BLACK HOLIDAY
J. M. ANJEWIERDEN
©2018 Jared Michael Anjewierden
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Published by CJMA Press, Salt Lake City, UT.
Cover art by Ben and Alison Christensen
Editing by Christina Anjewierden
First Edition
FOR JAMES
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
Some of my colleagues are continually surprised by the outrageous risks men – and it is mostly men – are willing to take in the pursuit of money, status, or companionship. They prattle on about how humanity has ‘evolved’ and that our animal instincts no longer drive us. To put it bluntly they are allowing their education to blind them to reality. Humanity will never be free of risk taking behavior, of members of the species gambling with their lives – or the lives of others – in the slim chance of a great reward. Risk taking is part of what makes us human.
- Senator Craig Higley, Planetary Parliament of Partoun
ALEXANDER POPOV’S rented office on the commercial space station in orbit of Trimbol was indistinguishable from a middle manager’s office on any of a hundred different worlds. Beige walls, plain desk, outdated but serviceable screens and a flickering holographic keyboard were the main trappings. The blandness didn’t stop there, however, but extended to vaguely inspirational animated posters on the walls, complete with meaningless quotes. Rounding out the décor were plants in the corners that were obviously and pathetically fake.
That Admiral Popov chose to keep his office this way was only one of the many unsettling facets of the self-styled Warlord-for-Hire’s nature.
Just as the Admiral’s office could be mistaken for that of a paperwork pushing middle manager, the man himself could as well. He was balding, slightly overweight, habitually dressed in a slightly rumpled suit with a too-large coat; he also usually had a pleasant smile on his face, one that was quite disarming… as long as his prey didn’t look too closely at his eyes. Those were the steel eyes of a predator.
At the moment, he was looking over a contract offer that promised him more prey than his little navy had ever tackled before. Punching a button on his keyboard, he summoned his assistant.
If Popov was a middle manager, his assistant was the outward epitome of a secretary chosen for looks and personality over ability and intelligence. It was as much a disguise as his appearance, of course. Her elaborate and unnecessarily ornamented dress had multiple hidden pockets that concealed enough weapons to supply a Marine fire team with small arms and even some basic explosives. It was fitting for one who was as much the warlord’s bodyguard as assistant.
“Yes, boss?” she asked, sitting down delicately in the chair placed in front of the desk.
“Miss Akull, How many ships do we have deployed right now?”
“Two of the jumpships are working the freight routes in the Korpol sector, which still hasn’t managed to replace the provisional government,” she said without hesitation. However, they only took two frigates each. The rest of their frigate complements are farmed out to different governments for legitimate naval duties.”
“Get a message ready for the next courier with recall orders for both. And check the contracts for the frigates. If any are getting close to the end of their terms send recall messages to as well. In the meantime alert all captains to prepare their crews for a long mission.”
“A big score?” she asked, a predatory grin transforming her businesswoman façade into that of a coldly calculating killer.
“You could say that.”
“Are we telling the captains where they’re headed yet?”
“No, but tell them to prepare to fight an actual military.”
“Sounds like fun,” she said, almost purring in anticipation.
“You don’t know the half of it,” the admiral said. He gestured to the screen still showing the contract. “The Committee on Hillman has finally gotten tired of living on that dump of a planet. They’re eyeing their neighbors, but they’re not ready yet for a full war.”
“So where are they sending us first?”
“The Parlon system.”
The admiral’s assistant actually did purr at that tidbit, the sound almost a growl.
“All those rich religious fools.”
The admiral shook his head.
“That will be later, once we get the rest of the ships back. For now, we’re going after their asteroid industry. Our job isn’t to take the system, just soften it up for Hillman to finish off.”
“With what ships? Up until now we were effectively their navy.”
“They didn’t say, but I can read between the lines. They’ve squirreled away a shipyard somewhere, and are putting out ships as fast as they can.”
“Just so long as they don’t try and poach our guys to help crew them.” She was frowning at the thought. Experienced spacers willing to work for places like Hillman – or like the admiral and her, for that matter – were rare enough. “We’re still trying to replace the Marines we hired out for that smash and grab job a few months ago, and muscle is much easier to find.”
“They’ve got some training going on; they have to, though I couldn’t find anything out about it. Must have started some time ago, though, as they’re sending ‘advisors’ with our ships for this little excursion.”
“Lovely. Amateurs calling the shots.”
“Yes, well, they get out of hand one shot is all it will take to fix the problem.”
“That won’t please the client very much.”
Popov shrugged.
“When have we ever really cared about the client’s feelings?”
This elicited a chuckle from Miss Akull.
“Speaking of not caring for the client’s feelings, if we really are going after Parlon, why not take the opportunity to settle a few old scores as well?”
