by Lucas Bale
Shepherd tossed it to one side and flattened himself on the ground, arms outstretched. ‘They kidnapped me,’ he shouted. ‘This is my freighter. I was trying to get away from them, damn fanatics.’ The best lies are rooted in truth.
‘Shut up and stay down,’ the same dark figure bellowed. Shepherd risked a glance upwards and watched them moving slowly towards him. He could see them clearly now—bodysuits constructed from some dark, fibrous membrane which seemed to mute the light around them, and which was covered by dense, moulded armour. In their hands they wielded rifles unlike anything Shepherd had ever seen before—complex weapons with sights and barrels he couldn’t understand. Heavy and long. Powerful.
Each Peacekeeper wore a sculpted helmet that made them appear ghoulish and alien; and each helmet bore a dark visor above breathing apparatus that hissed as they breathed. That’s a damn respirator. This isn’t going to work!
One of them appeared to be speaking softly into some sort of radio system, and Shepherd could only just pick out what he was saying.
‘Yes, we have the smuggler … Are you getting this? … Two of the squad have moved to intercept the attacker … Copy that. Understood.’
The tallest one turned to him. ‘Stand slowly, arms out to one side. Anything else, we drop you here. Do you understand?’
Shepherd nodded and rose slowly, stretching his arms out to the side.
Another shot rang out and pinged off Soteria’s hull.
Dammit, preacher! Watch the ship.
Shepherd ducked and watched the Peacekeepers. They turned smoothly as one, knelt and fired again. Shepherd ducked away from the overwhelming thunder that detonated around him, pressed his hands to his ears, and started moving.
‘Inside the ship,’ he shouted as he made for the ramp. ‘Get inside!’
He didn’t stop running, and hoped like hell they didn’t shoot him in the back.
Jordi watched the brilliant flare of the weapons as it shredded the fog. Even up here, the noise was deafening. He knew Vaarden was standing maybe ten yards away from him, the rifle still aimed in his direction.
‘Your friends aren’t going to last long,’ he said. ‘We’ll go down together when the Peacekeepers are finished with them.’
‘How did you do it?’ Jordi said. ‘How did you kill my brother?’
‘He cried, you know,’ Vaarden said, and spat something onto the path. ‘Begged for my forgiveness.’ Jordi didn’t look at him—he couldn’t bring himself to watch the older man smiling, relishing the moment.
You didn’t kill Ishmael—you don’t have it in you—but you led them to the village. You might as well have killed everyone else.
From of the corner of his eye, he glanced sideways towards the edge of the Port, where the chimney came out next to the fence. The fog was so thick, he could hardly see even the top of the fence.
But he saw something else on the ground.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Vaarden warned. ‘I could put two shots through both your knees and drag you down there. Praetor didn’t say nothing about you being all in one piece. Just able to talk.’
‘I bedded her too, you know.’ Panic drove him. There was no time.
‘What’d you say?’
‘I didn’t know Ishmael had as well—good for him—but she and I, we used to meet in the field in the summer. She’d be wearing one of those loose dresses she could slip over her head. I’d bring a blanket and we’d keep going until she was weak as a day-old kitten.’
He’ll hear it in your voice. He’ll know you’re lying.
Vaarden choked a laugh but he sounded uncertain. ‘You’re desperate.’
‘You ought to know what she thought of you. Your wife used to give herself to anyone just to get away from you. No one knew why she married you in the first place.’
‘You’re lying.’
Jordi forced a quiet laugh, just loud enough so Vaarden could hear. His leg was aching so much his head was starting to spiral. He tried to focus, but found it more difficult as time dragged on. The smuggler was down there waiting for him.
‘You know, she used to tell me that she wished she’d never married you. Said she used to have to pretend every time you lay with her.’
‘You shut up!’
‘This one time—we were in the fields together—she wanted me to come back to your bedroom. You were hunting in the forest with guys from the Watch, and we lay together on your bed. I remember the tapestry on the wall—your mama sewed that, right? She hated that thing—she ever tell you that? She made me take it down before we started.’
