Renegades: Origins

by Kal Spriggs

  Mike licked his lips, “Uh…” He felt suddenly overwhelmed. So far he shared the compartment with a insane psychic and a homicidal Wrethe. Here he was, the least dangerous one in the room. “Sure.” Mike focused hard to keep his voice level. He tried to ignore the acid burn of fear in his stomach.

  “Good.” Her smile held only good cheer, yet that gave Mike no sense of ease. “Now the Ghornath down at the end looks to be stirring. I shipped out with him from Vega. He’s a good enough fellow, but he’s got a bit of a temper.”

  “Of course,” Mike said and he rubbed at his eyes. He had a nut-job psychic and a Wrethe, why not a three hundred kilo Ghornath with anger management issues?

  “One thing, Mike… I recommend you don’t steal anything or pick on anyone. He doesn’t like thieves and he hates bullies,” she said.

  “Noted,” Mike said. He sighed a bit as he walked away from Ariadne. Why are things never easy? he thought grimly.

  The gas seemed to have affected the Ghornath in a similar fashion to Mike. He thrashed and shook violently as he began to wake. Finally the big alien gave a shout in his native tongue and sat up. A riot of colors flashed over his hide, before they settled on a deep red. He looked at Mike, and for a second his mirror-tinted eyes seemed to see someone or something he hated. His mouth opened in a shout, and his arms went forward.

  Mike backpedaled as fast as he could. The big Ghornath hesitated, then - a moment later, the red that had suffused his skin began to shift towards brown. Mike remembered then that he had heard the Ghornath tended to display emotions through their skin colors. “My apologies, human, for a moment, I thought myself… somewhere else.” The big alien looked around. “Though whether this place is any better, I cannot say.” The Ghornath looked over at Mike, “Where are we?”

  “A small ship, headed towards one of the Chxor prison camps, probably a mining or salvage station,” Mike said. “Though I don’t know what star system.” Mike looked the Ghornath over. He seemed big enough, yet something about him seemed young, almost naive. The eight-limbed alien had to almost squat in order to stand erect in the low cargo hold. Then again, at three meters height, he probably needed to hunch over in most places. The Ghornath wore a similar ship’s uniform to Ariadne’s though his bore rather more tears and… what looked suspiciously like bloodstains. Mike didn’t notice any obvious wounds, though, and the big alien stood on his four legs without sign of injury. “I’m planning an escape, you want in?”

  The big Ghornath gave a slow nod. “Yes. Though I might find it safer in Chxor custody.” Mike saw the big alien flex his four arms as if to relieve stiffness.

  “Safer?” Mike stared at the Ghornath. “We’re headed for a death camp. You do realize that the Chxor will work us until we die of exhaustion or get killed in some horrific industrial accident, right?” Like the rest of the Ghornath race, his face reminded Mike vaguely of that of a cat, with the flattened nose and the shape of his lips. The long incisors went a good distance to reinforce the look as well. Mike remembered that spacer slang labeled them cats, just as Wrethe had obtained the moniker of dogs. With eight limbs, thick leathery hide, and eyes like two polished hematite stones, the Ghornath did not look like anything from Earth, much less like a house cat, to Mike: he looked alien.

  “I grew up in a refugee camp, human,” the Ghornath said. “I know something of the hazards of living in a place where few care about your survival.” He shook his head, “But I refuse to let the Chxor break me of my will to live. I will help you to escape, and we’ll see where that takes us. I expect it will be a lot of fun.”

  “Fun? Right…” Mike shook his head. He looked over at the psychic, and saw her in conversation with a pair of men who had awoken while Mike spoke with with the Ghornath. “Alright, big fella, my name’s Mike. Stick with me, and we’ll get out of this alive.”

  “Of course,” The Ghornath said and his belief in their ultimate victory came through in his voice. “I am Rastar. It is good to meet you, Mike.”

  Mike walked over towards Ariadne and the newly awakened men. Mike’s studied the closer man as he approached. The tall, dark haired man had a sharp, chiseled jaw line and a confident smile that made Mike want to punch him in the face. He also stood balanced on his feet, as if ready to move instantly, yet he also seemed perfectly at ease. As Mike drew nearer, Ariadne looked up with her bright smile, “Mike, this is Crowe and this is Pixel.” She pointed first at the handsome man, then at the other man who stood behind. “Crowe used to be a communications specialist aboard a freighter, while Pixel is an engineer.”

