The Girls from Alcyone 2: The Machines of Bellatrix

by Cary Caffrey

Sigrid leapt up the ladder and ran down the narrow corridor, her boots clanking on the metal deck plates.

  "No…"

  Andrzej Topa, the ship's chief engineer, lay slumped against the helm. Sigrid ran to him, sensed his pulse, the shallow breathing.

  Alive. He was still alive. Sigrid lifted the man in her arms. His face was bruised, his shirt torn and bloodied where a shot had grazed him. But he was alive. Sigrid popped a stimtab beneath his nose and gently rubbed his cheeks. The chief stirred in her arms and stared up at her, eyes struggling for focus.

  "The captain," Sigrid said. "Where is he?"

  Andrzej looked about, blinking, trying to remember. "Left. Told me to stay…to watch over you."

  She could see the stimtab taking hold, the chief regaining his faculties. He saw Wereme's case by her side. "Is that…?"

  "It's garbage," Sigrid said, kicking it aside. "Worthless. It was just an excuse to get me away."

  Sigrid took him by the shoulders, holding him firmly. "Andrzej—the captain. Where did he go?"

  The chief struggled to stand; Sigrid helped him. "He went…he went to see the trader. Price. But then, his men…came. There were too many. We tried to defend… They took the crew."

  "Took them? You mean alive?"

  "I don't know—I think. I'm not sure." More alert now, remembering, the chief's eyes shot to the navigations console. "Sigrid, they got the—"

  "I know!" Sigrid had already checked the navigations computer log, verified the breach and confirmed her fears. They had stolen the data—downloaded the location of New Alcyone. Corbin Price had exactly what he'd come for. And Sigrid had delivered it to him, boxed and wrapped.

  "We have to stop him," Sigrid said.

  "Stop him? We don't even know where he's going."

  Sigrid rose, walked to the helm, and punched up the forward navigational monitor. "Yes, we do."

  There was little traffic in the space surrounding Konoe Station, fewer places to hide. There was no missing the single lumbering freighter, her bright colors garish against the black backdrop. Large and slow, she turned, her course taking her straight to the Warp Relay. Even without its transponder blinking out her identification code, Sigrid would know this ship; she was the Merchantman.

  "We have to go after her," Sigrid said. "We can't let her escape through the Relay. If she does…" Sigrid didn't want to think about it.

  The chief leaned heavily on the console beside her, verifying the information. The Merchantman was already 1,500 kilometers out, every second increasing that distance as she accelerated away, blasting toward the Warp Relay and escape.

  Andrzej reached for the com. "I'll signal the other transports—get them to ward her off."

  Sigrid moved to the helm and initiated the startup sequence for the engines, clearing their moorings. The chief stopped her, his hand on her shoulder. He checked the monitor and shook his head. "She's too far out. We'll never catch her. Even if we could, we have nothing to stop her with. We have no weapons."

  "Sorry, Chief. That's where you're wrong."

  *

  "Has anyone ever told you you may be clinically insane?" the chief asked, helping Sigrid fasten the faceplate to her pressure suit.

  Sigrid considered the question and was surprised at the answer. "I suppose I'd be lying if I said the subject never came up."

  Sigrid zipped up the pressure suit. This was only her second time in space. She was grateful to have a suit that fit her this time, unlike the bulky, clumsy thing she'd worn during the action with the Agatsuma. Made to measure, her new suit permitted much greater mobility and featured harnesses and clips to accommodate her weapons and equipment.

  Every light in the suit blinked green. She had pressure; she had air. She also had a plan.

  "Help me with this."

  Together, they slid the freshly stolen joy-rocket on a skid toward the cargo airlock. This one seemed a particularly nasty piece of engineering. The hybrid rocket motor had clearly been salvaged from a thruster pylon from a much larger vessel. Two meters wide and five long, it took up much of the space in the hold. A simple acceleration couch had been laser welded onto its fairing; her only controls were a throttle lever and a kill switch. Pitch and attack angles were handled by four maneuvering jets taken from an old EVA unit. Once launched, she knew it would have one basic maneuver—straight ahead.

  "You don't have to do this," the chief said as Sigrid climbed into the chair.

