Dana Cartwright Mission 2: Lancer

by Joyz W. Riter

  Her gut seized, both with fear and loathing, as she recalled Janz Macao’s story of his and McHale’s encounter with surgically altered Castellans.

  Macao telepathically responded calmly, Be careful!

  From her position, four men were visible, all wearing full body armor. Three of the four were tall, stocky figures. The fourth seemed oddly small — almost boyish — not much taller than she. Only he had a weapon at the ready. The others were busy checking crates.

  No sign of Kieran, she told Macao, using the telepathic link. I can take down these. What’s your sit?

  He responded roughly, Hold for my signal.

  She did her best to calm her breathing, until the pounding of her heart seemed nearly back to normal, but waiting was not her forte.

  Just when she felt calm, all hell broke loose. She peered through the grill. From just beyond the hatchway came weapons fire and shouts intermingled. The mercs in the storage hold reacted, bringing weapons up, fully alert.

  Dana waited and waited. Sir? She mentally demanded an answer.

  Hold! Macao again ordered.

  She picked up a number. Seven…guessing it meant seven remained.

  So she waited.

  And waited.

  Her wet feet ached from the cold, stomach felt tied in knots, and she forcefully willed her breathing to be of a calm cadence.

  She heard movement down in the bay and dared a look, puzzling, Sir? They’re moving crates, tagging them for transport, beaming them away.

  Stealing… Janz retorted.

  She spotted Kieran’s motionless body atop one they moved out to the center area. “Oh, no!” She reacted, kicking out the grill, firing in quick succession. Three fell, but the fourth returned fire, scorching the duct where her head had been.

  Dana listened, shutting her eyes, tracking the merc with her senses, her finger on the trigger.

  “I will kill this one if you do not surrender your weapons,” the merc shouted up at her.

  Dana’s heart ached.

  Sir? She pleaded to Macao for guidance.

  Stall, he responded. I’m close. Three more here…

  She inched closer to the gaping hole and dared a peek. The merc hovered over Kieran’s prone body — over the coffin-like crate — with a weapon pointed downward.

  Her resolve weakened as she wondered, Can I out gun him?

  Stall! Macao ordered. Do I have to repeat every blasted order?

  Chastised by the Captain’s tone, Dana slid closer to the hole.

  “Okay…I’m throwing down my weapon,” she told the merc. She reached out so he could see it, before letting it drop down to the deck.

  “Good…now, come out, slowly.”

  There was no graceful way to do it. She went out head first, tumbled, and planted her feet on the freezing cold deck, with both hands up. Not a perfect ‘ten’ gymnastic dismount by any means.

  The merc roared with laughter. “A wo-man… A tiny wo-man…”

  She shook her head defiantly. The N-link dislodged from her braid, falling with a clatter to the deck some distance away.

  The merc’s aim shifted to her midriff. “What is that?”

  “A communicator,” she lied, steeling her gaze, unable to see his eyes through the visor on the helmet, but sensing empathetically his nervousness and something else.

  “Tell your companions to surrender,” he ordered.

  Dana stalled. “You just did. Doubt they will. Only three of your men left.”

  “How many of you?” He demanded.

  “Five,” she told him.

  “You lie!” He aimed again at Kieran, but kept his gaze on her. “How many?”

  She detected movement. Kieran’s left hand slid gradually downward to his boot.

  Dana shifted and paced, holding the man’s attention.

  “Five…Why would I lie,” she countered. “You’re outnumbered. You should surrender now and live. You won’t if you harm me in any way.”

  The bluff shouldn’t work — but her orders were to stall.

  And then, an overwhelming empathetic impression struck her. “You’re Enturian!” She stared at the man — he was the smallest of the four.

  The merc froze. “What are you?” he demanded, weapon pointed down, but aimed away from Kieran. “Come closer — come into the light.”

  She took a few shaky steps.

  “Your eyes!” He stared, momentarily distracted. “They are mismatched!”

