by Terry Mixon
Brad nodded, his eyes still resting on the anvil—a plain gray box about thirty centimeters on a side. “Thanks Mike.”
The PO looked at Brad for a moment more before heading for the door. “Have fun, spacer.”
He considered the anvil and wondered what else he should make. Somehow, he felt as if he should create something for the bulkhead. A vision of twisting wires arranged in an artistic flow appeared unbidden in his mind. It was simple in construction, at least, something he was pretty sure he could do, even if more complex items would be beyond him.
Had he done that? If so, he probably wouldn’t be on board long enough to recreate it.
The next morning, a soft chime sounded at Brad’s door. He looked up from where he was working with the anvil. “Come in.”
The door slid open and Captain Fields entered. “Morning. How are you feeling?”
“Other than not being able to remember anything and being exhausted, I feel fine,” Brad told him with a shrug. “Of course, the whole amnesia thing is rather annoying.”
He didn’t mention the nightmares. The spikes of fear when he was awake. The moments of unexplained fight-or-flight—or the anger bubbling along, just below the surface, without any kind of target.
Somehow, he knew that Fields was aware of all of that.
“Understandable. We’ll be touching base at Ceres tomorrow,” Fields warned him. “I’ll have to turn you over to the local authorities. I’m not legally allowed to keep a civilian aboard past the nearest safe harbor except as a prisoner.”
“I see,” Brad said quietly. “I can’t say I’m thrilled at the change, but it’s the way things go, isn’t it?”
“I’d prefer to keep you with us, if I can,” the captain told him. “I could always use another nano-smith. Which leads me to your second option.
“If you want to stay, I can sponsor you for a midshipman’s warrant. While you’re under review, you’re provisionally considered military personnel, so you could stay aboard.”
His face took on a serious cast. “You’d almost certainly be accepted. Spaceborn with any sort of sponsorship tend to be shoo-ins—as do any with any nano-smith skills—and you’re both.
“Douglas scanned the reports on that vat.” Fields gestured at the gray box. “He says you’ve clearly had some training but are mostly getting by on talent. With Fleet training, he says that alone would make you a damn fine engineering officer.”
Brad considered the offer for a moment before shaking his head. It was a good offer, but there was too much anger in him now for any easy way forward.
“I appreciate the thought, Captain,” he told fields. “I think I’d have accepted it before all this happened. Now, though, I need to find some answers. Do something about what happened to me.”
Fields returned his gaze levelly. “What sort of ‘something’?”
“I’ve remembered more of what happened,” Brad admitted. “A face. It’s scarred, with black hair, blue eyes, and a tattoo on the cheek.”
A face that filled him with hate when it crossed his mind. More hate than he would have thought one human could hold.
“A red skull and crossbones?” the captain asked sharply.
“Yes,” Brad confirmed with a surprised blink. “Does it mean something?”
“It means you met the Terror,” Fields said coldly. “He's a pirate. In a sense, he's the pirate. One of the most sadistic pieces of garbage you could ever meet. It couldn’t be anyone else. No one would dare get anything like that on his face because of what the Terror would do to them.”
“I see,” Brad said softly. “I see indeed.”
He turned toward his bed, letting his hate and his anger flow through him, warming him against the cold of a loss he didn’t fully remember. In a sudden flash, he recalled hanging his weapons belt on the headboard of a different bed. “As I said, Captain, I can’t take your offer.”
“Son, don’t go vigilante on me. The Terror is dangerous. He’s one of the best bladesmen alive, with ships and men that only Fleet can handle.”
“I’m sorry to say that Fleet isn’t filling me with confidence,” Brad said softly, studying the wall. “As for his skill with a blade, I’ll just have to become better.”
Fields sighed. “I can’t stop you and I suppose Ceres isn’t a bad place to start with something like that. It’s the last real Commonwealth outpost before you reach the Outer System.”
“Thank you for your kindness, Captain,” Brad said sincerely. “It means a lot to me.”
The officer smiled wryly, but his words were heavy with intended meaning. “Kindness and compassion are what separate warriors from killers. Remember that and you’ll be fine.”
Fields took a step toward the door. “I’ll send your weapons with you when you leave. If you have vengeance on your mind, you’ll need them. The law says you have a right to be armed, so don’t let them bully you. They’ll try.”
“Then why can’t I have them now?”
“Because Fleet has a few prerogatives,” the captain told him with a small smile. “Get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need your wits about you tomorrow.”
Barely twenty-four hours later, Brad quietly followed Mike into Freedom’s hangar with a duffel slung over his shoulder. The PO had Brad’s weapons belt over his.
The bag contained the sum total of his worldly possessions: three plain jumpsuits donated by Freedom’s crew, a few additional magazines for his pistol, and a wrist-comp he couldn’t access because he didn’t remember the code.
It also held basic hygiene supplies and a number of comfort items, all gifts from the crew, like the bag itself. The vac-suit he’d come aboard with sat folded at the bottom. One of the cruiser’s nano-smiths had repaired it, using one of the ship’s larger anvils.