The admiral thought about this for a few moments before replying.
“Their militaries have thwarted us more times than I would like, especially Albion’s. Weakening them before we go after them directly isn’t a bad idea. It would have to be limited to assassinations of a few high-ranking officers, though. We won’t have any naval assets near the inhabited planets for some time. If they get caught it could really mess things up for us later on.”
“I can quietly hire a few specialists we’ve used in the past. I believe Ms. Ice and her associates are available. If they succeed, great, if they fail we’re no worse off, and if they are captured they won’t know anything.”
“Good. I’ll leave that in your hands, then. That way if the client gets mad about our extra activities I can tell them I don’t know anything about it and have it actually be true for once. Be sure to add it to the bill though, I’m sure you’ll think of some vague language to put it under. Any other concerns?”
“Will we have enough cargo space for the loot?” It wasn’t an idle question. The Parlon system’s space industry was among the largest in the known galaxy. “I’m sure they’re paying us well
for this, but getting paid twice is always better.”
“Eventually this will involve all four jumpships, and we might even be able to ‘salvage’ some working starships in the process. Though whatever we can’t take we’ll have to destroy,” the admiral answered. He waved towards the door. “Get to it. I want the messages out as soon as possible. We have a system to conquer.”
The assistant nodded, and left. Once outside the office her pleasant and vacant expression returned, and she deftly wended her way through the crowds of businessmen and spacers that had no idea one of the most dangerous and wanted men in the entire galaxy was quietly planning the deaths of thousands not twenty yards from where they walked.
Communicating solely via courier to the fleet – or rather, from a normal courier to the warlord’s own courier ship, and from there to the fleet – was aggravatingly slow. Still, having clients come to the bright, happy, public space station to set up jobs was vastly preferable to trying to get them out to the fleet without them realizing where they were located.
CHAPTER 1
The human body is an amazingly resilient organism. We, as a species, invented surgery centuries before we had anesthesia, and engage in such practices as piercings, tattoos, and cosmetic surgeries that would, for most animals, merely be a painful way to die. At the same time fall just wrong, rupture the wrong blood vessel and we die instantly. So it is with the mind – remarkably resilient and tough, right up until it isn’t.
- Doctor Polly Adar, Head Psychologist, Saint Jude’s Hospital, New Chennai
GUNFIRE SURROUNDED her, the crack-boom of penetrator rounds and the high-pitched whine of Morgan’s Iridium Special mixing with the crackle of destroyed circuitry and shattered starship bulkheads.
The smell of blood and… other things… overwhelmed Morgan, so strong it seemed to stick to her like liquid.
The sound of her frantic breathing bounced around her skinsuit’s helmet. And the screaming. The infernal screaming that just wouldn’t stop…
…was her own.
With a quiet gasp, Morgan jerked awake, her hand automatically snaking its way under her pillow, grasping the pistol she kept there.
Disorientation overwhelmed her. Nothing looked right. The low ceiling of the alcove holding her bunk (and her) had padding. And where were her bunkmates? Usually by now they would be grouching at her to get back to sleep and stop bothering them…
…She wasn’t on her bunk on the Fate of Dawn.
She was in her quarters on Takiyama Station, home port for all the freighters of the merchant house.
She was not being shot at by pirates, and she was not in danger.
It took three more repetitions of that fact for Morgan to believe herself.
Gingerly she released her death grip on her pistol, careful to keep her finger away from the trigger.
She knew it was empty, now that she wasn’t thinking through a fog of fear and panic, but being empty did not mean she should treat it any differently.
Each night before falling asleep since… well, since, she unloaded it. Too great a risk of an accident, at least for now. The loaded magazine she had tucked into the corner of her bunk, where she could get to it easily if she did actually need it.
For a moment she sat there, secure in the small alcove with the privacy screen pulled across the opening even though she was alone in the room.
As her breathing slowed down Morgan tried to clear her head of the nightmare.
The trouble was, of course, that the nightmare had its roots in her real memories. Memories that were not so easily dispelled.
It had started like any other day: end of her exhausting shift in the cargo bays, off to her quarters to listen to her messages. The freighter had nearly finished offloading cargo at some station, Morgan couldn’t even remember which, when pirates had attempted to take not only the station but the ships docked with it. Trying to find a safe place to hide, Morgan had ended up at the armory, defended only by a single mercenary, Corporal Hudson, who didn’t even have the codes for the door.
In the end Morgan had not only been forced to help him defend the armory, but mechanically force the doors open when they ran low on ammunition. Then she’d been roped into helping the mercenaries stop the pirates trying to force their way onto the bridge.
So much death…
At least here I won’t wake anyone up, she thought.
