Warchild

by Karin Lowachee

  That was a club and den. Not a pricey one.

  Dorr headed off with a backhanded wave. “Thanks.”

  Madi gave me a little shove and we continued on our way with no more voluntary interruptions. The dockring was about three times larger than the one on Chaos Station, cavernous, cold, and once we got to the military ships, restricted; it took us a while to get to Macedon’s lock. We passed the other carriers’ locks, evident by two jets standing guard on each. Macedon’s was no different. They were fully armed with LP-150 rifles, standard sidearms, and comm-studs. They didn’t joke with Madi; they barely glanced at us. One of them simply cycled the lock open when we approached up the ramp, our booted steps echoing slightly.

  Inside the carrier wasn’t much of a surprise. They weren’t so far removed from pirate ships. We walked down scuffed, pale gray corridors—clean, but still utilitarian. Overhead, above the lines of lights, the pipe guts and grated innards of the ship lay exposed and occasionally marked with paint in a code I didn’t understand. The null-g handholds running the length of the bulkheads were chipped and in some cases missing entirely, showing tiny holes where bolts should have been. Deck levels were painted in yellow by stairwells and lev doors, but no signs directed you to major centers like galley, jetdeck, bridge, or flight deck. This wasn’t an accommodating merchant ship. You saw it in the crew that strolled by, most in black fatigues, some in dark and pale gray coveralls, all of them visibly armed, not just the officers, negotiating the narrow corridors and fellow passing crew with unthinking ease.

  Clean recycled air wafted through the decks, marred only by people’s lingering cologne or soap scent.

  I tried not to think about how easy it would be just to run.

  I had no idea where Madi was taking me and he didn’t volunteer the information. We rode the noisy lev up and he followed me out. The new corridor was less scarred and quieter. Most everyone we passed bore an officer’s rank. Madi didn’t salute any of them but I caught the difference in the number of stripes and pins. Most of them wore black battle fatigues. If you weren’t looking you’d think them all jets.

  We stopped outside a hatch marked simply Captain.

  By now my heart thudded in my ears. I hadn’t thought they’d make me confront the man so early in the game, but maybe this was normal procedure. Madi palmed the entrance light, which gave a brief buzz and stayed red for a moment, then blinked green. Madi opened the hatch and I stepped in first at his look. He didn’t follow.

  “Joslyn Aaron Musey, sir,” Madi told the man behind the black desk, as if he’d been expecting me. I realized that he probably had and the distracting route to the ship had not been accidental.

  “Thank you, Private.”

  Madi left with my duffel bag, which I knew would be thoroughly scanned in my absence. I heard the hatch shut behind me and remained standing, taut and staring at the person sitting casually back in his seat.

  Information about the inner workings of Macedon was decidedly slim, and that was all due to the fact of its captain, who was even more of an enigma and seemed to purposely keep it that way. Most of the info I’d studied about the ship had been public record and statistical; some had not been, but had still been short on knowledge of specific ship culture— which was a salient feature on all deep-space carriers, and completely individual. The man who ran the ship was just as individual and probably more dangerous than the average inner system carrier captain. They still felt the long arm of the Hubcentral-based EarthHub Joint Chiefs. Deep-space carriers were so far from regular channels of communication that many in EarthHub considered them border rogue. Still, as long as they brought down striviirc-na, nobody complained too loudly.

  Captain Cairo Azarcon’s basic file stated that he was the adopted son of EHJC Admiral Omar Ashrafi. He was thirty-eight EarthHub Standard years, had started out as a hunter-killer pilot but quickly moved up the ranks due to an impressive battle record and aggressive leadership skills. As captain of Macedon he’d brought down at least five striviirc-na battleships (which I knew were ki-na ranked destroyers) and countless lesser-classed vessels. The man had a reputation for ruthlessness and a complete disregard for public opinion.

