Dark Ice (Mercenaries Book 2)

by A. R. Knight

  A second later that square took a hard dive, turning away from Merc. And then it was visible, the square outlining a small disc-shaped craft, the Omni, that glinted in the sunlight. Designed only for zero-G, Omnis were all guns and thrusters, meant to stop, turn, and swing in any direction the pilot wanted. The other red blip had changed its angle, coming at Merc from the right. But the first one's dive had broken up their attack trajectory, and now the second was playing catch-up. Merc just had to stay far enough ahead.

  Pushing the stick forward, Merc slid the Viper after the first Omni. It lacked the single-direction speed of the Viper, so Merc closed the gap and fired the second the console chimed that he was in optimal range. The Omni glitched left and right, activating those damn jump jets at random. The quick shifts couldn't dodge all the fire, though. Merc saw four hits suck into the Omni and disappear, but the fifth one blew off a piece of its shell.

  Then the fighter stopped. Fired its engines back towards Merc. Angry orange gouts of light sprung out of the fighter as it jetted towards the Viper. Merc, keeping his fire steady, wrenched the stick to the left while twisting his wrist. This sent the Viper launching left and triggered tiny maneuvering jets that spun the Viper like a corkscrew, making it a harder target. As Merc blew by the paused fighter, he saw flashes as the ship's electronics overheated and died. One down.

  Merc glanced at his scanner to see how far behind him the second fighter was. Only, it wasn't far at all. Right on his tail and unleashing hot laser into Merc's aft. The Viper shuddered as a pair of bolts struck home and Merc yanked the stick up, curling out from under the fire. The second Omni shouldn't have been there. No way it was that fast. A glance at the scanner corrected the error. The ship chasing him was the scout, its guns tracking him even as its larger mass made it harder to maneuver. It had corrected faster than Merc thought. Which meant Merc had just curled up into...

  In front of him, boxed in that red square, loomed the other Omni, spewing laser at him. As Merc's stomach dropped into an icy bath, he held his trigger and hoped he had one more miracle left.

  14

  The Karat

  All Viola could hear were alarms. One for the wind shear, tearing at the wings. Another for the shuttle's stability, the changing altitude as the shuttle fell into and out of air pockets. A third one showing Viola was no longer strapped in, which happened when Puk cut her loose after the g-forces tightened the belt and pulled her tight beyond reach of the flight stick. Nearly crushed by a safety feature not designed to handle Neptune's wind storms.

  But they were moving. Sliding around the edge of the whirling mass of deep blue and black, lightning crackling to the right of the shuttle. To the left, a serene, hazy teal captured the sinking sunlight of the day. The dichotomy would have been entrancing, except, you know, the alarms.

  Viola kept the flight stick hard to the right, keeping the shuttle tilted so that the pushing winds propelled it along the border of the storm. Every couple of moments, another air pocket caused Viola's stomach to lurch up to her throat. Davin was yelling something. Had been yelling things, but Viola couldn't hear a word. Responding to the chaos, her brain shut things out one by one. Noises fell away, the rapid heartbeat faded, and even the perception of herself drifted away until Viola could only feel the flight stick, the tremors running through the shuttle as it struggled to hold itself together. She felt where the shuttle was being shoved, followed the wind gusts and fought others, all to stay targeted on the Karat.

  They neared the back of the storm. Viola could see the rounding of the violence, a ridged line between Heaven and Hell. In the far distance beyond, another pair of storms played on the horizon. Between them was the goal. Viola angled for it, catching one more burst of wind that shoved the shuttle towards open space.

  And then they were in free fall. Viola flying up out of her seat, only a death grip on the flight stick keeping her from hitting the ceiling. Viola could tell she was screaming, but couldn't hear it. Davin, still in place with his straps, grabbed her wrist and tried to pull her down. The numbers on their altitude sped towards zero, the alarm blaring louder. Viola tried to tug up on the stick, but there wasn't any air the shuttle could push against.