On board the Fate of Dawn, Morgan had shared her room with five other mechanics and technicians. Here, she had her own bedroom. She shared the rest of the quarters with her best friend, Gertrude, and Gertrude’s little girl, Haruhi, who was almost eight – in Earth years. By the local calendar she was a little over five, since Zion’s year was not quite fifty percent longer than Earth’s.
Funny how we’re still using Earth’s calendar as a basis, decades after we lost all contact with the Solar system, Morgan thought idly. No one knew what had happened, beyond that it must have been sudden, and that no one who tried to go to Sol ever returned.
Morgan still couldn’t do the conversions automatically, but that was fine with her, a little math might just distract her from the nightmare.
If Haruhi was five that would make Morgan… start with Hillman’s year, convert to Earth’s…
Well, how about that. Morgan was just about two months from turning eighteen. By either calendar’s month, even. Zion had a twenty-six hour day, but twenty-five day months, so each was a bit shorter than an Earth month.
Of course, legally, she was turning twenty-three.
It was much easier, after all, to live and work on your own as a refugee if they thought she was eighteen, rather than the thirteen-year-old she actually had been when her parents smuggled her off Hillman.
Momma and Daddy had thought so…
That stray thought sent Morgan down a well-worn path of sadness, but compared to the terrors of the nightmare it was almost welcome. Comforting even.
Crying softly into her pillow, Morgan turned about and tried to get back to sleep.
***
Morgan got very little sleep the rest of the night, alternating between tossing about and jerking herself awake in a flop sweat, despite the cool temperature of the room.
Finally, a half-hour before she needed to be up anyway, Morgan gave up and slid back the screen on her bunk.
Peeling off her sweat-soaked nightgown, Morgan staggered over to her room’s small bathroom. The hot water soothed her tense muscles, at least a little bit. Getting the grime off was nice.
Wrapping herself in a towel, Morgan took a moment to look in the mirror.
Not looking so good, if she was being honest with herself.
Granted, most of her body was covered with thin scars crisscrossing her dusky skin, earned crawling around the mines of her homeworld. But those were old friends, barely noticed.
No, what Morgan noticed at present were the massive bags under her eyes from lack of sleep, and the amount of muscle she’d lost after four months without any gym time, let alone time where she could crank up the gravity to what she had grown up with.
At least those she had expected.
What she hadn’t expected was how dead and dull the blue eyes were that gazed back at her. Her short hair also looked dreadful. It was frizzy and unkempt, with an uneven length thanks to catching bits of it in one piece of machinery or another. Thanks to all the stains from gunk and oil, her hair looked almost black instead of dark blonde.
Closing her eyes Morgan took in a deep breath, holding it for ten seconds before blowing it out.
“You can do this,” she told her reflection. “Tough it out until it gets better.”
Most of Morgan’s clothes were still in her duffel bag, dumped unceremoniously on a chair when she had come in the night before, her first night back.
Luckily she had more underthings and socks than she’d had room for in the bag when she had packed, months ago, so she started there. Dumping the rest of the clothes out on her bunk she pulled out the least dirty pai
r of coveralls and threw it on too.
At least she’d managed to get her skinsuit in the automated cleaner. That was one outfit that was really, really gross to wear more than one day at a time.
Of course, she wouldn’t need it today, unless something odd came up.
She almost certainly wouldn’t need her pistol either, but she slipped it – holstered with magazine replaced and a round chambered – into the right hip pocket of her coveralls. Spare magazines went into the left pocket.
She hadn’t thought she’d need it that day either.
The last thing she grabbed was her daddy’s old spanner, worn and antiquated, but still very much functional.
It went into its usual spot in a loop of her belt.
Time to face the day.
“Hey, Room,” Morgan called out.
“Receiving,” the station’s computer answered, as it always did, in a pleasant feminine voice with the lightly accented English of someone whose first language was Japanese.
“Unlock the door.”
“Affirmative.”
Morgan could have unlocked it manually, and probably quicker, but she found it helpful to start the day with the verbal interaction. It reminded her that she wasn’t on Hillman any longer, with its barely space-age technology in the mining towns. It was the same reason she had programmed her room to respond first, where most people just ordered the computers about and expected them to comply silently.
Suppressing a yawn, Morgan opened the door and walked out into the common area.
Gertrude was sitting at the small table near the kitchen alcove of the common room, her long wavy brown hair pulled up in a ponytail.
A pitcher of potentially real orange juice shared room on the table with a plate of pancakes.
Morgan’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t been eating enough either. One of the less helpful consequences of growing up on a heavy gravity world – she needed a lot more food than her hundred and fifty centimeters would suggest.
Black Holiday (The Black Chronicles Book 2) Page 1
