by Susan Grant
Applause filled the vast hall as Frank stood. He couldn’t quite stomach the genteel “queen’s wave” Earth’s cross-culture committee, the CCC, recommended he use, and instead acknowledged the welcome with a jaunty, modified salute. It felt truer to who he was, someone he hoped he wouldn’t lose sight of in the execution of his duties, which in essence boiled down to making sure the supply of strategically important zelfen remained uninterrupted. For all the talk about humanitarianism, that was all that really mattered to the Triad. If Operation Amnesty failed, another solution to the piracy was inevitable. One he feared would be deadly.
THE BOX HOLDING DAKE was as dark and cramped as a coffin. He flattened his hands on the roof and pushed. They’d sealed him in! His mouth was as dry as a sun-baked rag. Dust caked his face. It was utterly dark. Suffocatingly dark. He tried to keep the panic from overtaking him, but it invaded, icy and hot at the same time, making his heart kick and his skin sweat. His breathing was too hard, too fast; he’d use up the air. Two tiny inlets allowed in oxygen, but he was outpacing even that. Then dirt hit the outside. It rained loudly, and he could smell dust coming through the air holes. They were burying him! Get up! Get out! His knees slammed into the top, his arms hit the sides. The need to scream built until he nearly wept fighting to hold it back. If he did, they’d know they were getting to him, breaking him, and that would encourage them even more. It was bad enough they’d learned he abhorred cramped spaces. Whenever he violated some infraction, or was the subject of entertainment for a bored guard, they threw him in the box. Today’s sport was actually burying the box.
What if it wasn’t sport today? What if they were really going to kill him? Another shovel full of dirt and another. Dake opened his mouth to scream—
“All righty! Rise and shine, big guy. This is your lucky day.”
Hells be. Dake jolted awake. His heart still slammed and his breathing was uneven. Sweat drenched his prison yellows and his back and neck ached from where he’d fallen asleep on the floor in a slouch propped up against the wall. That same freepin’ nightmare. Years after the Drakken had buried his ass as punishment, it still haunted him. He scrubbed a hand over his face and rolled his head toward the voice.
A guard and a uniformed Triad official stood outside the holobars of the cell. The guard rapped a shock stick on the outside wall to get his attention as the official typed on a data pad and told him, “You’re moving out.”
Out? Dake swung from a bored daze to hyperalertness in a half heartbeat. Every move no matter how small meant a disruption in routine. Disruptions meant an opportunity to escape might appear. Would this be the day?
How many times have you thought it would be freedom day and it wasn’t? Standing, Dake braced himself against the doubts, against disappointment. Giving up wasn’t an option, although at times the lure to close his eyes and be done with it was all-powerful. Aye, but that would have meant surrender, and he flat-out refused. He’d return to his people and reclaim the life stolen from him. He’d find Val and win the heart of the woman he never wanted to let go. He’d hang Nezerihm with his own hands if he had to. Then he’d finish his work uniting all the clans. Five years in prison gave a man a blasted long to-do list.
Dake sauntered over to the holobars, slowly, acting lazy. In truth, he was ready to spring. He’d never stopped being ready.
Big. Dake could read the observation in the official’s gaze as it tracked up his body to his face. Size hadn’t helped him much. Shock cuffs and holobars were the great equalizers. “Got a whole load of convicted war criminals that need the cells, so guys like you are moving out.” He paused to observe Dake. “You don’t look all that excited about it.”
Dake shrugged. “I’m going somewhere new. It’s not the first time, and I doubt it’ll be the last.” He’d been in prison longer than anyone he’d met, passing from Drakken custody to Coalition and now two years after the war ended to the Triad. After a while, it didn’t matter who held you captive, or where, only that they did. Although, if he had to choose, he’d say the brutality of the Drakken Imperial Army toward their forced conscripts was the worst of the lot. The bio-stitches holding his torn flesh together were long gone, but the scars still tugged and ached on occasion. A memory of beating up the war sergeant for his vicious attack on Squib, and the arrest afterward, came back in too much detail. He’d never know why the officers threw him in prison rather than kill him for the insubordination. Maybe they didn’t blame him for what he did, or secretly cheered the fact that he did what they’d wanted to do. He’d never know, but being sent from battlefield to prison was probably the reason he’d survived.