  A violent lurch, the shuttle picked out of the sky by an invisible hand, Viola saw the world spin around and turn to dark as the shuttle was flung into the storm. Through the outer edge and into a temporary moment of calm, lightning flashing around the shuttle. The center of the storm. Viola fell back into her seat. Take a breath, take a breath.

  "You all right?" Davin's voice rose above the silence.

  "It's going to hurt later," Came Viola's reply. "We have to get out of here before the storm cooks us."

  "You've got my permission, if that's what you're waiting for."

  Viola wasn't, but that was because she wasn't sure what to do. Fly right back out into that tornado? That air pocket? Try cutting through the storm and risk the lightning? This wasn't anything she'd done before. Nothing she'd trained for.

  Viola moved the stick to the right, aiming deeper into the storm. As if sensing her path, a sheet of lightning turned everything in front of them into white.

  "That looks less than good," Davin said.

  "Statistically I've got nothing," Puk said. "Nobody's gathered information on Neptune lightning properties."

  "Quiet," Viola snapped.

  The flight plan put the struggling shuttle only a few straight-shot seconds from the outer band of the storm, where the winds picked up again for one final assault. Any fuel gains from using the wind to swing around were eliminated by the cut-through they were doing, where Viola had to pump more energy to the engines to fight the pull of the storm's internal flux. If they hit no other catastrophes, the shuttle might make it to the Karat with enough fuel to start its engines again, but not much else.

  Their only way back to space was the Karat.

  Lightning flashed outside again. A twanging crack came a moment later from right of the shuttle. Metal snapping. Viola recognized the sound from the many stress tests she'd run on small components built during school experiments and looked away from the storm to the console. It showed a diagram of the shuttle, with the right wing shaded a deep yellow and pulsing. Then she felt the drag, the listing as the shuttle tilted right.

  “Lost the right wing,” Davin said. "We'll have to—”

  "Increase power to the engines to stabilize, I know," Viola said, boosting their speed. "We're about to get tossed around. Then we have to hotfoot it to the Karat."

  "Were we taking the slow route before?"

  "I'm saying we might not make it."

  The speed kicked the shuttle forward. Viola waited for the opposite spin, or something to yank the shuttle away, but it stayed straight. The entire wing might not be gone, then. A chance, still, to make it through.

  The winds picked up again, roaring around the shuttle and rocking them around. This time, though, Viola was expecting the pushes, the grabs and the falls of Neptune's weather. They bounced, they tumbled, and they did a number of half-rolls that had Viola scared the shuttle would drop straight into a nose dive. After what felt like hours but, according to the computer, was less than a minute they were out. Back in the teal fog, pushed by gentler winds, Viola took a breath.

  "Nice job, kid," Davin said. "Looks like the Karat's straight ahead."

  Davin was right. Between the twin storms up front there was a small shape. Keeping pace with those storms would help disguise the Karat's movements, make it harder to intercept.

  "Should we try to talk to it?" Viola said.

  "Not like they won't see us coming," Davin said. "And who knows, maybe we'll find a few friends on there."

  Viola turned on the comm and tried sending a greeting, but met with silence. Not even an acknowledging click.

  "Flip to the short-range radio," Davin said. "Their comm might be damaged."

  Viola nodded. Every ship had your standard radio transmitter as a back-up comm system. Less complicated, with
no real way to choose a specific target, blasting a radio signal was still a viable way to get help in an emergency. Viola toggled the radio on. A loud static burst shot through the shuttle, pulsing in crackling waves.

  "Turn it off!" Davin yelled, hands over his ears.

  Viola reached for the toggle, was about to hit it when the static paused, then pulsed again. Viola gave it a moment, listening, albeit painfully, as the static continued to sound in waves. That wasn't normal. Radio static should be continuous. Davin tried to reach for the switch, but Viola hit his hand away, still listening.

  "I think it's a pattern," Viola said over the noise.

  Opal's head appeared in the cockpit, sticking in through the entryway.

  "Don't know what you two are doing up here, but someone's trying to talk to us," Opal said. "That static is Morse code. And it's saying run."

