by Wen Spencer
"No." Mikhail refused to explain more.
It still amazed Mikhail that otherwise intelligent people couldn't see that it was morally wrong to treat another as inferior just because of the circumstances of their birth. If his father was going to bring two children into the universe via bioengineering, the fact that one was genetically related and the other wasn't shouldn't have made a difference. Turk should have had every advantage that he had; God knows, his father could afford it. At least they'd been equal in Ivan's affections—which was to say, none.
"How does Turk figure into this?" Mikhail repeated.
"Perhaps it would be better to show you."
* * *
Mikhail had seen enough Reds exposed to hard vacuum to differentiate the body from a normal human. Reds were genetically adapted so they could change and adapt to extreme conditions. While a Red could survive ten times longer than an un-adapted human, eventually the cold and vacuum of space would kill them.
The Red's claws, arms and chest were covered with blood. Sometimes a Red would claw up his face and throat during the last moments of asphyxiation. There were no wounds, however, on the Red.
"Who did he kill?"
"These two." Webster uncovered two purely human males. All three wore natural cotton fabric fashioned into worn, ill-fitting and weather beaten clothing. There was neither rank insignia nor indication that the clothes were uniforms of any sorts.
"Who are they?"
"We can't establish an ID for either human. Moreover, the Red's serial number isn't in our system."
"Someone is cranking out unregistered Reds?"
"We need to investigate this," Heward said. "Risk everything and zero out in a jump. Find out what's out there."
We? Mikhail stifled a snort. Heward meant the Svoboda alone. "You're talking about a suicide run."
"We have to do this, Misha. Two of our ships in the same spot can't be a coincidence. We're looking at an organized effort. Currently all of our defenses are designed to counter the physical capabilities and limitations of the nefrim. If the nefrim are mass-producing Reds with the intent to use them against us—we'll be lost. We've lost one crèche after another, so our production is down. And I don't have to tell you about how much stronger and faster a Red is compared to a human."
"I know." Growing up with Turk, he was well-aware of it. Even though Turk was nearly four years younger than he was, his foster brother had been able to win any physical competition between them shortly after learning how to run.
"Our fears are that the nefrim have acquired enough of our technology and biological samples from our Reds to start creating them. This place, wherever it is, apparently lets them overwhelm our ships and hold them for some reason. We think it might be a training grounds for their Reds. They could be teaching their Reds how to capture and disable our ships."
If that was the case, it would spell disaster for the human race.
"If this was a simple in and out, then anyone could make the jump," Heward continued. "We need someone that can think outside the box. Way outside. Take on any situation and pull out a win."
In other words, the Volkov's reputation for pulling things out of their butt preceded him.
Mikhail ran his hand through his hair, combing his bangs back off his forehead, thinking furiously. Heward's strength was that he outmaneuvered his opposition, staging hit and run meetings. He brought things to the table that the other side didn't expect, wasn't prepared for, and then arranged deals while holding the upper hand. This meeting was classic Heward tactics. He slammed Mikhail with the huge mystery of the Fenrir's drive, dropped the bomb of impending doom for the entire human race, and then commanded that Mikhail go.
The question wasn't whether Mikhail should go or not, but what Heward was trying to keep him from seeing.
Mikhail saw it then, and let out his breath. "The Novaya Rus Empire is risking a great deal—for what? Mass production of Reds requires a crèche. All of the lost crèches belonged to New Washington. If I find a crèche, I would have to bring it back or destroy it. Since production of Reds is down, it would make more sense to recover the crèche. I'm not risking everything and then handing over anything I recover to New Washington. I want anything I recover to be considered salvage, free and clear."
"Don't be stupid, Mikhail, this is a U.C. military operation. Any property recovered during all U.C. activities reverts to the original owner."
Mihkail shook his head. "No, the Novaya Rus Space Force is part of the U.C. force under the terms of the treaty. Our privately funded militia, however, operates on a volunteer basis only with the U.C. I can refuse this mission."
Yes, that was it. Heward glowered at him.
