Captain of the Monte Cristo: a space opera retelling of the classic tale (Classic Retellings Book 1)

by Sarah K. L. Wilson

  The invitation was obvious, but his stomach bucked at the thought of walking across the arm to the central hub. He swallowed hard, forcing down bile, and took a deep breath before stepping onto the arm. It gave slightly under his feet, causing a second wave of nausea to overwhelm him. He paused to let the feeling pass. The Abbe had been cagey about this part when he’d discussed his trial, and it was no wonder why.

  It was hard not to stare at the patterned sphere as he walked. It was large enough to double as a cargo bay, although it was clearly not that. No, it was the mind that powered the Monte Cristo—that part the Abbe had been sure of. Somehow, this ship was bio-tech: living and mechanical at the same time. It had no computers, but a huge mind; no wires or circuitry, but living neural pathways running inside the walls; no regular engines or fusion reactor, but powered all the same.

  “On what?” he’d asked one night in prison.

  “Lost souls,” the Abbe had said with a wheezing laugh.

  “No, really. Tell me.”

  “I’m not entirely lying. It pulls dark energy from space, as best as I can tell, to fuel itself. The mind needs fuel, too, though, and for that… well, I was lucky to get away intact.”

  The Abbe hadn’t been completely intact, although it didn’t serve him well to think about such things when he was almost at the central hub. It was flat enough to stand on and about eight feet in diameter, but there were no rails, and the floor sloped in all directions. It would take nerves just to stand there, never mind the iron spine needed to be tested.

  So you come, mind of mind, the Monte Cristo said, and you are ready to be tested.

  “Yes.” The Abbe had been very clear: any hesitance and he would be sucked dry of all neural energy in an instant.

  Stand, then, with open mind, and be plumbed to your depths.

  The sensation that followed was akin to the feeling of spiders running along a naked back, but internal, rather than external. Dante fed the fire within, feeding all his terror and horror into it and refusing to think of what footprints this great mind might leave behind.

  All creatures are fueled by desire. What you want determines what you are. What do you think the Monte Cristo wants?

  “I don’t know.”

  Yet, mind of mind, your want is clear: revenge.

  “Yes.”

  You shall have it… if you pass.

  “What do I need to do to pass?”

  Sacrifice.

  “I have nothing to give.”

  The sensation that followed was clearly laughter, but it scraped Dante’s mind like nails on a chalkboard.

  You have friends. You have a whole body, a whole mind, and a whole heart. Do you want to join with me, mind of mind, to embrace the power and wealth of the Monte Cristo? Do you want to be one with me? To sink to the level of your species will require sacrifice from me, so I demand you make a sacrifice to prove your worth. Choose it.

  He knew he must not hesitate, yet the Abbe had said he’d failed a trial. Dante had thought he meant a rigorous mental battle. He’d prepared, training and disciplining his mind, but why had the Abbe not mentioned this? Why had he not prepared him? He had, after all, because this was the ultimate challenge of the mind: knowing what you were willing to lose.

  Your hesitation has cost you options. I now limit them to three. Choose between the lives of those with you, as I have no need for a crew, your memory, which is perhaps a boon after what I have seen of your thoughts, and one of your eyes, which is fitting, for I will be trapped on your plane while we are joined and shall lose much of my interdimensional sight.

  He didn’t dare hesitate this time. Is that what had cost the Abbe his chance?

  “The eye.”

  After all, he only needed one for what would come next.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Docking now.

  Dante flinched as the words entered his mind with a sensation like licking a battery. The Monte Cristo kept promising he’d get used to it, but after so many months, the feeling was still uncomfortable.

  Stop thinking about mental taste. You need to focus. This is not a pleasure journey for you and me.

  The Monte Cristo had excellent focus.

  I’ve set up a mask for myself so I will not draw the attention of the humans here. The uproar the mere sight of my advanced design could cause would hamper our plans. None here will know of my true self.

  Its arrogance was just as potent.

  I heard that.

  “I haven’t been on a Company space station in years,” Jack said from Dante’s right. He was dressed in his best “out and about” clothing, which was a mish-mash of styles from multiple quadrants and sectors.

  “You still don’t want to go on leave with the rest of the crew?” Dante asked as the Monte Cristo slid gracefully into a notch in the space station’s outer ring. Docking pins, supply hoses, and temporary passageways made their connection silently, but Dante heard their hiss in his mind as if he were the ship experiencing the sudden connection.

  “I’m your man, Captain. I’ll be with you.”

  Dante nodded, schooling the pride out of his expression. It was better to be reserved in these situations. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down—especially now, when he was getting so close. He and the Monte Cristo had planned this down to the last detail. One way or another, they would not leave this place without success.

  He let his mind link with the ship and his thoughts were spoken over the ship’s speakers in a reasonable approximation of his own voice. “Ship’s leave granted to shifts one through three. Shift four will remain with the ship until relieved. No outsiders to be allowed aboard. All deliveries are to be approved by Captain Dante. Keenan has the watch.”

