by Nick Webb
Jake glanced upward, then yanked Jeremiah to the ground just in time. A shuttle—one of their own—came careening through the air and slammed into the ground before sliding several hundred meters into a section of the compound’s brick wall. On the other side of the courtyard, two other shuttles—smoke streaming from their hulls—similarly streaked through the air and slammed into the ground, skidding a ways before coming to rest.
And to Jake’s relief, out jumped several of his marines, accompanied by a few of Tomaga’s men from the Fifty-First Brigade. He wondered at Po’s judgment in sending them down on such a sensitive mission, but had no time to think about it as the entire courtyard erupted in gunfire.
Pulling Jeremiah along behind him, and making sure his other companions still followed, he dashed to the cover of a small shed, and peered up at one of the nearby buildings. Sure enough, several of Velar’s guards crouched behind cover at the windows and doors, firing on the newcomers. Numerous other buildings around them housed more guards, all firing on his men. He could see no way through, no path to reach their rescuers. Every open space was filled with a storm of bullets, as the marines from the Phoenix battled the defending guards—more sprang up in each window and doorway of the compound every second.
“Avery! We’ve got to get to the landing party. Can we clear a path?”
Avery studied the situation. Nearby was a smallish building that appeared to be some sort of barracks. Only a few guards fired from the windows. “There,” he said, pointing. “You kick the door in and I’ll clear the first room.”
Crouching, they scurried as fast as they could to the rear of the small brick and mud structure. Jake paused to let Avery ready himself, and when the soldier motioned, Jake kicked, using his good foot, even as the sprained one protested at bearing all his weight.
Avery sprang through the door as it flew inward and fired a single shot from his sidearm through the head of the room’s occupant, who slumped to the floor underneath a window.
Jake looked down at the man’s face—a look of shock seemed permanently painted there, and Jake realized he recognized the man as one of Velar’s guards. One of the men who’d accompanied her when they first entered the compound a few days ago. Or was it a week?
Avery burst into the next room and picked off the man at the other window of the building. “Stairs?” asked Jake. Alessandro and Tovra looked around, and shook their heads. Good. The building was secure. They picked up the assault rifles dropped by their previous owners.
“All right, let’s see if we can’t relieve some of the pressure on our people,” said Jake, as he peered out the window, holding his assault rifle close to his chest. He took aim at a few snipers on the top of an adjacent building who held down a group of the Fifty-First Brigade, and with a few trigger-pulls, dropped both of them.
“Nice shooting. Infantry?” Avery said, nodding in approval.
“Paintball. Grew up with it. Played every Wednesday,” Jake quipped.
Avery raised his eyebrows in surprise, and possibly skepticism, but turned back to his window and scanned the other buildings for guards. Jake searched the groups of rescuers, and to his surprise, saw a face he hadn’t expected. A face that made his stomach drop.
Volaski.
The pirate captain huddled behind the burning shuttle with Logan Jayce—a soldier he recognized from the Phoenix—firing at a group of guards who’d taken cover behind a large metal bin full of ore just twenty yards away from them.
Volaski. The one who’d helped sell them into slavery, and whom Velar had sent back up to the Phoenix to lure the others down to Destiny’s surface. It appeared he had succeeded. Was this now a show he was putting on?
But it didn’t add up. Velar had sent him to bring more Phoenix crew members down, and he had, but now he was shooting and killing Velar’s guards.
What the hell was going on?
***
“Have you bypassed that firewall yet?” Senator Galba looked on expectantly, over Private Ling’s shoulder. The soldier stared at the screen, as if unhearing. “Private?”
“Huh? Oh, almost, Senator.” The young man didn’t take his eyes off the terminal, and tapped at a few more keys. “It’s a standard Imperial encryption, and luckily they taught us all the backdoors back at the Imperial Academy. Shouldn’t be long now.”
