Fringe Campaign

by Rachel Aukes

  They complied.

  Boden spoke first. “I’m not here to buy.”

  Her lips pursed. “Tsk, tsk. Only customers are allowed in my den.”

  Reyne stepped in, and the woman narrowed her gaze upon him. “We just need somewhere to burn a few minutes,” he said. “We’re happy to compensate you for the inconvenience.”

  “Oh, you’ll do that,” she replied and cocked her head. “It’s not every day a leader of the torrent rebellion ends up in my quaint store.”

  She turned to Boden. “And I remember you. It’s been a while. But I never forget a customer, especially when that customer is a citizen. We don’t get many citizens in Devil Town. And you’ve been here more than once, because I have the best sweet soy around. If you’re not here for it now, then there’s no reason for you to stay.”

  Reyne reached into his pocket and fished out several large credits. He dropped them into her open palm. When she kept it open, he gave her several more. She hefted the weight in her hand as though she were considering if it was enough.

  “I’m Madame Grecklin. Welcome to my shop,” she said with a broad smile. “By now, my son will have fed images of you running from my shop and into my competitor’s shop down the block. Now, of course, if they know they’re looking for Aramis Reyne, then they won’t give up the search.”

  “They don’t know my identity,” Reyne corrected. “We never took off our masks, and didn’t speak enough for voice patterns to be analyzed.”

  “Then, the streets should be clear for you within three hours. There are plenty of other criminals for the droms to chase around here,” she said. “Until then, sit back, relax, and enjoy yourselves. Feel free to partake in my special treats. Guaranteed to quench even the sweetest sweet tooth.”

  On her way out, she brushed against Boden and conspicuously slipped a bag of sweet soy in his pocket. He visibly tensed. She patted his thigh. “For later,” she said and left through a side door.

  Boden scowled. He pulled out the bag, emotion flashed through his eyes as he eyed it for a second, and then he tossed it onto the chest of a man currently entranced in a soy haze. Without a word, he strode to a chaise in the farthest corner from the addicts in the lounge, plopped down, and laid an arm over his eyes.

  Reyne knew his mechanic was waging a battle to not give in to his addiction. He took the seat nearest Boden so he could keep watch over his crewmember. When Boden didn’t stir, Reyne turned his focus to his wrist comm. He called Throttle, but there was no answer. He tried again. After the third unanswered call, he left a message. “Throttle, there’s a new stationmaster who’s not friendly. Chances are, the CUF are on their way to the docks, so take off. Do not wait for us. We’ll catch another lift and will rendezvous with you at Alpha.”

  He hung up and sighed, hoping she’d get the message in time. By now, the CUF would have pulled the cab’s records and know that the two men had entered the cab at the docks. He wanted to kick himself for not walking several blocks to cover their trail. He’d assumed Devil Town was still a free town, and that assumption had just put his daughter’s life in danger.

  He lay back on the chaise and gave Boden a quick look to see he hadn’t moved. Reyne sighed. They were stuck in a basement in Devil Town where everyone—legal and illegal alike—had worked for the previous stationmaster. He suspected the same held true for the new stationmaster. For all he knew, Madame Grecklin was leading CUF to the basement at that exact moment.

  Chapter Three

  Dromadier Dilemma

  Devil Town space docks, Spate

  Throttle

  Throttle saw the squad of dromadiers the moment they entered the dock. Even though there were nearly a dozen other ships ahead of the Gryphon in line, she knew which ship they were headed for. She wheeled back to stay out of their view. She was only about halfway finished refueling, but she shut down the system without hesitation. The cables detached and retracted into the dock’s fueling system.

  She tapped a sequence of codes on her wrist comm, and a green light indicated she’d connected to the ship. Seconds later, two thin metal plates slid down the hull. The smaller one covered the ship’s real registration number with a dummy number Demes had set up for her last year. She prayed the number still worked. The second, larger plate covered the teardrop painted on the hull. Since droms leaned toward a “shoot on sight” approach to any torrent they came across, she chose caution over chance.

