Spectra Arise Trilogy

by Tammy Salyer

  Rajcik’s gaze hasn’t shifted from Vitruzzi since we entered the bar, but he says, “I don’t like the advantage your bulldog has. Make him take a seat.”

  For a second, she doesn’t move. Then slowly and reluctantly, as if her neck were in need of rust removal, she turns toward Desto and nods to the chair on my left. Naked hostility shadows her features when she looks back to Rajcik.

  “That’s the one and only demand you get to make. We’ve done all the negotiating we’re going to. Now, do you have the Fortress’s coordinates?”

  His eyes flicker dangerously, anger glowing in their depths. He isn’t used to being spoken to like this and it’s pissing him off. Fury vibrates from him, joining the buzz of the broken sign.

  After a long silence, he says, “Tell me, Captain. What makes you think you can trust her?” He tilts his chin in my direction without looking at me, and the unexpected question hits me like a sucker punch. He’s trying to rattle her, put her on edge, in the process undermining the fragile bond that’s begun to form between Vitruzzi’s crew and I.

  She says nothing, prepared to let him continue and see what he’s getting at.

  “I ask because I now harbor one of your former crewmembers who has already switched sides twice.” He continues, “I ask because it seems you have a problem finding reliable people.”

  “Make your point,” she says.

  He leans forward, placing one palm flat on the table and glaring at Vitruzzi. “I’m not convinced your judgment is sound enough for me to trust that you’ll hold up your end of our arrangement, if the people in your employ are any indication.” His eyes rest on me, dead calm and filled with poison.

  Vitruzzi keeps her cool. “So Vilbrandt told you he was a member of my crew?” She lets these words, heavy with the implied accusation that Rajcik is a fool for believing anything Vilbrandt has told him, settle in the vacant space between them, then continues, “This isn’t about my crew, or Vilbrandt. Do you want the seeds or not?”

  “Where are they? You didn’t bring them with you, as we agreed, which leads me to conclude that my assessment of your trustworthiness is accurate. I have no reason to give you the coordinates.”

  There’s an icy shift in the atmosphere, a frigid draft gusting around us that carries the realization that more than one pistol is locked, cocked, and aimed beneath the table. Almost casually concerned with self-preservation, I wonder how many are pointed at me.

  Vitruzzi’s lips grow tight, the tiny lines around them strained and deep. “Yes. You do. Here’s how it’s going to go. First, you give us the coordinates. Then we’re all going to get up from this table and walk to my shuttle. We’ll drop you and the seeds off at your ship and escort you off of Spectra 6. When you’re far enough away to make me feel comfortable, we let you out of missile range and you can go wherever you want.”

  Rajcik sits motionlessly, his eyes lingering in thoughtful consideration on hers for a few moments before looking back at me. “And this is your choice, Aly? You’re going to give up the biggest payoff of your life on a rescue mission for your troublemaking brother, who’s probably already dead, and people you don’t even know?”

  My words tumble out before I think about what I’m going to say. “Do you really think that matters to me anymore? That I’d sell out David for a few bucks? Fuck you. If you had any idea what loyalty really is, you wouldn’t even ask me that. As far as I’m concerned, you can go to hell, and take the rest of these greedy bootlickers with you.” My eyes bounce to MacCready.

  MacCready half stands and seethes, “You fucking bitch! I’ll…”

  He’s stopped by a casual, “Sit down,” from Rajcik, and his lips wrinkle back in a hateful sneer.

  Rajcik chuckles. “It’s rare that I underestimate someone, Aly. You’re no exception.”

  Before I can ask what he means, he dismisses me and returns his cold stare to Vitruzzi. After a heavy pause, he says, “It occurs to me that you could be an incredible asset in my work, Captain. Have you considered the benefits of becoming a businesswoman of the free market?”

  She’s hardly moved a centimeter since first sitting down, but the way her face hardens, as if made of drying concrete, and the rapidly beating pulse in her neck show that her patience is starting to dissolve. “I’m not interested.”

  “Why not?” He leans forward, baring more of his large teeth in that predatory grin. “From what I understand, you have no reason to remain loyal to the Admin. To be their luggage girl. For someone who’s lost a husband and a daughter to their deceit—you have more reason than most to want to work for the other side. For my side.”

