Empire of Dust

by Jacey Bedford

  That was going to hurt—but not for a while. If she couldn’t finish this fast, he would. She flexed her arm to test for damage, finding nothing torn or broken. For a split-second they stood motionless, facing each other, breathing hard, assessing, adjusting, reasoning. She didn’t let her eyes be drawn to the man’s wickedly fast feet, instead she watched his face, but he wasn’t giving much away.

  She needed an advantage. Think, woman! Her brain sorted through ideas, rejected even as they were being formed. She wasn’t carrying a weapon . . . or was she?

  He came in fast, but in her mind the scene played in slowmo. This wouldn’t be a long encounter; he couldn’t afford the luxury of playing cat and mouse. He’d already discovered that weaponless didn’t mean she was unarmed.

  He feinted right and turned impossibly at the last nanosecond. She flung herself left. His right foot lashed out again, double-time. Fuck! Already unbalanced, she curved away from it, but couldn’t avoid it completely.

  At the end of its arc, where the energy had almost dissipated, his toe caught the side of her head, just above her ear, with a crunch that she heard as well as felt. Starbursts danced on the edge of her vision. She was in big trouble. Her red cap flew off, but she didn’t let it distract her. A quick jab with her left. She caught his extended leg a glancing blow, elbow to knee. It wasn’t enough to permanently disable him, but it gave her a breathing space. It was now or never.

  Willing herself to keep gray nausea at bay, she ran backward, trusting that the corridor floor was flat and empty. Her hand went to her pocket and her fingers found the pebble and the trilene line. She didn’t even have time to unravel them, she just hurled the lot, hard, from the shoulder, putting all her strength behind the throw. And then she followed it. She wouldn’t get a second chance.

  The line began to unravel as it flew. Damn! She’d be lucky if it even hit him.

  He saw it coming and instinct snapped his head back. His eyes widened. Maybe the tail of the trilene line confused his perception for a moment. Whatever. It was enough. She had her opening. She smacked the heel of her right hand into his nose with all the force of her shoulder behind it.

  His gargled yelp ended in the middle as the impact broke his nose and dropped him at her feet. It had taken less than a minute.

  “Bastard!”

  She kicked him in the ribs to be sure, but he didn’t move.

  Fear clamped, and running purely on automatic, she knelt beside him. He was still breathing. Was she pleased about that or not? How long did she have before he came to? She didn’t need long to get far enough ahead of him, and she didn’t think he’d admit to Craike that he’d tried to take the reward for himself, though his broken nose would take some explaining.

  The nausea that had threatened before rolled over her now and she heaved up Jussaro’s idea of breakfast over the unconscious man’s left sleeve, fighting off the urge to lie down next to him and close her eyes. Her ears rang with the weird-shit sound of church bells underwater.

  Concentrating hard on every movement, she picked up his limp left hand and excised the chip from his handpad, taking both his ident and his security chip. A businessman wouldn’t be entitled to security clearance, but Ari’s operative might.

  She looked at the man’s face and shuddered.

  There was no time for pondering. He might come round at any moment. Quickly, she ripped off his handpad, leaving blood oozing from severed connections, and ground it under the heel of her boot. Then she dragged him to the service door and dumped him inside, using up almost all her reserves of strength. Bending to pick up her cap sent her to her knees under a wave of dizziness. She staggered upright and stood very still, breathing steadily, eyes closed, trying to find her center. Carefully, she jammed the cap over her bunched-up hair, avoiding the tender swelling above her ear, and walked slowly in the direction of the cargo go-flow, trailing the fingers of her right hand across the wall to keep contact with reality and remind herself which way was up.

  Smooth-sided containers trundled by slowly, defying gravity on the moving lanes. Going through the cargo area would be the trickiest part, but the red coverall was standard-issue for all Devantec personnel, from engineers to package couriers, and perhaps these would help. She fingered the stolen chips, hoping that they’d get her through the checkpoint that she’d planned to bluff her way through as a Devantec employee.