Galba paced the room, all four meters of it, before returning to the lone window that peeked out into space just above the bunk. Bright flashes streamed out from the ships, indicating the railgun slugs that impacted the Caligula some three kilometers away, and the Imperial vessel pounded back with fire of her own. A swarm of fighters doggedly fought in the space between the two ships.
And then a third swung into view. Another Imperial capital ship, which unleashed its own salvo at the Phoenix.
Won’t be long now, he thought. Still, best to plan for contingencies.
“Senator, we’re through.”
Galba strode back over to Ling and pointed at the screen. “First, enable my diplomatic code as a level one shadowed bypass. That way I can access critical ship functions without anyone knowing.”
A few clicks of the buttons later, and Ling said, “Code?”
“Alpha one-one-thirteen alpha omega.”
Ling entered in the code, but cocked his head. “The first alpha is for Senators?”
The young marine knew far too much for his own good. “Correct. And I am the 1113th Senator of the Imperial Republic.”
Ling nodded in understanding, but paused again. “And the alpha omega at the end? What does that mean?”
Galba smiled. “You’ll soon find out.”
***
Less than ten minutes later, the deed was done. Private Ling had momentarily commandeered the external ship communication system, which let Galba send his message. Trajan would be relieved, of course, to know the Senator was still alive. He smirked. Relieved might be too strong a word. Resigned, more like it. The other man never seemed to trust Galba. He could never rid his voice of the loathing he so clearly felt for elected officials—even around Galba, one of the Emperor’s most trusted associates.
“And now, Private, we wait.”
Ling glanced up at him. His puffed up eyelid had started to deflate, revealing a bloodied, capillary-strewn eye. The Resistance marine must have clocked the Private pretty hard. “Wait, Senator? Wait for what?”
He patted the soldier’s shoulder. “It’s far too dangerous to make the trek back to deck fifteen. You saw the situation on the way here. Repair crews running everywhere, secondary explosions in the corridors near the power conduits. We’d be liable to be either killed or caught. No. Best to wait until the night watch.”
“Fine.” Ling stood up, and walked towards the bed, grabbing the porno magazine Galba had tossed there when they had entered.
And now, bereft of any entertainment, the Senator paced the short room again before stopping. He walked straight towards the doors, which slid open at his approach.
“Stay here. I’ll be back in awhile for you.”
Before the Private could protest, the door slid shut, and Galba bent over to examine the keypad. Quickly, he entered the lock function, then entered his diplomatic code to set an override on the interior unlock function.
Straightening up, he whistled as he ambled back to Willow’s room, three doors down, and slipped through the sliding doors to wait for his love.
***
Anya watched the unfolding battle from the relative comfort of her command station at the rear of the conference room next to the fighter deck.
And it rankled her.
She needed action. She needed to be at the center of things, in control of her own destiny.
She was in control of the whole fighter squad all right, but others were doing the fighting for her, and she hated it.
“P-two, watch your right flank! Shift your asses out of there! P-nine, cover them! That bogey’s ripe for the taking!” She yelled a constant stream of bellowed instructi
ons into the comm, as two assistants at a nearby station kept tabs on fuel and ammunition levels, enemy fighter strengths, and the overall tactical situation to feed to the Wing Commander.
“DAMMIT!” She pounded the board, cracking the edge of the dark plastic casing. Another P-town fighter exploded in a brief fireball. Jenkins. And his gunner, Tonks. Shit.
“P-five, cover P-fifteen, they’ve got three bogeys on their ass. Come on people, work with me. Pay attention to what your team is doing—gunners, do your jobs!” She hit the board again in frustration. She hated losing her pilots. It only made her want to be out there even more. For a half second, she entertained the notion of hopping in the last remaining fighter still out on the flight deck. What would Po say? Likely blow a gasket. If it were Mercer up on the bridge she’d do it just to hear his shrieky, blustery voice cry at her for insubordination. And then later that night she’d pull him into her cabin for a good fuck. It’d been too long.
