Triorion Omnibus

by L. J. Hachmeister

  Shandin shot her a look of disapproval before motioning for them to follow him. A few of the Johnnies at the bar hooted and hollered at Bossy, and she teased them by raising the hem of her skirt just above her knee before flipping them off. A few beer glasses came flying their way, but they were already safely down another narrow corridor when they shattered against the wall.

  The terrible smell got worse the deeper they went in the warehouse.

  “What the hell is that stink?” Agracia said, covering her nose. It was sickly sweet, like a fresh cut of meat ruined by disease.

  By the way Shandin paused before answering, she knew he was going to lie. “I run a butchery and packaging plant. We distribute survival rations to the poor across the Greatlands.”

  “Whaddya butcherin’? Month old meat?” Bossy scoffed, but Shandin didn’t answer.

  Up ahead was a docked cargo ship. It had already been emptied, and whatever had transpired during the drop-off had been vicious. Old blood darkened the dirt floor, and bits of clothing and broken chain link testified to the real nature of Shandin’s operations.

  Agracia remembered the words of the Johnnie guarding the entrance as she stepped through a cloud of flies that swarmed over something gray and red crumpled against the wall. Sykes over there ain’t half of what you gonna see in there, little missus. Gonna make you wish you hadn’t been born. Gonna kill every last bit of you that ever mattered.

  “Nah,” she whispered to herself as they entered the cargo hold. Then the smell hit her. It was open sores festering in a damp, tight space. Meat, stripped from rotted bone.

  “Jeezus!”

  She tripped but caught herself against the ramp to the cargo ship. When she looked down she saw a clump of human hair. Someone nearby screamed but was silenced with a gunshot.

  Bossy nudged her. For the first time since Agracia had known her, there was genuine fear on her face. “Gracie, this ain’t feelin’ right.”

  Shandin stopped at the junction between two hallways on the opposite end of the dock.

  “Something the matter?”

  Agracia played it as casually as she could. “Gettin’ antsy is all. Jocks don’t belong belowground.”

  Shandin led them down a poorly lit tunnel and into a large stockroom packed with supplies ranging from biosuits to advanced detection equipment. Most of it was stolen riot gear from Saturn’s border police, an assortment of bulletproof vests and face guards. There were a few big weapons, mostly old firearm models from decades ago, but otherwise Shandin stocked mostly stun guns and shockwands.

  “It’s a chakking trafficking port,” Bossy whispered as Agracia spotted the shelf full of electronic shackling equipment.

  Agracia swallowed the hot lump in her throat. Why was Shandin trafficking humans? Given the size of the ship in his docks and the amount of gear he stocked, he was moving hundreds if not thousands on a regular basis.

  Even more worrisome—why the smell? What was he doing with them?

  Agracia had come across a trafficking port before, back when she first met Bossy in the dregs of Paradise City. It wasn’t uncommon for Scabbers to sell out their own, especially if an outerworlder got the taste for a hunt and was willing to import from Old Earth, but that was usually on a smaller scale, maybe ten or twenty poor souls in a month. This was much larger, more organized, and clearly funded.

  Victor. The man with the terrible diamond smile. What was his hand in all this?

  “My men will outfit you for your assignment and give you the medicines you’ll need once you cross into Ground Zero,” Shandin said, signaling three of the men cleaning firearms on a work table to help them.

  “No way,” Agracia said. “I’ll take care of that myself.”

  That was one rule that every Jock followed—know your dealer and don’t trust anyone else’s drugs. Tainting meds was both a common practice between warring Jocks and an unfortunate consequence of poor shipping methods between Pits.

  “The Necro plague is rampant in the Deadzone, Agracia. We have the best medicines available on the planet.”

  Agracia didn’t like the way Shandin looked at her. It was as if he were mentally rendering her down for parts. “No, we’ll barter in the marketplace. I have a reliable source.”

