Renegades: Origins

by Kal Spriggs

  No sooner had Eric thought of the man than he appeared at his side, “Nice job with the bitch.”

  “What?” Eric looked back over his shoulder, even as he started to load down his plate with food. Ambassador Alara stood where she stood where he had dressed her down. “Yeah, well, she pushed the wrong buttons.” Eric gazed at her for a bit longer than necessary and when he looked forward he gave Santangel a grin, “I’d like to push some of her buttons, if you know what I mean.”

  The other man coughed on some of his spiced potato au grait, and Eric patted him on the back, “Yeah, that’s a bit spicy, can catch you off guard if you don’t expect it.”

  “Ah, no, it was not the food that surprised me,” Santangel said. “I am surprised by your attraction for the Ambassador, is all. She is arrogant, insufferable, and unbearably rude…” Santangel trailed off, and Eric saw a look of realization come across his face. “Oh, my.”

  “What, did I miss something?” Eric asked. The other man suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Anyway, to answer your question, she’s a bitch, but she’s got a nice body, and frankly, it’s been a while. Besides, it’s not like I want to hear her talk. Well, scream my name a bit maybe, but that’s not really talk.”

  “Right,” Micheal Santangel said. “If you would excuse me, I think the Captain has signaled he wished to speak with me.” Eric saw that the other man had flushed. Probably couldn’t handle his spicy food, Eric figured.

  “Yeah, sure,” Eric nodded even as he finished loading his plate with chicken. He saw Pixel stood only a few meters away. The engineer looked tired, and Eric briefly considered that he could probably use a break from all his engineering work.

  He stepped closer, “Pixel, made any progress on those grenade casings?”

  Pixel looked over at him, “Uh, I’ve been pretty busy.”

  “Right, I figured something like that would be a break from the rest of your work, and all the other stuff people have loaded you down with,” Eric said. “I mean, it’s for something fun, explosives and all that, and useful too.”

  “Yeah…” Pixel shook his head, “Well, I appreciate your intention, but I’ve had a lot to do.”

  “I can understand that,” Eric nodded. “Which reminds me, any progress on the weapons mount for the main gun or the capacitor damage? We could really use that.”

  “There’s a lot of work to do there,” Pixel said. “The Ghornath seemed low on supplies, what without having a base and all that. So with the capacitors I scavenged and the handful of replacements they had, the system still won’t work, it’s around fifteen percent power, not enough to even generate a beam.”

  Eric sighed, “Look, Pixel, I understand you might have other priorities…”

  “You’re the one who destroyed the mount and the capacitors for the weapon!” Pixel snapped. “You do realize that with that one action you’ve added hundreds of man hours of work, right? That’s with the assumption that I can even fix it.”

  “Well,” Eric shrugged, “Maybe it was my fault, but as an engineer, I figure you had some way to stop the damage before it happened. Isn’t there some kind of engineer override or something?”

  Pixel grimaced, “Yeah, there sure is. There’s a big red button on the fusion reactor control terminal. That overrides everything.”

  “Really?” Eric asked. “How’s that work?

  “Yeah, it automatically detects any potential engineering problems and prevents further damage to the ship’s systems.” Pixel nodded. “And it’s powered by magic fairy dust and unicorn tears.” Eric felt his ears burn at the bite in Pixel’s voice. “The only thing that big red button does is scram the reactor, cut power to the entire ship and shut down the reactor instantly. I could have done that to stop you, but we would have sat dead in space for hours while we brought all the systems back online.”

  “Oh,” Eric said. “Probably a good thing you didn’t do that in the middle of our escape.”

  Pixel rolled his eyes, “You think?” He drank the last of his cup and set down his empty plate. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go get some work done.”

  Eric watched the engineer walk away and shrugged a bit. Clearly Pixel needed to get some more sleep, the engineer had gotten cranky with his work load. Eric saw Rastar next to the jello bowl, and walked in that direction. Rastar still wore one of his Ghornath sized Hawaiian shirts, this one an electric lime green with bright purple flowers. “Hey big guy, how’s it-Oh, tell me you didn’t just put some horseradish in your jello?”

