Dangerous Data (The Meridian Crew Book 2)

by Blake B. Rivers

  “And you’re about to be dead, just like the average mercenary,” said the woman, her voice as frustrated and distempered as a teenage girl.

  “Well, I’m Amelia Durand,” said Amelia, trying to buy time. “And you?” Amelia adjusted her comms. “Hey, Sam!” No response. “Hey, Sam!”

  Back on the Meridian, which was parked just below the station, in full cloak, Sam O’Leary and Sasha Vasiliev were currently in the middle of an argument.

  “You’re kidding me.” said Sam, leaning her slim body forward in her pilot’s chair. “You’d seriously rather fight a shark than a giant squid?”

  “I told you,” said Sasha, a helping of noodles dangling from his mouth, which he swallowed down in order to respond. “You get attacked by a shark, you can just punch him right in the face. Sends him running off like a scared puppy.”

  “What?” said Sam, her green eyes wide and animated as she gestured in disbelief. “You really, really think that you’re going to be able to pop a goddamn shark right in the face when it’s coming at you like you’re a damn snack?”

  “That’s exactly what I think,” said Sasha, preparing to tip back his bowl to drink some of the noodle broth. “Some of us are able to keep cool under pressure, believe it or not.”

  “That’s not a matter of being ‘cool’,” that’s like saying you’d rather fight a guy who's an expert with a bow than an expert with a sword because you can just, I don’t know, grab the arrow out of midair.”

  Sasha wiped the red broth from his mouth and looked away.

  “Yes, I think I could do that, too, now that I think about it.”

  Sam threw her arms up and fell back into her chair. And as soon as she turned her attention away from Sasha, she saw that her comms was beeping. For how long, she didn’t know.

  “Shit!” she said, scrambling to turn the comms on. “Am, what’s up?”

  “What the hell are you two doing in there?” hissed Amelia’s hushed voice. “Whatever. I’m going to need an evac in, say five minutes.”

  “Sure, Am,” said Sam. “Same dock?”

  “Uh, no dock this time. See that big window between the station and Saturn?”

  Sam pushed the thrust and drove the ship up and around the station until she could see a massive window in a shape that reminded her of a spread eagle’s wings, which looked into a large hall packed with troops. Bringing the cloaked Meridian closer, she could see Benkei hiding behind the throne on the halls’ dais, his huge body barely hidden. And as she angled the ship to get a better view, she could spot a large mech at the entrance of the hall.

  “Are you the robot?”

  “I’m the robot. Just get ready to pick us up.”

  “Why, I’m Jessaline Spirito,” said the woman, placing her hand on her chest with a flourishing motion. “I’m the leader of this fine outfit of troops. We’re the Seraphim!”

  “Hi, ah, Ms. Spirito,” said Amelia. “Can I ask what you’re doing here?”

  She switched to her comms.

  “Benkei, Sam, when I give the word, you grab the target, and Sam, you get ready to scoop us up.”

  “Got it,” said Sam.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Benkei.

  “Well, right now, the only thing I’m doing is wondering just how I’m going to punish you for executing a third of my goddamn company.”

  “Oh, and what’d you have in mind?”

  “Hmm, spacing seems too kind. But I hate the sight of blood. Maybe just hooking you up to an interrogation machine and letting it go for a few weeks? I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

  Amelia flicked through the weapons of the mech, trying to figure out what was both still active and able to punch through the kind of vacuum-proof glass that the window was made out of. A smile crossed her lips when she saw that the mech was equipped with a single drill missile.

  That’ll do, she thought, moving the center of the window into the target reticle.

  “But I assume you’re here for the pompous little shit who's in charge of this place?” asked Jessaline, turning around. “Hey, where the hell is he?”

  “Now!” shouted Amelia.

  As soon as the word left her lips, Benkei dashed toward Martel, grabbing him by the arms and pulling him back to the corner of the room. Before Jessaline and the rest of the Seraphim could react, Amelia fired the drill missile, which launched with a thunk and flew in a whistling scream at the window. It connected, burrowing into the glass and emitting a single, shrill beep before detonating, a rippling, brilliant explosion pulverizing the window into dust, followed by the vacuum of deep space sucking the air out of the hall with unbelievable force.

