Starship Fairfax: Books 1-3 Omnibus - The Kuiper Chronicles: The Lunar Gambit, The Hidden Prophet, The Neptune Contingency

by Benjamin Douglas

  Erick’s ostracization began on the sixth day, at lunch.

  “You gonna eat that?” the man asked. He was big, with tattoos up both arms. His brawny hand pointed at Erick’s tray.

  “Thought I might.”

  “Think again.” The man took the tray. Erick looked around the table at the men who were supposed to protect him. One by one, they got up and walked away.

  Great, he thought.

  That afternoon the men were all in the common area. Someone had procured a deck of cards, and lively game of poker ensued. Erick came up to the knot of men around the card table.

  “What’s wild?” he asked. The men drew closer together, pushing him out.

  It was more unsettling than the prospect of missing out on a meal or a card game. It symbolized that the crew had cut him loose; that he had no one watching his back anymore.

  The next day at breakfast, everyone got up and left the table when he sat down. He looked around, making eye contact for a moment with some of the men from the rival crew. One of them smiled and drew his finger across his neck.

  Later that day he lay on his bench, trying to nap.

  “How is your plan working for you, 5231?” Cyclops sat on the floor by his own bench, lay back, and began rising into a series of crunches.

  “What plan?”

  “To fit in. Your protection. I’ve seen how the men have been treating you lately. How long do you think you have? Weeks? Days? Hours?”

  Erick swallowed. “What’s it to you?”

  Cyclops sat up and caught his breath. “What if I told you I could offer you my protection?”

  Erick scoffed.

  “No, really. Think about it. Sleep on it. If you can get any sleep.”

  That evening at dinner, Erick sat alone. Only one other prisoner sat alone. The one with the patch. No one bothered him. But Erick was getting increasingly more attention; dark stares, head-shakes, more fingers across necks.

  He had finished his meal and was about to get up to head for the common room, when the men began pounding their fists on the tables, slowly, in rhythm. The beating quickened, and men began to snarl. All eyes were on Erick.

  “Enough!” Cyclops bellowed. The pounding stopped. Erick looked up from his tray and found that no one was paying him any attention anymore. The men all got up and left. Erick sat, alone, wondering that he hadn’t wet himself.

  That night he didn’t sleep. He woke up feeling hollow, the anger and helplessness having bored a hole through him and bled out in the darkness. He didn’t care anymore.

  “Alright,” he said.

  “Alright, you’ll take my offer?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just that you’ll come with me when it’s time.”

  Erick was silent a moment. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t intend to be a prisoner much longer. And when I go, you’ll come along.”

  Coming from anyone else, it would have sounded tempting. From Cyclops, he knew better. The man was top brass in the Rome cartel. He couldn’t be trusted with a cupcake, let alone a life. But the odds that Rylea was still alive seemed worse than those against him.

  “Fine.”

  Cyclops nodded. “Then you have my protection.”

  —

  A week passed. Erick fell into the tedium of routine. Breakfast, common room, cell. Lunch, common room, cell. Dinner, common room, cell. Sleep. Do it again.

  Cyclops was true to his word. No one paid Erick any attention. If he’d had enough spirit left in him to care, he would have found this just as unsettling as the initial threats. How was one man, a prisoner himself, keeping the others all under his thumb? Were they all still that loyal to the cartel? Did they fear reprisals on the outside? Surely he couldn’t do anything to anyone from in here. As far as Erick could tell, the prison levels of the ship were completely cut off from the outside world. It was like living in a fishbowl. No way out but dying.

  One night, as he lay stretched out on his bench, Cyclops began speaking. “Do you know the myth of the old Roman god, Neptune?”

  Erick squeezed his eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.

  “5231?”

  He ignored him. A moment passed.

  “Erick?”

  Erick sat up in the darkness. “How do you know my name?”

  Cyclops sniffed. “It’s my business. Now that you’re awake, answer my question.”

