by Ian Cannon
And then the bi-hells broke loose. From the holo-image it was difficult to tell exactly where it started, or what triggered the fight. Analysis would show, but time was against Tawny and Ben. They didn’t have time to analyze. All they saw was the pandemonium that followed with sudden, powerful violence. It made them flinch, then lean forward, their eyes reading the commotion, absorbing the multiple currents of activity, hearing through their mind’s eye the sound and fury of sudden chaos. People scattered. Tremusian guards reacted quickly but confusion hailed across the entire space. Explosions and blaster strikes railed out.
After several harrowing moments, the first wave of the attack settled into a tactical display of gun play, several Guilders hunkered behind pillars, tables and bulkheads peeling strikes at their assailants. The assailants did the same moving across the space in a fanning motion, quick and seasoned.
Tub’Num had found a central point of defense with Vekter and Sindra Klaire, each covering the other’s six and fanning blaster shots through the arena. Oonta joined the struggle, swinging his big arms and power swapping attackers left and right before the energy net dragged him down.
“Stop,” Ben called. The image froze. He moved around studying hard, his hand fanning across the image and pointing out the attackers. “These people …” he said as Tawny moved around the table with him, all eyes on the holo-projection. “I saw some bodies.”
“I saw them, too,” she confirmed.
“No affiliation,” Ben said.
Unmarked bodies. An unknown group. The plot thickened.
“Continue.”
The image went back into motion. The attackers moved in, several flanking toward the stairs and charging forward in column formation. Their weapons were the same make and style. Rifles with pulse firing plasma lancets. They hadn’t shed their atmo helms. They moved by design. There was a plan to their actions.
Ben shook his head, doubt filling him. “Look at their armor. Their weapons. Everything’s uniform, Tawny. This is too organized. This is more militia than Knave’s Blade.”
Tawny pinched her lips still clinging to her theory. “We haven’t been around the Knave’s Blade in so long. Maybe they changed. Maybe they militarized. We don’t know.”
They continued watching as the view pulled up through the club. The attackers had suppressed the lower floors and were emerging at combat speed up and up toward the liaison level above. Ben said still watching in awe, “Axum’s beef is with me. With us. Not the Guild.”
“Stop,” Tawny called. The image froze. She’d seen enough. Her eyes went to Ben and she said, “Are we willing to risk our lives on that?”
He sighed, offering a moment of concession and said, “No, of course not.” He pointed to the column of data streaming toward the far edges of the image. There was a universal time code. “But look at this.”
These images were two days old, universal. They’d been contacted by Axum only hours ago. It didn’t match up. Something was awry.
“Hmm,” Tawny said with a furled brow and puckered lips. “Maybe all of this had nothing to do with us. Maybe they attacked for a different reason.”
Ben plied his lips in thought. This information ultimately changed nothing. “We need more data. All we know is that someone did something … and now the Guild is toast. Assuming the Knave’s Blade is involved is the smart thing to do,” he looked at her sharply and said, “but we’re not going to blame anyone … yet.”
“So now what?” she said.
He waved his hand at the holo-projector and it zipped away. “We have to stay low. We have to stay off the data stream. Stay off comm.”
“What about Tubs?” she said with a glance toward the lift indicating their friend in the cargo hold. “We have to get him some help, Benji. He’s going to die right there in our cargo hold if we don’t.”
“REX,” Ben said. “Bring up the Dorn system.”
“The Tremus moon?” Tawny asked.
“It’s neutral. It’s his people. We have to get him home. If anyone can fix him—”
“They can,” she interjected. “It’s a good idea.”
An object specific holomap zoomed up over the table screen displaying a full quadrant of the twin system’s outer planets, the non-partisan regions. Orbital routes were flagged with lit streams—the paths of planets and moons showing as brilliant bands in loops and whorls. There were two planets, one a yellow-green ball, the other a dark umber, almost whiskey-shaded, both representing the holomap’s epicenter. The two planets swung around and around one another like spheres stuck in each other’s gravity wells, the eternal dance of the planets Dorn and Malybur, both providing tidal norms and seasonal change in their cosmic pathways around Wi’ahr, then Ae’ahm. They shared eleven moons, each tiny body looping in figure eights in and out, between and around both planetary bodies.
