by T. M. Catron
“Something hit us,” James said. “Shields still holding.”
He zigzagged up, up, up. The Renegade couldn’t turn fast enough, and soon the haze of the atmosphere faded, just as the first rays of dawn appeared on the horizon. Rance couldn’t find the two fighters that had been pursuing, but she doubted they’d lost track of their prey. The blackness of space was before them.
And so were a hundred other ships. Of all makes and models. Now that Rance knew they were facing organized rebels instead of individual clans of pirates, the game had become much more serious. Many of the Nilurian Rebels were ex-Unity.
And all of them would know about the tiny space cruiser trying to get off Prometheus.
“We’ll never get past them,” she whispered.
“Yes, we will,” Solaris said. His voice cracked, but when he stood, he held himself confidently. As he lifted his staff, Rance scrambled to fasten her harness. Her aching fingers wouldn’t work correctly, and she fumbled to snap the two halves together.
The fastener clicked in place, and then the Star Streaker rolled, pitching her to the right. As before, Solaris stood with his feet planted firmly on the floor of the cockpit. And while the ship rolled around and around, Rance felt the tug of centripetal force, like all the gravity on the ship had centered on Solaris.
With a jolt, she realized that was exactly what was happening.
Solaris was controlling gravity.
It wasn’t without cost. His face drained of all color, and Rance thought he would kill himself for sure this time.
But she wasn’t going to allow him to sacrifice himself for them. No one else would die today. “Solaris! STOP!”
Still, he held on, his eyes closed, his face becoming more haggard. His disguised face flickered like a bad video connection. For a second, Rance caught a glimpse of another face. But in the chaos, she couldn’t make out any details.
The hyperdrive spun up of its own accord. James yelled that he couldn’t control it.
Rance had to do something. They were out of control. And she couldn’t lose another CO. Not like this. So, she did the most outrageous, most stupid thing she could think of.
She grabbed the handle that unfastened her harness and pulled.
It gave way, and she flew out of the seat, reaching out to tackle Solaris on her way. She collided with him, half-expecting his feet to be glued to the floor. But they weren’t. His concentration broke, and he fell with her.
They crashed into a control panel behind Solaris’ seat and landed in a heap on the floor. Rance grabbed him to keep from falling down the open hatch. The Star Streaker stopped spinning. The hyperdrive hummed as usual, ready for a command.
“We’re clear!” James called. Rance looked up in time to see the last dark ship slide by. Then James gave the command, and the bright blue flash of hyperspace washed over the ship.
Solaris groaned. Rance pulled herself off him. She’d landed on his staff, which had tried to jab a hole in her ribs, creating a new wave of pain when she moved. But they were both alive, and she considered the move a success.
Solaris winced as she moved away. Harper climbed into the cockpit to see if she could assist.
“I’m sorry for leaving the ship, Captain,” she said, blushing.
“Galley and lav duty for a month, Harper, but I’ll consider waving it if you get everybody patched up.”
“It’s going to be a big job,” she whispered as Solaris eased into a sitting position.
“Yes, it is,” he replied.
Chapter Twelve
“We’ve got to let people know what’s happening on Prometheus,” Rance said later.
They’d been in hyperspace thirty-six hours. The crew sat around the galley in varying states of exhaustion and wellness. Tally and James sat on either side of Rance. Neither had spoken to the other since the daring jump to hyperspace. It was just as well—Rance couldn’t have dealt with any shouting.
Solaris sat with his head in his hands, breathing deeply. He might have been asleep. Although Rance burned with questions about how he had saved the Star Streaker and everybody in it, she didn’t have the energy—or the heart—to question him about it right now. The promised answers would have to wait.
Abel sat at the other end of the bench and leaned on the wall. His face looked as bad as Solaris’—big purple bruises ringed his eye and cheek. Harper had offered to heal it for him in the med bay, but he’d refused, saying he’d wear it as a “badge of honor.”
Rance didn’t have any such notions of honor. She’d let Harper put her through several painful procedures to fix two cracked ribs, a broken finger, and bruising over eighty percent of her body. After, she felt better. Now, all injuries were on the mend, but she still felt like the Star Streaker had landed on top of her. Her head, which had been bashed around inside her helmet like a pebble inside an engine, throbbed when she moved it.
She didn’t move it.
Henry had curled up into her lap and was emitting soft whistling noises and keeping her hands warm like a muff. Three days ago, the sounds would have been annoying. Today, they were oddly comforting.
Tania leaned against the wall near the table, behind Abel. She looked about to collapse but had refused to lay down or sleep much since they’d escaped. Rance could only imagine what was going through Tania’s mind, but since her own thoughts were of Sonya, she guessed Tania’s were too.
Moira rested in the med bay. She’d been injured as much as any of them, but she was also dealing with the weight of her actions on Prometheus. She’d wished to be alone.
The bag James had been carrying contained scavenged provisions. He had run across them in his search for Harper and gathered what he could on short notice. Now they were rationing what was left of it. But at least no one was going hungry.
Tally took a sip of Harper’s tea. “How do you propose to let them know what’s happening on Prometheus? Fly up to the nearest Unity ship and tell them?”
