“The only person that can make sense of the stryker is your sister.” She gestured in the direction of Erelah’s room.
Jon looked down at the counter top. “I don’t know if that’s going to happen.” He shook his head grimly. “I think she’s getting worse.”
She slid a hand over the counter, her fingertips brushing his knuckles. His hand enfolded hers, flexing once, then retreated.
He glanced down at the tablet before her. “So what’s this, then?”
“This can wait,” she said, drawing the device back toward her. With the stryker search a dead end, she had elected to inventory their resources. The news was no more uplifting than her engagement with the mysterious vessel in their hold.
“No. Fates, no.” He straightened. “I need to focus on something else. If just for a little while.”
She sighed. “Not that this news is much better.”
He shrugged. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“Sitrep.” With that, she keyed open the manifest screen on the tablet. The basic pictographs of Regimental in tidy columns defined looming ruin. “Food for three days for consumption by two.”
“Consumption by three.” He corrected flatly. “You’re not going without food.”
“I don’t need food the way—”
“Non-negotiable,” he replied, sliding the mug of insta-cal toward her. “Just as bad as field rations. Enough to make you homesick for the Storm King.”
She took a sip and slid the mug back to him, making a face. He had lied. This stuff was definitely worse.
“Next?”
“Water is better, but only if the filtration system holds.”
“Fuel?”
“Have you thought of a destination?” She looked up eagerly.
He gave a grim shake of his head.
“One tank is dry, the other has three quarters.”
The velo drives used for conduit travel did not have the same fuel demands as the Cesium-reliant engines the Cass utilized for sub-light propulsion in normal space. They would need to go sparingly on the hard burns if they would to make the existing supply last.
“Weapons?” he asked.
“There’s my plasma rifle and your sidearm. Single exchange charges for both. My combat knife.”
He sank back and leaned against the bulkhead. “What good is knowing any of this, Ty, if we don’t even have a destination?”
That was the question. Wasn’t it? It had followed them from chamber to chamber like a noisome ghost. Where to go? Where to hide when the Regime lived in every corner of the Known Worlds. Where was safe? And for how long?
They could not wander aimlessly forever. That course of action was just as dangerous as seeking out Origin. Eventually the remaining cesium tank would run dry. Sela needed some sort of directive. She craved orders, a mission to complete.
Since Erelah’s arrival, there had been less speculation about the mysterious death warrant for Jon. Perhaps they had expected the girl to ramble out a suitable explanation. But as the days passed, it seemed less likely. Erelah was adrift as well, locked inside a hellish universe of her own. Even if Jon did not say it, his sister needed better medical attention than they could provide. The girl needed psych help. To Sela, it was the equivalent of seeking out a mystic.
“The Reaches,” he said.
Sela was about to laugh, but stopped when she saw he was serious.
“The Reaches are uncharted… lawless.”
“That’s why they’re called the Reaches.”
Well over a century ago following the War of the Three Armies, the Sceeloid and First signed the Treaty of Ashes. It defined the Reaches as neutral territory. This was easily done as it was not desired by either party considering the heavy damage inflicted on the region by the wars. Although the science behind it was complex, Sela understood enough to know that the sub-space weapons that First employed had destabilized conduit travel there, leaving very few functioning flex points. As a consequence dozens of colonized Eugenes worlds were cut off by the vast distance from Origin. They were left to fend for themselves in the region.
Stories persisted that some of those abandoned worlds thrived on. Lawlessness prevailed. Non-reg species ran rampant. Even the more insane mercs refused to pursue bounties into the region. And now her captain wanted to go there.
“You’re serious.” Sela sighed.
“You have a better idea?”
After a long, thoughtful pause, Sela shook her head. “There’s no basic nav on this boat to even get us there. And once we get there, how do we even get around? Most of the flex points were lost.”
“There have to be charts,” he said. “How else do the bastards that live there get around? Question is: where do we go to find them?”
She drew in breath to speak, reconsidered.
But he caught it. Jon canted his head, a smirk growing as he watched her. It was the same expression he wore when he was game for a plan of action that was particularly insane. It was the type of plan from which she could usually dissuade him. Usually.
But this time it was her turn at insanity.
“You’ve an idea. Don’t you?” He leaned across the table.
“I found a location called Merx on the ship’s navsys. Pretty sure it’s a ghost station since it has no match on newer Regime charts. Unregulated commerce outpost right off an old flexpoint. Looks like it used to be a fuel stop.”
“And?”
“And,” she continued, “We have a cargo hold full of non-reg pharms. We could trade that for everything we need… including charts.”
“How do you know they’ll have what we want?”
“During my duty rotation with Commerce Enforcement, I raided similar places. A great deal of black market goods move through there. People. Goods. Information. It’s our best chance. It’s another way to gain intel on the Regime.”
Jon turned his attention to the hallway. He was listening for Erelah. Apparently satisfied, he turned back to Sela. “What about the ship’s ident? Can you disable it?”
“No. Not disable. That’s the first thing CE agents look for. Cass drive signatures have built in idents. Sector drones are programmed to auto detect non-tagged drive signatures. But the Cass’s previous occupants made a hack a long time ago.”
