Hunters of the Deep

by Randall N Bills

  After another long pause, during which a minute or five might have passed, when no sound vibrated along the thread Snow held, she slowly began to reweave the skein of herself, gradually retwining existence. In another few moments she breathed deeply and released a small, pent-up sigh of frustration. She snorted, moved to the entrance of the street and began making her way once more down Harold, to the waiting DropShip several kilometers distant and her future meeting; by her calculations, her invitee should already have made planetfall and might be just a little agitated if he could not find her.

  A fiery fist of pain hammered into her shoulder from behind; she lurched forward and dropped to one knee as her concentration momentarily splintered into a prismatic stream of a thousand points of light. Damn! Sloppy again.

  No need to be on your guard one hundred percent where SAFE is concerned. The intelligence branch of House Marik is a joke, a cakewalk. There might have been some truth in that myth at the upper levels. But on the mean streets of the back end of a dark hole, those agents were every bit as dangerous as any she’d dealt with. More, they seemed almost desperate to prove themselves. As though they felt responsible for the splintering of their realm and were out to prove they could match any agency, any individual, that might cross their path.

  Snow thought she’d learned her lesson. Obviously more, and painful, lessons were yet to come.

  She tugged hard once and regained her concentration, leaving out the thread of pulsing pain that sent lances of agony down her arm, numbing it into uselessness. She immediately dropped to the ground, rolled toward the alley mouth and heard the cough of a well-made silencer, the tang of ricocheting rounds bouncing off pavement; a hot chip of the street sliced her cheek.

  Once in the alley, she rolled, pushed against the wall with her good shoulder and levered herself quickly to a standing position. She looked down the alley and muttered a curse that would’ve curdled her mother’s ears—blocked. They would know they’d hit her and more than likely they knew the alley offered no outlet. After all, she’d discovered quickly enough the world of Stewart might be part of The Republic of the Sphere in a geographical sense, but in every other sense it belonged to the Marik-Stewart Commonwealth. SAFE agents roamed freely on-planet, and they would know this city, know this street, know this exact alley. The unexpected. She needed to do the unexpected.

  If they knew they’d hit her, they’d be expecting a strike from the alley floor. Attempt to hide behind a Dumpster, or break into an alley door and try to slink away. The sound of the silencer had come from some distance, so she still had a few precious seconds.

  Unbuckling her belt, Snow pulled it loose and then swung it around her chest, catching it between herself and the wall. As though she’d practiced the move a hundred times, she quickly bound her now-useless arm to her side. She ran to the large drainage pipe mounted against the wall, where she squeezed between the wall and the pipe. She began to make her way up the pipe. Her fear it might rattle or creak with her movement proved unfounded. Six meters up, she found a ledge and dismounted from the pipe, latching on to a windowsill and edging farther out toward the mouth of the alley.

  Sweat dripped down her face and began to plaster the wool clothing to her stocky body. The thread of pain could not be refocused and it became a hot pincer grinding against her concentration as she made her way along the ledge. She began to pant from the effort and tears slowly leaked from the corners of her eyes. Almost at the edge of the alley, she stopped. Listened. The inferno of her shoulder threatened to flare out all other considerations and black spots swam in front of her eyes as oblivion opened its embrace to accept her surrender.

  The verigraph crackled against her skin.

  Her eyes narrowed and the indomitable spirit that had dragged her from the ugliness of Talitha, which made this slum look like the lap of luxury, blossomed in her smoky gray eyes.

  Irregular sounds intruded. The slow steps of a cautious man. The steps of a man who wished not to be seen or heard.

  They drew closer. With a wrenching twist, she realized she could not reach the needler snugged up against her left breast, the handle positioned for a cross-body draw. She cursed silently; it had been a mistake to immobilize her arm. Still, no going back now. Flow with the blow. How to take him? The information she held could not be lost.

