one was sighted among the Starkweather worlds a month ago. Sensor records are incomplete, because the ship that took them was destroyed. The man piloting was captured—one of our assets.

You sent Izzy out to find him and the ship.

That’s correct. The vessel in question disappeared in the star system in which it was found. Julianna lifts a trio of tiny stars from the micro-delver’s holographic display. A flick transfers the relevant data onto the main monitor. It’s a trinary, called Acantha, with suns orbiting in close proximity. Nothing of interest besides proto-planetary discs, which means the system is full of swarming debris. There’s ample cover for losing or hiding objects.

I shake my head. One man lost. Izzy missing. An