“Business?” A stocky syndicate soldier blocked Wilco’s path. One hand rested on the butt of his rifle while the other hovered over his holstered sidearm.
Wilco rolled his neck as he exhaled, a practice he’d taken to as a way of soothing his typically fiery response, which tended to elevate situations. “How’s about you back off?”
Trapper Mayne appeared at Wilco’s side, his hand on Wilco’s forearm. The monk’s calming presence was an illusion. He projected what others expected of him—the disposition of a thoughtful, reverent man. He played the role well, but Wilco saw through it, as had the monks of his order shortly before expelling him. “We are merely passing through. The long journey has taken its toll on my friend, I’m afraid. My apologies for his behavior.”
The soldier looked Trapper Mayne up and down, his face tightening with suspicion. Trapper returned a smile full of broken teeth. “You aren’t passing through anywhere until we get a look at your ship.” He leaned to the side and eyed the ship behind them. “A scrapper? Doesn’t make for a comfortable pilgrimage, now does it?”
The thinly-veiled jab at Trapper’s attire—leather sleeves that connected around the back but left his chest bare, a clear indicator of his religious background—sent a barely-perceptible crack snaking through the monk’s façade. Wilco smiled as he continued to roll his neck, sensing the tension grow in Trapper.
The stocky soldier gestured for Wilco and Trapper to step aside as a second soldier marched toward the ship carrying a scanner. They hoped to find contraband hidden in the floor panels, or migrant workers crammed in crawl spaces, anything they could tax or take for their own. The syndicate held no official authority, but with the Navy and Byers Clan warring with each other, the edge of civilized space was left to police itself. The Elmore Syndicate was the biggest cop in the sector.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Trapper said at the second soldier’s back. The stocky one shoved a hand into his chest, preemptively stopping him from following. Trapper looked down at the soldier’s hand pressing into him. “Neither will that.”
“Stay put,” the stocky guard said.
Wilco let his head fall back to its resting position, locking eyes with the stocky guard for the first time. “My friend only has your best interests at heart. I’d heed his words if I were you.”
The stocky soldier took a half-step toward Wilco, his face now only inches away. “That a threat?”
Wilco smiled. “I’m a clairvoyant. This here is a traveling circus.” He jutted his chin toward Trapper Mayne. “He’s our acrobat.”
The second guard disappeared up the gangplank of the ship, under the name Dorian Black freshly painted on the hull. The guard immediately returned, though clearly not of his own will or under his own power. He was thrown back, missed the gangplank entirely, and slammed onto the floor of the hangar bay. Kurda emerged a moment later, her thick platinum and purple braids swinging like church bells.
“That there is our strong woman,” Wilco said, his voice ringing with amusement.
The stocky guard tried to remove his hand from Trapper’s chest and draw his sidearm, but Trapper grabbed his wrist. With a subtle and seemingly effortless motion, Trapper bent the soldier’s hand back and dropped him to the deck.
Wilco walked around the stocky soldier. “My powers are not to be dismissed.” He drew his dagger and slammed the butt of the handle into the back of the soldier’s head, knocking him unconscious. He stood over the wriggling body of the second guard, who struggled to move his arms. Wilco stood on the man’s wrist before it could reach his weapon. Tapping the tip of the dagger to the soldier’s forehead, Wilco said, “I have a use for you.”
Kurda’s heavy footsteps drew Wilco’s eye. She stood like an oak, unmoving and wooden. “The hangar is secure. More will come.”
“Yes,” Wilco said. “I suppose we should be moving then.” He stood and gestured for Kurda to lift the soldier. “How fare our ungracious hosts? They are abiding by the plan, I assume?”
“Not even a little,” Kurda said without humor.
Wilco feigned surprise. “I am aghast with disbelief.” He shrugged, dropping the act. “As long as they stay out of the way. Now, you.” He tapped his dagger to the soldier’s chest. “You’ve a man in your custody, if rumor is to be believed. You will take me to him now. You will also tell your comrades to kindly leave us be, lest you want this blade inserted in your soft bits.”