  “No.”

  “No, you won’t answer, or no, you don’t know?”

  “Take your pick.”

  “Neptune was the Roman god of the sea.”

  Erick leaned against the wall. Had Cyclops learned his name here? That seemed unlikely, unless he was a sleep talker who talked about himself in the third person. Though, all bets were off.

  “Now, there was a lake, Albanus, and on the lake there was a town with a garrison hostile to Rome. Enemies.”

  Maybe he had known Erick’s name all along, and had feigned ignorance.

  “And it was said—it was prophesied—that as long as the waters of Lake Albanus remained high, Rome would never take the town. But if the waters dipped below a certain level, the town was doomed, and Rome would prevail.”

  “Fascinating,” Erick said, flopping back down on the bench.

  “Yes, it is. Season after season, year after year, the lake remained high, and the town remained safe from Roman invasion, while war raged all around.”

  “Let me guess,” Erick said. “One year the water went down.”

  “Just so. But do you know why?”

  “Does it involve the mighty Neptune?”

  “Only if you ask his priests!” Cyclops laughed, a harsh, raspy sound that devolved into a cough. “But no. The truth is, the citizens of the town had been digging canals each year to feed the lake and keep the levels high. When the Romans found out, they blocked up the canals.”

  “Should have spent the resources besieging the town instead.”

  “Should they have? Decide for yourself. That year the town fell.”

  Erick was silent.

  “The power of an idea,” Cyclops said, “is sometimes power enough.”

  “Is there a point to all of this?”

  “The priests and historians said that victory had been contingent on Neptune all along. They said the reason Rome had failed to take the town for so long was that the Romans had been neglecting their worship and offerings to the god, and that the victory was due to a surge in worship.”

  “And in coin, no doubt.”

  Cyclops titled his head in assent. “Offerings of money were certainly accepted.”

  Both were quiet. Erick scratched his ear.

  “So,” Cyclops said, “still think the Romans should have taken the town by force?”

  Erick sighed. “No. The parable is two steps forward, one step back. Slight-of-hand. The real victory wasn’t the soldiers over the town. It was the temple over the people.”

  Cyclops chuckled, nodding.

  —

  The next day after breakfast, Cyclops stopped him in the hallway. “This is it,” he whispered. “Follow my lead.”

  He turned and kept walking.

  “What?” Erick looked around. Prisoners were filing out to the common room, bored, tedious. Oblivious.

  Cyclops walked with a calm, certain swagger, through the common room, all the way to the end, and around the corner. There was a door there, one that was always guarded. Today, no guard was in sight. A console beside the door always showed the door to be locked. Today, it showed it to be open.

  “C’mon,” Cyclops whispered, passing through the door. Erick followed.

  They were on a little landing in a stairwell. Flights went up and down as far as Erick could see. “You planned this?” he said.

  Cyclops nodded. “Our exit is up there, waiting for us. Long-distance shuttle. Won’t wait forever. Let’s move!” He began jogging up the steps. Erick began to follow, then paused.

  “Wait!” he called. Cyclops t
urned. “I can’t leave Ry—I can’t leave her.”

  “Oh, but we aren’t leaving Rylea.” Cyclops resumed the climb. “We’re picking her up on the way.”

  Erick’s head spun. He frowned and followed, jogging up the stairs.

  Chapter 16

  Dolridge puffed his cheeks and blew air out, jogging lightly behind the cart. Farming potatoes was great for endurance, but it had done nothing for sprints. Besides, he had taken two beatings in as many days, and he hurt all over. His joints protested every step, and he had to breath carefully if he didn’t want to aggravate his swollen ribcage. He didn’t even want to know what his face looked like.

  The cart jostled a bit going up the ramp and through the hatch, into the hopper. A service bot wheeled around to announce the ship had been refueled and the ID wiped, and to collect payment. He procured cash from his sack and crossed to the bot.

