Blue Star Marine Boxed Set

by James David Victor

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Boyd said.

  “Shouldn’t have pulled you out of your seat?” one man said, grinning.

  “No,” Boyd said to the man. “You shouldn’t have let go.”

  “Will, no. Don’t,” Thresh pleaded. “Let’s just walk away.”

  The three men laughed. The bearded man stepped in close and jabbed a pair of fingers into Boyd’s chest. “Yes,” the bearded man said. “Just walk away.”

  Boyd grabbed the man’s fingers and dislocated them with a sudden move. The big man lost his balance and yelled in pain. Boyd pushed and sent the big man falling back, clutching his fingers.

  Boyd waited for the next move. It came fast. A huge heavy fist flying in from the bald, scarred man. It was a big, hefty punch and carried enough force to knock Boyd off his feet, but it was too slow and wild.

  Boyd moved just out of the arc of the swinging fist and let it waft by a centimeter from his face. He then laid his hand on the fist as it went by and added a bit of force of his own to the wild swing. The big bald man was thrown off balance and with a final extra shove, Boyd sent him sprawling into a table not yet cleared of mugs and plates.

  The last of the three stepped up, glowering at Boyd. He was the smallest of the three, but he was still a few centimeters taller than Boyd. A trained fighter, possibly a Faction trooper.

  “You are going to be sorry,” the freckled man said and stepped forward. He raised his fists in a manner that told Boyd he knew exactly how to handle himself. He wasn’t going to throw any wild punches. The look in his dangerous eye told Boyd this man would pick his moves carefully, and he would make every one count.

  “Just back off,” Boyd said, “or I’ll sit you down in that chair. All right, freckles?”

  The small man couldn’t help himself and bristled at the jibe—a man who’d been teased for his freckles before, but not for a long time because few would now dare.

  Boyd made the first move and delivered a few testing jabs. The freckled man held his stance well, his fists ready, but Boyd saw the slight imbalance as he glanced to the chair Boyd pointed at.

  A swift jab into the man’s side increased the imbalance. But the man wasn’t down yet. He stepped in and swung forward with a heavy fist. Boyd stepped back and then took a step forward, getting inside the arc of the swing, where he delivered a sharp jab under the swinging arm. The sudden wave of nausea washed over the man’s freckled face. But he came back at Boyd, swinging his arm to loosen the pain from Boyd’s punch. He came, snarling, even more determined to cause damage to Boyd. His swing was a little wilder this time, driven by hatred and fury.

  Now Boyd knew he had him. Boyd jabbed the big man in the throat. The man’s shoulders slumped; his fists fell from prime fighting position. It exposed his face entirely. Boyd struck up into the man’s chin, and the blow sent the man staggering back. Boyd grabbed him by his shirt and twisted him a little this way and a little that and the man went back on his heels. Boyd let go and let him drop into the chair.

  “Will, I think it’s time we left,” Thresh said.

  Boyd patted the freckled man on the shoulder as the man clutched his throat and gasped for air.

  “Just breathe,” Boyd said. “You’re not really choking, it just feels like it.” He grabbed a mug of cold root brew and placed it to the man’s mouth. “Here, sip this crap and you’ll feel better.”

  The freckled man took the mug in both hands and drank.

  The two men on the floor were standing up. One still clutched his dislocated fingers.

  “Boyd,” Thresh said anxiously.

  Boyd looked around and saw more people drifting over, drawn to the commotion. He stepped over to the two men getting up off the floor.

  “Easy, big fella,” Boyd said to the bald man. He pointed past him to the man with the bristling beard who was still clutching his fingers in pain. “Let me,” Boyd said. He held out a hand.

  The bald man was suspicious but let Boyd past.

  Boyd eased forward, like he was approaching a wild animal trapped in a snare. He took the bearded man’s wrist and held his other hand around the dislocated fingers.

  “It’ll just sting for a moment,” Boyd said. The bearded man looked him in the eyes, child-like, trusting but also accusing.

