He had been dropped off in an upscale suburb. Mansions lined either side of the road, with well-kept grounds and architecture keen on showing off the wealth of their owners.
Victor was not standing on a poor world.
Eventually he came upon an Autotaxi sign written in universal language across the top. Victor sighed in relief. He was on a world that spoke the same language he did. That would make things simpler.
After studying the terminal for a minute, he inserted his card into the reader and hit the button to summon a taxi. Five credits disappeared from the card, and, a few minutes later, a tiny one-person autotaxi pulled up.
The door opened, and Victor climbed inside.
“Destination?” asked the autocab.
Victor jumped back in his seat. The autocabs on Savannah didn’t talk. “Uh? Downtown?”
“Acknowledged. Destination, downtown Marksburg.” The autocab took off, following the road toward the towers.
Victor didn’t recognize the city’s name. “Autocab?”
“Yes, valued customer?”
“What planet is this?” Victor asked.
“This is the planet Mustang, valued customer.”
That name he did know. Mustang was the wealthiest of the Free Worlds, thanks to its star being located in a junction of several important trade routes.
He recalled the planet’s government was officially a republic, but in name only. It had long since transformed into an oligarchy. Almost all the Free Worlds were ruled by a privileged few, if they weren't ruled by a single autocrat.
Still Mustang was reputed to be one of the more pleasant of the Free Worlds; its rulers focused more on making money than terrorizing their citizens.
They were also mortal enemies with another heavyweight of the Free Worlds, the planet Mohawk and its self-proclaimed king. The enmity between the worlds was simple to understand. Where Mustang was a center for merchants, Mohawk was a home to pirates and slavers.
As the autotaxi made its way to the city, Victor leaned forward in his seat to consider his options.
The money on his card was enough that he could probably buy a ticket on a charter vessel to Lysander. But then what? Storm the Imperial palace on his own? Victor wouldn’t be surprised if his face was saved in the memory banks of every Lysandran security system. He’d be detected the moment he set foot on Lysandran soil. Assuming he even got that far.
He could just give up; a little under fifty thousand credits was enough to start a new life. But he didn’t want a new life, he wanted his old one. He would have to settle for revenge.
Victor rubbed his chin, feeling a solid layer of stubble growing over it. Mustang was more than just a trade center; mercenaries looking for work gathered here. Victor's father had considered hiring some, if the Mustangers would've let him.
As a former starship captain with a decade of combat experience, Victor figured he likely had the skills a mercenary outfit would find valuable.
Becoming a mercenary could gain Victor a crew of his own, specifically chosen for killing the Lysandran emperor. That process would take time, but it was a start. Better than just giving up at least.
The only question was, where to find the point of entry into mercenary trade? “Autocab, change of destination. Take me to the nearest spaceport.”
“That will incur a five-credit extra charge, valued customer,” the autocab said, a terminal beside Victor lighting up for him to insert his card.
“Do it.”
“Affirmative. New destination, Marksburg Spaceport.” The autocab took a ramp, and soon Victor saw the spaceport looming before him.
This one was much smaller than Galen Military Spaceport. It had none of the tall anchor towers for battleships. Just a large area of flat concrete centered on a terminal, with midsize or smaller starships of all shapes resting on the tarmac. More than a few vessels had the lean and mean looks of warships, some with the reared horse of the Mustang Defense Fleet, but others had the more colorful decorations of one mercenary outfit or another. Victor was at the right place.
The autocab pulled up to a taxi stop, and Victor got out. Another passenger took his place almost as soon as he set foot on the sidewalk.
Checking a directory, he found what he was looking for. Every spaceport had a sector dedicated to serving off-world crews. A seedy area full of bars, brothels, and casinos.
He boarded a public tram that took him toward the red-light sector. He stepped into the garish lighting of one hundred neon signs and animated holo-adverts.
He walked down the sidewalk, passing souvenir shops and cheap restaurants.
