Dark Ice (Mercenaries Book 2)

by A. R. Knight

  Back at the elevator, Mox heard them cutting away the ruined floor. Chunks of tiling, broken up by the bomb, dropped away as someone armed with a las-cutter made a hole. One sidearm in each hand, both set for stunning. It used less energy than the killing shots, and with the time Mox had, it'd be almost as good. Besides, his fists could always end things later.

  The first hand appeared, gripping the outer edge of the elevator. Gloved like a mechanic, thick and gripped. Probably the one with the las-cutter. Mox shifted out of view. Better to let them get fully out. Surprise the group before they could react.

  Softer noises now as at least another two clambered out of the hole, supporting themselves in the remains of the elevator. Mox tightened his grip. A quick one-two-three. Inhale. Go.

  Stepped around the corner, the angle widening and bringing three hijackers into view. Each one sporting the same outfit, a thick working garb that looked ready to withstand temperature extremes. Full helmets with masks covering their faces, great to keep themselves safe from cold, wind. Mox pulled the triggers, the sidearms blasting blue-purple bolts into the bulky suits and doing nothing.

  "Sorry, mate," The lead one, holding a sidearm of his own, said. "No luck with those."

  Then he raised his sidearm and Mox saw a flash, then nothing.

  32

  Wind

  Viola had never been on Earth, never seen one of the tornadoes that terrorized small towns in movies. She'd seen the great red spot, the storm blowing its way for centuries across the surface of Jupiter. Storms were a concept she had, but Ganymede, a moon with only a light, human-generated atmosphere, had none. So when Viola dropped from the docking bay onto the Karat's exterior and felt the wind tug at her like an enraged vacuum, she stood for a minute and embraced nature's beating.

  Even with the only real light coming from her suit, a lamp embedded in her upper chest, the darkness itself grabbing at her, Viola laughed. A helpless laughter, one tinged with knowing if the tether snapped, the space suit failed, or Neptune decided it wanted her dead, there was nothing she could do about it. Still, here she was, in one of the most violent natural environments humanity had ever encountered. Best get to exploring it.

  The tether glowed green, still attached up where Davin was standing. He was probably wondering if Viola had fallen off the ship. Neptune's gravity, as strong as Earth's, helped keep Viola on the sloping side of the Karat, like walking on a hillside. Not enough to keep Viola going when things went full vertical, but for now? Viola took a step, then another. The wind pushed back against her, but at an angle. Like moving through syrup, or rushing water. Every motion a physics problem.

  "I'm moving aft," Viola spoke into her comm, already set to short-range and Davin's personal frequency. "It's a bit breezy."

  "Copy. Keep it safe out there," The space suit played Davin's voice into her ears, where Viola could hear it over Neptune's roar.

  Viola kept moving till the Karat started its downward slope, curving towards a drop-off and, eventually, those intakes. They were staying parallel with the bay, where the hull was as flat as possible. She went out with her right foot, then found she couldn't go any further. Time for the first tethering. The piece with the magnetic attachment flopped behind her suit. Viola grabbed it, crouched, and jammed the magnet against the Karat's hull. Designed for use in space, Viola wasn't sure how they'd perform in Neptune's harsher climate, but after a second the tether flashed blue.

  "Ready to go?" Viola commed.

  "Getting ready to detach . . . now," Davin replied.

  Viola gripped her end of the tether. The most dangerous part. Her linked end would give Davin plenty of hold if a gust of wind blew him in the wrong direction. Viola wasn't sure how the magnet would hold up under Davin's body weight and the planet's wind snapping the man away from the ship. The Karat's hull was smooth. Nothing to tie the tether to. So Viola held on as the tether flipped from blue to green, and waited.

  "You weren't kidding about the wind," Davin commed a few minutes later. "Remind me never to come here for a vacation."

  "Right now it's not bad," Viola said. "I'm clocking it at a little over seventy kilometers an hour. Neptune can get way over ten times that."