  She saw the blade tip as Kieran jammed it upward, into the merc’s side, while grasping the man’s right hand, wrenching the weapon free.

  The merc reacted by tagging Kieran with a transport patch.

  Dana screamed, “No!” as Kieran vanished. She rolled clear, retrieved her hand weapon and aimed as the hatch opened, expecting more mercenaries.

  “Hold!” Janz Macao shouted, rushing in, wrestling the merc to the deck, collapsing with the man’s body atop himself, too weak to do much more.

  Dana waited two-seconds, and then raced forward to help. Macao shrugged off her ministrations.

  “He tagged Kieran!” She gasped, tugging the merc aside, retrieving the Sterillian blade from the man’s limp body.

  “Fane!” Macao responded, struggling to get to his feet. “Are there more?”

  “He’s the last here! No doubt there are more aboard their ship.” Dana knelt beside the mercenary’s body and tugged off the man’s helmet as greenish blood oozed out from the knife wound. “He’s Enturian!”

  The Captain scowled.

  “Still alive,” she grumbled, feeling for a pulse — not in the usual human artery — but where it would be on an Enturian and announced, “if he were human, he’d be dead.”

  The merc opened his eyelids, training his mismatched irises upon hers. He weakly reached up with a gloved hand. “Who?”

  She blinked, knowing exactly why he asked. “I’m January.”

  He winced. “You are the January! The first of the twelve…”

  She frowned. “Who are you? Are you March?”

  He shuddered, gasping, “Novem…November. You…You are the most perfect…” His eyes glazed over and his head lolled to the side.

  “He’s losing a lot of blood,” Dana groaned. “November…He’s eleven of twelve…”

  Janz Macao demanded, “What did he mean? Most perfect?”

  “I need my med-kit to be sure.” Dana pulled off more of the man’s armor, exposing gnarled hands and a somewhat deformed upper body, using a glove to press against the wound to stop the bleeding. “Without doing a DNA scan to be certain, I’m going to say, this man and I have common parentage. He’s a tribrid.”

  “Can you save him?” Macao asked.

  “I’m going to try…”

  The Captain sank down beside the mercenary’s body, and reached out to hold the glove in place. “Go get your kit. I’ll…”

  She wasted little time scrambling to her feet, racing up to the main cabin, returning as Macao was struggling to strip off the armor from one of the other, taller men, while still holding the glove in place over Novem’s wound.

  “Sir?”

  He watched as she tended the merc, using a device to stop the bleeding and to seal the wound, just as she had done to the gash on his forehead.

  When she was finished, he ordered, “Help me into this armor!”

  “Sir, you need to rest!”

  “Damn it, Mister Cartwright! Follow orders!” He stripped off his civilian jacket and struggled into the merc’s armor.

  Dana obeyed, helping him into the ill fitting gear, offering over the weapon and the helmet.

  “Give me something for the pain,” he pleaded.

  She quickly programmed a digital injector, adding, “I’ve added more anti-inflammatory.” She bit back further protests that he should rest. “Be careful!” She warned, “Your spine is very fragile right now. You could cause permanent damage.”

  “The body armor will help,” he retorted. “While I’m gone, sedate this one.
Run DNA scans on all the others. Then get up to the bridge and scrub the computers. Wipe them clean! Understood!”

  She nodded.

  “Tag me for transport…” He had the Sterillian blade in one hand and the merc weapon in the other.

  She took up a roll of the tags, slapped one on Macao’s chest and stood back as it activated and MAT’d him away an instant later.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Dana waited until the strange transport effect faded before moving back to Novem’s side, taking more readings. “November…” she mumbled, amazed at the man’s words. “He’s eleven of twelve…I’m first...”

  She had to push all emotions over the situation aside, focusing on completing her assigned tasks.

  As the Captain ordered, she administered a sedative to Novem, then began taking DNA samples from the men there in the hold, the dead out in the corridor and in the rotunda. She retrieved the two weapons she’d left in the duct near the grill, taking them with her to the bridge crash doors, setting them against the bulkhead while she struggled to get the hatch open. It got stuck with just enough room for her to slip through.