  Boyd gripped the fingers and snapped them back into place. The bearded took the pain with the merest wrinkle of his nose. He remained sitting amongst the broken mugs and plates, clutching his hand. His bald friend helped him to his feet.

  “You are not Faction,” the freckled fighter said to Boyd as he got up out of the seat. “You don’t belong here. You better get off this settlement right away.”

  Boyd nodded. He stepped over to Thresh and held out his hand to take hers. She refused his hand and nodded toward the people moving in. Far away, slightly up the curve of the inner asteroid, there were two black-suited Faction troopers wandering toward the disturbance.

  Boyd and Thresh drifted away, heading back to the accommodation blocks and the small apartment Thresh had been able to rent on the strength of her knowing Kitzov, the Faction leader.

  “Interesting breakfast,” Boyd said. “Are all mining settlements this lively?”

  “Only the independent ones. The Faction mines are much livelier. You might even meet your match there one day.”

  “You are more than a match for me,” Boyd said.

  “You are a smart-ass Union bastard,” Thresh said. She smiled. “I’m glad you didn’t kill them.”

  “I am a merciful guy. Besides, they were just off-duty roughnecks looking to dominate their patch. I didn’t mean for them to hear me call their settlement a stinking hole of a mine. But they think it’s a stinking hole too, they just didn’t like an outsider saying it.”

  Then a sound echoed around the chamber. A loud alarm. People started moving away from the café. The two-man trooper team turned and ran off. A voice burst out from the speakers along the control tower—the tallest building in the central chamber.

  “Alarm. Incoming ships. Union cruiser with fighter escort. All Faction personnel to stay out of sight. Hide all Faction materials. Give the Union any and all assistance. Let’s get them out of here as soon as possible.”

  2

  Kitzov sat alone in the observation deck, a transparent sphere at the base of the shipyard’s central column. Kitzov had built this shipyard. It had begun as a stolen Union corvette grounded on an asteroid. He had joined a second ship to that first, an old transport freighter. He had created a pirate base that had grown into a settlement and then a production facility.

  The shipyard was well hidden in the Sphere, the region of densely-packed asteroids that surrounded the Scorpio System. The shipyard had produced the latest in raiders and weaponry. It was a research center, a production facility, a seat of Faction bureaucracy, and now it was the location for the knucks—a fistfight to the death and the first leadership challenge since Kitzov brought the Faction together.

  Captain Bellini thought he should be the leader, and Kitzov disagreed. Under the old system, that dispute was to be settled with a bare-knuckled fight to the death.

  At the base of the central column was the observation deck—a large transparent sphere giving three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the shipyard. Kitzov looked out at the several drydocks that were each in the process of constructing new raiders. Every docking station was filled. All around the observation deck, loosely attached to the shipyard or hanging in space, were dozens more ships. They had all come to see the fight for leadership between Kitzov and the hardened, brutal pirate Bellini.

  Bellini led his crew with a mixture of respect and fear. He was a great earner, raiding Union ships for maximum profit, and all Faction crew wanted a posting as lucrative as one on Bellini’s ship.

  Kitzov, on the other hand, was a cunning businessman with the silver tongue of a politician. He had built the Faction from a disparate group of loosely-affiliated smugglers and pirates into a nation with settlemen
ts and ships scattered across the system, all too small or too poor to attract Union attention. He hadn’t risen to the top by running from a fight, of course. More than one Union Marine had died from his trigger finger and his deadly aim, but Kitzov was not known as a fighter. He was no pirate. His hands were soft even if his mind was not.

  Bellini had followed Kitzov loyally, as long as it had suited him, but when the captains whispered in his ear that he should lead the Faction, the temptation became too much.

  Kitzov checked the bindings on his fists. He had thought about adding toxins to them so Bellini would go down fast with the first cut. But then he realized it was just as likely that he would infect himself.

  The thought that Bellini would hit first had filled Kitzov with a wave of fear. He knew Bellini was aggressive and would attack immediately, violently, remorselessly, mercilessly. Kitzov’s only hope was to be fast and aggressive. Drugs were the key to victory. Kitzov had ingested a stim cocktail to remove the fear—a concoction from a trusted doctor to boost his reflexes, his aggression, and his stamina. He had boosted his mind and body as much as he dared, pushing his physical and mental limits while still maintaining control.

