Trance was a compact, muscular woman with a shock of white hair and a face made of planes that made her seem vaguely elfin. She accentuated that trait with her morphogenic tattoos, usually in the form of ancient Earth-origin knotwork from a long dead warrior race. Some were active, some lowjacks, and a few were mementos of jobs worthy of remembering.
Throughout her body, she’d spent thousands on insurance policies that stopped incursions from datajackers who would steal every map she’d ever stolen herself. Trance couldn’t allow that, which made her situation that much more grim. Someone knew her mods, because she was completely nude in a clean room that hummed with the interference of an inversion system. Pinplants were golden in a fight or daily life, but against a dedicated inversion, they could be limited or even negated.
If she’d been jacked for her maps, she would be kept whole. Alive. Free of torture, because stressing her system would set off a deadman’s switch and cause her data to dump, vanishing into a series of crackling neurons that faded to black. Her captors would be left with nothing except a thief in a coma, freed from the burden of carrying anything of value except her life. At that point, they’d blow her out of a lock to freeze and drift through the black, an eternal pinpoint in a galaxy filled with forgotten things.
A shudder passed through her, making her buckle down and kick that thought to the side. Trance wasn’t some rookie who’d gone to space from the farm. She had three decades in the game, and the silent treatment in a clean room wasn’t going to do a damn thing to her psyche. She’d had worse.
To her left, the wall folded in, silently. Beyond, there was soft light, but no sound. Whoever opened it was going for dramatic effect. Amateurs. Trance wasn’t optimistic, but if her captors wanted theatrics, that meant they didn’t know the first thing about actual torture. She liked her odds just a little bit more.
Then she heard the noise.
Twisting to swing around, she sent her body in a lazy spiral, bringing the other merc into view, its small, feline form stretched out on the floor in a liquid heap. Something uncoiled in Trance’s guts at the sight of the assassin breaking down into a viscous paste, globules floating free in the low gravity. The Depik was good and dead. So was Trance, if she knew anything about what was coming next.
“He was willful, but unwise.” The voice carried from the doorway, each word light and vaguely feminine. Trance had heard the accent once. It was an Anax, a rarely-seen race from the far corners of the galaxy. Those who knew them said they were specialists in the hard to find. Outwardly humanoid, they had a blank, soft quality that made them seem unfinished, yet there was nothing incomplete about their minds, which were reportedly free of encumbrances like morals or caring.
If half of what she’d been told was true, she was in certain trouble now. With an effort, she clamped her teeth together and looked down, letting her eyes glaze with disuse. It was a trick she used when silence was best.
The alien moved into the room with delicate steps, her slate in his hands. “I took the liberty of removing any evidence of your contract. I hope you won’t mind, but you’re not leaving here alive, and I simply don’t have time to waste.”
Of all the races Trance had dealt with, this Anax alone made her skin crawl. She could tolerate the werewolf-like presence of a Besquith with ease, compared to the amoral, bland presence of the Anax. Her skin prickled anew when he sat down, folding his legs and crinkling the formless tunic that covered his pallid skin. His eyes were black, bright with intellect, and crowned a face that had broad planes and soft features.
The Anax was hairless and when he grinned, his teeth were small round pearls. The effect left her blood fizzing with the presence of danger.
“I don’t know anything. My tripwire fired.” Trance, for once, was telling the truth. She had no recollection of anything he might want to know, which made her life less than worthless.
His smile was patient. And horrible. “I know, friend. That’s why we’re going to use a different approach. Something a bit more exotic, you might say.”
Trance said nothing.
He nodded toward the far wall, which folded inward just as the first had. Stepping into the light was another Anax, its features almost identical to his. For some reason, she thought this one was a female. The new arrival held a small box as she stepped lightly in order to remain bound to the floor. With the delicacy of a dancer, she moved forward, smiling down at Trance.
“There are echoes of your memory, hidden to nearly everyone except us. We have learned to extract the information we need.” She spoke with the reasonable tone of a tech or a teacher.
