by S M Briscoe
Perhaps this disaster could still be averted.
Chapter 38
ISYSS
Ethan watched from the copilot seat as Mac guided their stolen heavy freighter in for a landing on an open section of the wreckage strewn docking ring of what remained of Wasteland Station. It seemed like almost a lifetime ago that he and his sister had arrived at the outpost with high hopes of starting a new life. Durak and his soldiers had vaporized those hopes, along with the lives of many others. He wondered how long the Sect’s list of victims was. Truthfully, he probably didn’t want to know the answer.
He had been the one to suggest Isyss as the place to rendezvous with Sierra and Kern. Partially to see what had become of the outpost, but it had also seemed a fitting choice to return to where their journey had begun. Sierra and Kern had probably agreed for similar reasons. Their friends had died here trying to help the being Orna escape. He imagined they felt the same kind of need to come here and see it with their own eyes. To gain some kind of closure. That seemed to be what people were always after when it came to things like this. Coming down over the ruins of the outpost, and seeing the extent of the carnage that had occurred, Ethan couldn’t say he understood why anyone would think doing that would make them feel any better. It just made him feel more sick.
Mac set them down, relatively lightly, on the dock’s surface, appearing a bit relieved as he did so, immediately setting to work powering the freighter’s systems down. Ethan remained in his seat as the whining of the engines began to fade, his hands gripping the arm rests as he gazed out through the viewport at the devastation they had returned to, feeling unable, or perhaps unwilling, to stand and move for the exit ramp. He had felt compelled to come back to this place and see this, but now that he was actually here, he suddenly found himself beginning to have serious doubts about his choice. He had seen and experienced a lot of things in his life, most people were fortunate enough to never be exposed to, none of them preparing him for the events of the past week. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be exposed to any more.
A hand came to rest on top of his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Ethan turned to look into the caring, understanding gaze of his sister, who smiled at him, sympathetically. She would be feeling the same things he was. Everything he had gone through, she had gone through as well. She understood his reservations. And she would be with him now, also.
Regaining his conviction, he returned her smile and stood, Mac just standing from his own seat, having completed the freighter’s shutdown sequence, and they moved together for the exit.
The dock was littered with the skeletal remains of vessels, little more than twisted heaps of metal now, scorched black from fires that had long since burned themselves out. Still in their holding berths, most appeared to have been destroyed before ever attempting dust off. The Sect’s method of ensuring that any survivors they missed would not be leaving to tell of what had happened here. It hardly seemed to have been necessary. Scattered amongst the wreckage, burned nearly to ash, the bodies of those not fortunate enough to have been captured alive and taken into slavery were proof of that. Durak’s soldiers had reduced the outpost to little more than a tomb. A scorched graveyard on a lifeless rock half way to nowhere that nobody would ever miss.
Sierra and Kern descended from the Taliss Runner, or Fancy Girl, whichever they were calling it now, and crossed the open area of dock to join them.
“It’s too bad,” Mac commented, from over Ethan’s shoulder. “I actually kind of liked this place.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Ethan countered, dryly, though his attempt at humor was only half hearted, considering the circumstances. When Mac didn’t come back with a witty rebuttal of his own, Ethan knew he was feeling the same gut wrench they all were.
As Sierra and Kern reached them, the woman’s eyes were fixed on Elora, a sharp determined edge to her features, and she strode passed them to stand directly in front of his sister.
“You saw our friends die?”
It was a blunt question that caught Ethan off guard, but if Elora had felt the same, she didn’t show it, meeting the woman’s gaze and nodding once, solemnly. “Yes.”
“Where?” the other woman almost demanded, her tone cold and short. Ethan understood that it wasn’t meant to come across that way. It was just how she dealt with situations like this. From his sister’s reaction, he could see that she understood as well.
Elora turned her head, scanning the dock area, Ethan seeing that it pained her to do so. Her gaze fell on the area that he also remembered as the spot where the two people escorting Orna had fallen. “There.”
Sierra looked in the direction Elora had indicated and started off at a determined march. Kern followed, though at a slower pace, first meeting both their gazes with a look that expressed his own heartache, and nodding what Ethan took to be a kind of gratitude. Maybe it was for bringing them here to see this, as terrible as it was. At least they would be able to see where their friends had died, protecting Orna, and say a final goodbye.
Ethan could understand the need to do that. It was something he and his sister had never had the chance to do with their own father, though every day he wished he could. Maybe that was what closure was about. Saying goodbye and moving on, even if it didn’t make the hurt go away. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to. Maybe the hurt was something you had to keep with you. Something that stayed inside you forever, as a reminder of what you had lost, but also, what you had gained. Their father had sacrificed himself to save them, just as Sierra and Kern’s friends had done for Orna. That was something worth remembering . . . and honoring.
Sierra stopped and knelt next to the remains of her friend, the woman who had been killed first, and reached a hand down towards her. Ethan couldn’t tell what she was doing at first, but after a moment she retrieved something from the body and stood back up. As she walked forward, towards the spot where her other friend had died, he could see she was carrying some kind of chain, similar to the one given to Jarred by the man that had also begged them to help Orna. The same man Sierra stopped to stand over.
