The Snare (Huntress of the Star Empire Episodes 4-6)

by Athena Grayson

  “Gralx are vermin, but they have their place in the ecosystem. You say you were found in the midlevels?”

  “Under a wall of a building. I was lucky I wasn’t crushed.” The images they showed her of her rescue still gave her chills. Such a small space. She shivered. Rubble and filth, and the stains of blood on the duracrete wall where others hadn’t been so lucky.

  “What were you doing down in the midlevels?” Was she dreaming it, or did he sound like somebody’s nanny in scold mode?

  “What kind of stupid question is that?” She shoved the ridiculous image of him dressed in the blue uniform of the orphan caregivers at the Re-ed out of her mind. “Already told you. Don’t remember. I probably lived there all my life, too stupid or ignorant to dream up a way out.”

  He was silent for a long while. She thought he might have fallen asleep. “You obviously weren’t down there ministering to those less fortunate, I guess.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that. She’d never even considered the possibility that she hadn’t belonged in the midlevels. What could’ve given her that absolute surety, other than the truth? “I—I don’t think I’m that kind of person,” she said quietly.

  “Perhaps you were, once upon a time.”

  She heard him shift in the darkness, and lay there for a long time, in silence, before exhaustion pulled her down into sleep.

  “I don’t think I’m that kind of person.” Treska’s voice shook with a quiet, barely detectable tremor of uncertainty. Micah stared into the dark and didn’t answer her. Dredging up old memories was a useless activity at best, and downright painful in a room full of untuned crystals hissing hallucinations at him. For her, it must have been worse—she had no memories to dredge.

  He felt as lost as the boy he’d once been, and almost wished Xenna was here to guide him. That Jump-dream bothered him in a way that unsettled him at the very deepest levels. Untrained as he may be, he was still a psypath, with a better understanding of the mysteries of the mind than the average sentient. Jump-dreams might seem like random triggerings of disjointed memories, but he knew better. He hadn’t thought about Zara in anything but the abstract in years. What use was mourning a lost love that had been doomed from the start? For his mind to throw out memories of his first lover, there had to be a reason.

  The familiarity of the breathing exercises pushed the questions nagging at him into the background of his subconscious. Breathing took precedence, and he felt himself moving back into balance. He was coming to think that his attitude going into this was far too confident in his abilities. Persuasion was one thing. Influence and illusion, misdirection and suggestion—all things he’d been willing to do. Outright mind control? Beyond his capabilities, a fact for which he was not ashamed. But Treska had turned out to be far more than simply a hostile mind he needed to change. It baffled him that she sounded as if she enjoyed her life under the Union’s new morality. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising—she had power, and carte blanche to go where she pleased. People feared her, and ways opened up for her when they remained closed for others, because of her status as a Vice Hunter. Perhaps this is who she really is. The small voice of doubt nagged at him. He shoved it away. She knows no other way because she has no memory of it.

  Perhaps a fully trained psypath might be able to reconstruct her memories, provided she was willing. Problem was, she didn’t seem to be willing. I’m untrained and restrained, he thought. He was out of his element

  He folded his arms across his chest and stared up at the ceiling. The crystals in the cave held a greenish hue, and he focused on the large formations dotting the cavern’s ceiling. Really quite delicately formed, even though the buggers were stronger than hull plating when it came to extracting them from their formations. They only looked as if they’d drop any second, sending the sharp points right through an unsuspecting spelunker. Beyond Treska’s absent memory—leaving him much less empathic material to draw upon in his quest to change her mind—there was the issue of her conditioning, as sharp and sudden as the crystal points.

  Conditioning itself wasn’t as sinister as it seemed. His own conditioning had been honed at the monastery, through years of meditation and exercises, through repetition and reinforcement. His mind searched for and found familiar paths of thought in the pursuit of balance and serenity. Treska’s mental pathways had been similarly-shaped. The brief time he’d spent skimming the surface of her mind when she’d chased him showed clear channels, cut deep. Yet hers seemed not to fall in a natural pattern, but in a forced matrix of artificial construction. Her conditioning, like his, was strong. She was as certain of her assumptions as he was of his. Probably moreso, as he was a doubter by nature, at least when it came to the depths to which people could sink.

