Hep considered the comment a moment. “Respectfully, that’s big load of crap.”
“You’ve spent too much time with Horus.”
“Agreed. But those are my words and wholly my feelings on the matter. We’ve made questionable decisions, yes, but they’re always based on what we think is right. We’ve defied orders and given orders that didn’t sit right in our guts, but always because we thought they moved us a little closer to being right. If that’s not integrity, then I don’t know what is.”
Mao looked at Hep like he was just now noticing something about the young man that he’d never seen. “Just because we think it’s right doesn’t mean that it actually is. I let you take Sigurd. Now Wilco has him, and we have no idea what his endgame is. I’ve been stripped of my rank, we’re all fugitives, and we’ve both lost our ships. How could our decisions have been right if this is where they brought us?” His chin jerked up like he’d been asleep and just woke up. He laughed as if he realized the dream from which he’d just awoken was not real. “Look at me asking you these questions. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
“Why?” Hep asked. “Because you’re so wise? We’re sitting in the same cell on the same rusty heap of a ship. Seems to me I’m just as wise as you.”
“Which is to say not at all.” They shared an easy laugh. The kind of laugh neither had enjoyed in a long time. The kind that came when worry was the furthest from your mind and all you thought about was the next drink or the next hand of cards and the joke you couldn’t stop laughing at. Then the laughter died, and their cell felt sullen again. Mao took a sudden, deep breath. “Can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I wish Captain Bayne was here.”
“Why can’t you believe that? He had a knack for getting out of impossible situations. If anyone was going to sail us through this in one piece, it’d be him.”
Mao shook his head. “Everything that’s happening now is because of him. A direct line could be drawn from his actions to this moment. We wouldn’t be here if not for him.”
“Then we’d still be sailing under the command of a mass murderer. He exposed Tirseer. The time you long for never existed. It was all built on lies and dead bodies.”
Mao stood. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the beautiful republic I thought I served was just a dream, but I’ll keep behaving as if that dream is real. Because that’s the only way it ever will be. And in that world, we don’t let our friends, good people, suffer when we can do something about it.”
Hep looked up at him and suddenly noticed the same thing in him that Mao noticed in Hep. They were each looking in cracked mirrors. They were broken reflections of each other, of the same dream. Of Bayne’s dream. They had each inherited an aspect of it. Now, they struggled to reconcile them, to make the dream whole. Hep took the same bracing breath. “Sounds lovely. Let’s hope we don’t get blown up.”
“You are the successor Bayne deserved. I was the one he got. The Ranger spirit is strong in you. I’m a Navy man. Bayne and Parallax failed for the same reason: they lost faith in their own dream. They became cynical husks of themselves and stopped fighting for the world they dreamed of, instead fighting for vengeance and spit, for their own selfish purposes. I fear you’re on a path to meeting the same end.”
Before Hep could rebut, a voice spoke over the ship-wide comm. “We’ve got incoming,” Byrne said. “The fish took the bait.”
Hep and Mao let their conversation hang in the air. They ran to the bridge.
“They’re hailing us, sir,” Graeme said. “Sirs,” he corrected, looking at Hep and Mao.
“Put it on screen,” Bigby said before slinking into the dark, out of view of the monitor.
A figure appeared on the cracked monitor, her form distorted by strands of rainbow colors that snaked throughout. “Ship designated The Bucket, you have been targeted and you will be destroyed if you choose to act rashly and disobey my commands. You are under arrest and now in the custody of the United Navy.”
“Oh no,” Hep said, his voice flat. “You caught us.”
Captain Zaya Medviev leaned closer to the camera, her face piercing through the distortion. “Power down all nonessential systems. You have one minute to comply before we open fire.”
Graeme muted the comm.
“Okay,” Mao said. “Step one complete.”
3
Being locked in a tractor beam not only affected the ship, but all the people inside. Each of the syndicate ships locked onto the Fair Wind and tugged it along. Everyone on board the Fair Wind felt the powerful super-magnets pull on them as well. The metal on their clothes fluttered, not knowing which direction to go. Their heads ached. They couldn’t focus. Wilco could barely contain the scream stuck in his throat, his cybernetic components pulling in different directions.
