allies and enemies 02 - rogues

by Amy J. Murphy

  The healer’s thoughts were already ticking into a clinical mode of diagnosis. Alien terms buffeted her. Erelah fought to stem the invading thoughts. Her control on the Sight was slipping.

  Damnit. What’d I miss? What’s wrong with this kid?

  She wanted to tell her not to be angry. That it was nothing she’d missed. It was her own fault for abusing the Sight. The Fates were punishing her. A familiar sting pierced her lower arm.

  “No. No pharms.” It was a pathetic mewl.

  Rachel made a shushing noise. “It’s just fluids.” The explanation meant nothing to her. “No drugs.”

  For a time Erelah drifted on the cusp of sleep. She resisted, but kept her eyes shut. She listened to the hard burn of the engines, the softer sounds of Rachel moving at her side.

  After what seemed an eternity, Erelah opened her eyelids a crack.

  She could see the curve of the enormous pilot’s chair, the back of Asher’s head.

  He and Rachel had not spoken to each other. Now an uneasiness had settled in the air. Rachel gave off waves of suspicion toward him, but still to Erelah, he was just this flat space that everything moved around.

  A band loosened on her arm as Rachel removed a monitoring cuff. The woman studied the deck, as if an answer could be found there. She settled back onto the bench that faced Erelah’s. Her hands shook and she clasped them to make them stop.

  “You don’t know who to trust.” Erelah swallowed against a dry tongue.

  “You doing some mind reading now?” she asked with a thin smirk.

  “I just…I understand.”

  Curiosity mixed with trepidation radiated from Rachel. It had been there under her surface ever since she’d witnessed Erelah use the Sight on the guard. “Can you read my mind? Like that thing you did to the guard?”

  She did not want to answer. She did not want the woman to fear her, to think her a freak or a danger.

  Rachel must have sensed her hesitation. “I think you left this bit out. And I don’t blame you.” Then the question that had been waiting, tugging at her insides. “Did you…do that to me? When you were asking me to help?”

  “No.” Erelah sat up with the ferocity of the denial. “No. I didn’t. That wouldn’t have been right.”

  Rachel made a quieting gesture. “I’m just trying to understand. I get the impression that this thing…the Sight…it’s not something you know everything about. Seems like it’s new to you. Like it was done to you without your say so.”

  Erelah drew in a deep breath. This was inevitable, wasn’t it? But what did it matter now? Her voice was low. “Things were done to me. Tristic held me captive and meant to turn me into something… horrible. She used splicers to change me to her needs and make me more like her. It gave me an ability to control others—sight-jack them.”

  The doctor’s mouth set with anger. “Her needs? No wonder you freaked when I said I was a geneticist. That explains the damage on your profile. Lot of tinkering going on there. Maybe even nano-tech.”

  “There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there? Something new. It never affected me like this… after.” Erelah swallowed. “Perhaps the Fates are punishing me.”

  “No, kid. I don’t think that’s it at all.” She gave Erelah’s shoulder a brief squeeze. Then, her eyebrows lifted with sudden enlightenment. She scooted closer to her on the bench. “What if I said there’s a way to fix it? Get you back to normal?”

  35

  Stay the course. Contact Ironvale. Do the trade.

  A simple plan. Elegant, in fact.

  It just felt wrong.

  He could do it. Northway was all mouth. The girl, depending on how you caught her, she was afraid of her own shadow and willing to follow a strong lead if there was logic involved. But that was the challenge, wasn’t it? There was something going on in there, behind those green eyes, that made him wonder just who he was talking to at times: the frightened marsh hare, some hardened soldier, a haughty brain-case. It just made him so…curious. Curious pushed him dangerously toward caring.

  That was why Ironvale had rules.

  Not that he was much of a rule-follower to begin with. The rules never covered what to do if you accidentally downloaded someone’s memories and emotions, only to have them bubbling up during inopportune moments.

  Like what had happened with Neesa at the airlock. His finger was on the trigger. She was a loose end that needed tying up and he couldn’t do it. That victorious sneer on her face. He could have still removed it physically.