The soldier fought against Kurda’s grip. She barely noticed his resistance. “I won’t be doing any of that,” he spat defiantly.
Wilco sighed. “What is it that inspires such loyalty among you syndicate goons? Not the sense of duty and honor the Navy indoctrinates in its sailors. Not the money the Byers Clan pays its cannon fodder.” He leaned in close to the soldier, as if to study him. “What is it?”
Before the soldier could spit out an answer, another figured emerged from the ship and descended the gangplank. Long robes draped behind them. Face and body totally hidden, Cloak moved like a ghost. It was an oddity of a creature, unknown whether man or woman, no certainty the creature was even human, but it carried with it an eerie aura, a cold feeling that leeched from it into any who stood too close.
“You’re meant to remain on the ship,” Wilco said.
Cloak did not answer. It extended its gloved hand and pressed the tips of three fingers to the soldier’s head. The soldier squirmed so fiercely that Kurda needed to readjust her grip to keep him from slipping free. He writhed in silence, his scream trapped in his throat. Black veins snaked from the points of contact and spread through his face, swallowing his eyes. The soldier fell dead, dangling like a lifeless doll in Kurda’s grasp. She examined the dead body then dropped it unceremoniously.
Cloak drifted past Wilco toward the exit of the hangar and the corridor that would access the rest of the ship. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Wilco jogged to catch up. “He was going to tell me. I just needed a minute.”
Cloak said nothing. Wilco dropped back a few paces. Kurda and Trapper Mayne flanked him. They kept their eyes forward, Trapper straining to keep his eyes off Wilco and Kurda straining to keep them off Cloak. Though Trapper was no longer welcomed in his order, the practices he’d learned among them remained. He was strongly empathic, able to sense and feel the emotions of those around him. It was this skill that led to his expulsion. It was the practice of the monks to harness the ability as a means of healing. Trapper Mayne did not use it so altruistically. Feeling the emotions of others was like a poison. No person should know so intimately the hearts of so many others, he eventually reasoned. Because their hearts were blackened with selfish desire, loathing and hatred. They were not worthy of healing. Wilco considered the ability intrusive when used on him, but incredibly useful when harnessed to manipulate others.
Kurda was not so intuitive. She was raised among the New Vikings, a nomadic tribe that valued conquest and dominance above all else. They considered sentimentality to be a weakness and humanity as a whole to be overly sentimental. But even Kurda, among the coldest and most brutal of the New Vikings, was intimidated by Cloak’s disconnected cruelty.
The Elmore Syndicate’s influence had outpaced its ranks, and now they were stretched thin trying to maintain their new power. As such, the station was undermanned. They encountered little resistance between the hangar and the brig.
The five soldiers stationed outside the brig seemed more irritated to have their card game interrupted than anything else, and they didn’t realize they were caught in the midst of a jailbreak rather than an inspection.
A short, bulky woman rose to greet them, huffing at the loss of a good hand. “Whatever the hell this is, we ain’t interested.” Cloak tilted their head in a gesture of puzzlement. The woman returned the look. “You deaf or whatever? Mute?” She looked past Cloak. “This some kind of religious thing? We ain’t bound by no treaties or whatever. Nothing says we got to let you see him.”
Wilco snatched Cloak by the wris
t before their hand could rise and grab the woman’s face. “Quite right,” he said to the woman. “No such convention exists. And we come waving no flag or treaty or religious treatise that grants us any authority, be it political or moral or otherwise. We’ve heard whispers of the man in that cell and wish only to speak with him.”
The woman folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes. “Whispers, huh?” She looked past the group as if expecting others to come following. “How’d you get in here, anyway?”
