Free Space

by Sean Danker

Pictures and scenarios were beginning to form in my mind. This wasn’t about me. That meant there was hope. There were plenty of people who wanted me, but none of them would go about getting me this way.

  The doors finished sealing, and our carriage sat alone in the dim bay. I went to the bar and poured myself a drink as the others watched the bay warily.

  A hatch opened, and a woman entered, lugging a heavy case. She was around thirty, and a little taller than Salmagard. She had bright red hair that was tied back in twin braids. Her coveralls were stained and worn. She wore thick gloves and heavy boots.

  She walked right up to the carriage and put her case on the ground, kneeling to open it.

  “We should sit down,” I said, guiding Salmagard to the sofa.

  “Why?” Sei asked. He didn’t look happy, but he was calm. I was glad he and Diana were in the Service, or former Service, or whatever. A couple of panicky civilians would only have made things worse.

  “She’s going to knock us out.”

  The carriage was reflective from the outside; the woman couldn’t see us watching her.

  Sei looked thoughtful as he took a seat. Diana looked dangerous.

  “Then they’re not going to hurt us?” Salmagard asked, watching the woman pull a round device from the case.

  “Not yet.”

  The woman fixed the device to the side of the carriage. It began to glow. It would eat through the carbon shielding and release a pulse that would render us all unconscious. We didn’t have long.

  “I wanted an exciting getaway,” I said to Salmagard, leaning in a little. “But I had some different things in mind.”

  “Me too,” she replied.

  I offered her my drink, and she took a sip, looking grateful.

  “You’re not afraid?” she asked.

  No. I wasn’t. Just annoyed.

  “Why would I be?” I said. “My date’s a professional bodyguard.”

  3

  I woke up on carpet.

  I couldn’t feel my hands, and that meant control cuffs. It should’ve been gratifying that the conclusions I’d drawn were turning out correct, but it wasn’t. My head hurt from the disabling pulse, but the pain was nothing compared to my rising temper. I groaned, but there was no sound. I could feel the mute strip attached to my throat keeping me silent.

  My arms were behind my back, my hands enveloped by full-profile shackles that numbed them. Shackles like these could also administer an electric shock to keep a prisoner in line.

  Mute strips and control cuffs were a good indication that these people had done this sort of thing before.

  I opened my eyes. I was in a bedroom and Sei was lying in front of me. It looked like he hadn’t come around yet. I sat up, spotting Salmagard and Diana as well.

  We weren’t alone.

  The woman we’d seen in the freight hauler was there, though she’d taken off her protective jumpsuit to reveal leggings and a utility vest. Her arms were heavily tattooed, and she had a pair of large goggles hanging around her neck. Her pupils were unnaturally dark and flat, probably the result of modifications to protect her vision in extreme light conditions.

  That was telling. It was something you’d see on poor workers in the belt, or even on indentured servants. People who worked in dangerous conditions and didn’t have the money for a more sophisticated operation.

  “Stay,” she said, pointing at me. I didn’t try to get up. Salmagard was stirring. The others were all bound and muted, just like me.

  Our captor was sitting on the bed, fidgeting. Waiting for something.

  I turned my attention to my surroundings. The wall behind me was a single massive feed that was serving as a mirror display. There were assorted light fixtures overhead that could probably create a variety of moods. At the moment the room was bathed in blues and purples.

  The carpet was deep and lustrous. The space seemed cramped, but that was because there were four of us on the floor. There was a pleasant artificial scent in the air that I couldn’t identify.

  Two doors. One was an exit, and the other probably led to a bathroom.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on the gravity, the feel of the ground beneath me. I listened.

  We weren’t on a ship, but it wasn’t a planet either. A station, then? The air was recycled. The gravity wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t have been out for long. A disabling pulse was a flexible tool, but the longer the knockout, the worse the hangover. My head hurt, but the pain wasn’t unreasonable. I hadn’t been unconscious for more than an hour or two, and that limited the number of places we could be.

  Imperial Pointe? No, Imperial Pointe had better gravity, gravity that could almost pass for the real thing.

  I discreetly watched the woman. Her twin braids were what I’d call a Free Trade hairstyle. That didn’t narrow it down much.

  She had a large gun in a shoulder holster, which she didn’t seem terribly conscious of. It was a big model, intended for utility. Rather than bullets in a detachable magazine, it had chambers that could be loaded with different types of cartridges for different purposes. The rubber grip was battered and scuffed, and the gun was missing a rear sight. It might be loaded with benign stun rounds, or they might be explosive bullets that could turn a person into liquid. No way to tell.

  The woman looked as tired as I felt.

  Her boots were a style that was common in Trigan systems, but that didn’t mean anything.

  I needed more to work with.

  The door opened and two men entered the room.

  One was a head taller than I was and almost twice as wide. He was wearing casual galactic clothes. Not exactly trendy, but they suited him, giving him a slightly genteel aura. A massive guy like that should’ve had the presence of a barbarian, but he dressed to come off as someone a little more cosmopolitan. I could smell his cologne. He was only a little older than I was, and he had the look of someone who’d been through his share of things.

  I wasn’t interested in him, though—it was the other man who had my attention.