  15

  Interrogation

  Phyla didn't know what was happening and it was driving her crazy. She couldn't see what was going on with Merc, and half the time wasn't able to get info from Erick because Quinn had her talking with one of the Amerigo crew members. They'd already met three of them and within a few questions to each one, Quinn shook his head and pull her away. Apparently the man could read people, tell if they were hiding something or if they were even nervous, which made Phyla feel entirely ornamental.

  "Why do you even need me?" Phyla said as they walked along a corridor. "You seem like you got this."

  "If you're setting a trap, best not let your prey see you doing it," Quinn replied.

  Setting the trap. Okay, buddy.

  They went around a corner and entered the freighter's main engine room. A pair of dirty-looking scrubs were keeping tabs on the freighter's power systems and the ship's speed, which right now was a slow crawl meant to keep the freighter more or less above the Karat.

  "Hi, I'm Phyla," The Jumper's pilot announced. "Things all good back here?"

  "Hey Quinn," The taller of the two said. He was sporting a thick corporate work-suit that was both over-protective and impractical. A massive belt hung around his waist, sporting more tools than Phyla had ever seen Trina carry. It also held the man's waist-length hair, tied into a tight tail. Phyla would've considered that a risk for her own mechanic, but maybe Eden didn't give a damn. "What's she doing back here?"

  "Taking a tour, Van," Quinn said. "You hear we have enemies in-system?"

  "You mean, did we hear the alarms?" Van said. "Cause they were so deafening we couldn't hear much else."

  The short one, whose hair was hidden under a stained, deep green hat, leaned back against the wall. The way he stared at Phyla had her doing a double-take. It wasn't in the usual sketchbook of stares men tossed her way, but a lazy look of indifference. Like Phyla might give to a chair she didn't intend to use. Or a tissue as it went in the trash.

  "Why'd you come way back here to ask us?" Van continued. "Think we're going to run?"

  "How would you do that?" Quinn replied.

  "What do you mean? I'd cut the power to everything that wasn't essential and send it to the engines. Blow us out of here real quick,” Van said. "There's patrolled space around Uranus."

  Patrolled by corporate-sponsored crews. Phyla had taken the Jumper on a wide course around Uranus, not hard to do since it didn't cross paths much with Neptune. Despite not having any true authority, the Free Laws handed the deepest pockets the opportunity to carve out their own empires wherever the Earth nations didn't bother.

  "So you'd take us all with you?" Quinn asked.

  "Easy," Phyla said, putting a hand on Quinn's arm. Van looked at both of them, confused.

  "They think you're gonna sell out the ship," The short one muttered.

  "For what, Slip?" Van said, twisting around to look at his coworker. "You think I want coin? Way out here?"

  "Nah, I think they're stupid," Slip said. "We didn't know where we were even flying. How would we have planned anything?"

  "Wait, his name is Slip?" Phyla looked at the short one. "Slip? Really?"

  "Earned that one," Slip said, standing up a straighter. "Cause I can get in anywhere, fix anything on these boats. What's your name?"

  "Phyla?" Phyla replied.

  "That's a strange name too. How'd you get that one?" Slip said.

  "Birth?"

  "And you think mine's weird. At least I chose it," Slip re-crossed his arms.

  Phyla shrugged. What could she say to that?

  "Okay. Well," Van said, coming to the rescue. "We're not Eden's normal cargo division. We're special. Or, this ship is. Deep space missions, with experimental stuff. We almost never know where we're going."

  Phyla glanced at Quinn, who nodded.

  "It's true," Quinn said. "Few of the crew members knew the final destination. And most of those are on the Karat."

  "You're saying there might not be another up here?"

  "Another what?" Van asked.

  "Sell-out," Slip said. "That's who they're looking for."

  "Thanks," Quinn said, turning and walking back down the hallway. Phyla paused a moment, matched Van's bewildered stare with a shrug while ignoring a dour look from the Slip, and then took off after the bodyguard.

