5
The light in the center of the ceiling flickered in a set pattern. Three seconds, then four, then one, one, and then the cycle began again. Anisa Delphyne didn’t catch it at first. She thought it was just a tactic to keep her off balance. A head game. She cursed herself for her stupidity. Once she realized the pattern, she knew it was something else. A message. A code. Someone was trying to tell her something. She just needed the codex, the key to deciphering it.
She pressed her palms into her eyes. “Easy,” she said to herself. “You’re losing it.” She felt herself spiraling into a frantic state, mind racing, trying to find meaning where there was none. She was right the first time. It was a head game. And it was working.
Delphyne had lost track of how long she’d been in this room. This empty square with bare walls. So perfectly bare, free even of cracks or water stains, anything to attract the eye. It was like staring into emptiness. There must be a camera somewhere, though she could not locate it. She had not interacted with another person since being locked up. Food was inside the room whenever she woke up, having been slipped inside as soon as she fell asleep. So she knew they were monitoring her. She tried to stay awake, to see if it was a coincidence, if she just happened to doze off at the set meal time. It was no coincidence.
Nothing here was coincidence. Nothing Tirseer did was unintentional. Delphyne reminded herself of that a hundred times, every time her mind began to wander, to question the reality inside the tiny room that had become her entire world.
When she sank into despair, she latched onto the one thought that brought her any comfort—she’d gotten the intel out. Hepzah knew about the Void now. He knew what was coming, what Tirseer was attempting. He would take it to Mao. He would take it to whoever could help him, and he would resist. He would do something to fight back, to stop it. He played at being the rogue, at not caring about the fate of those around him, but he was not Parallax, or even Drummond Bayne. He was not driven by the same selfish goals. He would do something. Her part in stopping Tirseer was done.
Delphyne lay on the floor and stared at the blinking light. Three, four, one, one…three, four, one, one…
A tray of food lay on the floor beside her. She didn’t remember falling asleep. She wasn’t sure she had. She suspected the blinking light was a form of hypnosis. It lulled her into a sort of waking coma. If she slept as much as she seemed to, she would surely feel rested. She was so tired.
The food brought her no joy. Bland, tasteless, enough calories to keep her alive. Which meant they wanted her alive, at least. It would have been easy enough to let her waste away. She shoveled the food into her mouth and swallowed before the gritty texture could register on her tongue.
She considered taking Tirseer’s job into her hands and refusing the slop and just withering away. Whatever plans Tirseer had for her would wither away too. Curiosity kept her going. That was what she told herself anyway. Maybe it was cowardice. Delphyne was smart and industrious, and if she truly wanted to, or thought herself capable, she could find a way to kill herself. It was the only option left to her over which she still had control.
The debate began in her mind. She knew how she would do it. Lift the leg of the cot, slam it down on the food tray a few times until the edge came to a point. Then stab it into her wrist and pull. She’d bleed out before they got to her. At least there’d finally be some color in her little room.
She turned the tray over in her hands, mentally ran through the motions, made sure she knew how to do it and how fast to avoid them storming the room and stopping her before the job was done.
She looked at the wall and sank into it, like falling into an abyss, nothing for company aside from her own dark thoughts. Her hand clutched something cold and hard. She looked down and saw the leg of the cot. She lifted it and slid the tray under.
This is the brave way out, she thought.
The latch on the door clicked. Warm light crawled into the room as the door opened. Delphyne’s eyes strained to comprehend the sudden contrast. They blinked uncontrollably when the sailors entered, the blue of their uniforms an assault.
“You won’t need to do that.” The voice was warm, almost caring, like a concerned teacher, easing a student down from making a bad decision. “Come, let’s get you up.”
The sailors surrounded her. Their arms looped around her like the tentacles of a squid latching onto a ship at sea, trying to drag it down. She felt her lungs fill with water, the squid’s beak stab at her arm, but she was too weak to fight back. The creature dragged her under. The pressure built on her chest, pressing on her heart, and everything went black.