  “Where are we headed on-station, Captain?” Jack asked, scratching at the holo-ttoo on his neck he’d had it imprinted at the last stop. Dante was reasonably certain the cybernetic support system had a virus that was causing the itch. It made a very lifelike yellow snake as thick as Dante’s arm appear to rest on Jack’s shoulders, head lazily moving back and forth.

  “There’s a sector-wide Bacarrae tournament starting at 07:40 station time. We’ll be there.”

  “Bacarrae?” Jack asked, following the Captain through the passage to the lift. “You don’t mean the Kingmaker? The Game of Stars? The Eye-Gouger?”

  “The very same.” The lift deposited them outside the outer doors where crewmembers briskly headed out for a night of fun on the station. Keenan nodded his red-bearded head as they followed the stream through the anti-grav tube, grabbing the bar at the end just in time to execute the requisite flip through zero-G into the gravity of the station.

  Jack gasped as they landed, feeling a moment of agoraphobia as the translucent station walls made it seem like he could reach out and touch the neighboring moons. The station outer ring encircled the dazzling light and bright fauna of the inner ring.

  For New Rome Station, the Company had gone all out, recreating olive groves and vineyards between the ragged station structures. On a station like New Rome, construction was constant as one building merged into another and extra space was made for incoming people and divisions of the Company.

  They landed on the dock just outside the grav tube where the light craft ferried crew members across the massive station. New Rome housed over three-hundred-thousand people and no one went anywhere on foot. Dante waved off the droid offering to drive the remaining light craft.

  “Waiting for someone in particular?” Jack asked.

  “The Company is sending a representative. I’ve led them to believe I’m Davrini Hacken.”

  “I guess that explains the attire,” Jack said, pointing to Dante’s red, hooded coat and leather pants.

  Leather belts were slung across his waist, hips, and chest, as well as cinched over his thighs, and saffron lines had been brushed over his cheeks. It was a convenient ruse. The Davrini Hacken refused to associate with other societies or allow them within their territorial space; any eccentr
icities in his behavior could be easily explained by his origin in the famed region. On top of that, with tension high between the stoic but wealthy Davrini and the greed of the ever-expanding Company, officials at every stop from the border of Company space to New Rome Station had fallen all over themselves to make things easy for who they assumed was a very powerful man.

  It has the added bonus of bringing in our old friend where you can see him. I see Henry Villefort’s skimmer arriving now—convenient that he is the local liaison for Davrini Hacken.

  Dante squinted into the distance for a few moments before he saw the light craft the Monte Cristo had already noted. It was occupied by a droid and a middle-aged man dressed in Company formal wear. He held a tablet–of course. Had Dante ever seen Villefort without one? Even as his skimmer rushed toward them, his nimble fingers picked through the projected data stream, flicking data clips into new streams with the dexterity of a much younger man.

  “Do me a favor,” Dante said while Villefort was still out of earshot.

  “Whatever you ask,” Jack agreed.

  “Don’t speak to him.”

  He smiled slightly as Jack grinned. It would appeal to the young man’s mischievous side to irritate a Company representative.

  Don’t worry. I have your psyche cloaked. Your old friends will struggle to recognize you.

  Plus, you took my eye. I’m sure that will help keep their memories foggy.

  Don’t say I’ve never given you anything.

  The ship had been remarkably quick to pick up human humor, although ideas like civility and compassion still didn’t seem to compute.

  Dante fussed with his intricately-styled eyepatch as Villefort’s skimmer sped the last few meters toward them.

  “You should just install a holo-eye,” Jack muttered, but he fell into silence as the skimmer bumped against the dock and Villefort disembarked.

  “On behalf of the Company, we greet you,” the man said as he stepped from the car. “I am Henry Villefort, your assigned Company representative.”

  Dante could barely keep the surprise off his face. The man was almost twenty years older—and gone to fat—but in all other respects, he was exactly the man he remembered right down to the tiny tic in the corner of his left eye. What kind of lies and swindling had he engaged in to climb so high in the Company?

  Why ask when you already know the answer? We have all the details stowed handily away in my data banks...

  Dante and Jack remained silent as they watched Villefort intently. He licked his lips. “With our deepest respect, we open wide our station doors in the hopes that you will find satisfaction here and consider us for future trade.”

  Their silence made Villefort so uncomfortable that he stowed his data pad away and ran a palm over his oily forehead.

  “May I inquire which of you is the captain of this fine ship?”

  “I am,” Dante said.

  The Company representative swept down in a low bow. “Excellent! How can New Rome help you today?”

  “Bacarrae.”

  “The game?”

  Dante stared at him as the idiocy of his question sank in. Mercifully, Jack had remained in character, silent and stern.

  “Of course,” Villefort said, “of course. Come aboard my skimmer and I’ll take you directly to the Bacarae tank. When did you last play?”

  “Almost twenty years ago,” Dante said as they clambered aboard the skimmer. Villefort waved his hand over the data stream in the control panel and they set off toward the ever-evolving skyline and deep into the heart of the spherical space station.

  In the center of it, the Bacarrae sphere glowed a faint aqua—whatever game was being played must have involved a water arena. When they got closer, they’d be able to see the figures moving within.

