by Paul Grover
Mira stepped back, calmed herself and studied her environment. It was how she had been taught to deal with a cockpit emergency; take it slow, identify the problem then see what tools you have to fix it. Her eyes alighted on an emergency box on the bulkhead. She flipped it open and rummaged through the contents, discarding a fire extinguisher, a flame-retardant blanket and a sealing kit. Only a pry bar remained. It was weighty and cool in her grasp.
“An engineer’s lock pick.” It was one of her father’s expressions. A head torch was hanging from a hook next to the bar; she took it too, putting it on and activating it.
After several painful attempts she finally wedged the bar under a bolt. She rested her weight on it, nothing moved. She bounced on the bar grunting with the effort. Slowly the bolt tore out of the panel and popped clear. Mira moved to the next bolt. It came out easily as did the third. She swivelled the plate around and peered into the hole. The conveyor shaft was dark. Her headlight revealed a rubberised, stationary belt.
She clambered in and crawled forward. The tension lifted when she realised she had crossed beyond the bulkhead. The shaft ran straight for a long time. She could not make out anything resembling an exit, but she assumed the conveyor must lead somewhere.
The belt ended and the shaft dropped vertically downward.
“Oh fuck,” she muttered.
The sound of grinding, shifting metal came from behind and spurred her into a decision. She wriggled upright, feet first into the shaft. In her head she counted to three and leapt into the darkness.
Mira fell for several seconds, bouncing off the walls until the conveyer levelled out; it was designed to give packed goods a soft landing. The skin burned from her back as she skidded over the rubber surface.
She caught her breath and sat up. The pain in her hands had diminished. She studied them in the circle of the headlight’s beam. The blisters and swelling had reduced and new pink skin was growing over the exposed sub dermis.
Mira scrambled forward and fell through a curtained hatch into a cargo bin. She clambered out into the store room of a retail unit. She was stiff, sore and exhausted but staggered onward.
The world shook as an explosion echoed through the station’s substructure. Mira closed her eyes, waiting for the blast wave to pass through and vaporise her. It never came. The lights flickered, went off then came on again. A safety announcement played over the PA.
“All guests and residents are advised to make their way to their closest assembly point. Baikonur Station has suffered a major environmental emergency. Evacuation is unnecessary, but we advise our guests and residents to tune their personal links to the public information channel.
“The station authorities are working to contain the situation and will provide regular updates as to our status.
“We take your safety seriously and are grateful for your cooperation while we deal with the incident.”
The message repeated. She sat on the floor and rested her head in her hands, breathing deeply.
“I’m alive,” she whispered.
Mira keyed her link. It took several seconds to acquire a carrier wave. Severe pressure on the station’s comm net was congesting frequencies and narrowing the bandwidth.
“Tish… can you hear me.”
“Mira! Yes. There was an explosion. The section of the station where the ship crashed is gone… vaporised.” Tish’s voice sounded compressed and tinny, but the link continued to function with minimal interference.
“Yeah, I might have had something to do with that. I need to get out. I’m on every security camera in this section. I think the station authorities will be keen to make my acquaintance.”
“Okay, Shannon is… two decks down from you, in the Galleria Market. I have sent you a plot.”
Mira closed the link and dragged her tired aching body back to its feet as the visor updated with a new course.
The warehouse opened into a department store carrying high end goods. She walked through the empty aisles with only the station announcements for company.
She wanted to go home, not to Earth but to the Second Chance.
Mira realised how much the ship meant to her. It was more than a means of transport; it was her home and the person she cared about the most was waiting for her.
The store’s doors were fitted with a unidirectional lock and opened to a steel plaza, lit by neon signs and giant advertising screens. The area teemed with people. A holo-screen identified the location as Assembly Zone 643-C.
Mira pushed her way through the crowd. She descended two static escalators. The crowd thinned as she approached the Galleria. Security teams patrolled the area, protecting the shiny consumer goods from opportunistic looters. They ignored Mira as she passed by.
