by Terry Mixon
“I’ve also met a very good—if somewhat aggressive—doctor,” Brad added.
“You haven’t begun to see aggressive, Commodore,” Duvall said, a small smile hovering around her lips to take some of the sting out of her words.
“At least let them tell me everything is okay,” he cajoled. “I can’t relax if I’m worried about my people and my ship.”
“We’re as good as can be,” Jason assured him. “I’ve kept the ship out of sight and a bit away from the station. I called the Guild on Ganymede and hired a ship to come keep us company in case we get some unexpected visitors. That contract stipulated some extra officers to help us man Heart and a combat team to relieve Saburo of guard duty. They arrived right before I headed down, and we have a team outside the door.”
Duvall scowled. “In combat armor and ready to repel a boarding action. I’m not pleased.”
“They are ready to repel a boarding action,” Jason agreed evenly. “And to get Commodore Madrid out of here if one comes calling. That’s not negotiable.
“It’s a team from Heimdall’s Raiders. People personally vouched for by Captain Branson.”
Brad nodded. Heimdall’s Raiders was a solid-gold company—if one could forgive the pun—that the Vikings had fought beside three years earlier. He expected Captain Branson to make the jump to platinum soon—it had been a surprise to him that the Vikings had made it first. His own bump had allowed him to add his recommendation to the pile, and he suspected it wouldn’t be much longer before the Raiders traded up insignia.
He couldn’t think of a stronger defender to have guarding his back at a time like this.
“An excellent choice,” he said, making sure his tone carried his approval. “Well done.”
“And the new trooper is doing fine, too,” Shelly said. “She’s keeping an eye on Trista now that we have the spare manpower. I think they like one another.”
Brad blinked. “New trooper?”
“Lisa Simon,” she said, her brow furrowed. “Blackhawk fired her after the explosion that hurt you killed five of their security people. I think they were looking for an excuse to clean house,” she added somewhat angrily.
“Ah,” Brad said, remembering his offer to the former security officer. “I did extend an employment proposal. I just didn’t realize it would be so immediately useful for her.”
Well, Simon was steady under fire and smart. She’d fit right into their organization. And, if she and Trista really were interested in one another, that could help them both recover from the Blackhawk trauma.
Jason and Shelly stood as he was considering that.
“We should let you rest,” Shelly said as she swooped in to place a soft kiss on his forehead. “Get better soon.”
Jason nodded to support his lover’s directive. “Indeed. Heart won’t be right until you’re back on her bridge, sir.”
“You’ll do fine,” Brad assured them. “And no matchmaking, Shelly!”
“As touching as this is,” Duvall interrupted, “your time is now very much up. Everyone but the patient must go.”
Brad ignored her for a moment and met the eyes of both his officers in turn. “Take care of my ship and my people.”
Jason nodded and gestured for Shelly to precede him out. “We’ll visit as much as Dr. Duvall allows.”
Duvall snorted as the pair finally began to walk toward the door. “More than I’ll allow, I’d wager. Shoo!”
After they’d left, Brad lay back and tried to sleep. Anguish at the fear Michelle had to be suffering kept sleep at bay for a long time. Rest would be hard until he finally rescued her and put an end to the Cadre forever.
Chapter Sixteen
Beyond the thick transparisteel of the observation dome, the stars glittered and Jupiter’s multicolored sphere hovered in the lower left corner. In the last month, Brad had come to enjoy the view quite a bit.
About a tenth of the “stars” were actually asteroids in the trojan cluster. A couple of slowly drifting sparks of light marked freighters making their slow, leisurely way toward or away from Serenade Station.
He was alone in the observation dome just outside the clinic. Well, as alone as one could get with armed guards in the corridor outside. Saburo had been very insistent before he left for Io with Heart that Brad never wander too far from his minders.
After all, there were ten million reasons why someone might try to kill him.
It was early in the station’s morning cycle, so no one was likely to come there except him. All too often these days, he wasn’t able to sleep. Or he awoke hours before his scheduled treatments and therapy sessions, like today.
It had to drive the mercenaries guarding him nuts.
His mind wouldn’t stop worrying about how to find the Cadre base and save Michelle. He needed to act, but he couldn’t unless he developed some lead to follow. One he wasn’t going to find here.
Of course, without finishing his recovery, he’d have a very difficult time dealing with the Terror. Oh, he could probably kill him any number of ways, but that wasn’t how it was destined to play out and he knew it. This would end with the blade, just like it had started.
Brad liked being in the observation dome. The stars soothed his mind and allowed him to relax. It was also one of the few places he could get away from Dr. Duvall for a while.
Of course, being outside the clinic was a risk. Enemies were much more likely to strike when he was away from the clinic’s protection. Spacers—even pirates—treaded carefully around doctors. They were few and far between out there, and one never knew when one might be in desperate need of their assistance.
While physicians weren’t really a protected class in the truest sense of the word, spacer traditions were strong. Just look at the pirates and their refusal to arm themselves with heavier weapons.
Doctors in space were neutral parties and treated anyone who needed their help. Except in certain rare cases where someone crossed them and the unlucky bastard found himself shunned.