  It was a trait shared by his brothers and sisters in the monastery. Surely the new Union couldn’t hold all psypaths accountable for the actions of a few. Surely the new Union couldn’t doubt their willingness to police their own. Surely the new Union would understand the goodwill behind the voluntary exile back to Ursis Amalia. Surely the new Union would approve of all the volunteers for talent neutralization, and fulfill its promise to set the neutralized free. Surely the new Union wouldn’t want to murder every single one of us.

  Assumptions could only stand in the face of so much evidence to the contrary. Treska’s mental matrices were a lot stronger than his own, thanks to her programming. Her matrices were strong, but externally-programmed as they were, they were brittle. Her own doubts and logical progressions and experiential evidence would tear down an external construct if it didn’t fit with her mind’s accumulated observations, unless it was persistently reinforced.

  He dared not reach out with his talents—the collar was still a very unwelcome presence on his person—but he could delve inward. The silence of his own thoughts allowed the constant, subtle hum in the back of his mind to come forward, and the hum turned to sibilance, like the lap of waves on a seashore, or whispers. He wondered why he wasn’t falling asleep, and it occurred to him that he’d been forcibly put to sleep several times in the past two days, thanks to her wrist-tranks.

  Thank the stars she seemed to be out of them. He’d caught her fiddling with the wrist launcher’s cartridge when she thought he wasn’t looking. So far, she’d threatened, but not used. Perhaps we really are making progress. She was out of tranks. And those pills of hers she still constantly reached for. Her inhibitors.

  He drew in a breath. Her programming needed repeated reinforcement. Were those pills of hers providing it? She seemed to need them more when she responded to his flirtations, no matter how bad she claimed they were—and he still smarted over that.

  No. Her incapacitation came when she’d been about to indulge her obvious sexual curiosity about him. Xenna would be infuriated to discover the New Morality had begun issuing anti-sex medication. She’d likely storm the Capitol in a one-woman rampage. And make it quite far, I’d bet. The New Morality had a viselike grip over Treska’s mind and her body. But why such deep hooks into her? Granted, the New Morality seemed to specialize in deep hooks, but their entire cult didn’t appear to need pharmaceutical influence. Treska must be a special case. A very important case.

  Break the New Morality’s hold on her, and break their hold on the Union.

  His heartbeat accelerated with the possibility. But nothing more could be done when they were injured and exhausted. He ordered himself to sleep after half an hour. He needed the strength, and the whispering was getting on his nerves. Across the room, her breathing evened, and he shifted over onto his back where he could see her. She slept curled on her side, in a fetal position. Even in sleep, the line of her spine remained stiff. Guarded. How am I supposed to turn her to our cause if she’s content with theirs? If he were honest with himself, he expected his presence to have an effect on her. He expected to be able to use his talents. That worked out smashingly, didn’t it? What a shock to discover she was specifically equipped to render him as helpless as a squalling y
attu cub. I might as well be limbless and covered in downy fluff for all the good I can do.

  Limbless and fluffy can still think. The tart retort was delivered in Xenna’s voice, even though she was hopefully light-years away from this place. But if she were here, she’d say just that, and maybe even kick him in the ribs to make her point. More likely cup my balls in her hand and squeeze just hard enough to get me to think very, very clearly.

  On a whim, he reached down and squeezed his balls, to see if that might drive away the whispering from the walls. All it did was remind him that there was a deep bruise very high on his right thigh that had formed a knot rather close to a scar he’d gotten the last time he’d been on Guerre.

  Suddenly, he sat up. I will have to inform Xenna of a new tool in her information extraction arsenal.

  The memory cleared the last of the fog from his head. Xenna had no idea that he was on Guerre instead of en route to the Capitol, and must be wondering where he’d ended up, but there was a way he could let her know.

  The Order had cautioned against psypaths visiting Guerre, and Micah hadn’t understood why. He had his incomplete education to thank for that. He also had to thank it for what he did have, when he’d broken the interdiction and come here anyway.