Kern had remained at the first body, giving Sierra her space, Ethan guessed, though he stepped away from it, looking a bit uncomfortable. Ethan didn’t know either of them very well, but from what he could tell, the woman was the leader of the two. She had a hard edge to her, like a soldier or someone who had been through a lot of things like this. She had probably lost a lot of friends. He wondered if that made it any easier. As Sierra turned away from the remains of her friend, Ethan seeing the wet glint in her hard set eyes, he guessed that it didn’t.
As she headed back towards them all, opening her jacket to place the chain she had taken from the dead woman in one of the inner pockets, Kern took a step forward, as though to console her.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warned him.
“Alright,” he allowed, stepping aside and following her back towards Ethan and the others.
“We should probably get this freighter back up and moving then,” Kern suggested, once they had returned to stand before the group. “Before Syntax reinforcements come looking for their slaves.
Sierra nodded, though her gaze fell on Elora again. “Agreed.” After a moment, where she seemed to be communicating a look that might have been gratitude, her eyes shifted over to where Mac was standing.
“Are you up to that?” she asked.
Ethan looked over his shoulder at Mac, who wore a surprised look on his face. The man’s eyes fell down to meet Ethan’s and his expression softened to one of acceptance.
“Yeah,” he answered. “I guess I can be up to that.”
Ethan grinned up at the man.
Mac returned the smile. “The hero I always wanted to be, right?”
“It’s settled then,” Kern said. “Mac will fly the refugees out of here to a safe location and we’ll go on our way. The sooner the better.” He began moving towards the heavy freighter. “First thing’s first, this hauler’s probably fitt
ed with a hidden tracking device. We’ll need to deactivate it before you lift off. And quick. Syntax is probably on their way here now.”
“No,” Sierra said, flatly, while staring out into the wreckage. “Don’t deactivate it. Find it and bring it to me.”
“But they’ll be coming-” Kern began.
“Let them come,” Sierra returned, cutting him off. “We’ll be waiting.”
* * *
It was becoming increasingly apparent to Traug, as his armored freight hauler descended on the dried up rock that was the Isyss moon, for the second time in less than a week, that his most recent business venture was becoming far more trouble than it was potentially worth. What should have been a simple transaction of information for labor goods, along with the good will benefits that came with providing the Dominion with said information, had been anything but.
Having at first appeared to be a very clean, quick business opportunity, the dealing had erupted into a full fledged enterprise of it’s own, complete with harrowing chases, murderous warriors and one incinerated city, along with the ghost outpost he was currently descending towards. Though the reasoning and purpose behind all of the destruction intrigued him, Traug was beginning to believe the cost of discovering what they were might be more than he was willing to expend. His life, a very valuable commodity, at least to himself, had been in constant peril, not to mention all of the precious time that had been wasted. He could have brokered a dozen highly profitable deals in this time, none of which would have required him to do the demeaning, and frankly, dangerous work he had done, or keep the sort of company he had the last few days.
A man of business, he was accustomed to a professional, corporate atmosphere, and though the necessity of his position sometimes required that his dealings be with some of the system’s more seedy of characters, those dealings were always conducted in a professional and mutually beneficial manner. He was, more often than not, wooed and pampered by most of his clients, in an attempt to win favor, and ultimately, lower prices from himself and his employers, though they were hardly successful to that end. Syntax’s virtual monopoly over nearly every market in existence ensured they could charge whatever exorbitant prices suited them. As the prominent broker for the single largest corporate entity in the system, he had grown accustomed to a very particular way of doing business, as well as certain luxuries and comforts afforded to someone in his position.
What he was not accustomed to was putting his life at risk in order to calm the volatile temper of the Sect High Commander, nor to satisfy the impulsive bloodlust of a race of brutish warriors, and certainly not to fly around the system in search of a band of runaway slaves. Yet, here he was, at the behest of his employers. Perhaps it was the cost of being an invaluable associate that you were depended upon to manage everything. Or perhaps, more likely, it was just that they did not wish to get their own hands dirtied in such affairs.
Accompanied by a large contingent of security-mechs, organic personnel again being out of the question in light of the sensitivity of the situation, Traug’s instructions were quite simple. Reacquire the rogue laborers and return them to their work assignments, and if that was not possible, terminate their employment with the corporation. The latter was quite literal in it’s meaning. His employers had no desire to explain their illegal use and trafficking of slave labor to the authorities that governed such things, who were of course, already on the Corporation’s payroll. Unfortunately, if word of their contravention of anti-slavery laws reached any of the system’s media outlets, those same bribed authorities would have little choice but to turn over on Syntax. The result would be, at best, a public relations nightmare. More likely, the fallout would lead to a multitude of fines, lawsuits and incarcerations, and though he knew that greed would ultimately prevail and the Corporation would survive the scandal, he also knew, just as well, that their would be an unacceptable loss in profit due to it, even if only a temporary one.
