by A. R. Knight
Opal had gone to Miner Prime to avoid those situations, to stay out of the sights of someone else's rifle. But here she was, staring through a scope. Finger near a trigger that Opal knew, knew she’d be pulling before the day was out.
Except, not here, because Davin was waving at her to get moving. Opal stood up, pressing a button on the side of the rifle’s stock that changed the magnetism holding the various parts together. The weapon collapsed into a small cluster, connected through one strand of flexible metal that ran through all of them. Made the weapon easy to carry, easy to hide.
“We were telling your colleagues we’re expecting a ship,” the woman said. “It should land in a few minutes, I believe in bay five. We’ll want your help to search it.”
“For what?” Opal said.
“Evidence that Marl’s got more going on than building Eden Prime’s business,” Davin said.
“She’d have too much to lose,” Opal said. “Eden Prime’s growing. Why risk it?”
The woman, Clare, gave Opal a small smile, and sighed. Opal knew that stance, seen it plenty of times in the military. Meant Opal was missing something obvious.
“Eden has too much invested in Eden Prime,” Ward said, his voice a high whistle.“We're here to see whether Marl shares that sentiment,”
“Love me a good tale of corporate intrigue,” Davin said. “But why don’t we get you two where you need to go, so you can leave before someone shoots you and costs me a contract.”
“The man has a point,” Clare said, putting her hand on Ward’s shoulder and giving him a gentle push forward.
This time as they walked into the hall, it was Mox in front and Opal at the rear. The big man covered a large part of the hallway, enough for Clare and Ward to stay behind him. A glance down the long corridor showed only a few skiffs being cleared out by two workers. No crowds. No bustling bots. It wasn’t late enough for Eden Prime to be slowing down.
“Ready up,” Opal said, pulling her sidearm, a better choice in the tight confines of the corridor, from her waist holster. “It's too quiet.”
“Phyla, can you get me any info on why the bays have gone ghost town? I’ve got a pair of —” Davin spoke into his comm, glancing at Clare and Ward. “Pets here that I’d rather not lose if it’s going to get dicey.”
“Pets?” Clare asked, turning back to Opal.
“People might be listening,” Opal replied.
“I’m digging, but there’s no news. No alerts,” Phyla’s voice came over the comm.
“Love it when bad situations get worse,” Davin said. “Let’s keep going. Get to the Jumper and we can re-assess.”
“No,” Clare said. “Bay five. Now.”
“Lucky for you, we’ll go past it on the way,” Davin said. “You look carefully, you might get a peek.”
They resumed walking forward, Opal hanging farther and farther back. Ambushes were harder when the targets weren’t close together. Think, Opal. Tactics. Here in this base, the atmosphere still thin, explosions were a dangerous game. Ripping a hole would cause the bays to de-pressurize. Cause the breathable air to escape. No trade, no cash flow, for days until Marl could repair the hole. That meant small arms. Direct fire.
Opal could see the corridor, all its polished, empty expanse. Someone would have to run down the hallway to attack, giving the Nines plenty of time to react. Unless the attackers were already in one of the bays.
“Mox, go ahead,” Opal said. “I’ll cover the hall, you check the bays as we get to each one.”
Mox nodded and,with his heavy jog, went forward to bay six. As the metal man approached the gate to the bay, the wide double-doors, Mox gripped the cannon and sidestepped in front. The cannon’s business-end pointed through into bay six, and Opal waited for Mox to fire away. Wanted it to happen. When the action started, Opal knew she’d be fine. Now it was ice and nerves.
“Clear?” Davin asked, standing between Mox and their charges.
“Looks normal,” Mox said. “Mako’s there. Still working.”
“Can we trust him?” Opal asked.
The answer to that was always no. Never trust. What if Marl found Mako’s button? Some new ship to tear apart, maybe, or a shop on the main boulevard through the base? Something tempting enough for Mako to sell them out.
“He’s safe,” Davin said. “Don’t worry.”
Opal shook her head. Stop it. This wasn’t Mars. This wasn’t the Red Voice.
