by Rachel Aukes
Critch leaned onto the table and looked across the faces in the room. “We’re heading out in ten minutes. I’ll make this quick. It could take days or it could take weeks to find a ship we can use, which means we’ll have plenty of time to work out the details of the plan. For now, make yourselves comfortable. Once we clear the Coast, you’ll all be given jobs to do.”
A male voice came over the speakers. “Strap in for takeoff.”
The pirate captain smacked his hands together. “Let’s get ourselves a Myrad ship.”
*
Eight days later.
“Crew alert. We’re tracking a potential bogey.”
Sixx groaned. “That’s what they said the last three times.”
Reyne nodded and left Sixx to continue cleaning the weapons. He headed to the bridge, hoping this would be the time. Critch was in charge of getting them a ship, and Reyne had to trust the pirate’s judgment.
The first ship they came across was a brand new passenger ship. Too many people to deal with. The second, a Myrad patrol ship. Far too dangerous to hijack. The third was almost right. It was an older hauler, but Demes had been unsuccessful in hacking through its surprisingly secure firewall.
When Reyne reached the bridge, Demes looked pleased.
“This is it. I know it,” the young pirate said. “It’s an old Eagle II. No firewalls. I’ll be tapped into her in no time.”
Critch scowled. “Eagles are heavy and slow. Made of more carbon fiber than rilon. It’s going to make for a long trip.”
“Aw, sounds like we’ll get plenty of quality time together,” Reyne said.
“Hm.” Critch glanced back to see Reyne approach before turning his attention back to Demes. “Can you hack her?”
“Hold on…just one more…got it. I’m in. I’ve got her systems. Looking for the air filtration…there you are. I’m locking them out and adjusting the oxygen levels now. There. Child’s play.” He turned around with a wide grin. “They should be hypoxic in under twelve minutes.”
Reyne cocked his head, impressed at the pirates’ ingenuity. “I’d always assumed you killed the crews of the ships you hijacked.”
“Hypoxia is subtle and far less risky. Very few crews catch on in time to don suits. Those that figure it out are the ones we have to watch out for.” Critch turned back to Demes. “How many?”
“Let’s see,” Demes said. “Looks like eleven crew are logged in.”
Critch grabbed the comm. “To your stations. We’re hunting Eagle.” He clapped the pilot’s shoulder. “Take good care of her, Gabe. I’ll be back for her soon.”
“Like always,” the man said.
Critch gave Reyne a quick nod, and he headed off the bridge and toward the airlock. Reyne kept pace, and Demes followed.
Doc and Chutt emerged from his bunk, both looking a bit flushed and messy. Then again, the pirate always looked messy.
Reyne scowled, and Critch shot Chutt a hard glare, making it clear he wasn’t any happier about the pair’s extracurricular activities during a mission than Reyne was. Reyne understood why Doc was doing it. This mission was stressing her out, and she used sex to as a coping mechanism. However, it was an unwritten rule that no one screwed around—literally—on the job.
When they reached the door to the airlock, Reyne grabbed his suit and started to slide a leg in.
Critch stopped him. “Here, use this instead.” He handed Reyne two tiny oxygen bottles with nose gears. “Suits are too clumsy.”
Reyne fastened his bottle around his collar. He handed the remaining one to Sixx.
“Exactly as we planned,” Reyne said. “Boden, Doc, and Demes hang back until we clear the ship.”
“You and Sixx can also wait until we clear it,” Critch said to Reyne. “My crew has experience at this. You don’t.”
Reyne shook his head. “We can manage.”
“Never thought I’d add ‘hijacking a citizen ship’ to my resume,” Sixx said.
“You might find that you enjoy it,” Critch said.
The Honorless attached to the other ship, sending shockwaves through the airlock, and Critch placed a hand on the wall to brace himself. The screeching sound of rilon against rilon sent shivers through Reyne.
Chutt had grabbed Doc when she nearly fell. “They didn’t take evasive maneuvers. A good sign,” he said.
