Finder

by Suzanne Palmer

  Somewhere out of sight, Mari was heading up on a long shot diagonally toward the fringes of the Halo, where she’d turn and make a beeline for the abandoned asteroid. He headed down, passing beneath Humbug. From there he made his way toward one of Cernee’s many trash gyres floating in the dead space, caught up on fragments of old lines below Burnbottle and Gilgerstone.

  Patrols of one-mans and two-mans roamed the space around the hab and rock just inside the perimeter of mines and sentry bobs. There was no sign of Venetia’s Sword. Staying within the umbra of the sunshields, Fergus let himself drift far enough into the gyre to be camouflaged by it but not enough to get tangled in it. From here he had a perfect view of Gilger’s territory spread out above. Much of the junk had come from Gilger himself; scores of stripped-out, skeletal ships dotted the debris field. He recognized some, including the burnt half shell of a Gaian scouter. There was no way that had been legal salvage.

  A long-signal text from Mari popped up inside his shield. In position, it said. You ready?

  Patrols were moving in the same pattern they had been during Fergus’s earlier scouting mission, paying little attention to the junk pile below them. Ready, he sent back, and then he waited.

  Ten minutes later a one-man broke out of the pattern, heading away from the perimeter. Almost immediately another peeled off and followed. It had started.

  Fergus pointed his ’stick upward and gave one hard boost before shutting down again and letting go. He tucked his knees up against his chest and put his head down, letting momentum carry him like a cannonball. He was flying out of here on his ship, dammit. And if he didn’t, it was probably because he wasn’t getting out of here at all.

  They’re getting mad now, Mari sent. Both sets of patrols were in disarray, moving toward the far perimeter where sparks of light flared here and there like glitter: the mines exploding.

  Stop watching and get under cover, he sent back.

  Only a single one-man had stayed in position. Fergus was small and dark, coming from an unexpected direction. It wasn’t the one-man he was worried about. If the tennis balls took out enough of the sentry bobs, the remainder should spread themselves out to cover the same ground and pull what remaining mines there were with them. Unless they didn’t, in which case Fergus would never know if he’d aimed himself right at one until it was too late.

  He sailed a hundred yards or so up past the starboard side of the one-man. His blood ran cold as a mine zipped past him so close he could have reached out and grabbed it on his way by.

  You there yet? Mari asked.

  He was coming up fast on the underbelly of Burnbottle. Three seconds, he replied.

  Good, because we’re about to have a lot more company.

  Fergus twisted around in alarm, thinking she meant that someone had spotted one or both of them, and as a result his planned feet-first landing on Burnbottle turned into a shoulder crash and rebound that left him momentarily stunned.

  He used the fine maneuvering jets in his suit to push himself back up to the hull of the hab, grumbling. Once he’d managed to snag a maintenance bar, he looked around more carefully. Burnbottle wasn’t a spinner, so the hab itself was shielding him from view. He pulled himself around the curve of the hab to where he could just make out the abandoned asteroid without leaving the concealment of the hab’s lee.

  Most of the patrol was spinning around empty space like angry bees, trying to find the source of the attack. A few had converged on the asteroid, blanketing it with weaponsfire. Mari had said she knew the mining tunnels in the asteroid; he hoped to hell she hadn’t been lying and that they were deep enough.

  In the distance he could just make out an approaching ship. By the time it came close enough for him to make out the blue stripe along its side, he half wondered if it was the product of fervent wishing.

  Venetia’s Sword hovered in the midst of the frenzied one-mans for several long minutes, then suddenly broke away, nearly colliding with one of the smaller flyers as it hove to beside Gilgerstone. Whatever had spooked it, the ships blasting the asteroid stopped firing and pulled together to form a hasty defense line in an arc around the edge of the Halo.

  Now what? Fergus wondered. Then he could make out the ships coming in in precise formation. Mari, are you seeing this?

  I’m in the center of a rock, assvalve, she sent back. I can’t see my own fucking eyeballs.

  Stay there. The war just found us.

