The Girls from Alcyone 2: The Machines of Bellatrix

by Cary Caffrey

  The men manning the turret were left unharmed—too close to the captain for Sigrid to risk a grenade. They opened fire now, the fifty-caliber slugs piercing the air, ripping into the rear bulkheads.

  But their target was long gone. The heavy turret could not track nearly fast enough. Sigrid was a blur, leaping, diving under its firing line, charging straight for the startled mercenaries. Three shuriken sprang forth from her fingers and sliced the air between them. One of the men screamed, a shrill, startled shout of pure fear. He ducked, too late; the star-shaped throwing knife caught him squarely in the throat. Sigrid was already on the survivors, directly in their midst. Her own weapons discarded, she leapt on the first of the soldiers, her booted heel on his neck, strangling him, pinning him back. She ripped the pistol from his grasp, firing into his chest, turning quickly, firing and dispatching the last.

  Sigrid scanned the room quickly, infrared then thermal; eight mercenaries lay dead; four wounded, incapacitated. She sensed movement on the catwalk overhead—an injured mercenary reaching for a dropped weapon. Sigrid fired. All was quiet.

  The entire fracas had taken but seconds.

  Black smoke filled the room, alarms bleated, licks of flame marred the floor and walls. Captain Trybuszkiewicz knelt squarely on the back of Corbin Price. The fat merchant coughed, choking, wheezing for air. Sigrid retrieved her discarded pistols before making her way to him, staring down at his prostrate form.

  "We—we had a deal!"

  Sigrid pulled a set of plastic binders from her belt, fastened them to his wrists. "I learned from you, Mr. Price. I lied."

  Roughly, she hauled the fat man toward the reactor chamber and fastened him securely to its shielded outer wall. "What—what are you doing? Wait!"

  Sigrid gave a quick look to the captain. "Are you injured, sir?"

  He shook his head, squinting, coughing, waving to clear the smoke. "Quite all right."

  "Wait!" Corbin Price protested. "You—you can't leave me here. The machines—the industrial platforms. I can still get you those. I'm not lying. You must believe me. Please, Ms. Peters, we can make a deal!"

  Sigrid retrieved another frag grenade from her belt, twisted the top, and reset the delay for five minutes before slapping it onto the reactor's outer wall.

  "My name is Sigrid Novak."

  *

  Captain Trybuszkiewicz led Sigrid quickly back through the ship to the holding cell where the three captured crew of the Ōmi Maru were held. There was little resistance left. The surviving Merchantman crew hurriedly abandoned the doomed ship, wisely preferring escape to combat—something Sigrid knew she had to do, and quickly.

  There were weapons enough lying about, and Sigrid made certain the Kimurans were armed before heading for the lifeboats. Her PCM fed her a persistent, if somewhat annoying reminder as to the time left before detonation. Sigrid went from berth to berth, desperately searching for one of the remaining lifeboats. She had to haul a frightened merchant crewman out of the only remaining pod before pushing the captain and Kimuran officers inside.

  The captain held fast, his arm braced against the door frame. He saw what Sigrid saw. The lifeboat only held room for four.

  "Get in," Captain Trybuszkiewicz commanded.

  "Captain—"

  "I'm an old man, Ms. Novak. Your time is not yet—"

  There wasn't time. Sigrid grabbed the captain by his belt and collar, lifting the older man off his feet, ankles kicking in protest, and thrust him bodily into the pod. "I'm sorry, sir. But there's no time to discuss this."

  "Ms. Novak! Sigrid—"

  Sigrid slammed the release. The lifeboat's door crashed shut. She heard the series of thumps—pins holding the pod in place exploding free—then a pronounced bang as the lifeboat was ejected from the ship.

  The numerals displayed in her HUD changed from amber to red. Ten seconds.

  Shit.

  Sprinting, Sigrid ran for the nearest airlock one deck down. She wasn't going to make it.

