Ends, Means, Laws and an Angry Ship

by Lyn Gala

  “Well...” Tyce shrugged. “Yeah. But on the bright side, we’re not dead.”

  John scrubbed a hand over his face. “Plenty of us are dead.”

  Tyce didn’t have an answer for that, so he let the silence fill the room. Even after all these years, it still hurt to see John struggling so badly. He hadn’t expected that. He kept his voice low. “John, the cuffs will do damage if you don’t take them off soon. If you promise to leave the family downstairs alone, I give you my word that I’ll be a good little prisoner until we reach Earth space.” Depending on how quickly John’s people could figure out the controls they’d found, that might be a while.

  Oddly, John gave a dark laugh as he climbed to his feet. “Yeah, I’ll get on that.” He had to turn his wrist communicator on, so he’d had it off the whole time. Again, Tyce wondered what sort of rulebook John was working off, because that was not a Command regulation. “Open the door. Code word: asshole.” John gave him a dirty look.

  A second later, the door opened, and John left.

  Something had John so rattled that he had ignored protocol—both those related to the rights of a prisoner and those related to safety during questioning. John would spend days mentally reviewing every word, every nuance, every speck of evidence. It was in his nature. Tyce was lightning; John was a slow-burning ember. In the long run, John always reached the right conclusions but never quickly.

  He’d been so frustrated at the academy where Tyce’s quick responses had put him ahead in the ratings. John had that same expression now—like his brain kept spinning and wouldn’t kick out an answer John could use. But this time, Tyce couldn’t tutor him in decision-making matrix theory. At best he could keep his head down and avoid aggravating the guards.

  When he’d been a prisoner on the Dragon, he’d aggravated everyone. Yoss had recently joined the ship back then, and his anger had been so bright and sharp. Tyce had verbally eviscerated him and Yoss had retaliated with kidney punches, shoves into walls and overly tight restraints. They’d bonded as newbies on the ship by torturing each other, but they had eventually reached a truce. When Tyce had been voted in as captain, Yoss had shown up with a bottle of rum to seal their odd friendship, but even when Tyce had every reason to believe his captors would kill him, he still hadn’t excelled at being a model prisoner.

  It wasn’t in his nature.

  Maybe that was why Ama had passed the captaincy over to him. At the time, he had suspected it was a combination of her desire to escape the office and her manipulation because she knew he needed to feel in control again. Maybe she had, in her weirdly spiritual way, recognized that the tattoo didn’t ground him as it would have grounded an actual Ribelian. He hadn’t grown up with those beliefs, and while he was proud of his ink, that was all he felt.

  The captaincy had given him something far more tangible to live up to. Since he couldn’t solve the mysteries of the universe or even figure out what had John so on edge, Tyce leaned his head against the leathery wall. The lights flickered and dimmed, and he fell into a restless sleep.

  Chapter Six

  TYCE WOKE WHEN HIS cell door opened. He expected to see John; instead a huge soldier with a baby-face and cold eyes stood there. Shadows moved behind him, so the mountain had friends. Before Tyce could decide what a cooperative prisoner might say, the mountain stepped back and said to his buddy, “Get him out of there.”

  If John was testing his resolve to play nice, he couldn’t have chosen a more difficult task. Tyce had never been comfortable obeying when he didn’t understand the reason behind the order. However, he pressed his lips together as two soldiers grabbed his arms. The rough handling sent stabbing pains through his shoulders, but he stayed quiet as they half-dragged him into the corridor. Tyce would have walked, but they didn’t give him the chance.

  A fourth soldier waited in the hall, a short man with red hair. He kept glancing at the woman who had Tyce’s right arm. “The commander will not be happy,” he said.

  Tyce dug his heels in. “What?” His two guards jerked his arms, and he stumbled forward. They used that momentum to keep him moving deeper into Command-held territory. There was a definite lack of guards in the hallways. None of the explanations Tyce could imagine boded well.

  The leader of the motley group shoved past the soldier holding Tyce’s left arm. “He’s a sub-commander.”

