He could hardly blame Jeffrey, though, for bringing a girl high out of her mind on Prophet onboard. That was on him.
Beep. “Ready for battle,” Jeffrey announced.
“Why? What’s happening?”
For an answer, Jeffrey projected exterior cam view onscreen and zoomed in on the central ship. The surface seemed to ripple like water for a moment, then the waves broke up into a furious cloud of tiny machines that zipped out in all directions and coalesced again, like an angry swarm of insects.
“What…?”
A finger of the cloud shot out like a lightning strike, homing in on one of the Rome ships toward the center of the formation. Erick watched as the tiny vessels reached it. They tore into the hull like missiles, one or two ricocheting off the ship’s shielding, but most making it through. Seconds later, half of them again shot out the other side of the ship. Atmo vented out, crystallizing instantly. Debris followed, objects of various shapes and sizes, and—Erick squinted—bodies. His stomach lurched.
“Wally?” he said over the comm. “We’re gonna need more bullets.”
Chapter 4
Dolridge held an arm over his eyes, trying to shield them as the venting atmo created a vortex in the hallway of his home. Across from him, Karoff was rocking back and forth on the floor, moaning. He had to stop of the hole fast, or they would both die.
He stumbled back toward the living room, shivering against the icy gust and holding his breath. Any second now there would be no atmo left. He stopped, bumping into an antique of his grandfather’s—a bookshelf. He wondered, as he swiped the shelves clean with one arm, if it would stop up the window. It might. If he got it there in time.
He grunted, trying to lift it. It wouldn’t budge. The thing was durable, and weighted in the bottom.
“Help me!” he tried to yell to Karoff, but his voice was drowned in the chaos. Besides, Karoff looked as though he’d already given up. Somewhere in all these years, the man had gone soft. Should have taken up potato farming, Dolridge thought. He crossed to the other side of the shelf, risked a quick breath, and almost coughed it all back up, it was so cold. Darkness crept into the corners of his eyes. He bit his tongue, shook it off, and took another breath, this one covered by his hand. Then he wedged his shoulder up against the other side of the shelf and pushed with all his weight.
The great heavy thing thunked down on its side in the hallway, just managing to cover the hole. Dolridge shoved it flush to the wall and fell, panting, letting the icy chill in, and coughing it back out. The swirling vortex stopped.
So had the moaning.
Warmth began seeping back into the air as the life-support systems of the hab naturally corrected heat and oxygen levels. Dolridge stood, shakily, and crossed to Karoff, who still lay huddled on the ground.
In a pool of blood.
He reached down and pulled the man back by his shoulder. He was a grisly mess, a deep gash through his cartioid artery still bleeding out. Beside him lay another antique—a crystal paperweight with a long, razor-sharp edge, red with blood. Dolridge cursed. He must have knocked it off the shelf while he was clearing it. Should have helped me, he thought.
A cursory inspection of the body revealed nothing; no clue as to why Karoff had come to Dolridge’s home and tried to murder him. No, assassinate him. The man may have grown soft and sloppy, but it was still obviously intended to be a hit. Dolridge’s stomach churned with fear and excitement. There was a reason he had kept his head down and come out here to retire among the potatoes. For all his vast experience, he was not prepared to single-handedly take on the resources of the Council. He hadn’t put up a real fight, aside from that mess with Caspar, in decades.
He smiled sadly. Maybe that’s what had been missing all this time.
Traveling light, he thought. He grabbed a backpack and rolled up a change of clothes, tossed in a water bottle and some training rations he had lying around—probably older than sin, but he didn’t think the things ever expired, since they were all dehydrated—and a device. He debated opening a link to the net and doing some quick research, or even sending off a message to make sure someone came by to check on the crop. But if the hab was being monitored, any link was susceptible.
Well, any civilian link.
He quirked an eyebrow at the thought, then trundled downstairs to the cellar.