  She heard the first explosion, felt the deck plates buckle under her, then a surge that sent her tumbling upward. The ship's gravity failed then, and she floated free, tumbling down the lengths of the corridor, banging her head solidly on a collapsed beam. She had just enough of a mind to close the visor on her helmet. The second explosion was far greater—the reactor breaching. She heard the thunderous roar beneath her, a rolling boil growing ever louder, then the shuddering surge of release. Metal groaned and tore like paper, shredding about her. The bulkhead and deck plates behind her broke apart, blowing anything not nailed down out into space, Sigrid along with it.

  "Blast!" Sigrid said.

  She was tumbling free at an incredible rate, end over end, twisting and turning, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. With nothing to grab hold of, no resistance, nothing could stop her as she tumbled out of control, moving deeper and deeper into the blackness of space. Stars spun by her fractured visor. Debris from the explosion had penetrated her suit, venting more oxygen, losing pressure. The splintered faceplate would not hold for long. Her PCM flashed the expected time of her suit failure in bright bold colors: eight minutes, fifty-eight-point-three seconds.

  Nine minutes to live.

  It was a fitting end to a failed mission. How was it possible she'd misread Corbin Price so badly? The captain had sensed his duplicity. The chief, too. Only Sigrid had missed it. Had she allowed the prospect of the industrial machines to cloud her mind, or had she simply grown so overconfident in her abilities that she thought it didn't matter?

  She had nine minutes to think about it.

  Seven minutes, eight-point-nine seconds, her PCM corrected.

  Sigrid cursed.

  Another wave of debris blew past her; twisted bits of metal mingled with body parts. At least she had stopped the Merchantman. The ship would not reach her next port, would not report the location of their hidden home. Her friends were safe. The captain and crew were safe.

  Or were they?

  Sigrid pondered that question. They were safe from the Merchantmen. She'd seen to that. But how many times had they been attacked now? How much energy, time and resources had their enemies expended, all for the chance to control them? How many more attempts would they be forced to endure?

  No. Her friends were not safe. Her friends would never be safe. Men would always come for them.

  Because they were not afraid of them.

  It was then that Sigrid realized the simple truth and her greatest failure. Her enemies were not afraid of her. They did not fear her.

  They would.

  She made a promise then, to herself and to her sisters. No one would ever harm them again. For the simple fear of their own lives. This she would make certain of. This was her promise. And she would keep it.

  If she could survive past the next…

  Two minutes, six-point-nine seconds.

  "Blast…"

  Sigrid felt a lifeline snaking around her waist, coiling, tightening. Her forward trajectory changed as the line went taut, and she found herself rotating end over end in a gentle twenty-five-meter circle. She craned her neck, looking up. On the other end of the line was a figure in a stark, white EVA suit. Behind him floated the welcoming bulk of the Ōmi Maru.

  The tether on which she'd been snared was hooked to a winch. The figure waved as he began to reel her in, their orbit around each other ever tightening.

  She closed with the figure. A hand reached out and grabbed her arm, his faceplate pressed against hers. It was the chief—Chief Engineer Andrzej Topa.

  "Your comlink seems to be malfunctioning, Ms. Novak."

  Sigrid checked the system; she hadn't noticed during all her tumbling. Too out of breath, too dazed, too numb to respond, Sigrid nodded and gave the standard thumbs-up signal. This satisfied the chief, who smiled back at her.

  "Good girl. Now let's get you home."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Harry Jones

  September 23, 2348

  Buenos Aires
, Earth

  Harry Jones waited patiently, staring at the elevator doors in front of him. Not for the first time he noted they were made of actual wood and hand carved. More examples of the largess of his fellow tenants. There were worse places to live. Harry had seen them. But then, Harry was one of the lucky ones, wasn't he. He never felt comfortable. Not here. Not in this place, with its obscene trappings. It was only because of his wife he'd agreed to live here. It was his gift to her. It made her happy.

  The elevator doors parted, and Harry Jones stepped into the crowded car. He didn't bother to bid a polite hello to his fellow passengers. There was no need. They didn't see Harry. One look at his coat and his shoes was enough to let them know he was beneath their status. Harry Jones might have the lofty title of special attaché to the Council Chair for Trade and Finance, but in their eyes, he was a clerk, an office boy. Worse, he worked for a living.