Jordi had seen the old tapestry during one of his raids on the village. The rest was a guess.
But Vaarden went for it. Jordi guessed Vaarden knew he couldn’t shoot—it would have meant signing his own death warrant—but he always carried a knife, and that would be good enough to inflict pain. He set the rifle against a rock and slid the knife from its sheath. His face was set in a knot of rage. Vaarden was a hunter, and he knew how to use a knife, but Jordi had one advantage.
‘I bet when you get me to the Praetor, he’ll give her to the Peacekeepers down there, and she’ll let them do whatever they want. Anything to get what you can’t give her. Eh, Vaarden?’
The hunter screamed and charged towards him, his footing unsure on the wet trail, but he seemed past caring. Jordi reached down and picked up the stone he’d spotted near his feet and stretched upwards. As Vaarden reached him, he brought the stone round in a wide arc, slewing towards the warden’s head. Vaarden ducked under it easily and brought the knife up.
It was what Jordi had been hoping for. That Vaarden would be so blinded by his rage as to run at him on the slick rock. Jordi stepped back and twisted, leaning backwards, and Vaarden’s knife cut into his ribs, slashing skin and muscle, but not burying itself as deep as its wielder had intended. Counting on the younger man’s body to slow him, Vaarden had moved recklessly, and as Jordi moved out of the way, the enraged warden’s momentum caused him to stumble and slip. Jordi threw the stone downwards as hard as he could towards Vaarden’s head. The blow struck with a sickening crunch, and the stone fell away down the mountainside.
Vaarden staggered, and Jordi leapt on him, the force taking them both to the ground, Vaarden face down against the rock, Jordi straddled atop him. They struggled and edged closer to the precipice. From his belt, Jordi pulled the knife he’d scavenged from the village. He drove it into Vaarden’s thigh, all the way to the hilt, and felt its blade saw against bone. He tried to haul it out, but found he couldn’t. It was held fast. Vaarden screamed and tried to roll to reach the knife. He flailed towards it and bucked his head backwards. Jordi held him down, but the older man was strong and used to fighting. Jordi’s eyes fell on the gaping wound that had opened on the back of Vaarden’s head. He slammed his fist into it—and felt the skull give a little.
Vaarden screamed again and thrashed. He shunted Jordi backwards.
Again Jordi slammed his fist into the wound, buckling the bone of the skull and driving Vaarden’s face into the track. He felt the man growing weaker. He wrapped both hands around the sides of the warden’s head and slammed it into the track again and again.
Eventually Vaarden stopped moving, and Jordi collapsed away from him.
Blood seeped from the gash at his ribs and soaked into the dirty, wet trail. He felt woozy and found it hard to focus.
All he wanted to do was sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
What Justice
SHEPHERD SPRINTED up the access ramp to the top of the landing platform and ran across the broad steel terrace. The lamps around the perimeter of the platform washed Soteria’s hull in red and green. The wind tugged at him as it whipped across the front of the ramp leading up to Soteria’s loading bay. He loathed the thought of bringing the Peacekeepers inside her—felt like it was a violation. No time to get sentimental, Shepherd.
Behind him, the thunderous roar of the Peacekeepers’ weapons cut through the wind as t
hey hurled covering fire towards wherever the preacher might be. Shepherd found himself hoping the guy was still breathing. As he climbed the ramp up and towards Soteria’s loading bay, he risked a glance over his shoulder. The Peacekeepers were following in a tight formation, shuffling backwards as they fired short, controlled bursts.
Shepherd continued on inside and made for the ramp control. As the Peacekeepers withdrew into the loading bay, he slammed the button, and the ramp began to rise. They kept their footing as they retreated smoothly backwards. Shepherd moved towards one corner of the hold.
I hope you’re in the right place, kid, or this is going to go real bad, real fast. His heart was beating so hard he thought the Peacekeepers might be able to see it punch through his ribs. His throat was dry enough that, if they asked him anything, he might not actually be able to answer.
