Codename: Night Witch

by Cary Caffrey

  Sigrid dived backwards, scrambling for her life on her hands and knees. A second explosion lit up the sky as the rear of the craft blew itself apart, and then a third as the doomed gunship pancaked into the ice-covered road. The explosion sent the last of the fuel reserves roiling skyward—and Sigrid tumbling backside over heels. She scrambled to her knees, but only in time to see a large section of metal plating tear itself from the hull in the explosive blast. End over end, it flew toward her, accelerating, pushed along by the fiery ball of heated gas.

  "Mother, freaking, son of a—" Sigrid said.

  The hurtling wall of metal plating hit her full on, collecting her and sending her flying backward through the air.

  Head over heels, she fell, tumbling backwards amongst the trees. Pine branches whipped at her arms and legs, another caught her ankle, sending her cartwheeling. Her short flight ended abruptly as she landed backside-first into a deep bank of snow.

  Vacant eyes stared upward. Streams of blood seeped from her ears and from her nose. But Sigrid was aware of none of this. The impact had knocked her senseless and she was quite unconscious. The woods were quiet but for the burning wreckage of the gunship close by.

  The short battle was over. For the soldiers, for the Thunderhawk, and for Sigrid.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Mistress

  The chairman's inaugural gala was well underway when she arrived. She paused at the top of the small flight of steps while the footman in his scarlet livery announced her arrival.

  Everyone noticed her. Women and men alike turned to stare, curious as to this new arrival. They didn't know her. No one did. She was an object of mystery for some, desire for others. Whomever she was, she knew how to make an entrance.

  Some of the guests applauded. It wasn't that she was important or accompanied by a particular VIP, but all the guests agreed: it was impossible to ignore the woman in the clinging blue dress.

  Some women gasped. Some appreciatively. Some envious. Others in complete disapproval. She ignored their haughty stares, the words spoken in hushed whispers.

  She wasn't here for them.

  She paused by the mirror long enough to check her hair and makeup. The mirror provided an excellent view of the gala and all its guests. She scanned each and every one of them in turn as she applied a fresh coat of scarlet lipstick. Everyone of importance was here, the wealthiest of the wealthy, the Federation's grand corporate elite. But why wouldn't they be? Who would miss the inauguration of the Federation's new chairman of the Council for Trade and Finance? Many deals and alliances would be struck tonight. A brand-new era of prosperity would be born.

  A waiter walked past carrying a tray of champagne in slim crystal flutes. She helped herself to two glasses, downing one while hanging on to the second. Men nodded their approval, though she ignored their attempts at eye contact and favor.

  A winding staircase led from the ballroom to the second floor. Two security men dressed in black tie stood by the golden sash that blocked her way.

  She paused by the security men. When she dropped her pocketbook on the stairs, one of them hurried to pick it up. She politely declined his attempt at gallantry, bending to pick it up herself. She bent slowly from the waist. Her dress performed its function perfectly: the plunging neckline drooped forward to offer a tantalizing glimpse of her soft curves. And when she stood back up, her wide eyes were full of promise and so much more.

  A guided, and very private, tour of the upper level was quickly arranged. The taller of the security men stepped in front of his partner to offer her his arm. She took it as they made their way upstairs.

  The upper level was now open to her. It provided a grand view of the party going on below. The hallway was decorated lavishly; hand-painted portraits and landscapes by the great masters adorned the wall—all of them salvaged from Earth after the exodus. She oohed appropriately, taking in all of the portraits as she leaned against her escort, holding to his arm ever tighter.

  The tour was over all too quickly. It ended at a broad wooden door. Her hand rested suggestively on the handle. Oh, but couldn't they go in? It would mean so much to her. Perhaps the room beyond would afford some privacy, too—a more intimate setting. What? The Chairman's chambers? Forbidden? Why, all the more enticing, didn't he think? She pressed herself next to him. Her wide eyes were demanding, the warmth of her body intoxicating.

  The door was opened instantly. The private sanctum of the chairmen for the Council of Trade and Finance awaited.