When he passed by a brothel, a male prostitute stepped in front of him.
“Looking for a good time, handsome?” The man had pale skin and blond hair. His blue glowing irises were the same color as the sign above the door. His clothing appeared to be mostly made of nets, showing off the man’s well-toned muscles.
Victor pulled out his card, his thumb strategically placed over the value counter. “Not really but I am looking for information.”
The prostitute glanced at the card. “Money is money. What’cha need?”
“I’m looking for work and thought I’d hire on to one of the mercenary outfits. Would you happen to know where to look?” asked Victor.
“Pay my fee, and I’ll be happy to remember.” The prostitute held up a tablet.
Victor swiped his card over the prostitute’s tablet, giving the man his hundred-credit standard fee.
The prostitute smiled at his tablet. “Try Natalia’s, a bar four blocks up. You can’t miss it. Has a blue holo of a naked woman shaking her tits above the door.”
“I’ll check it out. Thanks,” Victor said.
“Anytime. Come back when you’re feeling randy,” the prostitute said.
“Good night, friend,” Victor said, leaving the prostitute to his business.
Victor found Natalia’s a few blocks down, right where the underdressed man had said. The blue-tinted holo of a naked woman danced above the door to the beat of the music emanating from within.
The sliding door opened as Victor approached, and a wave of unfamiliar smells and music crashed into him. With one look inside, he knew this place was far dirtier than even the seediest dive he had ever stepped into on Savannah. Which didn’t surprise him. Savannah was, or rather had been, a relatively straightlaced planet, even before the war with the Lysandrans had let the military junta take control.
The crowd was also far more heterogeneous than those Victor had encountered in Savannan bars. The people in the bar ranged wildly in the color of their skins and hair. And that was just the basic humans. He spotted a number of squat heavy-worlders and lithe nightpeople, even what looked to be a starchild standing at the back of the bar. That was difficult for Victor to believe. Starchildren weren’t supposed to visit planets. For the most part, they barely interacted with the rest of humanity.
Victor supposed there were exceptions to everything. He walked to the bar and sat on an empty stool. Before he could get the bartender’s attention, a strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him into the air just to drop him.
Victor tucked in his chin and broke his fall, keeping the back of his head from cracking against the hard floor.
“That’s my seat,” said a tall man covered in bulging muscles, advertising his steroid abuse.
Victor got up, adopting the athletic, balanced posture he used in sword sparring. “I didn’t see your name on it.”
The big man stepped closer. “Don’t need my name on it. People just know. People who don’t know? I learn ’em.” He drew back a meaty fist and threw a haymaker.
Victor stepped aside and used the momentum of the big man’s punch to throw him over his hips. The man landed with a thud against the bare concrete floor of the bar.
Victor tried to plant a knee on the man’s chest to keep him down, but the giant reached up, grabbed Victor by the lapels of his jacket, and threw him clear.
By
the time Victor got back up, the big man was on his feet. “I’m gonna make you pay for that.” He stomped forward.
Victor picked up an empty stool and threw it at the big man’s feet, sending him off balance. As the man tried to get his feet clear, Victor ran up, grabbed him by the back of the head, and drove a knee into his face. A wet crunch followed.
“Rraaagh!” The big man, his nose crooked and bloodied, threw a right hook. Victor blocked it, but the force of the blow was enough to knock him to the ground.
On his back, Victor kicked at the man’s crotch, landing a direct hit.
The big man grunted in pain and bent over. Victor kicked again, landing his heel on the man’s already injured nose. The man fell to his knees, holding himself up with one hand while covering his face with the other.
Victor rolled to his feet and jumped on the big man’s back. He wrapped an arm around his neck and locked his hand in the crook of his other arm. He then took a deep breath, inflating his lungs and pushing the man’s neck into the V formed by his right arm, tightening the cinch.
The big man vaulted to his back, slamming Victor to the ground, but Victor had kept his chin tucked in again to protect the back of his head. He held the choke, and, seconds later, the man went limp.
