Borderlander

by Joshua Guess

  And so the pattern emerged. It was subtle, the clear result of a crew eager to appear random in their movements. Yet it was impossible to erase completely; returning to a fixed point in space made leaving a trail inevitable. The impression was faint to the point of invisibility, but Iona knew how to look. In this, though she didn’t know it, she was superior to human beings as well as the Children. She was the balance between the two, able to process titanic volumes of raw information into useful data sets but guided by intuition and instinct as close to human as an artificial life-form could hope for.

  A human moving for the first time in nearly forty hours would have been stiff and slow as their muscles and joints protested. Iona suffered no such limitation. When the list of systems finished populating, she cycled down her deep mind and resumed normal operation. She unfolded from her jump seat on the wall of the bridge and stood with a speed that made Commander Cho, who happened to be looking in Iona’s direction, rock back in her seat. It was a tiny motion, but the fact that an experienced fighter pilot gave one at all was testament to the level of stress on the ship.

  “You got ’em?” the commander asked.

  Iona grinned. “Narrowed down to eighteen systems. I could give you a detailed list of every factor I took into consideration, but it would take a while.”

  Cho raised an eyebrow. “Out of curiosity, how long is a while?”

  Iona did a calculation between eye blinks. “Listing them would take about ten minutes. How about I just say that I’m positive to about ninety-percent certainty that Dex is in one of those systems? Will that work for you?”

  Cho frowned slightly in consideration. “Honey, it’s not me you have to convince. You know our orders.”

  “I do,” Iona agreed, maintaining her calm. “I just don’t know if he’s going to make us follow them.”

  *

  “Yes,” the captain said wearily. “We’re going to try to capture the Smith first. Not just because that’s what Sharp told us to do. It makes sense.”

  Iona was a better logician than anyone else on the ship, which was why the captain had approached her first to explain why they couldn’t just tear off and look for Dex against orders. In the many weeks since his abduction, the landscape had shifted too many times to count. Spencer assured Iona in quiet moments that this was to be expected in any intelligence unit. Part of the job was putting your feelings aside and coping with the constant and unpredictable twists it threw at you.

  She tuned out the captain’s speech as he explained the necessity of going for the Smith first. Iona knew the talking points. She even agreed with them. Liking the situation, however, was not a requirement for going along with it.

  There were many solid reasons for wanting the Smith intact. Sharp wanted its technology and the information stored on its systems. Blue could—and had—offer the Alliance access to the same propulsion systems, but the ship represented a long-term example of that technology in use. What worked and what didn’t would be carefully logged. That kind of data was priceless to engineers. Batta had nearly wet himself at the prospect.

  This alone would not have been enough to sway Iona from taking control of the ship and locking the rest of the crew out of her systems. The Smith had taken people from many systems. Its place within whatever plot required the kidnappings was obvious. It seemed obvious, then, that the easiest way to cripple the operation was the remove the ship acting as its keystone.

  Yes, this required more than a few assumptions. There might have been a hundred more ships like her out there, but Iona found the probability low. There were precious few systems where criminal elements could flourish, and no other ships with similar capabilities had appeared in any of them. The captain’s final word on the matter was the bit that convinced Iona to trust his decision, however.

  If—no, when—they found Dex, he would probably be with other captives. Even if he was alone, they would have to mount a rescue. No one wanted to even try such a thing with a ship as powerful as the Smith out there. The risk was too enormous, introduced too many dangerous variables.

  The choice was between waiting to be attacked by the kidnappers, probably at a time when the Seraphim and her crew would be at their most vulnerable, or taking the fight to the enemy instead. Iona understood the power of choosing the time and place of your fight.

  She also knew the effect a surprise attack could have on any battle.

  Iona planned accordingly. Just a few more hours and everything would be ready to go. Every piece in its place.

  Her displeasure at being forced to sideline the search for Dex was channeled. Directed. The Smith had become something more than just a ship to her. It represented every obstacle in her way, every distraction. It was the last hurdle to jump. The final problem to be solved.

  She would make sure the solution worked. And if Sharp or anyone else tried to change their priority again once that job was done, Iona would do what she had to. Take over the ship, lock the crew in their quarters, manage everything on her own if need be.

  No more delays. No more excuses. One more fight before the last leg of the search could begin.

  She was ready.

  24

  Dex shared his thoughts with the rest of the prisoners and they agreed that it was possible bordering on likely that the remaining mercenaries would attack, this time as a single unit. Such an assault would be without mercy or quarter, yet Fatima and Erin insisted he leave with a small group to find other targets. It took a lot of argument to finally persuade Dex to leave the camp, but once he did it was with a singular determination to achieve his goal.

  In short: reach the staging area and find the man in charge. Cut the head off the monster and hopefully get some answers.