  Her head pounded like a pile driver. She tucked a stray strand of hair under her red cap, pulled the peak well down over her forehead, and eyed the moving trucks.

  There. That was what she had been waiting for! An open mail truck of smaller packages trundled slowly by. She swallowed hard, bit down on her teeth, and took three quick strides to match speed. She grabbed the rim and stepped on to the casing, causing it to sway wildly on its antigravs before stabilizing and letting her find a safe riding position. Nausea threatened. She breathed it away. It was illegal, of course, for employees to ride the bucket, but everyone did it, and no one would haul her off unless she got a real stickler on the checkpoint.

  She didn’t. The checker even waved as she went through. Approaching the cargo area, she hopped off again, but this time with a random package held in front of her. It was heavier than she’d expected it to be for its size. She stumbled as she landed, feeling her balance falter, but sidestepped and found her feet again without going all the way down.

  At the automatic security gate she popped the graysuit’s access chip under the scanner and waited. The barrier opened, and it wasn’t until she sucked in a lungful of air that she realized she’d been holding her breath.

  Once through, she headed for the docking bays, finding it hard to read the signs through blurred vision. She screwed up her face, squinted at the numbers, and found the Aloha dock. She’d checked. Number seven was the emergency overhaul pad. The gate guard gave her a searching look, but she clutched the package to her chest to mask both her gender and the missing insignia on her suit, and muttered, “Delivery for bay seven.”

  She held her breath, waiting for him to say that the bay had cleared and gone, but he just grunted.

  “Is that what the holdup’s about?” he said. “The bay’s been tied up all afternoon, and I’ve got eight craft piling up in dispatch. Get in there quick.”

  She started to reach for the stolen ident, but the guard was building up a head of steam. “Fuck that, just get on with it!” He waved her through.

  She got on with it.

  Rehearsing what she was going to say, she was surprised to find the wing-step still down. Ben offered her his hand as she climbed onboard the Dixie Flyer. He took the package and dropped it to one side of the cabin, its useful purpose ended.

  “You made it.”

  “You were expecting me?”

  “Figured you were the type who wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “But you had yourself covered just in case I got caught.”

  “They might have caught you. Under interrogation, you could only tell the truth—that I refused you passage. Any trouble?” he asked.

  “Tell you later.”

  He nodded. “Take that couch.”

  She slid into the copilot’s couch and adjusted her harness. Even through her fogged brain she could tell that the Dixie didn’t shine anymore, but it was well-maintained. It felt right, like a good working flyer should.

  The couch molded to her body shape and the five-point restraints snaked over her shoulders, round her waist, and between her legs to meet in the middle and lock with a satisfying click.

  Ben sat in the pilot’s seat beside her and clipped on the lightweight headset that connected him to the ship’s systems and left both hands free. The computer handled the donkeywork, but there was still a considerable amount of individual skill involved.

  “Benjamin 4468, pad seven. Ready for air lock procedure,” he said.

  “Pad seven, running your clearance again,” the speaker announced.

  “Damn! I thought they’d be so glad to se
e me gone they’d release straight away,” he said under his breath.

  “Pad seven, you’re overweight.”

  “Just taken a new systems unit on board.”

  “That’s a heavy unit.”

  “Yes. Taking the old one back for refurb as well.”

  “Okay, pad seven. You’re cleared.”

  Cara felt the hum of the boosters rise to a throb of energy as Ben ran final checks and completed his log.

  “Delay, pad seven.” The harsh voice of the controller cut in.

  Ben flicked the controls to manual.

  “Pad seven, delay. Your delivery boy hasn’t cleared the inward gate yet.”

  Cara held her breath.

  Ben made no answer, but he released the lock on the mooring gear. His jaw was set tight and there was a little pulse beating at his temple.

  “Pad seven, stand down. Terminate exit procedure.”

  For a moment Cara thought he was going to risk running the bay air lock without clearance.