Sela swapped the display on the handheld and slid it across the table to him. The ship was now broadcasting the ident of a plague colony transport. She could easily change it to a medical waste ship. The other signatures were even less attractive as potential targets to pirates or other marauders. But it was essential that they mimicked the speed and maneuvering of those fraudulent idents to be convincing.
“This might work.” His smile broadened.
“Of course it will work, sir. I thought of it.” Sela smirked.
She felt that familiar warmth spread under the glow of his approval. In that moment, the strange tension from yesterday thinned and things felt normal. They were planning a mission. There was a clear objective. This was how the universe was meant to work.
“I don’t anticipate a Regime presence on Merx. However, it would be best for you to remain onship with Erelah as I conduct the trade,” Sela said quickly. “I can blend in… be inconspicuous.”
At this Veradin started chuckling.
“What?” She frowned.
“You. Inconspicuous?” he snorted. “They’ll see you coming. You might as well be wearing a sign.”
She folded her arms, eyes narrowed.
“Ty, you’re not going into a hostile location alone.” His shoulders made a stubborn line. “Besides… have you ever bought anything in your life?”
As a soldier of the Regime, everything she had ever required was provided to her. Even during the rare occasions of shore leave, Citizens were required to provide resources gratis to any soldier as tribute. Negotiation was not part of a typical exchange.
“No,” she finally confessed, then added defensively, “How difficult could it be?”
“We go tog
ether or not at all. I handle the talking.”
“Sir…” she began. He raised an eyebrow at her. “Jon, Erelah should not be onship alone. Her behavior has been… unpredictable at best.”
Veradin opened his mouth, argument at the ready, but stopped. He looked down, his fingers digging into the edges of the battered tabletop.
“Perhaps there is someone at Merx that could help her,” Sela said in a half-lie, not wanting to offer hope that would be disappointed. Any medicos they would find at a ghost station were hacks and charlatans, better suited at illegal augmentations and patching up plasma weapon wounds.
“Merx, then.” He straightened and folded his arms. “The question remains: what to do with Erelah?”
“I have an idea. But you’re not going to like it.”
19
“No! I don’t want it!” Erelah backed away from Jon, her heart thumping.
“It’s for your own good.”
Her brother stalked closer with his hands outstretched. He approached her the way they would the wild scythe cats as children on Argos. They would try to capture the little kits with the erroneous dream they could bring one home and keep it as a pet.
“I don’t want it!” Erelah shrieked, not unlike a scythe cat.
She cowered until her back struck the wall and even then she tried to meld with it further.
“Jon, please no. Don’t.”
She was as fearful of touching him as she was of the jector in his hand. In her time with Tristic, there had been too many drugs. Some that made her sleep, some that kept her awake for days on end. This place was supposed to be free of that. Safe.
“Baby sister, please,” he crooned. “It’s to help you sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep.” Erelah jabbed a finger at her temple. “She’s in there when I sleep.”
But Jon would not understand, would he? He couldn’t.
“It’s for your own good, Erelah.” He sounded so much like Uncle.
Neither, in the end, really knew what was good for us.
“You don’t know,” she sobbed.
Stone-faced, Tyron folded her arms and watched them. Her voice was as flat as her stare: “I’ll do it, sir.”
“Stay out of this, Ty,” Jon barked.
Erelah took this momentary distraction and bolted for the doorway. It was a miserable attempt done with weak arms, weak legs.
Suddenly her feet were swept from beneath her. Her back hit the deck with a painful smack. Firm hands pressed her down. Tyron peered down at her. Erelah felt a sting in her shoulder. A wave of warmth grew rapidly, invading her spine and finally pooling over her scalp.
The familiar waiting darkness came with it.
Erelah’s eyes shut under sudden heaviness and the sounds of their warring voices were the last to fade:
Damnit sela isaidiwoulddoit…
Itsdonenow…itsover.
---
Sela wriggled uncomfortably in the single suit, hating the way it fit. It hugged her frame in all the wrong places. She longed for the baggy, heavy material of her utilities, but Jon pointed out the folly of wearing them. Of course, he was right, but it did not help subdue the pang of loss in knowing that she could never wear them again.
Jon nudged her. “Problems?”
“These clothes. I feel… naked.”
The corners of his mouth curled. She felt the fleeting urge to smack him.
“I doubt full ground engagement gear is fashionable in a place like this, Ty. It might make you a bit conspicuous.” He was dressed in the civilian clothes Sela had haphazardly stuffed into his duty kit before they fled the Storm King. It was odd seeing him like that.
“I’ll manage.”
She renewed her frown at the crowded corridor.
The space was filled with lights and placards advertising everything and in every possible combination. The effect was jarring and more than a little unnerving. There was no order here. Occasionally the noise from the crowded taverns rolled out to them: laughter, raucous shouts and jangled music. Smells mingled on the recycled air, despite the filters. The aromas of cooking food masked the danker, heavier odors of the badly-maintained hygiene of a few thousand beings.
