Renegades: Origins

by Kal Spriggs

  To his right, the Chxor guards stood and he saw another airlock beyond them, with a green light above it. He guessed it would be the station offices or perhaps the guards’ living quarters. Off to the side, a corridor went down to another airlock, this one with a red light above the hatch. Interesting, he thought, perhaps the Chxor crew shuttle docks there.

  The entire room had a crude, cheaply built appearance. The hatch welds looked rough, as if no one had bothered to grind them down. The hatch combings had sharp edges, and the lighting wiring lay exposed rather than behind panels or in a conduit. Dust and scuff marks also gave the area a dingy appearance, as though no one had bothered to clean it. He saw a couple lights burned out in one corner.

  After he finished his study of the overall room, he turned his attention to the weapons and equipment of the Chxor guards. The nearest wore a riot gun; the pump action weapon would be ideal in a space station, he knew. The light pellets or flechettes would not penetrate the hull or damage essential equipment. He did not recognize the model, but it looked simple enough. Purely mechanical too, which gave him some hope. Many electronic guns had biometric safeties. Someone could work around that kind of thing eventually, but he didn’t know how much time they would have.

  The guards wore tactical armor, but it looked more worn than the room. They had body armor of the same color as the Chxor enforcers from Saragossa, Mike saw. The same muddy brown, with the odd purple highlights. On them, however, the muddy brown had faded almost to a tan color. One of them had a large but neatly sewn patch of newer material on his chest, which made his armor look even more faded.

  They did not have helmets, but all of them had emergency respirator masks on their belts. He also noticed several of them had grenades, though he doubted they were explosive or any type of plasma grenade, not aboard the station. More likely they had gas or riot grenades, he figured, or possibly some kind of flash or concussion grenades.

  As he finished his evaluation of their equipment, the two women ahead of him reached the front of the line. He watched as they went forward.

  “What is your prisoner code,” the Chxor asked. His voice seemed even more robotic than most. His monotone had absolutely no inflection.

  Both women gave their codes. Mike swallowed a curse and struggled to remember his. Was it four nine five three eight or four nine three eight five…

  While the clerk typed the information into its datapad, Mike took the time to study the alien from up close. At first glance, like all Chxor, it bore a remarkably similar appearance to that of a human. It had two eyes, a nose and mouth, all roughly in the same location. Yet those features looked distorted on further inspection. Mike thought Chxor looked like a caricature of a human, with blocky heads, jug handle ears, and rubbery gray skin. “Do you have any skills with machinery, piloting, or metallurgy?” The clerk asked.

  “No,” the one woman said. Her friend swayed, and she reached out an arm to support her. “Look, my friend is sick, she needs medical attention.”

  “Is she unable to work?” the clerk asked.

  “She can’t function, not without help. Please, we just need some antibiotics. I think she’s got food poisoning, please help her,” the woman said.

  The clerk looked over at the nearest guards. “This prisoner is unwell. I recommend removal so as to prevent contagion.”

  “Oh thank you…” The woman started.

  The nearest guard stepped forward. Before Mike could move, the Chxor guard brought up his riot gun, worked the slide, and triggered a single round into the side of the sick woman’s head. Mike stood frozen as blood, brains, and bits of bone exploded outwards.

  The woman’s friend let out a scream. A moment later she launched herself at the clerk. Her hands hammered the mesh as she screamed obscenities.

  Mike stood frozen. He could not have moved if he wanted to, the sudden death for such a simple illness caught him entirely off guard.

  The guard turned slightly and worked his slide again. The woman ceased her attack against the cage and turned to face the Chxor executioner. He triggered a single round into her chest. The woman dropped, to the floor, her chest and stomach ripped open. The copper smell of blood and stink of torn organs assaulted Mike’s nose.

  The woman moved, somehow still alive despite the terrible wound. She let out a cry somewhere between a whimper and a moan. The distinctive sound of the slide on his weapon cut through the otherwise total silence in the compartment. The guard triggered a second round into her head.