Ayala didn’t seem concerned. She never seemed concerned. Wilco doubted whether she had the ability to feel concerned about anything. “This man,” she said. “Compton Elmore. This one knows very little of him. What do you know of him? Will he be a problem?”
The way she spoke reminded Wilco that she wasn’t Ayala anymore, not fully. “I only know him by reputation. He was feared by everyone who sailed the Deep Black. Even Parallax was wary of him. He’s ruthless in protecting what’s his and taking what he says should be his.”
“What makes him different than Parallax? Why is he not considered a pirate?”
She seemed somewhat like a child then. Not enough so that Wilco spoke to her like one. “I don’t know. He is, I suppose. But there’s a semi-legitimate aspect to his outfit. He’s got deals with the Byers Clan and Navy, or at least, he did at one point. Off-the-books deals to smuggle and supply them, the kinds of jobs they don’t want publicized. He ran jobs like that for lots of organizations and conglomerates, so I guess that earns him the privilege of being considered more than a pirate.”
“Does he consider himself more than a pirate?”
The question caught Wilco off guard. “I don’t know.”
“Then we must find out.”
The comm squawked to life. “We’re approaching the station now,” said the syndicate captain. “We’ll haul you in. Once we dock, you stay put. Attempt to leave your ship and you’ll be gunned down.”
The station in question was another similar to Brekken Station from which they’d sprung Shankar. A derelict monument to the excess of generations past. This one was called the Den. It was smaller than Brekken, but more completely outfitted for the purposes of running an intergalactic organization of criminal activity, and it housed a centralized communications hub on the top level that rivaled Central’s. From there, Elmore and his people could communicate with all of the ships under his command, which was a substantial number—a fleet roughly a third of the Navy. Elmore could coordinate movement across the systems and throughout the Deep Black. It also served as a monitoring station, collecting data and scanning comm frequencies throughout the systems.
This, not the size of his fleet, was what allowed Elmore to be so successful. His military mind and tactical genius made him a force beyond that of any of the pirate lords, save perhaps Parallax. His prowess was a deterrent to any who would think to threaten his operation. On the rare occasion that any force actually tried to either shut him down and take his business, he wielded his prowess with brutal efficiency.
The middle level was essentially one massive hangar. Elmore’s fleet was sizeable and diverse. He’d bought and repaired dozens of junked ships, even reclaimed some drifters. Others he had confiscated from the smugglers he strong-armed into his service as he consolidated his hold on the Deep Black smuggling operation. Some among his fleet seemed to be Navy ships. Wilco suspected he would find their names on a Navy list of destroyed or decommissioned ships.
The lowest level of the Den housed all of the essential systems—life support, air and water recycling, energy infrastructure. This level ensured the Den remained operational and self-sustaining.
The team assembled on the bridge o
f the Fair Wind. An unsettling mix of anger and calm emanated from the collecting that seemed to take a toll on Trapper Mayne. He sat on the floor, legs crossed and eyes closed, focused on his breathing. Ayala was, as always, calm to the point of lifelessness, and that only seemed to agitate Shankar.
“You just broke me out of a syndicate jail,” Shankar said.
“I remember,” Wilco said.
“And now you are returning me to them? Is this just an exercise in wasting time and pissing people off or something? Because it seemed to me like you had things you wanted to get done, and I don’t understand how any of this is helping you do that.”
Wilco drew a whetstone down the length of his sword blade. The hum of the metal, that frequency, was a lullaby. “You can settle yourself right down, Shankar. I’m not done with you yet.”
“Oh, because I thought we just got hauled to the feet of the most dangerous man in the Deep Black. A man who literally tossed a coin to decide whether to lock me up forever or just kill me. But maybe I’m mistaken, and you’re taking me to see a different Compton Elmore who leads a different Elmore Syndicate.”
