Fracture Lines (The Glass Complex Book 2)

by John Hindmarsh

  “I wish you luck. If you end up with a surplus, please let me know.”

  Steg nodded and returned to his review. At last he selected three men whom he thought might meet his requirements. He spoke to the sergeant again.

  “Riddell, can I borrow the corporal I met earlier? I need someone to act as guide and temporary support until I sort out these recruits. Perhaps after I have a meal break?”

  This time Steg had a better opportunity to examine the officers’ mess. There was a chef and a steward plus a small serving staff. Steg sat with the captain who had removed him from the group of recruits after Rippin’s attack.

  “So, de Coeur, what do you think so far?” The captain held out his hand. “By the way, I’m Dean, Hugh Dean. Call me Dean, everyone does.”

  They shook hands. Steg was about to commence his lunch when he saw a large insect had climbed onto the table. It looked around for a moment and then headed directly towards him.

  “What the frek—”

  His companion laughed. “It’s one of Monty’s spies. He builds them. I suppose he wants you to carry it with you. Good afternoon, Monty.”

  The metallic insect halted and, facing the captain, waved its frond-like feelers. It turned back towards Steg and crawled over to face him. Steg inspected the insect, still undecided whether he should swat it or greet it. The construct had a shiny red carapace under which he thought he discerned folded wings. Its body was about two inches long, and the feelers added another inch or so. Eight legs completed the structure. The result was somewhere between a vividly colored beetle and a starship croacher. Steg nudged the insect construct with his finger. It sat back and stared at him with multi-faceted blue eyes.

  “You think Monty wants me to carry the darn thing?”

  “Yes. At the moment he doesn’t have direct communication with you. Of course, he’s able to use Wasp’s system; however, it’s not private or secure. Pick it up and place it on your collar, behind your ear.”

  Steg did as Dean suggested. He felt a soft touch of a feeler behind his ear and heard a tinny replication of Monty’s baritone.

  “Thank you, Steg. I forgot to mention there’ll be occasions when I’ll need to communicate with you in private. Later we’ll arrange a small surgical implant for you. It’s a painless operation—well, almost. The implant will allow us to communicate whether you’re on or off Wasp, as long as you’re within a klick or so.”

  Steg finished his meal, still bemused, which he thought was becoming a permanent state. Corporal Jones was waiting when he exited the mess.

  “Corporal, I need somewhere to work with the recruits. A small interview room and a way to segregate accepted recruits from the rejects.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve reserved space. The recruits are waiting, now. They’re on D deck, section 23, room 25. Not far.”

  Steg followed the corporal to where the forty press-ganged recruits were assembled. They still wore their gray uniforms and presented a mix of bored, curious, and frustrated faces as they turned towards Steg and the corporal.

  “As you know, my name is de Coeur. I’ll be your captain, if you join Wasp’s mercenary force. I’ve been advised the starship and its mercenaries are an extension of the War Merchants of Sicca and have legal authorization for their operations. If, for any reason, you don’t wish to join the mercenary force or if I decide I don’t want you, you’ll be returned to your cells on Aluta. No one will believe any story you tell, so don’t think there’s any chance of blackmail. Those who don’t want to remain on board, please move to the left; others remain on my right.”

  Three men moved to the left. Steg nodded at them and said. “We’ll arrange for your return.” He turned to the group on his right. “Corporal Jones will call you by name, and you’ll enter the interview room. I’ll decide whether I want to recruit you. Understood?”

  No one objected. Steg entered the small room, sat at the desk and waited for the corporal to call the first name on his list. A burly man, middle-aged, in excellent physical condition, entered and stood at ease in front of Steg. The corporal followed, closed the door, and waited near the wall.

  Steg read aloud from his notes. “Alexander Kirby. Imperial Marine. Sergeant. Sentenced to life for a serious assault on, and causing the death of, a senior officer while a state of war existed.”

  The ex-Marine snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.” His face was expressionless.

  “What’s the background to this? Tell me what happened and why you’d be a good recruit for me.”