  The Necro plague, or the manmade V. mortuuseria, had been infecting organic tissue since its use in biological warfare in 2052. Agracia had heard that it reconstituted dead cells and reformatted living cells, but what she knew was that it turned living and dead things into nightmarish creatures not unlike the zombie horror movies of the late twentieth century. There was no cure, but the pills she bartered for in the marketplace would keep the pneumonic form from infecting them. If they got bitten, though, they’d be just another statistic in the wastelands.

  Shandin’s voice was lanced with cold, concentrated anger. “My men will escort you back into town after you’ve been outfitted. I’ll allow you one hour to get what you need or the deal’s off.”

  Bossy shoved off one of the men trying to size her for a biohazard suit, but Agracia interceded before he retaliated.

  “Hey,” Agracia said, pulling her aside. “Let’s keep it pleasant, yeah?”

  “None of this feels right, Gracie. This stinks. It really stinks,” Bossy said, wrinkling her nose.

  Agracia checked out the radiation detection equipment as Bossy’s words sank into her like a lead slug. Never in all her years as a Jock had she felt this way, like someone’s pawn. This was a job where she didn’t see all the angles, and her gut screamed that the rules were going to change the moment she found what they wanted.

  But then she smiled. She and Bossy were back together again. They were the only pair of Jocks ever to survive the Deadzone. There was nothing they couldn’t do.

  “Bossy,” Agracia said, giggling as she watched her companion try on a helmet way too big for her pig-tailed head. “Betcha I can kill more Necros than you.”

  Bossy flipped the visor back and flashed her a smile full of teeth. “Game on, sista!”

  Or so she hoped.

  IN HER DREAM, RAZOR-sharp teeth sliced into her flesh like it was warmed butter. Gray and black shapes flickered everywhere against the bright background. Shouting, gunfire, and the smell of copper hung over her like fog.

  The sensations changed. Instead of teeth, Jetta felt pincers close around her neck, and a massive weight on her back ground her face into the dirt preventing her from rolling over. The burning red eye of the creature holding her down caught hers. His breath was cold and wet against her ear and reeked of rotted meat. “You are weak, worthless—you are unworthy of your flesh.”

  Victor was standing over her too, mockingly saluting her with his martini glass as M’ah Pae stabbed her with another of his appendages. A tremendous auger of pain drilled into the base of her head, and something slimy wormed its way into her skull. Victor was no longer in front of her but inside her. She was seeing through his tinted glasses and tasted the sting of his drink in her mouth.

  “With eyes open, they burn,” she heard herself say in his voice. The world unfolded into a nightmarish scene, with hordes of screaming people crawling toward her on their hands and knees as mushroom clouds plumed in the distance and missiles streaked across the sky. The land was charred, heaped with remnants of buildings, skeletonized trees, and indiscernible rubble as far as she could see. She lifted her hands as if to welcome the dying people, and they all cried her name in unison, reaching out to her, begging her to save them.

  The world changed again, as did the body she inhabited. The heat was oppressive, and the light that filtered through the boarded windows barely lit the apartment. She pounded back something cold and bitter that she followed with a burning drag from her smoke. Her breath was wheezy and congested, but it had been for some time. She was bigger than she remembered, and fat, sweating heavily through the patchy remains of an expensive suit.

  “You’re disgusting. You’re all disgusting,” she heard herself say as she stumbled out of the
living room, her vision hazed by drink. Light glinted off the television screen, and her reflection looked back at her with Yahmen’s face. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. Instead, her reflection grinned.

  Someone was whispering in the entryway. She knew those voices—

  (No!)

  She rounded the corner, belt already freed from its loops. A tiny body with a mess of brown hair scurried out from underneath a fort made of broken cots, but another remained curled up inside. His bright blue eyes were already wet with tears, his lips trembling as he watched the belt come snapping down.

  (Jahx—)

  “You little rat!” Jetta heard herself say as Jahx tried to scramble away. Her monstrous hands grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back into the living room, where the punishment continued. Jaeia was screaming for it to stop, but that only enraged her further, driving the belt harder and faster with every stroke.

  (Stop—please—stop! STOP!)