If the slaves could not be returned, quite simply, they would need to be destroyed. An acceptable loss weighed against the possible cost of their escape. There was no shortage of displaced refugees across the system to replace them with. Though it was not Traug’s area of expertise, at the behest of his employers, he had become a bounty hunter of sorts. It was an irony that was not lost on him. Of course, he had not informed the Corporation of his primary goal in this endeavor. The reacquisition of the human female. She was a factor he preferred to keep close to the vest for the time being, until he had sufficiently determined what value she held.
The freight hauler set down on an open area of the docking ring, the majority of it littered with the remains of destroyed vessels and random piles of miscellaneous wreckage. The night of Traug’s recent visit to the outpost was still relatively fresh in his mind. A needless loss of useful life and resources, as he saw it. He found it peculiar, though, that the escapees would choose to return to this place, where many had originally been acquired. They must have had some reason, though he could not think of what it could be. His inability to come up with an answer to that question had left him feeling uneasy for most of the voyage here, since having established that the freighter had indeed landed on the small moon. He supposed it was no matter. He had tracked them here and would collect them, the female included.
Eager to see his task completed, Traug initiated one of the security contingent’s standard search and detain protocols, the armored mechs filing out of the freighter, forming first a defensive perimeter around the vessel, something which gave him some degree of comfort. At least he had sufficient protection, though he would have preferred had he not needed it at all. Wisely, he chose to remain onboard, monitoring the operation from the safety of the flight deck, via remote cameras affixed to the lead mechs.
Once the immediate landing area was secured, the mechs began to move out into the compound, a pair remaining behind to guard the vessel’s entry ramp. The homing device equipped on the escapee’s stolen freighter, which had led Traug here, was still functioning, though there was no sign of the large vessel. The signal itself was coming from deeper within the compound, outside of the centralized docking ring. In overlapping cover formations, the mechs advanced through the wreckage, passing out of the docking ring, Traug watching their progress from all of cam screens, anxiously.
The destruction was no less severe in the outpost’s outer compound, most of the buildings at least scored black with multiple blast marks, some others bearing more substantial structural damage from vessels having crashed down into them, the remains of which protruded through the rooftops or walls of the crumbling structures. Much like the docking ring, the bodies of those not taken into Traug’s possession, many burned beyond recognition, littered the street ways. It was a grizzly scene, though Traug’s stomach was rarely unsettled by such things. It was something else, the strange feeling of something being out of place, that troubled him now as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Closing in on the area the beacon was transmitting from, the mechs tightened up ranks, soon coming to encircle a caved in building of some sort, it’s past function indecipherable in its current condition. Double checking his display console, Traug noted that the signal indeed appeared to be originating from within the structure. Still wary of the situation, he ordered the contingent to move in and, one at a time, the mechs entered the building, the transmitting cam units transitioning to infrared imaging to compensate for the total lack of illumination. The uneasy feeling that had been eating at Traug began to intensify as the cam screens showed the team moving through the darkened, rubble filled corridors of the facility, eventually coming to an open chamber, their position reading directly over the tracking beacon’s signature. Something was wrong. Very wrong. If the escapees had found the device, why would they hide it in this place? Why wouldn’t they simply destroy it?
The answer came to him as one of the mechs moved aside a slab of rubble, revealing the freight hauler’s small tracking module, it’s red indicato
r light flashing in regular transmitting sequence. Traug’s eyes widened at the terrible realization of what they had so foolishly walked into and he lunged for the comm. “It’s a trap!” he called into the hand piece, desperately. “Return to the ship! Return to the-”
All of the display screens flared brightly before turning to static, a thunderous crack sounding through the hull. The flight deck shook only slightly from the shock wave of the detonation Traug knew had destroyed the better part of his mech security force. Through the front viewport he saw thick plumes of black smoke rising from the glowing fires, not quite visible above the high dock ring barrier wall. It was an explosion he had foreseen only too late. The initial shock of the ambush wore off quickly however and Traug’s thoughts immediately shifted to those of self preservation. The trap was obviously triggered remotely, which meant that whoever had sprung it was still here, most likely moving in on their next target.
“Board the ship and prepare for immediate launch,” he ordered his remaining guard contingent. They needed to lift off and get clear of the immediate danger their attackers represented. Once in the air, the armored freight hauler would be safe enough, and from a relatively secure altitude, he would be able to determine his next best course of action. The vessel was equipped with sufficient armaments and ordinance to lay new waste to the ruined outpost if he so chose. Or he could simply flee for his life. The second option seemed a viable one, and quite acceptable under the circumstances.
Traug heard the flight deck hatch slide open behind him and immediately began to dictate his orders to the mechs he needed to pilot the vessel. “There is no time to waste. Get us in the air and to a safe altitude. My life is in peril.”
“You’re right about that much,” a steely feminine voice returned.
Traug felt his blood turn suddenly cold and he slowly turned to face, not the security mechs he had been expecting, but a pair of humans that stood in the hatchway, their hostile eyes and weapon muzzles steadily fixed on him. He recognized their faces as those of the resistance operatives that had been attempting to aid the fugitive Orna in Trycon City, days earlier in the second of Durak’s sieges. He could not keep the surprise from showing in his features, nor the dismay.