  "What was that?" Phyla said as she caught up to Quinn, who was heading towards the freighter's crew quarters. "We didn't even get very far. Slip seemed weird."

  "He's always like that," Quinn said. "And he's right. I didn't think about it, but the only ones who could arrange anything would have known we were coming here. I have the list of who knew our destination, but it's in my quarters."

  "Don't you use a comm?"

  "Too easy to hack," Quinn said. "The other comm's secure. Low tech."

  "And you're not carrying it on you?"

  “Do you carry everything you own all the time?” Quinn said.

  "I'm just saying—”

  "Nobody else on this ship knows about that comm. If I wore it around, there'd be questions," Quinn said. "Besides, anyone tries to get in my room, I'll know."

  Phyla pictured a slew of traps. Alarms, sure, but Quinn probably had something better. A stunning shot sent as soon as the door opened. An exotic animal hellbent on tearing apart any intruder.

  "So what's the plan?" Phyla said, pulling herself back to the present.

  "We get that list, cross reference with everyone still one the ship, and then we'll know whether we have anyone left to talk to."

  "You think we have that time?" Phyla said, glancing at her comm. Erick's latest message said Merc was engaged with the fighters, that he was outnumbered. "Because right now, my guy out there could use some help."

  "You're being paid," Quinn's dry reply. Phyla was angry for a hot second, about to lay into the bodyguard for being insensitive, but she caught herself. Quinn was right. They were being paid and given their choice of occupation, terrible situations often found the Wild Nines. But that didn't mean she had to accept it.

  "Not to die," Phyla said. "You get your list. I'm heading back to my ship and out to help my pilot."

  "Fine," Quinn said.

  The docking bays were back towards the front of the freighter, near the bridge. She made it three steps before she felt a hand on her shoulder, and saw a sidearm being handed to her.

  "You're unarmed. Take this," Quinn said.

  "I've got plenty back at the Jumper," Phyla replied, pushing the small weapon away.

  "You might not make it there."

  16

  Reflex

  In combat, a pilot has to make innumerable decisions every second. How fast to go, which way to turn, whether to fire or not. Merc had made all those calls over and over again. But when he saw the Omni in front of his Viper, waiting to blow him into scattered matter, Merc flinched. Floating in space above Europa. The burning agony of the laser shot. Black closing in around his eyes.

  Not again.

  Merc snapped the Viper down, away from the Omni, a pair of shots skipping off the Viper's shields. Then the scout ship, screaming after
the Viper but not able to match the turn, cut in between the two of them.

  Merc shifted the shields to cover the Viper's rear and shot towards the frigate, hanging away from the fight. Long and narrow, with a bank of engines at the end and a series of wing-like shoots spreading out from the central shaft. Turrets sprinkled along the ship, bumps criss-crossing the surface. Hope they weren't ready for a fighter to go screaming past, or they'd fill the sky with so much fire the Viper would just vanish. Merc pushed all the energy from the lasers to the engines, kicking up his velocity.

  "Doin' what I can for you, baby," Merc muttered.

  Then he started to juke, twitching the Viper at random as the frigate opened up. The attack was sporadic, they didn't want to risk hitting their own ships still tailing the Viper. The scout ship and fighter had the same issue. Shoot and miss, and they'd pound the frigate. But one of them would hit Merc eventually.

  The Viper approached the bow of the big ship, slipped over the top. The ridged neck of the craft spread out below him, boxes and bumps for sensors, shields, and communications riddling the smooth gray plating. In front of Merc, that big bank of engines loomed like a metal mountain. Across its surface, a dozen large guns rotated, drawing beads on the Viper.

  Last time, near Europa, this frigate hadn't been armed. Used harpoon turrets. Merc glanced at the console, at the readout of weapons on the ship. Almost every gun was different, a model yanked from another ship, or a scrap pile and jury-rigged to fit on this one.

  Explained why they were missing so much. When the weapons all fired at different times, turned at different speeds, made it hard to line up a shot.

  And they were too slow. Merc pulled back on the stick, sending the Viper up and over the engines.