  Puk would've had the stats for her right away, but they'd left the bot back at the shuttle. Its little jets wouldn't have been able to keep up with the wind. Now that Viola thought about it, this was the first time she'd really been away from Puk since she'd taken her father's ship off Ganymede. Standing there, with nothing other than a splash of metal-green hull visible from the suit's lamp and all the rage of Neptune out beyond, she wished the bot were there, saying something sarcastic.

  "You're saying I should hurry?" Davin replied.

  "Yes," Viola said. "There's no chance we're not swept away if one of those two storms comes close."

  Davin appeared like a ghost. A yellow-white light filtering through the black and suddenly an arm was grabbing hers. Viola turned as Davin stamped his magnet and the tether went blue.

  "I'm going over the side this time," Viola said as she coiled the tether. "Should be able to make it to the intakes, if we're lucky."

  Popping off her magnet, Viola walked the sloping hull. She had to stick her feet, planting them to get whatever grip the hull could offer. A few steps after that, Viola held the tether tight in her hands. Released a bit more with every footfall.

  "How's it holding?" Viola commed.

  "Looks green to me. I've got a grip on it too," Davin replied.

  Yeah, like Davin would be able to hold her on the ship if the magnet failed. But if that happened, they'd both go flying off anyway. Viola had spent her entire life dependent on technology for survival. Ganymede required scrubbers to keep oxygen in the air. Radiation shielding to keep Viola's genetic material from fraying into oblivion. Here, though, with that magnet the only thing keeping her alive, Viola wished for more redundant systems. Maybe a jet pack. Or the shuttle, so long as she was dreaming.

  The edge of the hull sat before her, something Viola only saw because her lamp light petered out into nothingness rather than reflecting light. Viola supposed what came next would be like mountain climbing, bracing her feet and hopping down the side. She'd done it once as a virtual-reality exercise.

  "You ever done this before?" Viola said. "Climbed the side of a ship?"

  "Sure, dozens of times," Davin replied. "Just never one this big. At night. In a windstorm."

  "Any tips?"

  "Don't fall?"

  "Thanks," Viola took a deep breath. "Here I go."

  Because she'd already been supported entirely by the tether, Viola didn't feel a big change in how her weight was distributed. Still very dependent on that rope. Only as she dropped, the wind pushed her back towards the ship. The tether caught on the lip of the hull, the pointed aft end of the oval, and Viola hung in space. The blowing wind treated her like a pendulum, shoving her forward until Viola's weight overpowered the wind's push and sent her rocking back. Every time this happened, Viola released a little more of the tether, dropping a few more meters down.

  "Feels like I'm in my own world," Viola commed. It could have just been a thought, but Viola really, really needed the sound of a voice. Her lamp caught nothing, and while Viola could feel the wind pushing, could feel the rocking of the pendulum, there was no sign of where she was. Vertigo snatched at her, causing her mind to spin and churn, unable to figure out where she was or how fast she was moving.

  Rock back. Inhale. Drop a few more meters as she swings forward. Exhale. Swing back. Repeat.

  Until, on a forward swing, Viola's lamp hit something that wasn't Neptune's air. It was black, but solid. Coated with dust. Viola had a second to look at it before the pendulum effect brought her back. Only this time, instead of dropping, Viola held steady until the wind shoved her forward again and took a clearer look.

  "I'm there."

  "The intakes?" Davin replied.

  "Think so. I' m going to let loose on the next swing."

 
Brief visions of action movies, the film stars jumping from ship to ship, building to building, swinging through vast jungles. How many of them would have been able to pull this off? Let the remaining coil of the tether out at the apex of the swing and launch into the intake?

  "If I miss this, tell everyone I tried," Viola said.

  "Just don't miss it," Davin replied.

  "I'll keep that in mind. Here goes."

  The wind shoved Viola forward again, one more long arc through the black. The lamp caught the edge of the intake as Viola swung up, and she let the coil loose. For the first time, Viola felt the brief weightlessness of free flight, the release from Neptune's clutches. The question was, where would she land?