  I don’t know what Rajcik is talking about, but I can see the way he’s getting to her. Her body grows so rigid that her muscles strain against her skin. Desto shifts beside me, his hand coming to rest on the Thresher propped against his thigh, and my palms itch for the feel of my own carbine.

  Her voice sounds as if it’s being pressed in a vice as she says, “We’re not here to discuss that. Now make your choice.”

  He appears satisfied with the effect his question has on her and leans back in his chair. “Two questions. What makes you think I have the coordinates with me? And if I give them to you, once we’re escorted off this rock as you described, what makes you think I won’t come back and turn your settlement into so much garbage and dust while you’re en route to the Fortress, losing your personal little war against the Admin?”

  He’s stalling, and I want to jump across the table and carve the smug expression from his face, but Vitruzzi answers him, “Because a man like you wouldn’t move an inch without keeping something as valuable as those coordinates with you. Maybe you will try to attack Agate Beach. But not if it means we get to the Fortress before you do. Erikson told us why you want the disc. And whether we’re successful or not, once we hit the Fortress, the Admin will be on full alert. If you wait, you’ll never get another opportunity like this. A man like you has priorities, doesn’t he?” She scans his face, trying to read whether she judged correctly. Aside from a slight flaring of his nostrils, his expression doesn’t change. “The truth is, Rajcik, we have no reason to fight with you. Just give us what we want, and we never have to see each other again.”

  He seems to consider for a moment. “You seem very sure of yourself. And I have your guarantee that you’ll give us the seeds?”

  My patience snaps. “Goddammit, Rajcik. Just give us the fucking coordinates.”

  He glances toward me with hate in his eyes. Nothing else on his face betrays the slightest hint of emotion, but that look says my death warrant has been signed and he is only waiting for the ink to dry.

  Still looking at me, he reaches carefully into his cargo jacket and withdraws a small data disc. With a carefree flick of the wrist, he tosses it onto the table as if it were nothing more than a piece of trash.

  Vitruzzi picks it up and plugs it into the disc slot of a portable VDU. After pulling up the information, she hands it across me to Desto. I catch a glimpse of the screen and see enough to feel confident he’s given us what we want.

  Desto studies the coordinates for a moment and then nods his head. “Should work.”

  Vitruzzi retrieves the device and speaks into her comlink. “Karl, be ready for pickup in ten minutes.” Stuffing the device into the breast pocket of her jacket, she returns her focus to Rajcik.

  “All right. I want you both to stand up and put your weapons on the table. Her too,” she adds, glancing at Ortiz.

  Rajcik smirks, appearing to be amused by something, and slowly pushes his chair back as he rises. As he raises his hands, the pistol he’d been leveling under the table comes into view. He keeps the barrel pointed toward the floor and flips the grip out to Vitruzzi as the rest of us stand. To an outsider witnessing our synchronized movements, it must look as if a bomb has exploded beneath us in slow motion. Desto reaches out with the hand not gripping his shotgun and takes the pistol. With no weapon of my own, I ball my empty fingers into tight fists, my ne
rves kindling in anticipation of what could happen in the next few seconds.

  No one makes any unexpected movements as Rajcik reaches for the shotgun he left leaning against the table, preparing to give it over as well. Hypervigilance, a side effect of having reencountered someone I left for dead in years past, causes me to glance toward MacCready, and I don’t like what I see.

  Rage has contorted his features into a terrible grimace and his ice-blue eyes, dangerously lucid, are fixed on me. There’s no need to think about what his expression means; instinct screams he’s about to pull his weapon and start firing. “Vitruzzi! Watch him!” I yell and immediately turn to Desto, pushing him hard sideways with the full weight of my body and out of MacCready’s target area.

  Caught off guard by my abrupt shove, Desto loses his balance and we topple to the ground in a frantic jumble. Grabbing the pistol he’d taken from me and rolling onto my side, I fire upward through the table now blocking my view. It splinters down the center and I lunge to my feet, viciously shoving the pistol into Rajcik’s chin, relishing the way he flinches from the hot barrel. My body acts on its own—thoughts, sensations, emotions, and conscience all a distant echo, far from the me that’s present and handling the situation. Instinct is in control here, keeping me alive. I don’t know why I’m pointing the pistol at Rajcik instead of MacCready, but I know it’s the right move.