  After both panels clicked in place, she glanced under the ship to see the soldiers’ legs. The squad was almost to the ship. Her breath caught. She sped up the ramp, placing herself in partial view, and boarded the Gryphon. The sound of running boot steps followed her until the door closed with its usual resounding boom of metal connecting with metal. She locked the hatch. Heart racing, she hurried to the bridge.

  Behind her, a pounding on the door ensued. She could hear shouting, but the rilon hull muffled the voices too much to make out any words. Even so, she had no doubt they were ordering her to open up.

  “No viggin’ way I’m letting you onto my ship,” she yelled back.

  She didn’t slow down as she reached the bridge, and plowed into her instrument panel hard enough to smash a kneecap. Good thing she couldn’t feel anything from the waist down. She started to enter additional lockdown commands. Now that she was back on board, her mask fogged up, and she tore it off so she could see what she was doing.

  A warning sounded, and the panel displayed the notification Throttle most certainly did not want to see:

  Spate Dock Control initiating override control of your vessel per Collective Authority Code 468294. Prepare to be boarded.

  Throttle flinched. “No.”

  She thought she’d have hours before the CUF initiated an override code, giving her time to come up with a plan. That they were already initiating the code meant they’d been onto the Gryphon the moment it hit orbit. No one had ever blocked the CUF override hack, not even Demes, which meant the Gryphon was about to be boarded and there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it. She entered a code on the panel and shoved away. Behind her, the wall opened to reveal a closet space barely wide enough for her wheelchair. She backed into the space and hit the only button on the wall. The door closed, leaving her in darkness.

  Another warning sounded on the bridge, followed by the metallic sound of the ship’s large door opening. The noise was soon followed by a stern male voice. “Your ship has been randomly selected for a dock check. Come out immediately, or you will be arrested.”

  Randomly selected, my ass. As the footsteps drew closer, she tried to calm her breathing. Light crept through around the edges, reminding her that even the smallest sound could be heard on the other side of the wall.

  Reyne had built the space for her when she was seven years old. Back then, Reyne—her father not by blood but in all the ways that really mattered—drew plenty of attention of the unwanted kind from his involvement in the Fringe Uprising. His protectiveness drove her crazy, but she’d be damned if she didn’t appreciate this tiny hideaway right now.

  The sound of boot steps reached the bridge. Throttle’s breath hitched, and she became a statue, even though every cell in her body thrummed with adrenaline. If they found her, they’d run her fake ID. Chances were, they’d also run a DNA scan, something far too expensive to fake. One scan, and she’d spend the rest of her life in a work camp, if she were lucky.

  She’d had a few close calls with the CUF, but she’d never had to face them alone before. She now realized how much she’d depended on them to get her out of trouble. Adrenaline gave way to insecurity when she realized that, for the first time, there was no one there to help her. She was completely and utterly on her own.

  She pursed her lips and girded her confidence. The hell she’d let insecurity get in her way.

  The light around the door broke as someone walked far too close for her comfort. She held her breath until after the light returned, and until she heard the intruder tap on the ship’
s instrument panel. She cringed. No one had ever touched her panel before, and the action felt like a violation of her privacy.

  While whoever was on the bridge pounded away on her panel, the other droms conversed with one another as they searched the ship, but they were too far away for her to make out anything. No one yelled out again for her. After interminably long minutes, the bridge crasher quit hitting keys, and the bridge grew silent. Several minutes later, what sounded like a squad of boot steps walked off the ship, down the ramp, and left the Gryphon in silence.

  Absolute silence.

  Throttle’s eyes widened. There was no constant hum of the ship’s bio systems. No air circulation. The ship was perfectly sealed. Even without systems, she’d have breathable air for days. The problem was she’d never heard the ship door close behind the droms. Every bit of breathable air would be lost to the oxygen-depleted Spaten atmosphere.

  She sucked in a breath. Another minute passed, and she found it harder to breathe. She wasn’t claustrophobic, so she knew the urge to hyperventilate was coming from bad air.