  He was in his early forties, trim, and with a neat beard. He wore trousers in an outdated Old Earth style and an expensive hooded shirt beneath an Isakan blazer. Casual, expensive, relatively tasteful galactic clothes. The big man had taste, but the smaller one had taste and money.

  We were on a station. Not Imperial Pointe. This guy was in charge—or at least in charge of something. We were still in Free Trade space.

  I listened with interest. The woman’s name was Willis, and the big guy was Freeber. They were obviously partners. Willis called the older man Idris.

  He sank onto the bed with a groan and considered the four of us.

  “I think your radiation shield must have failed,” he said to Willis. “Because you’re out of your mind.”

  “This isn’t a selection,” she said. “You came to us, not the other way around. Lump sum.”

  “No one ever said anything about a lump sum,” Idris replied, not taking his eyes off Salmagard. I knew she was awake; no one else did. Sei had come around as well, and I had a feeling Diana had been awake all along. If she could metabolize ethanol fast enough to survive a full bottle of Evagardian Ale, then a stun pulse probably wouldn’t keep her down for long.

  I was doing a good job looking scared, but my performance was wasted. They weren’t paying attention to me.

  “Whether you want all of them or none, we have the same amount of risk,” Willis said. “Pay what you owe.”

  “I will pay what I owe,” Idris confirmed, rubbing his shoulder. “But I decide what I owe. Where did you find them?”

  “Imperial Pointe.”

  “Gutsy. I guess nobody’d expect to get pulled there. How did you even know they were imperials?”

  “We checked their reservations.”

  “For what?”

  “Red
Yonder. We took the carriage that had all imperials in it.”

  “Any record of that?”

  Willis shook her head. That didn’t sound quite right to me—she must’ve paid someone off. I doubted it was possible to just lift a Red Yonder transport without some kind of help on the inside. It was still a neat little maneuver, however they’d done it. There would be consequences for someone—but probably not in time to do us any good.

  “I’m not taking these two,” Idris said, motioning at me and Sei. “Obviously.”

  “Why not?” Freeber asked, getting to his feet.

  “Not my market. I stick to what I know. So let’s talk about these two. What’s wrong with this one? Is she synthetic?” Idris asked, jerking his chin at Diana.

  “No.” Freeber knelt beside her and pulled her up by the arm. Diana did a good impression of coming suddenly awake and glared at him. “She’s flesh. It’s not a cosmetic. Whatever it is, it’s permanent.”

  “A freak.” Idris scowled at her, then looked thoughtful. “But that might not be all bad. Definitely a curiosity. Exotic flavor. Maybe she’s rich. Getting changes like this can’t be cheap, even in the Empire.” He leaned forward and took Diana by the chin, examining her face. “Actually, not bad. We could cap an image, make some edits, put her best foot forward. I wish we could do something about the eyes. Hmm. She started out pretty, at least.”

  He let her go and leaned back, turning to Willis. “Was this the best you could do?”

  “Getting imperials is hard,” she said, shrugging.

  “This one’s good,” Idris said, pointing at Salmagard. “I’ll take her for sure. I’ve seen better, but she’s what I need more of.”

  “What about the guys? That one looks a little like Prince Dalton. Can’t you sell that?”

  “I told you, I don’t want guys. Still not sure about this one.” He stared intently at Diana, who returned his stare with more hostility than I thought was prudent. “She doesn’t look very cooperative, but we might still be able to do something with that. Let’s have a look.”

  Willis nodded to Freeber, who yanked Diana to her feet. He grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling back hard to force her to arch her back, keeping her from moving. Willis got up and produced a knife. She grabbed the collar of Diana’s dress and began to saw in a businesslike fashion. She split the dress down the middle and pushed it over Diana’s shoulders so that it gathered behind her; then she cut it free of her wrists and tossed it aside.

  Diana wore simple, almost boyish undergarments in a very dull gray. Every inch of her body was as white as her face, and her skin was flawless—but it wasn’t her skin that had everyone in the room staring. It was her physique and muscle tone.

  In a dress, she was obviously slender—but with it off, everyone could see that she was positively skeletal. There was no body fat to speak of, but it wasn’t the emaciation of malnourishment. Or at least, it wasn’t just malnourishment.

  Diana had muscles. She wasn’t big or bulky, but every muscle on her body was visible in razor-sharp definition.

  I’d done some traveling and encountered some interesting physiques—but I’d never seen anyone like this before. There were plenty of women who had their metabolisms tweaked to stay slim, but they didn’t want their bodies to be rock hard—they usually wanted to keep some curves.

  Diana didn’t have curves. She had angles. Now I understood the frills and the gloves and the boots she’d been wearing. With her body on display, she went from a little scary to downright terrifying. She was only as tall as my shoulder, and probably thirty kilograms lighter than I was.

  But I didn’t want to be on her bad side.

  I saw Idris swallow. He’d never seen anyone like her either.

  “Interesting,” he said, looking her over. He lowered his gaze, looking thoughtful. “Make sure she’s normal,” he said to Freeber.

  The big man let go of Diana and reached for her shorts.