  The elevator door opened, and Bellini stepped out onto the transparent circular deck. Even though Kitzov was pumped full of drugs, he still felt a quiver of fear as he saw Bellini approach.

  Assassination had been an option, and Kitzov had made secret inquiries, but no assassins were available for a contract. It was as if all known Faction assassins had decided that the knucks needed to play out, or it might have been that Bellini had already bought them off. Kitzov didn’t think Bellini would use their services himself, however. He wanted the entire Faction to see him beat the old leader to death.

  Kitzov had made a note of all the assassins he had spoken to, all the assassins that had refused his contract. Should he prevail, they would all find themselves retired. Professional killer was a dangerous profession where retirement often meant death. Kitzov would make sure it was a swift, early retirement.

  Kitzov walked to the center circle, stripping off his shirt as he approached Bellini. Kitzov’s torso was toned, but he was built like a gymnast, not a fighter. Bellini carried a few kilos of flab, but he was heavy and built for war. He was a tank. His face was emotionless. It was a fearful sight—that such intent to beat a man to death could dwell behind such an impassive façade.

  The starter was standing in the center circle—an old, bald man, wearing a clean shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He called both men to stand in the center.

  “Are you both ready to proceed?” the old man said. He avoided looking up to Kitzov or Bellini, maintaining a disinterested detachment from events. One of these two men would soon be confirmed leader and he didn’t want to anger either one.

  Kitzov looked Bellini in the eye. There was no hiding from this anymore, no chance of escaping the fight, but maybe he could spin it another way.

  “I’ve been missing a strong righthand man, Bellini,” Kitzov said. “The Faction would be stronger if we could work together. Withdraw now and I will name you first minister of the Faction. A ship of your choice. A planet-side residence. Staff. Everything.”

  “First minister.” Bellini scoffed. “Sounds like a Union title. A soft title for a soft leader. A neutered lapdog. To be honest with you, Kitzov, I don’t want to be leader of the Faction. I just don’t want you to be leader anymore. We were pirates once. You turned us into a new Union—a weaker, poorer Union. With you dead, I’ll be leader and I’ll let captains make their own choices about where they deploy their ships, who they attack, how much plunder they keep. Your days are done, Kitzov.”

  “You will take us back decades if you throw away the leadership structures I have built.” Kitzov felt his pulse race with anger at the thought of all he had built being taken apart. “The captains are coordinated for maximum effect. We are a challenge to the Union. We are better than the Union. If you throw it all away, the Union will come to dominate the system again and the Faction will be a footnote in history.”

  “I don’t care about history or politics. I care about freedom. I care about now. I care about me.”

  “That means you care about nothing. The Faction will be doomed if you win here today. I will kill you if I can—not for me, but for the Faction, for every Faction man and woman, now and to come.”

  Bellini stepped up to the starting circle. “You can try and kill me—I won’t expect anything less—but I will win here today, and I will kill you as slowly as I can. You’ll be leader for a little while longer, Kitzov. Back down now and humiliate yourself and I’ll make it a quick death.”

  Kitzov didn’t believe a word Bellini said other than his desire to make death as slow and painful as possible. Kitzov stepped up to the starting circle.

  The starter held his hand up between the two men and then stepped back.

  The knucks had begun.

  Kitzov stepped in close, moving inside Bellini’s swing radius to avoid the first punch. He pushed up into Bellini’s chin to prevent Bellini delivering a headbutt.

  Bellini punched Kitzov in the side. Kitzov felt a rib flex, close to breaking.

  Kitzov retreated a step and drew a breath, pain shooting across his bruised rib. He hoped for a moment that he might have a chance to prepare himself for Bellini’s next attack, but Bellini wanted to engage and was moving in.

  Kitzov retreated a step further, moving back faster as Bellini came on in the same measured way. The pirate was grinning, sensing he had Kitzov on the run.