  The guard turned to face Mike and Anubus. The Chxor’s gray skin and yellow eyes showed no emotion. “Take the bodies towards the airlock,” the Chxor guard said, his voice a monotone. He pointed at the airlock that Mike thought led into the administrative area of the station. Mike stepped forward, even as some part of his brain screamed at him to attack the alien guard. He tried to avoid the carnage, but despite his caution, he felt blood and other things squish beneath his boots. He grabbed a pair of legs by the feet, and started to drag the corpse. Nothing I could have done, he told himself. The thought gave him little solace.

  Anubus grabbed the other by the arm and followed. The guard followed them to the airlock. Mike watched as the Chxor typed in a code. He did his best to memorize it, though he could not understand the Chxor numbers.

  After the airlock opened, the Chxor gestured at a wheeled cart inside. Mike dragged the first woman over. It took an effort to get her lifted up and then to drop the corpse into the cart. He had seen his fair share of death, yet the casual execution of two people left him to feel cold. The Chxor, it seemed, did not value human life… not at all.

  Behind him he heard a crunch. A glance over showed Anubus straightening up from the body of the second woman. Something red dripped from his jaws. Mike felt a wave of nausea. Evidently the Chxor were not the only ones with that opinion.

  Anubus tossed the second body into the cart. Mike tried not to look for any missing pieces. He felt suddenly grateful for the fact that he had not eaten recently.

  “Don’t judge me,” Anubus said. His voice sounded in a low growl. “She does not need the meat anymore.” He gave a bark of his hideous laughter. “Besides, why do you think the Chxor have kept the bodies, instead of venting them out that other airlock? You don’t give up free protein in space.”

  Mike shuddered at the thought that the Chxor might eat human dead. Then he frowned. “That doesn’t make sense, the Chxor have a different physiology. They find most of our food toxic, right? We would not be much different. They’re not like Wrethe, with your adaptive metabolism.”

  “Of course, human… but they have all these prisoners… it must save some money if they feed them their own dead, correct?” Anubus grinned.

  Mike felt his stomach overturn. “You can’t… that’s horrible.”

  “Move back to the line, prisoners,” the guard said.

  Mike walked back in a daze. He saw the others had received cleaning supplies, but the mops just seemed to spread the blood rather than remove it. Mike took one of the towels and did his best to clean the blood off himself.

  “Next,” the clerk said.

  Mike stepped forward. He felt sick to his stomach, ready to go into dry heaves, yet he felt certain that the Chxor would take this as some sign of disease and execute him on the spot. He swallowed a lot and tried to do multiplication tables to keep his mind occupied.

  “Your prisoner code?” The clerk asked

  Mike rattled off the five numbers without thought. They came to him automatically, as if such a mundane thing had come to the forefront of his brain as a result of the horrors.

  “Do you have any skills with machinery, piloting, or metallurgy?” The clerk asked.

  “I’m a trained pilot,” Mike said. He kept his voice level and met the Chxor’s eyes.

  “You will be authorized to utilize the work sled. Be aware that the work sled will be destroyed if you attempt to leave the work area.” The clerk made a note on his datapad. “Are you in good hea
lth and able to work?”

  “Absolutely, I look forward to it,” Mike said. He could not hide the sarcasm in his voice, nor did he really wish to do so.

  “Excellent. The Empire welcomes such spirit,” the clerk responded. He held out a neatly folded jumpsuit. “This suit will fit you. If you need any suit repairs, you may log that with Trustee Krain. You have four hours to recuperate from the trip before you start your first shift with Trustee Krain. He will instruct you on your duties and how to fill quota for the day. After your initial allotment, you will not receive your allotted food before you reach quota. You may go to the prisoner barracks now.”

  Mike took the suit and headed towards the indicated airlock, the one to the left, where the others had gone ahead.

  He saw one of the guards pull down a lever. The airlock cycled open a moment later. Controls on one side and the inner lock only I’d imagine, that will make things more difficult.

  He stepped into the airlock. A moment later, Anubus followed him. The guards cycled the airlock.

