The crew of the hauler dissolved into a handful of people trying to survive the situation. They were no longer a unit, and they each had opposing ideas about how to make it through. One begged. One was quiet. One postured, puffing out his chest, hoping to deter the pirates. It was that one who drew Horus’s growing anger.
Horus pushed past Delphyne and Wilco, who had subdued the crew. The defiant Byers sailor shrank back, suddenly regretting his gambit. Horus mumbled something that Delphyne couldn’t hear. She made to lean in closer, hoping to understand what her team leader was saying in case it was relevant.
That was when the ship descended into chaos.
Delphyne was struck suddenly in the side of her head. The impact caused her head to rattle inside her helmet, making her vision fuzzy. She thought maybe one of the Byers crew had thrown something at her. She later realized that it was Horus’s elbow that hit her as he drew back to punch the defiant sailor.
A rush of movement disoriented her. She was jostled by rushing bodies. Somebody screamed. Limbs reached past her, groped at her. Then a flash and the whine of blaster fire, and all was still and quiet.
Delphyne braced against the wall of the hauler. She closed her eyes, squeezing them hard, then blinked several times until everything came into focus.
The defiant Byers sailor lay at Horus’s feet. His facemask was shattered. The glass shards stuck in his face. He gurgled as he tried to breath, blood clogging his throat. The same blood that smeared the knuckles of Horus’s gloves.
A second Byers sailor lay a few feet away, a bloody hole in his chest. Smoke trailed from the muzzle of the blaster in Wilco’s hand.
The wild look was gone from Wilco’s eyes, replaced by a glassy stare.
Delphyne felt like she was in the void, all air and noise gone, like she was floating. Then she was sucked back into orbit, suddenly crushed under the gravity of the moment.
The wounded sailor’s gurgled pleas died with a slick crush as Horus stomped on his face. Blood sprayed into the air as if he’d stepped on a tomato. The remaining Byers sailor screamed and was flooded with urgency. He rushed at Horus in a frantic gesture fueled by fear and rage and helplessness.
Wilco stepped in the man’s path, drawing the dagger from his belt and stabbing it into his gut. Warm blood poured from the wound, covering Wilco’s hand. The wild look returned to his eyes. Wilco pulled the blade free only to plunge it in again. And then again.
Blood splattered over the front of Delphyne. The man fell dead.
“Lead ship secure.” The voice sounded far away, like it was being spoken all around her but echoing through a valley. The voice came again, closer, more forceful. “Away Team B, do you copy?”
Delphyne realized then that it was Bayne speaking through her comm. Her face grew hot, a wave of panic hitting her as she fumbled with her thoughts, trying to piece together an explanation. “Copy,” was all she could say.
“Is the rear ship secure?”
She knew what she was supposed to say, but she couldn’t muster the word. Because it wasn’t. It was covered in blood. But all she said was, “Yes.”
5
The smell of the mines was aerosolized memory. Bad memory.
Hep and Wilco had worked mining haulers before. They were passed between captains in Parallax’s fleet for years, but the worst they ever served was Captain Willem Manning, also known as Dredge. He terrorized the mining routes in the Black, a job few others cared for because jacking ore meant you needed to transport and offload it somewhere. Towing a trailer of ore slowed the ship and made hard burn impossible. So after drawing the attention of the mining guilds, which were notoriously brutish, you had to move at a snail’s pace before you could make port and find refuge.
Once you did, you needed to find a dealer who would either trade or broker a deal for the ore. It was hard to move unless you had a few dedicated clients looking for the stuff. But Dredge made a decent living at it, seeing how he was one of the few doing it.
But his reasons for focusing on the mining routes went beyond carving out his own niche market. The atmosphere of the mining industry, from top to bottom, was brutal. And Dredge relished brutality. He never completed a job without spilling blood. He would slaughter whole trawlers. Sometimes he took prisoners so he could take his time with them, beating information about trade routes out of them. Beating them for fun.
And the brutality was not saved for adversaries. It was heaped equally on his own crew.