  “Sir. Yes, I killed an ImpSec major.” He looked at Steg. “I caught him sexually assaulting my wife when we were attending an official function. He was attempting to rape her, and when she protested, he broke her arm and her jaw. I broke his legs, his arms, and his nose. I also busted some of his ribs, and one penetrated a lung. The medics arrived too late to save him. I was found guilty of murder. The tribunal sentenced me to death.” He turned his attention to the far wall, behind Steg, his face still expressionless. “Sir.”

  “Now, why would you be a good recruit?”

  “Sir, I’ve over thirty years of experience in the Imperial Marines. I held the rank of senior sergeant, gunnery. I’m classed as expert in most Imperial weapons. I can pilot a shuttle, and I trained as an exo-armorer. I’ve had recent combat experience.”

  “You’re willing to serve with a non-Imperial force?”

  He smiled. “After my experiences with ImpSec, yes, sir.”

  “Good. Corporal Jones, we need a uniform and sergeant’s strips for Kirby. Welcome to the team, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir. It’ll be a pleasure. I saw you take down Rippin. It was very professional.”

  Steg had decided to accept men for Attwood’s mercenary force if he could identify at least some extenuating circumstances for their offenses. Prison and other records revealed all the press-ganged recruits had committed serious crimes, although there was a possibility ImpSec had railroaded some. He interviewed the next two candidates on his list and, based on their experience, background, charges, sentences, and personal details, he selected them to serve as corporals. He suspended further interviews until his recruits changed into their mercenary uniforms, after which he delegated the remaining assessments to the three men. They were to be his core NCOs and would need to live day-to-day with their decisions. Two days later, at the conclusion of the selection processes, Steg checked and confirmed their assessments and decided borderline cases.

  Finally, Steg and his new NCOs approved thirty of the prisoners for addition to Wasp’s mercenary force. Colonel Attwood, after confirming their selections, made arrangements to return the rejected prisoners. The starship remained on station above Centyr, and its prisons were short shuttle flights away. There was a timing issue to resolve; the return would be carried out when there was a suitable transfer window.

  Steg had no idea how the return would be handled; it seemed there was a vigorous black market in live bodies that the mercenary colonel tapped into when he needed additional men. It was one way to discover and recruit ex-military resources, thought Steg, although the method seemed to be fraught with high risks and was not something he would have considered.

  After the selections were completed and final recruits approved, Steg sat with his new NCOs and discussed a training program.

  He said, “We need to get these people to an acceptable fitness level, add weapons training, and conduct more realistic exercises—for example, starship boarding and defense.”

  “We can commence with a fitness program whenever you want,” Kirby replied. “We need a large area, perhaps a shuttle or storage bay. It’ll take three, maybe four weeks, for everyone to reach a semblance of fitness. We’ll commence weapons training once the team settles down. Field exercises, I agree; they’ll be an interesting challenge.”

  There was a faint whisper in Steg’s ear. It was Monty. “Wasp has an empty storage bay set up as a training area, with gravity set at plus 20 percent. It’s available ten hours
a day. What will your schedule be?”

  “Thanks, Monty. I’ll check,” Steg said. The three men stared at him, perhaps thinking their captain had taken leave of his senses. “Kirby, there’s a bay set up for fitness training. Gravity’s adjustable. We can have access up to ten hours a day. Oh, this little guy’s a communication device.” He tapped Monty’s construct, which was clutching his collar.

  “Frek,” said Kirby. “I was going to mention you had a king-sized croacher on your neck. Okay, we’ll prepare a schedule. It’ll be ready this afternoon for your review. We’ll commence tomorrow. Do we include you?”

  “Absolutely. I want to be fitter than the rest of you, as a matter of principle.”

  “Sounds like a good challenge, sir,” Kirby said. The two new corporals smiled.

  A circuit of the empty docking bay was a quarter klick, and on the first run, Sergeant Kirby set a modest pace. The two corporals took their places on either side of the recruits. Steg followed some three yards behind the last man, positioned to check for strengths and weaknesses in the runners. They ran sixteen circuits of the docking bay, followed by a rest of fifteen minutes. The sergeant followed the break with a series of exercises targeting cardio and muscle strength, which took thirty minutes. Again, he rested the group. This sequence was repeated, twice more. The men were exhausted at the end of the third set of exercises.

