Syndicate's Pawns

by Davila LeBlanc

  Phaël took a moment to gather her bearings. She was alone in the cargo bay, her hands bound behind her with plastic ties. Again she was thankful for her attacker’s ignorance, as she had left Phaël’s prehensile feet free. She rolled onto her stomach and arched her back while bringing her feet to her hands. The stitches along her back felt like they were straining to stay together.

  She let out a pained groan as her toes felt along her bindings for the release clip. As she carried on with her present task Phaël thought back on her four attackers. The Wolver woman in the armor with the blade, she would be the dangerous one to worry about. She was clearly well versed in Wolver martial arts, possibly even better than Phaël, truth be told.

  Her former masters had always needed to remind Phaël that her temper was her greatest weakness, a lesson her opponent had clearly mastered. If the three of these women were wandering about the Jinxed Thirteenth unchecked, she was fairly certain they would all make short work of everyone on board.

  Phaël let out a satisfied grunt when she felt the release clip to her bindings. Classic Paxist restraints, they could only be unlocked using two hands . . . which would only be problematic to Kelthans, or anyone else who didn’t happen to have an extra set of hands for feet. Phaël pressed down on the release and gave her binding a yank; there was a satisfying “click” as the ties dropped off.

  Phaël rolled onto her back and gave her sore wrists a quick massage before getting back to her feet. There was no time to waste and she ran past the cargo doors into the hall. As she stepped into the hallway, she was treated to more flashing red emergency lights and partial darkness. She had no doubt that the intruders were responsible for this.

  “They want us alive,” she muttered to herself. Her ears twitched as she heard the sound of running footsteps coming from behind her. She quickly looked around for any place to conceal herself and thanked the Huntress under her breath when she found a large pipe running along the ceiling with just enough space to squeeze herself between.

  Phaël silently vaulted herself off the wall, caught onto the pipe and was quickly able to hide herself. She then watched and waited for the footsteps to come to her. They belonged to Captain Soltaine; the former Paxist had both his ser­vice blaster and a stun-­stick in his hand. He made his way to the cargo bay door cautiously peered inside, holding his blaster pistol up. He was also wearing a thin sleeveless impact vest.

  “Private Phaël!” He called out in a tone that he must have thought sounded intimidating. There was something wrong here. Phaël could tell by the Captain’s stance that he was actively looking for Phaël with the intention of apprehending her. No doubt more work of the intruders. The fool had thought to go toe to toe with her and had come ridiculously underprepared. What was it with Kelthans underestimating Wolvers?

  Morwyn cautiously stepped into the cargo bay, and from her hiding place Phaël watched as he looked around. He spotted the discarded plastic tie and knelt down to examine it. He cocked his head to the side and spoke into his wrist communicator. “Pilot, she isn’t in here. Keep the bridge on lockdown.”

  Of course the humping former Paxist would presume that she was guilty of whatever it was the intruders were setting her up for. Why wouldn’t he? She was Adoran born, and the hatred between the Pax Humanis and Ador was almost as great as the hatred between Adorans and their former Argentine oppressors. Uniting truths of the Covenant or not, there was no real way to fully wipe away the spilt blood of the past.

  And while Phaël would normally be happy to have another one of her points proven right about the blatant racism present in the pro-­Kelthan Pax Humanis, at this moment, she needed more than anything else to arm herself and remain hidden, not only from her foes, but from the rest of the crew who had doubtless been turned against her.

  Of course she could have confronted Morwyn, maybe even explained herself to him. And while the two of them wasted each other’s time, the intruders would finish what they had started. Whatever their ploy and however they had done it, their foe’s strategy of dividing and distracting their enemies was working to perfection. And while Niko had made it fairly clear that these mercenaries did not know what they were looking for, they knew that it was valuable. And there was only one thing of value worth attacking the Jinxed Thirteenth for: the recently awakened remnant of Ancient Humanity, Jessie Madison.