  Kitzov slipped his hand into the waistband of his loose pants and found the small micro electron blade. It was honed to a fine beam, the fizzing white blade reduced to a fine strand that would pierce deep inside Bellini’s gut. The pinpoint entry wound would be cauterized. No one would know how Bellini had died without a thorough autopsy, which Kitzov would not allow to happen. Bellini’s body would be airlocked and fired into the blue giant star at the heart of the system within minutes of his death.

  The blade came to hand between his thumb and forefinger, its tiny generator hardly bigger than Kitzov’s thumbnail. He would have three good shots with it, but he had to be sure that no one would see it. He had to get in close.

  Kitzov stopped retreating and stood his ground. Bellini took one more step and swung a heavy right hook. Kitzov leaned back at the last moment, the fist wafting past his nose. Then Kitzov stepped in, blade ready to pierce flesh and bone in a single fight-winning second.

  The alarm that sounded across the shipyard came as a single loud blast followed by a series of longer quieter blasts before the cycle repeated. The defense platform had been activated. An unknown ship was heading straight for the shipyard.

  Kitzov had a final moment to finish Bellini. He stepped in close. Bellini’s face was filled with fury and he was ready to crush Kitzov’s skull.

  The shipyard shuddered and bright flashes filled the dark space beyond the observation sphere. It unbalanced Kitzov, and he staggered away from Bellini. He held his hands out to regain his balance. Bellini took a step forward but as he came, he drifted up off the platform.

  Kitzov felt it too—gravity in the observation sphere had been deactivated. Kitzov drifted over the clear platform toward the outer edge.

  A group of Faction troopers came rushing into the observation sphere powered by thrusters on their combat suits. Two swept in and took Bellini by the arms. Another pair came and grabbed Kitzov.

  “Sir, we have been ordered to take you to safety.” One trooper handed Kitzov a communicator. Captain Gerard, the shipyard controller, spoke to Kitzov, his holoimage flickering as the shipyard shuddered again.

  “Sir, a Skarak ship. It came through the local asteroids. We didn’t see it until it opened fire.”

  Kitzov saw the ships outside power up their drives and move off.

  “It’s only one Skarak warship. Half the Faction fleet is here, and our defense platform alone is more than a match for one Skarak ship, even
a warship. We are designed to fight off a Union carrier force if we must.”

  “I know our capabilities, Gerard,” Kitzov said as the troopers dragged him away. “I built this shipyard with my own hands.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gerard said. The shipyard shuddered again. “We will resume the knucks as soon as we have dealt with the Skarak.”

  Kitzov watched Bellini being carried away. He was looking back, glowering at Kitzov. He pointed at him, indicating their fight was not over. It would never be over until one of them was dead.

  Kitzov accessed the shipyard sensor platform on his small communicator. He saw the feed of the Skarak ship sweeping into the shipyard and firing its blue crackle beam. The deflection shielding dissipated the beam’s energy, and the Skarak ship peeled away.

  A single Skarak vessel could not hope to penetrate the defenses. If it came close enough for its crackle beam to have any impact on the deflection shield, the high-energy lasers and hail cannon of the shipyard’s multiple defense platforms would shred the Skarak hull in moments.

  Kitzov neared the elevator shaft off the platform and shrugged off the troopers. Gravity was returning to standard and Kitzov was able to walk to the elevator.

  Then all went dark.

  “What’s the problem?” Kitzov asked over his communicator.

  The shipyard rocked, and Kitzov was knocked off his feet. He crawled to the elevator shaft.

  “Power is offline,” Gerard said. “Primary defense systems are down. Backups are failing. The defense platform has been deactivated. Sabotage, sir.”

  The image of Gerard vanished.

  Kitzov looked up to the command center hundreds of meters up on the central column. Blue crackle fire was wrapped around it, and then the composite exploded, fire and debris pouring out into space.

  The Skarak ship held its position just a few hundred meters from the central column. It fired again, targeting just below the command center, and blasted a chunk out of the central column.