  Contacts.

  Roadblock

  Captain Rogas Iverka of the Union battleship Scimitar stood to attention, every muscle taut under the remote scrutiny of the man on the monitor before his station. “Sir, your contact is an…unexpected honor.”

  “Your absolute loyalty to the Union is well-noted, Captain,” the cyborg said, his silken tone indicating an unfortunate termination for anyone displaying less. “I have need of the Scimitar’s services. One of my Vice Hunters has not reported in as scheduled. I wish her to be found and secured immediately.”

  “Ah, sir. The Scimitar would be honored to assist you, however we are en route to the Tenraye orbit under orders from Military Command. The Jumpgate station’s gone silent.”

  “I am aware of the misfortune of that beleaguered planet,” the man cut in. “My missing Vice Hunter holds the key to preventing another attack on a more populous, less remote world. It is a matter of interplanetary security. Your superiors in the military chain of command are no doubt aware that orders from the Office of Special Affairs override regular military orders.”

  Iverka wasn’t concerned with his superiors—his discretion regarding perquisites of rank above his own encouraged a certain quid pro quo between himself and his superiors. His men would find it an unpopular change in orders to abandon a fight rumored to be with the Marauders themselves in favor of rescuing one of Vakess’s pet buzzkills. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Her vital information and last known Jumpgate coordinates are being transmitted right now. I trust this assignment will not be beyond your capabilities. The penalty for failure would be…severe.”

  Iverka felt sweat gather at the neck of his stiff collar. “Sir, I can assure you my entire crew is more than capable of handling the job.”

  “I will expect you at the Capitol no later than three days hence, at which time you will deliver the Vice Hunter and any…cargo she may be transporting directly to me at Special Affairs in the government complex.”

  “Yes, sir.” Iverka’s salute could have cut through steel he snapped it so hard. The man’s face disappeared from the monitor, replaced by the Union seal and the flickering lines indicating a secure-channel transmission. Iverka focused on the data streaming forth at his workstation. His eyebrows climbed as he realized the missing Vice Hunter was the one called “Huntress.”

  “Wullas,” he called over the comm system. Minutes later, when his second in command appeared, he motioned to the data on the screen. “What can you tell me about the Huntress that isn’t in this file?”

  His pert XO leaned over his shoulder, reminding him that the Scimitar’s collection of confiscated entertainments was running low. The key to a loyal crew, he thought, is the right combination of stern discipline and just a hint of indulgence of vice. Iverka had seen the converts to the New Morality and wondered, like everybody else, how their cult could inspire such unwavering devotion, but the crew of the Scimitar displayed little such dedication. Perhaps because their loyalty was already dedicated to the battleship herself, the military she stood for, and, provided he earned it with the right concoction of indulgence and discipline, the captain at the ship’s helm.

  He glanced at Wullas’ look of intense concentration. His second had advised him more than once on personnel matters, so perhaps it wasn’t such a random thing that his crew tended towards members who were at once less enthusiastic adherents, yet equipped with a powerful sense of discretion and self-preservation.

  Wullas straightened a few moments later, smoothing glossy brown hair back from her face. “Sir, the intelligence on the Huntress is sparse. She was a nobody prior to the New Union’s formation—just another mid-levels refugee from the attack on the Capitol. The official story claims that PM Vakess was moved by her lack of memory and identified her as a representative of the equality of the New Union. When Vox Unificus created the Special Affairs division and formed the Vice Hunters to defend and protect, she was among the first to volunteer, and moved on to become the best Vice Hunter in the Union, with more psypath bounties to her name than any other Hunter. Sir.” Wullas’s dark eyes flicked to his and back to the monitor again.

  Iverka leaned back in his seat. “And the unofficial version?”

  Wullas licked her lips. “Captain?” Her glance slid to the monitor and around the room. Iverka stroked his chin and glanced pointedly at a jeweled ornament on his desk.