The years spent incarcerated by the Drakken in conditions too foul to describe were among the most miserable. But that misery kept him alive. As long as he still felt pain, as long as he still felt anything, he was human, and he had a chance to escape. While being transported from one stinking Hordish hells hole to the next, the ship was captured by Coalition forces. For a brief, giddy moment, he thought he’d be freed, but he soon knew better. To them, he was just another Drakken prisoner. In their jails he landed and served his custody in a variety of loathsome ways over the years, segueing from Coalition to Triad with nary a bump until one day last week during spring-cleaning someone punching in data behind a desk figured out he didn’t belong there. Or anywhere.
After a few interviews, he’d wound up here. It was an out-and-out guesthouse compared to every other place he’d been. He’d taken his first hot shower in five years. Now that was something. They’d even let him shave. Nothing good ever lasted, though. Of course they wanted to move him now. He should have figured he wouldn’t get to stay for long.
The guard pointed at his arm. “Show him your number.”
Dake pulled up the sleeve of his newly issued prison yellows. Behind his ear was a brand the Drakken had burned there—his soldier ID with them. The involuntary Drakken eagle tattoo on the inside of his left bicep was another souvenir of those days, fighting in their army. The Coalition was a little more civilized with their identifying methods. They injected nano-ink that lit up when queried by one of their computers.
722261375121. Blue numbers glowed suddenly under the skin on his forearm. “Seven-two-two-two-six-one-three-seven-five-one-two-one,” the guard read.
The Triad official nodded. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.”
Dumbfounded, Dake lowered his arm. The official actually used humor.
The official handed him a small, flat rectangle. “Take this chit and hand it to the relocation agent.”
A guard let him through the holobars and directed him to a desk set up in the hallway. The official seated there also checked a data pad. Disoriented from walking free with no guards escorting him, Dake stopped in front of the desk. He shook his head to clear it.
“So. Where are you from?” the man asked without looking up from his data pad.
“Regannon Labor Camp.”
He focused on Dake, then, amused. “Not what prison. Before that. Where’s home? That’s where you’re going.”
Dake stood there, unable to comprehend. The man might as well have been speaking a foreign language. For all Dake’s desire to be alert for opportunities to escape, he hadn’t expected this. Home. It was hard to fathom the word, though he long dreamed of it. The sea…wide, white beaches…grassy plains rippling in nearly constant wind…a land of infinite vistas and endless sky, of fireflies and fire. The memories made him want to weep. Would Merkury recognize him when he walked through the gates, streaking across the field to met him? He’d missed that blasted dog. He’d missed everything.
“Or, anywhere you like,” the official said. “The Triad’s giving you a one-way, all-expenses-paid trip to the region of your choice. That’s right. You’re getting out. Not just out of this building. Out out.”
Dake was instantly suspicious. Maybe it was a trick. Another mind game. “Did anyone tell you why?” he finally managed. “Why me?”
The official glanced
up. “Not just you. We’ve got hundreds in your same situation. Triad high command came up with something called Operation Reboot to give guys like you a second chance, the ones we’ve got no criminal records for, and get you out of our cells. We need the room for the real monsters coming here out of the war crime tribunals. Well, the ones they’re not executing outright, that is.” He gave Dake a hard look. “Don’t screw up out there. You’ll be in for a real long time if you come back.”
More time locked up in a cage? No freepin’ thanks.
“So, like I asked, where are you from?”
Dake took a breath, his chest swelling with rusty pride. “My home is Parramanta.” Hells. It had been so long since he’d actually said the name that it felt strange coming off his tongue. “It’s in the Channels region.”