Time dripped by as Birk managed the airlock controls, maneuvering the airlock outward from the side of the ship and lining it up against the porthole. Reyne gripped his photon gun, ready for action. When the light finally flicked green, Birk opened the airlock and placed an electronic unit on the Myrad ship’s port. After several seconds of blinking red and yellow lights, it flashed green.
Critch looked across everyone before pulling up his oxygen tank breather tube. Reyne quickly followed his lead. Critch opened the door and jumped inside. Birk and Chutt followed him, and Reyne and Sixx covered the rear. Reyne took a deep breath before crossing over to the other ship.
Once inside, they ran first to the bridge, and Reyne knew that would be to ensure no one got any bright ideas and tried to pull away while the Honorless was still attached. The pirates moved with efficiency, reminding Reyne of fighting alongside Critch in the Uprising, and he realized that a pirate’s life wasn’t much different from a soldier’s life.
Reyne’s pace slowed as he finally understood why Critch had become a pirate. Being a pirate was the only way Critch could keep fighting the Collective without an Uprising.
Reyne moved when Sixx nudged him, and he jogged to the bridge, his arthritic knees causing him to wince. They needn’t have hurried. The eight crewmembers on the bridge were in various slumped positions. Chutt, Birk, and Critch were pulling them from their seats and laying them out in a row on the floor. Most were unresponsive, and a couple were still conscious but out of it. Birk slapped a sleeping patch onto each crewmember’s neck.
Reyne and Sixx chipped in and helped lay out the crew. As they laid them out, they counted three Myrads, all with the telltale blue skin of those who’d lived on the silver-rich planet. The remaining were tenured, obvious by the large, electronic ID cuffs that covered a third of their forearms. The cuffs were a shiny silver, to make their status clear from a distance. They also would have implants in case they could break the bracelets and run. Those who attempted and were caught were punished—often by having their voice boxes fried.
The tenured colonists who signed up to work for citizens on Myr and Alluvia in return for their children’s citizenship often learned too late that citizenship rules had many obscure loopholes. Most children—even those born on Myr or Alluvia—never became citizens. The practice to tenure humans made Reyne sick, and it had been just one of the many reasons he’d so zealously fought for the Uprising.
“Eight down. Three to go,” Critch said. “Chutt and Sixx, move these eight to the airlock. Birk, check the bunks. Reyne and I will check the rest of the ship.”
Reyne stayed at Critch’s side, covering their left and back as they moved down the hallway. This ship was a far cry from the Honorless or the Gryphon. Whereas those ships were kept pristinely clean and organized, this ship hadn’t aged well. Rubber marks marred the dented floors, and dust grew thick in corners. Boxes of food sat, unsecured, against the walls.
They bypassed the bunks to find a single crewmember in the commons area. A Myrad, puffy from sweet soy addiction, lay sprawled onto the table. Critch checked the man’s pulse. “Dead.” He tapped his comm. “One located in the commons.”
“By the looks of him, he had Myrad medicine to thank for keeping him alive,” Reyne said.
Critch nodded. “The bastard would’ve died years ago if he were fringe.” He pulled the man back, and the body crumpled to the floor with a heavy thud.
“Located two incapacitated blokes in their bunks,” Birk reported.
“That should be all of them. Birk, run a final sweep of the ship,” Critch commanded.
“Wilco” came Birk’s easy response.
Critch
picked up the half-full glass of wine that had been sitting on the table.
“How often do you find stowaways?” Reyne asked.
“Hardly ever. The ones we do are generally hiding from the crew and more than happy to make our acquaintance.” He sniffed the contents of the glass, shrugged, and took a drink.
“Blue-skins and tenured have been cleared from the bridge,” Chutt reported.
“Received,” Critch replied before downing the rest of the wine.
Reyne walked around the table and began to check out the cabinets. Roughly half the cabinets were unlocked and contained the same rations that Reyne stocked on the Gryphon. They were cheap but covered all the basic nutrients.
“Here.”
Reyne turned to see Critch ruffling through the dead man’s pockets. He pulled out an ID card and tossed it. Reyne caught it and swiped it over one of the locked cabinets. It opened, revealing contents of meats, cheeses, breads, wines, and chocolate.