  That Phaël knew this but the rest of the attackers on the ship did not gave her a fighting edge. She silently crept along the pipe, away from the cargo bay. She would need to make it to the armory; once she was armed it would be a simple task of hunting down their foes, and ideally planting a knife into both the reptile and the Blade Dancer before taking it incredibly slowly with Niko.

  She paused as she heard Morwyn step out of the cargo bay and pulled herself tightly against the pipe, holding her breath as he walked past without noticing her. She listened until his steps were faraway then dropped from her hiding spot and made her way down the darkened halls of the Jinxed Thirteenth. In the semidarkness it would not be easy to rely heavily on the eyes. Phaël listened carefully for any approaching footsteps; her bare feet felt for vibrations on the floor. Fortunately for her, Morwyn had walked away from the armory. A foolish decision on his part, given that had he known anything about her it would have been the next place to look.

  “Thank the Huntress for that small fortune,” Phaël whispered under her breath as she pushed on. She turned a corner and almost bumped into another shape. This one was hunkered down on the floor fiddling with wires on a floor panel. Phaël stepped back and gasped as the shape turned to face her. She was staring at . . . herself?

  “You were supposed to remain unconscious until I was done,” her copy said in a perfect mimicry of Phaël’s voice. Phaël looked down to see the familiar obsidian stun-­stick clasped firmly in her doppelganger’s hand.

  Phaël never got to voice her reply as her twin swung the stun-­stick at her. She lithely jumped out of the way and evaded the blow. Before her opponent could react, Phaël rolled forward and kicked her behind the knees. Her copy’s skin seemed to tremble like gelatin as she fell on her back, and Phaël could now recognize the serrated pupils of the reptile woman. Her copy appeared to spasm uncontrollably as her skin turned translucent, like the discarded skin of a snake. As the skin peeled off, Phaël was treated to her attacker’s true appearance. The reptilian woman was hairless, her skin a scaled shimmering mixture of browns and greens. She had no nose, only two nostrils and extremely thin lips. There was a coy look on her face that Phaël found most disturbing.

  “What in the Living Green are you?”

  “You will never find out.” Her former twin kicked her in the stomach. Phaël dropped to the ground and gasped as her foe lunged forward and touched her chest, locking eyes with her at the same time. Phaël could suddenly feel thoughts that were not her own invading her mind.

  “Your mind is now mi—­” Before the sentence could be completed, Phaël reflexively grasped onto her foe’s hand with her feet and, using the arm as leverage and tossed her into a nearby wall.

  Phaël shook her head; her thoughts were sluggish and she felt incredibly dizzy. Under any other circumstances, she would have stayed around to finish her foe off, but she could already see that the reptile woman was getting back up to her feet and pulling out a blaster pistol from a holster in her back.

  There was a ser­vice hatch behind her. Phaël was fairly certain that it would drop her one floor down into the ship’s underbelly. The armory be humped, she had more than a few personal blades and weapons in her living quarters one floor down. The drop would be painful, but no more than being stun-­sticked, having her mind ravaged or being shot.

  “This is far from over, lizard,” Phaël shouted as she pulled open the ser­vice hatch and let herself drop down. She tucked in her arms and legs before she hit the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of her lungs and she winced as some of her stitc
hes ripped open. She could feel blood sapping down her back and she looked up the hatch to see her own face looking back down at her. For a moment Phaël was worried that she was going to pursue her. But instead the lizard woman merely closed the hatch, leaving her alone and confused.

  She didn’t waste any time pondering this riddle. Rather she got to her feet and started down the darkened corridor. Even with the lights off, Phaël would have been able to find her quarters. She would not feel safe until she had the familiar feeling of clasping a hilt in her hand. And for each other one of her stitches that would be torn open between now and the end of this impromptu adventure, she was going to make sure the reptile had equal pain visited upon her in return.

  If the Great Huntress had been on board the ship, she no doubt would have agreed with Phaël’s sentiment.

  CHAPTER 15

  MARLA

  There is no such thing as a being of evil. There are only evil circumstances. What makes one noble is how one deals with those circumstances. The heroic overcome them, the tragic are consumed by them. Whether rising above or being dragged down, the Infinite pauses for no one.