The first few weeks in Ore Town were a flood of remembered torment that nearly put Hep in a permanent fetal position. He barely got out of bed, and no one forced him to. They were too busy navigating their newfound renegade status. The ferocity of the memories faded over time. He learned to cope with them, to push them to the back of his mind so he could focus on other things.
Like Wilco.
The flood of memories, and the refreshed trauma, seemed to be affecting him differently. They shared the same experiences, but Wilco always seemed to be more guarded against them. Armored. He was the shield, protecting Hep from the worst of the beatings and the torture. Guilt twisted Hep’s gut as he recalled thinking that Wilco was too strong to be broken.
Wilco may have been just as broken as Hep. Only he had no shield.
Bayne ordered the deckhands to unload the Rabid Dog and attached trailer. A few of them sneered, clearly not keen on the former Naval officer barking orders, but most just listened. Pirates were many things, but rigid was not one. The pirate life was fluid, always changing. That was the draw.
Wilco followed Horus as they disembarked and made for the bunkhouse in the heart of town. They’d taken to sleeping there. It had been more than two weeks since Wilco slept on the Blue.
Hep wanted to follow, or rather, he wanted to want to, but he didn’t want to venture further into Ore Town. In the six weeks they’d been docked there, Hep hadn’t gone further than the docks themselves. He wanted no part of the lifestyle Wilco seemed to embrace. He just wanted Wilco. He wanted his friend back.
He returned to the Blue instead.
Delphyne followed close behind, but she seemed like she was still in space, drifting, trying to keep her feet on the ground.
Hep slowed, allowing her to catch up to him. The spatters of red on her front made his stomach bubble. Small, red spots, spaced apart in a way that showed they traveled a distance before reaching her. Not like the spatter on Wilco and Horus. Thick, crimson dots, so close together that they merged to form big circles.
Wilco was standing close to whoever that blood used to belong to. Really close.
“Are you okay?”
Delphyne stared straight ahead. Her mouth hung open like she was on the verge of saying something. She didn’t. She was silent save for her broken breathing, inhales stopping suddenly like they might not want to continue.
Hep touched her arm. She jumped back, eyes wide with fear like she hadn’t realized Hep was there. “Don’t touch me!” Her eyes focused. Her breathing calmed.
“I’m sorry.” Hep put his hands up, trying to assure her he meant no harm.
Delphyne pressed her hands into her eyes. “No, I’m sorry. I just… Sorry.”
They walked to the Blue in silence.
Mao stood at the foot of the landing platform like a guard on duty, feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back. Hep knew he was really waiting for them to return. Mao and Bayne had their differences, and the rift growing between them was large enough by now that you could sail a ship through it, but Hep could still see the concern in Mao’s eyes. Concern for his captain. For his friend.
A concern of a different kind shone in his eyes when Delphyne approached him. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “It’s not mine.” Before Mao could ask, she said, “A Byers sailor. None of ours were injured. Mission success.” She said it without celebration.
Mao’s stoic face twitched nearly imperceptibly, betraying the rush of thoughts running through his head.
/> Hep was practiced at reading the minute changes in Mao’s expression now. As far as they went, these were huge, detailing the anger contained in the disciplined man.
Mao nodded. He pivoted his body like a door opening and gestured for Hep and Delphyne to board.
It hurt how much the Royal Blue now felt like every other pirate ship Hep had served on. On the surface, it seemed chaotic, undisciplined. But, underneath that, there was an air of oppression. A feeling of walking on a knife’s edge, with an ever-present threat of slipping and being sliced in half.
The quiet was the worst part. Like a cemetery. And his cabin was his tomb. He had his own now that such a huge portion of the crew had jumped ship. There was a time he wanted nothing more than his own space. Now…it was just too quiet.
Hep tried to sleep. He was tired. The mission took it out of him. But every time he closed his eyes, his mind became stuck in an endless loop of what if, and he questioned each decision he’d made that led him here, sleeping in his tomb.