  It was a memory from the girl that had stopped him. A gray-haired man, stern in appearance but full of patient teaching. He would have never allowed it. Uncle.

  Who in the Burning Fields was Uncle?

  He rubbed a disconsolate hand over his face and regarded the navsys.

  Two days of dealing with these alien memories in his head and trying to think of the pitch he’d give Ulrid to talk him out of shooting him and into getting him a line with the Guild. All he needed was a crack, a wedge, and he could do the rest.

  It would give Asher time to get the girl into a place where she’d practically run to the Guild and offer her services.

  He’d name his boon and then life would be splendid once more.

  Cautiously, he glanced over his shoulder. The chatter from the passenger benches had quieted into hushed conspiratorial voices.

  Something like concern stabbed at him.

  The girl’s memory surged over him, filled with hopelessness and fright. The foreign wave of fear was inescapable. It was too big for the tiny cockpit. It pressed against his chest and behind his eyes. A charred plastic smell filled his nostrils. It wasn’t the interior of the yacht, but the sleek contours of the stryker’s interior.

  He shook it off.

  “So let’s hear this plan, hot shot.” Northway stood over his shoulder.

  He swiveled in the chair to face her. In one deft move, he hid the navsys reads. By his guess, she was most likely as unfamiliar with their tech as she claimed, but he was not about to take chances. The fact that she had not only survived, but had found her way into the rather sensitive role of Ix’s medico, indicated she was clever and quick to adapt. “I know someone. He’ll help.”

  She grunted, unimpressed.

  “How is she?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  Northway regarded him with narrowed eyes. Without invitation, she settled into the jumpseat beside him. “As good as could be. Someone did a number on her and in more ways than one.”

  A chilly, expectant silence followed.

  Asher growled. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Right.” She sounded unconvinced. “She’s tight-lipped about the whole thing. It’s like pulling teeth.”

  He scowled.

  “It’s an expression. Never mind.” Northway propped an elbow on the nearby console. There was an off-tone bleat. She startled at the sound. “And I did notice you changed the subject. Where are we going?”

  He shooed her back and reset the trim line she’d accidentally jarred.

  “Volgen.”

  “Never heard of it.” She sank back into the seat, making herself at home. The casualness, for some reason, irritated him. He did not need this interrogation.

  “They call it Tintown. I know someone there.”

  “You know a guy?” she scoffed, folding her arms. “That’s your giant plan?”

  “Best I got. Let’s hear yours.” He stared through reads, feeling his jaw tighten.

  “I need to find my people. Erelah needs help and if we can contact my outpost, we can—”

  “We got fuel for one trip.” He stared her down. There was no flinch to her, was there? “You want to find your people, wait ‘til we get there.”

  Northway gave him another one of those measuring looks: dark-brown eyes half-lidded, chin tilted up. “You’re plotting something.”

  “Am I?”

  She watched him in silence. Maybe her stare worked on Liet, but not him. She was trying to
push him, gain a confession. He nearly laughed.

  Finally she spoke: “Whatever it is, don’t you dare hurt Erelah. I made a promise to her to help.”

  “So did I.”

  “Funny. Somehow, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.”

  36

  Snowden stepped over the fallen pressure door and checked the atmo reads on the device strapped to her forearm. It still read clean. No toxins. Rads within parameters. Air was a little thin compared to the E-standard, but no worse than being at high altitude. She hated leaving Roughbook. Too many variables. Too many unknowns.

  But Wren had been very convincing.

  The grimy beige walls of the pirate vessel held the blast shadow of what she guessed were at least two low-density grenades, special UEC design for shipboard engagements to prevent hull breaches. She added that to her mental inventory of the aftermath of Wren’s pet operation. More fuel for her growing displeasure.

  “So much for low profile.”

  The corpse at her feet was Zenti, judging from the thick tattoos along his face and jaw. This was sloppy.

