Rogue Stars

by C Gockel et al.

  She raised a finger. “Hold one sec, confirming all the power flows are stable.”

  “Holding.”

  After a few seconds she killed the screens to find him leaning against the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other to match his arms. She regarded him a moment. “You seriously want to help?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Okay. Grab a welding torch and metamat blade from the cabinet, get suited up and head outside.”

  His mouth twitched while his eyes did the damn sparkly thing. “Dare I ask why?”

  “I suppose. Right now the plasma shield is extended out about two meters beyond the body of the ship to encompass all the shredded pieces of the hull. I’m going to pull it in to the rim. You’ll heat the shards, shear off the jagged edges and bend the pieces as flat as possible against the hull, after which I will re-extend the shield and we will try to mend the hull back together.”

  “Sounds reasonable. And what are you going to be doing while I’m braving the elements?”

  “I’m going to be telling you which pieces to work on, how much to shear off and when to stop, of course. From the comfort of my insulated, heated ship.”

  “Of course…” he gave her a positively evil look as he pushed off the wall and went to the supply cabinet “…I’m likely to get all sweaty and need to wash my clothes again afterward, though.”

  She snorted and reached for her water bottle. “Don’t think so. Just strip before you put on the suit—” his head had already begun whipping around “—in private, please.”

  “Hmm, should have thought of that myself.”

  He ran a fingertip along the contour of the blade then slid it easily into a notch on his pants and quickly checked over the torch. The fluid, efficient motions left no doubt as to his proficiency in their use.

  For a few minutes she had almost forgotten what he was. A mistake on her part.

  “Let me know when you’re suited up and I’ll open the airlock. Once the internal hatch has closed, the external one can be opened by pressing the panel beside it, and a ramp will extend to the ground.”

  “Got it.” He nodded sharply and ascended the ladder.

  She stretched out on her stomach at the edge of the hull rupture. With no sun in sight, as the pulsar would provide no day-night cycle, the meager yet ever present light came solely via the glow of the Nebula.

  The wind had died down somewhat compared to the gale forces it had exhibited during her arrival, and fine dust particles danced about in the air. The overall effect bore a slight resemblance to the heavy, misty fog of a winter Seattle morning, albeit doused in pale sallow paint. She loved to go for a run on such mornings, when the dew blanketed so thickly it bowed the tree limbs and turned the grass silver and the fog brought silence to a noisy world.

  “Ready!” His shout echoed down from the main cabin.

  She waved at the panel behind her to open the airlock. A moment later Caleb arrived under the ship from the left, gloved hand already flicking on the torch as he glanced up at her. “It sucks out here. You know this, right?”

  “Hell yes I know. I had to drag your unconscious body through it, remember?”

  “Well, you didn’t have to. You could have, for instance, not shot me, and instead asked me politely if I’d like to come aboard where it was warm and cozy.”

  Her eyes narrowed in feigned non-amusement. “Easy for you to say now. Start with this long piece here.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He pulled the blade off the belt of the environment suit and raised the torch to the piece in question.

  “Smooth the ragged corner, but only a little. I don’t want to lose any more material than necessary. Okay, now heat it along the bend. Not too much or it’ll melt!”

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’ve got this.” He eased the sheet of metal up toward the hull and her. His tone was conversational. “Carbon-based metamaterials become pliant at around 1340°C and don’t begin to lose their atomic structure until 1920°. The torch is set to 1460°, which will create malleability without damaging the integrity of the material.”

  “They teach you that in spy school?”

  The metal shimmered as it met resistance at the plasma shield, and he lowered the torch. He stood less than a meter beneath her, only the shield and the faceplate of his helmet separating them. “Engineering school.”

  He looked up at her, the curl of his lips clearly visible through the faceplate. “Yes, I have an engineering degree. Try to contain your shock. Where to next?”

  She worked to keep her expression neutral and unaffected. So he possessed skills beyond subterfuge and selective removal of criminals from the gene pool. And culinary endeavors. It didn’t change anything.

  She pointed to the narrow piece at the end of the rupture closest to her.

  “This one.”

  27 Krysk

  Senecan Federation Colony

  In the late 22nd century, a number of social philosophers asserted their belief that the expansion of humanity beyond the bounds of the Sol System would usher in a new era of civility and order. With unparalleled prosperity and a galaxy to explore, we would at last put behind us petty foibles such as crime and violence in favor of higher, more noble pursuits.

  But through the Renaissance and the discovery of the Americas, the Industrial Revolution and the taming of Earth, the invention of computers and the advent of space flight, human nature had remained fundamentally unchanged. It was foolhardy to believe this latest advancement would bring about some profound transformation in the souls of men.

  In reality, those predisposed to violence did not give it up; they simply developed more sophisticated methods of going about it. Avenues for physical and mental pleasure only became more refined and powerful, and thus an ever greater temptation. Physical addiction was now able to be cured easily enough—but many didn’t want to be cured.

  Through gene therapy, stem cell manipulation and biosynthetic treatments the medical profession cured the great diseases of the body: cancer, Alzheimer’s, muscular dystrophy, paralysis, the list was endless. Diseases of the mind, however, proved to be another matter entirely. The brain represented the most complex organism ever to exist, and impossible to tame. Morality could not be spawned by tweaking a few genes or shutting off a few neurons. Not yet.