"If New Washington had a ship you thought had a chance at succeeding, you would have sent them. But you've already analyzed this and I'm the only one that meets all the criteria needed for the best success on this mission."
"I can't wave away their rights to the crèches."
"Yes you can. There is even precedent: the Catalina Superliner. Declare that anything I find is free for salvage and I'll go."
Heward worked his jaw, possibly chewing down things he knew he shouldn't say. "Fine, I'll have it posted within an hour. Here's a courier packet with everything you need to know for this mission."
2
Paradise Lost
Paradise was burning.
The Tigertail came in from the night side of the planet, and the continent-wide fires glowed like a red eye in the night. Daylight came as a tear-blinding crescent as they pulled into orbit and took up a geosynchronous position over the day side. Thick layers of smoke obscured most of the destruction on the planet, but the remains of spaceships were raining down in visible contrails.
Turk found it hard to count this as a human victory. He and Mikhail had visited Paradise when they were young; it had lived up to its name.
Lieutenant Grigori Belokurov lifted his hand to his ear and cocked his head, listening closely. "Commander Turk, we're finally getting a response from the planet. A minor spaceport says that they're still operational. There are sellers liquidating their prides to pay for evacuation costs, but we have to come down to get the Reds." Belokurov turned for his orders, adding, "It will be a rough ride down."
Turk growled his irritation. Going down to the planet would make them more vulnerable, but the attack probably took out much of what could climb out of the gravity well. "Fine. Tell them we'll be there shortly, and then plan a path down. Wait for my mark."
"Yes, sir."
Turk keyed open the security lock between the cockpit and the Red pit. It was good to see that his veterans were lounging easily together with no clear division into warring camps. No fresh blood, although some of the betas looked unhappy.
"Suit up," Turk said. "We need to land to pick up the replacements. We're going to treat this as a hot zone."
"But the nefrims pulled out." Rabbit protested.
Turk cuffed the yearling to shut him up. Lightly, because Rabbit was right. The runt of his litter, Rabbit was the cleverest red Turk had; at his size, he had to be, else he wouldn't have survived the crèche.
"This may be a real sale," Turk explained. "Or it might be a ploy to lure down stupid bargain hunters with a space worthy ship."
"So we might be fighting humans?" Smoke smiled, showing off his sharp teeth.
"Yes, but only on my command," Turk said. "Anyone disobeying orders will be left behind on this hellhole. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, sir!" They roared back.
He suited up with them and checked their armor, and saw them locked into place. "Okay, Lieutenant Belokurov, take us down."
As the shuttle bucked and rocked through reentry, Turk closed his visor, shut his eyes, and blocked out the world. If he was going to be dealing with New Washingtonians, the more human he appeared, the easier his mission would be. Luckily, he was fluent in English, while a crèche-raised Red would only know Standard. The hardest part of passing as human was convincing hi
s own soul.
"I'm human," he whispered as he forced himself to change. "I'm human. I'm human. I'm human . . ."
* * *
The spaceport's Red pits were full. Turk stalked through them, glancing into the cages, looking for replacements. In cruel irony, the Reds of Paradise had fought the nefrim off their world only to be locked up to be sold so their owners could flee. The healthiest would sell, but the sick and wounded ones would probably end up abandoned. Turk forced himself not to think of it, not to care. He couldn't take them all. He had only enough money to replace Svoboda's dead if he found a good bargain, hence the reason he was here, at Paradise, instead of at a crèche getting yearlings.
What made it harder was that the Reds knew the score and resented it, but couldn't help watching him with pleading eyes. Take me. Save me. Get me out of here. Don't leave me trapped in here when the nefrim return.
Damn New Washingtonians! They treated their lap dogs better than this.
"Commander," Lieutenant Belokurov's voice murmured in this ear. "Rabbit's disappeared. He was walking patrol and I lost track of him."
Turk cursed and turned to retrace his steps. Any other of his Reds he would have suspected of going AWOL voluntarily, but Rabbit was both cautious and responsible, a result of being tiny for a Red. Hell, he was small for a normal human. If he was missing, then someone had taken him. "Activate his tracking signal."