The ramp sealed, and the Peacekeepers turned and relaxed. The tallest—Shepherd guessed the commander—strode over to him. The armoured figure slid his weapon across his chest and let it hang on the harness. Then he reached out a gloved hand and grabbed Shepherd by the throat and tightened. He pushed him backwards against the steel wall of the loading bay and held him there.
Shepherd felt his windpipe constrict, and the muscles and ligaments in his neck exploded in pain. He tried to haul in a breath, but the Peacekeeper gripped his throat so tightly, all he could do was wheeze and choke. He caught sight of his own face in the polished visor and could see the fear etched into his eyes.
This is the time, kid. Right now, this is it. Shepherd tried to grab the man’s wrist, but the Peacekeeper shoved them easily away with his free hand.
Damn he’s strong. He’s not human.
The man tilted his head and, for a moment, Shepherd thought he was studying studying Shepherd’s face. Like he’s sizing me up—does he even consider me a threat? Or am I just a little bit of sick fun? Scintillating lights danced in front of his eyes as he grew lightheaded and groggy. He flicked his eyes towards the other Peacekeepers. Some were busying themselves looking around the loading bay. Others checked equipment. One appeared to be in communication with a central commander.
None seemed concerned by the fact his life was being slowly choked away.
‘Where are they?’ the Peacekeeper demanded. His voice was deep and hard, as if it resonated from somewhere dark and unnatural.
Shepherd tried to speak, but couldn’t. So he shook his head.
‘Why were they trying to kill you?’
Shepherd shook his head again.
The Peacekeeper released his grip and turned to bark orders. Shepherd sank to the floor. ‘Get another squad out here and start looking for the others. You two—open the ramp and put that bastard down.’ He pointed to the loading ramp.
‘Control say three minutes,’ Shepherd heard another say.
‘What about him?’ One of them pointed at Shepherd.
‘Interrogators will want a crack at him. We keep him for now. He tries anything, we remove his hands.’
Shepherd watched a Peacekeeper walk towards the loading ramp button.
Where the hell are you, boy? He hits that button, the whole plan goes to rat shit.
Jordi dragged himself over to Vaarden’s unconscious body. Blood oozed from the gashes on his forehead where Jordi had slammed the warden’s face into the track, matting his hair to the back of his head. Nausea swelled and cascaded over him, and he suddenly found himself struggling to breathe. He clamped his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes.
You didn’t have a choice, Jor, Ishmael said.
Didn’t I?
He opened his eyes, staggered over to the rifle and picked it up. The wood and metal felt cool and hard, and frighteningly alien. It was heavier than he had imagined. He slung it over his shoulder and jostled it until it sat securely. Then he looped the rope around a solid rock and tied a knot he hoped would hold. His hands were stiff and shaking from cold and fear. Each time he wove the rope into itself to make the knot, he fumbled.
Come on! They’re counting on you. There’s no time.
He started again. Focused his mind on just tying the knot, emptying his thoughts of anything else. When at last he pulled the knot tight, it held. He flaked out the rest of the rope until it fell down the chimney towards the perimeter fence.
Slowly, carefully, he eased himself down, abseiling through the chimney. Each step sent a shockwave of pain through his leg and ribs. He couldn’t remember how many times his skin and muscle had been torn or slashed, or how many bruises covered his body, but he tried to ignore the pain.
Eventually, he found the ledge just below the bottom of the chimney, and put both feet onto stable ground. He breathed a faltering sigh of relief and turned. The fence that surrounded the perimeter of the Port was just below him. It was electrified, as he knew it would be. He could hear the gentle purr of electricity as it surged through the cables.
He pulled a long length of rubber tubing out of his burlap sack and placed it carefully over the top of the fence. The preacher had given it to him, told him what to do.
There was no sudden burst of electricity setting his skin alight, but Jordi could still feel the charge tingling through the rubber. It hummed in his muscles. He tied the tube in place so it curled around the top of the fence. He seized the end of the tubing tightly with both hands, turning them inwards so they faced towards him, and taking care not to touch any exposed part of the fence. Then, taking a deep breath, he jumped off the ledge, vaulting over the top of the fence.