  Finally, she did stop. Jahx wasn’t moving anymore, his small body awkwardly splayed on the carpet. His eyes were swollen shut and blood trickled from both nostrils. His chest was still, his lips a waxy blue.

  He was dead. Jetta screamed, but it came out as a howl of laughter in Yahmen’s raspy voice.

  She looked back to the reflection in the television. This time it mirrored back her own image, hollow and lifeless.

  “You did this,” it whispered back at her.

  She looked back at Jahx. He was ghostly white, his arms and legs pierced through with a thicket of wires that had erupted from the carpet. His eyes were glassy, dead, and staring right through her.

  His voice was tortured metal. “You did this.”

  Jetta came to her senses when the bullet struck her right shoulder, sending spasms of pain tearing through her arm and chest. It was not a dream—not entirely, at least. The gray and black shapes moving around her were the dark-coated wolves battling the ashy gray Wammercat, tearing into each another’s flesh, spilling blood onto the dirt.

  Jetta found herself pinned to the ground by the gray-pawed wolf she had ridden only a few hours before. He was snarling at the Tygra as Salam’s men jeered and took shots at the animals not fighting over Triel and Jetta. But was her wolf friend protecting her or defending his meal? She tried to glean an impression of his mind, but pain exploded across her right leg as the wolf’s paw dug into her back.

  Jetta turned her head to see Triel lying face down. The other two wolves they had met earlier were crouched over her, biting and snapping at their attackers. The Healer’s skin color had changed, and touching her aura sent waves of nausea through Jetta’s stomach. She was turning again, but unless they got far away from this violence, there was nothing Jetta would be able to do to save her friend.

  Something bit into her right arm, and she screamed. Clawed feet dug into her back as fanged animals gnashed their teeth above her head.

  The only way she’d survive the battle was to reconnect with those wolves. Somehow she would have to push past the pain and forge a bond strong enough to supersede the training they had received from Salam.

  Besides the three wolves growling over Triel and Jetta, two other wolves, the orange-striped Tygra, and the gray Wammercat were still standing. Two of the wolves lay dead from gunshot wounds, a third torn to shreds by the Wammercat. The Wammercat had lost an eye in the fight, but that hadn’t deterred her pursuit of Jetta.

  Jetta gritted her teeth and curled up in a tight ball, shielding her face and head as best she could from the claws and fangs overhead. It had worked to use her memories of Earth’s wolves when she had encountered Algar’s in the forest, but it would take something stronger than that to overcome instincts charged by the scent of spilled blood.

  Then she realized exactly what they needed to understand.

  Deceit.

  It was easy to forget her pain. She evoked the deepest rage she had ever known, its potency driving away everything but the awareness of the memory. She reached out, physically and psionically, ensnaring the wild minds around her and pulling them back into her realm.

  She was back on the Dominion ships, somewhere in deep space. There were no windows where she was kept. Her room was gray and spartan, with no colors but those in the posters adorning the walls, each of them depicting a militant mustached man who seemed to watch her every move.

  She was supposed to be sleeping. Sleep was precious and unusual now, but even though she was exhausted, she only lay on top of the sheets, still dressed in her battle uniform, staring at the ceiling.

  She was too afraid to sleep. The terrible monster with the burning red eye was always waiting in the shadows, whispering to her, calling her to join his side. She didn’t know exactly what he wanted, but he promised her power and revenge, and the longer she remained apart from her siblings, the more confused she became about who she was and what she was doing.

  A buzzer went off. She rubbed her tired eyes and looked at the electronic notice flickering on her uniform sleeve. It was time to fight.

  Jetta dragged herself to the door and fell in step with her escorts as they led her to the war room. She hated following orders, but there was a sickening euphoria in winning. She found herself craving the next battle to get that same high.

  Then one day it all changed. She saw things clearly as she sat in the war room, ready to ring in her fleet as a circle of the highest Dominion commanders watched anxiously. She noticed the cannulas protruding from her uniform, pumping a milky white substance into her veins. It wasn’t a game. It was a trick. They were using her and the other captured telepaths to fight their war against the United Starways Coalition—the people who were trying to save the telepaths.