  It occurred to her that she should never have let Wren talk her into this, but the details of why it seemed so vital at the time now eluded her. She frowned. Seemed the sloppiness was growing.

  The UEC could ill afford making their presence high profile. Going around eradicating pirate communities was dangerous and foolhardy. What should have been simple recon had somehow turned into an involved police action. So far, the crime boss that held claim to this site was among the confirmed dead. A good thing, she guessed.

  The escapees had scattered like roaches the second the kitchen lights flicked on. They were no doubt at this moment winging their way to spread the tale of a well-armed foe that had overwhelmed the famous Lucien Ix’s keep in less than an hour. Not good.

  “Major. Good. You’re here.”

  Wren strode toward her. He seemed almost buoyant for a man that she was going to hold responsible for this fuck up. Excitement supplanted his usual reticence.

  “I’m curious. Do you know what ‘low profile’ means?”

  Wren paused. “Major?”

  “You sold this as a simple recon.” She gestured at the nearest corpse. “Should we ask him what it means?”

  Wren blinked, flustered. “The escalation is regrettable, yes, but…the benefits we have reaped here are huge.”

  “Regrettable?” she huffed. “The whole point of being a secret installation is not to go around blowing up the natives.”

  Wren nodded. He held his hands up, beseeching. “Of course. You’re right, sir. But when you see it, you’ll have to agree that the find is a boon.”

  Boon? Snowden bottled a sigh. That’s a new one.

  “The intelligence from Maynard yielded so much more than we’d hoped. Immensely so.” Wren extended his arm, guiding her down a corridor that led deeper into the ship. She paused long enough to glare at him, before moving on.

  Maynard? Since when were they so chummy?

  “This better be worth it.”

  Wren thumbed open a screen on his tablet. He held up a graphic that was part telemetry read and part stellar chart. She gave it a cursory glance then fixed him with a dead stare. It finally sank into him.

  “There is a traceable energy signature that’s keyed to a particular type of propulsion Maynard’s research facility had been working on. The ramifications, if true, would most certainly solve problems around the unstable nature of subspace propulsion and use of the known mapped Hawk aps in this area.”

  “Wren. Less tell. More show.” She folded her arms.

  “It’s here.”

  Snowden resisted the urge to put her fist in his face. “What’s here?”

  “The stryker. The one from the long array scans.”

  “Here? How?” Snowden regarded the battered walls and ravaged corridor. “Show me.”

  37

  The stryker resembled the unlikely offspring of an ancient atmospheric ship like an F-16 and a wasp. Snowden appraised the dull silver skin and sloped lines. It was a killing machine, by any other name. The hull bore no markings. The canopy was open. A trio of engineers crawled over the body like ants attacking the corpse of a beetle. With just as much efficiency as their insect counterparts, they were taking the metal beast apart piece by piece.

  “My analysis indicates this is an experimental vessel. Impressive compartmentalization for creating an artificial singularity. It’s not reliant on mapped Hawking apertures…what the Eugenes call flex points.” Wren jerked his chin up, sounding oddly prideful, as if he had something to do with making the thing.

  “You mean it makes its own Hawk aps?” Snowden continued her orbit of the bustle of activity. Already she was wording the trans to Vesta that was going to turn this exposure to a win.

  “As an over simplification, yes.”

  “The pirates do that? Make this thing?” Snowden asked, dubious. The grungy bay did not seem the likely place for such a ground-breaking invention. It had more the air of a seedy chop-shop.

  “Not these…criminals.” Wren spat the word. He actually seemed insulted by her question. “They did not know what they had here.”

  “You’re losing me, Miles.” Snowden fought an uncontrollable urge to step away from him. “What did they have here?”

  “Why, a weapon, of course,” he said with a bird-like tilt to his head.

  “A weapon?”

  “Major, this stryker destroyed a Eugenes Deacon class vessel. Specifically the one that belonged to our prisoner…Maynard.” A bitterness hooked his mouth. For a crazy moment, she had a sense of anger churning deep within the ordinarily mild-mannered Wren.