  —­Jeska Zim, Alexandran scholic,

  12th of SSM–01 1423 A2E

  20th of SSM–11 1445 A2E

  During her days as an addict, Marla Varsin had often wakened in unfamiliar places after long nights of indulgence. It had always been a comfort when she came to in the familiar setting of her fancy apartment overlooking the near endless metropolis that was Mon Mars, capital of the Pax Humanis. It was on days like those that she had felt fairly certain she had not done anything she would later regret; it also meant that she was safe.

  That same feeling of safety was briefly felt as she awakened comfortably laid out on her cot in the ship’s medical bay. It was quickly lost as she spotted Chord standing with a strange woman in patchwork armor and a helmet with an array of ocular pieces like an odd electric inset. Guarding the entrance was a man in crimson combat armor with a heavy carbine slung between his arms. A grinning skull had been painted onto his helmet’s face guard; its blank eyes were looking straight at her. While she could not see his face, she knew by his stance that this was the man named Niko she had seen earlier with Jessie in the cantina.

  “You’re awake. Good.” The woman turned to face Chord. “If she moves from her cot, kill her.”

  Chord did not shake its head or acknowledge the command. “Who are you?” Marla Varsin asked, trying her best to retain her calm.

  The woman gave Marla a mocking curtsy; when she spoke her voice was modulated through the speakers in her helmet. “Mikali Zahur of Zerok at your ser­vice, Doctor.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Mikali wagged her finger. “You weren’t kept alive to ask questions, Doc. You were kept alive to answer them.”

  Marla Varsin pulled her knees up to her chest and remained seated in her cot. Her eyes darted between Chord, Niko and Mikali Zahur of Zerok. There was a heavy satchel hanging at her side and Marla Varsin recognized a control rig built into her left wrist gauntlet. She nodded toward it. “You’ve got Machina Chord under your control, don’t you?”

  Marla Varsin saw stars as Mikali slapped her across the face with one of her gauntleted fists. “What did I just tell you about asking questions?” She could hear Niko’s cruel laughter over the ringing in her ear.

  Marla Varsin felt her lip; it was bleeding. “My apologies Mikali Zahur of Zerok.”

  Mikali walked over to one of the carbon sleep tubes. “Normally, Niko and I would torture you for the information we need. Consider yourself, therefore, extremely fortunate that we have a schedule to maintain.”

  “You have my gratitude.”

  Mikali let out a mean snort. “Don’t thank me just yet, Doc.” Marla Varsin looked to the name spelled out on the carbon sleep tube. It was Private Hanne “Chance” Oroy’s, the youngest serving member of the Jinxed Thirteenth. A gifted sharpshooter trained in the Pax Humanis combat academies of Barathul, with an aversion to killing that had found her in the ser­vice of the Covenant.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I read your medical files on the crew while waiting for you to wake up. It wasn’t too hard getting onto your terminal, Doc. You might want to change your passwords when this is all said and done.”

  Mikali pulled the release valve on the carbon tube. There was a loud hiss as the tube split open down the middle, revealing what appeared to be a bronze sculpture of a slumbering young Kelthan woman with short military cut dark hair. Marla was tempted to ask what it was Mikali was doing, but thought better of it. This woman did not respond well to provocation and was in control.

  The “bronze” was in fact the restorative carbon that helped preserve and regenerate the cells during sleep periods. It was paper-­thin and already cracking. Beneath the layer of carbon was the pale skin of Chance. The young soldier was already beginning to stir. And Marla Varsin could not help but think that under better circumstances, Jessie Madison would have no doubt loved to witness this.

  “Hanne ‘Chance’ Oroy. Your greenest team member.” Mikali then walked over to another carbon tube. This one belonged to Pietor “Lucky” Bant, one of the older members of the crew and a former sharpshooter in the Pax Humanis Wolver Shock Legion. “And the oldest.” The second tube hissed open to reveal Lucky. The old Wolver looked peaceful.

  “Now, Doc.” Mikali faced Marla Varsin, crossing her arms over her chest. “You are going to give me the clearance codes to the life-­support overrides.”