The whiskey-colored Malybur had long since joined the Underworld Cabal in its eternal war against the Imperium. Dorn had chosen to remain neutral, one of the few. They were two cultures at odds, the warlike Malybrians constantly harassing their planetary sister with threats and political scoffing. And caught between the two was the moon Tremus, home of the Tremusians … and Tub’Num. The little moon’s path zigged and zagged around both planets. That was Tawny and Ben’s destination. But it would be complicated.
“REX, show Tremus’ current orbital position,” Ben said.
The map froze in motion. Tremus twinkled, displaying it amongst its lunar kin. It sat throbbing on the far side of Malybur, eclipsed entirely from Dorn. It would be another calendar season before it swung back around. Ben groaned. That was bad. Malybur was a Cabal hotbed. “Great,” he murmured. “The place is crawling with Cabal battle wings. Scouts. Recon. Always keeping an eye on Dorn.”
“It’s going to make getting to Tremus awfully hard,” Tawny surmised. She walked around the map, looking. “What about Dorn?” She pointed to one of the yellow-green planet. It showed several centers of activity and commerce. “Here,” she said. A major city. One of its capitols. “We could get him to Sirron, or at least one of the bergs. The Dornans will have Tremusians there.”
Ben shook his head. Space activity was thick. Ships orbited both planets in a single path. It looked like a Malybrian embargo. “That’s a lot of activity, Tawny. They’re not letting anybody on or off the planet without an inspect. We have eyes on us. If we get caught …”
“We’re done, yeah. What else is there?”
He swiped away the map, entered a command on the touch panel and a new planetary holoview jumped up. This one was more familiar. A dark night world but well-lit, infused in the glow of an enormous, swirling gas giant. He said, “Molta-Danora. It’s nonpartisan. Fairly close. They have emergency facilities. Plus, Optus hides it. And …”
“Don’t even say it,” she grumbled.
Rogan …
He gestured with his hands feigning innocence, “Maybe he’s got answers.”
She laughed out loud. “Rogan? Answers? Right, Benji.”
He couldn’t argue with her sentiment, yet he’d rather deal with Rogan than the Malybrians. Or Sympto, for that matter. He reasoned, “It’s not about Rogan. It’s about Tubs. Let’s just …”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said ridiculously and headed for the cockpit. Decision made. It was off to Molta-Danora.
Outer Commerce Routes
The Planet Molta-Danora
Nonpartisan space region
Their destination was Rogan’s last known location—the Islets of Mondola, a cluster of lively little islands, each bustling with casino strips and clubs, all banded together with train rails and vessel traffic. Mondola would also have medical facilities.
They’d been here before and REX’s sub-orbital systems lowered them from the blue and black infused sky from the light seething off Optus, down toward the islands. Lights twittered distantly as they lowered, coming closer. As they neared the far island body where privateer vessels landed along the orbicular mountain rows and beach
side spreads, a heaping mountain of wreckage became clearer and clearer. It was the sheer tonnage of a large privateer ship that had been smashed to bits on the beach. A hoard of little bots hovered around it picking it to pieces and hauling the big iron junk into hovering bins—a part of Molta-Danora’s endless cleanup processes. The planet was the bi-system’s cornerstone of vacationing, a planet built entirely on its exotic industry and isolated location. The Danorans were meticulous about its up keep.
As REX lowered to the beach, Tawny gasped recognizing the tall, leaning pile of garbage.
“Oh, no,” she whispered. “That’s Gadget.”
It took Ben a second but she was right. The ship’s main hold was unmistakable, leaning in the sand at a towering, canted angle, its guts being splayed out across the beach.
“REX, full stop,” Ben said. The ship hovered over the water just across the beach head. “Gods,” he said, “you’re right.”
“They got Rogan, too?” she said, her voice strained under disbelief.