As his legs swung over the cable running along the top of the fence, he twisted his body and clawed with his feet, searching for a foothold on the other side. He found one. His mind screamed as the pain lanced through his ribs, but he held himself in place, hanging onto the rubber with all the strength he could find. He planted his second foot against the fence and waited.
Nothing happened. He sucked in a breath and glanced down. The drop was about as high as he was tall. He steadied himself and pushed off with his feet, letting go of the rubber at the same time.
He landed heavily. The pain in his leg exploded, and he fell to the ground immediately. Overwhelmed, he clutched at his leg, his hands shaking so much he could hardly feel them. Get up. Get moving. He forced himself quickly to look around and follow the sound of the Peacekeeper’s fearsome weapons. They were retreating into the smuggler’s ship, firing through the mist. The cannonade from their weapons echoed across the Port. He tried to stand, but found his leg wouldn’t support his weight, and he collapsed to the ground again overcome by searing pain and nausea. Clenching his fists, he rolled, pressed the nausea into his stomach, and curled into a ball. Again, tears welled in his eyes. He snarled and unslung Vaarden’s rifle from his shoulder, before driving the barrel into the ground. He wedged the stock under his armpit and levered himself onto his feet, using it like a crutch.
His progress was slow, but he hobbled towards the ship as quickly as his battered body would allow, no clue in his mind as to how he would get up onto the shoulder of the landing platform, and then onto the ship itself. As he struggled, he could feel the ground tremble through the soles of his boots. Above the wind, a low growl drifted from beyond the mist, and a murky glow lit the fog.
The truck was returning.
He tried to quicken his pace as acid fear churned in the pit of his stomach and rose into his throat.
Just as he reached the stanchions of the platform, the truck burst through the mist, flooding the area around him in a wash of white. Jordi covered his eyes and backed against one of the rounded bulwarks. He glanced around frantically and caught sight of a ladder leading upwards onto the platform. He slung the rifle back over his shoulder and began to climb, the pain replaced by urgency. As he reached the platform, he heard barked commands from below. He could see more dark shapes filtering out of the truck and spreading out around the landing platform.
The shadows faced outwards, guarding against whatever threat lay hidden in the mist, and didn’t app
ear to have seen him. Jordi pushed through the hatch and onto the landing platform, creeping round to the wing farthest away from the terrace’s access ramp. There’s a hatch behind the shoulder of the starboard nacelle wing. There are small openings on the main hull that will get you onto the top. Run along the shoulder, pop the hatch and you’re in.
Spaced along the hull were small indentations in the metal big enough to take a foot or hand. He slid a hand or foot into each and climbed. As he ascended, he glanced continuously toward the access ramp, but saw nothing; the angle of the landing platform’s edge obscured the Peacekeepers below, and he hoped they couldn’t hear him climbing.
It took a few seconds to reach the top of the hull, and he crept towards the shoulder of the wing. Punch in the access code first. You’ve then got ten seconds. Turn the handle a quarter-turn to the right and wait. It’ll pop. Then turn it all the way round. After that, pull hard. It’s noisy, but by then I hope the Peacekeepers will be focusing on something else.
I really hope they are, Jordi thought.
He tapped in the code and turned the handle, all the while searching the platform for movement. Above the wind, it was difficult to hear, but he could just pick out the voices of Peacekeepers talking below. Soon, the rest of their squad inside the hold would want out.
After what seemed an eternity, the hatch popped, and Jordi grasped the handle again, heaved it all the way round. It hissed and raised open an inch. Jordi lifted it all the way and climbed in, pulling it shut after him, then clambered down the ladder.
One of the Peacekeepers strode over to the release button for the loading ramp and reached for it.
‘No,’ Shepherd shouted, coughing. His throat still burned. The Peacekeeper stopped and turned to him. ‘You need to wait.’ He pointed to the oil. ‘That’s highly volatile. When the loading bay seals, it pumps in gas to prevent fire. If you open it now, the change in pressure might rupture one of the barrels.’
The Peacekeeper looked towards the commander standing over Shepherd and hesitated. The taller man, by now it was obvious to Shepherd he was the commander, looked down at him as he leaned against the wall.