  The man’s head appeared and disappeared like the flicking tongue of a lizard around the corner. Once again, appear-disappear, this time at a different level. With a large-bore handgun (she couldn’t make it out clearly from this distance in the dark, but it looked like a Sternsnatcht Python; leave it to a SAFE agent to try and silence such a monster) held out in classic shooter style, the man edged around the corner. He moved to the other side of the alley, eyes, body and gun covering every angle.

  Her arm began to tremble with the strain of supporting her body, and the flame of pain began to reach critical levels. She could just make out the silhouette of his head as he slowly scanned up the walls. It was only a matter of time before he saw an anomaly on the wall—an anomaly that would then feel the force of several large-grain soft-tip bullets splattering her tissue messily against uncaring bricks.

  Her mind racing, she quickly came to a decision. Made her choice.

  From six meters up, with a lame arm strapped to her chest and a body aching with the strain of the climb, she pushed hard away, somersaulted with a half twist and dropped into the darkness.

  7

  Merchant House, Halifax

  Vanderfox, Adhafera

  Prefecture VII, The Republic

  30 July 3134

  The Merchant House was not a house in any conventional sense, unless a building as big as a large DropShip fit the bill. At a hundred fifty meters on a side and half that in height, the mammoth structure seemed a monument to commerce. And though Petr could certainly respect that, he had no previous experience brokering in the commodity his own merchant castemen were attempting to secure. The odor was . . . overpowering. Born and raised on a ship, where he breathed air scrubbed clean with almost religious regularity, he became unnaturally attuned to discerning scents. It was a strength he enjoyed and used to his advantage—in most situations. Not even the close confines of Alpha Community following the breakdown of one of the primary air scrubbers, however, could compare with the smell of the Merchant House.

  Now it was a weakness. . . .

  “ovKhan.” He turned to see Merchant saFactor Tia striding toward him from the small door he had exited a short while earlier. Though he stood almost fifteen meters from the door, the stench managed to escape during the brief opening and oozed across the ground like a living creature bent on assaulting the man who tried to flee its grasp. His nose tingled and scrunched, remembered tears almost began to flow once more. How the other merchants could talk so long and not vomit with the stench of so much bovine flesh and feces stuck in the back of their throats, he did not understand.

  “Tia,” he acknowledged. Though she was young for her station, her quick mind matched her flashing blue eyes. Her overlarge features—particularly her hatchetlike nose and jutting chin—allowed her to look foolish (throwing off the unwary) or commanding with equal ease; she used both qualities well and seized her position with a savagery barely contained within her petite body. A shame her abilities did not allow her to participate equally in the glories of the negotiation table and the battlefield.

  “ovKhan, I thought I might find you here. The stench is too much, quiaff?”

  Blunt as ever. He stiffened for a moment and then relaxed. He looked away and gazed down the hill toward the city of Halifax, and could just make out the egg-shaped form of the Ocean of Stars at the far-distant DropPort. The Merchant House, on a hill overlooking the entire area, held a commanding view. He breathed in the blissfully sweet-smelling air; it calmed him.

  “What have we accomplished this day?”

  Tia smiled, though the humor did not lighten her eyes. “I believe we have them on the run. I am looking for one mo
re concession today, before going for the throat tomorrow and closing the deal.” Her raised eyebrows were blunt question marks. He should know this, after all. But the distractions seemed too much. He’d been off his game. Weakness.

  “They have managed an excellent defense,” Petr said, hating himself for deflecting the unasked questions.

  “They have indeed. If this is any indication of what this Prefecture will be like, I relish the coming months.”

  “At this rate, it will be years, quiaff?”

  “Aff, ovKhan. Aff.” Her eyes became brighter, if that was possible.

  “I assume the first DropShips are already on their way?”

  “Of course. I laid my trap almost a week ago and on my own authority I ordered four DropShips to begin a high-speed burn to planet. The slaughter will commence within the week and we want the meat fresh as it is packed and we prepare to move it.”