  The mech lurched and lifted into the air, pulling Amelia out into space along with everyone else in the area. She watched as Jessaline scrambled back into her suit, sealing it up againbefore being pulled out of the room along with the rest of the several dozen Seraphim. And right as Amelia passed over the remains of the window and out into deep space, she watched as the Meridian uncloaked, the slim, curved shape of the corvette-class ship appearing as if it just jumped it.

  The docking port of the Meridian opened, and Amelia steered in its direction. With a crash, she slammed into the dock, the mech crumpling against the durasteel walls of the interior of the ship. Looking out, she saw Benkei floating in deep space, holding onto Martel. She knew that he had a minute, max, of deep space-exposure before permanent damage set in.

  “Sam!” said Amelia. “Get them now!”

  “On it!”

  Sam flew the ship towards the pair, a cable firing from the vacuum-exposed dock as she approached. Benkei grabbed it, and it immediately pulled back, bringing the pair into the docking port, followed by the door slamming shut, and the space being pumped full of oxygen.

  Amelia clambered out of the mech, which was now wrecked beyond repair.

  Benkei rose slowly, taking in deep breaths as he and Martel recovered from their half-minute of vacuum exposure.

  “Not the subtlest tactic,” said Benkei, looking over the mech, the blue fading from his skin by the second. “But I can’t argue with results.”

  Martel, on the other hand, had a different reaction. He looked over the wreckage of the mech before dropping to his knees in what seemed to be agony.

  “My mech!” he said, his voice sounding on the brink of tears. "What have you done?"

  CHAPTER 5

  “Food’s ready,” said Benkei, turning away from the stove in the main room of the Meridian, a steaming wok in his hand and small, dingy handcloth draped over his shoulder.

  “What’s for dinner?” asked Sam, her eyes wide with anticipation, a chopstick in each hand.

  “House special,” said Benkei. “Chicken stir-fry.”

  Amelia’s eyes widened. She couldn’t remember the last time the crew had meat on the ship. She wondered where Benkei got it from, and where he’d been hiding it.

  “God, that sounds good,” said Sasha, turning off his slate and slipping it into his coat pocket.

  Benkei leaned over the table and used the large wooden spoon inside of the wok to scoop a serving onto each of the chipped, cracked plates in front of the crew.

  “Dig in,’ he said, turning back to the stove to set the wok down.

  Amelia, Sam, and Sasha rushed over their plates and began hungrily shoving food into their mouths as fast as their chopsticks would allow. But as Amelia ate, she noticed something peculiar—she could taste onion, she could taste peppers, and she could even pick out a piece of broccoli here and there. But what she didn’t taste was what was supposed to be the centerpiece of the dish: the chicken.

  “Benkei,” said Amelia, now poking through her meal with her chopsticks searching for a piece of chicken. “Normally when a dish has the word ‘chicken’ in the name, you expect that to also be, you know, actually in the food.”

  Sam and Sasha said nothing, instead shoveling the rest of their meals down, not even stopping to look up.

  “Yea
h?” asked Benkei, tossing back a floret of broccoli. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, when something’s called ‘stir-fry with chicken,’ you expect chicken to be somewhere in here.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Benkei, taking a sip of water.

  “But there’s no chicken in here, so you really wouldn’t call it ‘stir fry and chicken,’ right?”

  “That’s one way to look at it,” said Benkei.

  “I’d say that’s the only way to look at it,” said Amelia, shaking her head.

  “Well, when you’re broke, chicken in the name is as close as you’re gonna get,” he said. “And it looks like it worked for these two.”

  He stuck out a thumb at Sam and Sasha, who were both up and at the wok, each scooping more veggies onto their plates.

  Amelia shook her head and picked up a piece of onion from her plate, regarding the overcooked vegetable before tossing it into her mouth, the heavy bouquet of spices masking its less-than-fresh nature.