  The redhead was not happy with that. “He’s the highest ranking officer to survive the attack.”

  “He’s not a fucking officer at all. He’s a pencil pusher—a fucking chair-back. He doesn’t know what the front is like. Assholes like that didn’t win the fucking war.” The leader glared at Tyce.

  With Tyce’s shirt gone, the tattoo covering his entire shoulder was visible. The long, curved lines didn’t have a single flaw, a testament to Tyce’s concentration. Hell, the size of the marking impressed even those from Ribelo. To them, it proved Tyce’s worth. But these assholes—Tyce might as well have waved a flag in front of an enraged bull, and words wouldn’t calm them.

  If these assholes had reached the point of mutiny, they would kill Tyce. He only hoped they planned to shoot him before spacing him. Most spacers developed nightmares about dying in vacuum—the air pulled from the lungs, the blood boiling, the skin freezing and cracking off. In the few minutes it took the mind to die, the body would suffer unimaginably.

  The redhead chased after them. “But assholes like Commander Burden will bury you under the prison if you cross the line.”

  Guessing from how he looked at the woman, the redhead didn’t want his lover being arrested for mutiny. He wouldn’t stick his neck out to help Tyce, so appealing to the rules for the treatment of prisoners would fall on deaf ears.

  “I’m not crossing any fucking lines.” The head honcho whirled around and yelled at Mr. Timid. “I’m getting us home when that asshole is too stupid to see the real solution. We should have kept the first two. It would have doubled the chances of this succeeding.”

  Tyce’s blood ran cold. These assholes had wanted to do something to the boys. Tyce had fantasies of Yoss getting access to this section. Yoss and a big-ass weapon could do a hell of a lot of damage.

  “Burden said Command wants this one more.”

  “Rice, enough,” the woman snapped. The redhead closed his mouth so fast his teeth clicked.

  The leader shifted his gaze to Tyce. “I doubt there will be much of him left for Command. They can chop off the bits they want.”

  Tyce raised his chin and stared back. Whatever they planned, Tyce would rather endure it than sacrifice two children who couldn’t grow facial hair. That would be enough for him to hold onto his sanity during any torture because they had something in mind more creative than tossing him out an airlock.

  The woman soldier said in an admiring tone, “You’re a cold bastard.”

  “Look at that tattoo. He deserves everything he’s about to get.” The bastard strode down the hall, and Tyce’s guards forced him to follow. If they’d run into sentries, Tyce would have taken his chances and started a melee, but not a single soldier stood watch at the intersections. Either most of the Command soldiers had died on their ship or they had chosen to absent themselves because they approved of this, even if they didn’t want to get involved.

  Given the lack of discipline, John was in serious shit. They reached a place where the floor bulged. “Wait until I’m up,” the leader said before he walked to the center of the strange decking. The sides of the bulge inflated like a balloon and the platform rose. It was an elevator. A dangerous-as-hell elevator. One wrong move and the rider would slide off the side. The platform disappeared into the ceiling.

  “Em, don’t do this,” the redhead pleaded.

  The woman rolled her eyes. “At least Acosta is doing something. We’re dead in space. No food. No supplies. No engines. What the fuck should we do? Pray?” She scoffed. “I’d rather save myself.”

  Rice, the redhead, stopped in front of her. “Give the commander a chance
.”

  “Sub-commander,” she said, echoing Acosta’s earlier comment. This was a true believer.

  The man holding Tyce’s left arm joined the conversation. “He’s doing the best he can, but a real commander would do whatever was required to survive. Burden still has the polish from the academy staining his pant cuffs.”

  That wasn’t true. John had graduated years ago. Had he gone back as part of a promotion opportunity? Had he been posted at the rear? His scores had not been the strongest, so the latter was a possibility.

  The new guy continued. “I feel better about using him than those two kids from earlier.”

  “Give me a break,” Em said with an inelegant snort. “Those two will grow up and get a tattoo like the one our traitor is sporting. And if we’d kept them, we’d have twice as many chances to make this happen.”