  In a rush, she thought through her only two options. She could close the door and restart the ship’s systems, but then the droms would be back as soon as they heard the ship come back online. She decided to go with the second and only practical option. She’d grab her breather mask and hide until she was confident the squad had left the dock.

  Vertigo spun her in the small space as she became more and more lightheaded. She realized then that she had a third option: die of asphyxiation.

  She clenched her jaw as she reached up and hit the button. There was no viggin’ way she’d die in a closet. The door opened, and she pushed herself forward to grab the breather.

  Except it wasn’t where she’d flung it.

  Blackness tunneled her vision. In the center, she could see a masked drom leaning against her panel. He held out her breather. “Looking for this?”

  She lunged for it.

  He lifted the mask higher, just out of her reach.

  She swung out to hit him. Her fist weighed a ton, and she fell from her chair. “Viggin’ drom—” Her words slurred as she felt herself plummet into a cold black pit. She’d always figured she’d die at the hands of the CUF. She just didn’t think it’d happen so soon.

  Chapter Four

  Devil Town Business

  Devil Town, Spate

  Reyne

  Boden rolled over for the fourth time in as many minutes. Reyne knew the internal battle the recovering addict had been fighting while they hid in the drug den. The basement stunk of sweet soy, and Boden was clearly not as “recovered” as he’d been letting on the past few months.

  They’d already been here too long—five hours and counting—but Madame Grecklin had locked the door at the top of the stairs, leaving them imprisoned in the dank room.

  “How’d they know it was us?”

  Reyne turned to see Boden watching him with bloodshot eyes.

  Boden continued. “We were wearing breather masks. We used a fake account. I don’t understand where we messed up.”

  Reyne shrugged. “I was telling Grecklin the truth. I don’t think they have any idea who they’re chasing. If they had any idea we were coming, there would’ve been ten times as many droms waiting to grab us the moment we stopped. My guess is they have orders to take in anyone who stops at Gin’s.”

  Boden thought for a moment and seemed to accept Reyne’s rationale, because he rolled over again. The thick haze in the room made Reyne groggy. He stood and paced to get his blood flowing.

  After several minutes of pacing, he heard the door open, and Madame Grecklin emerged from upstairs. He turned back to Boden to see the man standing and alert.

  “The streets cleared out about an hour ago,” the woman said. “You should be okay to leave. But be careful. The windows have eyes around here.”

  Reyne nodded. “Thank you for your help, Madame.”

  She brushed him off, and then waved to a man who was slipping on jacket. “Mr. Fitzroy.”

  “What?” the man asked before yawning.

  “You’re heading back to work at the docks, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, and I’m running late. You should’ve woke me thirty minutes ago.”

  She smiled. “My apologies. These two gentlemen could use a lift. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind sharing company with two generous fellows.”

  Fitzroy’s face perked up. “Generous, you say?”

  “Mighty generous,” Reyne added.

  “Then, the more the merrier. I’m parked right outside.” Fitzroy motioned to the stairs.

  “Thank you, Madame,” Reyne said. “We owe you.”

  She waved her hand in the air. “If your side turns out to be the winning side, keep me in mind. As a small business owner, life isn’t grand. It’s not easy making ends meet around here.”

  Reyne gave her a polite nod. The three men headed up the stairs. Reyne and Boden donned their breather masks before they entered the store, in case any customers were shopping. Fitzroy slid his mask on at the door, and they followed him outside to where a beater of a truck sat.

  “Does it run?” Boden asked quietly behind Reyne.

  Reyne was wondering the same thing, but he didn’t say anything.

  They all climbed in the front seat.

  “The air system’s busted, so you’ll have to wear your masks,” the man said as he started the vehicle. It came to life with a grumble and a lurch. Fitzroy went to shift it into gear, paused, and turned to Reyne. “I sure could use some good faith before we get on the road.”

  “Of course.” Reyne fished out a large bill. “This should cover the energy cost to the docks.”