  “A week ago? You must be slipping, Tia. Your traps inevitably spring mere days after they are positioned.”

  She shook her head and waved her delicate hand. “All the more glory when it is finished, ovKhan. You, of all people, should know that.”

  The double meaning once more. Again, twin question marks stabbed upward on her forehead and he turned away. If he could not answer the questions himself, how could he answer her? Was she turning into Jesup now? Constantly probing?

  “Keep me apprised of the situation. I will join you tomorrow to seal the victory.”

  Like all his Aimag, they knew when they were dismissed. “Yes, ovKhan.” The sound of feet displacing gravel chewed into the morning. The door opening and closing—releasing another wave of odor—caused him to hitch his shoulders against it and he felt disgust at himself. Such weakness!

  Petr turned sharply and stalked through the gravel toward the wall of the Merchant House, his eyes seeing the path his own feet had trod numerous times around the circumference of the building. His anger pulsed brighter at this blatant sign of his own inability to confront the situation. Inability to confront, because the surat could not be found! The sweet air was forgotten as his mind raced.

  For almost a week he had attempted to contact this Snow. At first, he assumed she would contact him. Several days passed unnoticed as he immersed himself in negotiations with Adhafera’s local merchants, but the slow realization that she had not made an appearance began to distract him. To disrupt his thoughts. He even began to make mistakes, which cost them days of negotiation.

  Five days ago he began to walk through the streets of Halifax. Ostensibly to garner more information on the inhabitants, which might be used against them across the negotiation table. In reality, he moved to let his whereabouts be known. Perhaps she simply didn’t know the Sea Fox were on planet.

  He rounded the corner of the building and came to one of the mammoth doors towering almost twenty meters above him and twice as wide; the cattle were driven to and from the building through this main artery, with secondary arteries on the other side of the building only used when the flow of flesh grew too great. The stench wafted out of the structure like heat eddies, almost visible. He began to gag slightly and tears once more slicked the back of his eyes. His rage grew until it engulfed him. Though his nostrils tried to close against the assault and his feet to move away of their own accord, his iron will kept his nose open and his feet firmly planted while he drew in a huge lungfull of vileness.

  She managed to have a data cube deposited on my ship. She could not possibly be so clueless as to not know we are here. The echo of his own thoughts from three days ago now rang in his head and pushed out the sensory torment he put himself through. With new determination, he began canvassing the town at night, showing himself in every filthy dive and out-of-the-way bar he could find. All to no avail.

  He began to wonder if she existed.

  He thumbed the data cube in a small side pocket of his single-suit—a talisman to keep his anger, his frustration, at bay. He willed his body back under his control, taking in another lungful of air, forcing himself to glory in it.

  She did exist, and when he found her, he’d snap her neck. He strode forward, marching back into the battle.

  8

  Clan Sea Fox CargoShip Talismantia

  Zenith Jump Point, Remulac System

  Prefecture VII, The Republic

  28 July 3134

  OvKhan Sha Clarke stood on the observation deck and gazed back along the eight-hundred-meter length of his ship. The command CargoShip for Beta Aimag of the Spina Khanate.

  He was wrapped in quiet contentment.

  In another life, another age, this vessel bore the name Nagasawa. During the dark night of the Jihad, it was gutted at the final naval battle of Tukayyid. With the molting of the Diamond Sharks to their original name and a new form, so this vessel gained a new lease on life: transformed into a CargoShip he used to great effect in reaping glory for his Clan.

  Through the ferroglass of the main observation window, he watched as the black flower of the Talismantia furled its petals. On the world of Breukelen in the Lyran Commonwealth, Sha encountered a local flower that closed its petals to a bud by noontime; the life-energy it needed drunk in the early-morning hours, it sealed itself from the killing glare of the system’s blue-white supergiant for the rest of the day. Now Sha watched with fascination as the solar sail (most referred to it as a jump sail, but Sha found more depth and meaning in the word “solar”) slowly furled, the molecules-thin, high-strength polymer material folding like that exotic flower; it too had drunk its fill and within the hour the CargoShip would jump from this system. Light flared around the sail like a corona and began to brighten the entire ship as its shadow extinguished, letting Remulac’s star bathe the Talismantia in pumpkin-bright light.