  "This is my fault, Chief. I've endangered the crew. I've put us all at risk."

  "You're being a fool!"

  "And you're wasting time," Sigrid argued back, angry at herself, at Corbin Price—at anyone she could think of.

  "You don't even know if this contraption will work. Is it even fueled?"

  Sigrid's sensors could scan on a number of levels. Chemical composition was one of them. The rocket motor was fueled and ready; although she didn't want to think too long as to its construction or its integrity. It could very easily explode when she ignited the mixture—her along with it.

  "Only one way to find out. Now, unless you want to come with me, I suggest you go back to the bridge."

  The chief frowned in a pronounced fashion, as if struggling but unable to come up with a decent retort. "Bring them back alive, Ms. Novak."

  Sigrid felt the Ōmi Maru's engine's cut out as the freighter rotated 180º. Interfacing directly with the ship's computer, Sigrid began the depressurizing sequence. Lights flashed green in her HUD; Sigrid opened the outer door to the cargo hold.

  The Merchantman was there, visible now, but so was the Warp Relay behind her. There might still be time. With the doors cleared, she switched off the ship’s artificial gravity, allowing the missile on which she sat to float free.

  "Here goes nothing."

  Sigrid ignited the fuel and squealed despite herself. The joy-rocket shot out of the hold, streaking toward her target, the Merchantman, accelerating to a nerve-rattling eight-point-two-six Gs. She looked at the throttle control in her hand; it was only at halfway.

  Sigrid slowly pressed her thumb down, increasing the flow of the oxidizer. The leap in acceleration ripped the wind from her chest. Twelve-point-eight Gs, still accelerating. She squeezed her abdominal muscles tight, kept her breathing short. The acceleration registered, pressing her deeper into the couch, threatening to push her out the other side—the vibrations threatening to rip the entire chair off its frame. Worse, the heavy throttling seemed to initiate a starboard roll she couldn't bring under control.

  Leta has got to try this, Sigrid thought, watching the stars whirling around her, then cursed herself. This was hardly the time for such thoughts.

  With her focus squarely on the gleaming hull of the Merchantman, Sigrid did her best to ignore the spinning, whirling star field. She could see the three other Kimuran freighters in pursuit. They were closing on the larger freighter, veering to cut her off, but the transports did not have the weapons to dissuade her from her flight. Sigrid would have to make their case.

  She was slowly narrowing the distance, gaining ground, but not fast enough. Already at the limit of her endurance, Sigrid pressed the throttle switch all the way home, braced for the crush of the extra Gs. Nothing happened. Sigrid pressed it again, but the only response was the sudden sputtering of the rocket motor, its fuel exhausted.

  "Shit."

  The maneuvering jets still had power, and she used them now to adjust her angle of attack, aiming for the top of the lumbering freighter. Eleven hundred meters—her trajectory was ballistic now, floating free, closing fast, but the Merchantman still blasted its way under full power, inching toward the Relay and escape. If her calculations were correct, she could still intercept the freighter; if she were wrong, she would float off into deep space.

  There was nothing left for it. Sigrid braced and pushed, launching herself from the seat of her spent missile. She saw the flare of the Merchantman's turrets firing; her PCM picked up the ordnance aimed at her, too small and moving too fast
for her optical module to pick up. The joy-rocket tore apart under the barrage of flechettes, but Sigrid kept on her ballistic path. The freighter was coming up fast now. Four hundred meters. Too fast. Red numerals flashed in her HUD, the distance counting down at an alarming rate. At her current velocity, impact would be fatal.

  Arms spread wide, Sigrid fired her suit's maneuvering jets, expending her entire reserve of fuel in one desperate burst. Braking hard, she aimed as best she could for a 'glancing blow' across the Merchantman's hull. The sudden deceleration knocked the wind from her lungs. The jets sputtered, their fuel spent. It wasn't enough. She was almost on the ship now, braced for the impact. This would hurt.

  Sigrid remembered little of the impact. Only the pain. Her right shoulder took the brunt of it and was completely numb. Her head had taken a good smacking against the hull, and she'd blacked out. Nano swarms surged to the injured areas, effecting repairs to the damaged tissues. Her PCM prepared and released concentrated doses of stimulants. Sigrid was instantly awake and alert. She'd pay for it later, but that mattered little now.