  Beep. “I’m sorry,” the nondescript, androgynous voice said. “This service only accepts Colony credits for payment.”

  Dolridge cussed the thing out. “Well, what if I don’t have any Colony credits? This is money. C’mon, can’t you check with a supervisor or something?”

  Beep. “If you are unable to pay, you will not be allowed to leave the station.” A hiss and a series of clunks reverberated through the hangar. Dolridge peered underneath the hopper and saw that docking clamps had just fastened the ship to the deck.

  “Oh, come on!” He shifted his weight. The bot did not budge. “Ok, ok. Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

  He jogged back into the hopper, looking around. What was left? He’d gotten fuel, battery cells, rations—everything he needed, except for information. He could jet out now, if it weren’t for the clamps. He looked at his bag again. He could pay from his civ device. But then his presence here would be public knowledge. If the Council was playing coy before, they wouldn’t need to anymore. “Retired Fleet officer arraigned in double-murder, apprehended on Merchant Station”—he could already hear the sound bite.

  An idea popped into his mind. Not a great one, but a possible idea. “Alright, listen,” he said the the drone as he stepped back out onto the deck. “I’ve got someone here who’s going to loan me the credits. Don’t worry, I’m going to pay. Just give me an hour to go and get them, ok?

  Beep. “There will be a fifteen credit late fee for not paying at the time of service.”

  “Of course there will be,” he grumbled. “Just don’t leave, alright? I’ll pay you, and you’ll let my ship go. Deal?”

  “Your ship will be free to leave once you have paid your service fee.”

  “Excellent.”

  —

  All the way down to the underbelly of Merchant he went once again, happily finding the same street hawking shopkeep as before. “Hello again,” he said, stepping inside.

  She glanced at him, then pressed a button. In the front window, the sign changed from “open” to “closed.” “I had a feeling I’d see you again.”

  “Just couldn’t stay away. I need something special.”

  “Do you have something special to trade?”

  He gave her a half smile. “You know I do.”

  She folded her arms and glanced at his bag. “I want to see it.”

  “You will. First, my price.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I need fifty credits.”

  She titled her head to the side in the silence that followed. “Are you serious? Get out of here, you’re trying to play me for a fool. What you have must not be so interesting, for so little.”

  “There’s a catch.” He shrugged. “I need the credits on a device. A device not registered to me.”

  She squinted at him. “That makes a little more sense. But for a whole new device, unregistered, we’re talking a street value of six, seven hundred credits. You’d better be able to back that up.”

  “Judge for yourself.” He reached into his pack and pulled out the kinetic pistol. He unloaded the magazine and set the gun on the counter in front of him, followed by both magazines. The shopkeep’s eyes shone with greed. “Now, you see?” he said. “Who ever said patience isn’t a virtue?”

  She went into the back to wipe a device for him. He rested his hands on the counter, tapping his fingers as he waited. Beneath the plastiglass case he saw an assortment of personal accessories—jewelry, earpieces, chain-link neckties. Off to the side, packaged clothes were stacked on shelves to the ceiling. Shirts, pants, underwear—even a column of bathrobes. He smiled wistfully, looking at one of the soft, plushy red robes, and thinking of that coffee. It had been some of the best coffee he’d ever tasted, right up until the moment he realized he’d been drugged.

  The woman came back and set a device on the counter. “There. We have a deal?”

  He opened the device and swiped through to make sure the credits had been loaded. “One other thing. You know of any spots nearby where Fleet officers are known to be seen? You know. A club or something they all go?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t figure you out, gunman. First you come in here to get rid of a beautiful weapon, then you wanna head out looking for trouble with military men?”

  “Who said I’m looking for trouble?”

  “Everyone who comes down here is looking for trouble.”

  He shrugged. “So…”

  “Not on Merchant,” she said. “Sure, we get the occasional flyby, but only ever on their way to Pluto or Triton. Head for Neptune, you’ll find plenty of Fleetmen. They flock to it, cling to it like rings to Saturn. That’s where you’ll find ‘em.”