“The Channels. Hmm.” The official looked skeptical as he scrolled through maps. “That’s out in the Borderlands where all the pirates are. Dangerous territory. Nothing’s getting in or out of the Channels but military ships right now. Wait—I do have a ship heading in that direction, military ship on a diplomatic mission. I know they’re not full. Hold on, let me ask to make sure.” The official wore a device on his ear Dake learned was called a PCD, a personal comm device. He spoke into it. “Is the Unity taking any passengers?” He scribbled absently with a stylus as he waited for his answer. “Copy. I’ve got an Operation Reboot here. He’s got a ticket home to the Channels. Do you have space? Send him over? Will do.”
The official returned to his data pad. “They’ll take you.” He gave Dake a chit for the transport. “Board at Berth One.” Then he handed him a folded overcoat and a small sack large enough to hold a change of clothing and supplies to get him through the days of travel ahead. “From the Triad to you. Gods speed, mate. You’re going to need it.” The official waved him on and called for another convict to come forward. “Next!”
His head spinning, Dake read the chit in his hand. Inmate ID: 722261375121. RELEASED.
“Released,” he murmured. It was that simple. As suddenly as he had been captured, he’d been set free.
VAL NARROWED CYNICAL EYES at the two men sitting across the table from her and her senior raiders on the Marauder. Two cups of excellent moonshine sat in front of the pair, untouched. It was an insult not to have tasted the brew and complimented her on it, but what did these outsiders know of manners? Or their captain, Johnson of the Unity, for that matter? Peace had turned life in the Channels upside down, threatening the way her people had always done business. They’d thrived in the chaos of war for millennia. Profited by it. Now some gargantuan new alliance thought they had their best interests in mind, offering them a new home with free everything forever—if they agreed to move out.
The gall of these men, thinking she could be bribed into giving up her home. Everything that mattered was there. Everything she loved.
And had lost.
“Hear them out,” Grizz had warned gently as they’d prepared for the men to arrive. “Don’t forget we’re living day to day and hand to mouth. Because they’re going through the trouble and being nice about it, let’s see what they have to say.”
With ore stealers almost nonexistent now that peace had come, and fewer ships daring to ply the Channels space lanes without an armed Triad escort, she’d heeded Grizz’s advice.
But she knew better than to let her desperation show as she sat at that table. While her raiders wore their meanest scowls, she’d remained outwardly pleasant until the word relocation came up.
“You mean you want to evict us,” she said, drumming her fingertips on her holstered dozer, a warning not missed by the messengers.
“Not evict,” the outsider insisted. “Relocate. To a new and bright future. In exchange, you’ll receive full amnesty for your crimes.”
“Crimes. Is that what you call our struggle to feed our families?”
“I mean no insult, Captain Blue. This isn’t a punishment in any way. It truly is an opportunity. Once again, you’ll be given a new home, a chance at a good life, a better life. There’ll be comfortable lodging, plentiful food, education for your children—all at government expense. You’ll never have to worry about feeding your people again. Other clans are already in talks to take advantage of our offer,” the messenger confided.
“What?” She leaned forward. “Who?”
“The Calders and also the Surebloods.”
“The Surebloods!” The raiders around her laughed. “Those stubborn bastards won’t give up a ship, much less their planet,” she argued.
“They thought differently after we showed them what we could offer versus the hard times they’ve fallen upon.”
“We’ve all had hard times. It doesn’t mean you leave your home.”
“The Surebloods seem to feel differently.”
Val tried to envision Dake Sureblood permanently dirt-side in a nice, clean box-size house and came up empty. Instead of being cause for possible celebration, the idea of any clan, even their rivals, living that way was oddly sickening. Even Ayl appeared aghast.
“Safety, security and a bright tomorrow over the challenges you face here,” the messenger said. “If you care about your clan’s future, Captain, you’ll make that choice.”
“If I care?” Val choked out. “If?”
Equally indignant grumbles erupted from the raiders assembled there. Malta cracked her knuckles and Warrybrook growled. The pair of messengers seemed to sense the sudden uptick in tension—and the danger in it.