  Sitting back, one hand on the chair arm and the other casually on his desk, he looked me up and down with brief movements of his dark, slightly angular eyes. He looked barely older than ponytailed Dorr and dressed no different from Private Madison. His apparent youth shocked me, even knowing how the passage of time was so relative. He hadn’t looked this young in his service picture, but then he’d been in full dress uniform, capped and somewhat shadowed. Nothing at all distinguished him now as captain of this ship, other than the practically camouflaged four black stripes on his black-uniformed arms. His skin was pale like most people who spent their lives on a ship. His hair was black and roughly combed out of his eyes, making them seem all the more stark. They bored into my own with the authority of someone that had power over life and death.

  “Musey,” he said, in a deceptively quiet voice. “Fourteen and ready to join a war?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  I had no idea what to expect from this man. His eyes never left my face.

  “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life scrabbling for a living on Austro, sir.” I kept my gaze fixed on a point just above Azarcon’s head, on the bare gray wall. The entire office was bare, clean, and right angles, utilitarian except for one holopic protruding from the desk, angled mostly away from me. I couldn’t see the image.

  “Better rushing for a living than dying in space,” he said, in that same relaxed tone.

  “Sergeant Hartman said nobody dies on Macedon unless they’re vented, sir.”

  “Did she?” Amused. “Well, that’s true. But once you’re off Mac, say on a mission somewhere, then you’re fair game for all the strits and pirates.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, because he seemed to want an answer.

  ‘Tell me why I ought to consider signing you when you’re stupid enough to want off a relatively safe station and onto a carrier that doesn’t see civilization but once every five years.”

  “Because I’m good, sir.”

  “Good at what? Looking pretty?”

  “Good at whatever you want me to do. Sir.”

  He breathed out in a fast, mocking laugh. “Oh, I can see what you’d be good at. Orphan?”

  His comp sat open in front of him. Hartman must have transferred my file.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Made your living—how? In the tunnels or in bed? Or both?”

  “In hard work, in odd jobs, wherever they’d pay me legal, sir.”

  “I have no need for a kiosk clerk.”

  “I learn fast, sir.”

  “I’m sure you do. But I still have no need for a cred counter.”

  If I couldn’t get on this ship it was all blown. “Sir, I want to fight the strits. I want off this damn station and back on a ship. I was born on one and it’s what I want, sir.”

  “Military’s different from merchant. Sun to moon. Why don’t you hire onto another merchant? Or go religious and join a Universalist crew.”

  I hardened my voice. “Because I want to fight and I’m not religious. Sir.”

  “You might be if you survive your first battle.”

  I looked him in the eyes. “I already did, sir, which I’m sure you’re well aware. My ship was Mukudori.”

  He didn’t blink. “Yes, I am aware. I remember when that hit the Send. How did you escape Falcone? It was Falcone blew your ship, wasn’t it?”

  He knew so, and I realized he must have known more about Falcone than I did, since Falcone was a former Earth-Hub captain.

  “He took me onto Chaos. The strits attacked and I escaped in the… chaos.”

  “I remember that too. By the dates it seems you were aboard his ship for about a year.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He studied my face for an unexpectedly long time. Then he reached and touched
a button on his desk. The hatch clanged open and Madi stepped in.

  “Private Madison, let Musey loose on the dock for a gauntlet run.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Azarcon’s black eyes fixed on me. “Do you know what the gauntlet is, Musey?”

  It was one aspect of deep-space carrier culture that I did know about. And dreaded. “I run, jets chase me, if I survive intact then I’m on the ship.”

  Azarcon smiled coolly. “If you survive intact, then I consider letting you on ship. Since very few do, I’ll say my good-byes and good luck now.”

  “I’ll see you soon, Captain.”

  I’d read him right. The smile widened, but it wasn’t friendly. “Hopefully you’ll live long enough to regret it.” He nodded perfunctorily at Madison and returned to his comp as if I’d never been there. I followed Madi’s example and saluted, despite the fact Azarcon didn’t even look up, and left.

  Madison clapped me on the back. “He must like you. Now he wants us to kill you. It ain’t too late to back out, you know.” His grin baited me. He looked like a vapid, smiley blond but his eyes were ice.

  “Where’s my stuff?”