  She ignored the three she’d felled on the bridge; ignoring the smell of blood and death commingled, muttering, “Need the air circulation system…”

  Her first task was to scrub the computers. She worked methodically, quickly erasing every system and every backup.

  By the time Dana finished Karis’s computer was wiped clean. The ship would never fly again. That gave her a strong feeling of melancholy. Would have been fun to fly this…

  Just as she got up, declaring her task finished, the overhead lighting failed, leaving her in total darkness.

  Eerie noises and vibrations echoed throughout the ship. Maybe it was the wind, but it certainly seemed scary.

  I’ve wiped the computers, she told Macao telepathically. There were seven Castellan-human hybrids, one Enturian-Galaxean-human tribrid, and twelve humanoids of an unidentified race.

  He didn’t respond immediately.

  Dana crept cautiously back down to the rotunda level, one weapon at the ready, the other slung over her shoulder. Silence and the glow of a single hand beacon greeted her on the crew cabin level. In the dim light, she gathered up her medical instruments into her gear bag, retrieved two blankets from a closet and the bunk in the cabin next door, then returned to the storage hold. She wrapped one blanket about her patient’s torso and used the other about her freezing feet.

  “Should have gotten my boots,” she mumbled as an aside, setting her gear bag down and resting a weapon within easy reach.

  In the quiet, she mulled over the medical scans. Castellan-human hybrids, a tribrid and the others…

  Novem’s physical characteristics indicated severe mutations. The DNA markers all matched. They — she already reluctantly began to think of him as her brother — certainly shared the same parentage — just had differing levels of influence from their three donors.

  He started to recover from the sedative, struggled and winced in pain, froze at the sight of her, again staring into her mismatched eyes.

  Dana blinked, staring down into his.

  “Who are you?” He pleaded again.

  “January…” she reminded.

  He shook his head, searching for the words, “What are you?”

  “Oh,” she chuckled. “I was a doctor.”

  His expression changed to one of awe. “Doctor?”

  “March is a doctor, too. And so is April…”

  He scowled. “We are lower.”

  “We?”

  “Dec and I…Sep and Octo are dead. They were weaklings. We were all…slaves.”

  Dana frowned. The way he said it tugged at her heart.

  “We were bought by the Craz.”

  “Who are the Craz?”

  Novem struggled to answer. He pointed to one of the men on the deck. “He is the Craz.”

  Dana nodded, understanding. “Where do they come from?”

  “Beyond the Field…”

  Suddenly it all made sense to her. From Doctor Tracy’s history of the Calvary, she recalled a mention of the Crazorians, a very reclusive race from beyond the Streetek Field, beyond even Enturian space. They were empaths and telepaths, which the GCE abhorred.

  “How could they buy you?” She wondered.

  “Slaves — many slaves — imperfects like me are sold. Raised by other outcasts then sold again.”

  Dana felt empathically both shame and grief. She searched his eyes, detecting more painful emotions, of beatings and evil sexual things done to them.

  “What of these Castellans?” She asked, directing the conversation away from him.

  “They are half-breeds…slaves, too. They are used as breeders.”

  She scowled.

  Novem reached out to touch her cheek. She resisted the instinct to pull away.

  “You are perfect. You are the first.”

  “You said there are twelve?” She asked.

  He nodded, retracting his hand and weakly letting it fall to his side. “Twelve months…twelve embryos. That’s what we were told. All slightly different…less perfect than the first.”

  “Who told you that?” Dana demanded.

  “The King…”

  Both her eyebrows shot upward. “Who is the King?”

  He tried to smile, hiding his crooked, yellowed teeth. “The King… He says you are perfect.”

  “How would he know that?” Dana demanded.

  “He says he tested your D-N-A.”

  She scowled, “That’s impossible.”