LED lighting ran along the rafters, illuminating cobwebs and a thick layer of dust. Even on Pluto, a basement was a basement. He made his way to the back, past his old training room, wandering around the weight-horse and the sagging punching bag that still hung from the ceiling. All the way back, behind the old stained couch and a few more piles of assorted sundries, sat a fat, metal chest. Dolridge spun the digital lock, the PIN coming to him like second nature, even though he hadn’t used it since long before his hair had greyed. The trunk popped open.
He smiled at the sight of an old quilt on top, hand-sown. It almost brought back memories from before his days in the Blade. Almost. But his life before that life felt so distant now, it was as if he had only ever read about it in a book. He tossed the quilt aside and removed the false bottom, revealing the secret compartment underneath, and proceeded to pack the rest of his bag.
A gun. Standard blasting pistol. Chargers. A brace of knives he’d tried to forget, their sheaths still tacked onto a thigh-strap. He scoffed. No way that thing would still fit. Best to bring it along anyway. Maybe he could get it lengthened. An earpiece and device comm interface, pretty dated now, but probably still relevant, since it was a generation ahead of the next-gen stuff back when he’d worn it around before. Another gun—blasting pistol. A pocket knife. Chargers for the comm unit. And one more gun, this one truly antique—an old kinetic hand-pistol, with two extra magazines and a silencer. Just in case things got really interesting.
“What am I doing?” he muttered, gazing down at the pistol in his gnarled, wrinkled hands.
Surviving, a voice inside replied.
Hopefully.
On his way out he picked up the quilt. He deserved at least one creature comfort. Then he headed to the hab hangar.
Ten minutes later he was sitting in the cockpit of an old comet-hopper, the scent of dirt and potato thick in the air from the tiny cargo hold. His bag of goodies rested in the seat beside him, his family quilt rested on his lap. He watched the hab grow small in the rear cam view, breathing a silent goodbye to home.
—
“Come up for coffee, Gav. I’ve got the good stuff up here, I promise.”
Dolridge nodded. “Be there in five. Thanks, Jer.” He closed the channel and pulled the hopper into a half-hour garage, whistling at the parking fee. He’d been spoiled, able to keep all his equipment for free on the hab. Down here in Jackson they fleeced residents and tourists alike.
Jeremy Man lived in a high-rise apartment building on the north face of Jackson, one of the more densely populated cities in the northern hemisphere. Nothing like the really big settlements in the south, but still a far cry from the Dolridge farm. Dolridge hoped he would draw less attention in such a busy place, but as he eased out of the hopper and compared its dirt-caked hull to the shiny, polished crafts parked alongside it, he knew that wasn’t likely. Best to get in, get his info, and get out.
The mag-lift shot him up a smooth ninety floors before depositing him in a little beige hallway. As soon as the doors flew open, the scent of freshly roasted coffee beans hit him, almost making him swoon. A medium roast, his nose decided. Vanilla notes. Ah, no—there was a hint of darkness underneath. His mouth watered. Keeping up with the lemon trees had been one thing, but there had been no provision in his monthly budget to spring for real coffee. He’d been pounding back synthetic stuff most of his life, even though he’d gotten a taste for the real McCoy back in the Blade. It had ruined him.
Man’s door swung open and the scent enveloped Dolridge like a spell.
“Gav!” He was greeted with a smile. “Come on in—coffee’s just ready.”
Man’s apartment was nothing but comfort. It looked something like a cross between fine design and a couch potato’s dream. Antique paintings adorned cream-colored walls that rose to crown molding around a gilded ceiling. Warmth emanated from lamps everywhere, casting a glow on the couches, chaises, and armchairs arranged around carpets, coffee tables, and a central fireplace—purely decorative, of course. Man himself met him at the door wearing a soft, heavy robe over a loosely buttoned shirt—was that real cotton?
Dolridge caught himself gawking at his surroundings. “We’re still on Pluto, aren’t we?”
Man laughed. “You like the place? It’s alright, isn’t it? I’ve done ok for myself since the war. Well, since the disbanding. You take cream?” He shuffled off toward the kitchen in his robe. Dolridge pursed his lips. Maybe he’d made a poor choice, going back to farming. No, he reminded himself. His poor choices lay further back than that.