She woke lying on a hospital bed, inclined at a comfortable angle. Her lungs burned like she’d swallowed salt water. Her throat burned like she’d puked it back up. She lifted her arm, expecting it to be tied down, but she was surprised to find it free. She shut her eyes against the spinning room as she tried to piece together what had happened. Whatever they dosed her with left her feeling hungover.
“It will wear off,” said the same warm voice as before. “It was only a mild sedative, but, in your weakened state, its effects were much more pronounced.”
“Who?” Delphyne tried to finish her thought but was too groggy.
“Pardon me,” the man said. “I’ve forgotten my manners. I am Dr. Tobin Elias.” He smiled at her, and that gesture made her feel more ill than she had since being locked in a white box and forgotten about. His demeanor was calm and warm, but only on the surface. The closer she got to him, the more he spoke, the easier it was for her to see it all as a façade. There was something wicked underneath. “You’ve been under my care since arriving on Central.”
“Under…care?”
His smile widened. “Oh yes. I’ve been monitoring you. Ensuring your vitals stayed within appropriate levels. Ensuring you received necessary vitamins.” He noticed her confusion. “I put supplements in your food when your levels dipped. I must say, you are one of the more resilient patients I’ve had in quite some time. There aren’t many who can stand the white room that long.”
It dawned on her who this man was, why she found him so sinister. “You’ve been torturing me.”
He laughed. “Now, let’s not get hysterical. Torture is a very harsh word. I’ve never laid a finger you. I’ve merely observed.”
“Like a kid with a magnifying glass looking at an ant hill,” Delphyne said. “Until it goes up in flames.”
“Yes, well, you’re quite intact, aren’t you?”
“Why? Why pull me out now?”
“I need something from you.” He was so matter-of-fact, clinical.
“What?”
“Bait.”
6
Say what you would about the ruthlessness and brutality of the Elmore Syndicate, its soldiers were incredibly well-behaved. They geared up and set sail in as efficient and disciplined a manner as Wilco had ever seen. If Ayala was still kicking around inside her body, she would have likely been impressed.
The syndicate fleet was no less impressive once it was underway. And the soldiers were no less disciplined. Compton handed operational control over to Ayala without hesitation. His homeward bound recall protocol allowed him significant peace of mind. Still, knowing that he could recall his ships whenever he wanted, Wilco doubted the apparent ease with which Compton handed over the reins to his empire. There were still countless ways things could go belly up. Ayala could lead the fleet into a hopeless battle, getting his entire army killed. Just because she wasn’t able to steal his ships didn’t mean he would be getting them back.
Wilco stood behind the captain’s chair, behind Ayala, and looked in amazement at the monitor, at the fleet of ships spread out before him. Then he looked down at Ayala and realized that he could have been sitting in that chair. Elmore didn’t know she was aboard the Fair Wind when he sent his soldiers to retrieve it. He was prepared to hand the reins over to Wilco. He could have been sitting in the chair, that massive fleet at his command
.
Trapper appeared at Wilco’s side, the monk’s eyes dark. His presence made Wilco aware of his own feelings. He swallowed them.
“You have our coordinates?” Ayala asked.
“Aye,” Melbourne answered over comms. He was appointed as second-in-command of the fleet and Compton’s envoy. He was captain of the syndicate frigate Ingrid, the most revered ship of the fleet. It was deadly, fast, and had once served as Compton’s personal ship. It was a former UNS cruiser that had since been upgraded with the finest black-market technology. It was formidable, likely rivaling any top-tier Navy ship in combat.
“Then lead the way,” Ayala said. She had relayed the battle strategy, one that she compiled with inhuman speed, which was attributed to her tactical prowess and not her actual inhumanity. She would quarterback the operation from aboard the Fair Wind, which would remain in the center of the fleet. Melbourne would lead the vanguard. Being more familiar with the capabilities of the syndicate fleet, Melbourne would have an active role in the combat command. At least, that was what Ayala would have them believe. That was what she would have them all believe. Wilco knew enough to see through her ruse. Whatever her actual plans were, she did not share them. As close as he was to the captain’s chair, Wilco was as far from command as the lowest soldier on the syndicate ladder.