Kurda bent at the waist until she was a nose length from Shankar’s face. “Shut up.”
Wilco sheathed his sword. “Seconded. All in favor?”
“Aye,” Trapper said, his eyes still closed.
“And the ayes have it,” Wilco said. “Shankar, shut up.”
Trapper’s eyes opened. “They’re coming. They’re jumpy, on edge.”
“Who isn’t?” Wilco said. He rolled his neck and tried to stretch the lingering ache out of his arms and legs. He still felt the magnets’ pull on them, like they were being pulled out of their sockets.
A metallic rap sounded on the outside of the hull. With a nod from Wilco, Kurda lowered the gangplank.
“No scenes now,” Wilco said, his eyes lingering on Shankar. “Let me do the talking, and you all keep your traps shut no matter what. I don’t want Elmore flipping a coin on us. And, most importantly…” He gestured with his fingers, drawing a mouth on his mask. “Smiles. Don’t want to seem inhospitable.”
Trapper led Kurda and Shankar to the cargo hold. Ayala gestured for Wilco to hold back, not in any overt way, not even moving. Wilco just had a sense. That had been happening a lot lately, growing stronger, the feeling like she was in his head.
“I believe this man will find my current state unsettling.” She didn’t frame it as a question, but she waited for a reply. Wilco nodded. “I will present myself in a way he may better understand. This will require you to play along.” She said the words playfully, like an aristocrat considering spending the day among the common folk. Wilco nodded again and watched as she transformed.
With an uncharacteristic look of strain, Ayala transformed from the person Wilco had come to know as Cloak back into the woman he had feared as an admiral. The blue tint disappeared from her skin, like ink being sucked inward. Her eyes turned from cloudy black to a green the color of the first leaves of spring. Wilco had forgotten how beautiful she was, her natural beauty amplified by her confidence and power. She had swagger to match any pirate lord, and it was earned more so than any of them. For a moment, Wilco forgot she had been any person other than the one she was right now.
“There,” she said, her voice soothing and warm, evoking the feeling of a Sunday morning breakfast. “This should put him at ease.” She studied Wilco’s face, clearly seeing what he had tried to hide. “And you, too, apparently. You like this woman?”
The question slapped Wilco across the face, reminding him that, though she looked and sounded like Shay Ayala, she was still Cloak in everything that mattered. “I respect her.”
Ayala smiled, an expression of self-awareness that Cloak never displayed, sowing doubt inside Wilco as to who he was truly speaking. He welcomed the reprieve from the dizzying exchange when Ayala walked away, beckoning him to follow.
Only a handful of syndicate soldiers greeted them on the platform, which Kurda clearly found insulting. With just a quick glance, Wilco understood the small welcome wagon. Snipers were posted in three positions that he could see. A turret was bolted to the deck just meters away. Wilco had no doubt that Elmore had no reservations about mowing them down should they step out of line.
A dark-skinned man with tattoos snaking up each of his bare arms stood at the front of the syndicate congregation. He stood like he was attending a church service, hands laced in front of him, shoulders relaxed, eyes stern. He seemed thoroughly unimpressed by Wilco and his crew. Only when he saw Ayala did his expression betray what he may have been thinking. “Mr. Elmore is waiting for you. Before you speak with him, you will leave all weapons with me. You will be checked for anything hidden on your person.” Kurda growled. “No exceptions.”
“I’m sorry, Mr…” Wilco gestured for the syndicate man to fill in the blank.
“Melbourne,” the man said.
“Melbourne. I don’t part with my weapons, and my weapons don’t part from me.” He pointed to Trapper. “And my friend there is a religious man. Surely, you’ll grant him an exception. His could hardly be considered a weapon, anyway. It’s a stick.”
“No exceptions,” Melbourne repeated. “I would hardly consider Trapper Mayne a religious man.”
“You’re famous,” Wilco said to Trapper.
“We know who all of you are.” Melbourne looked at Ayala. “At least we thought we did. Mr. Elmore will be curious about this.”