  The corridor on the far side made the dingy processing room seem luxurious. Mike stepped out of the airlock and into the musty scent of too many unwashed bodies in a confined area. The foul stink suggested the Chxor had skimped on air scrubbers. The handful of functional lights suggested they probably cut corners elsewhere as well.

  Mike waited as the airlock cycled again, and then twice more. After the execution of the two women, he wanted as much companionship as he could get. He might not trust them, but at least they were human.

  Run the Chxor walked up to him, “I had not realized the human body held so much fluids. How do you function like that? Do you slosh when you walk?”

  Mostly human, anyway, he thought.

  “I can’t believe this,” Ariadne said. “They just killed those two, with not a word of warning, and they didn’t even do it as an example, they did it for no reason.”

  “We have to get out of here,” Pixel said, his voice troubled. “I’ve got authorization for cutting tools and access to the smelter, wherever that is. What’s the plan?”

  As the others looked at him, Mike felt a sudden crush of pressure. They relied on him, they trusted him. That realization shocked him more than the deaths from minutes before. Total strangers - people who knew nothing about him - and they trusted him with their lives.

  That trust cut both ways, he realized with a shock. That they trusted him meant that he had no choice but to include them in his plans, from the man-eater Wrethe to the Chxor outcast.

  A part of him whispered that he should just cut them loose. Tell them now that they were on their own. Reject that responsibility and move on. He knew better than to trust in others. That road always led to pain and suffering - mostly his - but often enough those who had trusted him.

  Yet, he couldn’t. After the shock of the sudden death, he needed the comfort of companions. More, so long had passed since he had someone he could talk with, to share experiences with. He missed that, longed for it. It might end in failure… yet he had already lost so much.

  How much lower can I go than a prisoner on a Chxor work station?

  He knew there must be someplace worse, some position worse off, yet he doubted he would find it any time soon and that assumed he even managed to survive to escape in the first place.

  Besides, he thought, I can always abandon them later if another option opens up.

  “Stick together,” Mike said, his decision made, for the moment. “Find out everything we can. Priority is water, food, information, and tools.”

  The others nodded, all but Anubus. The big Wrethe had frozen and Mike saw his nostrils flare as he caught some scent.

  “What is it?” Mike asked.

  “There’s another Wrethe here… and it staked its claim to this area. If we stay here long, I will have to kill it,” Anubus said.

  “Wait, Wrethe hate each other as much as they hate everyone else?” Crowe asked. “That’s pretty funny. Didn’t you guys invade human space a while back? I figure that takes some working together.”

  Anubus looked down at the man. “We follow a strong leader, especially when he has psychic abilities. Some Wrethe occasionally work for other races when they lack the intelligence to work on their own.”

  Mike declined to comment on Anubus’s presence with the group. Instead he nodded, “I’ve seen an occasional Wrethe mercenary. They’re real popular with gangs and other criminals.”

  “Okay, we’ll be on the lookout for him,” Ariadne said.

  “Excuse me,” a voice spoke from nearby. Mike spun, surprised that someone had approached without his notice. A man leaned against the wall nearby. He had a smirk on his face, “Mister Fontaine wants to talk with you.”

  “Mister Fontaine?” Mike asked. “Who’s he?”

  “He runs things, down here in the barracks. He can arrange things for you, if he likes,” the man said. He gave them a more friendly smile. “And he’s got a deal that might get you out of here.”

  “Oh?” Mike asked. “That’s pretty convenient. Why is he here then?”

  The other man’s smile vanished. “Come or don’t… but take care not to say anything to offend him. He’ll repay any insult.”

  “Very well,” Mike glanced over his shoulder, “Lets go meet him.”

  “Not all of you,” the man said. “Three of you are pilots, right? You can come. The rest of you… get lost.”

  “We all go or none of us,” Ariadne said. Mike opened his mouth to deny that, yet he hesitated. She had a point, it would be too easy for this Fontaine to kidnap a pair of them. There was a strength in numbers, especially when Anubus warned of another Wrethe present.