Palm Trees in steel pots lined either side of the mall. Next to a fountain in the middle of the concourse stood a sole figure, dressed in an EVA suit. While the crowd moved past her with a purpose so Shannon stood with resolve.
Mira ran to her, exhaustion forgotten. She leapt on Shannon and kissed her cheek.
Breathing heavily, she sat on the edge of the fountain.
“You look like you have had an interesting morning… assuming it is morning,” Shannon said.
“I’ll tell you on the way back.”
Shannon explained how the route back to the Second Chance was sealed off.
“The transport tubes are not running, but I think there is someone who might help us get off. He knows you.”
Mira gave her a puzzled look, taking a second to stabilise her breathing and allow her heart rate to slow.
“Vic Rybov.”
“Vic is here? How did you run into him?”
“A happy accident. He saved my life.”
Mira let Shannon help her to her feet and they walked toward the internal hangars. Mira stole a sideway glance. She wasn’t Shannon the JetSuit Racer, Shannon the model or Shannon the EarthGov Rep. She was just her friend and Mira was glad she had friends.
Vic Rybov rolled another cigarette; he didn’t like to smoke around the kid. He knew what went into his roll ups and was sure it was unsuitable for young lungs.
Sofi was not a bad travelling companion. She knew when to talk and when to disappear. She worked hard around the ship and used the local UniNet node to access educational resources. Rybov understood why Marie wanted her off Corso. The kid had potential; a quality all too easily crushed on the Outer Frontier.
He licked the paper and sealed the roll. He was about to spark up when movement in the bay doorway drew his gaze. He set his cigarette aside and stood, his hand automatically covering his weapon.
“Eden’s Revenge?” Manson said as he approached. “Now that genuinely tickles my balls. You are a sentimental old bastard, Vic. What was it with you and her? You love her? Surprised you didn’t nail her when I gave you the chance.”
Rybov made no reply. Manson liked to goad, provoke a reaction; using his words to expose a weakness.
“You let her escape, back on the ol’ Wolf?” Manson asked.
“You know how it is, what goes around comes around. She returned the favour. It pays to make friends.”
Manson moved closer. He was ten metres away. There was something different about him. He still exuded the same sense of menace he always did, but it was accompanied by an underlying malevolence.
“Oh I have friends Vic, powerful friends.”
“Is that why you are here, Karl? Some kind of alien technology brought you back from the dead?”
An uncertain look lingered in Manson’s dark eyes. His facade of control crumbled. It was as if he no longer knew who he was.
“I have skills, Vic, skills that make me interesting to certain parties; in return I get a life with money and purpose.”
“So you here to kill me? Blood for blood?”
Manson spread his arms wide in a magnanimous gesture.
“Maybe, we have history, you and me. We did a lot of crazy shit, had a few laughs.” He laughed, to illustrate the
point. “We shared some good missions, had a good kill count, even rescued a few station girls from the curse of their virginities. What went wrong, Vic?”
Rybov walked toward Manson. Manson moved to one side. They stared each other down like boxers in a ring sizing each other up, intimidating each other into throwing the first punch.
“You went wrong, Karl. You let your ego take over. You always thought you knew best, your way or no way. You lost your sense of priority. The Knights, your Squad Mates and finally you; that’s the order of things Karl; that’s the way it’s always been.”
Manson’s face flushed. His hair trigger was still there and Vic Rybov knew how to pull it. All he had to do was make sure the safety catch was off.
“And where the fuck did it get us, Vic? I’ll tell you where, fucking nowhere. We were bottom feeders, picking up the shit jobs the Frontier Company could not be bothered with. The black bag jobs that were more likely to get us killed than make us rich.”
Rybov shrugged.
“It was honest, it had honour. Mercs are the people you turn to for that shit. Our job is to put our lives on the line for a prize. If we beat the clock we win and if we don’t our squad-mates drink our share. Like I said, honest.”