  “The King sent Via to capture you.”

  “Via? Xavier Via? The man tried to kill me at the Meeting of the Masters…That was ten years ago.”

  Novem stared. “Not kill…Capture. The King wants you.”

  Dana repeated, “Who is the King?”

  Novem just shrugged.

  The sound of someone materializing nearby filled the bay.

  Dana whirled, grasping her weapon, aiming.

  “Hold!” Janz Macao ordered, using Kieran’s shoulder for support.

  She scrambled to help, easing the Captain down to the deck beside Novem, and went immediately to work, realizing Janz writhed in pain. She glared at Kieran, and then administered a strong sedative so that Macao’s body went limp. “I may have to do another spinal weave.” She dug through her gear bag, glad she’d brought everything down to the bay with her.

  Kieran nodded, commenting, “We took the ship.”

  Dana ignored him, focusing on the Captain. “Help me roll him over and get the armor off.”

  She used the blanket to wrap about his bare buttocks, focusing above where she’d already done the spinal weave, taking readings, gritting her teeth.

  “I need more light. Can you get the system back up?”

  Kieran scrambled to his feet and left the bay, with only a cursory warning glance at Novem.

  The conditions in the bay deteriorated. The temperature dropped another ten degrees during the two hours of the second surgery. They seemed much longer. Dana didn’t dare to move Janz. She left the spinal weave device in position. “We need a C-FIIN,” Dana growled at Kieran’s back.

  He managed to get the lighting up to fifty percent, but the air circulation system just would not function.

  “Karis is history…ready for scrap,” he complained, as he checked more crates, tagging a few for transport.

  While she monitored the medical instruments, he busied himself with stacking the bodies, dragging those from the upper decks down to join the others. Novem watched his every move.

  “The Captain needs medical treatment. You have to abort the mission,” Dana pleaded.

  He ignored the plea, offering, “Why don’t you go have a shower. They’re working. I’ll watch over your patients.”

  “Last time you…” she protested.

  “Go have a shower! You’ll feel better. I insist!”

  Dana bit back all protests. The lure of a shower
and clean hair was just too enticing. After crawling around in the air ducts, she felt itchy. She took a change of clothing from the gear bag and headed up to the crew level.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Novem stared, emotionlessly watching Kieran’s every move, and Kieran did much the same, while surveying the remaining crates.

  “The temperature should improve now that the sun is up,” Kieran said, taking a break and settling down on the deck to rest, legs folded meditation style.

  Novem didn’t seem to care. “Are you her master?”

  “Dana’s?” Kieran chuckled, envisioning the poor sap who ever dared. “Dana January Cartwright is no slave.”

  The mercenary stared. “She obeys you and the other.”

  “Only because we out rank her. I’m a colonel. My brother is a captain.”

  Novem frowned. “Republic?”

  Kieran admitted, “Aye.”

  “You kill well.”

  Kieran swallowed hard. “When necessary...”

  “I will serve you. Novem will be your slave.”

  It was Kieran’s turn to stare. “No, Novem will be set free.”

  “I am not perfect. Only January is perfect,” the mercenary insisted.

  “Who told you that?”

  “The King... He said, twelve were made; only one is perfect — only January.”

  “Twelve? So Novem is eleven of twelve?”

  Novem nodded.

  Kieran grinned. “I’ve met April, four of twelve, and she’s pretty perfect…she could be Dana’s twin.”

  “Only January is perfect,” Novem repeated defensively. “Far from perfect were ordered destroyed.”

  Kieran’s eyebrows shot upward. “What?”

  “The King said many were ordered destroyed; he says we were sold, instead. Only January is perfect. The Republic does not keep imperfects.”

  Kieran’s expression turned to a frown. “Novem, this may be difficult for you to understand, but in the Republic everyone is equal. There are no slaves. Some serve. Some lead. Some obey. All are equal.” Kieran pointed to his brother. “Some give orders, some obey orders — no one is bought or owned — no one is a slave.”