She opened the box. Trance couldn’t see what was inside.
“The Anax have an interest in your contract. Naturally, I’d like to avoid any distasteful violence, but the item in question is more valuable than your life. Or your secrets, I might add.”
Trance stiffened. She had access to millions in assets, given time and opportunity. What could possibly be worth more than that?
“I see your doubt, and believe me, I understand. Our networks are awash with reports that The Trade Guild has interest in a world on the cusp of the Cimaron. That interests us.” The male Anax finished speaking and nodded once, his face a picture of regret. “My crechemate will see to you now. It helps if you don’t fight.”
Trance filled her lungs for an unbridled scream, but fell silent when a silver and gray machine slid from the box the female Anax was holding. It was long, fat, and bristling with legs that had circuitry running through them like spider veins. Two questing antennae flickered delicately toward her, the mandibles underneath spreading to reveal fine points capped with pinlinks.
“The truthworm will be done soon, Trance,” she said, watching with flat eyes as Trance jerked, trying to stay away while the creature scuttled around to link with the contacts behind the merc’s ears. When it did, the sides of the worm began to pulse with an almost sexual vibration as it tapped into her memory, peeling back mods with ease to drill down to whatever rested at the core of Trance’s mind.
She couldn’t scream, and paralysis struck to the core of her nervous system as she was plundered, every nerve burned raw with the violent extraction. She was methodically stripped down to her very essence. The world went bright, and then there was nothing, not even the stars.
* * *
Whitlock was the first miner to die in action. While following a vein of platinum deeper into the bark of a blood cherry, his arm was cut off by the slashing jaws of a beetle that had hidden in its burrow until he was nearly on top of it. The pair of mercs guarding him in their CASPers didn’t even have time to raise their weapons; one second he was extruding a long ribbon of high quality metal, the next, his scream was raking over the open channel through his suit as he began the long, slow fall to the surface some twenty klicks below. They didn’t bother following him, either, as his thrashing would only attract a host of larger, more aggressive predators on the way down.
On Praxis, the rule was simple; the further down the tree you went, the bigger the fangs waiting to tear you apart. For Whitlock, he never hit the ground. A delta-winged ray swept inward on a current, its secondary mouth extended in the hunting position as it scooped him up and pushed him down its gullet without deviating from its course. In seconds, the man named Whitlock would be nothing more than a memory in the roiling, acidic gut of a predator the size of a small transport. The hardened mercs, both veterans of nasty biospheres, did the only thing that made sense. They saved what ore they could, salvaged Whitlock’s cutting torch, then poured 50 rounds each from their shoulder-mounted weapons into the den where the beetle was busy reducing the human arm to nothing but bone.
The answering squeal told them their rounds hit home. In the quiet afterward, a jet of dark gray ooze ran freely down the trunk from the den, now a smoking ruin.
Smaller insects and creatures rushed to eat the beetle’s remains, fighting and dying as they bolted the bits of flesh that drifted lazily in the light
gravity. On Praxis, nothing went to waste. Not even Whitlock.
* * *
Proctor Lewis Stinzel looked at his breakfast with a sour expression, but that was hardly noteworthy. The label on the tube he held read Plum Paste, Reconstituted, With Spices, but the substance inside resembled coagulated blood. He shuddered fussily before spreading a smear of the deep red goo onto a slice of passable bread; after a moment of consideration, he took a thoughtful bite.
It was tolerable, but just barely. He’d have to requisition an entire cargo container of acceptable foods on the next supply drop that fell sunward from the transfer point. He wasn’t an animal, like the Wind Dragon mercs around him, or the miners and staff who made up the bulk of Praxis’ outpost. Outside his window, the yawning gulf of sky brightened even further with the rising light of Carberus, now a hot globe in the expansive view screens.
