He walked up as Breivik prepared the scalpels. On his second tray, a single small object, the size of Oskar's thumb, was ready in its case. "The implantation procedure will be a tricky one. I'm concerned with—"
Oskar's hand came up. The aero-injector pressed against Breivik's carotid artery. He looked at Oskar with utter confusion before his eyes rolled upward, and he collapsed.
Brigitte saw it all. "And what's this?' she demanded.
"Shh." Oskar released the straps holding her chains in place, freeing her. "We have little time and much to do."
"What are you babbling about?"
"Our escape," he said. "From this camp, from the world. From the League."
She stared as if faced with a madman.
It was a fitting look, as she was treated to the sight of Oskar's next act: a rampage.
He grabbed a hammer from the table and brought it down on the second tray. The plastic case around Breivik's implant cracked. The second blow finished breaking it open, and the third smashed the implant itself. With this act of destruction done, he turned on other instruments and items in the lab, smashing and destroying with a purpose. He brought out a gun from his waist holster and fired several shots into a computer terminal.
"Are you going to kill him?" Brigitte asked, indicating Breivik.
Oskar shook his head. "I'm a doctor," he said. "I don't kill." He indicated the gurney and grabbed a blanket from another table. "Come here. I'll get you out."
A moment passed between the two. Oskar saw the cynicism in her eyes. He imagined the thoughts that must be going through her mind. Why would this doctor be willing to throw away his life for her?
He watched her face change expressions as that emotion gave way to a hope she'd never dared to feel, if just to avoid the eventual despair of dashed hopes.
"I'm dead either way," she said. She lay back on the gurney. "Might as well see how this goes."
"Stay quiet," he urged before putting the blanket over her. "And don't dare breathe when they look at you."
She nodded in the moment before he pulled the blanket up over her face.
Oskar pushed the stretcher out, leaving Breivik to the ransacked lab. All that remained were the digital backups, and he'd already replaced them, overwriting the data with a message for his old friend to see later. Perhaps, even if I fail, I may win in the end regardless, he thought, hoping his words might persuade Breivik whether or not he escaped.
The guards met him outside the door. "Doctor Kiderlein?" one asked. "Is that the subject?"
"Yes. I'm afraid there was a complication in the operation. She didn't survive," he said.
"We'll take her from here, sir," the other said. "We have to do a full forensic examination for the file, make sure she wasn't hiding contraband."
"I'll have her delivered to you, but it is vitally important to the project that I give her an autopsy, and I can't do that in the lab. The conditions and tools aren't right."
"Alright. Do we have the orderlies send another one in?"
"No, not until I'm done," Oskar insisted. "Doctor Breivik has a lot of material to study before we try again." He kept his voice from feeling the full scope of his situation. That might make him seem too frustrated to them, and thus suspicious. This was meant to be just the usual behavior guards were used to.
He didn't let himself sigh when they nodded and let him go on. On to the infirmary and the ambulance, and the spaceport after that.
And from there, who knew where else?
1
The dome that protected the mining community of Allentown Station loomed over the heads of the Shadow Wolf crew as they watched the local dock workers bring the crates of fresh fruit, vegetables, and cryo-preserved meat out of the front holds. From the upper catwalk of the holds, Tia Nguyen, First Mate of the ship, watched the operation while looking over the expense account for the ship. She noted the result of the unloading fee on their margins. A satisfied grin crossed her lips at the resulting figure.
Once, the crew had handled such loading and offloading themselves. The loading and unloading costs at many spaceports inspired such extra labor in independent operations like theirs. But the cash reserves for the ship were greater these days. The jobs they obtained from Neutral Space and the Terran Coalition were practically raining money into their coffers. The peace between the Coalition and the League of Sol, as controversial as it was inside the Coalition itself, heralded an economic boom across Sagittarius as war-time trade regulations fell away. With so much money available, giving the crew down-time for their entire stay on the station was worth every cent.