  Wullas breathed easier and tapped the ornament. White noise filled the room, creating a background murmur to garble their words—just in case. Iverka motioned her to sit down. She folded her legs under her and sat stiffly in the visitor’s chair. “I was a junior medic serving in House Urbat when the attack happened. I took a turn in every single hospital on Capitol, assisting with refugee placement when I wasn’t providing medical care. The Huntress wasn’t there.”

  “There were hundreds of thousands injured and displaced,” Iverka said. “You couldn’t have encountered them all.”

  Wullas nodded her head. “Very true. But my specialty in medic training was blunt head trauma.” As he well knew. Wullas knew exactly where to apply just the right pressure to put a problematic individual to sleep. Sometimes permanently. He motioned for her to continue.

  “Hundreds of thousands were injured, but far fewer suffered such extensive head trauma. Of those cases, a good many were non-humans and near-humans. Her story boasts of the best in Union tech—they rebuilt her from the inside out, to hear them tell it. She was found in the Garden District. Our hospital was located in the Garden District, near the old Hathori Temple. She would have been brought to us, first, and we had no human cases that extensive.” Wullas glanced up at him. “She would have been something to talk about. Not only for the reconstruction, but…” Wullas glanced up towards the starfield in the viewscreen. “People need that kind of hope. Someone so damaged, lost for so long down there, beating the odds? That’s Holotainment of the Year material.” She shook her head. “And nobody knew about her for over a year? The story doesn’t add up the way it’s told.”

  Iverka stroked his chin. “What most stands out to you?”

  Wullas tapped the screen that displayed the Huntress’s picture. “She’s beautiful. Not functional, but beautiful. She’s a work of art. If she were that extensively reconstructed, she’d be—well, let’s just say, I can’t imagine that Director wasting resources on those cheekbones or wide eyes.”

  Iverka stared down at the picture. The Huntress was very beautiful. “She doesn’t look as if she’d be capable of taking down a piece of artwork, much less a telepathically-powered fugitive.”

  Wullas tossed a glance over her shoulder. “Old stories are full of beautiful females causing great destruction.” One eyebrow lifted. “I think it’s univer
sal. Women are terrifying.”

  Iverka chuckled. “This one does not appear to terrify. When I was a Lieutenant, my commanding officer was beautiful. And terrifying. But nothing in her inspired protectiveness like this one’s features do.”

  Wullas nodded. “In the Garden District, we had a significantly higher population of Hathori patients, until the recall to their homeworld expanded to include the sick and wounded. I got to know Hathori bone structure and physiology pretty well.”

  “Commander, are you saying—?”

  “I’m not saying anything, sir, beyond the fact that it’s something worth checking out.”

  Iverka’s eyes narrowed at the image. As a younger man, he would have had grave concerns about expending so much tactical effort on one’s own comrades, when a vast and terrifyingly mysterious enemy lurked in the shadows of space beyond the edge of the solar system. But the funny thing about unfathomable fears were that they were unfathomable, and given the choice, the mind found much more industry in focusing on the very fathomable motivations of one’s own power structure. The New Morality’s grip was an equally mysterious curiosity, and much closer to home. Any edge that gave him—any edge at all—was well worth the tactics.

  ***

  Episode 5: Crystal Dreams

  Reality Distortion

  By all accounts, Cetares was a bucolic world. Population centers were tightly controlled to prevent the kind of urban sprawl suffered in the Capitol. Consequently, there were very few strato-scrapers piercing the cloud line, and the experience of riding down the skyhook felt more like sinking into oblivion.

  Xenna’s forged documentation had passed her through Customs and Immigration. Money well-spent to present her as a “re-education specialist.” Beneath the lumisteel mask, her lip curled in derision. Call it what it is. Traitor.

  She rode the skyhook with a pack of nervous colonists. Poor sots who’d “won” the residency lottery and were finally allowed to move down to the planet from provisional quarters in the transit hub annex, sometimes after a stay of months, or even years. And these poor fools thought they won something. Cetares was a well-managed world, with fertile land masses, urban centers, and a thriving planetary economy that offered numerous opportunities for entry via agricultural means.