“Lieutenant Grace, this is Commander Po,” said an agitated voice from the comm. Anya had hardly noticed the explosions that rocked the Phoenix, having been too focused on the raging fighter battle outside to pay them any heed. But the tone of Po’s voice brought her back to the shuddering deckplates and rumbling percussive blasts that hit the hull.
“Grace here.”
“Lieutenant, the Sphinx just shifted into orbit and is bearing down on our position. Gravitics are still out. We need to end this, now.”
“Simple enough. What you got?” If only they’d thought to just end the battle earlier, Grace thought sarcastically.
“The quantum field torpedoes. We need to get one over to the other ships. We can’t just fire them—they’ll get shot down. We could shift them over, but the problem is their new gravitic field exclusion zones that you discovered around the—“
“Yeah, I remember.” She thought back to the close call she had engaging the Sphinx the week before. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
“I need a few of your pilots, Grace. Equip two fighters with a quantum field torpedo each, and send one to the Caligula, and one to the Sphinx.”
“That’s going to be some pretty fancy flying, Commander. Pretty risky.”
“Then send your best. This had to work, or we’re dead.”
Grace knew it. They had to succeed, they had to win this battle, or they’d never even get a chance to lose any future battles. This was it.
“Then I choose me. And I’ll call Quadri in from—“
“No! We can’t afford to lose our Wing Commander. Someone el—“
“Commander, if you want the best, I’m it. Sorry, but I’m going. You’re right, we have to end this, now.”
And before Po could respond, she punched the comm off.
Grace turned to the deck officer who hovered in the background, waiting for instruction. “You heard the Commander. Get those torpedoes loaded up on my and Quadri’s fighters.”
Another tap at the comm. “Quadri? You still alive?”
His voice scratched over the speaker. “For the moment, Lieutenant. What’s up?”
“Get back to P-town. I’ve got a job for you.”
CHAPTER TEN
BEN HAD NO SOONER RELAXED his legs, letting them hang back down as if fastened tight by the floor restraints, than Doctor Stone returned. Slamming the door open, he stomped across the stone floor, either very happy, or angry—Ben couldn’t tell. But the pace seemed to suggest something out of the ordinary.
“So, Seven, seems you’ve got some determined friends. Looks like they managed to land a strike team at Velar’s place. Quite a hard landing, from what I heard,” he snorted irreverently, “I’d be s-s-surprised if any of them survived the missiles that Velar’s folks sent up.
He finally paced around to face Ben, just six feet away or so. Just a few feet closer. Just two steps.…
“But don’t get your hopes up, slave. There’s no way your friends will come calling here. We’re too isolated.” He took a step forward, leering at him with hungry eyes. Just one more step. One more.…
“Remember that, Seven. You’re here forever. They’ll never find you. Hell, I don’t even exist. Not on the records, at least. Trajan and the Emperor don’t want it publicly known that they deal with me. You’re mine, and you can never escape. And if you try,” he licked his lips, almost as if he hoped Ben would put up resistance, “I’ll bleed you. I’ll carve you. I’ll sign you, with my knife as my pen. You’ll never get out of here, so don’t even try.…” He looked as if he were about to take another step forward.
But he turned, and strode over to a cabinet. Pulling out a small syringe, he circled around to stand behind Ben, and shoved his head forward roughly.
“But just in case, I’ve changed my mind. I think you’ll need these after all. But don’t worry, I won’t use them to program you like I did the pile of shit over there. Not yet, anyway. But I want you controllable should you choose to rebel.” He moved in close, and pressed his body up against Ben’s back. “I expect you’ll rebel. It’s who you are. It’s why I chose you, my perfect slave.”
The picobots.
No. He tried to think of something to say. Something to stall, or to dissuade him from injecting them.
But the needle came too quickly. It plunged deep into his neck, and Ben cried out as the cold liquid shot into his muscle, accompanied by searing pain.
As if on reflex, he wrapped his legs around the man’s knees and thrashed his thighs forward as hard as he could. The man shouted out, but a sickening thud broke the cry as his body flipped backwards and his head collided with one of the empty metal restraints sticking up out of the floor.