  She looked away, uncomfortable. But the soldier in her was still impressed with this discovery. Deacon class vessels were massive ships, planet-killers. Capturing tech like this could mean a game-changer for the UEC.

  “Explain,” she prodded.

  His damned tablet appeared. He found a new screen. More tables. Graphs. “The drive on this stryker creates a destabilization to the drives on a Eugenes vessel. This in turn triggers a catastrophic failure to the field, ripping it apart on a subatomic level.”

  “Can we use it? Replicate it?”

  “If given time, perhaps…” He parted his hands in a twitching shrug, another very un-Wren-like gesture.

  She got the uneasy sense there was an undercurrent here; she was missing something important. “Why would Eugenes kill their own ship?”

  “An act of sabotage by the pilot. She was the project leader on the weapon’s development. The pirates that claimed this stryker had also taken her hostage. During our team’s insertion, she escaped along with two others.” Wren’s tone flattened. “The ship they took is a type of personal yacht, equipped with an IS drive. That leaves only habitable locations that are IS drive reachable with the resources they had at hand. This narrows the possibilities extensively, were we to pursue them. If you are to agree, that is?”

  “How’re you getting all this?” Snowden studied him. He had too many answers, too quickly. She didn’t like the idea of being led, but liked even worse being left with nothing to show for it when Vesta found out about the loss of cover.

  Miles scowled. “I’ve questioned a surviving Binait female that has offered information in exchange for amnesty.”

  Snowden grunted. Jesus, we’re running a goddamn resort for alien defectors. Although, it would be easy enough to space them once they outlived their usefulness. Saved on ammo.

  She pretended to consider before nodding. “Agreed.”

  They watched the bustle of activity that engulfed the stryker. “This project leader we’re going after got a name?”

  “Erelah Veradin.”

  PART V

  38

  “If’n you gonna sit, you need t’order.”

  The comment fought against the din of tavern. Sela turned from her watch of the door. The server was dressed in a grimy set of coveralls. A lit vine stic
k dangled from one corner of the man’s mouth. The smoke mingled with the smell of unwashed bodies and greasy food in the packed tavern. He could have been thirty or a hundred and thirty; it was difficult to tell beneath the thick layer of tattoos and scars.

  A fusillade of shouts and the crash of breaking glass erupted from the back of the crowded room, followed by desperate drunken laughter. The server didn’t flinch. The yellowed eyes that regarded her were dulled of interest for anything beyond his immediate proximity.

  “Water,” she said.

  He chewed the vine stick. “Got scrip?”

  “Clean water.” She slapped a token onto the pitted surface of the bar, irritated to see some of the hard-won currency depart so quickly. “That doesn’t glow in the dark. Enough for two.”

  The server took the coin and sauntered off, in no great hurry to fulfill the order.

  The air here was bad. Contaminants filled the water. It was a toxic and lasting gift of the long-gone shipbuilding yards that once ran day and night. Brojos had been one of the biggest builders for Fleet and Origin. Now it was dying, like the rest of the Reaches. This place was a limb, severed from the rest of the body. It could only decay.

  Any length of time spent outdoors required filter masks, absurdly expensive. As a result, indoor spaces like this were crowded to bursting.

  She’d spent the morning trying to negotiate a suitable price for the assault boots and econ suit. At first, no one in the grimy market center of Brojos would deal with her, distrustful of a newcomer. Their broken patois of Commonspeak compounded her frustration. Ultimately, she found a salvage dealer willing to broker a deal, resulting in the modest collection of chits resting in the thigh pocket of her shipsuit and the two refurbished filter masks crammed into her day kit.

  The dock fees for Obscrum were too steep. It was Jon’s stroke of inspiration to hide the Cassandra in the rusted-out skeletal remains of a Phaedon class carrier languishing on the settlement’s ragged edges. Without a dock to charge the ship’s batteries or provide potable water, they would have to be inventive with resources. Regardless, it was secure and a means to avoid other parties.