Oh, she cared. Aye, more than these messengers or anyone at the table could ever know. She didn’t care how “easy” of a life awaited them on some unknown world, she’d never let Jaym grow up rootless, not knowing a real home. With a fierceness that burned in her heart, she was determined to hold on to her freedom and that of her people. It was her father’s wish, his legacy and her gift to her son.
“You make your offer sound charitable, but greed fuels it,” she gritted out. “Like hells if I’ll allow my clan to be thrown out just so your Triad can have zelfen at cheap prices. The ore belongs to my people, not yours.” She turned around. “Now get the hells off my ship.”
“It’s understandable you want time to consider everything we talked about today, Captain Blue—”
“I said, get off my ship. Or I’ll blow you out.”
On cue, Grizz walked to the nearest hatch. “Your choice,” he told the men.
The messengers collected their belongings and stood.
“I have a message to take back with you,” Val told them. “Tell your Captain Johnson not to waste his time playing word games. We Blues like straight-up talk. Tell him if it’s eviction he’s after, then have him come and say the word to my face. Then we’ll talk.”
One peek at their expressions and Val Blue knew that these two, at least, would be taking every precaution to make sure they weren’t a part of that return mission.
BACK ON ARTOOM, VAL’S long strides made short work of the distance between the dock and the village. As she passed the practice fields, she stopped to watch new apprentices go through their drills. It embarrassed her that funds were so tight that she couldn’t afford to outfit them with zelfen armor, but local livestock provided plenty of sturdy leather. She peeled off her shipboard jacket and hung it over her shoulder to enjoy some of the first sunshine of the season. She always needed these few solitary moments when first returning home. Body armor was shed on board the ship, but before she walked through her front door she had to let down her emotional armor. Her clan and crew needed Captain Val; her family needed her.
Captain Val, Mama Val. It was as if she were split in two with the halves constantly shifting and grating like continental plates on a fault line.
Birdsong drew her attention to the budding trees lining the path. Ebbe apples weren’t native to Artoom. Conn had brought them home long ago. Fates knew where he’d found them. She’d helped him plant the seedlings when she was small, no more than Jaym was now. It remained a vivid memory—the su
mmer sunshine, her father, such a hero to the clan, yet so doting with her. “Someday you’ll walk along their path long after I’m gone, Valeeya,” he’d said. “Look at these trees and think of me.”
I do think of you, Papa. Always. The trees had gone to bud, and some were beginning to blossom, looking as they did that cold, rainy day she’d kneeled at Sashya’s feet and listened to the woman compare the babe in her belly to the new life on the trees. Her mother had been right. Jaym had brought new life with his unexpected existence, pulling Sashya back from the brink of despair.
“Mama, Mama!”
Every nerve ending in Val’s body strained toward that exuberant, high-pitched cry. She grinned as her son raced across the practice fields to meet her.
“Mama!” Sunlight glowed on Jaym’s golden head. His face was alive with excitement. Pure joy filled her heart as he barreled into her full-bore, jumping high to cling to her body, uncaring of the leathers and thick weapons belt. He wanted his mother, and she wanted her boy.
“I have so much to tell you!”
She buried her face in his silky hair. My baby. He smelled like dirt and sunshine and buttered bread. It wouldn’t be too long before he was too big to carry, and racing to meet his mother would be beneath his male dignity. “I love you, boy.”
“I love you, too, Mama.”
“How much?”
He arched back in her arms, his skinny thighs squeezing her waist as he flung his arms out wide. “This much!” He was getting a little old for their ritual but was still willing to play along.
The boy’s as much of a charmer as his father was, she thought with an accompanying, familiar pang of guilt.
“What wrong, Mama?” His gemlike eyes probed deeply, the way his father’s had, wanting to know even what she wasn’t quite willing to reveal. “You look sad.”
“Aye, a little. I was looking at the pretty trees and thinking of your grandfather. I miss him.” He was too young to understand the rest. She gave him a squeeze. “And I missed you!”