They passed by Mako’s bay, heading towards the gate to bay five. Nobody talked, and Opal didn’t change that. Aside from the omnipresent hum of Eden Prime’s inner workings, the only sound was the tap, tap, tap of Ward’s cane on the ground.
Mox hit the gate first, glancing around the side, then stepping in front of the doors. Davin moved to join Mox, holding up a palm to Opal. No rifle needed. At least, not yet. Clare and Ward gathered behind the two of them while Opal kept her eyes going back and forth down the corridor.
“Open the gate,” Clare said.
“What’s on that ship?” Davin asked.
“That’s what we’re here to find out.”
Opal couldn’t tell. What ship? What was beyond the gate? Davin swiped his badge, and the doors slid open. They walked in and Opal followed, keeping distance. Finally, she turned around the edge of the door and saw a ship that hadn’t been there earlier. Bigger than Clare’s, but still small for a cargo hauler, this one had the sleek look of a courier craft. Speed and luxury, meant to crate people and their luggage, or a prime piece of product, from one planet to another with minimal delay.
The faint odor of ionized gas, the slight sting to the nose, wafted Opal’s way as she walked into the bay. A clear indicator the engines only recently turned off.
“They’re still on board,” Opal said.
Mox and Davin glanced at her and nodded. They already knew that, but Opal had no such guarantee about Clare and Ward. Unlike bay seven, five stayed busy and the usual necessities littered the area. Fuel cells, a skiff for loading heavier stuff, crates for cargo. Plenty of things to hide behind.
“You two might want to take cover,” Davin said, sharing Opal’s sentiment. “Or am I getting the wrong vibe here? That this ship isn't friendly?”
“Depends on Marl,” Clare said, Ward nodded. They stood loose, calm.If they thought this might be a trap, why weren’t they treating it like one?
“Let’s play it safe then,” Davin said. “How about you go over there?”
Davin pointed to a stack of crates near the bay's corner. Clare and Ward didn't argue and took cover. Opal went to the opposite side of the two, near a pile of fuel cells. Slid her finger along the barrel of the rifle, tapping a button that sent out a magnetic charge, snapping all the pieces into place.
Opal leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the top of one cell, and looked through her scope. Mox put himself dead center, a massive target that could dish back everything and more. Davin took a spot near Clare and Ward, standing between them and the gate.
The waiting was always the hardest part. A sniper, Opal sat for hours, each breath a careful in and out to keep her aim from moving. Ready to fire at any moment. The tension growing with each second until, like a frog being boiled, something moved and the stillness shattered with cacophonous destruction.
The ship made a noise. A grinding sound. Systems powering up. With a sudden jerk, a rectangle two meters tall shifted open in the bottom of the ship. A ramp, thinner and meant for people. And a foot was the first thing that appeared. Booted. Joined by the second foot a moment later, they descended. Opal saw calves, thighs, no holster on the waist. A snap back up the stairs through the scope,but there wasn’t another.
“Stop,” Mox announced as the person reached the bottom steps. “Move and die.”
The person stood still, hands resting near the sidearm on his waist. He was wearing an older, mismatched uniform. Like someone who’d raided a company’s dirty laundry chute. Opal didn’t recognize the faded brands, but the style of uniform was fa
miliar. The sloppy getup contrasted with the easy grin on the man’s face, the relaxed muscles. The guy stared death in the face and grinned. Opal tightened her finger on the rifle’s trigger. No fear made someone dangerous.
“So, is that the usual way you greet people on Eden Prime?” the spacer said. “Cause that’s not very polite.”
“Sorry,” Mox said.
“I didn’t ask for an apology, but thanks. Now, I’ve got work to do, so if you wouldn’t mind?”
“What type of work?” Clare asked, stepping out from her cover and moving next to Davin.
“Well, that’s just the thing. It’s work that doesn’t need spectators. Or people asking questions. Why’d you say you were in this bay, again?”
The man’s hand twitched, his smile grew a centimeter. A tell. The spacer faced overwhelming odds, but he would draw the minute Clare answered his question. Opal pressed on the trigger when a shot flashed. Lasers were always soundless, except for the screams they extracted from a hit. The spacer fell back,down, smoke rising from his chest. Opal looked up from the scope and saw Clare holding Davin’s sidearm, pointing it at the spacer.