  “The guard didn’t check me in properly—he might not know whether he’s checked me out.”

  “4468 to Control. Check your access files in and out please.”

  There was a pause. “Control to 4468. We’ve no records in or out for your delivery boy.”

  “Well, I certainly got my spares. Suggest you check the efficiency of your gate security. Damn sloppy system, Mirrimar-14. Can you tighten it up, or shall I have a word on your behalf when I get back to civilization?”

  “Thank you, Commander Benjamin, we can handle it. Instigating air lock procedure now.”

  “Thank you, Control.”

  Chapter Four

  BETRAYAL

  Cara gripped the arms of her seat as the Dixie Flyer rose on antigravs into the air lock, and the double doors slid shut behind them. The outer doors opened. Ben engaged the drive and eased out into the stark beauty of space. Cara’s weight fell away. She bounced gently against her restraints. Stars glinted brightly through the radiation-proof forward bubble. On the rear viewscreen the dumbbell-shaped way station rotated gently against pinpricks of light.

  Tears prickled behind her eyelids, and she blinked them away. It was over. She was leaving Craike and his crew behind. They hadn’t got her yet.

  Feeling slightly disconnected from reality, she watched the incoming and outgoing traffic from the station. Mirrimar-14 sat at the confluence of three jump gates, two taking traffic to and from colonies on the rim and one leading toward Earth and the inner systems. At that moment she had the Rimward-B jump gate on her screen in the far distance. The gate itself was nothing, a disk of pure black emptiness, a hole where stars should be and weren’t. On either side of that were two modules: the larger unit combined crew quarters and control functions, while the smaller one housed the gate impeller.

  As she watched, the black disk winked out and the stars behind it sprang into being.

  “No!” She gasped. “The gate . . .” Could Craike order them to shut down the gates? Heart pounding, she looked for the other gates on the viewscreen.

  “Relax. It’s off line for maintenance. It’ll be active by the time we get there.”

  Relief flooded through her.

  They must be relining the rods. Ah,yes. There it was, the platinum fleet, one drone and its escorts, all armed to the teeth. Once the platinum was installed in the rods, it couldn’t be reclaimed, but it was vulnerable in transit. They had five runs every thirty days, too many chances to lose several million credits’ worth of the precious metal that leeched out into the Folds with every jump made. No wonder they were twitchy.

  She concentrated on the platinum convoy, using it to hold onto her senses until it slid off the edge of the screen. For fully thirty minutes they seemed to drift steadily, though Cara knew they were gradually picking up speed.

  Ben removed his headset. “Two hours to our time slot for the gate. You look like a corpse. Are you all right?”

  “A bit nauseous. May just be the null-G.”

  “I can give us quarter-grav. It should help.”

  She felt a slight shudder and gradually she regained weight. She unclipped her harness and winced as she tried to move her left arm.

  “You did run into trouble.”

  “A heavy. I managed to leave him out cold, but he caught me with a couple of smart smacks before I found a way to distract him.”

  “Are you always this calm when you’ve just dealt with a hit man?”

  “It’s not as if I make a habit of it.”

  Ben left the Dixie on automatic. He crossed to a locker in the aft bulkhead, pulled out a sliding table, and opened up a comprehensive med kit.

  “Here.”

  He gave her a cool gel compress to hold to the soft swelling on her temple. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep, but he shone a light in them and wouldn’t let her. Mean bastard.

  “Talk to me,” he said.

  “What about?”

  “Anything. Everything. Keep talking. I want to know if you’re about to go into a coma.”

  “Such optimism. Should I be reassured?” She slurred the words slightly, like a drunk and had to repeat “reassured” twice before she was satisfied with her pronunciation.

  He helped her to peel the red suit from her left shoulder. Her skin was already turning a deep shade of midnight and burgundy.

  “It looked prettier last night,” he said, as he packed a fresh gel compress on the bruise.

  “Don’t remind me. I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Whatever you say.” He turned back to the med kit.