  She took the security man's hand and drew him inside. When he turned on the lights, she gasped appreciatively, marveling. Oh, to be here! The very nexus of power, a place only visited by the Federation's most rich and powerful.

  She sat atop the chairman's wide desk and crossed her legs. She stared up at him as her hands brushed the polished grain, real wood. So rare. So exotic. And so valuable.

  His hands reached around her, drawing her to him. His lips parted, inching closer, so eager for a taste. She waved a finger before him. Not yet. A moment like this must be savored, never rushed.

  From her pocketbook she withdrew the capsule, presenting it to him. Something to spice up the mood? He nodded his eagerness. She snapped the capsule and he inhaled deeply, first one nostril, then the next.

  The lustful gleam in his eye turned to one of confusion, then horror and pain. The toxin acted instantly. He didn't choke or struggle. He simply died.

  With her toe on his backside, she rolled his body aside.

  The door was closed. The lights switched off. In the dark, she waited.

  She wouldn't have to wait long. She never did. For this dream—her only dream—was the same every night.

  He came to her, just as he always did. The door burst open. The chairman entered first with four of his cronies in tow. He closed the door and switched on the light.

  Startled gasps.

  Turning, he saw her. She was seated behind his desk. What was she doing here? How did she get in? What was the meaning of this?

  When he saw the body of the dead security man, the cigar dropped from his trembling fingers.

  He stepped back, stumbled, only to be held up by his cronies.

  The shuriken left her fingertips and skirted the distance between them, embedding itself deep within his skull. His knees buckled and he fell forward. The new chairman of the Council for Trade and Finance was dead.

  The war for independence had begun.

  Her eyes fixed on those of his cronies next. The gaggle of fat men were already jostling each other in their haste to get away. The chairman's body blocked the door. They couldn't move him. They were trapped. Trembling, they stood before her, and they knew their miserable lives were over. Their lives were hers for the taking. For she was death. She was the Night Witch, come to claim them.

  No witnesses: those were the orders of her mistress, and her mistress would not be refused. From the hem of her dress, she withdrew four more of the razor-sharp blades and stepped toward them.

  ~ - ~

  Sigrid awoke with a start, coughing and choking.

  The nightmare was already fading. In her mind, she saw the faces of men, she heard…music, but then those images were gone as well, brushed aside by the stench of burning metal, fuel and flesh.

  Minutes passed and all Sigrid could do was lie there, staring up at the overcast sky. The full moon was just barely visible through the clouds, and any stars she saw were solely in her head.

  The moon. Earth's moon. Wherever she was, this was Earth. Blast.

  Dazed, and with her ears still ringing, Sigrid struggled to sit up. Twice she gave up, deciding that lying there in the snow was perfectly acceptable, thank you very much. But her PCM kept prodding her: two more of the gunships were speeding her way.

  Two more! Bloody hell…

  Finally, she managed to sit all the way up. It was even more of a struggle to rise to her feet. Her head throbbed—twirled was more like it. Her whole world was spinning about. When she touched her f
orehead, her hand came back thick and sticky with blood—blood that flowed freely from a deep gash. Her diagnostics confirmed that she'd suffered a grade-three concussion; she was cut, burned and bruised. But she was alive.

  If she was conscious at all, it was only because of her PCM. The nanoswarms worked to reduce the swelling in her brain. Painkillers took away the hurt while strong stimulants brushed the fog aside. She'd pay for this later, but for the moment it was the only thing keeping her alert.

  Rising again, Sigrid stumbled back toward the causeway. The Thunderhawk was gone, disintegrated. The ground was blackened and charred. Unspent fuel lay burning in wide puddles amongst the piles of burning wreckage. And the soldiers? Sigrid scanned around her. They were dead. All of them. Yet she alone had survived. She was alive, but she wouldn't be for long, not if she stayed here much longer. The other two gunships would be here in moments.

  Kneeling by one of the dead, she took a brief inventory. His rifle was smashed and his grenades spent. She rolled him over, pulling off his long coat, about the only thing of use left. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she stumbled on.