  Took them long enough. And you’re welcome, she replied.

  It took a moment for that to percolate through. Harcourt. You called him.

  Yes. You needed a distraction, he needed an opportunity. This works for everyone. Now go do your job.

  Harcourt’s ships were engaging Gilger’s. From here, Fergus couldn’t tell who was winning, but he could see reinforcements coming in; four clusters of blue-striped people on ’sticks were heading for Burnbottle, each riding with a shrapnel cannon. More were trying to catch up from behind.

  I’m going offline, he sent to Mari, then immediately shut down his comm, unjacked it from his suit, and tucked it into a zippered pocket on his pack. From that same pocket he took out the melted remains of his stolen comm, retrieved last-minute from the exploded smartfridge before they’d left Leakytown. He clipped it back in place as best he could.

  He pulled himself along bars until he found a maintenance hatch. The far side let into a room barely larger than a closet, its one working light dim and flickering, with old tools and half-dissected equipment loosely shoved up against mag-bars on the walls. Hoping he wasn’t committing suicide by stupidity, he pushed out of the maintenance closet and headed toward the crowd of blue-stripes gathered around the bottle rechargers. One spotted him and moved to intercept, talking inaudibly inside his shield. Fergus held up his wrist, pointing at the burnt-out comm.

  With a visible sigh, the man flipped open his shield. “Protocol Zero? You had sixty seconds. What the fuck happened?”

  “I was taking a crap,” Fergus said, making as sheepish a face as he could manage and hoping he had the Cernee accent close enough.

  “Brilliant,” the man said. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Cheefer,” he said. It was the name of his childhood dog, a short, fat, lopsided thing, blind in one eye and cursed with chronic gas, whom he’d loved like nothing else in life. A lesson he’d learned long ago was that if you were going to use a fake name, pick one that would still get your attention. “Blue Two sent me here to make myself useful.”

  The man appraised him. “And the rest of your team?”

  “It’s just me left,” he said.

  “And where’s your ’stick, Cheefer?”

  Fergus threw his hands up. “Some damned Gold took it when I landed. Said he was commandeering it. You know what that’s about? I thought we were all on the same side!”

  The man nodded his head slightly. Good, Fergus thought. He’s decided I’m not inside the circle, which means I’m not worth bothering to call in and double-check. Just another dumb grunt.

  “Damned Golds,” one of the other men said. “Couldn’t stick to a plan if it was fucking pasted to their faces.”

  “Okay, Cheefer,” the leader said. “We’re Blue Seven and Eight. Have you ever worked a shrapnel cannon?”

  “Once,” he said. If you count having it fired at you, he didn’t add.

  The man pointed at the other guy who’d spoken. “This is Derf, who used to be with Blue Eleven. His partner rewired his own comm so he could pipe music over it and didn’t see the Protocol Zero signal.”

  “Blew his hand off at the wrist,” Derf said. “In space.”

  Fergus winced. “Sorry,” he said.

  “Sometimes a man can be just smart enough to be really stupid,” the leader said. “I don’t expect you have that problem, Cheefer?”

  “Not yet, sir,” he said.

&nbs
p; “Is your air full?”

  “Full enough, sir,” he said.

  “Great. Derf here will take you with him. The cannon is self-propelling, so you just have to hang on. We’re going to head up over Gilgerstone and try to take out as many Grays as we can. If you make it back, and if you can point out the Goldie who took your ’stick, we’ll all help you get it back, okay?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Call me Blue Leader Eight, Cheefer. Any questions?”

  “Uh . . . a comm?”

  “I don’t have any spares. You and Derf can use your suit proximity channels, and he’ll relay any orders from me to you. He’s in charge. You set to go?”

  “Set, Blue Leader Eight.”

  “Good. You and Derf are going to take the lead, seeing as how you both seem to be so lucky. Move.”

  Derf crooked a finger at Fergus. Fergus pushed off the wall toward him. “Channel one-one-one,” Derf said. “Think you can remember that?”