* * *
It took Turk an hour to find the yearling huddled in the corner of a large general holding cell. He was cut and bleeding.
"I'm sorry, sir." Rabbit pressed against the bars but didn't meet his eyes. "I didn't see them coming. I mean—I saw them—but—they were humans and they were moving some crates. They had their hands full. I didn't pay any attention to them . . .and then they hit me from behind."
Mostly likely the crates were empty and the work all fake to throw the young Red off guard. "How many were there?"
"Five."
"You give them hell?"
Rabbit looked up then, his eyes full of despair. He believed that Turk would leave him behind. "Yes, sir."
"Good. I'll get you out."
* * *
"You have my Red in lockup, I want him back." Turk pushed the data-stick with Rabbit's DNA registration numbers and record of ownership across the desk.
The human manning the terminal slotted the stick and grunted. "He was fighting with humans."
"He didn't pick the fight—he was jumped."
The human scoffed.
"I know my Red. He keeps his nose clean and his claws in. Your people started this fight and he defended himself."
"Doesn't matter. Unrestrained Reds fighting with humans carry a mandatory fine. We keep him as collateral until you pay it."
Turk locked his jaw against his anger. "Half the Reds on this planet will be toast when the nefrim come back. What benefit would you get from keeping him?"
"If you pay the fine, that means more of us get off."
By us, he meant humans.
"How much is the fine?" Turk reached for his credit chip.
"Fifty thousand."
"Zeny?" Turk frowned. Even with the dropping exchange rate, that seemed high.
"Standard."
"You've got to be kidding. I could buy five Reds at a crèche for that." It was half of the money he'd brought with him.
"In times like this, everything gets expensive," the man said. "We don't like having unrestrained Reds running around. They're too dangerous. The fine is to discourage people from ignoring our leash law."
In other words, it gave them an excuse to pick up Reds, and blackmail the owners to pay a jacked up fine or sell the Red at discount to bargain hunters. Turk wondered how many of the Reds in the holding cells were shanghaied in the same manner.
"I'll pay ten thousand," Turk offered. "That's his market value."
"This isn't Novaya Rus. A fine isn't negotiable. Either pay the full amount or get out of my face."
His claws sprang out in anger. He dug them into the counter to keep from tearing said face off the man.
The Svoboda had taken heavy losses the last few battles. Turk needed twenty Reds to bring them back to full strength, a near impossible task except for the bargains he could get on a planet about to fall to the nefrim. He'd reassured Mikhail that dropping him on Paradise alone would let them maximize their efforts, allowing Mikhail to meet with the U.C. while Turk got their replacements. He would need every Standard he had to do so.
But he told Rabbit that he'd get him out.
No one would blame him if he walked away from Rabbit. The little Red made the fatal mistake of underestimating humans. Turk had warned his Reds to stay out of trouble or he'd leave them behind.
In upcoming firefights, they'd need all the able bodies they could throw into the mix. He shouldn't be wasting half his money on one undersized Red.
No one will buy a runt like Rabbit. He'd be locked in that cell when the nefrim return.
And the nefrim never left anything living in their wake.
He couldn't do that to one of his Reds.
"Fine. I'll pay." Turk keyed in the fine amount and slid his credit chip across the desk.
* * *
He took his Reds back to Tigertail and had them form a tighter parameter around it. If anyone was to pick a fight with one, they'd have to take them all on—and he suspected even the scum of Paradise weren't that desperate.
"Pardon! Hey! Attention!" someone called in Standard.
Turk turned to find a tall blonde woman coming across the tarmac. She wore a flowing silk dress, cut high on one side, so that when she walked, she flashed one bare leg. She lifted her hand to catch his attention. The wind molded her dress to her and brought him her pheromone-drenched scent. He felt his groin tighten in response. A female wearing catnip perfume and looking like sex on heels meant only one thing: a cat fancier.
"Do you speak English?" She asked when she was in range.
"Yes, I do." Turk said.
"Yes, you do, very well too." She slinked up to him. "Are you the Red commander from the Svoboda? I've heard quite a bit about you."
