Trapper closed the channel and looked incredulous from one supposed leader to the other. Wilco felt Trapper probing his emotions. Wilco channeled them, focused on the most powerful and grabbed it tight. His rage and bloodlust clouded everything. His vision turned red. And, finally, Ayala let him pass.
The gangplank lowered.
The metallic song rang loud in his ears as he pulled the black blade from its sheath. His feet beat a war drum symphony as he ran out of the ship. His sword sliced through sailor after sailor, spraying himself with blood, dropping lifeless bodies to the deck, his mind empty, until he reached the other side of the scrum. Then he stopped and listened to his heartbeat, the blood pounding in his ears, and the screaming emptiness in his gut. It urged him to turn around, to enter the fray again, like wading back into a warm bath.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and that hand kept him facing forward. “The syndicate can hold the hangar,” Trapper said. “I suggest we continue on.”
Kurda’s heavy feet boomed on the deck as she walked past them both. “Let’s get going. I don’t like this place.”
She had ample reason to hate the Navy, though she rarely spoke of it. The New Vikings were a nomadic people, once divided among dozens of ample tribes. Those tribes were broken during the campaign against the warlords. A few prominent Vikings positioned themselves as warlords, but, largely, they cared little for the overall conflict. The Navy, however, saw the campaign as an opportunity to break a people they feared, and who had pledged no loyalty to the United Systems. Kurda was among the last of her people, barely a teenager when her family was wiped out by the Navy’s bombardment of her convoy. She recounted the story to Wilco only once when she’d had too much to drink. She told him how her people burned to death, choked on smoke, froze in the vacuum. How the survivors had their braids cut off before they were executed. How she, much smaller at the time, hid under a floor panel and was later found by scrappers and sold into slavery.
One would assume, as Wilco had upon first meeting her, that Kurda relished battle. He’d happened upon her just weeks after being dispatched by Tirseer for his mission. He and Ayala, back when she was still Ayala, stopped on a derelict mining outpost along the rim of the Deep Black. Like so many others, the station had devolved into an anarchic hive of former soldiers and traders, people who’d lost everything and were looking to lose more. Kurda was competing in a Deep Black fighting circuit. There were dozens of them, managed by crime lords like Elmore, that plucked people out of alleys and watched them pummel each other into meat. But Wilco saw in her eyes how much she hated it. She fought because she knew how, because it was the only skill she had that could put money in her pocket and food in her belly.
Like the fight promoter, Wilco plucked her out of her circumstances and offered her a chance at something else. A different fight. One that meant something to her.
Wilco nodded, struggling to trust the counsel of his compatriots over the black presence inside. He, Shankar, Kurda, and Trapper Mayne left the hangar to the Fair Wind and the syndicate. Trapper took the lead, guiding them through a labyrinth of intersecting corridors. As well as his empathic training, Trapper had a near-photographic memory. He’d spent the hours prior studying Central’s floorplans, copying the maps in his mind.
“Here,” Trapper said, waving them to a bend in the hall. “We take this corridor for about fifty meters. Then there is another turn and a lift that requires keycard access.” Trapper closed his eyes, apparently raising the picture of the maps in his mind. “This path takes us by an officer’s barracks. That will be our best chance of finding a keycard with the appropriate credentials.”
“The officers’ barracks is likely to be one of the most fortified places on this level,” Shankar said. The others looked at him with a mix of skepticism and disgust. “Not trying to dissuade you, just saying. It’s an unwritten protocol, not found in any of the UNS manuals, as cumbersome and tedious as they may be.” He was, again, met with skepticism. “I read. Look, most think skulking around in the shadows is a practice in cowardice, and, I won’t lie, I’m not one for a head-on fight. That’s how people come away shot up and stabbed through. I circle around back, slit a throat or two, and go about my business. But I’ve got to know where the target’s back is, his blind spots, all the routes that can take me where I’m going and how I can make new routes if needed.” He shrugged indifferently. “Just saying this is my playground, is all.”