  “Oh, we’re castin’ lots for it down in jetdeck.”

  I wouldn’t put it past this crew. As we headed back to the main airlock, more and more jets started to collect in our wake until they trailed behind me like a pack of silent wolves. Azarcon must have commed them. My nerves twitched, then began to harden. I listened to their booted steps behind me. I didn’t speak to Madi, or any of them. Once the airlock opened I darted out and down the ramp in a dead run.

  They followed, swift as black smoke.

  * * *

  VIII.

  The pounding steps behind me resounded like pulse fire all around the half-empty dock. Jets from the other two carriers watched impassively as I raced toward the unrestricted sectors of the ring. The jets behind me didn’t make a sound. Nothing but their bootsteps, gaining.

  I burst from the military sector doors and rammed into a blue uniform. She yelled. We both tumbled to the deck, her hand shoving against my cheek. I rolled and scrambled to my feet. A jumble of faces seemed to freeze in my sight. Someone mouthed, “Damn jets!”

  I couldn’t hear the words over the rise of shouts.

  I darted through the crowd, ducking low.

  “You can’t do that here!” someone yelled from behind, not to me.

  “File it!” came the reply.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Merchants and dockworkers clogged the jets, protesting. It didn’t last. Not much could hold back a squad of running jets. They bled through the objections like black oil. All they had to do was flash their ship tats.

  I headed straight for the concourse, among people and noise and more than a dozen different corridors branching to different sections in this module. I could get lost. No appealing to pollies in a situation like this. Not for me and not for the cits caught in the middle. People tried, but deep-space carrier crews—strit killers and war heroes—had good lawyers and bad reputations.

  I darted behind a trinket kiosk to catch my breath and peered out toward the wide central corridor, eateries across the way and the diverting flow of traffic to the levs and ped-ways. The upper levels held a continuous ramble of people going in and out of shops and entertainment services.

  The jets spread out for a systematic search. There were only a dozen of them, but they asked the people. They zeroed in on tunnel kids who had no reason to lie or dislike jets that shared a similar contempt for station authority. One kid gestured toward my kiosk.

  I ducked out and ran toward the nearest connecting corridor, over to the main shopping district.

  One of them must have anticipated me. I felt the swiping passage of a hand near my shoulder before I plunged into the streaming traffic of people and wheelrunners. I kept low and knifed through the shocked crowd, impolite, brutal with my elbows, crashing when I couldn’t bounce. Swearing and yelling from innocent bystanders chased me. Word of the gauntlet spread out from my flight like a fan; soon the crowd thinned in front of me. I swore at them. The jets now had a clear line of sight.

  I veered into one of the clothing stores. The holo greeting barely got out a word before a flow of black uniforms cut through it behind me. I turned quickly and breasted through the racks and displays, knocking some down, heading for the supplier access behind the checkout.

  “Hey!”

  I ignored the clerk and shouldered my way through to the back, past inventory and compdesks, straight out the rear door.

  Three jets ran toward me from the alley leftward. They’d rounded me. I spun the opposite direction and saw two more jets turn the corner from the main throughway. I looked up and jumped, grabbed the neighboring store’s marquee overhang and hauled myself up, legs swinging. One knee found the narrow ledge while I scraped for a decent hold on the pitted plas-molding of the building wall. These places had no roofs, extending instead into the station ceiling, but they had windows. I levered myself standing and edged along to the half-open plexpane to my left. It was just within arm’s reach.

  The jets stopped below me like frustrated dogs. One drew her gun and fired.

  The paralysis pulse burst a half meter from my shoulder, scarring the wall. I clung, fingers digging. An intentional miss.

  “Come down,” that jet said.

  So I could get beat to a pulp? I freed one hand long enough to give the woman my nonverbal answer. They didn’t want to shoot me down—too easy for them.

  “Go upstairs,” the jet said to a couple of her comrades, who promptly disappeared. That left three. I’d had similar odds more than once in the vas’tatlar. I looked down and jumped.