He could imagine. Cat fanciers exchanged information on forums that crossed the galaxy. It wasn't the first time one of them tracked him down. He didn't have time for what someone like her wanted. "I'm busy."
"Rumor has it, that you're looking to buy Reds. I have some for sale."
"I need a pride of seasoned fighters, not house cats."
She laughed, showing off canines sharpened to fangs. "Unfortunately, I don't have any house cats. I have a combat pride, though, and it's for sale. I'm Rebecca Waverly." She pressed her hand to his stomach, just under his chest armor. "You're Volkov's un-neutered house cat, aren't you? How purrfect. You almost pass as human—it's your eyes that give you away."
She wasn't the first to say it.
He clenched his jaw to keep his tone level. She was kneading his stomach. "What are you asking for your pride?"
She gave a smoky laugh full of promise. "Oh, I know it's a buyer's market, so let me sweeten the deal."
"What do you have in mind?"
"A few hours in my shuttle," she whispered, "just the two of us, and fifty thousand for my Reds."
The price was insane for Reds, even in a market like this. He might be handing her money, but she was buying him.
She sensed his hesitation and taking his hand, slipped it into the slit in her skirt. Staring up at him, parting her lips to breath out a throaty groan, she guided his hand up her bare thigh to her firm buttocks. Against his will, his body reacted to her silky warmth and heady perfume. She pulled his head down and opened her mouth to him. His fingers discovered she was wearing an anal plug with a cat tail prosthetic, which twitched realistically.
"My god, you're a kinky bitch." He growled.
"I'm not a dog, I'm a cat. A queen," she whispered into his ear, as she arched her back like a female presenting herself to a tom. "Your sticky kitty cat."
&nbs
p; He was going to regret this. He always came away from such women feeling dirty and low. But it would make up for the money that he spent on Rabbit, and he'd promised Mikhail that he'd get the Reds they needed. Considering the number of times Mikhail had refused to sell him to cat fanciers, he owed Mikhail to put up with this.
"Fine. Let's go check out your pride. If they're acceptable, we can do the transaction and then go to your shuttle."
* * *
Her pride was in a cell block not far from where Rabbit had been held. Turk was almost disappointed to find them large, well-fed, and well-exercised. One thing you had to give cat fanciers, they took care of their Reds. Their papers said they came out of Eden Crèche, which meant they'd be well-trained in standard combat action. A lifetime of waiting meant most of them were napping, sleeping away the idle time. Others were doing calisthenics, burning off energy in order to nap.
They all took note of Waverly, eyed Turk intently, but only one slouched forward.
"You got a new fucktoy?" The Red asked Waverly. "Shouldn't you be doing something about getting us off this planet? Before the nefrims come back?"
She laughed. "Shush, Butcher. I'm working on it. I'm selling you dirt cheap with a good lay thrown in to this prime piece of meat."
The tom studied Turk closely. "You? Where's your Red commander?"
"I am Red commander."
"Pft." Butcher said. "Humans are Red commanders, not Reds."
Meaning: I won't obey a Red. Turk had run into that trouble before, all with the same reason.
"You top Red?" Turk asked. While genetically varied to keep diseases from spreading unchecked through crèches, the Reds were controlled—in theory—in size both by breeding and identical diet. Still, the Reds varied in height and muscle mass. Rabbit was on the small end. Butcher was one of the tallest Reds that Turk had ever seen. Turk suspected that if you could check actual food consumption, the big Reds took the food from their smaller littermates. Over time, the differences became profound.
"Top red was killed," the tall red claimed. "We haven't sorted that all out. Didn't really see the need, not if we don't get out of this trap."
That didn't ring true to Turk. Reds always seemed to put who commanded who above all else. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was a side effect of all the conditioning they received for following chain of command. How could you follow chain of command if all of you are interchangeable, disposal grunts? By fighting it out so there was a distinction. Or maybe the crèches were trying to inspire the Reds to excel by ranking their performances and the Reds were taking away something more, something their makers didn't intend. Someday, Turk would have to visit a crèche and see exactly how they trained the growing Reds. Someday.