  “Hey man,” Rastar said. As Eric watched, he scooped a big spoonful of jello and horseradish into his mouth. Eric felt his stomach twist. “Great spread, man. Though I can’t touch that potato stuff, I think some of those spices are toxic for me.”

  Eric closed his eyes. He made a mental note to find out which ones in particular. When he cooked, he put together complex meals from the eclectic supplies of the ship’s previous crew. That the alien Ghornath had very different tastes than most humans and found a variety of human foodstuffs not only unpalatable but also toxic made cooking for the crew of escaped prisoners something of a challenge.

  That the crew included a Ghornath, a Wrethe, and a Chxor, as well as a variety of humans from different colonies and walks of life made it more of a challenge. The Ghornath seemed able to eat most human foods, as evidenced by the former Ghornath privateer crew’s eclectic mix of foodstuffs. They also seemed to react to various foods and spices in completely different fashions. Anubus could metabolize just about anything organic. Eric had seen him consume Chxor and their rations both and had heard from Mike that the Wrethe had grabbed a bite off of a dead human prisoner back before they made their escape from the prison station. The Chxor couldn’t eat anything that humans could. So that made it easy enough for Eric. He just didn’t bother to prepare anything for the little bastard. Nor did he bother with their single prisoner, Fleet Commander Krann. They had a variety of Chxor foodstuffs taken from the two previous ships that the pair could consume, or not, as they wanted.

  If it were up to Eric, he would shoot Krann and possibly Run. He didn’t like the Chxor species. For one thing, they seemed far to assured of their genetic and intellectual superiority. For another, they seemed bent on a war of conquest and extermination against the various human colonies. Eric could have tolerated either one, but both together just offended his sensibilities. Well, that and the fact that Run seemed happy enough to cut on me with a dull prison shank to get the shrapnel out, he thought. That memory made him rub at his side and the still sensitive scar.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Eric said. He turned away and almost ran into Ariadne.

  “Hi Eric, great job with the food!” Ariadne said.

  Something about her cheerful attitude put him on the defensive. Somehow when she said it he felt uncertain. Where he had smiled and nodded at the comments from others, he barely managed a noncommittal grunt as a response.

  “How do you think the class went?” Ariadne asked.

  “Well enough,” Eric said. He thought about Ariadne’s performance, and he figured some positive comment would not hurt, “And you didn’t fuck up.” Aw, crap, that sounds real great, he thought darkly. “I mean, good job not fucking anything up.” That probably didn’t improve things, he had to admit.

  Ariadne stared at him for a long moment, and when she spoke, she sounded more subdued, “Well, thanks for the food.” She walked off without another comment.

  “Dude, that was a little harsh,” Rastar said from behind him.

  Eric grunted, “Yeah, I meant to tell her she did a good job. I’m not so good on the positive reinforcement end of things.” From what his experience, pain taught better anyway, the brain would forget, the body and heart remembered.

  “Really, man, you should probably practice,” Rastar said. “I practice interaction all the time, and I’m always watching holovids to learn more…”

  “Well, that’s different, you’re an alien,” Eric said. “Trust me, I’m h
uman, she’ll understand what I meant.” If all else failed, she was a mind reader, for all he knew, she was in his head already.

  Rastar’s voice sounded dubious, “If you say so…”

  “Eat your horseradish jello,” Eric snapped. He stalked away from his friend, suddenly angry. He knew he had some issues with his interpersonal skills. The last thing he needed was a three hundred kilogram eight armed alien to whisper suggestions in his ear. Still, he should work on it, he knew. He saw Simon seated at a couch near the aquarium and Eric nodded to himself. The two of them had come to a sort of truce after Eric volunteered to take charge of the galley, but they still had a bit of tension. Where better to practice his conversation skills?

  He took a seat next to the former policeman. “How’s life?”