  “Magnificent, is it not?” Sha said, his soft voice loud in the dead calm of the room.

  “It is a jump sail, quiaff?” Star Colonel Ryn Faulk’s tone said it all.

  “Aff. Of course it is.”

  Her silence actually felt confused. Sha smiled. “What do you see?”

  “I see the array furling the jump sail. We jump to Savannah within the hour.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Aff?”

  His smile grew until mocking laughter threatened. He held it, refusing, as always, to give in. This, after all, was exactly why he brought Ryn here. One of the last significant holdouts in his Aimag. She would see.

  “Neg, Star Colonel.”

  “I do not understand, ovKhan. Is it the K1IV star beyond? The Talismantia itself?”

  “Neg, Ryn. It is the solar sail and yet it is not.” He raised his right hand and placed the palm flat against the ice-cold pane. Strange how cold burned just like fire; his fingers would quickly grow deadened, but the sensation always fascinated him. Though it mimicked fire, it ultimately lulled you into a false sense of numbness. A numbness that led to a lowering of your guard, to mistakes. To death and, worst of all, failure.

  Cold would always beat fire. Always.

  He turned to look at his companion. Shockingly, for the second time, used her first name. “Ryn, this vessel is three hundred and eighty-four years old. It has unfurled and furled its solar sail untold thousands of times, the act becoming completely mundane. An exercise in mechanical technology that has dropped below the notice of all save the man whose job it is to operate the jump sail array. Even that technician, I would wager, finds the work dull and repetitious—a task to be accomplished and forgotten.”

  “But ovKhan, you describe reality. The truth.”

  “Yet truth is subjective, is it not? A BattleMech is the supreme military vehicle of the thirty-second century. Has held that place undisputed for nearly seven hundred years. And yet any MechWarrior can tell tales of almost losing their mount to the battle armor squad they ignored, quiaff?”

  “Aff. What does this have to do with the jump sail?”

  He once more fought the smile at the quizzical look painting her features. He shifted, felt the distan
t machinery sending tiny vibrations through his slips.

  “What it represents. It is so fragile, so delicate, it takes well over an hour to unfurl it and twice that long to furl it. If it is damaged, it is almost impossible to repair. Yet upon such a foundation is interstellar travel possible. Such a little thing, yet magnificence is achieved through its careful and methodical use. Each time I see a sail furl, I see the sweep of humanity’s victories before me.” He pulled away his hand, knowing almost to the second when to do so before leaving a layer of skin adhered to the surface, and moved to stand directly in front of Ryn. His pale blue eyes stood out unnaturally large in his scarecrow-thin face and blazed with the cool fire that drenched his hand in pain. Nothing showed on his face.

  “Star Colonel, all that humanity has accomplished in the centuries since the Pathfinder made that first jump to Alpha Centauri can be tied to the Kearny-Fuchida drive, and that drive is almost entirely dependent upon the solar sail. The colonization of thousands of planets. The foundation of the true Star League. Even the greatness of the Clans, of our Clan, is intrinsically tied to the solar sail, and yet most hardly acknowledge its existence.”

  “But, ovKhan”—the slight hitch in her voice repulsed him—“there are other ways to charge the drive, quiaff? The reactor. A recharge station?”

  Pity clouded his vision. Must it always be so difficult for others? “Aff, Star Colonel. But they are dangerous, expensive and require support, quiaff?” He continued before she could respond. “The solar sail, in its simplicity and beauty, is completely self-sufficient. It need depend on nothing but what the universe gives of its own free will. Shouldn’t we be the same?” He saw the revulsion in her eyes at his use of a contraction; he hoped the emphasis had been worth the vulgarity.