  “Ship’s engineer?” Mike asked. He deliberately ignored the handsome man she’d introduced as Crowe. Something of Crowe’s smirk suggested he caught the slight and took amusement from it.

  The tall engineer shrugged, “I know a bit about it. I have graduate degrees in Aerospace and Power Engineering, and I paid my way on a couple freighters by lending a hand.” He had a Colonial Republic accent, though Mike found it hard to place which system or even sector he might come from. He also wore a set of coveralls, with numerous oil stains. Mike frowned. He noticed that Pixel had not mentioned where he obtained his degrees. Plenty of people bought their degrees in the Colonial Republic. For that matter, Mike’s ‘official’ pilot’s license had come from a back room deal. “Okay, well we can certainly use the help. Anything you can do here?”

  Pixel nodded over at the box in the corner. “I think that’s the air scrubber. I might be able to scavenge some parts off of it.”

  “You know… if you break that, we suffocate,” Mike said. “That’s a bad way to die, friend.”

  “Oh, I won’t break anything I can’t fix,” Pixel said with a smile. Mike studied him for a long moment. The tall, slender man seemed friendly enough, yet Mike didn’t trust his quick offer to help. The engineer had a bit of unshaven scruff on his chin. Whether it was a deliberate attempt to grow a goatee or just a poor job with a razor, Mike couldn’t guess which. His brown hair had an unkempt, scattered look. His blue eyes seemed level, though, and Mike felt akin to the humor and intelligence he saw there. Despite himself, Mike gave the other man a grin in return.

  Pixel didn’t seem to have any tools, and Mike didn’t think he could get in much trouble without those at least. “Very well, give it a try.”

  Pixel moved off and Mike turned his attention to Crowe. The tall, handsome man looked down at him with a smug smile that made Mike’s hands clench into fists. “Ship’s communications, huh?”

  Crowe smirked, “Yeah, and a few other skills. You know, things I’ve picked up here and there.” He had such a tone of condescension that Mike had to bite back a retort.

  Mike just gave the other man another of his practiced smiles and turned his attention to the remaining prisoners. Only two remained unconscious. The first was another human male and the second a diminutive Chxor. Mike had no idea what kind of crime a Chxor must have committed to end up with them, but he would not wager much, if anything, on the alien’s survival. Especially given the fact that I might just kill the damned thing myself, Mike thought.

  “Hey Mike, do you know where the rest of the food is? I only saw the one bowl,” Rastar said from behind him. Mike turned and found Rastar had the bucket of food in one of his four arms, while another arm shoveled some kind of grain mush into his mouth.

  “That was for all of us,” Mike said with an exasperated sigh. “And we don’t know how long it needs to last so we should ration it.”

  Rastar looked down at the bucket, “Just this little bit? Are you sure? I mean, I need to eat a lot, you know.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Mike said as he covered his eyes. He really did not want to hear the answer he expected to his next question. He asked anyway, “How much is left?”

  “Uh…” Rastar passed over the bucket. Mike took it and looked in. He had no idea how full the Chxor had left it, but only about two or three cups of grain mush remained at the very bottom.

  Mike sighed, “Well it didn’t look
very good anyway.” He crinkled his nose at the smell, “What is this stuff anyway?”

  “Mratha rice,” Rastar said. “It grows just about anywhere, man. It keeps forever, too. Tastes like, uh, cardboard. We had to eat lots of it back at the refugee camps on Ghren.”

  “Right,” Mike said. “Well… see if anyone else wants some.”

  “Sure!” Rastar said. The big alien looked at Ariadne and Crowe first, both of whom shook their heads. Then he walked towards where Anubus skulked in the corner.

  Mike opened his mouth to stop him, but then shook his head. If his experience told him anything, then a conflict between the two big aliens would happen sooner rather than later. Besides, he thought, my life would be much easier if the Ghornath managed to kill the Wrethe. Not that he’d bet either way, he acknowledged. Rastar seemed too easygoing to be a real fighter.

  Rastar walked right up to Anubus, “Hi there.”

  Anubus opened a single dark eye, “Go away.”

  “Hey, I just wanted to see if you wanted some food,” Rastar extended his bucket.