  It’d been weeks since the Martel job. Amelia figured they did a fine job. After all, they did rescue Martel and keep his liquid assets in his account, just like they were hired to do. Martel, however, didn’t see it that way. Between his station being nearly wrecked and his collection of prized war antiques almost entirely turned to scrap. Add in the fact that his throne room was just about pulled inside out into space, he was less than happy with the work of Amelia and her team. He took ninety-five percent of the promised amount for his rescue to pay for repairs, leaving them with a payment that could be generously considered “paltry”.

  So, needless to say, meat wasn’t on the menu, and Amelia was chastising herself for thinking that it might’ve actually been on her plate.

  “Plus,” said Benkei. “You had to have felt pretty good when you thought you were gonna have some chicken in there.”

  Amelia scowled at Benkei, flicking a piece of particularly brown onion at him with her chopsticks.

  “Seriously, though, Am,” said Sam, plopping back down into her seat, her red hair jostling on her shoulders. “We need to get some money coming in fast. We’re about a week away from having to steal fuel with a rubber hose.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” said Amelia, thinking.

  She had been expecting more money from the Martel job—a lot more. Enough to load up the ship, get everyone’s bank account looking comfortable, and giving them breathing room to pick out some less hazardous jobs. But now that things were looking desperate, she realized that they didn’t have the luxury to pick and choose.

  “Why not just go to Icarus?” asked Sasha, swirling the tips of his chopsticks through the brown glaze of his sauce.

  The rest of the crew stopped eating as soon as the word “Icarus” left Sasha’s mouth. They stared at him incredulously as he resumed eating, absentmindedly plucking a tiny floret from his plate and tossing it into his mouth.

  “What?” he asked, realizing now that the eyes of the crew were on him.

  “You want to go to Icarus Station?” asked Amelia. “The most crime-ridden, run-down station in the inner system?”

  “I’m just saying,” he said. “If we want to find work, that’s where we can get it.”

  “Right, if one of us doesn’t end up getting shivved by a shine-head in some back alley,” said Benkei.

  “Or if one of us doesn’t accidentally look at some raider captain the wrong way and get pulled into a gun fight in the middle of the market district,” said Sam.

  “And, of course, assuming we can even get to the station without having to fight off a wing of drunk pirates who’ve decided to use us as target practice,’ finished Amelia.

  “It’s in Earth orbit,” said Sasha. “How bad can it be?”

  “Bad,” said Benkei, tossing back the last of his drink.

  A moment passed.

  “But you know what they say about beggars,” said Amelia, looking off into the middle distance.

  Benkei turned to her, a look of shock on his face.

  “You’re not seriously considering this, are you?” he exclaimed.

  “I don’t know,” said Amelia. “Pretty boy’s right. If we want a job fast, that’s where we’ll find it.”

  Benkei raised a chopstick, as if to make a point, but reconsidered. “Hmm,” he said.

  “Desperate times,” said Sam piling up the last few vegetables on her plate and eating them one by one.

  “Fine,” said Benkei. “But in and out. We get a gig, we do it, and we don’t go back to Icarus for as long as we can help it.”

  “I don’t think any of us were thinking of renting out a timeshare,” said Amelia.

  Benkei scowled. “I’ve just been around enough of these lowlifes to last a lifetime.”

  “Good,” said Amelia with a gleaming smile. “Then we can head there after dinner.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The space station Icarus hung in Earth’s upper atmosphere like a particularly large collection of debris that happened to haphazardly coalesce over the course of several years. One of the Federation’s first outer atmosphere stations, it fell into disrepair within months of the collapse of the Federation in the last days of the Sector War. As an older station, it required constant upkeep to stay in orbit, and once that upkeep was cut off, it looked as though the Icarus might well be reclaimed by the planet responsible for putting it in orbit. Once the dust settled after the war, however, enterprising criminals began to occupy the station, taking advantage of the chaos the in post-Federation solar system. Within years, Icarus station became synonymous with piracy, raiding, smuggling, and any other number of underworld activities, and the fact that it was in the orbit of the heart of the Federation served as a powerful sign of just how far the solar system had fallen into anarchy.