  Fuck you, Derf. “One-one-one. Got it.” Fergus switched his suit over, then closed and sealed his face shield. “Can you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear. Now don’t talk unless I speak to you first,” Derf said. He plucked his air bottle out of the recharger and slotted it into his suit behind his pack, then turned his back without a word, passing through the platform’s envelope and out. Fergus followed. Once they were out, Derf pointed to where a cannon was tethered outside the platform. “Take the right side,” he said.

  “Okay,” Fergus replied.

  “Shut up,” Derf said.

  At least he wasn’t going to be peppered with curious questions about where in Cernee he’d grown up, what had happened to the rest of his team, and so on. He’d just follow Derf’s lead as long as it got him closer to Venetia’s Sword, and then, like it or not, Derf was going to be partnerless again.

  They left the platform, each riding one side of the bulbous cylinder of the cannon body. Fergus’s side, where he held onto a thick welded bar with no safety tether, had no controls or instrumentation of any kind.

  Behind them, the rest of the Blues pushed off the platform. Two more cannons and a half dozen men on ’sticks. Fergus felt uncomfortably surrounded. Not that I understand why they’re the enemy, he thought. I suppose I could always just ask.

  “Derf?”

  “I told you not to talk to me, meatbag,” Derf answered.

  They floated along for a few long minutes while Fergus waited patiently. Finally Derf sighed audibly over the link. “Well? What is it?”

  “I just figured maybe you had a better idea what’s going on than me and could explain it, ’cause none of this makes sense.”

  Derf snorted. “Sense?! You’re asking for a lot,” he said. “Didn’t your team leader explain it?”

  “My team leader was so good at explaining things that I’m the only one not dead.”

  “Okay, I guess not,” Derf said. “Look, we don’t like the Goldies, and they don’t like us, right? But Mr. Vinsic heard that the Governor was gonna hand over his seat to Harcourt, and then he was going to clean out the other houses that might make trouble for him, so here we are.”

  “Why help Gilger, though?”

  “You gotta pick a side.”

  “Why not stick to our own?”

  Derf laughed. “You really don’t know shit, do you, Cheefer? Shut up, now. Time to fight.”

  They were heading up over Gilgerstone. Harcourt’s formation was holding, forming a blockade between Gilger’s territory and any easy way in and out of the Halo. A team of Golds was coming up and out of Gilgerstone itself, swarming past the trapped Venetia’s Sword and toward the blockade.

  “Blue Leader Eight says when we get in position we can fire at will,” Derf said. “We’ve got one good shot with this thing, then we’re gonna use it like a rocket and try to slam it into one of the big flyers. I’ve got EMP mines and a couple of can grenades. Whatcha you got on you?”

  “Uh, one can grenade,” he lied.

  “Blue Leader wants us to open up a hole so Gilger can get his ship out and start doing some damage. We want the Grays to pull back and defend the Wheels again. Gold Leader’s plan needs them to be there, not here.”

  Fergus glanced over his shoulder, wondering how easily he could ditch Derf and the cannon. Not easily; everyone was converging on the blockade. Crap.

  “I’m shutting down the engines so we can set up to aim,” Derf said. “I’ll let you know when I’m about to fire.”

  “Okay.”

  The other two cannon teams were setting up to their left, roughly parallel to them. Loose men were scattered behind them, just far enough to be in no danger from their own side’s projectiles.

  Derf slowed the cannon and slowly rocked it back and forth, trying to line it up. “Should have it in about ten,” Derf said. “Stop picking your nose and hold tight—there’s a hell of a kickback.”

  Well, damn, Fergus thought. I don’t really want to shoot any of Harcourt’s people. He wrapped his arms tightly through his bar, thinking if he kicked off his suit’s jets and timed it just as Derf pulled the trigger, he might knock off the aim just enough.

  “I got lock. Firing in four, three—” Derf started to say, then, “—what the fuck?”

  “What?”

  “The Grays just dropped a ton of something into space.”

  “What is it?”