Several dozen ships became blurs of light as they shot forward. The Fair Wind raced after them, charging toward an uncertain yet inescapable battle.
Trapper had not taken his eyes off Wilco since the latter entered the galley nearly ten minutes ago. The increasing agitation set Wilco’s jaw to tightening like a vice, crunching his teeth together and causing lights to burst into fits of rainbow explosion in his vision.
“What?”
“I’ve said nothing,” Trapper answered.
“Don’t be glib,” Wilco said. “Glibness is more deserving of death than betrayal. Just say it, forthright and with the integrity of a man who walks through the technological frontier of mankind carrying a stick.”
“Your emotions betray you.”
“My emotions are me. They cannot betray me as if they were an extricable part of my being. Your overwrought, self-indulgent monk attitude betrays me. Just say something. Without the obfuscation. Without the air of mystery. Just say what it is you mean before I put a hole in this hull and slowly suffocate.”
“You are going to get us all killed.”
Wilco nodded in agreement. “That is a strong possibility. Would you care to elaborate as to how?”
“In trying to serve two masters, you will cut yourself in two. In so doing, you will cut the rest of us.”
“And back to the fortune cookie philosophy.”
“You follow Ayala. You’ve dedicated yourself to her, or that thing inside her. But I sense in you the growing resistance to serving a master. You cannot serve another and yourself at the same time. Splitting your focus and your intention leaves you vulnerable at a time when vulnerability cannot exist.”
“Vulnerability always exists,” Wilco said. “It’s just a matter of limiting it.”
Trapper leaned his staff in the corner, letting it rest like a mop against the wall. He folded his arms and paced around the counter where Wilco had begun fixing himself a sandwich. “You must first be aware of it if you hope to limit it. And I don’t believe you’re aware of it.”
“Aware of what?” Wilco said. He removed his mask and set it on the counter. It looked back at him like a disembodied demon.
Trapper shuddered. “Of that.” He pointed at the mask. “And this.” He pointed at Wilco’s face. “Your scars are still dictating your actions. The manifestations of trauma that you have fought so hard not to acknowledge.”
“So you’re my damn therapist now? You’re the last person to be counseling me through past trauma. Last I knew, you left behind a village full of dead relatives and a religious order that didn’t want you. Now you spend all your time feeling other people’s feelings to escape your own.” Before he knew it, Trapper withdrew a knife he kept hidden in his sleeve, a blade he rarely used. The wild rage on Trapper’s face quickly turned to one of shame. “How’s that working out for you?” Wilco said as he bit into his sandwich.
“I don’t attempt to counsel you as any sort of moral authority.” Trapped replaced his blade. “But as a friend. You can only subjugate parts of yourself for so long. Those parts will come raging back sooner or later.”
The emptiness undulated inside Wilco, like an inky black mass, a cancerous blob that just grew two sizes. As it was devoid of feeling, it seemed to be immune to Trapper’s emotional radar. He was unaware of it and its growing ability to subjugate parts of Wilco with little to no repercussion. Instead of informing Trapper as to the flaw of his reasoning, Wilco just nodded and took another bite of his sandwich.
He chewed until there was nothing left, not wanting to lose his excuse to remain silent under Trapper’s watchful and patient gaze. Just as he was about to lose his excuse, Kurda appeared in the door.
“Sandwich?” Wilco offered.
She shook her head. “Coming up on the first rendezvous.”
“Superb,” Wilco said. He threw his crust on his plate and looked to Trapper. “Since you’re so keen to help me, I’ll leave the cleanup to you.”