  Sam flew the Meridian in close, weaving through the dilapidated freighters, nearly-antique capital ships, and space junk that filled the space around Icarus. The station appeared to be caked in rust and grime, as though its outward appearance had altered to reflect the activity that went on within. Earth was a gargantuan disc of green, blue, and swirling white, the sun-lit continents of North and South America currently visible. Far off to the left was Luna, the small, silver circle ringed by the blasted-out debris of the crater that marred the surface of the orbiting rock.

  As they approached, a pair of ramshackle fighters swooped in front of the Meridian, the second of the two spitting bursts of machine gun fire at the other, the bullets connecting with flashes of white and orange on the fighter’s wings. A few more bursts later, and the first fighter was destroyed, exploding into a contained fireball as it quickly burned through the small storage of oxygen on board.

  “Ah, Icarus,” said Benkei, watching the second fighter spin and roll in cocky, celebratory flourishes. “Always the picture of peace.”

  “I hate this place,” said Amelia, watching the run-down station grow larger in the flight deck window. “In and out—that's the plan.”

  “You know, for a mercenary, you sure hate being around other mercenaries,” said Sam, her eyes fixed on the station ahead as she steered the ship into one of the many docking ports.

  “Most mercenaries aren’t anything more than lowlifes with a gun, a ship and a distinct lack of a moral compass,” said Amelia.

  “Yeah,” said Sam. “We have to be at least one level above that, right?”

  Sam pointed the curved prow of the ship at a particular docking bay, and as she drew closer, the main vidscreen on the flight deck lit up. The face that appeared gave the crew onboard pause. It was ugly, to say the least. The man’s gaunt, angular face was covered in pockmarks, his nose was a sharp wedge upon which sat a pair of small, rectangular glasses with light purple lenses, his mouth was twisted into a smirk.

  “This is Icarus station,” he said, looking away at something offscreen, his voice bored. “State your name, reason for being here, all that crap.”

  “Geez, Grennel,” said Amelia. “What’s with the protocol?”

  The
man looked up, his patchy eyebrows raising slightly in recognition. “Amelia Durand,” he said, his mouth curling from a sly smirk into something more lascivious. “Well, it is you! How you been, pretty lady? Long time, no see.”

  “Icarus isn’t exactly my favorite place in the system, you know?”

  “Aw, I’m hurt,” said Grennel, sticking out his lower lip in a mock-pout. “Too good to elbow with the rest of the scum, huh?”

  “Oh, please, you know you’d get out of that hellhole first chance you got if you weren’t constantly in drug debt.”

  “Huh?” said Grennel, looking surprised, then guilty, as if caught and trying to play it off. “Well, maybe so, but it’s my hellhole. I, unlike some people, never forgot my lowlife roots.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly living the high-life, if that makes you feel any better.”

  The smirk returned to Grennel’s thin lips. “It does, actually. I guess that explains what you’re doing here. Anyway, I’ve got you cleared on dock twenty-two. Have a pleasant stay.”

  “Thanks, Grennel,” said Amelia.

  “Anytime, lady,” he said, just before the screen went black once again.

  “Old friend?” asked Benkei.

  “Just the standard type of scum who lives here. You know the type.”

  Sam flew in closer to the station, steering the ship toward a dock with the letters “22” marked in ostentatious, loopy graffiti script. As they entered the port, the ship darkened from the low lighting of the interior of the bay. Sam brought the Meridian to a halt, lowered it onto the dock floor, and killed the engine.

  “Shall we?” asked Benkei.

  The three of them left the flight deck, grabbed a few small side-arm weapons, from the storage locker, and prepared to leave.

  “Oh, hey, guys,” said Sasha, emerging from the lab, his eyes looking down at his slate. “If you’re going in, I’ve got a few things you can pick up.”

  “You want any supplies, you come with us and buy them yourself, pretty boy,” said Amelia, tucking a small pistol into the back of her belt.

  “Me?” asked Sasha. “No. No, no. I’m not cut out for a place like Icarus. I’ll stay on the ship, you know, hold down the fort.”