  She was spinning now, tumbling head over heels, skidding down the length of the freighter's hull. She scanned frantically for handholds, reached out, arms outstretched desperately, missed, only to tumble helplessly back into space.

  A grappling claw was clipped to the belt at her waist. Breathing hard, trying not to think about the freighter falling further and further away, Sigrid unslung the thin cord and attached the claw to the launcher. She aimed and fired. Using her PCM, Sigrid guided the claw's trajectory toward a beveled edge in the ship's hull. It hit, grabbing hold. Sensors embedded in the claw's teeth instantly analyzed the surface composition, creating and injecting a bonding agent strong enough to hold better than a metric ton, more than adequate for Sigrid's fifty-four-kilo frame.

  The tether whirred, played out, first slowing her velocity then gently reeling her in. Steadily, it dragged her back toward the hull of the great freighter. Several indicators flashed yellow and red in her HUD. She'd sustained a concussion; her suit had been breached and was slowly leaking vital oxygen. But she was alive.

  Now all she needed was to find a way in.

  There was no 'quiet' way of gaining entrance to the freighter. Sigrid located a service hatch on the dorsal hull; it was a simple thing to interface with the crude lock, override its securities, and sever the safeties. The alarms made a terrible racket and brought crew running from all sections. But these men were not prepared for combat.

  Shots from her high-caliber rounds echoed soundly in the narrow corridor; smoke wisped from the smoldering barrels of her twin 18 mm recoilless sidearms. Sigrid holstered the weapons, setting them back in their clips, and stepped carefully over the bodies of the merchant crewmen as she made her way deeper inside.

  The designers of the Merchantman had kindly provided numerous signs to mark her way. Computer terminals were all too happy to dispense vital information—once she'd sliced the securities. The Kimuran crew was being held in a makeshift brig on C Deck, but she could find no sign of the captain or of Corbin Price. If they were even here.

  There was no time to wonder. She had to disable the ship, and quickly. More bootsteps thundered toward her. These Merchantmen were not professional soldiers; a simple gas grenade plucked from her belt made quick work of the lumbering men.

  A junction in the corridor held a ladder leading up and down extending to all decks. Bridge or engineering? Sigrid wondered. She might take control of the ship from the bridge, but there seemed little time for finesse in her operation. It was time for blunt action. Disable the engines; stop the Merchantman dead in her tracks.

  Sigrid slid down the ladder two decks, landing softly on the floor below. The engineering section was visible ahead. She had but minutes to spare.

  The corridor remained empty, the crew having learned to keep clear of her. But up ahead Sigrid's optical implant revealed a number of thermal signatures—men, waiting for her. Her electrical scans told of the heavy weapons they employed. It was a textbook defensive position, and they seemed perfectly prepared to wait for her to walk into their trap. Unlike the crew that had rushed to meet her in the airlock, Sigrid knew these men to be professionals. So the Merchantmen were employing mercenaries after all.

  Her pressure suit did not permit the use of her cloak. She could not rely on stealth here. Sigrid thought to discard the suit, but she suspected she would need its protection before this scenario played out.

  The ship's PA crackled. Sigrid heard the unmistakable voice of Corbin Price echoing in the corridor.

  "Ms. Peters. There is no need for further violence. I have your captain, your crew. We will be through the Relay in moments. I have all that I came for. The information we carry will pay us handsomely. But I am quickly learning that you and your kind may well be worth more. It would be my pleasure to discuss this with you further. Perhaps we can still arrange a deal. Come to the bridge, and let's discuss this in a civilized fashion."

  Sigrid cursed. She had learned her lesson; there could be no bargaining with the trader. She stepped toward the entrance of the engineering section—halted.

  "I warn you, Ms. Peters. If you attempt to damage my ship further, you will only serve to kill your captain. Would you really allow that to happen? Is that something you could live with? Especially when there is no need? I still have something you want. You clearly have something to offer me. I see no reason why we cannot emerge from this alive and profitable. Those machines? They're nothing compared to what I have to offer. I have information—information you might find of immense interest. Names, Ms. Peters. I can give you names. Names of the men who would do you harm. I would even give you the names of the men who I was to sell the location of your home to. Isn't that of value to you, Ms. Peters?"