"I still believe this a needless expense." At her side, Yanik S'srish, the ship's Second Mate, crossed his thick arms. Yanik was large even by Saurian standards, and unlike most Saurians they met, he had a tail the same blue tone as the rest of his scaled skin. His yellow eyes blinked intermittently. "We are quite capable of an offload like this."
"We are, but it's a lot of work, and we're still short-handed as a crew," Tia noted.
"The Captain has not agreed to another hire?"
"He's still looking at the candidates," she answered, although she didn't quite hide her uncertainty on the matter. Everything here is wrong when Jim is the least dependable member of the crew, she thought. "At least we have an official Third Mate again."
Their eyes looked down at the figure of Miri Gaon, currently holding up her own data tablet to keep track of inventory. "For a former Coalition super-spy, she's a pretty good spacer," Tia said. "We just need to fill out the crew roster and everything, well, almost everything will be running smoothly."
Yanik's tongue flicked in the air. He was annoyed. "You speak of the Captain's morale."
She nodded. "I do."
"In time, his spirit will recover."
"I hope."
Tia descended from the upper catwalk to the lower. The last crates were out. Now everyone gathered around Miri. Cera McGinty, the ship's skilled—and daredevil—pilot, spoke up first. "Not much t' do on this rock, but there's got t' be a bar or three," she called out. "Everythin' good?"
"The manifest and inventory matched up, and the receipt has been filed," Miri said. Since joining the crew, she'd let the Hebrew accent slip back into her voice.
The next voice was the ship's Engineer, who spoke with the Dutch accent of New Oranje, homeworld of Boer colonists that set out from Earth right after the Exodus. "I've shut down all the cores. We're running off the station’s power." Pieter Herzog's sandy blond hair was joined by the faint wisps of a beard and mustache of the same color.
"We're getting atmosphere from them too," offered his subordinate. Samina Khan, still not out of her teens but getting there, had the copper-brown skin tone of someone descended from the Indian Subcontinent. "Intake valves are set, so we'll top off our tanks while we're on the station atmo."
"It sounds like you've got everything ready," Tia said. "Doctor, anything you've heard about the station on the medical links? Epidemics or such? Issues with the water supply?"
"No." Oskar shook his head. "Everything is fine. The station is well-kept."
"Then, yeah, you're all released," Tia said to the assembled crew. "Just remember your watch rotations, and I expect to see you all back here in the morning!"
"About time!" Cera took off for the hold exit. She was followed by the ship's Astrogator, Piper Lopez, and Oskar's fellow League defector Brigitte.
There was a chuckle from Oskar, shared with Miri. "I think I will take a walk around the station," Oskar remarked. "But I'll likely return long before the morning."
Soon Tia was left with Yanik and Miri, who went up the stairs to join them on the catwalk. "I'll take the first overwatch," Miri offered them.
"That's kind of you." Tia's eyes glanced back toward the empty hold. "Honestly, I could use a drink myself now."
A skeptical look appeared on Miri's face. "You're worried about Captain Henry."
"With his name cleared, and all the money we're bringing in, he shouldn't be look
ing to drown his sorrows in whiskey."
"There's more to it than that," Miri pointed out. "You don't heal a soul quickly or easily. He needs more time."
"And he'll get it, but that doesn't mean I ignore what's going on." Tia returned her digital tablet to her spacer jacket's left side pocket. "He's the Captain of this ship, and everyone can tell he's not doing well. It's going to affect morale before long."
"You're right. But I don't think either of us can fix that."
"Maybe not, but I'm damn well going to try."
* * *
Allentown did enough business that no less than three bars existed to cater to the dock workers and the spacers. Tia walked into one labeled McCarter's and spotted Henry's telltale brown spacer's jacket up at the bar. She walked up and slid onto a stool beside him. The bartender, a pale-skinned woman with wheat-colored hair and freckles on her cheeks, approached while cleaning a glass with her apron. "What'll it be?"