  She wished she could wipe the memory of sex with Ben Benjamin from both their minds. He touched her arm again, and she almost leaped out of her skin, but he was only slapping on a blast pack of painkiller.

  “Relax. I’m not going to jump on you without an invitation. How’s that?”

  “Easier, thanks.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “What?”

  “That was a good act you put on last night, but I know it wasn’t for real.”

  She blushed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. At least you had the grace not to fake an orgasm.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “Ah, now that sounds like the truth. That works for me.”

  “Me, too.” She tried to smile, but her head was pounding and it turned into a grimace. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He nodded. “I need to talk to Crowder on Chenon. I may have to pull in a few favors to get clearance for you to land.”

  “Wait. I’m dead meat if my name goes on the port immigration list.”

  “That’s why we need Crowder.”

  “Crowder works for the Trust, right? He’s a company man?”

  “But he’s also a friend. If anyone can find a back door for you, he can.” Ben swapped the gel compress for a fresh one and put the first to cool again. “As soon as we clear Mirrimar-14, I’ll send a message via the gate Telepath. We’ll have to wait for the reply before we can jump the Homeward Gate.”

  “I can sustain a triad.”

  “Not with a roaring concussion. Besides, you’ve powered down your implant.”

  “No reason to keep it powered down. We’ll be in the Folds soon, and they can’t track it then.”

  She tongued the tiny control built into her jawbone.

  Her mind exploded with pleasure. The blank emptiness opened up, and she could hear the background hum that meant she was no longer alone and silent. She even got a buzz from Jussaro back on station as he started his shift and wondered where she was.

  But standing way out in front of the background hum was Ben. Not a Telepath, he’d said, but a Psi-1 Navigator able to receive.

  *Benjamin!*

  She connected, maybe a little too enthusiastically, like a junkie taking the first hit for months.

  He jerked. *Whoa.*

  *Sorry. Just so glad to be connected again.*

  *So I see. You really are a Psi-1 Telepath?
*

  *I really am.*

  She didn’t mention her minimal ability as an Empath. She barely registered on the scale and, anyway, some people, even other psi-techs, got twitchy around Empaths. Besides, she didn’t want to know what Benjamin’s feelings toward her were. She hadn’t let herself become emotionally entangled last night. If Ben had, she was sorry.

  *So you need Psi-1s on this Olyanda mission?*

  *We’ll talk about that later.*

  She sighed. “Implant’s all better now.”

  “Yes, but you took a ferocious knock.”

  He cradled her head with both hands and let his fingers gently probe her skull.

  “Owww!”

  “See what I mean?”

  She couldn’t keep her voice steady. “Are you a trained medic?”

  “No, but I’ve done my fair share of fixing up.”

  “Where did you learn that?” she asked.

  “I grew up on a farm on Chenon. It was pretty remote. We had to fend for ourselves most of the time. I can shoe a horse, too, and strip and assemble a K46 drive for a tractor.”

  “How long have you been in the Trust?”

  He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Curious, aren’t you?”

  “No more than you are. I’m just trying to make conversation. You said I should talk to you.”

  “So I did. All right. Six years active, eight including cryo. And before you ask, I was brought up by my grandmother; I have one older brother called Rion; I have no allergies. I eat meat, and I’m divorced. I don’t suppose there’s the remotest chance that you would answer some of my questions?”

  “Probably not. I was born on Earth. I still think of it as home, but before my first birthday I was hauled off to the arse-end of the galaxy. My parents worked the frontier planets. Mom was—still is—a marine biologist and Dad was a hydro-engineer, but we traveled a lot. I have no brothers or sisters. My folks split up, and I shuttled between them, racked up some cryo.” She sighed. “Dad died, but I couldn’t go back to Mom. We never really . . . Oh, that hardly matters, now. She’s halfway across the galaxy with her latest lover. I went back to Earth, spent almost a year with my grandfather in Cornwall before going to school. He was an old, old man, but he’d been a professor. His house was full of books, real books, old ones, too.”