  What the fuck did they have in mind? Tyce might be able to talk the soldier on his left around and Rice would rather run for it than stay, but he couldn’t work on either as long as the woman was here. They would both side with her over him, and he had no chance to influence someone that entrenched in her hatred.

  Rice tried again. “If Burden catches you, he’ll throw you in there.”

  Her grin was predatory. “I’d like to see him try. Fucking rule monkey. Shit gets done when you break rules.”

  “Or someone gets thrown in prison.”

  “Yeah, well if someone doesn’t do something, we’ll starve to death. I’d rather be in prison.” She tightened her hold on Tyce’s arm.

  The balloon elevator deflated. The wrinkled edges of the leather-like material appeared, and the round top and platform lowered. Acosta crouched down. “The path is clear. We have about fifteen minutes.”

  That meant delay was another viable tactic.

  The woman called up to him. “Hey Sarge, tell Rice that any real commander would make the required sacrifice to save his ship.”

  “Fuck yes,” Acosta answered. That was one more piece of the power dynamic in place. John had lost the faith of the enlisted crew. Sergeants had enough authority with crew to move ship politics, but they were not as deeply entrenched in the legal culture of Command—not that all officers stuck to the law. When they wanted something, they had an ability to look the other way that had driven Tyce to kill.

  Acosta didn’t wait until the balloon completely deflated. He stepped over the bulging side and slid down to the floor. Moron. They had no idea how old these materials were, and that could have caused a catastrophic breach of the lift system.

  The one man Tyce had not identified said with some weariness in his voice, “Command forgives rule breakers if they get the job done. Did you read that biography of Lieutenant Munson?”

  Acosta dismissed that with, “Fucking little whiner.”

  “Yeah, you say that, but did you see what he accomplished?” Em asked. “He broke every rule. He walked into the center of their town unarmed and unescorted. He later carried a weapon, knowing that violated the treaty. And Command gave him a promotion, even without Officer Training School.”

  Rice stared at them as if they were all insane. “You don’t think they’d make you an officer, do you?”

  “They might. They made that little pipsqueak Munson one. He was a sergeant before that.”

  Tyce made his move. He faced the woman, but his words were for Rice. “Command loves its rules. If you break them, they won’t forgive you. They would have buried Munson under a jail, only the Rownt protect him. Who will protect you?”

  Acosta punched Tyce in the gut hard enough to send him to his knees. “Shut up.”

  “He has a point,” Rice said.

  “Maybe if we failed,” Acosta said, “but you get forgiven when the risk pays off. The problem is that Burden never takes a fucking risk. He’ll die with his fucking finger up his ass, and he’ll take us with him.”

  That was accurate. Harsh, but accurate. At the academy, John and Tyce had talked about how John was unlikely to make commander because quick decisions gave him heartburn. Tyce had admitted that he was most likely to get busted back a rank or two for pissing someone off. Of course Tyce had overshot that mark by a considerable amount.

  The platform elevator settled onto the floor. “Get him on,” Acosta ordered.

  Em and the unnamed man dragged Tyce up and hauled him to the center of the platform. Rice stood in the corridor staring at them. The platform was so small that Acosta pressed up against Tyce’s back, so maybe he didn’t think there was room. Or maybe they had lost a co-conspirator.

  Acosta leaned forward and whispered in the woman’s ear. “O’Conner, if your little boyfriend rats us out before we can finish this, you’ll pay.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, and he’ll keep his fucking mouth shut.” She said the last part loudly enough for Rice to hear. John had inherited a crew of morons. Whoever had led the ship before had failed if the crew was this out of reg days after losing their commander.

  The lift rose, and everyone rocked as the center of the floor gave a little, making the footing tricky. Good.

  “He would sit on guard duty as we all starved,” Acosta said. “You shouldn’t have brought him.”

  “I thought we might need more muscle,” she said in her own defense.