He held the grip for just a few more seconds, just to be sure, then he threw aside the unconscious mountain of meat and stood. Now he noticed the cheering from the other bar patrons. It seemed Victor had put on a good show.
A man got up from the table where the starchild sat. The adult was shorter than Victor, with a clean-shaven, craggy face and thinning black hair.
Victor, not sure if this man was a friend of the big man or not, dropped back to a fighting posture.
The newcomer just smiled and said, “You know, I came here hoping to recruit that giant for my crew, before I saw you kick his ass.” The man held out his hand. “Captain Warwick Hyde, at your service.”
Victor hesitated for a moment but then decided to shake the man’s hand, half-expecting a sucker punch that never came. “Hi.”
Warwick smiled. “You’re not from around here. I can tell by your accent. You came looking for work, I take it?”
Victor smirked and relaxed. “Yes, actually I did.”
“What’s your name?” asked Warwick.
“Victor,” he said.
“Victor.” Warwick nodded. “That come with a last name?”
“Does it need to?”
Warwick shrugged. “Not really. Tell me. What’s your skill set?”
Victor looked down at the still unconscious man on the floor and then back to Warwick. “Is this a job interview?”
“Something like that, yes,” Warwick said.
“Navigating, gunner—”
“You can use a gun?” Warwick asked.
Victor nodded. “Yes, I can use a gun. I’m better with a blade through.”
Warwick smiled. “Blades? Good. Blades are useful during boarding actions.”
“Boarding?”
“Yes, there’s an opening in my ship’s boarding party. You interested?”
Victor chewed his lower lip. He wasn’t an armsman or a marine; he was a starship commander. But he could shoot a gun, and he liked to consider himself a good swordsman. And he wasn’t in a position to simply refuse opportunities like this. “Sure, I can be a boarding specialist.”
Warwick nodded. “Good. Join me at my table. We’ll drink on it.”
***
Victor drank a shot of something bitter that burned as it went down and left a warm feeling in his belly.
He was introduced to a couple members of the crew. The tall and thin starchild was Cormac, who functioned as both the ship’s engineer and medic. Warwick described him as “two for the price of one.”
The other person at the table as a nightwoman by the name of Fara. She was a striking woman, with the too-large black eyes of a nightperson, pale skin, and black hair with a single blue highlight running through it.
Afterward Victor visited Warwick’s ship, the creatively named Fortune. A rather shabby little warship, compared to the vessels Victor was used to.
It would barely rate as a frigate, if Victor was feeling generous, but she was really more of a big patrol ship.
She was also at least thirty years old, a surplus military vessel. Her outer hull needed a new coat of paint. Patches of bare metal gleamed under the lights of the tarmac.
Her armament consisted of a single spinal-mounted gun, and a pair of smaller turrets mounted on the top and bottom of the ship. A pair of doors for missile tubes was visible on the ship’s sides as well.
A vessel like her wouldn’t have lasted thirty seconds against the Osprey. But she probably would never have to face a ship of that caliber in combat. Not unless she was very unlucky.
Walking up the short boarding ramp, a squat, muscular heavy-worlder stood at the top to greet them.
“I see you found a new recruit, Captain.”
Warwick nodded. “That’s right, Fowler. This is Victor, the newest addition to our boarding party.”
“More meat for the grinder then,” the heavy-worlder said.
Victor didn’t need to be a genius to know what he meant. Boarding operations were notoriously dangerous. And he guessed that Fowler must be Warwick’s second-in command.
“Now don’t go scaring the new recruit. He beat a man half-again his size in a fist fight at Natalia’s,” Warwick said.
“Hrmmph. Well, at least we can handle ourselves if we ever have to board a hostile bar,” Fowler said. He walked away.
Warwick leaned toward Victor. “Don’t mind Fowler. He doesn’t like getting attached to new people.”