The atmosphere on the bridge of the Fair Wind was fraught with tension. Unspoken objections dangled like ornaments from the ceiling, just out of reach. Wilco was only partly aware of them, mostly preoccupied with Trapper’s off-base assessment of his mental state. Self-indulgent monks made for the worst spiritual advisors.
He paced the area behind the captain’s chair, occasionally daring a glance at the back of Ayala’s head, half-expecting to find her looking at him each time he did. Whenever he was in her presence, he got the feeling that she was keenly aware of him, almost to the point that she was inside his head, listening to his thoughts.
The first rendezvous point was ten klicks from Central, just out of reach of short-range sensors. The fleet would fall into formation, make last-minute adjustments, and then attack. They were on the verge of launching one of the most audacious offenses since the warlord days, and it was all Wilco could do to make sure his blade was sharp. His mind would not settle, bouncing from thought to thought, struggling to suppress the hollow whispers of the emptiness surging in his chest. It pulled him in too many directions. The whispers urged him to stop sharpening his blade and run it through Ayala’s back instead. But the emptiness also surged in her presence, spurred by some connection to the thing occupying her body.
“Rendezvous reached,” Kurda said as the Fair Wind came out of its jump. The fleet spread out before them, missiles ready to be fired.
“Open a fleet-wide channel,” Ayala ordered. She closed her eyes, got into character. “We are about to attempt something no force has ever succeeded in doing—attacking the headquarters of the United Navy, the greatest assemblage of military might in the systems. And if you all follow my orders and fight with every bit of fury I know you to have, we will succeed. We will crack that station open like a nut and feast on its insides. We will end the reign of Maria Tirseer and establish a new order.” She shifted in her chair, a subtle reminder of her character. “One of freedom.”
Even Wilco felt stirred by the sentiment of the speech. He only wished that it was true.
The fleet split into its final formation. Three prongs. A large contingent of destroyers would attack Central directly, hammering the shields and hull with as much force as they could. A second contingent of frigates and starfighters would engage the Central fleet. The third contingent consisting of the Fair Wind and a dozen of the fleet transporters would use the chaos to mask their approach and board Central through the hangar bay. The soldiers would then establish a foothold there and upload a virus developed by Compton that would temporarily scramble the targeting systems of all Central’s networked ships. The syndicate fleet would use this opportunity to inflict as much damage as possible and decimate the Nav
y fleet while the soldiers on Central would take advantage of the skeleton crew and occupy the station.
A solid plan. One that had a strong chance of overthrowing a despot, ending an iron-fisted reign before it could wrap so tight around the throat of the systems that it could never be pried loose.
Again, if only it was true.
“On my mark,” Ayala said to the fleet. “Engage.”
7
“Found her,” Graeme said. He had patched into the Central’s internal comm network from a terminal inside the service tunnel.
“That was easy,” Hep said.
“Nothing about this is easy,” Horus said. “Where is she?”
“In the medical wing,” Graeme said.
“Is she okay?” Mao asked.
Graeme scrolled through the text on the screen. “She’s fine. She is being treated for the flu.”
Hep and Mao both breathed with relief. “Map out our route,” Mao said.
They traveled in silence for the next ten minutes, moving hastily through the dusty tunnel, hearts racing, muscles constantly tense and ready to act. Hep thought about the last time he was here, tasked by Drummond Bayne with stealing a confidential cache of information that would subsequently set off a raging storm of death and destruction. He never considered it would cause so much damage. Never thought it would lead him to this place at this time, slinking through the dark, a price on his head. He cursed his past self for being so naïve, for seeing a future of freedom in someone like Bayne, someone so self-serving.
Mao held up a closed fist, a signal for them to stop. He pointed at an access hatch. Graeme opened it while the others readied for any potential resistance on the other side. The hatch opened to a starkly white room. The floors, walls, and ceiling were all white and reflected the neon lights overhead. The sudden brightness assaulted their eyes and blurred their vision with tears.
The Deep Black Space Opera Boxed Set Page 61