  “Fuck! Christ! Fuck!” MacCready wails, leaning against the wall behind him. My shot had hit home. Blood cascades down his mutilated firing arm, which hangs askance, the fabric and flesh mixed in a shredded, smoldering waste. His weapon skitters across the floor away from him as he clutches his damaged arm.

  Disjointed awareness strikes me. Everything around me except MacCready has grown completely still. My immediate focus stays on the pistol in my hand, ready to turn Rajcik’s head into negative space if he even flinches. Vitruzzi stands a short distance behind me and to my right. I sense that she has one of her pistols aimed at Rajcik’s chest and the other at my midsection, but this doesn’t concern me. Ortiz also points her weapon at me, and Desto has a bead on MacCready with his rifle. If he fires at this proximity, its spray will cut everyone in front of him, including me, down.

  Sharp smoke stings my nose and eyes as I glare at Rajcik. His head is tilted slightly back by the pressure of the gun in my hand, and his jaw is clenched so tightly that veins stand out at both of his temples. He still holds the shotgun he’d been picking up by the barrel and stares at Vitruzzi, waiting for her to pass judgment.

  “Drop them.” Her voice demands compliance.

  “Do it,” Rajcik growls through clenched teeth, thanks to the barrel wedged against his jaw.

  Ortiz slowly lowers her own weapon and kicks it forward.

  I remain in the same position, the frustration and anger inside me holding me frozen. I want to pull the trigger until my Sinbad is empty. I don’t know what stops me.

  “Erikson, we got it. Back up,” Vitruzzi demands, but I can’t. Rajcik has to pay.

  “Erikson!” She finally gets through, the sharpness in her tone making my eyes jerk toward her. “Keep your weapon pointed. Step back.”

  Something—is it compassion?—in her expression carries more force than her words and my legs unlock. As the Sinbad’s muzzle leaves Rajcik’s throat, he lowers his gleaming black eyes to us, his lips stretched into a snarl. MacCready’s face is arranged in an agonized rictus, and he drools with the pain while still holding his butchered shoulder. He’s hurt too seriously to be a threat any longer.

  “Move,” she commands, jerking her head toward the door.

  So quickly that none of us have time to stop him, Rajcik turns to MacCready. Like a battering ram, his fist hammers forward and connects with the bump in the center of MacCready’s throat with enough force to slam him against the wall. MacCready gasps loudly, as if his voice is made of screeching metal being sheered from the body of a ship, and a fountain of blood erupts from his mouth.

  “You won’t make another mistake like that, Marcus,” Rajcik says, his voice pitched low and quiet as if sympathizing with a dead man’s relative. He keeps his back turned to us, unconcerned with the fact that three weapons are aimed at it. MacCready grips his throat with his usable hand, trying hard to suck air through his ruined trachea. Blood bubbles from the corners of his mouth and joins the light, steady stream still pouring from his arm. It’s hard to watch him struggling to draw breath, despite my loathing for him.

  Rajcik’s expression stays blank, as if he’s watching nothing more than clouds shift, and without turning he says, “This must make you happy, Aly.”

  My throat feels tight and gummy, and my response has to be forced out. “Ecstatic.”

  Vitruzzi jumps in, not bothering to mask the disgust in her voice. “Time to go, Rajcik.”

  There’s a loud croaking sound as MacCready’s whole body makes one last attempt for air, then he goes completely still. His eyes continue to stare up at Rajcik, bulging like the eyes of a starved lunatic, and slowly begin to glaze over. His body remains rigidly erect.

  I’m still staring at him when Desto puts a hand on my shoulder, gently nudging me forward. “I got the rear. Keep that pointed where it’s most useful,” he says, nodding toward my pistol.

  SIXTEEN

  It’s been hours, maybe six, maybe more. The days are blending together as we cross the darkness of space. The crew sits in the com room and hovers around the shining image of the Fortress. We’ve spent another marathon session exhausting every idea, no matter how far-fetched, for cracking the enigma of how to get in. Still nothing to show for it.