“The helpful gents in the hangar pointed us your way. They said their comrades were most professional and would likely turn us away, denying our humble request, but I insisted.” He cast a sidelong glance at Trapper, who returned a nod. “Because I know that, professional as they may be, the soldiers of the Elmore Syndicate are equally, if not more, pragmatic.” The woman’s eyes widened. “I have a need to see the man inside. You lot seem to require more fuel for your gambling endeavors.” Wilco pulled a tablet from his pocket and feigned scanning through an account. “I believe we can reach an agreement that satisfies both our needs.”
The woman considered him a moment before glancing at the other soldiers. She gestured from them to stand as she stepped away. “I suppose we can. I’ll give you ten minutes. But if our needs ain’t satisfied after that, then you ain’t leaving this station.” She and the other soldiers disappeared down the hall.
A self-satisfied grin stretched across Wilco’s face. “I’m not one to shy away from drawing my blade, but sometimes, a few well-place words will do the trick.” He felt odd lecturing on restraint.
Cloak seemed to ignore him.
Kurda posted outside the brig to stand guard. Cloak drifted through the door as Trapper opened it. Wilco sighed and followed.
The brig was a repurposed storage bunker. In fact, the station itself was repurposed. It had been a commerce center a hundred years ago, built during a boom in interplanetary trade and at a time of galactic excess. The station had never been used as intended, as the economies of nearly every major planet plummeted in a direct precursor to the rise of the warlords. Stations like this were left to drift, monuments to poor planning. Had it been used as intended, this room would have been filled with tons of freeze-dried food or inventory for some garish boutique. As it stood, the room housed only one thing.
Edi Shankar, commonly known as the warlord Husk. He seemed an old man, a relic, though he was barely into his fifties. He rose slowly, groaning as his knees protested, to greet the newcomers. He squinted, trying to make out their forms in the dim light. “Teatime already?”
“Not hardly,” Wilco said.
“Who’s there? Don’t sound like anyone I know.”
Wilco stepped close enough for the pathetic old man to make him out. “Because I’m not. Though that will change.”
Shankar slunk back from Wilco, recognition and terror flashing on his face. “Heard you were dead. Claw your way out of hell and you come here? What’d I do to deserve haunting?”
Wilco puzzled over the man’s meaning until realization came to him. He tapped his mask. “I’ve got one of those faces. I’m not Parallax. He is indeed dead. Though misplaced, your fear is warranted.” Wilco drew the black blade Malevolence from his back. He relished the spark of dread in Shankar’s eyes. “I knew the man. He saw fit to grant me this. Do you know it?” Shankar nodded. “Then we can skip the part where I threaten you or appeal to your sense of nostalgia and get right to the part where you agree to help me.”
“What help you need?”
“I would very much like to assassinate someone.”
3
Four hundred and twenty-three.
That was how many sailors had died. That was how many letters Captain Taliesin Mao had written over the past three weeks. They did not all serve under his command. In fact, none of them had served under his command. It was a long-held tradition in the Navy that captains personally inform the families of their subordinates in the occasion of their death or serious injury. It was the least a captain could do. But, now, the tradition was being weaponized.
Force Commander Calibor, presumably under orders from Colonel Tirseer, informed Mao that he would be writing the letters for every sailor killed at the Inferni Cluster. Calibor didn’t say outright that it was a punishment, as such a thing would be in poor taste, but Mao knew it for what it was. After finally signing his name to the last letter, Mao poured himself a drink. He downed it in one gulp, then poured another.
As angry as he was at Calibor for perverting such a solemn tradition and weaponizing the memories of dead sailors, he did not feel it unjustified. It was Mao’s plan that ended in the destruction of nearly the entire expeditionary force. It was Mao who let the man responsible escape, if he even was a man anymore, and it was his former chief of security at that. Positions reversed, Mao would have thrown Calibor in the brig, stripped him of his rank, and hauled him back to Central for court martial.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. He found himself wishing he’d never accepted the captaincy of the Royal Blue. He questioned whether he was worthy of it, whether he was capable. It was a spiral of doubt to which he was not accustomed, and it left him feeling ill, like he’d eaten something that didn’t agree with him. Maybe it was just the liquor. He set the glass down and hid the bottle of rum away in his bottom desk drawer.