Wilco pressed on his mask, forcing it into the bridge of his nose, a habit he’d started shortly after being fitted with it. He liked the bit of pain it caused. It reminded him that, even beneath the façade, he was still himself, still capable of feeling that same jolt. And it focused his mind at times when it raced with frantic thoughts, often focused on stabbing irritating people. “What is this protocol?”
Shankar spoke through a self-satisfied smile. “In the unlikely event that Central is boarded by hostiles, officers retreat to designated positions of relative security as a means of preserving chain of command.”
“Shouldn’t they be fighting?” The disgust in Kurda’s voice was palpable.
“One would think,” Shankar said. “Until one considers how concerned the UNS is on every level with preserving its bloated system of bureaucracy. The goal of the UNS is to continue existing, and everything that it does is meant toward that end. That barracks will be buttoned up tight with automated defenses. I’m talking wall-mounted turrets and proximity charges.”
“For some low-level officers?” Wilco said.
Shankar shrugged. “Low-level cogs that could be needed to keep this fat pig oinking. If an enemy is bold and strong enough to board Central, then the top brains assume at least a small likelihood that the top brass could get wiped out. They need these piglets just in case.”
Wilco pressed the mask harder into his face. “What do you suggest?”
Shankar clapped Trapper on the shoulder. “I use this fella’s brain to find a way inside without us all getting blasted to hell. They always build in a back door.”
Trapper, as stoic as ever, was still obviously resistant to the idea. “Do it,” Wilco said.
Shankar laughed. “Fun.” He tugged Trapper along like a reluctant playmate. “I’ll give a holler as soon as I find our way in.”
“What do we do?” Kurda asked. “Stand around?”
“Not at all,” Wilco said. “We put our ear to the ground.” Wilco doubled back to a comm terminal they’d passed on the way. The security was minimal, only a fingerprint scan to login, which he obtained easily enough from a body nearby. He could have just radioed the Fair Wind and requested a status update, but he wanted an unbiased account. There was no more unbiased assessment of one’s performance than the candid conversation of his enemy.
The comm buzzed with static. The Navy was cycling frequencies, trying to keep the invaders from listening in, but it was a wasted, half-assed effort. Once Wilco found the frequency they were using, it became obvious the pattern they used for cycling. Within minutes, he anticipated each change with such accuracy that he could jump to the next channel ahead of the Navy.
From what he heard, the Navy forces were scattered, on the verge of chaos. At least, at first. It became apparent that a firm hand took the helm from somewhere in the shadows and began righting the ship. That same hand he’d felt around his throat for so long. No matter how many low-level officers locked themselves in bunkers or got mowed down in the hallways, if Maria Tirseer lived, then the Navy survived.
The scattered sailors regrouped and were ordered to strategic positions throughout Central. Without a map in front of him, Wilco couldn’t be certain, but he guessed they were being placed like sandbags along a riverbank, meant to stem the rising tide. The syndicate had the momentum, but that would only carry them so far.
“We need to move,” Wilco said. “The Navy is regrouping.”
Kurda jutted her chin out. Wilco turned to see at what. Trapper Mayne walked toward them, his staff held low whe
re normally he carried it across his chest. His face was twisted in concern. Behind him, Shankar trotted along like a prize pony, all smiles and pleased with himself. He twirled the keycard in his finger like it was an ace pulled from his sleeve.
“I found a way in,” Shankar said. “Could’ve called you, I suppose, then gone in all hot and murdery, but I figured quick and clean and quiet was the way to go.”
“Any problems?” Wilco asked Trapper as he took the card.
Trapper shook his head. “None. He, Shankar, took care of it. Took care of them all.”
“That’s right,” Shankar said, stretching his arms over his head. “Eight little officers all in a row. All weepy and huddled together like piggies in a drafty barn.” The flecks of blood on his cheeks caught the light and appeared to flash like sirens. He pointed to the keycard in Wilco’s hand. “We’re having sausage tonight.”