Brad looked down at the bag as they stopped beside the transport waiting for him. For a few seconds, gratitude managed to overcome the solid ball of anger and pain his emotions were becoming.
“I never got a chance to thank all the people who’ve helped me. Tell them I appreciate it.”
The PO clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, kid. Even though Fleet will probably compensate them, they’d have done it anyway. Freedom has a good crew.”
The man grinned suddenly. “Now, you have a shuttle to catch. Pilot Mackenzie gets bitchy if people delay her departure times.”
Brad forced himself to return the man’s grin, took the proffered weapons belt, and headed for the shuttle. He had no idea what the future held for him, but he couldn’t wait to get to it. He had some payback to deliver.
Chapter Three
Brad watched over Pilot Mackenzie’s shoulder as Freedom’s shuttle slipped through the inner door of the main airlock of Cere City Spaceport’s shuttle landing dome. It closed behind them as they headed for their assigned landing pad, sealing the massive dome once more.
They’d already flown over the main spaceport, where dozens of starships, relatively small but still too big to dock in the main port, were berthed. Those had temporary bubbles set up over their airlocks linked to the port entrances with a spider web of pressurized tunnels.
Inside the main port, however, there were oxygen and some gravity to hold the small craft from larger ships in place. As their craft reached its assigned spot, Mackenzie deftly fired the shuttle’s thrusters to bring them into place. The landing gear touched the pad, and automatic tethers locked them in place.
The pilot killed the thrusters and turned to face him with her hand out.
“There’s supposed to be someone waiting for you,” she told him. “Good luck…and good hunting.”
He wondered how she’d known what he intended to do. The captain didn’t seem the type to gossip, so Brad must not be as clever as he thought he was.
Brad shook her hand, unstrapped himself, and stood. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“My pleasure,” she told him with a smile. “Now git.”
He exited the shuttle onto the flat, bl
ack concrete, carefully watching for the border of the artificial gravity aboard the shuttle—maintained at a statutory point seven five gee, according to Mackenzie—and the point three gravities Ceres City kept their artificial gravity at.
Standing at the edge of the pad, next to the door into the terminal, was a woman clad in conservative business clothing. She waved him over.
“Are you Brad?” she asked as he stepped over.
“I am.”
She didn’t offer her hand. “I’m Jane Roland with the Ceres City Social Department. I’ll be assisting you.”
Her eyes rested on his face for a moment before drifting down to the weapons on his hips. Her lips hardened and her gaze rose to meet his again. “I need you to give me your weapons.”
Brad met her gaze steadily, not speaking for a long moment as he carefully controlled his initial spike of anger. “I must decline.”
Her lips compressed into a very thin white line. “I’m afraid I must insist. You’re a ward of the state until your memory returns. As such, we must consider both the public good and your own safety. Do you understand?”
He allowed himself a smile. It was just as thin as hers and, he suspected, conveyed more of his hidden anger than he really liked.
“A friend of mine on Freedom thought you might take that line,” Brad said softly. “He took the liberty of providing me with the appropriate sections of the Ceres legal code. Those sections hold a different view.
“Unless someone declares me medically incompetent—which Dr. Merrine on Freedom already ruled out—I have the right to keep and wear my weapons. Of course, I could voluntarily surrender them, but I’m not willing to do that.”
“I think that’s the wrong way to look at this, but I can’t stop you,” she admitted with a scowl and a reluctant nod. “Keep in mind that Ceres Security takes an extremely dim view of people who brandish lethal weapons or act in a threatening manner.
“If you’re done making certain I understand your rights,” she said acerbically, “we need to go. Follow me.”
The walk didn’t take very long and he allowed himself to stare at the structures and people as they passed. He literally couldn’t remember seeing anything like them before, though much of it seemed familiar.
The low building Roland brought him to was cut out of the native stone. The upper floor served as the lobby and held elevators going down into underground sections.
He had no idea how he knew the building practices on asteroid colonies, though. Another frustrating gap in his knowledge.
Roland paused outside an elevator, turning to face him. “The dorm for transients and wards such as yourself is on the third floor, counting downwards. For the immediate future, we’d prefer you only leave with one of the staff accompanying you. It’s for your safety. Understood?”
That sounded prudent, so he nodded. “Understood.”
He caught her quiet sigh of relief as she turned back toward the elevator. She must have expected him to fight her on that, too. He smiled bitterly. He was angry, not stupid.
They endured an awkward silence until they reached the third floor. The doors opened and she led him into a white-paneled corridor. Non-automatic doors painted the same shade as the walls were spaced along the wall every two meters.
The social worker pulled a data pad from her belt and checked it. “You’ve been assigned to room twenty-one. It’s right over here.”
A short walk down the corridor, silent except for occasional conversations coming from open doorways, brought them to a door with the numerals 21 on a small plaque at the top of the frame.
Roland turned the handle and opened the door, showing him into a small room that shared the same plain white shade as the rest of the facility. He was sensing a theme.
A small bed and a desk with a built-in computer were the only furniture in the room. They were plain, simple, and—unsurprisingly—white.