  So though humanity conquered the very stars, it remained unable to conquer the darkness within. Thieves, rapists and murderers continued to occur in roughly the same percentage of the population they always had. The weak continued to be preyed upon by the strong in the prolific shadows not policed by any government.

  The Zelones cartel was the strongest criminal organization in settled space because its leadership had always understood certain core truths and harnessed them to maximum effect. Some people desired nothing more than to spend their lives on a synthetically induced high and merely needed the chimerals to do so. Cutthroat businesspeople needed thieves and hackers. Thieves and hackers needed tools and funding. Bullies and thugs needed targets and outlets for their aggression.

  One who could not only recognize these opportunities but channel and exploit the disparate needs was as a puppeteer pulling the strings of the world.

  Olivia Montegreu knew this, because she was one of the puppeteers. It wasn’t arrogance on her part, but simple truth. The veil had been ripped away and the lie at the heart of ‘civilized’ society bared to her a very long time ago.

  She had watched her older sister—weak-minded, impressionable, helpless to take care of herself—eschew their upper-middle class life to hook up with a gang and get addicted to a particularly nasty chimeral. The drug of choice created a state of utter bliss for half an hour that felt like days, then swung in the opposite direction for twice as long. Her sister spent two years as a literal sex slave to the gang’s local leadership before she ended up dead in a back alley in the slums of Buenos Aires, naked and strangled.

  Olivia had watched her parents wail and gnash their teeth an
d pull at their hair, then resume living their lives. She had watched the authorities take statements and nod in feigned sympathy and close the case as ‘gang-related.’ She had watched the world proceed onward, as if nothing at all had happened. One family, one girl, one death among the multitudes.

  Six months later she joined the same gang. The ‘Montserrat Matónes,’ they called themselves. In reality they were financed by an arm of Zelones, one of thousands of such street-level interests, but not even the leaders realized it.

  At first she played the innocent, impressionable young girl her sister had been. She slept with who she needed to but carefully avoided the chimerals in copious supply. She made herself useful and displayed enough capability to get close to the leadership. In time she learned the details of how the gang worked. Though it gave the impression of being an unorganized group of thrill-seekers and dropouts, it did have structure and rules. They procured chimerals from a larger, more powerful group; they were given targets for shakedowns and small-time thefts.

  Once she was satisfied she had learned everything she could, she slid a gamma blade into the base of the Matónes leader’s neck while he fucked her. She killed his lieutenant when he found them—he had been the one who strangled her sister, after all. Then she took over leadership of the gang.

  The year was 2229, and she was sixteen years old.

  Olivia instructed the pilot to wait with the ship at the Krysk spaceport. She didn’t expect to be long, and did not require a chaperone.

  She was meeting the head of the Ferre ‘corporation,’ in all likelihood alongside a retinue of his lieutenants, at their headquarters in the center of downtown. On New Babel she traveled with a small entourage of bodyguards and lieutenants; it was expected and projected the correct image. Here on his turf, Ilario Ferre would doubtless do the same. It wasn’t a problem. In fact, she was counting on it.

  The sweltering heat from the midday sun burned against her bare arms. She wore a sleeveless, lightweight white tunic and loose, breathable linen-style pants to temper the heat.

  The oldest and largest Senecan-allied colony, Krysk offered a robust urban infrastructure. As she walked along the moderately busy sidewalk, she looked to the world like any other young, fresh-faced professional; perhaps a mid-level marketing executive or entertainment director. For she spent a notable percentage of her considerable annual income on cutting-edge cellular regeneration therapies, and would appear to the world—as she had for more than eighty years—in her late twenties.

  No one she passed had the slightest idea one of the most powerful people in the galaxy walked among them. A face scan by a high-end ocular implant might have revealed it, but anyone who tried would find themselves inexplicably unable to capture such a scan. The invisible, nanometer-thick shield coating her skin blocked any and all intrusions of her body and cybernetics and scrambled the signals of any such attempts.

  Her destination was located in an unremarkable midrise just off the main thoroughfare. It claimed to house a company called Fotilas Services, which she suspected didn’t exist beyond a government filing, if that. Senecan Federation regulations were after all notable primarily for their absence.

  She gave the receptionist, a woman with flowing mahogany curls and skin the color of sun-bleached toffee, a charming smile. “Would you tell Mr. Ferre his twelve o’clock is here? I’m expected.” While the receptionist frowned and readied a protest, she added a courteous nod to the camera hidden in the ceiling.

  A second later the woman cleared her throat and stood. “I’ll show you to the conference room, ma’am.”

  The room was deep in the complex. A windowless affair consisting of a conference table and little else, no inner workings of the business would be on display in this venue. As the receptionist stepped in to announce her presence, Olivia nonchalantly ran the bracelet circling her right wrist over the small embedded panel in the wall.

  Ilario Ferre greeted her with a glib smile and a firm grasp of her hand. “Ms. Montegreu, so kind of you to come all this way…” he glanced behind her, a puzzled expression ghosting across his face “…is it only you? You have no escort?”