“A Myrad would never stoop to eating fringe swill,” Critch said.
Reyne found himself grinning as he grabbed a chocolate bar and cut open the plastic. He waved it in the general direction of the dead man. “Thanks, buddy.” He took a bite and savored it. This was the second time in his life he’d had chocolate. The first time was when he was five and Vym had tossed him a bar after he smuggled a message from her to a local storekeeper.
“All clear. No more tangos,” Birk reported in.
“Good.”
“You know, if you ever get tired of Birk, I could use him on my crew,” Reyne said before taking another bite.
“You can’t afford him.”
“How much do you pay him?”
“More than you make running.”
Reyne shrugged. “Maybe. But, being a runner is a whole lot safer than being a pirate.”
“From what I hear, running hasn’t worked out that great for you lately.”
“Not lately.”
Critch looked away from Reyne and scowled down at the body. “Why do I always find the fat ones?” he muttered.
Reyne sighed as gingerly rewrapped the chocolate bar and slid it into his pocket, and wiped his hands on his pants. “I’ll take the head; you take the feet.”
“No complaint there.”
Reyne walked over and slid his hands under the man’s damp armpits. He grimaced before lifting the body with a grunt. They carried the body to the airlock and moved it onto the Honorless, where Doc, Boden, and Demes waited.
Doc, who’d been bent over one of the other crewmembers, moved to check the newcomer. She frowned. “He’s dead.”
Critch ignored her. “Demes, clean up the air for us.” He motioned to everyone. “The ship’s been cleared. You can board as soon as the air improves.”
One of Critch’s crew who was staying on the Honorless nodded toward the incapacitated crew. “You want these guys handled in the usual fashion?”
“Yes. Drift the Myrads. Move the tenured into the hold,” Critch replied. “When they wake, give them the same option we give all tenured.”
Doc gasped. “You can’t murder those citizens. They’re helpless, innocent.”
Critch spun on her. “Those so-called innocents were operating with a crew of slaves. They’ve made their entire livelihoods off the backs and blood of the fringe. If you want to save them, you can join them in the abyss.”
As he spoke, she took steps back, cowering.
Reyne straightened. “He’s right, Doc. If they live, they endanger the mission. Our lives are at stake here.”
Doc stammered but wisely kept her mouth shut.
Critch shot a surprised look at Reyne but said nothing.
Reyne wanted to stick up for Doc, but the truth was, he sided with the pirate on this one. These Myrads were essentially using slaves. If there hadn’t been any tenured on this ship, then maybe he would have considered imprisoning the Myrads. What would he have done with them then? Drop them off at a fringe station so they could run to a CUF patrol and stop any chance Reyne and Critch’s combined crew had of reaching Myr unnoticed?
Reyne continued. “Everyone, grab your gear and load up. We’ve spent enough time lollygagging already.”
Everyone quickly dispersed, leaving Critch and Reyne alone with ten sleeping men and one dead man.
“Lollygagging?”
Reyne smiled.
“I never would’ve taken you for someone to kill unarmed men,” he said after a moment.
Reyne sobered. “You never knew me very well.” He grabbed his gear and walked away.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Phantom Tricks
Critch was right. The Eagle was a slow piece of shit that took over two weeks to cover the same distance the Gryphon could’ve covered in five days at jump speed. Within the first two days, the crews had sorted through all the shipments, finding only fabric and useless electronic parts. The tenured bunks had nothing to offer except trinkets, most of which were hidden under mattresses. The Myrad bunks had luxuries—silver, jewelry and fancy clothes—but nothing of any value to Reyne.
Two captains sharing one ship led to constantly butting heads, which did not make things any easier. Reyne tried to share decisions, but it was hard. He’d been in charge for much of his adult life. Critch was even worse—he didn’t even try to share command. They finally settled into fifteen-hour shifts, running into each other only at shift change briefings and planning meetings.