The truth was, he didn’t feel like he’d made many, and it felt pathetic to admit to himself. He hadn’t taken an active role in guiding his life. He had let life happen to him. He’d abdicated to Wilco, let him be the guiding, protecting force. Needed him to be.
The one decision that trapped him in that loop was the one offered him by Colonel Tirseer—kill Captain Drummond Bayne and receive a full pardon for him and Wilco or stay a member of Bayne’s crew and march ever-quicker toward the gallows.
He’d taken Tirseer’s offer. Though he still wasn’t sure whether he ever intended to follow through on it. Looking back, it seemed more likely that he took it because it was pushed on him, again allowing life to be dictated to him. But it was wholly his decision to save Bayne in that minefield.
What if he hadn’t? What if he had let Bayne die? If he killed him then? Hep and Wilco could be on a moon somewhere, toes in the sand, drinking rum as they watched the sun rise.
But then he spun further into the loop.
It wouldn’t have mattered. Wilco would never have gone with him. He was a pirate.
Hep sat up on his bed, rubbing the weariness from his eyes. They had coffee in Ore Town. Parallax loved it. Hep remembered the corridors of the Black Hole smelling like it as Parallax walked the ship.
He realized now why Parallax loved it so much. He grabbed the tin of coffee grounds he bought from the Ore Town market and headed for the galley.
Delphyne was there, standing over a stove she’d yet to turn on. She stared ahead at the wall like it was a window overlooking infinity, looking into the endless abyss. She startled when Hep entered, jumping back and bumping into a rack of pots and pans. The sound of clanking metal made her cringe.
“Sorry,” Hep said. He raised the tin for her to see. “Just making coffee. Want some?”
She looked from him to the tin and back, her eyes unfocused. “Sure. Thanks.”
Hep poured the grounds into the pot as the water set to boil. He stuck his face in the container and inhaled the smell. His mind flooded with pleasant memories. Parallax walking with him through the ship on his birthday, handing him the first present he’d gotten in years—a pin he’d made himself out of old wire. Sitting with Wilco on the observation deck, listening to Parallax hum a song behind them.
Bright moments amidst a sea of black.
Hep poured the boiling water over the coffee grounds. “Was it him?”
Delphyne cocked her head.
“Wilco. Whatever happened on the caravan. Was it Wilco?” Hep whispered. If he spoke any louder, he feared his voice would crack.
Delphyne held her breath. “In part.”
A dull ache formed in Hep’s gut. As the coffee grounds steeped, Hep took three cups from the cupboard. He filled one with a splash of milk and three heaping scoops of sugar. He grabbed the three mugs with one hand and the coffee pot with the other. He gestured for Delphyne to follow as he left the galley.
They said nothing as they walked through the corridors of the quiet ship, though Hep could feel Delphyne’s curiosity. And he felt a shift of unease when she realized where they were going.
She stopped at the bulky metal door. “Why are we here?”
“To talk.” Hep opened the brig door and stepped inside.
Mao stood to greet them. Sigurd stirred uncomfortably on his cot.
“Thank you for coming,” Mao said.
Hep set the coffee down. He poured some in each mug then handed the one with milk and sugar to Sigurd through the bars. “Your note didn’t say what this was about.” He’d found the hand-scribbled note under his pillow when he returned from the Rabid Dog. A time and a location, but no details.
Mao gestured for them to sit. “Just to chat.”
6
The climb to the penthouse seemed endless and disorienting. Halfway up, Bayne forgot which direction he was going. He suddenly felt like he was descending. Wyrmwood escorted him up twelve flights of stairs then stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. The echo of the pilot’s feet sounded for minutes as he walked back down.
An ominous feeling filled Bayne’s chest, wrapping around his heart and squeezing so breathing required effort. The sight of Delphyne, splattered in blood, flashed on the backs of his eyes. Seeing what she’d become, what he made her. She was the standard of dedication, or service. And he’d twisted her. The look in her eyes. She looked broken.
He pushed the image away and entered the penthouse.
Parallax rose from behind his desk, arms wide to welcome the victor. But it was the man sitting on the other side of the desk that Bayne noticed first. He was the man who Bayne rushed for, one hand out to wrap around his throat, one hand on the handle of his sword.