  They hadn’t expected that. I dropped on one of them, throwing him to the deck, and rolled quickly before he could grab me. The other two pounced immediately but I had already gained my feet. I kicked out and followed through with a roundhouse. The woman landed on her ass. The third came in closer and more cautious. He deflected my combination punch attack and tried to wrap my ankle. I jammed my fist under his chin. He fell back. The other two climbed to their feet, despite the blows.

  The woman had dropped her gun when I dropped her. I dived for it. Boots slammed down and I rolled and tripped one of them. He landed half on my legs but my fingers already found the weapon. I shot him. I kicked him off me and aimed at the other two back and forth, fast.

  “Get back!” It was set on high paralysis. The jet I’d downed would wake up with splitting pain and nausea.

  The other jets came through the back door and around the corner, totaling twelve, including the two that had gone to the window where they’d thought I would try to escape.

  Madi crowed, stepping forward. “The sprig’s got spit!”

  I stood swiftly and kept my back to the wall, aiming.

  He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, but nothing in his eyes said he believed it. “That won’t earn you any favors, mano.”

  “It’ll earn you on the deck.”

  “Look up first.”

  It could have been a ploy, but the two were in the window. I couldn’t keep them and the others in sight. I fired up just as one jumped down toward me. I dodged. He missed. I didn’t. It was all the distraction Madison needed. I got off one more shot that downed a third jet before Madi ducked in close enough to seize my wrist and force it up. I punched at his spleen. He sidestepped and my blow merely grazed. I had to restrain myself from fighting too hard or else they would get suspicious. I allowed another jet to grab my legs out from under me. They took me down on my back and Madi knelt on my chest, wresting the gun from my fingers. I gasped from the pressure of his knee and struggled violently, but each of them had a limb while Madi held down my torso.

  “Bad business,” he said conversationally, “takin’ a jet’s piece.”

  “She shouldn’t have dropped it.”

  “Nah, she shouldn’t‘ve.” Madi looked toward the female jet. “Sarge is gonna rail you, Nguy
en.”

  “I’ll shoot him now,” Nguyen said as Madi handed over her gun.

  “Nah. We want him awake.” He grinned at me. “You actually shot three of us. Kinda impressive, but it lands you square in our bad books.” He stood and stepped back. “Get him up.”

  Two jets let go my legs while the other two hauled me to my feet. Their grips threatened to stop blood flow through my arms. I considered kicking them but the looks on their faces dissuaded me. They’d shoot me. If it came down to it, they might decide not to use paralysis.

  “Madi!” a voice called.

  The jets parted. The blond, ponytailed man named Dorr strolled toward us from the concourse. Trailing him was a slightly shorter man with cropped light brown hair. Dorr was still dressed in civilian clothes and grinned impishly, all angel-faced dimpled and without compassion.

  “Yo, mano,” Madison said in greeting. “O’Neil—” To the other man. Then to both: “Say ’lo to our fem.”

  Dorr came right up, eyed the three still-paralyzed bodies on the deck, and looked at me. His eyes raked me over, slow. “Whew. You right, Madi. Fresh meat.”

  O’Neil rubbed the back of his neck, surveying the scene. I saw the ship tat on his inner right wrist, a sword with wings flared behind it. Archangel. “You Mac jets’re rusty. Look at the mess this sprig made.” He had a clear Martian accent and a small scar by his right eye. He grinned broadly.

  Dorr dry-sniped him, one pointed glare.

  My arms were going numb. I used the distraction of the exchange and wrenched away enough to kick the jet at my right straight in the knee. He staggered, but the other grabbed me in a headlock. I moved to slam him back against the wall but Dorr suddenly stood in front of me. He smiled and gutted me with a gun I hadn’t seen him pull.

  I grunted and kicked toward Dorr’s shin but the jet holding me threw me to the deck. Dorr pistol-whipped me when I tried to get up. I lay momentarily stunned and a boot slammed into my side. Others quickly joined, rapid hits, rapid seconds of biting pain. Then they retreated just as quickly, leaving me curled and gasping.

  “Haul him up,” I heard Dorr say.