  33

  Escape

  Where were they going to escape to? Phyla kept replaying that question and not finding a good answer. There wasn't a habitable space station for millions of kilometers, the closest one she knew of being a research outpost near Uranus. The odds of other ships passing by this deep were almost nil, and that's assuming those ships wouldn't run at the first sign of a hostile force.

  "What's your plan?" Phyla said. "A shuttle would be suicide."

  "As an escape, yes," Quinn replied, continuing to jog through the hallways. "As a back door into the main bays, perhaps not."

  "You want to land on the other side of the freighter and, what, hijack one of their ships?"

  "I'm glad you're not as simple as most mercenaries."

  "Was that a compliment?" Phyla said between breaths, running behind the Eden agent.

  "Yes."

  Quinn held up a hand as they reached the next corner and Phyla stopped before rounding the wall.

  "The shuttles are around the next side. It sounds like we're not the only ones with this idea."

  "Oh, I think we're probably the only ones with your idea," Phyla muttered. Listening, she heard the beeps and shifts as someone prepped a shuttle for launch. Launching the small craft would require a passcode entry, followed by a short series of prep steps. In a true emergency, the ship's computer could remove the lock and warm up the engines. With Gage on the bridge, though, there was no way that was happening.

  "If they're getting it ready to go, then they must be crew. The invaders wouldn't know the passcode," Phyla said.

  "Point. I'll go first."

  Quinn went around the corner, rifle raised. Phyla followed, giving herself distance. Around the corner the hallway widened into a broad rectangle, with the right half, facing back into the body of the freighter, covered in racks of emergency supplies, space suits, and other gear necessary if one wanted to make a sudden interstellar jaunt. A series of benches served as intermediaries between the right and left halves, with the left wall sporting four airlocks, each one only large enough for single-file entry. The shuttles were on the other sides.

  As Quinn moved into the room, he snapped his rifle up and looked about to squeeze off a shot when he paused, staring to the right, where Phyla couldn't see.

  "So you're who Gage is working for," Quinn said.

  "We all have our masters," Came the reply, a lilting voice that sounded like a clarinet played through a waterfall. Distorted. "I would know yours."

  "Doesn't matter," Quinn said. "Think I can shoot you before your pals can get their arms up?"

  Phyla didn't hear a reply, didn't see a gesture, but Quinn pulled the trigger. His gun sent out a series of shots and Phyla took the moment to swerve around the corner, ducking below Quinn's firing line and searching for a target. Arrayed against the back wall, supply lockers behind them, was a trio of enemies. Quinn shot at the center figure, a larger, thin man. The target's face covered in twisting, roping scars. The two flanking him wore the same mishmash of fabric, random accessories, looking more like piles of junk than real people. Quinn's shots hit the scarred one, but vanished as they homed in, dissipating as those sucked into a black hole.

  "Portable shield," Phyla said, aiming at the one of the other targets. They weren't moving, but Phyla didn't argue with a sitting duck. Her rifle went off and, once again, the laser seemed to disappear as it closed in on the guard.

  "They're not all shielded," Quinn said, lowering the rifle slightly. "That'd be too expensive."

  "Eden, always thinking the only currency is coin," The scarred man said, then held up his right hand.

  The two flanking members of the trio swept open their clothes, stitched together into robes. Beneath, each one held a twin-pronged device that looked a like a large fork. Before either Phyla or Quinn could move, the forks shot lightning, a white-blue spasm that flashed between through the space between them and crashed with a twitching force. Phyla dropped her rifle as her arms and legs contracted and stretched at random. Quinn felt next to her, writhing on the hard floor.

  Phyla had been stunned before, felt the numbing loss of contact with her own nerves. As though her arms, her hands belonged to another body. This was the opposite, all her nerves on fire and activating at once. There wasn't any controlling it. Her mind overwhelmed by the commands coming in from every corner of her body. Even her eyes blinked rapidly. Her lungs gasped for breath after breath, barely starting an inhale before forcing it back out again. Toes curled and opened while her calves tightened as though for a jump, then relaxed again.