“Black is fine,” he called. More than fine.
Two cups and a little catch-up later, he had visited Man’s restroom to relieve himself, and was looking for handsoap. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he muttered, embarrassed to snoop in the medicine cabinet. He found soap and washed quickly, putting it back and hoping his host wouldn’t notice the intrusion. He couldn’t help but see the bottles, though. A generous assortment of painkillers, methamphetamines… speed. He blinked and leaned closer, making sure he had read the label correctly. It had been hastily scrawled in pen, but there was no denying it. Jeremy Man may have been living the life of luxury to the casual observer, but he was clearly managing his own coping mechanisms.
“Well,” Man said when Dolridge came back out to the main room. “You sticking around a bit? I can fix us up something a little sturdier.” He swirled his mug gently.
“No, thank you. I’ve been off it for a couple of years, you know.”
“That’s right, I’d heard that.” Man took their mugs to the kitchen, talking over his shoulder. “Hey, just between you and me—” He paused, turning. “Did it help?”
“Giving up my booze? Yeah, it helped me stay alive another couple of years. I was pretty far gone for a bit, there.”
Man chuckled politely. “No, I mean, did it help with… well, you know. Memories. Dreams.”
“Nightmares?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
Dolridge shrugged. “I don’t think they ever go away, Jer. But that doesn’t mean we have to kill ourselves trying to shut them up.”
“Hm.”
“Anyway.” Dolridge leaned back into the plush cushion of his armchair. “Reason I stopped in is for a favor, if you’re feeling generous.”
“A favor?” Man reemerged from the kitchen, a single tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. “Am I hearing right? The mighty Gavin Dolridge, Gav the Gav-man himself, too proud to beg for anything, asking for a favor?”
“Yeah, shut up. Listen. You’ve still got an in on the Council, haven’t you?”
Man sipped his drink and considered. “Maybe. Depends on who’s asking.”
Dolridge raised his eyebrows, looked around, and gestured at himself.
“No, no, I know it’s you—I mean, what are you asking for?”
“I don’t want to involve you more than necessary. Suffice to say I’ve got a problem only the Council can solve. I need a meeting.”
Man sighed, gazing down into his glass. He was quiet for a moment.
“Jer—everything alright? You still know someone, right?”
“It doesn’t matter.” His host looked up again. His eyes had gone hard and flinty. “The Council’s already made their decision, Gav. I’m afraid it’s too late to appeal.”
Dolridge stood up. Or at least, he tried to. But his legs wouldn’t take his weight, and he collapsed to the soft, plushy carpet, eyes wide with angry realization. “You drugged me,” he sputtered.
Man shrugged. “Best coffee this side of Saturn, I’m telling ya. How was I to know you’d guzzle that much? My hand may have tipped a little gentle sedative into your mug.”
Man’s voice sounded funny, a bit like he was speaking under water. Dolridge blinked, struggling to keep his eyes open, and rose to his hands and knees. Every movement took a heroic effort. “Why?” Dolridge groaned.
Man stood, drained his glass, and walked back to the kitchen. “I could tell you I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I am. The truth is, I just do what I’m told. How else did you think I’ve managed to land the way I have? I suppose if you’d come to me an hour earlier, I may have tried to help you. But, old friend, this time they got here first.”
Old friend, indeed. Gavin bit the insides of his cheeks till they bled, trying to rouse enough adrenaline to get to his feet. He shook his head like a dog, summoned every feeble ounce of energy he had left, and rose, falling again into the bathroom. His hands went through the mirrored door of the cabinet, shattering glass. The edges cut into them. It was good. It brought him to his senses long enough to find the right bottle. How many pills he chewed and swallowed, he wasn’t sure. Not enough sense to know that. Just enough to get the speed into his system.
Chapter 5
The hull of the Fairfax crawled with the things. Ada held her breath, waiting for the worst. What had she done?
Her earpiece beeped. “Hive has set up defense and is in position to attack,” Moses said. “Shall I select a target?”
Ada breathed a sigh of relief, looking at Lucas. “You want to blow up a Rome ship or an Empire ship?”