  The freeway was only a few hundred meters away through the trees. Half-delirious, Sigrid weaved her way toward it. When she got there, she was surprised to find it wasn't much of a freeway at all. The cracked and potholed pavement didn't look like it had been resurfaced in years, and there were only six lanes running in each direction. It was barely a highway at all.

  Long-hauler transports dominated the traffic. These were massive cargo trains, some of them hauling as many as eighteen flatbeds. The scream of their massive engines mixed with the roar of their three-meter-tall studded tires. The sound was deafening, especially standing there on the shoulder. Sigrid held up her hand, trying to flag one of the transports down. One after another they roared past. Great wakes of snow and ice swirled around her and blasted her in the face.

  Behind her, she was very aware of the closeness of the two new Thunderhawks. They were circling the scene of the battle. It wouldn't take them long to figure out her body wasn't among the dead.

  She was just about to give up and make for the woods when she heard the blast of an air horn. Sigrid spun around in time to see a particularly large transport swerve onto the shoulder. Like a charging bull, it barreled toward her with its long train of fourteen cargo carriers snaking behind it. The driver hit the brakes, teetering on the edge of control. Sigrid saw the wheels lock up, all 148 of them. The entire train of carriers appeared to spasm violently, threatening to jackknife and sweep over her.

  It stopped just short of plowing into her—it would have too, if she hadn't taken four steps back. Opening one eye and then the other, she found herself staring up at the towering chrome grill of the truck's engine cowling. Two enormous headlights stared down at her expectantly. Warm blasts from its exhaust washed over her like hot breath.

  The entire front of the rig was jury-rigged with armored plating: someone had taken thick plates of heavy steel and bolted them on to protect the engine and wheel mounts. Even the windscreens were made from reinforced permaglass. She didn't fail to notice the many dents on the armored plates either, nor the scars and scorch marks. Clearly, the highways of Earth were a treacherous place and not to be traveled lightly.

  The side door opened and a hand waved her forward. "Well, come on, sweetheart, I ain't got all night."

  With one last look behind her at the Thunderhawks circling in the distance, Sigrid climbed the ladder to the cab. It was time to get the hell out of here. It was time to go home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jaffer

  She was only halfway inside when the driver of the truck hit the accelerator. The transport gave a great lurch that sent Sigrid tumbling headlong into the cab as the door slammed shut behind her. She was too exhausted to move. In fact, she was quite happy to lie there face down on the floor. It was only when Sigrid heard the unmistakable click of a weapon's firing hammer being drawn back that she looked up.

  Her hair had tumbled over her face, and she pulled it back only to find herself staring down the twin barrels of a sawed-off shotgun.

  "Are you all right?" the man with the gun said.

  Sigrid glared at the twin muzzles pressed against her forehead. "I suppose that depends on whether or not you're planning on using that? Perhaps you should ask me after you blast a hole through my skull."

  Her answer seemed to satisfy him and the trucker snickered. "Sorry, sweetheart. Can't be too careful in these parts." In one motion, he flipped the shotgun over his shoulder, depositing it in the wall-mounted rack behind his seat.

  "Jaffer," he said, thrusting a meaty hand toward her, and she supposed "Jaffer" was the man's name. He was rather large and wore a long-billed cap. The down-filled vest he was wearing had seen better days and only half-covered his immense paunch. But his face was pleasant, and she caught an unmistakable flash of mischief in his eye that put her instantly at ease.

  "Sigrid," she said, reaching up to shake his hand. She tried not to wince as he clasped her hand and hauled her up, lifting her from the floor and setting her down on the bench seat beside him.

  "And sorry about the whole gun-in-your-face thing back there. I thought maybe they were using you was bait."

  "They?"

  "Jackers, sweetheart. Who else? They love a good honeytrap. It's one of their favorites."

  "Don't you mean honeypot? And if you're suggesting I'm the honey—"

  "Not suggesting. Just saying. Jackers love to leave pretty girls by the side of the road. Unsuspecting bloke pulls over. Next thing he knows—wham! Out cold. Rig gone. Cargo stolen. Then there's me, left by the side of the road in nothing but my skivvies—if I'm lucky."