Lachlan Hix stood to meet him, pulling his blaster in defense. Navy captains weren’t allowed to carry swords.
“Easy, now, Captain Bayne,” Hix said. “You’d make a man think we aren’t on the same side.”
“We aren’t,” Bayne growled, stopping just out of reach of Hix’s throat.
Parallax clapped his hands. “Us, them—these are the types of dichotomies I abhor. So black and white.” He walked around the front of his desk. “For now, let’s accept the fact that you’re both here, in my home.” His voice carried the specter of threat. “Now, sit. We’ve much to discuss.”
Parallax returned to his desk, from which he produced a bottle of rum and three glasses. He filled them as he spoke. “First, a toast.” He slid the glasses to Bayne and Hix. “To Drummond Bayne, newest citizen of Ore Town.”
Bayne looked down at the glass like it was a live explosive. If jostled, it may explode. If left alone, it may still explode. He hoisted the glass to his lips. If he was about to be blown up, he may as well have a belly full of rum.
“Wyrmwood debriefed me on your way back,” Parallax said. “Well done. You always were the creative sort. Just the type of person we need right now.”
Bayne slid his empty glass back across the desk. “Let’s be clear. I’m not part of whatever anarchist’s commune you’re cooking here. I’m laying low until I can sail away from this rock and find a way to clear my name.” He stabbed a finger at Hix. “A name that’s only dirty because of you.”
“Now, now,” Parallax said, “let’s remain civil. Your name was dirty from the day you were born. Born poor on a poor moon in the middle of a war. Your life meant nothing. Your name only got dirtier when you became a Ranger. Tirseer had already marked you for death.”
The words rang truer than Bayne wanted to admit. He sat, putting his hatred of Hix aside for now. “Why is he here? Pulling your mole out of the Navy is a risky move.”
“He didn’t pull me out,” Hix said. “I’m still active. I’m exactly where the Navy ordered me to be.” Hix smiled as he sipped his rum.
“You going to make me ask what the hell you’re talking about?” Bayne’s hatred of Hix flared again.
Parallax dug his elbows into his desk, an oaken relic of Earth’s old pirate days. Worth a fo
rtune, but his nostalgia knew no limits. “Hix is part of the scout fleet sent to assess this sector. The Navy is finally planning to invade Ore Town.”
He said it plainly, without flair.
Hix smirked, setting his now-empty glass down on the desk. “I’m very good at my job.”
The room felt like it was squeezing around Bayne. The rum in his gut turned to cement. “When?”
“Once I make my report to Ayala, the main fleet will arrive in three days.”
Bayne’s head swam. He couldn’t catch his breath. “And if you don’t make your report? Or you tell Ayala not to come? That it’s too risky?”
Parallax walked around the front of his desk, arms folded behind his back. He stood in front of the wall of glass, looking out at Ore Town. “And why would he do that?”
The question seemed so ridiculous Bayne didn’t know how to answer. It should have been obvious. “So they don’t come and obliterate us?”
Still facing the glass, Parallax removed his mask. Bayne saw half of Parallax’s face reflected in the window. “We don’t need the ore that you just stole from the Byers Clan. We are sitting on more than we’ll ever need. But I’ve been taking their caravans for months. Why risk my people and ships for something I don’t need?”
He turned to face Bayne. For moment, Bayne saw the man he once knew. Alexander Kyte. Ranger captain. Proud man. Dutiful man. Respected man. But then he morphed into the man he was now. Parallax. Pirate lord. Feared. Ruthless.
“To hurt them,” Parallax said. “To tip the cost/benefit analysis toward action.”
Bayne’s face twisted in confusion. “You want them to come at you?”
Parallax tried to smile, but the scars on his face made the action seem impossible. The gesture his mouth made looked more pained than anything else. It made Bayne wonder if, all those times he seemed to be, Parallax was really smiling under his mask. “I do.”
The Deep Black Space Opera Boxed Set Page 30