Tia retrieved Interstellar Bank credit banknotes from her jacket. "Thanh," she said, glancing toward Henry. The glass in his hand was half full of an amber-toned brown liquid. Whiskey, she was certain, either Scotch or bourbon.
The bartender retrieved a bottle of her own favored poison from the shelf. Given the look of the bottle, Tia figured it'd been up there for a while. Thanh was an acquired taste. For her, it tasted of home. The bartender poured some in a glass. "Want a Special?"
"Not today." Tia accepted the glass of light brownish drink. She tipped some in and enjoyed the taste even as it burned its way through her mouth and throat. "Good stuff," she said.
"Come out to have a drink with me?" Henry asked. His voice was cold.
"Among other things," Tia said. She took another drink and felt the rice liquor of her homeworld burn its way into her stomach again. "Jim, you can't keep going on like this."
"Hrm?" He glanced toward her again before returning to his drink. "Going on like what?"
"Like your life is over. Like all you're waiting for is the grave." Tia's eyes fixed on him. Henry's dark skin glinted slightly with sweat, given the heat of the bar. She could see the tightness around his eyes and mouth, the crease in his brow. Years of tight living keeping his ship flying, of working outside the law if necessary; they showed on that face. "Things are better for us now. The best we've had."
"Oh?"
"That's it? 'Oh'?" Irritation crept into her voice. She didn't quite succeed in forcing it out. "Compared to where we were a couple years ago, it's no contest. The League's hounds have backed off ever since we helped bring down Erhart. That import/export license Ostrovsky got you gave us access to good-paying, low-fuss jobs. No more smuggling, no more shady deals. Just enough money to always hire loaders and afford a full complement for the ship, if you'd ever approve the hires." Tia's expression turned sardonic. "Oh, right, and you're also a war hero and good guy again in the Terran Coalition." She took a quick drink. "Sounds to me like things to be happy over."
Henry held up his right hand. "You forgot about my uncle being dead, my best friend turning out to be a spy sent to keep an eye on us, and that my ship is slowly falling apart."
Tia turned her attention back to her drink for the moment. "I miss Charlie too," she admitted. "I miss the stubborn pride and the way he cared about people, not economics."
Henry's answer came only in the mournful gleam in his dark eyes.
That brought to her mind the other blow he suffered. "You can't blame yourself for Felix. He tricked all of us," she insisted. "He used your friendship to benefit his bosses."
"He also kept Ostrovsky from having me listed as a threat," Henry murmured. "He protected me from CDF Intel."
"For his own purposes," she insisted. "You have every right to be angry with him."
"I do, but that doesn't mean I don't want to forgive him."
He doesn't deserve it, Tia pondered. Not that she was an objective observer when it came to Colonel Felix Rothbard. They'd never gotten along.
Henry finished his glass and got another. "I know you never felt comfortable around him, and that's fine. The Rothbard family has always been a bunch of pains in the ass. But he was still my friend, and I know he wanted forgiveness. Maybe even earned it, breaking cover like he did and helping us stop Erhart." He took a drink and smacked the glass down onto the bar. "But I couldn't do it. It hurt so damn bad."
"A lot of things hurt. You shouldn't blame yourself for feeling it."
He grunted.
Through it all, the final item on that list loomed. "You know, we're earning so good, we could probably replace the Shadow Wolf even before she's no longer space-worthy." Tia kept a careful eye on his face while speaking. "There are some good transports out there. The new Holden-Nagata Mark IX's out, eight holds now."
The flesh around Henry's eyes tightened further. He turned his head away from her.
Smart move, Tia. It's not just about losing a ship. It's the ship. "Uncle Charlie bought that ship with you. He helped you repair it and make it space-worthy again," she recalled. "It gave you a purpose in your life after the CDF cashiered you. So losing it… it'll be like losing your final connection to Charlie. You lose the Shadow Wolf, you lose Charlie. Is that it?"
He nodded. In a single movement, he emptied the last of his remaining drink into his mouth and returned the tumbler to the bar. He pulled a small collection of banknotes out and left them under the glass.
"Jim?"