What passed for a dock agent had warned them leave to their higher yield side arms onboard the Cass. The station had an automated weapons surge trigger, he explained, to protect against breaches. But Sela was not searched. Perhaps it had to do with the staggering glare she fixed on the agent when he suggested it. His partner, a shriveled Onari clansman, had been in the obvious throes of a hangover and seemed content to stare at the rusted scales of the floor plating, a long line of drool trailing from his mouth. Sela seriously doubted they would have noticed even if she wore full turnout gear.
Amateurs.
Without breaking stride, she affected a stretch and quickly switched her knife from the makeshift holster between her shoulder blades to her jacket sleeve. It offered better access to the weapon.
Merx had apparently begun its life as a refueling station, back in the days of dependence on cesium fuel tech. It had been an essential point for long haulers looking to refuel. When cesium fell out of favor, the station was lost to memory. Its position no longer offered strategic advantage, so both the Regime and the Sceeloid chose to ignore it. As with any overlooked corners, people and things that did not want to be found collected there. And, to Sela it seemed, a great many souls preferred to remain lost.
The quarters were close. Having lived on carriers and stations among nameless thousands for nearly her entire life, Sela was accustomed to a lack of space. But never before with such discord. There was no control to it. It was a tormenting chaos of pedestrian traffic that obeyed no rules. Trelgin. Onari. Binait. Eugenes. All of them were going everywhere at once.
Sela caught the appraising stare of a Eugenes male and scowled. He looked away and quickened his pace through the throng, not unlike the tech on the Storm King. She hated the clothes she had to wear, hated the crowd’s raucous disorder, and hated their very smell. The dusty heat of Tasemar was bliss in comparison.
As they made their way past a skinshop, a rail-thin Binait female, hideously young, called out to Jon.
“Come play with me, handsome. Bring your mate to watch.”
He pulled Sela along before she could yell anything back at the little vulta.
How had this been my idea?
“Stop scowling,” Jon said.
“I’m not scowling. I’m watching. You’ll know when I’m scowling.”
He drew her into a chummy embrace, one arm thrown over her shoulders. He buried his face against her neck.
“What—”
“This is the place, Ty. Behind me.” They had stopped in front of a tavern. The bleary-eyed security guard had given them the name of a merchant of nav charts, Phex. This was apparently his establishment.
“Listen to me.” Jon’s voice was low and had the strange ability to play along the lower portions of her spine in a pleasant way. To the crowd, he was a lover, intimating a secret. But his words were far from loving. “We’re outnumbered. If it goes skew, get back to the Cass. Like we talked about. No last stands here.”
She scanned the doorway. It was another drinking establishment like the handful they had already passed. Glowing signs offered intoxicants and gaming. Drunken patrons lounged about the exterior.
“Stop looking at the crowd,” he said tersely. “Look down. Act like you’re enjoying this.”
That was really not that difficult. Sela ducked her head. “Understood, sir.”
Sir. The word had slipped out. She winced at his measuring silence.
“Stop.” He tilted her chin up with his fingertips. “Stop calling me that. You do that in this place and we’re both dead. This place hates Regime. If they know about the warrants, we’re both nothing more than a meal ticket.”
He pulled back, the warm press of his body now gone. She swayed slightly at the abruptness of his withdrawal. Her ears burned. She swallowed,
peering owlishly about. It was as if the colors in the passage had changed, becoming overexposed and garish.
Why was everything so hellishly loud?
“Be nice,” Jon said. His hand entwined with Sela’s as he guided them to the doorway to the tavern. “And smile.”
Sela pulled a too-wide plastic grin across her face. “I’m always nice, damn it.”
With one last hitch at the damned single suit, she squared her shoulders and slipped into the dark and noisy interior.
---
Quiet. Too quiet.
The lights overhead hummed with eye-watering brilliance. On disjointed legs, Erelah eased herself from the cot. She had no memory of waking. Her head felt thick. Her tongue was swollen against the roof of her mouth. A cloying metallic taste invaded her throat. The buoyant sensation was familiar, but weak.
Something was off, missing. But what?
Then she realized. The uneven vibration of the Cassandra’s engines were absent. Testing her balance, Erelah teetered to the middle of the room.
Could we be docked?
But where?
Charts. They’d been talking about nav charts.
Then she remembered why the flat ugly taste in her mouth was so familiar. Tyron had given her something to make her sleep. But why? She was too groggy to fully embrace the tremor of betrayal that came with that thought.
Cautiously, Erelah made her way to the door and pressed her ear to its surface. A low-level hum seemed to come from very far away, punctuated by the periodic hollow clank of metal on metal.
She tabbed the lock. It clicked twice in rapid succession but stayed closed. Erelah tried it again, a little more desperately.
Nothing.
“Jon?” Her voice seemed too loud against the uncommon quiet. “Jon… please.”
Then, after long contemplation, she ventured: “Commander Tyron?”
No one answered.
Wakefulness returned to Erelah in stages, and with it, something else. It uncoiled from the burrowed-out hollow in her brain.
/They’ve abandoned you, Veradin./
She recoiled and pressed her forearms against her ears. It did nothing to block out Tristic.
Allies and Enemies: Fallen Page 16