Trapper tensed. He was not easily unsettled after his years of feeling other people’s emotions. Wilco knew from his time with the monk, that it was typically the lack of emotion that unsettled him, the coldness in the face of terrible things.
Not willing to waste any more time listening to the former warlord praise himself, Wilco led to the way to the lift. Shankar didn’t seem to get the hint, because he continued to share how wonderful he was with the others.
“What can we expect up there?” Kurda asked when they reached the lift.
The question jolted Trapper out of his stupor. “The command level is predominantly open, an arena-sized area with very little cover save for comm panels and monitoring stations. That’s where Tirseer commands all of the armed forces of the entire UNS.”
“And it’s safe to say she knows someone will be coming for her,” Shankar said.
“But she doesn’t know we’re coming for her,” Wilco said. He didn’t fully believe that. Maria Tirseer demonstrated foresight that was almost precognition. She anticipated moves before others thought to make them. She planned years ahead, calculating a seemingly infinite number of forks in the paths before her.
They stepped into the lift. As the doors closed, Wilco thought about Hepzah. For a second, he wished his old partner was standing beside him. Then the emptiness inside him swallowed the sentimentality and feasted on it. It digested the warm fuzzies and regurgitated what was left: the knowledge that Wilco was only half a man now because of Hep, that his life was one of running and hiding in shadows when he should be living a pirate king. He gripped the handle of the black blade Malevolence.
When the lift doors opened, Kurda was struck with a blaster bolt, splattering Shankar, hiding behind her like a coward, with her blood
9
Time to sort the details was limited. They’d Trojan Horsed their way aboard the most defended space station in the systems with some inside help. The headquarters of the United Systems, which was currently at war with the Byers Clan. So how the hell did the Elmore Syndicate fit into anything?
Hep readied his sword, positive that the answer did not matter.
“Wait,” Delphyne said, her voice still weak. “No time.”
“No time to not die?” Horus asked.
“No time to waste fighting a battle we don’t understand,” she answered. “We need that doctor.”
“Why?” Mao said. His energy shifted. He was no longer the commanding officer, the captain without a ship. He sensed how terrified Delphyne was of that man, and that terrified him. His authority melted away under the heat of it.
“Because he created Sigurd.”
Before Mao could press further, Horus spread his giant arms and herded them all further back into the medical wind. “If we ain’t fighting, then we better get with the getting because those syndicate soldiers are coming.”
They rushed away from the door and entered one of the patients’ rooms. They fell silent as the sound of boots on the hard floor echoed outside. Horus listened with his eyes closed. When they opened, he mouthed, “Four.”
Mao nodded. Hep lowered Delphyne onto the empty hospital bed, though she looked to resent it, to loathe the care being afforded to her when she would rather be fighting. As Hep turned to join the others, Delphyne grabbed him by the collar.
“Don’t get sidetracked,” she whispered. “Elias is the only thing that matters.”
Hep removed her hand, trying to be as gentle as possible, feeling her bones through her skin. He nodded but said nothing.
Horus closed his eyes again and listened to the boots as they grew louder. He counted down with his fingers. When he reached one, the three of them rushed out of the room. Horus led. He charged into the group of syndicate soldiers, clustered together so tight that he nearly bowled them all over. Hep ducked under Horus’s meaty arm and drove his blade through a soldier’s gut. Mao blasted a second with a well-placed shot over Horus’s shoulder. Horus then smashed the remaining two with his hammer, shattering one’s skull and caving in the other’s chest.
They checked the area, ensuring they were clear to move before Hep helped Delphyne out of bed. “Any idea where we’re going?” he asked her.
“Tirseer won’t let Elias go. She’d sooner kill him than let someone else have him. They’ll take him to her.”
“Then that’s where we go,” Mao said.