  Fatima’s logic was hard to argue. The infected already outnumbered the mercenaries, and once envoys from their camp made it clear to the people in the clean camp that every prisoner on the planet was probably about to be slaughtered, convincing the other group to join in the fight would be easy. Dex had his doubts, but conceded the point that imminent death had a way of spurring people to action they might not have considered under normal circumstances. That the uninfected prisoners would be fighting side by side with a host of genetically modified friends with enhanced strength was a bonus that might tip the balance.

  Dex raised a fist to stop the group. There were four of them including him. Two men—Omar and James—and a woman named Ari, short for Arianne. They’d taken the longest, most roundabout path toward the landing site. The added hours kept them out of the way of any mercenaries but put Dex on edge. The urge to push harder and move faster, to do something right now, only grew by the minute.

  Ahead, the lights of the landing zone lit the area like the noon sun. The metal of the drop ships gleamed in the harsh illumination, revealing what appeared to be an empty camp.

  “How sure are you they’re not tracking us with satellites or sensors?” Ari asked in a low voice.

  Dex shook his head. “Can’t be certain, but if they were I think we’d already be dead. They know where the camps are, but that seems to be the extent of it.”

  It was a partial truth at best. Experiments needed to be monitored, and Dex thought some unknown method was being employed to do so. Few people had been on this place since the beginning, but the ones he’d spoken with had explained that the first supplies were waiting for them where the camps were set up. The landscape there was wholly different from the surroundings—flat where the stony dunes were prevalent. It would make sense to hide biomonitoring equipment there or at least nearby, and would explain why they weren’t individually tracked.

  Dex kept that theory to himself mostly because people had a tolerance for so many horrifying revelations in a given week. Knowing your most intimate bodily functions might have been recorded and studied for months was not conducive to clear thinking or team cohesion.

  “Fan out,” Dex said. “I’m going to get closer. Try to keep an eye on me. I’ll give you the signal to move in
if nothing goes wrong.”

  He didn’t wait for responses. What was the point? Either they understood and would follow instructions, or not. He would have much preferred doing this alone, risking only himself. The cost/benefit of this situation didn’t justify three other bodies being pulled from defending the camp.

  Dex crept forward, eyes narrowed against the harsh light ahead. His genes gave him excellent vision in a wider range of the visual spectrum than any unaltered human, plus a few extras only found in other species. There were no signs of traps, no infrared tripwires to stumble over. It looked like the place really was empty, almost lazy in how much it was left to its own devices.

  Except for the command tent. The walls were rigid but thin polymer that let through enough light to tell him that someone was home. Even from a hundred meters, it was clear as day.

  He moved along the waterline, skirting the edge of camp as far as he could to avoid any potentially hidden enemies. No movement came from the drop ship, no sign that watchers observed his approach.

  He controlled his breathing with an effort of will as he drew in on the tent. The anxiety—and if he was being honest, the excitement—pushed at his self-control, urging him to go faster and get it over with.

  He drew his homemade knife in his right hand, reached for the plastic flap serving as a door to the tent with his left.

  Which was when a shadow appeared against it and the thing opened.

  Dex instantly threw himself forward, taking advantage of the second of stunned hesitation from the overseer. The skinny man in white crumpled as Dex slammed him to the ground. A pair of quick, brutal punches to the ribs and one knife held to the throat ended the fight before it could become lethal.

  To Dex’s surprise and near-instant regret, the skinny man went still just as his eyes widened and his pupils expanded. The sudden intake of breath, the rigidity of muscles flooded with chemicals—these were signs Dex knew right down to his marrow. He barely had time to shift his weight when the skinny man flexed and pushed with all his might.

  The tent broke apart as he sailed through its wall, the joints holding its frail structure together no match for seventy kilos of Dex. His wrist slapped hard against one of the supports and the knife flew from numb fingers. He landed badly, chewing a divot of sand out of the beach that sent a cloud of dust wafting across the camp.

  Distant footfalls sounded in his ears, but they registered only as vague, unimportant facts. They had no meaning for Dex in the face of the white-hot anger blooming in his chest. The heat coursed through his veins—literally now as every safety his mind created to control his enhancements disintegrated in harmony—as he met the eyes of the thin man now stepping from the wreckage.

  The world disappeared. Everything but the thin man vanished in a growing blaze of fury. The plan no longer mattered. Winning was a distant memory. Even survival took a back seat. Everything Dex was narrowed down to the bastard brushing dust off his sleeves. A lifetime of being forced to face horrors no person should endure, years of unrelenting abuse, crashed against his self-control and broke every barrier.

  Being blessed with a brilliant mind, he immediately understood that this man wasn’t a refugee like himself. This planet was a laboratory for Threnody, and this portion of the test required someone who could judge the results firsthand. Someone who would be able to make calls in the field without relaying messages through a dozen proxies back to the home world.

  Thin and tall, whipcord muscles deceptively powerful, the man in white carried himself as every proctor Dex had ever known had done. Smooth in his motions, superior expression, mocking eyes.

  In that moment of recognition, the nameless enemy became all of them at once, a physical representation of the hell he had endured long enough to escape.