  “A passable effort,” the sergeant said as he reviewed the exhausted recruits, “for beginners. We’re going to increase the pace and distance this afternoon, after your mess break. I promise, by the time we finish with you, you’ll be fitter than you’ve ever been. In a week we’ll adjust gravity to 1.5, to add to your stress. I want you back here in two hours. Dismissed.”

  “Good work, Sergeant,” Steg said, after the men departed. “I agree with your physical program. Remember to plan some combat exercises. We’ll have more to do, of course, to build a reliable fighting force. I want you to meet with Wasp’s armorers and find out when we can get the men fitted. When they have their armor, we can drive them harder.”

  *****

  Chapter 9

  As an ambush, it was effective. Steg stepped around a corner of one of the starship’s long corridors and was confronted by six of the rejected prisoners armed with knives and heavy metal bars. One man had a projectile weapon, an old handgun, unsuitable for use on board a starship. He held the weapon against the temple of one of the female crew, who appeared to be terror-stricken. Steg didn’t know her name or duties, although he’d seen her in the mess arranging refreshments for on-duty bridge officers.

  Rippin, his arms bandaged, was standing in back of the small group. He nudged his immediate companion and said, “That’s frekin’ him. He’s the one I want you to kill. Do it, now.”

  “All right,” Steg said. “I want you to release this girl, disarm, and return to your cabin.” While he understood the possible futility of his instruction, he had no alternatives. “Go, now.”

  Monty whispered in his ear. “I’m disconnecting gravity in your section of the corridor and switching off the lights. Ten seconds and counting, from now.”

  Steg braced himself, grabbing hold of a stanchion as Monty cut the gravity and extinguished the lights. Steg used the sudden release of gravity to launch an attack. He tackled the armed man who, startled by his sudden weightlessness, lost his grip on the hostage. Steg grappled with the man, struggling to gain control of the handgun. He was confident the hostage had escaped in the confusion. Meantime, as Steg was fighting his attackers, Monty synchronized resumption of gravity and lights with the arrival of an armed squad of troopers, who charged along the corridor.

  The prisoner was stronger, probably a heavyworlder, and Steg was unable to gain the upper hand. When gravity resumed, they both tumbled to the floor of the corridor, and Steg lost his grip on the firearm. Someone, in the melee, fired the gun. He heard an explosion and felt a crushing blow to the back of his head. He collapsed, unconscious.

  ###

  Underlying the strong odor of medical disinfectant was a more subtle trace of a familiar perfume. It reminded Steg of something or someone far away, a memory that he was unable to trace, yet he knew was wrapped in sadness. His head was throbbing again. Someone had hit him. Another someone, he thought, had shot him. Steg opened his eyes. He was on a hard bunk in the starship’s medical unit, and a nurse was taping a pad to his right temple. At least, he thought she was a nurse; her clinical uniform certainly gave that impression. When she finished her task and stood back, he raised his head and looked around the room. Three nurses solemnly regarded him.

  “We think you’ll survive—it’s a small crease,” commented the nurse who had applied the pad. “You have a nasty bump on the back of your skull; it’ll go away after a day or two.”

  “You seem to be collecting scars,” the second nurse said. “Although this one will not be as bad.” The first nurse was wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. She was tiny, almost elfin, and her figure was lithe, even sensuous. He was not misled; he suspected her apparent softness disguised a hidden strength. Her hair was black, cut short, and brushed away from her eyes. He looked again. The three nurses were almost identical in appearance.

  A synapse triggered.

  “Fain,” Steg whispered. “Fain. You’re all Fain.”

  Fain was a planet known for its female humanoid constructs. Their origins were mythical, disguised in rumors. Visitors were allowed on Fain only to make a purchase, and they were few. He knew each Fain was designed to give pleasure, to care for her Fain-master. The most terrible of tortures for a Fain was to be alone, deserted by her contracted master. Something was out of line, he thought; these did not appear to be contracted Fain, dependent on a humanoid alien—typically Terran— male.