  The man’s eyes grew wide. “Yeah. That’ll do.” He immediately shifted the truck into gear and headed down the road.

  Fitzroy took them down several side roads, and they reached the docks faster than Reyne expected.

  “Which dock do you need?” he asked.

  “Hilo,” Reyne said.

  “Oh, the private docks. I should’ve known. Well, since you’ve been so nice and all, I’ll give you a lift to your bay.”

  “Five,” Reyne said, intentionally giving him the wrong number.

  Fitzroy stopped at bay five, where a Myrad hauler sat, but Reyne was already looking down the line to where the Gryphon sat. His lips thinned, and his heart pounded. He shot Boden a quick glance, and by Boden’s narrow gaze, it was clear he’d seen it already, too. A bright yellow Quarantine sign was posted by its ramp, and an entire squad of dromadiers stood on guard.

  “You think Throttle’s still on board?” Boden asked Reyne in a whisper.

  “She has to be,” Reyne answered.

  “What’s that?” Fitzroy asked.

  Reyne didn’t answer. As they climbed out of the truck, Fitzroy pointed at the Gryphon. “You’re lucky your ship ain’t the one down there. Looks like the CUF’s laid claim to that one. Damn CUF buggers.” He spat.

  Reyne thought for a moment and then turned to Fitzroy. “How would you like to earn ten times what I paid you to drive us here?”

  The man’s jaw dropped. He clamped it back shut and tried to act casual, but was failing. “What do you have in mind?”

  Spate, with little to offer in terms of resources, had become a melting pot of everything illegal in the Collective—drugs, gambling, prostitution. Every colonist in Devil Town had either participated in an illegal activity or at least touched dirty money. Reyne knew Fitzroy was a drug addict. He was hoping the man had other “flexible” scruples when it came to money.

  “The CUF’s claimed that ship, which means it doesn’t belong to anybody in particular anymore, right?”

  “Well, it belongs to the CUF buggers,” Fitzroy countered.

  Reyne nodded. “Agreed. But they have so many ships, they can’t keep track of what they do and don’t have.”

  Fitzroy kept watching him, like he didn’t know where Reyne was going with this conversation.


  “What if Dock Control received orders for that ship by ferry pilots bringing it to the armada? Then, there’d be no reason for the squad to remain here. Isn’t that so?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But they don’t have orders.”

  Reyne shrugged. “There’s never been a mix-up around here?”

  Fitzroy laughed. “There are mix-ups all the time. You’ve just got to grease the right wheels. Oh. Oh.” His eyes grew wide. He glanced at the Dock Control station for several long seconds, and then back at Reyne. “Thompson’s working today. She can grant clearance, but she’s not cheap. She just bought the newest Rosten last month. She’s not a fan of the new stationmaster, so I think she’ll do this.”

  Reyne fished out all his remaining credits and handed them to Fitzroy. “This should cover everything.”

  His eyes were as large as saucers. “It’ll do.” He pulled out a bill and tucked it into his pocket. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll make it happen.”

  “No questions asked,” Reyne cautioned.

  “Shoot,” he said. “I know better than to ask questions. I figure the less I know, the better off I am.”

  Fitzroy drove away. Reyne and Boden stepped under the hauler’s shadow.

  “You think he’ll give the money to this Thompson and not drive off and keep it all for himself?”

  Reyne sighed. “I sure hope so. This is how Devil Town operates. I’m counting on Fitzroy to have enough honor to keep his word.”

  Boden guffawed. “A drug addict?”

  “You have honor,” Reyne said, and Boden stiffened. He then added, “We’d best kept an eye out for trouble, just in case.”

  Boden unholstered a gun and held it behind him. Reyne followed suit.

  At least fifteen minutes passed before Fitzroy returned in his truck. He stuck his head out the open window. “It’s a go. You have ten minutes before they initiate launch. Oh, but she doesn’t have a keycard to the ship. I’m afraid you’re on your own for that.”