A knock sounded on his door, rousing him from his self-pity. The ship had grown quiet in the weeks since the Inferni Cluster. The crew acted like children tiptoeing through the house, afraid to wake their angry father. They regarded each other with nods and whispers. The knock was disconcerting.
“Enter.”
Lieutenant Anisa Delphyne appeared in the doorway. She’d become sullen, which was the most troubling change of all. Usually relentlessly positive and cheerful, she seemed defeated now. When she dimmed, the whole of the ship dimmed. She was the brightest, like the sun of the Royal Blue, and when she went out, the world felt cold and hopeless. “A word, sir?”
Mao nodded. He felt suddenly ashamed of the liquor on his breath. He moved from the desk chair to the edge of his bed and gestured for Delphyne to take his empty seat. She moved with lead in her muscles, suffering under a gravity that seemed too much for her.
She sat for a long minute without saying anything. Mao didn’t prod. He secretly hoped she continued to say nothing, leaving him free to wallow alone. Delphyne was anything but quiet. “I’m here to request a transfer, sir.”
Mao pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, you aren’t.”
Delphyne tilted her head, thinking she must have heard him wrong. “Beg your pardon?”
“You aren’t requesting a transfer. You’re here to harass me for letting Hep go. You want to yell at me and curse my name. You want me to promise never to do such a thing again, to think about how my judgement is compromised, how such a move is a slippery slope toward becoming everything I claim to loathe. You want me to go after them.”
Delphyne dug her elbows into her thighs and stared at the floor. Her breathing quickened. “I am requesting a transfer, sir. Maybe I would have done those other things once, but now, I’m just tired, sir. And I’m scared.”
“You’ve seen a lot the over the last few years—”
“Not about that. I’m not scared about any of that.” She sat up. Her eyes were hard, fighting back tears. “I’m tired of watching people I respect, people I care about, turn into something I can’t respect anymore. Criminals. Murderers. Monsters.”
“That wasn’t Sig.”
“That’s my point exactly, sir. It wasn’t Sig. So what the hell was it? Some…creature. Something that took his body and turned him into a war criminal. And after everything that happened with Bayne. And now…” Her voice trailed off. “I can’t do it anymore.”
Mao looked at his desk and the bottle in its drawer. He longed for another drink. Shame burned in his throat as if he’d taken one. “You’ve served this ship well. You’ve served me well. I
won’t force you to serve here any longer if you wish to leave. You’ve earned the right to choose that much at least.” He looked back at her, his face tight with concern. “But I worry there is no place you can go where you will not be haunted by everything that’s happened here.”
“I have a good therapist.”
“That’s not what I mean. Tirseer.” He whispered her name, afraid she might appear if he said it too loud. “She’s been watching this ship and her crew since Bayne. She will keep you under surveillance. May even bring you in.”
“I won’t tell her anything.” There was a bite in her voice.
Exasperation swelled in Mao. He felt like he was speaking with a jilted child rather than a subordinate. “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about your safety, Anisa. Tirseer is ruthless. She has a plan for something, for the systems, that I can’t see, and she has no qualms as to how she achieves her goals. She will burn down everything and everyone in her path to get where she’s going. I worry she will see you as an obstacle.”
Delphyne shifted uneasily in her chair. She avoided Mao’s eye. She was quiet.
“Do you have a request as to where you should be transferred?”
The question seemed to add more weight to her shoulders. She uncrossed her legs then crossed them again, unsure what to do with her body. “I don’t think I’m meant to serve on a ship. Maybe an administrative position somewhere?”
“I can’t say I agree with your assessment. You are one of the finest sailors I know. But I will not impede your wishes. Just know that I can only make a recommendation as to your assignment. The ultimate decision lies with Central.”
The Deep Black Space Opera Boxed Set Page 49