She received no answer. He walked out.
* * *
The haze of whiskey settled into Jim Henry's mind. His thoughts and movements slowed. It took effort not to sway as he walked down the sidewalk toward the spaceport and his bed on the ship.
At a deep level, he knew he was being foolish. His life wasn't over, not this time. Tia was right in that he could afford another ship. He could keep flying. He was even something of a hero back home for his role in taking down General Erhart, although the full story was very highly classified. His life, in short, was far better than it'd been a year ago.
But the pain was still there. The grief of losing Uncle Charlie. Learning of Felix's deceit.
Being the coward who surrendered to Erhart in the first place.
There was a strangled cry nearby. Henry's eyes panned to his right. His mind took an extra moment to confirm the loud plea of "Mercy," or to process the sight of two men beating on a third. They looked like criminal roughs, thugs who made their living taking from others, while their victim was still in a miner's jumpsuit. A boot firmly pressed on his face, accompanied by the demand, "Where's our money?"
Henry's right hand slipped down toward his hip, and the holster holding his personal sidearm.
One of the thugs turned. His eyes narrowed at seeing Henry. His hand slipped into his jacket to retrieve a weapon, likely a knife or blade of some kind. His face, marked with a dark-haired goatee and thin mustache, twisted into a vicious snarl. The injection nodule on his temple stood out, marking him a neuro-stim user. "What're you lookin' at?!" he demanded in a rough tone. "Mind your own business, spacer!"
For a moment, Henry considered letting his hand keep going down. All he had to do was pull his gun. The sight of his Danfield-Colt CP-2520, with its charge chamber resembling the cylinder of an old revolver, would certainly intimidate the thug. He and his buddy would leave the miner alone.
His hand came back up. "Nothing," he mumbled, turning away.
The thug, content, returned his attention to his victim.
The miner's cries followed Henry as he walked down the road. The weight of the guilt grew with each sound of a blow landing, each cry of pain and plea for mercy, for help, for someone to do something.
There's nothing you can do. You're almost drunk. You'd just get yourself or someone killed, he told himself. Even if you stopped them now, they'd just come back and beat him even worse once you weren't around. If you shot them dead, their buddies would come after him, or you, or your crew.
The excuses couldn't lever the guilt off, even after the b
eating grew distant enough he couldn't hear it anymore.
A bitter thought came to him. Jim Henry, you're a coward.
I can't fix the galaxy, he replied to himself. I'd only get myself and my crew killed trying.
* * *
Allentown Station didn't have anything in the way of a tourist industry. The mines were the only reason it existed, and its only visitors were related to those mines or the businesses that supported the miners.
As such, there were only a few hotels on the station, struggling desperately to attract enough business to survive. Their desperation was such that they couldn't afford to ask questions about their clientele.
That was to the benefit of the man now looking out at the mining station and the dome above it. He preferred people not asking questions about his business. It reduced complications.
He closed the blinds and sat at the table. With one hand, he took up a wicked, curved blade, and with the other, he picked up a gray-toned grindstone. He worked the blade over the grindstone, re-honing the edge to once again easily pierce the flesh of his marks. The occasional spark flew due to the vigor at which he worked. His mind filled with longing to plunge the weapon into flesh once more, but as always, his urges had no place in his work.
His personal link lit up. He set the grindstone down and tapped it. A holographic image popped up. Recognizing his employer, he started the conversation by saying, "Kepper here."
"I received your call. Full payment has been made to your account, Mister Kepper," the suited man said. The French tones in his accent were Francophone African, New Gabonese, matching the ebon shade of his skin. His left eye glittered like a sapphire stone, but the real light was in his right eye, a cybernetic implant that shined blue. "When are you taking the mark?"
"Tomorrow," Allan Kepper answered. "She'll be the hardest one yet, but don't worry, Mister Rigault. You'll get your money's worth." A self-assured grin crossed his lips. "I haven't let you down yet, have I?"
Breach of Trust: Breach of Faith Book Four Page 2