  Whatever the man expected, it wasn’t another attack. His hands blurred to protect his face as Dex barreled forward once again. It was the same damnable arrogance all but a handful of his people were guilty of—the supreme belief that their Blessings made them too fearful to attack and too powerful to overcome.

  In short, the guy didn’t know what Dex was. Who he was.

  It cost him.

  Dex changed tactics when the thin man raised his hands, sliding in the sand to slow himself and shifting his weight just so. The kick he landed broke the fellow’s knee and kept right on going, inverting the joint with a sickening crack. The thin man shrieked, an earsplitting, high-pitched sound cutting through Dex’s enhanced hearing with near-physical pressure.

  He spun and kicked again, whipping the back of his other leg across the thin man’s face. Another meaty crack of breaking bone followed, along with a gristly crunch. Dex moved to regain his balance and attack a third time only to find his enemy supine, shattered leg cocked at an impossible angle, eyes wide in a bloody face and staring at nothing.

  The thin man was dead, or else had enhancements that let him mimic the state. Still energized with glowing anger, Dex stepped forward and stomped on the broken neck twice more, bringing his knee high and driving it down hard enough to hurt his foot.

  “Dex, you can stop now,” Ari said from a short distance away. “He’s not getting any deader.”

  One of the men—Dex thought it was Omar—snorted. “Messier, though. Definitely messier.”

  Dex wound down gradually, like an old clock. His body lost the incredible tension forced upon it by his Blessings. His mind took longer to fall still as the fog of rage and pain brought on by memories and powerful hormones thinned. He stepped back, eyes locked on the corpse he’d made.

  He swallowed, then again just to buy an extra second. “I’m sorry. We were supposed to take him alive and I fucked that up.”

  “You’re sorry we didn’t get a captive?” James asked, an acid note in his voice. “You just kicked that guy to death. Don’t you feel bad about killing a man?”

  Dex finally looked up from the corpse. “I probably should, and maybe I will later, but no. I don’t. You have no idea what people like him did to people like me. The universe is a measurably better place than it was a few minutes ago.”

  He glanced around the camp, eyes settling on the broken command tent. “You guys take a look in those drop ships. I’m going to see if I can salvage anything from that.”

  Dex left no room for interpretation in his tone; these were orders. If the others considered ignoring them, they didn’t do it openly or for very long. They broke apart and did as they were told while Dex turned away from them and began sifting through the wreckage.

  He glanced at the body again, then spat on it. “Fuck you.”

  What he said to James was true; Dex felt no shame or guilt over killing the nameless man. Instead a species of gnawing hatred toward himself, long suppressed, began chewing its way back to the surface of his thoughts. He recognized the necessity in letting the beast out. Using that training and experience against the very people who had inflicted it upon him had a certain poetry.

  That didn’t change how much he hated it, and every day that passed only intensified the feeling.

  “Fuck you for making me become this again,” Dex muttered, then got to work.

  25

  In an age of superluminal travel, it was sometimes easy to forget the ancient but always relevant axiom: space is big.

  The Smith was, all things considered, an almost infinitesimal dot within that vastness. A mote darting from star to star in a jagged pattern only discernible through painstaking analysis. Yet even motes contained multitudes. Take the tiniest speck of dust and put it under a microscope, magnify far enough, and within you would find countless atoms forming molecules, interwoven in complex patterns.

  The Smith was small, but she was fiercely complex. More, she had access to information nearly as comprehensive as the hunters trying to run her down. Which was why, when those hunters finally caught up, the ship was not alone.

  “We are completely fucked,” Krieger said as the magnified image on the screen resolved.

  Grant
shot him a look. “Stow that.” He turned to Crash and leaned in a bit closer. “But honestly, yeah, we do look kinda fucked.” Her return look was a mixture of bemused affection and long-suffering resignation.

  Any first year cadet could tell by the small armada in front of them—well, relatively in front of them, as a healthy chunk of solar system lay between—that this was meant to be an ambush. The only factor stopping it from being a successful one was the extreme distance between the Seraphim and her enemies. Grant silently thanked every god he could name that caution won out over fierce determination in that decision.

  “They’re coming for us,” Spencer said, eyes dancing over the sensor telemetry. “If I had to guess, I’d say they’re trying to get far enough from a gravity well to hit warp and jump right at us.”

  Grant ran his tongue across his lips. This wasn’t an unexpected situation, but theory and practice were wildly different beasts. “Okay, we’re going to disaster protocol. Right now.”

  Though his voice was even, Grant put every shred of command he was capable of mustering into the words. His tone brooked no argument, no hesitation. And in what seemed to him a minor miracle, they complied. Just as a crew was supposed to.

  “Disaster protocol,” Crash said into the PA, alerting Batta and the assault team to fall into the proper positions. Grant himself was already locking the tactical array in place over his head, letting his brain implant give the ship a digital handshake. “Iona, you’re in command. Take control.”