  When the elevator doors parted and Harry took his leave, it was to the relief of all. Harry didn't take this personally. This was Earth.

  The door to his apartment was only a few steps from the lift, and Harry walked toward it. He spied the decorative lamp on the table in the hall and gave it a quick glance, nothing anyone might notice. But Harry saw what he needed. The light on the lamp—the lamp that never worked, the lamp that had never been repaired—was turned on.

  Harry had visitors.

  Without slowing, Harry passed his hand over the lock and let himself in. The lights were off, but he could see the silhouettes of the two figures waiting for him in the dark. One male, one female. They sat framed against the backdrop of the wide picture window behind them. Even without giving time for his eyes to adjust, Harry knew exactly who these two people were.

  It had been fourteen years since they'd last spoken. Fourteen years since he'd seen them.

  "It was unwise of you to come here," Harry Jones said; he said it without threat or emotion. It was a simple statement of fact.

  The man and the woman were unmoved.

  "You gave us little choice, Harry," the woman said. "You're not an easy man to reach these days."

  Harry.

  She had called him by his given name and not his alias of Smith—something that was discouraged within the Circle. Harry took it for what it was, an obvious and clumsy attempt at intimidation.

  Ineffective.

  His name was not a secret. Not here. But his association to this man and woman was; a secret he had guarded with his life. Fourteen years ago they had come to him, here in his apartment, just as they did now. They had made him a most interesting offer then, one Harry could not easily refuse. All they required was that he use his position as attaché to Randal Gillings to provide them with information. They wanted Harry to spy for them. And for that, Harry would be generously compensated, more than enough to ensure that his wife received the care she needed.

  But it was not the money alone that had drawn Harry into the Circle.

  Fourteen years ago, news of the work the Kimura Corporation was doing in genetic research had reached the Council. Far too interested in their own business dealings, too proud of their own triumphs and their massive accumulations of wealth, the Council had dismissed this news. But Harry had seen it for what it was. He knew what was at stake. He knew the world they lived in would soon be very, very different. Harry Jones knew exactly what he had to do and how careful he needed to be.

  No one could ever know. Not the truth.

  Much to his surprise, his work as a spy came naturally to him. Spying proved to be a simple thing, a simple matter of blending and blurring into the shadows. Few men had ever taken notice of him anyway. Women noticed him even less. Only his wife had ever found him of interest, and not even Harry could explain why. Harry Jones was little more than a secretary. He had no influence, no real power. He was utterly replaceable and even more forgettable. As far as the world was concerned, Harry Jones was only guilty of being dull at parties.

  Taking his time, Harry hung his coat on the hanger by the door. He did this as much to give himself a moment to regain his composure as to place his damp garments neatly away in the vestibule closet.

  This gave him just enough time to remind himself: this visit was not unexpected.

  "We understand you're a busy man, Harry," the man said, breaking the silence, "but your continued absence from the Circle has made certain people anxious. Some of us are starting to question your commitment."

  "And your motives," the woman, rail-thin and hawk-faced, beaked at his side.

  It was true. He had been avoiding contact since the events of Scorpii, but not for the reasons they thought. He was tired. Tired of justifying his actions to small-minded men of limited vision. These men of the Circle, they wanted Hitomi's discovery for themselves. They thought it a fountain of youth. But they understood nothing about its true potential.

  "What happened on Scorpii was unfortunate," Harry said, "but hardly unforeseen. I cautioned you. But it's not a complete disaster. All the materiel from Project Andraste is still secured on Scorpii. Not even the Council can retrieve it. Not as long as the Relay is out."

  The woman shot a look to her colleague. "You were right. He doesn't know."

  Harry remained deadpan. "Know? Know what?"

  "You don't know, do you? It's been six weeks, Harry. How can you not know? The Warp Relay—the Relay at Scorpii! It's been repaired. The Council has seen to it. How they managed to persuade the Daedalus Corporation to effect repairs so quickly is a mystery—one we hoped you could shed some light on. But it appears you've been left out of the loop. How is that, Harry? Aren't you the inside man?"