  Marla Varsin took a trembling breath and held her knees tightly. “And what if I refuse?”

  Mikali cocked her head to the side. “That would be incredibly callous of you now, wouldn’t it, Doc?” She gave Chord a permissive nod. The Machina walked over to Chance, who was starting to stir, grasped her by the throat and effortlessly and roughly pulled her out of the tube, raising her up. Not dropping Chance, who was now desperately gasping for air and slapping helplessly against Chord’s metal arm, the Machina walked over to Lucky and pulled him out with no effort. Both Lucky and Chance gagged and pushed in vain against the cold arms that were effortlessly holding them up. Mechanical servos in Chord’s hands whirred as their grip tightened.

  Mikali pulled up a chair and sat down, not once looking away from Marla Varsin. “I’m no doc, Doc, but I would say that your two friends there have about just under thirty seconds before my new puppet squeezes the life out of them. If by then you still haven’t given me what I want, I’m going to kill each and every member of your crew. And I’ll make sure to do it in a manner that is slower and more painful each and every time.”

  Marla Varsin looked to the horrific scene playing itself before her. What was she to do? If she did nothing, not only would she be treated to the slow murder of everyone under her charge but her end would certainly also be a drawn out and painful one. Mikali Zahur did not strike Marla Varsin as someone who would have any qualms following through on her threat.

  As if to punctuate the point, Mikali let out a cruel snort of laughter. “If I were you, Doc, I’d make up my mind sooner than later. I don’t think your two friends there are going to last all that long.”

  “What proof do I have that you won’t just kill them once I’ve told you what you want?”

  From the entrance Niko shrugged dismissively. “None whatsoever, Doc.”

  Marla could feel a sickening despair growing inside her as she heard Lucky’s and Chance’s choked gasps. There was no right choice to be made. And worse still, there was no way she could guarantee they’d even be spared if she cooperated.

  “The clock is ticking.” Mikali tapped her wrist gauntlet. “What’s your next move going to be, Doc?”

  CHAPTER 16

  MORWYN

  A trap is only effective when the prey has no clue they are walking into it.

  —­Wolver proverb

  20th of SSM�
�11 1445 A2E

  Nothing about any of the present situation added up. Nothing. Why had Phaël chosen this moment to betray the crew? With the ship crippled and in need of repairs, there was nowhere she could run to. And since Lizbeth Harlowe had locked down the main bridge there was no real way that Phaël, or anyone else for that matter, could assume full control of the Jinxed Thirteenth.

  He gripped the handle of his blaster pistol tightly, wishing he had taken the time to gear up with more than just an impact vest. But Morwyn had thought it safer to have Harlowe lock down the armory as well.

  “If I was planning a mutiny it would be the first place I went to,” he grumbled to himself. Of course it was quite possible that Phaël had already armed herself. Morwyn would have to trust that even if it were the case, her worship of the Living Green would not allow her to use any technology produced by Machina.

  “Of course her dedication to her spiritual practice might also be a ruse,” Morwyn thought aloud. Cautiously making his way down the halls toward the medical bay, Morwyn had thought to prevent what he expected Phaël’s next move would be, and that was reawaken her slumbering partners, Lunient Tor and Morrigan Brent. He had found it particularly worrisome that he was unable to raise Doctor Varsin on coms.

  While every part of him wanted to run, he knew that would be the best way to stumble into an ambush. Fortunately Phaël’s first act of sabotage had taken place less than thirty minutes ago. Which meant that even if she had managed to wake up her partners in crime, they would both need at least an hour of recuperation from the effects of carbon sleep before they could be of any use.

  Morwyn cleared one corner. Holding his pulse pistol pointed forward and close to his chest with his stun-­stick in the other hand, it was easy for him to let his basic combat training kick in. The pulse pistol would be more for show, to keep Phaël at bay should she try to attack him head-­on. He doubted that she would; everything he had read about Wolvers had led him to believe that she would prefer to remain hidden and attack from the shadows when an opportunity presented itself.