“Whoa! Hey!” Davin yelled, yanking his gun back from Clare. “That was a nice conversation.”
“You see those clothes?” Clare said. “That’s the proof we needed. And now we have to run.”
“Proof of what?” Davin asked, but Clare was pulling him along towards the gate.
Ward, the man Opal had last seen plodding with a cane, had picked it up and was holding it like a weapon, aiming the point around like it was going to spit lasers. Which, Opal realized, it might. As Clare made it to the gate, Mox back-pedaling to join them, she paused. Opal expected the doors to open. As they should. But they stayed shut. Trapped.
“Phyla, we need the gate to bay five open,” Opal said into the comm on the left wrist.
“On it,” Phyla said. As the hired security for the base, they had the codes for the doors. Should’ve taken only a couple seconds, but those seconds passed and the door stayed closed.
The ship rattled suddenly, its ramp retracting. The engines spooled up. Opal shifted the scope, looked at the contours of the small ship. Deep in those recesses were nozzles, barrels ready to fire. In tight quarters, the ship could fry all of them in seconds.
“Mox! That ship has weapons!” Opal said.
“Phyla, we need this door open!” Davin said into his comm. Clare and Ward shifted away from the captain, towards the crates.The only chance they had was—
Mox’s cannon ripped a hole in the world, the slap-screech of the rotating barrels heating and spitting bolts, dozens of them, echoing around the metal walls of the bay. The white lines struck the ship which was now a meter off the ground, and burrowed deep into the hull. Black marks riddled the front as Mox arced the cannon towards the various divots, which were opening as the ship brought its weapons on line.
Opal, looking through her scope, lined up on an opening where a small gray nozzle was shifting forward, and fired. The rifle sent a blue bolt, not as hot as Mox’s shots, that struck the nozzle and blew it off in a shower of sparks.
The cannon was doing its job. At this range, and without the ship having time to charge a shield, the front of the craft disintegrated under Mox’s waves of energy. A key shot blew apart a piece of armor plating covering the cockpit. Thick glass still sat there, used as a view-port when the ship wasn’t being attacked.
Opal could make out someone moving back and forth, arms pressing at buttons. She centered the scope on the figure. One good shot and this was over.
And Ward took it. That cane of his blasting a long, slow wave of red-orange that arced onto the glass of the cockpit and ate its way through it. A plasma sprayer. Opal hadn’t seen one of those in years. Old-fashioned, slow, but effective. The ship shuddered under the assault, its jets popping off and on as power cables melted and rerouted.
Mox’s cannon paused, overheated and needing to cool itself for the next salvo. Behind the melting plasma, the shape still moved in the cockpit. Crazy to stay there. The plasma would melt through at any moment, destroy the console. But Opal raised her scope, lined up the shape, saw the person raise its arms. Surrender? Opal’s finger stayed on the trigger.
Then the person pulled something at the cockpit's top. The repulsor jets burst, swinging the ship around so the engines pointed back at the gate, right at Mox, Davin, Clare and Ward. Opal felt the panic, the certainty of what was going to happen next and the complete inability to do anything about it. Opal saw the telltale lighting, the glow of a primed blast. She dropped the rifle, turned towards the others, to warn them.
Mox was already moving. Even with the cannon, that exoskeleton pushed the man when he wanted to go. Mox jumped, grabbed Davin, and shoved them both to the ground as the ship’s engines roared to life.
The light wasn’t blinding so much as obliterating. Even through her closed lids, her hand covering, Opal’s world went pearl. She fell to the ground, her back so hot, Opal thought she’d caught fire. And then the heat receded, the roar pulled away and Opal uncovered her eyes. Her ears rang, the concussive echoes of a full engine ramp-up in the small bay.
The ground, walls, and containers bore black scoring, some still glowing orange where the direct blast of the engines had struck.
Mox shifted off of Davin, looking at the ceiling, dazed. Opal stumbled her way over to them, looking around but not seeing Clare, Ward. A moment later her heart dropped, fell into that familiar bath of numbness. A pair of charred lumps, flames licking at the clothing, sat near the gate.