  Still Harry Jones did not answer.

  Without invitation, the man helped himself to a whiskey—Harry's most prized and expensive Irish single malt. He poured two and handed one to Harry. "I'm afraid whatever assets you thought remained have long been removed. Strange that the Council did not think to tell you."

  Harry took the offered drink, wincing after a careful sip. "Hardly. I'm nothing to them."

  "Perhaps. And perhaps it was our mistake to let you…indulge yourself with your Independent friends. But, Harry, fomenting open rebellion? This is not what we asked of you."

  "I rather think it precisely what you asked. You wanted greater influence with the Council, you have it. When the trouble began with the Independents, who did the Council turn to? You. You've become rich men—and women. This is no time to lose your nerve."

  The woman rose to stand next to him. "The others might have a soft spot for you, Harry, but I do not. This dogged pursuit of Kimura—dabbling with Independents." She poked her finger into Harry's chest. "You were tasked with acquiring Kimura's technology. That is all. You assured us this would be done."

  "And I did acquire it. The fact that the scientists you hired failed to properly interpret that technology is none of my business."

  "But recruiting those Independents was your business. Your hand-picked company of revolutionaries failed to protect the facility." She whirled around, her hands waving in a grand gesture. "That the Council even knew of Scorpii makes us question your effectiveness. And your future."

  "I think I've more than proven my worth."

  The woman moved closer, close enough that Harry could feel her breath and smell the rank perfume she wore. "You're slipping, Harry. How did the Council find out? Where is the leak? It makes one wonder if the Council trusts you at all anymore. Without that trust, you're of little use to us."

  Harry chose his next words carefully. "I still have their trust."

  "If only that were true." The man unfolded a data-pad and tossed it down on the table next to them. "You've made the list, Harry."

  Harry looked down. On the pad was a report with the bright bold letters of CTF Security emblazoned across the top. He saw names, his name, and the words threat and watch highlighted in brilliant amber.

  Harry reached for the pad, but the man snatched it away and quickly folded the paper-thin device back into his pocket.
<
br />   "You’re done, Harry."

  For the first time in over fourteen years, Harry Jones was surprised. And surprise was not something Harry Jones was used to. Was it true? Had the Council detected his treason? How long had they suspected? It was his business to know. Everything. But somehow—somehow he'd missed this.

  No. Something didn't add up.

  "If the Council knows what I've done, then I would be in custody and we would not be having this conversation."

  "Or perhaps the Council is hoping you'll lead them to us."

  The man took a step toward him. "We can't take that chance, Harry. Your presence here is a liability. You've forced us to clean up your mess—at great expense. But don't worry. The Council will find no evidence. There will be no record, nothing to connect you to us. All that remains is you."

  Slowly, the man put his empty glass down on the bar service. "The Circle has decided. You can't be allowed to stay on Earth. You will be leaving here tonight. There's a private launch waiting at Kwajalein Atoll. Buck up, man. It's not as bad as all that. You've had a good run, Harry, but it's over. It's time to go."

  "Trust me," the woman said. "You should be glad we're the ones delivering this news. Other methods were discussed."

  Harry didn't fail to miss the threat. "Where will I go?"

  "Oh, Harry…" The woman gave his cheek a good pat. "Perhaps it's best you not know."

  Harry put his hand to his forehead in a dramatic fashion, allowed himself to stagger back. "My wife. I-I can't…"

  "Your wife will be cared for. We've seen to that. She'll continue to have the best medical attention. She'll live a long and…Well, there you have it. Come. We can't delay."

  "No," Harry said abruptly. "I'll go. I'll go with you. Of course. But there are…things—I've made preparations."

  Harry saw the hesitancy in the woman's hawkish eyes and wondered if she suspected.

  But her compatriot conceded. "Take whatever time you need. But, Harry, make no mistake, if you're not on that transport, I can't promise…"

  "I'll be there," Harry said. "Don't worry. If what you say is true—if the Council knows of my actions—there's nothing left for me here. I'll go with you."