His sagging shoulders screaming from the strain of holding the weight of two, Ben strained his head to look down. The man lay prone on the floor, a trickle of blood pooling under his shaved head.
But he breathed. He was alive.
“Six. Come over here. Now!” Ben shouted, rolling his head back and forth.
“No! The Master sai—“
“The master is dead! I killed him! Now get me down from here before I kill you too, dammit!”
Hesitation. “But, but you’re hanging. You can’t hurt me. You’re hanging.”
Ben strained his neck around to stare at the man peering out from behind the bars of the cramped cage on the floor. “You see me? I see you. I just killed your master with my feet alone, and it only took me half a second. Imagine what I could do to you if I put my mind to it.” He paused, to let his words sink in. He was bluffing, of course, but perhaps the other man’s mental state would mask it. “Now get over here!”
Whimpering, the man crawled out and stood, apprehensively approaching Ben. Slowing, he reached up to one of the restraints holding Ben’s wrists, grabbed it with two hands.…
And nearly ripped the metal in two.
Ben fell, and screamed in pain as his free arm fell and he remained suspended by one hand.
“The other! Get the other!” Ben tried to reach it, but couldn’t lift his free arm more than a foot.
Six latched onto the other one, and like a machine just yanked the metal apart, twisting the hardened iron as if it were plastic, and darted away back to his cage as Ben’s arm fell down to his side.
Was he seeing things? Did Six just twist wrought iron with his bare hands? He shook his head—definitely a hallucination.
The unconscious captor on the floor groaned.
“You lied,” said Six, regarding the prone, bloodied man with a mixture of awe and fear. “You said you killed him, but he moves. You lied to me.”
“It was just a little lie,” Ben began, as he knelt next to the moaning figure. “A temporary lie.” He reached down, his shoulders still searing with the pain of three days hanging, and pulled the man’s arm up with two hands. He took it into the crook of his arm, and yanked as hard as he could as he reached up to the chain, in an attempt to lock the man down.
But he’d overestimated his own strength. In fact, he ha
d very little. Not a chance he’d be able to lift the arm, much less the whole body.
His former captor moaned louder, but only breathed more rapidly as he tried to struggle, now waking up.
If Ben didn’t incapacitate the man, he’d lose his chance. Dammit. What to do? He glanced at the knife on the table across the room, but thought it too risky to run for it. The man could get up by then and Ben didn’t know if his arms would cooperate in a fight.
Dammit, what would Jake do? Why did he even follow the brash bastard around, anyway?
But he knew exactly why. Jake was everything he was not, and Ben was everything Jake was not. Jake let him get in situations he’d never dream of getting into himself. Let him do things he’d never consider doing in the presence of anyone else. He gave Ben the swagger he’d always lacked. How many bar fights had Jake dragged him into?
The bar. The Liberty Station bar. How Jake had kicked that man over and over, until he was a bloody pulp. Until he’d never get up again. He pounded the man so mercilessly hard not just to win that battle, but to make sure that particular group would never give him trouble again.
Swearing, Ben stood up with a grunt, and grabbing the man’s arm, held it up taut, and recalling his jujitsu training, he twisted it, stepped on the man’s face and leveraged the arm against his own leg as he snapped the elbow with a cupped fist.
The captor screamed.
“How does it feel, master?” said Ben, sneering the title. He kicked the man over onto his other side and wrenched his other arm free from under him, and repeated the vicious break. The man screamed even louder, howling and wailing.
“Please! P—p—please don’t kill me!”
Ben circled around the crippled man, limping as he walked—he must have landed funny when he fell. “You want mercy? After all this time? All these years of sadism? How many have you killed? No. I think it’s time you took your leave of the world.” He strode over to the table and picked up the still bloody knife. He seemed to get off at the sight of other people’s blood. Ben wondered if the man would get off at the sight of his own.