  "Well, I can promise you, I have no wish to see you in your skivvies—not that there's anything wrong with you in your undershorts!" she added hastily, not wanting to give offense. "I just meant, I didn't want you to lose your shirt. So to speak."

  "Don't worry yourself, kid. My days on the catwalk are long behind me."

  "Well, all right then."

  "Look, um, it's none of my business, but do you want to tell me what happened back there? And don't tell me it was nothing. I saw the explosion from ten miles back."

  Several lies came to her lips, but Sigrid dismissed them. Considering her condition—the wounds, her lack of trousers or shoes, the blood on her face, arms and legs—she couldn't exactly paint herself as an innocent hitchhiker traveling the countryside. And this trucker, she owed him some kind of answer, didn't she? If he hadn't picked her up, she'd be back in the hands of those men. Or worse.

  Leaving out the more gruesome parts, Sigrid spun a tale of her escape. Sold into servitude, she was an escapee from a corporate-run facility, where she'd been indentured for the past six years. At least that part shouldn't be too hard to believe. She wouldn't be the first worker to flee from her corporate masters. The factories were notorious for their poor conditions. For the Federation's working poor, there were few choices: it was either escape or the slow and dreary death of indentured servitude.

  When she was done, Jaffer seemed suitably impressed and gave a low whistle. "Six years! And with no outside contact?"

  "None," Sigrid said. "To tell you the truth, I don't even know where I am. Not what province or territory."

  "Punta Arenas," Jaffer said. "I just pulled out of the port, not four hours back."

  Punta Arenas. So this was Chile, and deep in the southern industrial zones of South America.

  "Is there anywhere I can take you?" Jaffer asked. "Somewhere I can drop you off? You must have friends? Family? Someone who's looking for you?"

  It was a good question, and one she'd been asking herself since her awakening. But after six years, would her friends still be looking for her? They'd probably think her dead. And if the Independents could do this to her—holding her captive and doing who knows what to her—then who knows what they'd done to her friends. Was New Alcyone still there? Was Suko even alive?

 
; "North," Sigrid said. North was the key. If she could get to Buenos Aires, from there there were any number of places she could go. She could take a TGV to São Paulo and maybe smuggle herself off-world. Or if São Paulo was too hot, she could make for Panama. "I need to get north. As far and as fast as I can. I need to get off-world, Jaffer."

  "North I can do. I'm heading for the Crossroads now. As for off-world? Well, that might be a problem."

  Anxious tendrils crawled up Sigrid's neck. "Why? Why can't I get off-world?"

  "Look, you've been gone a while, and I hate to be the one to say it, but Earth's not the same place you left, kid. There hasn't been any travel off-world for years. Not since the embargo. Not since the war."

  "War!"

  Jaffer nodded. "Not since the Independents killed the Council."

  Sigrid thought back to what the orderly had told her. She hadn't believed him. She'd written it off as some desperate attempt to throw her off. "Then-then it's true."

  "What's true?" Jaffer said absently.

  "The Council for Trade and Finance. They're really dead?"

  "All twelve of them. Murdered. I'm surprised they never told you. It was all anyone could talk about."

  "One of the guards said something about it," Sigrid said. It was a half-lie. Sort of. "I-I didn't believe him!"

  "Well, you can believe it. They be dead. Sent the whole Federation into a frenzy. They were so worried the war was going to spread, they shut down the Warp Relay. That was five years ago. We've been stuck here ever since. Like I said, nobody gets off-world."

  Gaping, Sigrid slumped back. "How? How is any of this even possible? How could they let this happen?"

  "Depends who you ask. Some say it was the Independents. Others think it's the pharmaceutical cartels, but if you ask me, I say it was the witch."

  Not sure if she'd heard him correctly, she turned slowly toward him. If he was joking, he certainly wasn't giving anything away.

  "A witch?" she said. "You're actually trying to tell me a witch killed the Council for Trade and Finance? The twelve most powerful and protected people in the Federation of Incorporated Enterprises?"