Manson’s face lost its fake geniality. “Honest doesn’t suck your cock. Honest doesn’t put fine clothes on your back or keep you in the best booze,” he snarled.
“So what’s your business here? An elaborate setup if you ask me. What did you do with Thorn?”
Manson shrugged. “They’re probably shipping her back to the Core Systems as we speak. Knowing you’re a sucker for a pretty face I figured you would come if I caught her. Honestly Vic, you are a dumb, predictable fuck. You think you know shit, but you don’t. I would never have noticed her if you had not gone exclusive. She was what linked me to you. You know why?”
Manson rocked on his heels. “Anders Richter.”
“Richter? I caught him, handed him over to the Feds on Tellerman. Nice reward too,” Rybov replied.
“I know all about it. Joel Barnard was very helpful. I’m more interested in the information you took from Richter. The people I work for are keen it does not fall into the wrong hands.”
Rybov laughed. It riled Manson and it made him laugh harder.
“What makes you think I have anything. I’m a bounty hunter, Karl. I always left the politics to you.”
Manson took several steps closer. Rybov lowered his hand to grip his weapon, his implant scanning Manson for the slightest movement. The smallest twitch of a muscle would push him into a reaction. Externally his glowing red eye looked like a base model, yet internally it had been upgraded to a military specification targeting system. Manson did not know that.
“So why are you heading to Mizarma? Don’t bullshit me. I checked your flight plan from Tellerman. You only came here because I had Thorn.”
“Mizarma is a nice place to retire. I have the funds to grow old in style, thanks to old mate Anders.”
Manson lunged forward. It happened in the blink of an eye. Rybov’s implant flashed a warning through his optic nerve, but there was no time to react as he slammed into the deck. Manson was on top of him, pushing his arm onto his throat.
“If I have to rip your ship apart bolt by fucking bolt, I will find it. How about you hand over what you have and save me the bother?”
“Go ahead Karl, you won’t find anything. Besides don’t you think I would upload anything I had to a dropbox?”
“You’re bullshitting me Vic! You’re old school; you never trusted the cloud.”
He was right, the data Manson wanted resided in a safe in the Revenge’s hold. It was bio locked to Rybov’s DNA; but there were always ways around it. Right now Rybov was less concerned with the data cores and more about the kid hiding in the life pod. If Manson found Sofi, he would use her as leverage.
Rybov smashed Manson in the side of the head with his cybernetic hand. Manson smirked after the first blow, the second stunned him. Rybov pushed him off and sprung to his feet. He smashed his boot down on Manson’s hand; the bones shattered with a dull crunch. He shifted his balance and kicked Manson in the ribs.
Manson rolled onto his back, his breath whistling out of him. He held his mangled hand up and to Rybov’s astonishment the fingers straightened and uncurled from their deformed state.
“They didn’t just bring me back, Vic. They gave me a few upgrades, some new tricks.” Manson leapt to his feet.
Rybov pulled his weapon, firing wide of the target it left a scorch mark on the deck. Before he could adjust his aim Manson was on him. Searing pain burned through his arm as Manson drove a combat knife into the flesh above his augmentation. He bit back a cry as Manson twisted the blade; as he withdrew it blood fountained from the wound. Rybov covered the cut as Manson stepped back. He lunged again, driving the knife into Rybov’s stomach, hitting the elasticated section his armour.
Rybov gasped and fell to his knees.
“Take a load off, Vic. Sit the fuck down while I go through your ship’s core.” Manson wiped his hands and climbed the ramp.
“You never know Vic, I might let you live. You can live the rest of your miserable existence knowing I beat you. That I’m better…”
“Richter was not carrying…” Rybov gasped. He was interrupted by the sound of a weapon discharging, the characteristic bark of a plasma cannon; like the one in Rybov’s locked armoury. The smell of rotten fish and burnt flesh reached his nostrils. Manson staggered down the ramp, a fist-sized hole through his body and a surprised expression on his face. A second plasma slug hit him knocking him backward and making him sway on his feet. Slowly moving further into the bay, he tried to raise his weapon but a third blast knocked him to the floor.