“Of course not. We can send a message somewhere.”
“To whom? Who is going to trust an anonymous message from a star cruiser about a rebel attack on Prometheus?”
Rance took a deep breath and then winced. That still hurt. “Davos would believe me.”
“You want to involve your father?” James asked, his eyebrows going up into his shaggy hair. “Harper, I think the Captain hit her head harder than you thought.”
“I don’t want to involve my father, but I think he would trust a message from me and see that it got to the right people.”
“How can you be so sure?” James asked.
“The captain is correct,” Tally said. “Lord Davos would believe it enough to send someone to check it out. But Captain, do you want to risk him being able to trace you?”
“I think it’s worth the risk, Tally, don’t you?”
Tally fixed his protruding green eyes on Rance. “Of course I do,” he murmured.
“Then it’s settled. How many hours left in hyperspace?” she asked James.
Deliverance responded before James could. Two hours, Captain.
Good. They wouldn’t have to waste any more time.
“Deliverance, I need a good waystation in which to send a message to Xanthes. We’ll only be there long enough to send the message from one of their beacons and find some food. Then we’ll leave again.”
“We’ll still be traced, Captain,” Solaris said, raising his head.
His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Had he been crying? Or was that the effect of Henry? A long trail of white skin glue ran down from his forehead to his cheek. Harper had said it wouldn’t scar. Since Solaris could change his face, Rance wondered if they’d ever know if it did, anyway. A sudden, intense desire to see his real face almost caused her to miss what he was saying.
“…once Unity gets wind that the same ship that fled Doxor 5 is sending messages to Lord Davos, they’ll swarm every known waystation in the empire. Is that an acceptable risk?”
Losing the ability to
use the waystations would hamper future smuggling jobs, but they could manage it. “I think so, yes,” she said.
Solaris stood—carefully—and climbed off the bench. “I’ll go prepare a message.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Rance said. “I’ll record the message. I won’t leave anything to chance.”
She climbed off the bench ever so slowly, wondering if she would even be able to get up the ladder and into the cockpit without help.
“Want me to go with you, Captain?” James asked.
Rance paused. She really needed the help, but contacting her father was a private matter. A few days ago, she’d told Solaris she didn’t have any secrets from the crew—and she didn’t—but she hadn’t spoken to Davos since she ran away from home, more than five years ago. The message would be personal, and she’d likely have to record it several times before she was satisfied.
“No, James. I can manage.”
“Very good, Captain,” James said, turning back to his own tea and smirking. “You look like you’re managing quite well. I’ll just listen for any sounds of distress, and then pointedly ignore them, since they won’t be from you.”
Rance shot him a dirty look and left the galley.
The walk to the cockpit was the longest trip of Rance’s life. She paused on the second step of the stairway, wincing when she discovered new pain in places she didn’t know she had. She would have glanced back to make sure no one was looking, but moving her head was dicey. So, she gathered what pride she had left and continued, pausing every couple of steps.
The conversation in the galley drifted out to her.
“Why are Nilurian Rebels attacking Prometheus?” James asked.
“Easy,” Abel said. “They’re trying to start a war.”
“Don’t call them rebels,” Solaris said with more vehemence than Rance would have thought possible. “They attacked a Core world, killed innocent people. They’re no better than the pirates they stole the standard from.”
Finally, Rance reached the top deck, and their voices faded. From there, walking was easy compared to climbing stairs. She gave a longing look into her quarters and her too-short but comfortable bed. But she passed them and made her way down the corridor.
At the end of the deck, Rance stared at the cockpit ladder a full ten minutes before summoning the energy to put her foot on the bottom rung. Climbing up into the cockpit took longer than she cared to admit, but when she finally emerged, she breathed a sigh of relief and eased into her chair. The blue wash of hyperspace blocked out the stars, but it bathed the cockpit in a soothing, pleasant glow. Good thing, too, because she might be forced to stay there until her body healed, or someone took pity on her and moved her below deck.
“Deliverance, prepare a video transmission.”
The next moment, the screen in front of her showed Rance’s face. Rance took a deep breath. She could record the message as many times as she needed. No need to be nervous.
Her underarms were sweaty, her palms clammy. She refused to attribute her nervousness to her task. Just because she was going to talk to her father for the first time in five years didn’t mean she was a little girl again.
No. Like Solaris said, Rance was a changed woman. Davos might not even recognize her. Part of her wished he would. Part of her hoped he wouldn’t. Since the success of this message depended on him recognizing her, though, she settled for the former.
Finally, Rance stopped thinking about it and spoke to the screen.
“Record.”
A red light blinked in the top corner. It was ready.
She took a deep breath, sat up tall, and said, “Hello, Father.”
Epilogue
Lord Davos sat behind his desk in his dark office, brooding out the expansive window onto the nighttime city below. A dust storm was brewing. In the distance, lightning streaked across the clouds, illuminating swirling eddies of purple sand. The smell of the poisonous chirkwood flower potted in the corner tickled his nose. He was tempted to throw it out the window. Tonight, everything offended him—the city, the planet Xanthes, his failure to control the actions of his family.