Horus objected. “We already stormed the castle, now you want to storm the king’s keep? Our luck’s going to run out sooner rather than later.”
“All that matters is getting Elias,” Delphyne said.
“So you keep saying,” Horus said. “But you ain’t said why. How come I got to trust the half-crazed ramblings of a half-dead girl that says I need to rush into the most protected room of the most fortified space station in the universe?”
Hep’s knife was pressed to Horus’s ribs before he could finish. “Watch it.”
Horus wrapped his meaty fingers around Hep’s throat. “You watch it.”
“Both of you knock it off,” Mao said, raising his blaster and the one he’d taken from Graeme’s dead hand. “If you want to walk, Horus, then walk. I’m tired of your whining. And you,” Mao said to Hep. “Stop acting like a child. I thought you were a captain.”
Hep lowered his knife. Horus gave a little squeeze before releasing Hep’s throat and chuckled as his eyes bulged.
“Looks like everyone went and nutted up,” Horus said.
“Pig,” Delphyne muttered as she stooped by one of the dead soldiers. She searched his pockets.
“Robbing the dead?” Horus said. “And I’m the pig?”
“This one is the highest rank,” Delphyne said. They didn’t have insignia on their clothes that Hep could tell, but he knew better than to question Delphyne’s judgement. “They’re moving systematically. Sweeping the area. They know what they’re looking for. Which means…” She removed a keycard from the dead man’s pocket. “Access to the main lift. They must have taken it off a Navy officer.” She grimaced as she rose, swatting away a helpful hand from Hep. “These syndicate guys are impressive. I suppose the rumors are true that it’s run by a former underling of Tirseer, then? Explains why they know so much about this place.”
Mao couldn’t resist the smile tugging at his mouth.
“What?” Delphyne said, unable to resist her own, even though it pained her to do so.
“It’s just nice to see your time away hasn’t changed you.”
Her smile vanished. “It wasn’t a vacation.” She waved her hand, silencing Mao before he could speak. “Look, just, let’s not do this now, okay? I can’t handle the doting. Let’s just get the doctor and get back to the Blue so we can get out of here.”
Mao and Hep froze. Horus laughed. “Might need to fill you in a bit,” he said through chuckles.
Reluctantly, Mao told Delphyne all that had happened since she left the Blue for her reassignment. Though her face was already pallid, it seemed to drain even more of color. She was silent a long while before finally saying, “You idiots. You goddamn idiots. This is so much worse than I thought it was.”
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“You still haven’t told us what any of this is,” Mao said.
Delphyne grew frantic, her weak limbs shaking from the sudden rush of adrenaline, her pulse visible in her neck, her eyes wide and wild. “Sigurd. This is all about Sigurd. We need to get him back.”
“Why?” Mao said. “What did they do to him? What is he?”
“They turned him into a weapon. A weapon that they no longer control. One that will destroy the systems. He’ll destroy everything.” She shook her head, trying to regain her focus. “Ayala. How did she… I don’t…” She fell backward, her eyes rolling into her head. Hep caught her before she slammed into the floor.
“She can’t come with us,” Horus said. He raised a hand to silence Hep before he could lash out. “She can’t stand. She goes upstairs and she’ll get killed, or, worse, get us killed.”
“He’s right,” Mao said reluctantly. “We need to get her back to the Bucket.”
“You heard what she said,” Hep argued. “We need that doctor.”
“I’ll take her back,” Horus said. The others regarded him with skepticism, unsure whether to take his offer as altruistic or a way for him to extricate himself from further danger.
“Fine,” Mao said. “But if any harm comes to her—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Horus said. “You’ll run me through or string me up or whatever. Just get your doctor and get back to the ship because I ain’t waiting around all day for you. This starts to go sideways, and we’re out of here.”
“Good,” Hep said, to Horus’s surprise. “Get them all out if you can.” He extended his hand.
The Deep Black Space Opera Boxed Set Page 63