  Simon didn’t look away from the tank, “I’m trying to spot that damned Arcavian Fighting Eel.”

  “What, Rainbow?” Eric asked. Ariadne’s name for the creature seemed wildly inappropriate. That meant the name had stuck over all other suggestions, of course. Eric didn’t care for the name, except it seemed to drive Mike nuts. That meant that he used it as often as he could within earshot of Mike. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mike twitch slightly. Weird how he doesn’t like the thing, I figure it’s a fish and he’s Asian, if nothing else he’d want to roll it up in rice and eat it.

  “Yeah,” Simon peered at the tank. “Damned thing is impossible to see until it attacks.”

  “Why not tap on the tank?” Eric asked and leaned forward.

  “No!” Simon said. “It’s almost a game for me and it passes the time.”

  “Right,” Eric shrugged. “So what did you think about the class?”

  “I think my suggestion of a precise curriculum and a manual for them to read would have made it run much more smoothly,” Simon answered. “And the way you interrupted Elena and I whenever you disagreed probably confused the others.”

  “I meant what did you think about the students,” Eric said sharply. He wanted to apologize, yet the other man’s focus on his own mistakes put his back up. “And some of those things you taught might work fine for a police job where you might never have to fire your weapon, but we’re on the razor edge of survival here, we may not have time to go by the book.”

  “What I meant,” Simon said, his voice cold, “was you should have discussed your differences with us ahead of time. And Rastar, as Master of Arms, had the final say on what to teach, so we should have worked it out with him ahead of time. The four of us have different techniques, we should settle on a standard operational procedure, and train the others to work off of that.”

  “Oh,” Eric said. “Well that makes sense.”

  “That’s why I suggested it, but you and Rastar never answered the query I sent to the armory console,” Simon said. “And I didn’t have time earlier to come down and ask questions.”

  “Oh, truth to tell, Rastar just turns on holovids on that thing and I didn’t realize it did much more than that,” Eric said. “Well, next time we should do that. So what do you think about the students?” Eric thought he had done pretty well so far, they had avoided a real argument.

  “I think that Mike’s got too many bad habits, most of them from his prior service. Navy types always scare me, they’re military so they think they know everything about weapons, but they handle sidearms less than most small town cops, and most of them have minimal training experience.” Simon shrugged. “And every time he puts his finger in the trigger well I want to duck.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Eric laughed. “I swear, I thought he was going to shoot me at least three or four times. Elena seemed to manage him pretty well, though.”

  “Yes,” Simon nodded. “But she bothers me.”

  “What the whole bounty hunter thing?” Eric asked. “Actually I find that kind of hot.” He glanced over at the tall blonde woman where she stood in conversation with Mike. She seemed to feel his eyes on her, and her blue eyed gaze flicked in his direction. She met his look with a raised eyebrow and returned to her conversation.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Simon said. “Though yes, the bounty hunter past disturbs me, mercenaries and bounty hunters work crosses the law a bit too much for my tastes. That’s not what bothers me, mostly though. Something about how she seems to know so much about us irritates me.”

  “What’s your problem with mercenaries?” Eric asked. He had suggested to the others that he had worked as a mercenary after he left the military. It stretched the truth a bit, but it made for less questions. While his work had not strictly been mercenary work, he did get paid for rather similar, though far less legal, work.

  “Some of them are little better than hired guns, and others are bandits with a permit,” Simon said. “And the worst of them are just thugs or assassins.”

  Eric went cold at those words. “You seem pretty down on that.”

  “I’m out of work because one assassin killed my boss and another killed my partner and framed me for it,” Simon answered, his voice cold. “Whether they were mercenaries, thugs, or just some criminal scum, I distrust those who take money to kill, even if they have a permit for it. And bounty hunters and mercenaries do that as a part of their job description.”

  Eric looked over at Simon, and he did not trust himself to speak. The cop had his own point of view, and nothing Eric could say would change that. Still, something about his sanctimonious attitude, the way he seemed to suggest himself as morally superior to those driven to such work shot a spike of anger down Eric’s spine.