  The Wrethe did not move, but his deep voice growled, “I very much do… but I think you’re too big to eat in just one sitting.”

  “Hey, man! That’s not very polite! I’m just trying to be friendly,” Rastar said.

  “Do it somewhere else,” Anubus said with a venomous snarl. “Or I’ll rip your arm off and feed it to you.” Mike waited… almost certain that the fight would begin at any moment. Mike glanced for someplace to withdraw. He felt somehow certain that this would become very ugly, very fast.

  The Ghornath’s hide shifted: first to a light shade of red, and then over towards green. His voice changed to an almost amused tone, “Hey, I get you man.” Rastar slapped Anubus on the shoulder in a friendly fashion. “You just don’t like being bothered. No problem, we’ll talk later.”

  Mike shook his head as the Ghornath walked away. He glanced over at the others, none of whom seemed ready to hazard a guess on why the two aliens hadn’t murdered one another. Mike started to turn his head when he noticed movement near the back of the bay. “What the…”

  The little Chxor stood near Pixel. Mike shouted a warning, but Pixel just looked up with a confused expression. “Behind you, that Chxor!”

  “Oh him?” Pixel asked. He hiked a thumb over his shoulder, “He offered to help.” The tall engineer seemed confused.

  “He offered to help?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah, he seems alright,” Pixel said.

  The little Chxor looked around the tall engineer and gave a wave. Mike walked over, “Who are you and why are you here?” he snapped. He might have to tolerate a Wrethe and the overly relaxed Ghornath, but he would not accept a member of the race that had imprisoned him.

  “Run!” the little Chxor squeaked.

  “Run?” Mike asked.

  “Yes, Run!” the Chxor responded.

  “There’s nowhere to run, so why don’t you just answer my question, or are you saying you want to help us escape?”

  “Escape, yes. Good idea.” the Chxor said. “And we are not nowhere, we are here. Run is here.” The little Chxor had the same gray skin and pale yellow eyes as the rest of his kind, but he seemed to lack their tan colored hair. Whether they’d shaved him or his bulbous head naturally had no hair Mike couldn’t guess

  “Stop speaking gibberish. Who are you?” Mike took a threatening step forward.

  “Run!” The little Chxor hid behind Pixel.

  “I think he means his name is Run,” Ariadne said from behind them. Mike turned with a scowl, and she shrugged, “As amusing as I found it to watch you talk in circles initially, you started to grate on my nerves. There’s no reason to threaten him, he looks pretty harmless.”

  “Yes, Run!” the Chxor shouted.

  Mike took a deep breath and counted backwards from ten… in Mandarin. “Okay… his name is Run. He looks harmless, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a spy or that he won’t turn informant on us to one of the guards.”

  “Not spy! Doctor!” Run said. He stepped out from behind Pixel. “I can help.”

  “A Chxor doctor?” Mike frowned. “I thought they didn’t have doctors.”

  “I am a researcher - I seek ways to make people and inferior beings, better,” Run said. “This is doctor, yes?”

  “Make better, as in heal them?” Mike asked.

  “Yes, and other things,” Run said. “You will like, I promise.”

  “We’ll see,” Mike said. He looked over at Pixel, “You get to watch him.”

  “Watch him?” Pixel asked.

  Mike closed his eyes and knew his expression would look pained. He wanted to explain to the engineer that just because the Chxor seemed nice enough, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t betray them at the drop of a hat. Then again, Mike didn’t know if he trusted the engineer to watch anyone. Come to think of it, I don’t trust anyone in this room, he thought. That realization put him back on an even keel once more. Since the destruction of the RLF Noriko, he had learned to put his trust in no one besides himself. This situation would prove no different. Trust would only mean that he would find disappointment in those he put his faith in, just like that last time.

  Mike felt his tension ease as he returned to his normal mindset.

  Almost as if on cue, a scream of terror erupted from behind him.

  Mike spun, and he saw that all the attention in the compartment had gone to the final sleeper. The man screamed again from the floor, and then before anyone could move, he rolled backwards to his feet and spread his arms. He looked ready to fend off a wave of attackers. He stood still, eyes wide, and his head moved in quick, birdlike movements as he glanced from person to person in the room. “What’s going on? Where am I?” The man wore black combat fatigues, but they’d clearly seen better days. One pant leg ended above the knee, and his right sleeve had similarly been torn off.