Ward’s cane, burst and leaking plasma in an instant-cooling puddle, sat next to them. Even if they’d survived the engines, the burst plasma would’ve immolated them both.
A buzzing sounded in Opal’s ears and she glanced behind her to see Davin on his feet, yelling something into his comm. There was nothing they could do for these two, except vengeance. Recoup honor from the contract. Opal went back for her rifle, hot but undamaged.
The gate opened. Phyla's hacks got through. A few bots scurried in and began cleaning up the mess. The deep dark of Europa’s night still bled in from outside, the magnetic shield keeping the burnt air close.
8
Fighter Pilot
Merc was grabbing a mid-nap snack when Phyla’s tight voice came on over the intercom, yelling for him to get to the fighter. He dropped the energy bar, whose packaging screamed it had literally every vitamin in existence inside, and scrambled out of the kitchen, down the short hallway, slid over the ladder into the central loading dock and then bounced right for the small fighter bay.
“Got any more info?” Merc commed as he went.
“Davin, Mox, and Opal were on an escort. Things went sideways and the cause is running away. Davin’s saying they disarmed it. Wants you to bring it in, gently.”
“Davin always wants it gentle.”
“Scrap’s worth more than ash, Merc.”
The Viper Two-Twenty-One was a stupid name for a super cool ship. This baby had aerodynamics that guaranteed a rockstar performance in zero G or more. Merc had the preset for Europa’s atmosphere dialed in, the preflight check flipping greens in less than five seconds. The Viper flew electric, a killer advantage when you needed maximum thrust immediately. A disaster for long trips, but Merc didn't fly it without the Jumper nearby. He coaxed the craft out of the Jumper and towards the opening big bay exit.
“Twenty,” Merc said.
The Viper processed the command and spit forward, sliding out of the bay and through the magnetic shield. Going by official time, always Earth standard, it was late afternoon. Below, the ice-tinged moss of the ground around Eden Prime looked caught in a morning fog, bits of blue and white clinging to the foliage, like frozen broccoli.
Beyond the terramorpher’s edge, pure blues twinkled. Behind Merc, light streamed from the solar array, Europa’s new and always-present sun, a beacon alongside Jupiter’s constant presence. Merc hadn’t seen a true night in five year
s, not since he’d left Earth.
The Viper picked out the battered ship, its engines glowing white in the relative dark as it climbed in altitude. Outside the cockpit windows, Merc could only see the ship as a bright ball of light streaking upwards, but the Viper’s scanners, as Merc dialed them in, modeled the craft, including broken edges and burned holes from Mox's cannon. Much farther out, and the Viper’s interpretation would look like it was getting drunk, and then, further away, a big ol’circle stating hey, there’s a ship here.
“Phyla,they’re making a break for space,” Merc said, angling his intercept vector. “But, you ask me, that ship’s not capable of holding atmosphere for long.”
“Don’t make space do your dirty work, Merc.”
“Never crossed my mind,” Merc said, releasing the comm. “Fifty.”
The acceleration pushed Merc back in his seat, a familiar grin crawling up his face. Speed, man. That was the stuff. Looking through the cockpit, the HUD displayed a few dots and meters where Merc could catch them. On the right, the Viper's energy. The left had its throttle. The middle held a deep blue circle around where the escaping ship sat in the atmosphere. It had a head start, but the ship didn't have speed. Merc figured two minutes till firing range.
Merc’s left hand released his double grip on the flight stick and eased towards the left panel where a series of buttons sat with stickers over them. Trina’s work. The mechanic messed with the Viper when the Jumper didn’t need her, adding weapons and toys so every time Merc flew the fighter there was something new waiting for him. He found the toggle on the far left. He pressed the switch forward and felt the slight click. The noise, like coins falling into place, echoed through the cockpit.
The Viper had lasers, and they were devastating if you were sure your target had no shields. Or any reflective plating left to bounce your molten bolts off into space or, worse, right back at you. Slugs, those weren’t so easy to toss away. They would chew through the ship like toothpicks through cheese. Make it impossible for the craft to leave the planet.