Unlike his breakfast, the view was nothing short of spectacular. Rank having privilege, Stinzel had positioned his office at the top of an aerostat nearly a kilometer across, its nuclear-powered fans keeping the enormous station in geosynchronous orbit at the very cusp of the atmosphere. Underneath the ‘stat, away from the living quarters, was where the landing bays and weapons decks were located. The enormous open spaces were a constant swarm of activity between the merc contingent and scientists, who shuttled to and from the work areas of Praxis like streams of ants. The ‘stat, known in-system as Eye-1, was well-lit, heavily defended, and designed to facilitate the project with a minimum of disturbance from anything outside the confines of the station. Only the cruiser EMS Sutton Hoo, in high orbit, had a better vantage point of the entire operation.
Stinzel was a small, tidy man with dark eyes and a prim mouth that was almost feminine, especially when pulled to one side in disapproval. He dressed like any other corporate wonk in a sheer gray suit with back notes of silver and cuffs that folded back to expose his thin, pale arms. His desk was large and barren save a picture of his mother, who had managed to win some powerful connections at the Merchants’ Guild. Her influence made the assignment on Praxis possible; his viciousness made it a reality. She’d purchased the contract at a hideous cost, and not without the loss of some political capital. Although his mother was free from baser morals or fear, there had been a certain hesitance in her messages that relayed the importance of the Praxis find; it was a rare moment of humanity she quickly covered up with yet another acerbic diatribe about the value of driving miners to their limits in the name of profit.
He gave a measured look at the bread before selecting another tube of the alleged fruit paste, this time in a flavor that claimed to be Vogosi Peach. Another lie, he was certain, but while roughing it, one was forced to make certain concessions in the name of success.
And, he reasoned, Praxis was swimming in profits, led by the right man to guide the roughnecks and mercs toward their goal. At one-third Earth gravity, groves of unique trees on Praxis ranged upward to heights of more than 30 kilometers, their trunks nearly two kilometers around at the midsection and constructed of an amazing honeycomb structure. They also housed interconnected vines, which supported each other to reach those truly staggering heights. While remarkable, these groves were a mere curiosity in a galaxy filled with them.
The biosphere as a whole was of such savagery that to be exposed on the trunk was nothing short of certain death, if the local predators were given enough time to hunt and corner their prey. It was deep within these trees that the magic of Praxis became evident. An early survey ship inadvertently gashed one of the towering giants open, laying bare some ten meters of light, airy wood, and inside had been the discovery of a lifetime.
To grow skyward, the trees needed root systems that rivalled their trunks. Early data from the xenobotanists implied taproots that went into the crust of Praxis nearly twice as far as they went skyward. Once there, the roots did not merely act as anchors. They were pumps, dredging forth rare metals and elements like sap, which flowed upward in a liquid state at high pressure, waiting to be tapped like maple trees during springtime on Earth. The first samples had been dizzying in their value, prompting a venture of such haste that high-altitude mining equipment was designed enroute due to the need to get on site and begin harvesting the critical metals before any other governing body could lay claim to the untold riches.
Mining on the surface was out of the question. There was a dense, foggy atmosphere with shifting storms and winds of nearly three hundred kilometers per hour, and that was during the summer cycle. But it was the native animals that were truly lethal. Mercs had been pried from their fighting armor like shucked oysters during the first explorations of the surface, and there seemed to be a limitless variety of how to—and what could—kill miners, no matter what training they had. By trial and error, the teams learned that higher altitudes meant better survival rates.
Not perfect, but better.
A metallic clank brought Proctor Stinzel out of his moment of contemplation, and a frown puckered his face. “Yes, what?”
Before him stood Captain Viktor Banacek, his angular, dark face a mask of irritation. The mercs didn’t like Stinzel, and he didn’t like them. It was a mutual kind of distrust based on past events, and it promised to remain in place until Stinzel left or got every member of Banacek’s company killed on duty. Given the skill of the mercs, neither seemed likely, although the civilian authority seemed determined to try. Earth-based low-G specialists, Banacek had brought the entire 200 of his Wind Dragons with him to Praxis. They’d had 30 years’ experience with low gravity and high danger biospheres, a combination that made the Dragons perfect for Praxis. None of that mattered, though, if their employer was incompetent and greedy, a combination that left more corpses than profit for even the saltiest mercs.