  “How the fuck should I— Damn!” The cannon jolted as Derf fired up the engine into reverse without warning, pulling them back the way they’d come. Seconds later the space around them filled with tiny silver marbles. They swarmed around the cannon. A half dozen balls veered in Fergus’s direction, then past and away.

  “Grrrk,” he heard over the comm channel.

  “Derf?” he asked.

  There was no answer.

  He let go of his handle and pulled himself up over the top of the cannon. Derf was floating there, inert; five or six of the metal balls were embedded in the fabric of his exosuit. Carefully, Fergus let himself over to the cannon’s left side and peered into Derf’s face shield. Derf’s eyes were open, seeing nothing.

  “Damn,” Fergus swore, backing away from the body. The main swarm of killer ball bearings had gone by, and the one or two that were still passing ignored them both. One cannon team was halfway back to Gilgerstone. Other than them, the edge of the Halo was littered with Gold and Blue bodies.

  Why not me? Fergus wondered.

  Harcourt knew he was out here. Mari must’ve given him the frequency of the bug in his suit—the suit he’d almost left behind at Leakytown to save on weight rather than stuffing it into his pack—and programmed the weapons to avoid him. He shuddered.

  His cannon was still moving, coming up close on a Blue body. Letting go of the cannon as he passed, he grabbed the Blue’s ’stick, firing it up and pointing it toward Gilgerstone. If anyone saw him, he hoped they’d assume he was just a panicked survivor fleeing the slaughter. And really, wasn’t he?

  Venetia’s Sword lay dead ahead, surrounded by a small team of flyers. If he could just zip between them and grab onto the ship’s hull, he’d only need a few moments to pass the handshake back . . .

  He was so intent on the ship that he didn’t see the one-man until it broadsided him, sending him hurtling off his ’stick.

  Alarm lights flashed all over the display in the periphery of his face shield. The pain in his arm and side where the one-man had hit was blinding in intensity, crippling in shock. Tumbling, he could see the one-man coming back around. Two Golds on ’sticks were coming up alongside it, closing in. Even if he hadn’t been hurt, there would’ve been no escape.

  Reaching into his pack pocket, Fergus pulled out his original comm with its link back to Mari. He closed his fist around it, forcing the faltering grippers in the glove to crush it. Then he opened his palm and let the
pieces float away in an arc around him. You can get me, he thought, but you’re not getting anyone else.

  The one-man stopped just ahead of him, and one of the Golds swung out a short pole. Shock stick. Fergus only got three-quarters of the way toward making a rude gesture before the man lunged the stick at him and everything went angrily and painfully black.

  * * *

  —

  He was not as excited about waking up as he should have been, given his expectation that he wouldn’t. At least this time he still appeared to have all his clothes, if not his stolen suit or pack. Well, fuck, he thought. Now where am I?

  There was gravity—maybe 60 percent?—and a solid floor beneath him. He tried to push himself up, then fell back down as his arm collapsed under him. When he could think again, he sat up more carefully, keeping his right arm cradled against his chest.

  He was in a small room, clean and utilitarian, devoid of anything except pale gray walls and a ventilation grille too small for anything bigger than a ballroach to slither through. He leaned against the wall, trying to breathe through the pain. The wall was vibrating just slightly. Perking up, he looked around more carefully. He was on a ship. And the only ship in Cernee big enough to have a room like this was . . .

  “Gowan yerself,” he said out loud. Venetia’s Sword.

  There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and Fergus got to his feet as they paused outside the door. After a few moments the door slid open. Gilger stood in the doorway, a trio of Luceatans just behind him. “I know exactly who you are,” Gilger said.

  “Who I am?” Fergus asked, knowing how unconvincing it sounded.

  Gilger’s mouth twitched up on one side. “Let me introduce you to some friends of mine,” he said, stepping into the room and to one side. The first Luceatan moved forward, his face a familiar mask of intensity, his sleeveless tunic a near match for Gilger’s. Graf.

  Graf’s shoulder bore an angry pistol wound a few days old.

  “You killed Katra,” Fergus blurted out.