Someone like the Terror could probably force a doctor to help him, but when even the slightest mistake might cost someone their life, did anyone really want to piss off a doctor? The general consensus was no. A few salutary examples made certain that everyone respected the healers.
Brad carefully positioned his left hand on the chair arm and leaned back to watch the stars overhead. After a month of regeneration treatments, basic tasks were once again within the realm of possibility.
He could dress himself, even handle objects. Fine motor control was proving more challenging, though. His ambidexterity was a thing of the past. His off hand—for now he had one—was less useful than other people’s and he knew it.
Nerves were notorious for not responding as well to regen as other tissues. Duvall had completed the gross work and would soon start the intensive business of stimulating the reconnected nerves in a way that would hopefully restore his normal dexterity.
Having to take time to do this when he should be looking for Michelle was maddening, though. At least he wasn’t completely idle on that front.
Jason had gotten word four days before from Io through the secret communications channel he’d arranged with the Vikings’ home office. The new destroyer was ready. That was why Brad was without any of his usual companions.
He’d sent Heart back home so that his people could do their final interviews. Well, everyone except Trista Doary and Lisa Simon.
Sarah had managed the face-to-face meetings with Hiroshi Kawa and interviewed prospective crewmembers. Everything that could be done without them was done.
Jason, Simon, and Saburo would do the final interviews after they arrived sometime tomorrow. Oh, they’d send him their choices to be sure he agreed, but he’d accept their recommendations.
He’d named the new ship Oath of Vengeance. She was their promise of retribution to the Cadre. He could hardly wait to take her out.
The door slid open behind him and Brad sighed. One of Duvall’s apprentices ha
d come to bring him in for the day’s treatments. It always happened around this time, and they knew where to find him.
When the door slid closed again but no one spoke, the hairs on the back of his neck tingled.
Even woefully out of practice, he managed to get out of the chair just before a shotgun blast blew the backrest apart.
He caught a glimpse of his attacker. The man was dressed in a white smock from the clinic, but Brad didn’t know him. The Cadre bounty hunters had found him.
Brad landed hard, using his less-useful left arm to absorb the impact as he dropped behind a slowly spinning replica of the Sol planetary system. The flechettes from the next shot tore into it moments later.
He had no idea how the man had gotten past the mercenaries guarding the door, but he knew instinctively that he wasn’t going to get back up in time to matter. He’d have to save himself.
Brad drew his pistol—professional paranoia had its benefits!—and dove out from behind the now rapidly spinning worlds. As he did, another blast smashed into the Earth, shattering it and sending debris across the room.
Firing as he rolled, Brad put shot after shot into the intruder. The man folded over and collapsed, his weapon clattering to the floor.
Wary, Brad stood, searching for other threats. There was danger in opening the door. If there was someone else out there, he’d invite another attack.
He edged forward and grabbed the auto-shotgun. Once he’d holstered his pistol, he walked to the door, hit the switch, and stepped out, sweeping the corridor with his appropriated weapon.
The two mercenaries who’d been guarding him were down and unconscious. They had no obvious injuries. One of them was missing his shotgun, though.
Brad didn’t know what had taken them out, but he could imagine the sequence of events. The attacker—apparently solo—had come unarmed. He’d probably observed Brad’s habits for at least several days.
When he got close enough to the mercenaries, he incapacitated them and armed himself. If Brad hadn’t been quite as suspicious, he’d have died today.
Based on the assassin’s clothing, there was probably a medical student somewhere in a similar condition to the mercenaries too. He raised his wrist-comp to his lips and called Lisa Simon. He’d let her tell the Raiders’ detachment leader that there’d been an attack.
This was certainly going to spice up the day.
Lisa Simon walked into Brad’s room and tossed a data pad onto the table. “That’s Serenity Security’s report on the body. He’s an unknown. They’re not even sure how he got onto the station yet.”
“The Terror’s found me,” Brad said flatly.
“One hunter did,” she argued. “That doesn’t mean he told the Terror.”
“We can’t count on that. They might be heading here in force right now. Even if the attack doesn’t get onto system-wide news—which it likely won’t, since these people are rather insular—there’s almost certainly at least one Cadre agent on Serenade. He’ll know.”
“What difference will it make?” Simon asked. “Stay inside the clinic and we’ll guard the outside. How are they going to get in and not screw themselves with doctors everywhere?”
Brad shook his head, resting his injured hand on his nanite vat. “I honestly don’t know, but I’m sure it might involve killing people here. Patients. Visitors. Doctors. Who knows? We can’t stay. How are the two mercs?”
“Fully recovered,” she said. “Duvall isn’t sure what the assassin used, but it knocked them right out. They found a medical student in the same condition. There was an aerosol can in the dead man’s pocket. They’re analyzing it.”
She gestured at the vat. “What’s that?”
“Something to keep myself occupied,” he said with a shrug. “Saburo once told me that unconventional weapons win fights through surprise. I’m seeing if I can’t do my part to do exactly that.”