“What,” Stinzel pointed with the tube of glorified jelly, “is that? More importantly, why is a piece of metal considered reason enough to interrupt my breakfast?” He lifted a sculpted brow to illustrate his point. It was important that class and rank be driven home at every opportunity.
Banacek was unimpressed, peering down at him from his standing position. The merc captain was nearly two meters tall and dressed in the thin battle fatigues that acted as insulation under his fighting suit. The pattern of gray and blue swirls made him nearly invisible in the light of Praxis, having been tailored perfectly to match the changing atmosphere in which the men would find themselves working. Naturally, the pattern was irrelevant, being covered by a hardshell mech, but mercs were nothing if not enthusiastic about spending money on technology that kept labs back on Earth running at full tilt. The tall, lean merc leaned forward, causing Stinzel to pull backward with an instinctive flinch.
“That metal was paid for with a life, not that you care.” Banacek flicked the gleaming length of warped metal across the desk to stop just short of Stinzel. “We lost a miner to a new predator. That’s what he was harvesting.”
“Who?” Stinzel looked interested, an oddity given that he cared for little other than money or his own career.
“Whitlock.” A single word. Flat, surgical. Intentionally devoid of emotion. The captain was a professional, not some train wreck who led by feel.
“Oh.” Stinzel lost interest, but twirled the sample daintily. “Oh, well then. Yes, it is a loss, but as we knew coming into this venture—”
“Spare me the speech. I know how it goes. They’re men, not eggs, and breaking a few does not mean it’s worth it. I thought you should know. Halloran wants a sample of the thing that tried to eat him, but my boys pasted it. She’ll be in here any minute demanding a bug hunt, and I’m tempted to agree to her demands.” Banacek leaned back, watching for a reaction. He got one.
“You…agree with her? Why?” Stinzel was dumbfounded. Of all the people on The Eye, Dr. Erris Halloran was hardly a friend of the mercs. As the lead xenobiologist and archaeologist, she was at odds with anyone whose policy was to shoot first and collect samples later. A tall, elegant woman with the air of a born scholar, she exist
ed outside the military command, and thus thought nothing of defying Banacek if it suited her scientific needs. As much as her attitude pleased Stinzel, he was not immune to her willful displays. On several occasions, she had ignored his commands outright, bringing dangerous animals onto The Eye with little more than an offhand apology. If she hadn’t been so effective at developing data on how to kill or avoid the massive Praxian predators, Stinzel would have sent her home months earlier. In short, Halloran saved lives, which in turn made money.
“Because none of us saw this one coming, and we’ve been here nearly a year. That’s ample time to root out the logic of this ecosystem, and it means we’re failing. That, in turn, means my men are going to continue to be torn apart by these godforsaken creatures that are in our way. I can’t have that. So, I’m going to tell her she can press a squad into service, because if she finds this new predator, she’ll find others in the process. She’s going to make my life easier, and it’s also going to make you more money.” He tilted his head, daring Stinzel to contradict him.
When the proctor said nothing, he went on. “We’ve explored three groves, and this is only the second one we’ve worked. That means over 90 percent of this world is unknown, and we’ve got nine years on contract to find every nook and cranny where these beasties live. I aim to use Halloran like a bloodhound, rather than just letting her swoop in and take samples after one of my men has taken the long fall to the mist. We’re taking two science teams with us to the lower atmo—one for xenobiology and the other to run a test core of the deep mantle. We’re getting odd readings as we travel down the trunks, and I don’t like new things. New things kill people. For your part, new things kill people who could be making you money, and we’re going to drill to 60 clicks with a remote ‘bot that can analyze the rock onsite. We won’t go any deeper than necessary, and we’ll stop our descent when we get a good signal from the drillbots. That okay with you? It’s a huge outlay of money and staff.”
The Good, the Bad, and the Merc: Even More Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 8) Page 7