  Mike held up his hands, “Calm down. We’re on a Chxor prison transport, headed for one of their work camps.” He took a slow step forward.

  He heard Crowe mutter behind him, “Great way to convince someone to calm down. I hear Chxor prison camp and I just get all warm and fuzzy inside.” Mike tuned out the other man’s voice and concentrated on the panicked man.

  His gaze flashed to Mike. Mike could see a rapid evaluation flash through his eyes. The stranger’s hands clenched and unclenched in rapid movement. The way he moved reminded Mike of an animal show he’d watched once, about some small furry weasel that killed snakes back on Earth. “Don’t come any closer. Who are you?” His words came quick, more like a rapid fire interrogation than a simple question. The tall man continued to scan the room.

  Mike stopped, “I’m Mike. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m trying to set up an escape plan where we take this ship or we capture one when we get to the work camp.” He noticed how the man shifted to keep the others in his peripheral vision. Military training, he guessed.

  The other man stared at him for a long moment. Finally he dropped his hands, although Mike could tell he still seemed on edge, “I like the sound of that.”

  “What’s your name, soldier?” Mike asked

  The other man stiffened, “I’m not a soldier… not anymore. I do… mercenary work now. I’m Eric, Eric Striker.” He still didn’t relax and his gaze flicked around the room. He stood around average height, with blond hair and blue eyes. Along with his accent, Mike placed him as from the Centauri Confederation; probably a descendent of the original German colony.

  “Good to meet you, Eric,” Mike said. He kept his distance though. The other man looked unstable enough that Mike did not want to provoke him. “You have military training… any shipboard skills?” Mercenary work covered a wide range of jobs too, from mall cops to paramilitary death squads.

  “Give me any weapon, and I can use it,” Eric said. The sheer arrogance in his voice gave Mike a spike of irrational anger. “But I’m a true artist with a scoped rifle.”

  Mike gave him a curt nod. Grea
t, just what we need, some sniper with a god complex…

  Mike looked around at the group. As he glanced at the others he felt a spurt of sudden envy. Why did he have to be the shortest man in the room? Even Ariadne stood a good four inches taller than him. Just another example of the universe’s humor, Mike decided, along with his mostly Asian ancestry.

  “Alright, we’re all awake now; we’ve got three pilots, an engineer, a… navigator, someone to work communications, and some people good at breaking things. We’ve got a full crew, just about,” Mike said. “Now we just need a plan to get out of here.” He did not know why he did not reveal Ariadne as a psychic to the group, but he felt it best to keep that knowledge in reserve.

  He did not know why he did not reveal Ariadne as a psychic to the group, but he felt it best to keep that knowledge in reserve.

  “What about this door?” Crowe asked. He reached for the emergency release on the outer hatch.

  “Stop!” Mike shouted. Crowe looked at him with puzzlement even as his hand continued its motion for the lever.

  A black shadow moved faster than Mike’s eyes could register and smashed into Crowe. He tumbled backwards with a cry of surprise. Anubus towered over the prone man and his deep voice spoke with calculated cruelty, “It would amuse me greatly to watch you expire from depressurization… but I might need you and the others.”

  “Idiot,” Mike said. “If you had opened that you would have killed us all.”

  Crowe looked around at the others, “Oh. That’s vacuum out there?”

  “That’s what the red light means, yes,” Pixel said as he shook his head. “I thought you served aboard ship before, wouldn’t you know better?

  Crowe gave a cocky smile, “Oh, well… I guess the gas they used to knock us out must have muddled my head. I thought the light was green there for a moment.”

  Mike frowned in thought: in the moment that Anubus had hit him, something strange had flashed across Crowe’s face. And as he stood up and looked around, Mike thought he saw a calculating look in his eyes, almost as if he were studying their reactions for some reason. Mike took the moment to study the other man. He wore a tattered ship’s uniform of similar cut to the others. Clearly the Chxor had sorted them by their past careers, Mike noted. Yet the other man didn’t have the normal pale complexion of most spacers. He stood tall, too, and without the slight hunch that living in tight confines gave most spacers. Despite his broad smile, his eyes seemed, cold, almost as cold and dark as those of Anubus, Mike realized. Mike had seen that kind of dark gaze in the mirror often enough to recognize the face of a man who had taken the lives of others.