“Sounds like the sort of crap he’d come up with,” she said with a snort. “That man is a character.”
“Surprises do work,” Brad disagreed softly. “You just have to engineer them ahead of time.”
The former security officer shook her head. “Engineer whatever ‘unconventional weapons’ you want. I’ll just focus on shooting any bad guys that show up.”
“Tell the Raiders that we’ll be pulling out. Have them recall their ship as soon as it gets Heart docked at the Io Yards. Serenade is no longer safe for us.”
The woman didn’t approve, but she nodded. “That gives us four days, give or take. Your treatment isn’t complete. Make sure you get the name of another place we can go to while you finish recovering.”
He nodded, but not in agreement. Simply to acknowledge what she’d said. The time for arguing would come later.
Once she’d left, Brad returned his focus to the vat. He’d spent hours like this in his youth, producing everything from bullets, to spare parts, to the art that had once decorated the bridge on Mandrake’s Heart.
They’d recovered that last item and it now filled the wall in his quarters on Heart. He’d move it to Oath when the time came. It was a reminder of what had happened and why the Terror needed to die.
As complex as the art was, only one thing he’d made rivaled the complexity of what he was making now. That had been his mono-blade. Its coils, power generators, and lethal monomolecular filaments had taken intense concentration and focus.
Even his blade was simple when compared to this new device. The blade only had one filament and power source. This device had six filaments, each coiled into a container identical to the one in his mono-blade—though much shorter than his weapon’s fifty-six-centimeter blade—and two power supplies.
The filaments, their containers, and the power sources were done now, after nearly twenty hours of work. All that remained was fitting it to himself. He focused on that as the nanites scurried to his will.
He opened the vat, removed the device, and turned it over, allowing the gray goop of the nanites—drawn by a low-power transmitter in the vat—to fall back inside before he sealed it.
The device looked like a decorative armlet. He slowly attached it to his left arm, carefully fitting it in behind his wrist-comp. It was invisible to the casual eye. Perfect.
Brad pressed the symbol he’d marked on the band. With a half-heard hum, hiss, and click, the armlet split in half. One half, propelled by the filaments charging—and hence repelling themselves and extending out perfectly straight—shot up his arm, while the other half stayed at the wrist.
Six softly glowing strands of light fanned along his left forearm. Charged monofilaments, capable of repelling any other monofilament in the same way as a mono-blade now protected him. His own personal shield.
One with a deadly edge of its own. Thankfully, these short strands wouldn’t deform enough to be a threat to his arm, though he’d have to be very careful how he moved it around. It would be embarrassing to cut one’s own head off in combat.
He regarded the glowing monofilaments and a cold smile spread over his face. The next time he and the Terror dueled, he’d end him.
Chapter Seventeen
“It isn’t possible to stop your treatment at this point,” Dr. Duvall said firmly. “It will have a profoundly negative impact on your prognosis.”
“So will getting shot,” Brad retorted. “And not just for myself. Consider what might have happened to your associate. Or to you, if you’d been unlucky enough to come looking for me yourself.”
She considered him a long moment and then nodded. “True, but that doesn’t change the reality of your situation. If we interrupt the regeneration process, I’m not talking about it taking longer or even simply starting the therapy over. Your nerves will set in at the current level of use forever.”
That was…less than optimal, he conceded. He could use his hand for very simple things, but he wouldn’t want to try fighting with it.
“How much longer are you envisioning the treatment taking?” he asked. “Bottom line, m
inimum time.”
“Two weeks minimum,” she said briskly. “Potentially as many as four.”
Brad shook his head. “I can’t risk that kind of time. If this guy had someone waiting elsewhere in the Jovian system, they could be here in just a few days. Anything longer than a week is just begging to have an attack. There must be another option.”
Duvall sighed. “I can’t imagine what it might be, but you’ve said we have a few days before there could possibly be a response. Let me ponder what’s possible while we continue treating you for now.”
“I said that it was conceivable they could take a few days to respond,” he said. “If they have additional people here or in the near vicinity, they could act sooner. I’d rather not take chances with other people’s lives.”
He looked at his wrist-comp. “Let’s do today’s session, and then you can start researching options. The Raiders’ ship can be here in four days. That’s how long you have to figure this out before I leave.”
Brad sighed as he finished a set of exercises with his left arm. It felt as if he was a four-year-old. A clumsy one at that.
Dr. Duvall gave him an encouraging nod. “Not bad, but that’s enough for today. We’ll take you through another regen session in the morning, and then we’ll try these exercises again.”
“And you’ll have those options for me?” he asked, reminding her of his impending departure.
Her expression soured. “I’ve already asked some of my best people to look into it, but I don’t hold out much hope, Commodore. This is very delicate work, the regeneration of nerves.”
“Do what you can, Doctor. In the end, the decision is mine. I’ll make it and I’ll deal with the consequences.”
At her brusque nod, he quietly left the treatment room.
His Raider guards fell in around him and they moved as a group toward the main atrium area of the clinic. After the earlier attack, they were in combat armor. He hoped that level of precaution didn’t become necessary.