  “Do I need one? Given all these armed guards here—” she motioned toward the half dozen enforcers lining the walls of the room “—I imagine I am quite safe from anything less than an invasion.”

  To his credit he recovered quickly, dipping his chin in appreciation. “And of course you are. You must forgive me, my father took paranoia to an art form. Old habits and all. Shall we sit?”

  She followed him to the table and took a seat opposite him. Immediately a door opened at one end of the room and a young man and older woman entered. Ilario nodded as they joined them at the table.

  “My mother, Alaina, and my cousin and first lieutenant, Laure.”

  She was familiar with both of them from her files. Alaina, she gave a respectful but curt nod; Laure, a tiny smile.

  “Now I know you are a very busy woman, Ms. Montegreu, so let’s get straight to business, shall we? I confess to being intrigued by the idea of a strategic partnership between our interests. I think we both have much we can offer the other.”

  A strategic partnership—it was the ostensible purpose of her visit. The Zelones cartel was the strongest criminal organization in settled space, but its reach was not absolute. In point of fact, its presence was weakest on Senecan Federation planets, where an entrepreneurial culture encouraged the rise of homegrown, enterprising ‘freelancers’ and where the wholesale change in government twenty-two years earlier had muddled their network of contacts.

  Ilario without a doubt knew this, which was why her overture had likely been perceived as logical and natural. But what he did not know was there was chaos on the horizon, and she did not intend to share the spoils.

  Her expression turned predatory. “Yes, about that. I think the better choice is for you to simply work for me.”

  The man almost choked on the water he was sipping. “Ms. Montegreu, I don’t mean any disrespect, for your, shall we say, business prowess is legendary. But my family does not work ‘for’ anyone. We are doing rather well in the Federation, which I believe is a good deal more than you can say. Now I am willing to entertain discussions of a mutually beneficial arrangement, but nothing else.”

  Her lips pursed together in a show of thoughtfulness. She allowed the silence to stretch a breath longer than was comfortable, then shrugged and stood. “Very well.”

  She lifted her wrist to eject two aSTX-laced blades from her bracelet and into the necks of Ilario and his mother. The toxin would paralyze their respiratory muscles, suffocating them even before they bled out from their throats being sliced open.

  The laser fire from the guards bounced harmlessly off her personal shield. A thought and she activated the EMP she had staged when she touched her bracelet to the panel by the door. Most of the guards were still within three meters of the walls, and the EMP fried their cybernetics along with much of their brain matter as a side effect.

  One guard had been moving toward her and escaped the EMP. Likely deducing—correctly—that physical restraint was the only way to neutralize her, he lowered and squared his shoulders in preparation for tackling her. She slid the gamma blade hilt out of her pants’ pocket and activated a two-meter long blade which sliced him in half at the waist. She took a step back to avoid the blood spurting out of the body and returned the blade hilt to her pocket.

  Physical violence had been an occasional necessity over the years as she climbed the ranks. These days she employed people who would happily engage in it on her behalf, but there were times when a more personal touch was required. She didn’t particularly enjoy it; nor did she particularly loathe it. Violence was simply a tool, and in this instance the most expedient tool available to her.

  Her gaze locked on Laure Ferre. He sat at the table beside his dead cousin and his dead aunt, deep green eyes wide but not panicked as he stared at her. He presumably had by now deduced, first, if she wanted him
dead he would already be so, and second, if he tried to harm her his status would change. His file indicated he was intelligent and quick on his feet, but not so narcissistic as Ilario.

  “You work for me now. The Ferre organization is now a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Zelones cartel. For the time being you will be allowed to continue doing business as you have up until now, subject to a few minor adjustments. Someone will be in touch with the details. Are we clear?”

  A harsh, ragged laugh bubbled up from his chest, but he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” His eyes roved around the room, taking in the massacre, then back to her. “I, um, look forward to being a part of your team.”

  “Glad to hear it.” She pivoted and walked out.

  28 Siyane

  Metis Nebula, Uncharted Planet

  Alex had sandwiches and sliced fruit ready by the time Caleb returned from showering. An environment suit protected a person from the elements outside the suit; it did not create a comfortable environment inside the suit, and three hours in it had left him a sweaty, sticky mess.

  He settled in one of the chairs at the small dining table while she brought the plates over. “Thanks. So what do you think? Is enough material remaining to seal the hull?”

  “I honestly don’t know. You saw, there were definite gaps, but I keep a few spare mats I can use.” She looked across the table at him. “Eat fast so we can find out.”

  “Right.” She was smiling, so he added a light chuckle. It was still a guarded one though, only hinting at reaching her eyes. After a bite of his sandwich he decided to ask about something which had bugged him on the trip out of and back into the ship: the silence. “I can’t help but notice you don’t seem to have a VI on board.”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you uncomfortable with the idea of giving a VI access to the systems?”

  “Not at all. I simply don’t need one to tell me the status of my ship.” She paused, and a smile which felt somehow private tugged at her lips. Her left hand nonchalantly gestured in the direction of the embedded panel behind her.