Sofi ran down the ramp, the plasma cannon in her hand and the supply reservoir strapped to her back. She wore a combat helmet and had the targeting visor lowered.
Manson struggled to get up.
“Don’t worry, Vic, I’ve got this!” she said over the whine of the injector system. Manson was struggling to get to his feet. Sofi placed a foot on his chest and pointed the plasma cannon at his face.
“Goodnight you ugly bastard,” she said. It sounded odd in her innocent voice.
She pulled the trigger and reduced Karl Manson’s head to a bloody stain on the deck.
“I thought I told you to stay in the life pod,” Rybov said. His voice sounded distant, his vision blurring as his life spilled onto the cold deck.
Sofi pulled her helmet off. Her hair caught in the straps and she had to pull it clear. “Someone had to help you out old fella.”
Rybov grunted. The blood loss was affecting his consciousness. “Get the med kit and less of the old.”
He stumbled and collapsed onto the deck. He heard Sofi’s footsteps on the ramp. They sounded ever more distant as his world faded to grey.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE hangar door slid up and locked into place. The sound echoed through the giant steel space.
The curve of the inner bay swept up and above Mira. She closed her eyes and waited for the vertigo to pass. She focused her vision on the black starship berthed in the hangar and waited for her perception to stabilise. The last time she had seen the Aurora it had been an unassuming light hauler, now it resembled a navy gunboat. Mira wondered if their own ship could be uprated in the same manner. The Kobo was bigger and would allow for more options. She let the thought linger.
“Eden’s Revenge,” she whispered, unable to conceal the sadness in her voice.
“Something has happened here,” Shannon said, running toward the ship. Mira followed.
A headless body lay on the floor. Vic Rybov lay unconscious in a pool of blood while a young girl struggled to dress a wound in his arm and another in his gut.
Mira knelt. “What happened?”
“That bastard stabbed him. He bled a lot.”
“Okay let us take over,” Mira said. “Shannon, can you find a blood plasma pack? Ther
e should be one in the kit.”
Mira removed the pad and blood spurted from Rybov’s stomach wound.
“What’s your name kid?”
“Sofi. Are you Thorn?” the young girl replied. “Vic said you were not much taller than me. He told me you fly starships.”
“Amongst other things,” she said as Shannon gave her a sterile dressing.
“Can you teach me how?” the girl asked.
“Let’s sort Vic first,” Shannon said.
“Sofi, can you find a tube SteriGel? It’s white with green writing,” Mira added.
The kid rummaged through the bag. “This?” she said holding up a tube of gel.
“Perfect, can you hold this dressing, please?” Mira asked, showing the girl how to press the pad in place. “You don’t mind blood?”
“It’s just blood.”
Shannon unzipped the plasma pack. Basic battlefield medicine was something you never forgot. J1 Ultra-License holders were trained to a similar level as fighter crews. Shannon popped a needle into Rybov’s fully organic arm and opened the valve on the bag.
Mira broke the seal on the tube of gel. It was formulated to seal wounds quickly and prevent infection. Mira considered herself an expert in using SteriGel, most self-harmers were. The trick to keeping your dark secret a secret was concealment. No one would know of your habit if you never sought help.
She pulled the pad away and pumped the gel into Vic’s stomach wound. She replaced the pad and waited.
“Is he going to be okay?” Sofi asked.
Rybov stirred.
“He will need a rest but I’m sure he’ll be fine. You did the right thing holding the pads on the wounds. You saved his life, Sofi,” Mira said. “We have a good med-bay on our ship. We can fix him.”
Mira guessed the girl was in her early teens, brown hair, skinny and slightly bug eyed. She was reminded of herself at a similar age. No strike that, Sofi’s smile reminded her of Tish; it was bright, genuine and freely given. The kid's eyes were a similar shade too.