  Dolridge nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, sure. Anything else?”

  “Yeah.” He grabbed the robe. “I’m taking this, too.”

  She shrugged. “My gift.” She collected the gun and magazines, holding them reverently. “Come back anytime, gunman. Bring more.”

  —

  A half an hour later he was back in the hopper, the clamps unfastened. He sat now with his robe about his shoulders and his quilt on his lap, munching a rations bar, easing the ship out of the station dock. The tip of his tongue probed between his teeth in the attempt to dislodge a stray bit of granola. He really was an old man after all, he supposed.

  He kept an eye out for his tail, doing a few passes around the station in the hopes of losing anyone intent on following. Gradually, he widened his passes, spiraling out away from the station. No one followed. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  The ID wipe must have done the trick.

  It would take another ten hours to fly to Triton. Dolridge turned the heat down a few degrees to conserve fuel, and pulled the hem of his robe tighter around himself.

  His mind wandered back to the Blade. Who had lived, who had died. Who else might still be around—who were they likely to try to throw at him? He hadn’t been all that close with Karoff or Man. Oh, sure, combat binds men together, but there were men you liked, and men you didn’t. He’d never cared much for either. Greasy, both of them. The kind to take a bribe and look the other way. Maybe that explained why they’d been sent for him; maybe the Council knew their weakness, and exploited it.

  There had been men he’d admired who had come before, those he had looked up to. He’d never been friends with Chalan, Xander, or Odin, but their names were legend in the Blade. The holy trinity of the Colonies. Could any of them still be out there, living quiet lives? If so, would he find one of them, his heroes, sneaking up behind him next? He put the thought out of his mind. Surely not.

  Of course, he had to consider the possibility that it wasn’t the Council at all coming after him. There were enough enemies in the past that if someone had enough funds and intel to track him down and send killers his way, they would have plenty of motive. But something about his encounters with Karoff and Man seemed to solidify his gut instinct into reality. Karoff had said it was him or Dolridge. That didn’t sound like he was being paid; it sounded like he was acting under coercion. And Man, well. It would be easier to brib
e than to threaten him. But he hadn’t denied the Council’s involvement when Dolridge had suggested it. In fact, he’d seemed to confirm it. Dolridge pursed his lips.

  Alright, so the Council of Kuiper, the highest governing body over the Colonies, whom he had spent the bulk of his life serving as a patriotic military servant, was hunting him down, and he was fairly sure he knew why. If he wanted to live long enough to get to Caspar and be of some use to her, how was he going to make it?

  He was just beginning to doze when a quiet alarm beeped at his console. He roused himself and peered down.

  “Are you kidding?”

  His fuel was down to a quarter tank, and once more he was being pursued. It looked like the same ship from before, and the gap was closing.

  It was happening again.

  Chapter 17

  “Mulligan, report.” Lucas swiped his console for a comm channel. It did not open. “Mulligan!”

  “You will not be using the comms at this time,” Jeffrey said. “Unless it is to give your surrender to the Ceres survivors.”

  “Fat chance,” Lucas said.

  “Are you serious?” Caspar said. She pinned Ada to her chair with her cold eyes. “You’ve lost control of them?”

  Ada fought to slow her breathing. “Moses,” she subvocalized. “Keep trying to talk to Hive. Jeffrey wants to use the drones to take over the ship!”

  “I have not halted my attempts,” Moses said. “But Hive’s mind is difficult to understand. It is something like that of a child. I believe Jeffrey has manipulated Hive’s naivitey and made Hive believe I do not have the best interests of Hive or the ship in mind.”

  “Well?” Caspar said.

  Ada held her earpiece in place. “Moses says Hive is like a child, and right now it’s listening to Jeffrey instead of him. Jeffrey’s turned Hive against us somehow.”

  Lucas ran a hand over his mouth. “How do you win back a child’s affection?”