  She crushed him with a head butt so savage and abrupt that even I flinched. I was twice Diana’s weight. Freeber was more like four times.

  Blood exploding from his nose, the big man crashed backward like a rag doll, slamming into the wall and crumpling to the floor, stunned.

  Willis immediately triggered the electricity, and I don’t think she noticed it, but I did: Diana hesitated for just a moment before she fell to her knees, putting on an expression of pain.

  A split second. Less than a heartbeat. Electricity moved fast. Faster than that.

  Diana was acting. Maybe the shock from the cuffs didn’t even bother her.

  Idris let out a sudden bark of laughter, staring at Freeber’s fallen body. He put his head back and laughed louder.

  Willis gave him an irritated look, then turned to Freeber, scowling.

  “Pussy,” she said, and spat on him. He moaned several vile swearwords.

  Idris was getting himself under control.

  “Okay. I’ll take her too. I’ll even take her at full price. You ought to give me a discount for bringing me a problem child. How’d he ever get out of New Brittia alive with a glass jaw like that?” Idris asked, looking at Freeber.

  “I’m not sure,” Willis said, looking taken aback. “I’ve seen him walk away from worse. She must’ve gotten lucky.”

  Idris got to his feet, still looking down at Diana. He nudged her head with the toe of his shoe. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ll be on your way soon enough, but until then getting upset’s not going to do you any good. You better just start getting in the right state of mind now, Princess.” He looked at Willis. “Cover her up. I feel like a deviant.”

  Exasperated, Willis straightened Diana’s underwear, then tossed the remains of her dress over her.

  “You better get him up,” Idris said, hooking a finger through his belt and eyeing Freeber. “He has to get these two out of here. Because you’re not leaving them with me.” He glanced at me and Sei again, expressionless.

  “Can’t you do anything with them?”

  “How many of my customers are women?”

  “Almost half,” Willis said, indignant.

  “How many of them would pay for this instead of just putting on a VR collar?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe some.”

  “I’m not spending money on ‘maybe some.’ I’ll stick to what I’m good at. They’re imperial, so it’s not like you can’t get something for them. And if you can’t, don’t just toss them out an airlock. Make sure to put the bodies back where you found them.”

  “Get up,” Willis snapped, kicking Freeber. He groaned, and his eyes opened. His nose was still gushing. His shirt was ruined. His face looked terrifying. Diana hadn’t just broken his nose—she’d annihilated it.

  Obviously these were rough people. I could tell they’d both seen action, but Freeber was actually going to need some real treatment if he ever wanted to go back to looking the way he was supposed to. From the look on Willis’ face, she was coming to that conclusion as well.

  She glanced at Diana, shook her head, and glared at Idris.

  The well-dressed man took a pair of crystal bonds from his jacket pocket and held them out. Willis snatched them, then gave him the code for the control cuffs.

  Now Idris had the power to shock us at will.

  Freeber was getting to his feet. Willis pushed him toward me, and Salmagard caught my eye as Freeber effortlessly pulled me and Sei to our feet. I didn’t react; staying docile and cooperative was key here.

  I held Salmagard’s gaze for as long as I could, trying to look apologetic—but this was not my fault. Then we were in the corridor, Diana and Salmagard were still in the room, and the door was closing.

  4

  TRUTHS about the Empress of Evagard were often subject to debate.

  Few specifics of the Unification were considered fact. Some of the Grand Duchess’ deeds w
ere canonical. But when it came to details about her life, particularly her life prior to the Unification itself, little was known for certain. There was plenty of information, but no one knew exactly which stories were true.

  But it was believed that the Duchess’ philosophies and worldview were shaped largely by two things, one of which was her mentor.

  No one knew much about the Empress’ mentor—or, if they did, the government was keeping it secret. But historians tended to agree that she’d had one.

  No one knew where it started, but it was common knowledge all the same.

  That was the root of what would become an imperial tradition of mentorship for the first daughters of tiered families. It was considered by many to be a sacred duty: more of a privilege than a chore. The word “mentor” itself had been forcibly shifted from a rather broad term to one reserved for this particular duty.

  Anyone could be tapped as a mentor, though it was typically an honor reserved for men and women who were considered extraordinarily accomplished. There were those who formalized it, who made it official. People who brought money into it, making it a business—but at the end of the day, all a proper family had to do was find someone suitable and ask.

  Salmagard’s mentor had been a historian named Alice Everly. She was from England. After a decorated tour in the Service, Alice wrote several notable books, held a few public offices, and at the age of forty retired with her three husbands to Casablanca.

  There, she met Jane Salmagard, whose ten-year-old daughter was deemed ready for a proper imperial influence from outside the family.

  Alice Everly’s children were all away at prestigious academies. All she was doing at the time was publicly writing scathing columns about the Commonwealth and privately writing racy scenarios for virtual reality simulations.

  She was honored by the request. Though she herself was seventh tier, she wasn’t the sort to look down on those with blood valued less highly than her own.

  It was the duty of a mentor to provide perspective to a young aristocrat. Alice had seen a bit of the galaxy, which made that easy. Life skills, communication techniques, manipulation strategies—a good mentor offered it all. Companionship. An objective ear. An exclusive camaraderie.