He’d just watched Devri’s message. His daughter—his only daughter—had just fled a planet full of pirates. She’d endangered herself again—more proof that she was incapable of commanding her own starship. As if Davos needed more proof. Lately, tales of her exploits had reached him with alarming frequency. He always heard of them too late to catch her. Some idiot bungled the reporting or didn’t recognize her in time. Each report caused Davos’ anger to surge higher.
And now, pirates.
Davos scoffed. No, not pirates, rebels. His distaste for the Nilurian Rebels ran deeper than for the pirates. Pirates only wanted to be left to their own devices. For the most part, they managed themselves and occasionally benefitted the empire with their illegal trade. When they got too big and too cocky, the empire cut them down.
But rebels. Davos despised their misguided ideology, their self-appointed missions for the common man. If the Nilurians had their way, the empire would descend into anarchy. And then who would keep the pirates at bay?
No, Triton would cut down the rebels too. If they had dared to attack a Core world, it was time for the Empire Triton to show them why Unity’s forces were so good at keeping the alien worlds in check.
Davos took a swig from his flask, the one carrying his special concoction that included poison from the plant in the corner. It no longer burned when it went down, but still left a metallic, bitter taste on his tongue.
Or was it the bitterness left by his missing wife, Jane? He hadn’t heard from her in over a year. After she and Devri had left five years ago, he’d only received curt transmissions from her. And even those had stopped. He didn’t think she was in danger. Probably living it up at society balls on Coru or Triton. She always did care more about mingling with the nobility on those worlds than the ones on Xanthes.
Hopefully, she hadn’t been on Prometheus when it was attacked. Davos sat down the flask with a heavy clink, stirring himself to his work. It wasn’t in his nature to ask what if, only to deal with the problems at hand. He sent secure transmissions to Emperor Arthos, detailing what he knew about the attack on Prometheus. Arthos had been too long-suffering with the rebels. And they had repaid him with treason.
Davos sniffed derisively. Let the emperor deal with the problem he’d created.
For Davos, the need to find his daughter had grown more pressing than ever. The last thing he wanted was for her to get killed, caught in some scuffle between the empire and the rebels. If only he knew what her ship looked like, he could retrieve her. So far, he’d had trouble pinning down its registration or getting accurate accounts of its physical appearance. Everyone who’d encountered her recently—and he’d spoken to each one of them—said her ship kept changing mid-flight. Like she was hopping from ship to ship to confuse her pursuers. How she’d managed that trick, he wasn’t sure.
With his blood pressure rising and the rock in his stomach growing heavier, Davos pulled out his handset to comm a servant. Before he could make a request, however, his comm beeped. Lord Aron.
Davos answered with a terse, “What?”
“Lord Davos, I trust I find you well?”
His wheedling voice grated on Davos’ nerves at the best of times. It sounded even worse over the comm. Davos was in no mood for pleasantries, especially from Francivi Aron.
“What is it, Aron?”
“I have some news of your daughter.”
Davos sat up and leaned over the comm. “Yes?”
“A Lieutenant Arnold contacted the Unity base, saying he ran into Devri a week ago.”
“And did he bring her back with him?” Davos snarled.
“No, my lord. I’m afraid not.”
Of course, he hadn’t. If he had, Devri would already be home. “Why am I not surprised? Tell me, Aron, is there any competent officer left in Unity? Or have they all defected to the pirates and rebel sympathiz
ers?”
Maybe the reason the rebels had swept into Prometheus like they had was because all the bright ones had sought out greener pastures. Davos brought a fist down on the desk. “Answer me!”
Aron hesitated, but when he spoke, he seemed nonplussed by Davos’ impatience.
“He was confused. He didn’t realize who he had until it was too late.”
“Then he is as useless as you. Why did he even bother to report?”
“Because,” Aron said, ignoring the insult, “he knows what Devri’s ship looks like.”
Davos sat back, digesting the information. “Are you sure?”
“Lieutenant Arnold is sure.”
“I want to speak with him personally.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Send him now, before he has an accident and forgets.”
Davos clicked off the comm and stood to pace in front of the window. If he had a description of the ship, he could pull security footage from the waystations. Devri had used one of them to send her message. He knew which one, of course, but it was a busy location, and thousands of ships used it every day. But if they knew what her ship looked like, they could find out what time she arrived, what time she left, and if they were lucky, her destination.
Davos commed Lord Aron again.
“Yes?”
“On your way here, stop and pick up McConnell.”
“I’m assuming you mean the younger McConnell, Harrison, and not his esteemed father.”
“Yes,” Davos grumbled. “It’s time that man earned some of his inheritance, instead of wasting it at the tavern.”
It took more than two hours for Aron to arrive with Arnold and McConnell in tow. While Davos waited, he had sent more messages, demanding security footage, arrivals, and departures from the waystation. In between calls, he fumed. The house servants had avoided his office like he had a case of arlakan plague. And when they escorted Aron and his charges to Davos’ office, they held back at the door.
Davos waved the servants away.