“The comp has limited access to the Ceres DataNet but no access to the Commonwealth SysNet,” Roland said. “If you need assistance at any time, there’s a call button by the door.”
Brad nodded his thanks. “That’s fine.”
She looked him over carefully. “All right, then. Meal call is in about an hour. The cafeteria is further down the hall. You can’t miss it. We’ll talk again tomorrow, so I suggest you get some rest.”
He shook his head after she’d left. It felt as though resting was all he’d ever done.
With a sigh, he set his bag onto the bed and unpacked. That took all of two minutes.
He joined the other dorm inhabitants for the meal but sat alone in a corner and didn’t speak to any of them. He didn’t know any of them. He wasn’t even quite sure he knew himself.
He ate quickly and returned to his room.
Once there, he closed the door, locked it, and started the comp. It lacked a password prompt and he had access relatively quickly. Without thinking, he brought up a command window with a few keystrokes. Then he paused and looked at his hands.
He hadn’t remembered how to do that a moment before. He hadn’t even known what a command window was. Now he knew exactly how to verify what Roland had told him about the access he had on the system.
Even restricted to the Ceres DataNet—and, he was quite sure, having his searches monitored—the comp gave him access to a wealth of data. He couldn’t make sense of a lot of it, but as he poked through it things fell into place.
He had ended up on the border between the Inner System—basically from the Sun itself out to the asteroid belt—where the Commonwealth of Nations held unquestioned control, and the Outer System where that control became…spottier.
Brad might not have known who he was yet, but he was starting to find holes in his knowledge that weren’t due to the amnesia. He knew nothing about Earth, for example, except that it existed. History of spaceflight? Not a clue. How the Commonwealth had ended up in charge? A giant blank.
Shipping patterns along the border between Inner and Outer systems? Those he knew. How to use and maintain the two weapons on his belt? Almost instinct. But a lot of basic knowledge that the DataNet seemed to assume eluded him.
He looked around his room. Once he knew who he was, he wouldn’t be staying there. The anger that ran underneath the surface of everything he thought and did wouldn’t permit it. He needed to start making plans for his eventual exit.
Images of the man with the red skull and crossbones tattoo still haunted his dreams. He’d done as much research on the Terror and the Cadre as he could aboard Freedom. The man was a monster and his organization a blight on the Commonwealth.
Brad still had no idea how he’d beat them by himself, but he’d find a way. He had to.
He was eating breakfast the next morning when Roland found him.
Like everything else in the facility, the cafeteria was white. The tables were white plastic, the chairs were white plastic, the walls were native stone painted white. Even the floor and ceiling tiles were white. He’d half expected the food to be dyed white.
“Good morning,” she said, sitting down at his table without asking.
He raised an eyebrow. “Good morning. Care for some synthetic egg?” He gestured at the yellowish-white substance on his plate that tasted vaguely like eggs.
“No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.” He thought he detected a well-repressed shudder before she continued. “You go on, though.”
Brad pushed the plate away. He didn’t like the idea of eating while she watched him. “I was finished, anyway. What are the plans for today?”
“I have some tests I’d like you to do.”
“My schedule appears to be open. Shall we begin?”
She took him into a small office away from the main patient area, where they started with a series of simple knowledge tests. First with a multiple choice test and then with him having to come up with the answers for himself.
The first set of questions was easy. He could select which were the correct answers almost every time,
though some of the gaps in his knowledge became clearer as well. Recent history was…okay. Anything more than ten years old, anything outside the realm of merchant shipping, those he was vague on.
The second set frustrated and annoyed him. If the event or object in question had been referred to in the previous set of questions, he could often recall the correct answer. For those unconnected to earlier questions, it seemed almost random whether he could determine the answer or not.
The exceptions were the subjects he’d been vague on in the first questions, where he had no idea on the more open question, and anything related to ships and weapons—which he answered without even having to think.
Finally, Roland took him through a battery of more esoteric tests. Reaction times, strength, short-term memory. He was sure she’d have tested his long-term memory, too, if he’d had one.
When the clock twitched its way into the evening, Brad finally seemed to have finished enough tests to give Roland satisfaction.
“Well?” he asked. “What’s your conclusion?”
She raised two fingers. “First, your amnesia seems to be fading. Once a subject is brought to your attention and you think about it, the information comes back, if you knew it in the first place. Second, you’re spaceborn, have almost no formal education, and you’ve spent most of your life on a spaceship, learning how to fight and keep the ship flying.
“Tomorrow, I think we’ll go to the spaceport. I suspect the ships there will bring back more than anything more we can do here. Maybe everything.” She shrugged. “For now, I suggest you eat and get some more rest. We drove you pretty hard today.”
When Roland entered the cafeteria the next morning, Brad was waiting. Suspecting she’d arrive at the same time as the previous day, he’d risen early and finished eating before she’d arrived. He’d also taken the precaution of securing his gear in his bag. It rested beside his chair.
His desire to take risks with his weapons was nonexistent at this point. Everything else just fit in the same bag.