  Venus stops in and drops off an armload of food. Flight rations never taste good and desperation curbs our appetites further, making it hard to eat. I do it anyway, mechanically forcing down a few nutrition bars followed by some bottles of electrolyte-packed fluids. Physical and mental preparedness are paramount and I’m not allowing anything to inhibit my readiness for this mission. It’s the most important thing I’ll ever do. The others eat too, talking among themselves and trying to pretend things are under control, but the worry and uncertainty is taking a toll on everyone. If we don’t solve the puzzle in the next thirty-six to forty hours, this will turn into a kamikaze mission. Even so, that won’t stop us. That’s how dedicated they are—we are.

  “This makes me think of this thing that happened on Ammi Duc when I was still in Terrestrial and Atmospheric R&D.” Bodie sits backward on his chair, head resting on his hands. “We had these burrowing creatures beneath the surface that kept getting into the food storage. Every time we’d flush them out and close another line of tunnels, it would only take them a few hours to start an entirely new system. Eventually, the thermals couldn’t tell old tunnels from new ones, the critters just kept digging and re-digging so fast. We spent days analyzing their system, trying to find a way to cut them off so they’d leave the food alone. It was mind-boggling. Just like this shit.” A frustrated sigh explodes from his lips, blowing the curling hair of his mustache outward.

  “So how did you solve it?” Brady asks.

  He shrugs. “Only way we could. Exterminated them and collapsed the tunnels on top of them. Not an option I recommend in this case,” he adds hurriedly.

  “No, I guess not,” Desto says, pushing back from the table and starting another round of pacing. “Fuck.”

  Mental restlessness and fatigue is starting to push me into Crazyville, the same as the rest of them. “I’m going to take a few. Walk around and clear my head.”

  “Yeah, good idea. I think I’ll take a shower. Want to join me, babe?” Desto asks, flashing me a leer that doesn’t even scratch the surface of the crudeness of his thoughts.

  “Not even if I’d just fallen into a sewer,” I respond, but smile wearily, grateful for any attempt to lighten the mood.

  “Hey, that’s all right. I like it dirty too,” he answers with his own grin, and heads toward the community washroom.

  Bodie remains behind with Brady and Vitr
uzzi, none of them quite ready to leave the problem alone yet, and I exit behind Desto.

  The silence inside the corridor, punctuated by the distant, rhythmic thrumming of the engines, closes around me like a trap. Walking through it makes me feel alone, isolated in my own anxiety. In reality, no more relaxing than slamming my head against a brick wall a few million times. I have to find something to keep my mind off the situation, give it rest before I throw myself out of the hold out of sheer frustration. I make a left toward the crew quarters, deciding to break down my weapons and clean them. Not that they need it.

  When I reach the long corridor leading to the bunks, the sound of a cabin door sliding closed draws my attention. Lights come through Strahan’s window, and before thinking about it, I head in that direction. Maybe a little company will be a better remedy for escaping my grim thoughts than an attempt to blank out on routine, which I know will fail.

  I hit the buzzer. A second later, he opens the door and stares at me, shirtless and surprised. There’s no missing the patchwork of scars, burns and a few roundly uniform bullet wounds, peppering his muscular torso. His brows are ridged in a frown and he doesn’t say anything, just stands there.

  I have nothing to say either. Lamely, I ask, “How’s the leg?”

  “Healing.”

  I should have thought about this before walking down here. Besides the few encounters we’ve had at the Beach, Strahan and I have barely spoken. We’re just soldiers on a mission, thrown into the same mix by random forces. Which doesn’t exactly make us friends. What am I doing here?

  This was a mistake. “Glad to hear it,” I remark, and spin around to walk to my own bunk.

  Then I hear him step into the corridor. “Wait a sec, Erikson. I’m sorry. Hold on, will you?”

  Maybe he’ll drop it if I pretend not to hear him and keep walking. Instead, I turn around. I don’t know why, maybe because of the understanding in his voice.

  “You came by to talk and I act like an asshole. I apologize, okay? You and I started off on the wrong foot, and things are getting more fucked up lately. I’m just edgy.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “I tell you what—I’ve got a bottle of peacemaker under my bunk. Have a drink with me. We can chat, you know, try to be civil for once. Wait right there.” He ducks back into his cabin, re-emerging moments later holding a clear plastic bottle. “What do you say?”