  She remembered her rage, how she wanted to turn all sides against each other, but Jahx had brought her back from the brink of total destruction. Then they were taken away by soldiers, imprisoned, and left to suffer through withdrawal from Benign White.

  Jetta remembered waking in a cell and seeing her sister. Jaeia’s hair clung to her face, her sweat and blood soaking through her clothing. Her twin could barely open one swollen eye. She had managed to call her sister’s name, but Jetta did not have the strength to respond.

  Jahx was gone. Jetta realized with a sudden cold clarity they were useless to the Dominion now and would be terminated.

  Jetta opened her eyes. Her face was pressed into the dirt by the wolf’s paw, but the commotion around her had stopped. Salam was screaming on the other side of the fence, and his men were firing their guns, trying to incite attack, but the wolves, the Wammercat, and the Tygra had frozen in place, eyes darting every which way, ears pricked and alert.

  The atmosphere had changed. She could sense the thoughts of the gray-pawed wolf leader. He was confused by her memories, but something in the way he looked at her made her believe that he understood some small part of it.

  And then he bit her. Jetta panicked, slapping at his nose as his teeth dug into her thigh. Then she realized he was pulling her away from the brawl, away from the gunfire.

  Jetta gaped. The Wammercat charged the fence, and even through hit after hit, she managed to knock down the gate before being falling in the rain of bullets. The Tygra followed suit, leaping over the broken gate and sinking his teeth into one of the gunmen. He tore off one of his arms before moving to his next victim. Salam had taken off with the rest of his men, trying to find cover in the buildings.

  The other wolves made a break for the gate, aiding in the Tygra’s attack. The white-necked wolf that had been standing over Triel carefully picked her up in his powerful jaws and trotted over to follow the gray-pawed leader.

  “Wait—wait!” Jetta shouted as he dragged her toward the gate. She rolled out from underneath the wolf and struggled up to pull herself up onto its back. “Go!”

  Jetta kept low to the wolf’s back as he dodged gunfire. Her right shoulder screamed in pain, blood soaking her shirt with each movement, but she gritted her teeth and kept her eyes trained on the perimeter
fence ahead.

  This part of the exterior fence was constructed from wood and barbed wire—nothing particularly fancy, but she wasn’t sure how they were going to get past walls seven meters high with the Lockheads hot on their trail. That’s when she heard the lead wolf’s voice in her head. It wasn’t in a language she understood, but the meaning came to her in concept.

  Hold on.

  The wolf’s thoughts echoed in her head, and she could see the path he chose before he took the next step. Never one for heights, Jetta held on with arms and legs and fingers knotted in fur as he leapt onto a checkpoint tower. His next jump was a meter short of clearance, but that wasn’t his objective. He rebounded off the wall and used his momentum to push off the adjacent fence, this time clearing the barbed wire.

  On the other side Jetta opened her eyes in time to see the terrible length of their descent. Her heart seized as they began to fall, rocks and dirt rushing toward them at bone-crushing speed. If she could have, she would have screamed, but before she knew it the wolf had landed gracefully on all four paws.

  “Mugarruthepeta,” Jetta gasped.

  Before she could collect her wits they were off and running, this time into the deeps of the forest. She looked back in time to see the wolf carrying Triel crawl under a new break in the fence and follow their lead as they wound through the trees.

  Jetta let them run for the better part of half an hour before pulling on her wolf’s fur to make him stop. She needed to check on Triel, especially since she had been awkwardly carried in the jaws of the second wolf.

  Forgetting her own injuries, she dismounted and nearly wound up face-first in a thorn bush. She cursed at herself before hobbling over to the other wolf, who had gingerly laid Triel down on the ground for her to inspect.

  “Triel?” Jetta whispered, stroking her hair back from her forehead. The Healer’s skin was a blotchy gray-green, and her people’s markings had vanished. Jetta felt a large lump on the side of her head and realized their luck. Triel had been knocked unconscious in the scuffle, probably saving everybody’s life. Now it was Jetta’s job to make sure Triel didn’t wake up a Dissembler.