Myrad food and wine helped pass the hours, but Reyne worried that the CUF would strike another fringe station while they made their slow way to Myr. They had the Collective news on constantly. Myr hadn’t released the blight again, but Ausyar had been busy. The news replayed footage of the CUF taking down fringe “terrorists” and foiling obviously staged bioterrorist attempts. Genics Corp continued to promise that they were working around the clock to create a fungicide.
If their plan was to make everyone fearful and clamor for Myr’s help, it was working flawlessly. Every Collective world pledged credits to Genics Corp. Myr had managed to milk people’s pocketbooks while pulling on their heartstrings at the same time.
Midway through Reyne’s shift on the sixteenth day, Birk pinged him. “We’re within three hours of the space barrier.”
“On my way.” He left Boden in the engine room where they’d been running down one of the thousands of gremlins the ship seemed to have.
On the bridge, Reyne found Birk at the controls. “Are we close enough to see radar?” Reyne asked as he took a seat.
The lean pirate sighed. “Not with the outdated software on this beast. I have no idea if we’ll see something in five minutes or if it’ll be two hours.”
Reyne frowned. “We’re already cutting it close if we have to change plans. They likely have us located on their systems already.” He inhaled. “Let’s hope an old Myrad hauler won’t raise any red flags.” Reyne put his hand on Birk’s shoulder. “Ping me as soon as you can see where the CUF patrols are along the barrier.”
“Wilco,” Birk replied without looking up from his panel.
Reyne headed back to his quarters and went through his gear. He strapped on his holster and sheaths and checked his weapons. After he was all set, he took a seat and closed his eyes. In three hours, they would either be through Myr’s EMP space barrier and landing on the planet’s surface, or the barrier’s electromagnetic pulse would fry the ship’s systems and life support, making them sitting ducks to be blown up by CUF patrols—or left to die in their cold Myrad coffin. He wasn’t sure which option offered the worse prospects.
When he returned to the bridge, he reviewed the mission schematics that Heid had sent them. He tried not to think about what could go wrong. Instead, he focused on what needed done when they landed on Myr’s surface.
At two hours to go, Reyne was ready to bang his head against the panel. The ship’s blasted computers still hadn’t picked up any traffic, let alone the massive space barrier. It wasn’t until ninety-six minutes out that Birk finall
y picked up hints of the space barrier.
Reyne headed to the commons to grab them some food. On his way back, he pounded on the door to Critch’s quarters. “Rise and shine. Ninety minutes out.”
He smiled at the string of profanity that was shouted from the other side of the door.
Critch arrived on the bridge roughly ten minutes later, wearing full gear. “What do we have?” he asked, his voice rough from sleep.
“We’re a little over seventy-five minutes out,” Reyne said. “We haven’t picked up any CUF patrols yet.”
Critch grimaced. “This damn ship belongs in a junkyard. If we were on my ship, we’d be close enough to pick up the hair on their asses by now.”
Reyne ate as they waited. Critch disappeared briefly and returned with a meal of his own.
Fifteen minutes later, Birk still hadn’t found any signs of CUF ships.
Critch wiped his hands and pushed off the wall to take over Birk’s seat as pilot. “Go get ready. I’ll take it from here.”
As Critch strapped in, Reyne remembered meeting him for the first time. He’d still gone by his real name—Drake Fender—at that time, a talented young pilot ready to take on the universe. Reyne had seen his potential and took him under his wing. The Uprising was a year in, and they discovered hell together. They were brothers-in-arms…until Critch emerged from the Uprising with the belief that Reyne had betrayed everything they’d fought for.
Shaking off the old memories, Reyne broadcast to the ship, “Attention crew. We have one hour until we reach the barrier. Gear up and grab some grub. It might be some time before you eat or sleep once we pass through. Then, get yourselves to your stations. If we get scanned, I don’t want them seeing heat signatures of the entire crew all hanging out on the bridge. Everything about us has to look run-of-the-mill.”
“I’m picking up something,” Critch said finally, frowning.
“What do you have?” Reyne asked.
“Not sure yet.” After a long moment, he leaned back. “Fuck.”
Reyne rushed over to see what the other man was looking at. He frowned. “That can’t be.”
“That’s what I thought, too, but I double-checked. The data’s right.”