Lucas quirked an eyebrow. “Is there a choice? What are you talking about?”
“Right. Moses, send them for the nearest Rome ship. Let’s start by sending a message.”
Caspar shook her head in disgust. “You can’t be serious.”
Lucas looked back and forth between them. “One of you want to tell me what’s going on?”
Caspar sneered. “That pirate let Rome fill our cargo hold with some sort of superweapon-army of anti-starship drones, and now she’s communicating with them through her illegal AI. Might as well give her the chair, Sir. She’s the only one with any power now.”
Lucas looked at Ada. “That about right?”
Ada shrugged. “I’d dispute some of the finer details. Like me having anything to do with these things before they got on your ship. Or Moses being illegal. Or the insinuation that I’m some kind of power-hungry super criminal. But, yeah, the rest is more or less an accurate representation of the facts.”
“Huh.”
The doors opened and Darren entered the bridge, taking his usual spot on the back wall beside Mulligan’s station. He and everyone else watched the tactical readout as a long arm of the red dots swarming over the Fairfax reached out for one of the closest of the red dots surrounding them.
“Jeffrey,” Lucas said, “exterior cam view, please. Let’s see that ship.”
“You could be more specific,” the AI drawled. Ada frowned. She didn’t see why Caspar was making such a deal out of her own program—a very helpful program that had saved her life numerous times now—when the Fairfax obviously flew with an AI of their own.
“Can it, Jeffrey,” Lucas said. “You know which one.”
“Fine. But I’m pouting now.”
“He’s pouting now?” Lucas mouthed.
The viewscreen shifted to a panoramic shot of the Rome Inc. ships. Sunlight glinted off the polished metal hulls of the line of drones, tiny compared to any of the ships in the blockade, making the arm look like a river running out into space.
“Zoom in on the center, please,” Lucas said. Jeffrey declined, but it didn’t matter. They all saw what happened next. The drones converged on a mid-sized freighter weighed down with all sort of guns—no surprise there, since it was a Rome ship. The first of the drones to enter the hull passed through the other side in a matter of seconds. A debris field followed. The rest of the drones in the formation broke off and remassed along the hull of the Fairfax, while the others re-entered the bleeding ship. They emerged again in a fiery explos
ion. By the time it winked out, the freighter had disintegrated.
Ada watched in mingled awe and horror, beginning to understand some of Caspar’s reticence. These weren’t missiles they had programmed. These were a single, sentient collective, free from command, independent of any of their wills. If Hive should decide to turn on the Fairfax, or on Cupid, she would meet the same fate as every soul who had breathed a moment before on that ship.
“You did that?” Lucas asked Ada.
“Ahh… a little. I mean, I didn’t know what they would do, exactly… I just—”
Lucas crossed the bridge to Caspar’s station. “Come here. I want you to work alongside Lieutenant Caspar. Her missiles are useless against the Rome ships, but your… things, they seem to do just fine.”
Ada recoiled. “But I don’t have any direct control over them. It’s not like I can chain-link them to a console and fire them off strategically!”
“Actually,” Moses said in her ear, “that probably would be possible. Though I suspect for your desired results it would be more efficient to simply let Hive roam freely for a while.”
“My desired results? What are those?” She forgot to subvocalize.
Lucas squinted at her, frowning. “You talking to your illegal AI? The one in contact with the weapons? Have him interface with them for you. What’s the hold-up?”
Ada glanced at the screen. “The hold-up is that these things have a mind all their own and they’re capable of gutting a ship in seconds! You want to play with fire—the really scary stuff?”
Lucas slammed his hand down on his console, shifting the viewscreen to the red-dot sea of tactical. “We don’t have time for this! See all those ships? Every last one of them has weapons trained on us. And if we go down, you go with us. We can sort out the sociopolitical ethics of AIs later. Right now, you have a job to do if you want to survive!”
Starship Fairfax: Books 1-3 Omnibus - The Kuiper Chronicles: The Lunar Gambit, The Hidden Prophet, The Neptune Contingency Page 28