“Guilders,” Ben said. “Maybe it wasn’t just the hub. Maybe they’re all being hunted down.”
“What does that say about—”
“Us?” he said. They looked at each other, fearfully. Neither of them said anything, but the thought was shared by both—maybe we’re being hunted, too.
Ben looked back out the viewport. The wreckage bots were doing their job well sheering pieces of steel off Gadget and dropping the vessel off a piece at a time in those big grav bins. “This was recent,” Ben said.
Tawny shook her head in a combination of remorse and bitterness. “This was Knave’s Blade, Benji. Who else would do this?”
“Rogan didn’t have many friends,” he said.
“Yeah, but this?” she said aghast. They’d destroyed Rogan’s ship, wrecked his whole livelihood. First the Guild, now Gadget. Now it was being picked apart as scrap. Someone was on a mission. Or worse, a rampage. “You think he’s dead?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I hope not, baby, but we can’t stick around here. We have to get back to orbit. REX?”
“I heard you, Cap.” The mag drives hummed out and they lifted off.
Tub’Num’s eye lids parted halfway revealing his Tremusian, coal black eyes before they rolled over and closed again. The big man was sleeping fitfully. Tawny checked his bio-thermals on a small readout terminal hooked to his arm. She didn’t know Tremusian biology, but the body temperature was rising, obviously returning to its normal homeostatic readout. She didn’t know if that would help preserve his life or hasten it toward an end. As Guilder’s Mix’s head security man, she’d known her Tremusian friend to get stabbed, shot, blown up, stabbed some more. The guy was tough as a Tremusian mule. It made the thought of losing him penetrate even deeper into her gut. She ran an affectionate hand across his big, hard cheek before she left.
Ben had brought the ship up close to the gas giant Optus, its curvature large enough to create a pin-straight horizon diagonally across the top of their viewport. The planet was a deep turquoise blue with ghostlike bands of white intermixing across its face like oil in water. Lightning strikes were constant, seething electromagnetic interference across its skies and creating a band of interference for any lurking eyeballs. It was a good place to hide, though temporary.
Tawny met him in the cockpit and took a seat saying, “Benji, I don’t like this. First the Guild, now Rogan. It’s as if …” she didn’t finish.
“Someone’s on the hunt,” he said.
“Exactly.” She sighed heavy. Tension thickened around them. It had been thickening for a full day. And it had only gotten worse. She finally said, “Tubs is going to die.”
“Who else do we know?” he whispered more to himself than her. They knew plenty of people, plenty of places of harbor throughout the solar twins—ZebX, the bounty hunting Biod built from scraps within the Sarzi production fields and given AI relevance from the Kronyn laborers. Shogun Star who held up inside the terminator side of the Zii band deep inside the forbidden lanes where he could practice his outlawed meditation craft of the ancient Nid religion. Rennick the shark, fat and full of farts, who kept a house of befoulment at the moon Nevin Major with his female cohort, Tiffa Nora, the most flagrant and crude woman they’d ever known. There were others. Dozens. But they were all associated with the Guild. If whoever was out there gunning for Guilders had found Rogan hiding in the non-partisan regions, the others were probably out of commission as well. There was no telling how far their reach went.
But that didn’t change a thing concerning the cargo bay. Tubs was in trouble, his life slipping away.
“Who else is there?” Tawny said, feeling helpless and puny.
There was one place they could go, one friend who was completely unassociated, completely alone … completely perfect.
They looked at each other and said together, “Norg.”
Ten
Controlled Space
Planet Dekorrah’Bha
Moon Chiat
United Confederation Front (Underworld Cabal)
Norg’s Outer Landing came into view. It was noticeable among the sea of sparsely dispersed asteroids all of which were drifting through Dekkoran space lazily on the currents of the planet’s magnetosphere. Norg’s was the big, mostly-round rock with debris hovering around it like gnats around a living host, all trapped motionless in time. This was Norg’s junkyard. The huge chunks of debris were actually the stripped carcasses of space faring vessels, decrepit colonial hardware and sat stations left to be picked apart by his customers. To Tawny and Ben the place was a sight for sore eyes, and somewhere in the backs of their minds they felt like they’d returned home from a long and dangerous trip.