Victor nodded. “I take it the average life expectancy for boarding specialists is rather low.”
“Oh, it’s not as bad as you think. Most of the time we beat the fight from other ships before we ever have to board them. You’ll be on glorified cleanup duty most of the time,” Warwick said.
Skeptical, Victor nodded anyway. He followed Warwick to the center of the ship’s hull, where bunk pods lined the walls. Sitting at a small table was a short hairless man, heavily muscled and covered in what looked like tribal tattoos. The only parts of his body that didn’t have tattoos were his fists, which appeared to be made of metal.
“You’ll be bunking in here. The bottom bunk on the right is yours.” Warwick pointed at the tattooed man. “That’s Gaz. He’s the leader of our boarding party. You should introduce yourselves.” He departed, leaving Victor alone with Gaz.
Gaz gave Victor an appraising look and stood. Like watching a snake uncoil. When he spoke, Victor realized the man’s teeth were filed to points.
“So, who’re you?”
“Victor.”
“That it?”
“That’s it.”
“I was led to believe we’d be getting some big ol’ fucker who likes to hang out at Natalia’s.” Gaz crossed his arms.
“If we’re talking about the same guy, I left him on Natalia’s floor.”
“A lanky fuck like you beat a big fuck like him?” asked Gaz.
Victor shrugged. “I’m stronger than I look. You should ask your captain. He can vouch for me.”
Gaz nodded. “Captain Hyde has an eye for talent. He wouldn’t have brought you aboard otherwise. Plus, I know sword-calluses when I see ’em. What blade you use?”
“Variblade,” Victor said.
Gaz laughed. “A variblade?” He looked at Victor’s belt. “I don’t see no variblade on you, fucker.”
Gaz sure did like that word. “It was taken from me.”
“How?”
“I lost a fight. I mean to earn it back. Or get a new one at least,” Victor said.
Gaz nodded. “That I can understand. You got any gear?”
“Not yet,” Victor said.
“Can you buy any?” asked Gaz.
“Some,” Victor said. He wouldn’t mention the currency card.
“Well, you should g
et some stuff in town. We take off in a couple days. We’re patrolling a trade route ahead of a convoy.”
“Escort job?”
“Nah, patrol, like I said. We’re looking for pirates hidin’ along the route to blast ’em,” Gaz said.
Victor nodded. “Understood. Looks like I have some shopping to do.”
“Looks like. Be sure to get some sheets too.” Gaz nodded toward Victor’s new bunk. “The guy before you was kind of a pig.”
Chapter 6
Two days later, the Fortune took off from Marksburg Spaceport and set course for the Vivian system jump point. It would take a week for them to reach their destination, a deserted system along the Mustang-Vespa trade route simply called Trine. The system got its name from having three tiny red-dwarf stars orbiting each other.
Several jumps from any settled system, Trine was a favorite location for pirates.
The job of Fortune’s crew was to find those pirates and drive them out.
Victor spent his time getting to know the crew. There were two other boarding specialists, in addition to Victor and Gaz.
The heavy-worlder Toren, a rather high-strung man who liked to spend his time drinking from a still he had jammed into his bunk. He often smelled of rotted fruit.
The other was Dom, a very muscular woman as tall as Victor, who could be charitably described as homely. She had a wide and flat face with a nose made crooked from repeated breaks. Several gold teeth filled her mouth.
None of the crew seem particularly interested in making friends with Victor. But he had seen that kind of thing before, during the war with Lysander.
He was the FNG, the Fucking New Guy. An unknown quantity, likely to get himself killed. Or one of them killed if he really screwed up. Until he was bloodied before their eyes, they wouldn’t become his friends anytime soon.
Victor spent much of his free time checking the equipment he bought. It cost half the remaining credits on his card, but he wouldn’t skimp on gear.
There was no shortage of stores selling weapons and equipment for mercenaries on Mustang. Victor had first tried to see if any variblades were for sale, but all the ones he found were obvious fakes.
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