  “So, what does that make the secret police? I mean, a lot of you acted as enforcers and government bag men,” Eric said. “You ever throw a bag over some guy’s head in front of his family? I bet that kind of thing makes for great law enforcement.” He did not bother to hide his sarcasm.

  “I worked with Confederation Security Bureau, thanks,” Simon said. “We didn’t do that sort of thing. I worked security and government investigation, remember? You seem a little bitter, one of your mercenary buddies get a late night visit after they take the wrong job?”

  Eric looked away from Simon, even as he remembered a dark night twenty years ago. He leaned forward and tapped on the aquarium. “Hey look there’s Rainbow. Good talking with you Simon.” He treasured the look of surprise and anger on Simon’s face as the eel exploded into motion and snapped and thrashed against the glass.

  I probably could have handled that better, Eric thought as he walked away. Yet as he remembered what had happened to him and his family, he just felt a sullen anger. Anger at the destruction of his family and anger at what they did to him after ten years of loyal service.

  * * *

  As a child, he had not understood the source of the fear on his father’s voice as the men pounded on the front door. Neither had he understood why his mother cried as she bundled him into his coat. “Son, when they come, you need to go out the back door. Go to Uncle Striker’s house.”

  “Papa, what’s going on?” Eric would not cry. He was ten years old, his father had said to be brave, so he would not let himself cry.

  “Eric, no time for questions. Be strong, and know that we love you,” his father said as he led him to the back door of their apartment. The service access at the back of the kitchen should have required a special key to unlock, but his father tugged it open without effort. He ducked his head in the low door, “Alright. In you go my brave little man.” The impacts on the door had stopped, but the quiet seemed ominous somehow. An adult Eric would later realize that the secret police outside had emplaced a breaching charge on the door. “And remember, go to Uncle Striker’s house.”

  Eric nodded, “Yes, Papa, I will. When will you and Mama join me?”

  His mother’s crying rose at that, and Eric saw tears well up in his father’s eyes. “Soon, my son. I love you, now be a good boy and go.”

  Eric stepped into the narrow passageway, and his father closed the access door behind him. Eric knew that he should go, now, but he waited,
instead. He knew that his papa meant to meet the men who seemed so angry at him. He knew that his mama would not send him away unless she feared something bad. Something like when their neighbors had disappeared, even little Kyle. He pressed his face up against the mesh grate and peered into the kitchen.

  A loud concussion threw him back. He sneezed as dust filled the air. A moment later he heard shouts in his parent’s apartment. Then he heard his mama scream. Eric pressed his face up against the mesh and he could see his papa. Two men had him by the arms and one kicked him hard, behind the knee.

  Eric wanted to shout at them, to tell them to stop, but he held his tongue. Papa had said to be quiet and to go. Papa had said to be brave, so he couldn’t cry. Eric saw a police man step forward and draw a black bag down over his father’s head. The others dragged his father out of sight.

  He heard his mama cry out again and then he heard what sounded like a blow. Her cries stopped, and Eric felt rage curl his fists closed. He felt hot tears well down his face. He wanted to kill these men. He wanted to scream and shout as he shot them for hurting his mama. But he couldn’t. He had told Papa that he would go to Uncle Striker’s home. He told his Papa he would be quiet, and brave.

  Eric stepped back from the grate. He knew the way, though the access tunnels were off limits, his papa had showed him where to go in the massive apartment tower. His papa had sent him on errands throughout the access corridors often two or three times a day over the past few years. Only years later would he realize that his father had used him to pass messages in whatever resistance group he had joined.

  Eric followed the route out of memory. His small feet followed the dark corridors while his mind ranged over what he saw. Over and over he saw the expression on his father’s face as that black bag came down over his head.

  Eric’s papa always looked brave. He had served in the Centauri Marines. He had fought the Seppies and he had the medals to prove his bravery.