  Tyce stayed very still until the elevator was almost to the top. Whatever else he knew about these aliens, they had some damn good footing. Humans... not so much. Tyce stepped back and thrust his ass out. Acosta stumbled and fell back on the pillowy side. It immediately deflated and Acosta slid toward the edge.

  “Acosta!” The man let go of Tyce’s arm and grabbed to save Acosta before the edge of the hole in the ceiling could cut him in half.

  “Adams!” The woman tried to force Tyce to his knees, but she didn’t have the leverage. He tried to kick the side of her knee, but the unstable floor sent him tumbling onto the pillowy side. She gave him a contemptuous look before turning her attention to saving Acosta. Tyce squirmed. He didn’t care if he got to his feet and kicked the assholes off the elevator or if he could throw himself off to the floor below. Either would slow this operation down enough for a real guard to find them.

  The fabric of the elevator sides was almost velvety in texture. It grabbed at him like Velcro and with his arms bound, Tyce couldn’t maneuver. The edge of the ceiling hole grew closer, and Tyce expected his head to get cut in half. Instead the hole was padded, and the soft edge pushed him farther into the pillowy edge. The elevator reached the next level, and they all tumbled off the edge.

  Unfortunately his kidnappers had their hands free, which made recovering easier. They were on their feet and grabbing him before he could get his limbs untangled.

  Acosta chuckled. “Never underestimate a Ribelian.” His smile made a cold shiver go down Tyce’s spine. “They’re all dangerous bastards. And now this one will fix what they did when they got this ship to open fire on us.”

  “You’re insane. It fired on us too,” Tyce said, but his two guards dragged him after Acosta. The corridors were wider here, but they still curved. And there were more spirals and swirls in the walls.

  “Here,” the male guard said.

  Acosta stopped next to a wide door. “I know it’s here, you idiot.” One opened a door, revealing an enormous room. For the most part, these aliens liked curving spaces, the sort that made Tyce think they liked to drive these ships in gravity wells or they had unreliable gravity fields that caused left to turn into down on a semi-regular basis.

  However, this was a large room with mechanical panels everywhere, or the biological equivalents. To the left were curving raised surfaces that resembled instrument or control desks. Several had panels pried off the front to expose more biological piping. To the right was a wall of crisscrossing pipes that throbbed as fluids rushed through them. Most were in various shades of green with a few of the yellow ones Tuch had deemed highly toxic and two red ones that made Tyce realize he had an instinctive fear of red fluids.

  “You got hi
m!” An older man had been behind the instrument panels, but now he stood. He stared at Tyce. “I know this seems unkind, but the ship needs it. I wouldn’t have asked for this if it weren’t an emergency.”

  “He’s a traitor,” Acosta said. “Don’t bother apologizing to him.”

  “Command will call you a traitor and a mutineer if you go against your sub-commander,” Tyce warned.

  Acosta scoffed.

  The idiot brigade shoved Tyce to the back where an alcove stood open with dozens of hair-like wires hanging down. The alcove was four or five feet high, but wider and deep. As they came close, the male guard stood at Tyce’s back and held his arms as they shoved him forward.

  “No need to push. Use your words,” Tyce said, using sarcasm to hide his terror.

  O’Conner kicked him in the back of the leg. “Shut up!” Tyce fell to his knees and froze in horror. The hair-like wires undulated toward him.

  “What if this doesn’t work?” The unnamed man asked.

  The older one answered. “Then we grab another rebel—someone younger or a female.” He wanted to test different variables by shoving different people into a hole like a fucking battery. He was a fucking monster who hid behind science and never considered that he was essentially suggesting that Command shove a child from the Dragon into this nightmare.

  Words spilled past Tyce, and he no longer tried to keep track of who spoke. He kept his gaze and his attention on the wires that moved like hungry fingers. Each glowed green, highlighting the sharpened tips on the dangling filaments. The fucking things were trying to grab him.

  Tyce struggled to get to his feet, but hands trapped him as sharp tips skittered across his skin. Tyce closed his eyes tightly and prayed for the nightmare to end quickly. However, the wires continued to slide over his skin. His chest. His shoulders. His lips.