  "For livestock," The middle man said. "So much more effective than a stunner. I trust you see why."

  Gradually Phyla gripped her own body, and understood. Stunners often knocked their victims out, if only through heads slamming to the floor in surprise. They were also less effective if you trained to subvert them, to know how to move without feeling your own limbs. That, and stunners were obvious. The forks didn't look like sidearms, didn't look like they could cause disaster.

  "Gage told me you are the most dangerous person on board," The man said. "Eden really has become fat and careless if you're all they can afford."

  "Who are you?" Quinn asked, sitting up.

  "Be careful," The man said, walking forward. "Sudden movers have a way of finding themselves shocked."

  "That's not answering my question."

  "You can call me Bakr," The man as he leaned over Phyla. Staring up into his face, those dark brown eyes framed by red, angry scars. The random horror of a severe burn, an injury Phyla saw plenty growing up in Vagrant's Hollow. People playing with scrap machines, trying to turn trash into treasure and torching themselves when it went wrong.

  Bakr' s own mishmash robe was a patchwork of whites and grays, cloth fashioned from a dirty blizzard. The light colors played against the burned body to play with Phyla's eyes so she almost didn't see the clothes, just the flayed arms, hands, and head floating on their own.

  "And who's paying you?" Quinn continued.

  "Ah, the Eden man lacks politeness. Acquires a name but does not give his own," Bakr said, stepping over Phyla to Quinn. "For shame."

  Bakr kicked, his right foot swinging forward and connecting with Quinn's head. The bodyguard fell back, hitting the floor. Silent.

  "What do you want?" Phyla said. She could feel the fire dying in her nerves. She could move if she had to. Could reach out, grab the rifle, and maybe roll to a shooting stance before Bakr could get to her. The man's two guards weren't doing anything, just standing there with those shocking tines displayed. Bakr might have to command them. In which case, if she could get the drop on him . . .

  "You're not Eden, are you?" Bakr said, moving back to her. "Don't have the attitude, the look you've signed your soul away."

  "My soul away? Who talks like that?"

  Keep his attention on the words. On anything other than her eyes, measuring the distance to her dropped rifle. Her tensed muscles, getting ready for the roll.

  "Someone who has spent far too many years riding the desert of space," Bakr replied, the lyric tone swinging low. "But if you are not Eden, then you must be one of the others. The extra security. Like the pilot who tried to attack us earlier."

  "Give the man a prize," Phyla said.


  "I already have mine. And, unfortunately, you are not it."

  As Bakr's foot came forward in another kick, Phyla rolled away from it. Her left hand reached out as she completed the roll, gripping the trigger and, twisting her shoulders, pulling it back across her body and pointing it right in Bakr's angry face.

  "Too bad," Phyla said, and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. The rifle clicked, and no laser appeared. Bakr didn't vanish in a burst of fiery energy.

  "Yes, too bad indeed," Bakr replied. "Do you know your weapon requires a catalyst? A burst of electricity to actually form the laser?"

  Phyla opened her mouth for a crack, but Bakr's left hand shot out and gripped her throat. With far too much ease, Bakr straightened, pulling Phyla up with him.

  "My friends here, their tools shock. Trip and trigger the nerves like so many piano keys in a concerto," Bakr dragged Phyla across the floor, towards the escape shuttle doors. "Your guns are no different."

  In front of one of the shuttle pads, hand still around Phyla's throat, Bakr tapped a series of buttons on the keypad. The door beeped, spun, and then split in the middle to open the airlock to the escape shuttle. Phyla tried to talk, but with Bakr's hand around her throat, she couldn't do much more than suck bits of air through her nose. Bakr swung his arm forward, then released, throwing Phyla into the shuttle. She hit the cushioning with a soft thud, hand going to her neck and rubbing away the impressions dug in by Bakr's bony fingers.

  “Neptune is a harsh planet,” Bakr said, his hand continuing to type on the keypad. Beyond opening the door, the keypads could also set coordinates, important for sending people less versed in astronavigation off of the freighter. "I hope you find it welcoming."