  The man hesitated. He looked them over, then gave a shrug. “Very well. But keep your pet Wrethe on a leash. If he starts anything, you’ll all pay for it.”

  “I’ll show you who the pet is…” Anubus muttered.

  Mike shot him a glance, but the dark Wrethe met his look with one of barely controlled rage. He could not fault him that, not with the implied insult. For that matter, the emissary for this Fontaine had put him in a foul mood. “Okay, let’s go meet Mister Fontaine.”

  * * *

  The barracks room that Fontaine called home lay at the middle of the section of station. A pair of humans stood at the doorway. Mike did not see any obvious weapons, but both men looked tough enough to hold any unexpected company long enough for reinforcements from inside to ready themselves.

  Their guide led them to the doorway, where he stopped and talked briefly with the larger of the pair. That guard stepped inside.

  Mike turned to the other guard, “How you doing?”

  The man stared at him with silent disinterest.

  “Nice space suit you have, looks a little newer than mine,” Mike said.

  The guard just stared at him. Mike saw he had a tattoo, probably with smart ink, of a spider web or some strange symbol on his neck. It glittered with iridescent colors.

  “Hey, friend, you don’t talk much, you can relax, you know, I don’t bite.” Mike grinned at the other man and slapped him on the shoulder. The guard didn’t so much as flinch.

  A hulking form stepped into the doorway. “I do.”

  Mike took a step back despite himself. He looked up at the large Wrethe, brown in color. He looked squat and more muscular than Anubus. A patchwork of long scars crossed his face and chest, some of them broad enough that Mike figured the Wrethe had lost two or three inches of skin. The fur in his scars had grown in at odd angles and some patches grew in lighter than the dark brown of the rest of him.

  Even as it loomed over them, Mike saw its gaze go to Anubus. A growl, almost too deep for human ears to pick up, came from the Wrethe’s throat.

  “Ah, who are you, scar-face?” Mike asked. He didn’t think any of them would survive the fight if the two Wrethe started it here.

  The Wrethe stepped forward. He made no hostile move, he just got inside Mike’s comfort zone. Way inside it, Mike realized, as
he tried to backpedal. “I work for Mister Fontaine, that’s all you need to know. Also, there are four pilots who came on the last transport. Mister Fontaine only needs one.” The Wrethe turned away from Mike, and its gaze went to their escort. “Mister Fontaine told you to bring just the pilots. However, since you told them they could all come, that’s put Mister Fontaine in a position where he has to honor your bargain, Ricky. You have Gerard’s job now, understood?”

  Their escort went pale, “The boss said to bring them…”

  “And you did, which is why he didn’t let me have you,” the Wrethe growled. “Of course, if you fail Gerard’s job, you won’t have his protection anymore.”

  The Wrethe turned back to the group. “Follow me. And please, do something to piss off Mister Fontaine. I would love some fresh meat.”

  The Wrethe stepped through the doorway.

  Mike followed. The barracks room beyond had a number of blankets up to act as dividers, which formed a hallway that led to a larger area. As they past one, the curtain parted a bit and Mike saw a pair of scantily clad women. One of them had dark bruises along her arms and a black eye.

  Mike grimaced and looked away. Either this Fontaine tolerated that sort of behavior from his men or did it himself. Whichever the case, Mike’s expectations dropped sharply.

  Three men sat in what looked like scavenged pilot seats in the area at the end of the corridor. A woman stood in front of them, but off to the side. She gave Mike and the others a quick glance before she returned her attention to the seated men. Mike recognized the seat from the one on the end as being from a Colonial Republic Patriot fighter. The center chair looked to have come from a larger ship, and the man who sat back in it looked like he claimed it more for the impressive size than for any preference of comfort. “Ah, welcome, my new friends.” He was a small man, with an angular jaw, and dark brown eyes. He’d slicked his hair back somehow, and Mike thought it looked like he did it to cover a bald spot. That almost made Mike smile… until he met the man’s gaze.