  Sigrid listened to the fat man prattling on. Despite his offer, Sigrid had little intention of dealing with the man again. She'd learned her lesson. But all the while he talked, pontificated, reveled in the sound of his own voice, Sigrid was busy tracking his signal, routing it through the ship's communications. Despite what he had said, Corbin Price was not on the bridge; another lie she'd failed to detect. He was here, in engineering, cowering behind the remnants of his mercenary guard.

  "Very well, Mr. Price," Sigrid said, standing, walking slowly forward. "Perhaps we do have something to discuss. But let us do so face to face."

  Sigrid emerged into the engineering section. With her arms raised, she tossed her sidearms to the side, hands held above her head in surrender and submission. The lights in the section had been disabled, but it mattered not; Sigrid could see as easily in pitch black as she could in the light of day, albeit in a hazy monochrome grey.

  "I know you're here, Mr. Price. The captain, too."

  Banks of floodlights flashed on—aimed at her. Sigrid lifted a hand to shield her eyes while her optics made their adjustment. She stood in the middle of the wide room in plain view. Armed men watched her from fortified positions on the raised catwalks above. A turret had been set up near the main reactor, manned by a fire team of mercenary soldiers. They tracked her movements, the muzzle of the great gun swiveling, whirring to follow her. Sigrid logged each of the targets in her PCM, marked them in order of priority. She smiled inwardly as Corbin Price emerged from his position of hiding.

  He pushed Captain Trybuszkiewicz in front of him, a gun pressed to his back, careful to keep the Kimuran officer between Sigrid and his fat figure.

  "I'm very impressed, Ms. Peters. The rumors of your skill pale in comparison to the reality. If I had known, I never would have attempted this ruse. We might have saved each other a lot of trouble. That is my failing, and for that, I apologize."

  "Agreed. Now, what are we going to do about it?"

  The fat Merchantman furrowed his brow in concentration. "I would offer you a new proposal, if you will."

  "I'm listening."

  "I propose a service contract. Not binding. Terms would be negotiable. You would work
for me and no one else for, say, a period of three years, with an option for two more. For that, I will return the stolen information and release your captain."

  "A generous offer. And during that time I would, what, gather your cleaning, or perhaps act as escort to private functions?"

  Corbin Price found this of great amusement and laughed jovially. "I'm sure I can find something more worthy of your talents. But do not mistake me, Ms. Peters. This offer will expire shortly, and its terms are non-negotiable."

  "No," Sigrid said, surprising the trader. "It is negotiable. Here are my terms. Halt your vessel here. Captain Trybuszkiewicz and the crew go free; the location of New Alcyone must be cleared from your computer banks. Do this and I will perform one task for you."

  "One task? Only one? I'm not sure if…"

  "One, Mr. Price." Recalling the trader's own words, Sigrid added, "Should this go well—we can discuss terms for a second."

  Corbin Price laughed, his hand holding his immense belly. "Very well, Ms. Peters. I think your proposal sounds like a bargain."

  Sigrid could sense the man's confidence. He'd relaxed his stance and allowed more of his frame to be exposed as he talked. The mercenaries picked up on this change of events, as well, and relaxed their guard, their focus more on the conversation than on her. Even now, the soldiers were looking to Corbin Price for direction rather than taking notice of Sigrid and what she held in the palms of her hands.

  She opened her hands now, held above her head. The action was one of submission; the reality quite different. Eight tiny pinhead grenades sprung forth from her outstretched palms—Sigrid's preferred mix of flashbang, concussion and fragmentation. The tiny explosives arched up and away, scattering to the sides of the engineering section, up onto the catwalks above. The three-second delay was all she needed; the eight explosions shattered the brief calm of the negotiation.

  Men, parts of men, bits of shrapnel flew in all directions. Captain Trybuszkiewicz, seasoned soldier that he was, seized the moment of distraction and elbowed Corbin Price hard in the sternum, relieving him of his pistol and diving for cover.