“I’m happy to fill in the blanks,” Ayala said with a smile. “If you wouldn’t mind speeding this process up. We have an appointment.”
Melbourne tapped a tiny square device attached to the side of his head just behind his temple. A thin screen projected from it and wrapped over his eye. He was quiet a moment then finally said, “Yes, sir. No other ships in the area, sir. Yes, I’ll escort them personally.”
“Anyone I know?” Wilco gestured to the strange comm device, trying to maintain a joking demeanor despite his growing unease.
“Follow me.” Melbourne turned from them, not caring whether they followed or not because he knew they had no choice. Melbourne, and all the other syndicate soldiers Wilco had crossed, had the same air of superiority about them. They conquered every obstacle they’d come across, accomplished something the pirate lords couldn’t, something the Navy didn’t think possible—they had turned the Deep Black into a profitable empire. Perhaps they had reason to feel superior.
Still, reason or no, there was nothing that irritated Wilco more than being looked down on. He was about to let his feelings be known by hurling them like daggers at Melbourne’s back when Trapper grabbed his forearm. He shook his head, warning Wilco against it. This was another of those rare times when Wilco was grateful that Trapper was more in tune with his feelings than he was.
Melbourne led them through the open mid-level of the Den, through the fleet and bustling army of mechanics, smugglers, and killers. Wilco wondered if this was intentional, an opportunity to show off. Then he remembered who Compton Elmore was and determined that it absolutely was intentional. He was Tirseer’s one-time right hand. Head games were a second language.
They soon reached an elevator at the far end of the hangar. It was guarded by two men and secured with a lock that required a six-digit pin to open. Cautious, maybe paranoid. The difference was massive, and determining which one Elmore was would mean everything. Melbourne input the code, making sure that only he, not even the other syndicate soldiers, saw it. The scales were beginning to tip toward paranoid.
Melbourne entered first and pressed his thumb to a scanner on the inside. Then he gestured for Wilco to enter. Once inside, Wilco studied the thumb scanner. It was an internal security measure, as he suspected, but it went far beyond simply activating the elevator. If an acceptable print was not scanned upon entering, the turret on the ceiling opened fire and eradicated the unauthorized entrants.
Definitely paranoid.
The car shot up to the top level of the Den and open
ed on a sight Wilco was sure would have given Hepzah the spins. Tech spread out like a robotic sea, flashing lights and systems Wilco didn’t understand. He cursed himself for thinking about Hep, an unfortunate habit of which he’d almost completely cleansed himself. They followed Melbourne through the technological ocean to a single chair in the center of the floor. The figure in the chair was a silhouette at first, cast in shadow by the glow of thousands of machines.
As they approached, he came into view. He was older than Wilco thought he would be, in his mid-60s. His beard had gone completely gray, though there were still streaks of black on his head. His eyes were a piercing blue, like ice water, and felt just as cold. He eyed Wilco with disinterest and waved him aside like he was nothing. The dismissive gesture set Wilco on fire. Trapper again touched his forearm and dissuaded him from action.
“You,” Elmore said, pointing at Ayala. “You are puzzling. Admiral Shay Ayala, hero of the United Navy, thought dead for years, turns up on my station in the company of…this.” He gestured to Wilco and his companions. The fire in Wilco raged. “Miscreants and outcasts. Tell me how this happened.”
Ayala stepped forward. Wilco felt her move, like a cold current of air blowing past. He could not take his eyes off Elmore, couldn’t stop imagining driving his black blade through the old man’s chest and spitting on his dying body, showing him how much of a miscreant he really was. He missed the subtle change in her, the shift in her eyes that said Cloak had relinquished slightly more control, that Shay had just regained the lion’s share of her mind.
“That is an interesting story,” Ayala said. “And one that I am not going to share in full.”
“Then I’m afraid our business is done,” Elmore said. “And if I have no business with you, then you have no business being alive, considering how you stole from me.” He cast a dark glare at Shankar.
The Deep Black Space Opera Boxed Set Page 59