Tawny brought up the hail. “This is the privateer space freighter REX on approach hailing Outer Landing. Norg, are your ears up?”
Norg’s old, slow terrapin voice returned in its drawn-out drawl, “Tawnia and Benjar Dash approach my abode? Well, well, well. And what, might I ask, brings you so near? Wait! You haven’t forgotten my price for business, have you?” The turtle-man’s head with its blunted beak and big round goggles holoformed over their comm emitter.
Norg’s price: A visitation.
Tawny said, “That’s why we’re here.”
“Oh? Just a visitation? Hmm—do I smell trouble?”
“We’ve just come to see an old friend, Norg,” she rebutted.
“Hogger-splat! You know I’m too old to buy a lie. What’s the score?” he said.
Tawny and Ben looked at each other. Ben took a breath and said, “Yes, Norg, there’s trouble. We might need some help on this one.”
Norg made an interested face in what way a turtle’s face may, and said, “Well then, best be getting your edible parts down here and let’s just see.”
“Okay,” Ben said. “Landing.”
REX scooted through the slowly pirouetting tonnage, picking his way down and down through the field of space junk and to Norg’s asteroid before pivoting around, folding the aeron spires in the upward position and settling down next to the old Dekkoran’s passenger hub. The umbilicus extended creating its hermetic seal and engines wound down. Tawny and Ben flushed open the airlock and there he stood, a squat, bipedal turtle-man with thick legs and a ton of carapace enshrouding his back, all supported by a rickety old cane bending under pressure. He stared forward through huge round eyes with a fat, dark tongue gesticulating curiously through a frowning beak. This was Norg, smiling.
“First!” he held out his short, brawny arms. Tawny hugged him futilely as he said, “Ah, beauty becomes her,” switching to Ben, “and then there was this one. Ugly-headed, ugly-faced and all.”
Ben hugged him the same, his words being squeezed from him in a long whisper, “You mucker’s buck.” They released. “It’s good to see you, old friend,” Ben said taking a breath.
“And you. But second!” Norg called, “being well aware of dire situations … who needs medical?”
“He’s in th
e cargo bay,” Ben said.
“He’s a friend,” Tawny concluded.
“Ah,” Norg said. “What specie?”
“Tremusian. It’s serious,” Ben said.
“Tremusian, eh? Hard to kill those,” Norg said. “You’re in luck. We Dekkorans have a lot in common. I might just have what you need. Bring him up.”
Using REX’s utility bots and dismantling their flatbed from the ATV, they brought Tubs up through the ship and into Norg’s habitat as quickly as possible. Norg led them down the entry passage and through his cluttered, homey living quarters, through a big storage dome crowded with assorted junk and into a part of his little berg they’d never been, nor seen. Opening a final access hatch, they entered a full medical bay beeping and whirring with dormant machinery. This place was a complete contrast to his domicile—sterile, clean, fully tech’ed out with a large, ceiling-mounted, auto-functioning array of med bot attachments capable of performing surgeries, parts assembly and machine building. It was a hospital room and engineering garage in one self-contained network of mechanized, self-operating pieces. Tawny and Ben stood aghast momentarily before Norg gave them a reassuring frown/grin. They’d always suspected there was more to their Dekorran friend than met the eye. Perhaps it was inevitable that they’d discover it one day. And here it was.
They positioned the Tremusian accordingly and let Norg go to work. First, a series of analysis probes scanned his big torso while the gimbal bots removed his clothing and got to work on anesthetizing, sterilizing and suturing the wound properly. It would take time, but Tubs was in good hands, or at least the best they could find. Nevertheless, Norg bound the big fellow at the wrists and legs and looked up, saying, “When he wakes he will be disoriented. Disoriented Tremusians can make a splatter of the matter. But they also have a wonderful recuperative biology, the best in the twin system. For now, he’s stable. I suspect he’ll be fine. Where else have you tried?”