  He waved the nurse away and sat up. The room spun, and he gripped the side of the treatment bed until it settled down. The third nurse, who seemed to be the senior of the three, picked up a scalpel. Her purposeful move belied any innocence in her intent. The second nurse placed a restraining hand on her arm. He recognized the threat; he knew Fain protected their own against any who would abuse them.

  “Why do you say Fain?” asked the second nurse.

  “I—I have some memories—of a Fain.” He felt pain. It was not physical.

  “I thought you’d lost your memories,” challenged the third nurse.

  “I had, yes, although they’ve been returning in larger batches, and I’m also experiencing additional flashbacks.”

  “Where did you meet this Fain?” Again, it was the third nurse.

  “On a mining planet. Her Fain-master had been assassinated, and his killer was hunting her. She and I, we formed an alliance, I think.”

  “And what happened to her? Where is she?”

  “She—she was killed. I’ve a memory of carrying her—her body.” Images flashed through his mind of a struggle down into hidden regions of a city, level after level, and then carrying a still, tiny body to the surface on a faraway planet. “I—I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  “Who killed her? Was it you?” asked the third nurse. She held the scalpel in her right hand. It was poised for action, and Steg realized she knew how to use the blade. Perhaps not only as a surgical instrument.

  “No. I rescued her.” His memories were growing more definite. “There was someone, a corporate security chief; I can’t remember his name. He caught up with us and shot her. It was revenge. She hated him. He had killed her master. She—her name was Milnaret, Milnaret of Fain. She asked me to call her Millie.” Memories were starting to link; another neural network was building, strengthening. His confidence was growing that he would soon have all his memories, and soon his recollections would be complete.

  The third nurse dropped the scalpel onto a tray with a clatter. “Very well. As far as I can determine, you’re telling the truth.” She turned her attention away from monitoring screens above his bed.

  Steg realized he was hooked up to various devices. The firs
t nurse began disconnecting him, removing sensor after sensor.

  “We were checking in case your new head wound was more serious,” explained the second nurse.

  “It was convenient you were still connected,” the third nurse said. “Our equipment provides an effective lie detector. Fortunately for you, you passed.”

  “Can you remember anything more?” the first nurse asked. “We would like to know about one of ours.”

  “No. It’s flashes of scenes. Some are—personal.” His face colored. “I won’t tell you those.”

  The three nurses laughed; it was a mutual expression of sympathetic humor. The first nurse finished removing and storing sensor leads while her companions tidied the small surgery unit.

  “Do you know what happened? How long was I unconscious?” Steg asked. “I’ve no idea how I got here.”

  “You’ve been here about twelve hours.” It was the third nurse. Steg thought he would get dizzy, switching his attention from nurse to nurse.

  “Monty alerted your Sergeant Kirby, and he and a squad of your men rescued you. It was professional, I understand. They were seconds too late. We think you were hit across the head from behind and shot. The shot may have been accidental, in the confusion,” the first nurse said.

  “Did their hostage escape?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s safe. She’ll want to thank you,” she replied.

  “What happened to the prisoners?”

  “Rippin’s dead. So is the man who shot you,” the first nurse continued. “The others? They were beaten. No bones broken, though. The colonel’s returned the survivors to the planet. The shuttle has returned, and we’ve got all our supplies. I understand the colonel’s been waiting for delivery of a munitions order, and it’s now loaded. We’re scheduled to depart orbit in an hour or so.”

  Steg addressed his question to all three nurses. “Do you know everything that happens on Wasp?”

  “Captain, there are fifteen of us—Fain—on board. Individuals, independent, intelligent. A rare event for Fain to be independent, as I’m sure you’re aware. We’ve a wide variety of duties. We, not only us three, but all Fain on board, are qualified nurses. Four of us are trained up to field surgeon level. It’s our task to keep you alive if you’re injured in action. Remember also, the starship carries a lot of men. We’re free Fain. I’ll let you fill in the blanks,” said the first nurse, with a smile.