  “Are you betting?” Villefort asked, stopping to clear his throat nervously. “You’ll find much has changed in the past twenty years. The experience is more immersive than ever before. It’s like you’re right there! Observers can even choose to watch through virtual reality, as if they are in the bodies of the units being played!”

  “I’m playing,” Dante said.

  “Oh. I really wouldn’t recommend that, honored Davrini Hacken. We found monetary gains and losses were not… sufficient as motivators.”

  Dante said nothing, and Jack, despite the twitch in his cheek of a grin trying to escape, remained equally stoic.

  “So… we added physical motivations, as well. Depending on the game, you could lose a limb or be sold into servitude. There are even matches,” Villefort lowered his voice, “to the death. We call them Bacarrae Mortalis.”

  My favorite kind of game.

  Is that how you lost your last crew, mind of minds?

  Jack forgot his promise as they skimmed closer to the Bacarrae tank and he caught his first look into the jewel-like interior. The current game looked for all the world like a war between dragons and mermaids; Jack’s eyes couldn’t help but follow the action as the mermaids lured the dragon into a false opening and cut him off from support to drown him beneath the waves.

  “Does he really die?”

  “It depends on what was bet. He’s a man in a holotank, not a dragon in an ocean,” Villefort said. “Not to fear! The Company regulates the betting fiercely. No man may bet what he does not have. You will not be swindled.”

  “If they bet his life?” Jack asked.

  “He died painlessly,” Villefort shrugged. “It is why I discourage visitors from betting. We are happy to trade with you; there is no need for you to play for trading routes, like our local departments, or to play Bacarrae settle your disputes. Though with you just arriving, I doubt you have disputes to settle.” The Representative chuckled at his joke.

  Jack swallowed hard. “How did they determine their bets?”

  Dante kept his eyes on Villefort. The man gave away so much more than he realized. He was a Company shill, obviously, but the way his voice shook every time he mentioned the Company told him Villefort knew his sins would one day catch up with him. He was a man just waiting for a push.

  Remember what I told you: timing is everything, especially if you want this to be done with no blame attached to you.

  “Easily enough. The Company has a database that lists as many variations of a bet as have been used in the past. The Company declares a bet level for each game. If you enter the game, you must choose a bet at that level or higher. If you wish to bet something that has not been bet before, the Company will evaluate your bet and determine its level. In high-level tournaments, the Company specifies the exact bet. In individual matches, the bet is determined by the challenger.”

  “Seems simple enough,” Jack said, his eyes just a little too wide.

  It was barbaric. Dante knew that and so would anyone who wasn’t inextricably tied to the Company. It was yet another way for them to toy with the lives of men while making them think it was by their own free will. As always, the Company brushed a veneer of class over cruel barbarism.

  That’s not our fight. Pick the battles you can win and save the others until you are stronger. You’re not here to kill the Company.

  “Here we are,” Villefort settled the skimmer in a flowering garden. Before them, pillars surrounding an entranceway rose into a Parthenon replica. “I’ll take you to the game of games.”

  “I will go alone,” Dante said.

  The Company representative was nodding before he realized, and he stepped back, as if shying away from something in Dante’s expression. “Of course, honored Captain. I’m at your disposal for the rest of your stay here. Please call upon me for anything you need.”

  “Anything?” he asked, letting the cold of vacuum seep into his tone.

  Villefort nodded silently as Jack and Dante disembarked. He was still standing at the skimmer’s motionless helm by the time they were halfway across the garden.

  “Stop—stop and think about what you’re doing. If you lose the ship, we all might as well be dragons in the oc
ean,” Jack hissed as his superior strode toward the entrance.

  “I won’t bet the ship. This is a low-level match.”

  “If you think you’re betting my life—”

  Dante’s glittering gaze swung to Jack. He tapped his eyepatch. “Do I look like the kind of man who bets with other people’s lives?”

  Jack swallowed. “What are you doing here, then?”

  Dante curled his lip in a cruel smile “Making an acquaintance with someone key to my plans.”

  “You’re meeting a man by playing him in Bacarrae?” Jack asked, confused.

  “No. I’m introducing myself by humiliating him.” Dante climbed the steps of the Parthenon with a frustrated Jack at his heels. At the top of the steps was a man dressed like a Roman Centurion.

  “Observation or the Pits?” he asked, thrusting his standard in their path.

  “The Pits,” Dante said.

  “Your wager?” he asked, flicking his wrist so a holomenu fell in place where the flag for the standard should have been.

  Dante placed his palm against the projection and his CV displayed, listing his false name, their ship, and the credits he had bothered claiming.

  “What’s on the menu for tonight?” Dante asked coolly.

  “A day of servitude, five hundred credits, and the clothing you wore to the tournament.”

  Dante’s single eyebrow rose again. “Small wagers.”

  The centurion shrugged. “It will be small tournaments for the next three days—base-level bets. After that, the Company games begin and the wagers will be much, much better. Would you care to choose Observation, instead?”

  “Place my bet: one day of servitude.”

  The centurion flicked the holo, allowed it to disappear completely, and then moved the standard out of their path.