by S. J. Madill
A few jumps later, and Yaella was on the ground at the bottom of the stacked crates. How long had these crates been here, acting as a staircase for the starport wall? One by one, the others jumped down beside her, while Lanari waited just ahead, her white shape occasionally visible when the blowing dust slackened. Yaella gave a thumbs-up.
Handmaiden Lanari led them through the maze of alleys, moving smoothly and confidently. No hesitation, no stopping to sit and ponder and consult a datapad. I need to be like that. Competent and confident. She'd humoured Dr. Munshaw when he'd insisted that she sit and write stuff down. She'd mostly done it to placate him, but when she'd told the crew about her 'plan' — if it could be called one — she hadn't expected their responses. They'd listened. They'd asked questions. There'd been no mockery, no exaggerated sighing or rolling of eyes. Maybe they were all just placating her — playing along with her delusions of being a real captain. I'll pretend to lead, and they'll pretend to follow.
Whether it was an act or not, they were out here. And now she had a breastplate on, and a gun in her pocket. She was following a white-clad Artahel through the back alleys of a grimy outpost, in the middle of a howling dust storm, in the middle of the night.
* * *
Yaella crouched in the metre-wide gap between two buildings, the three men behind her. She peered out into the alley, into the thick swirls of dust that obscured her vision. Once or twice, she saw a glimpse of something across the alley: the dim glow of a single light over the side door of the Guild warehouse, that hinted at the shapes of two guards outside.
Lanari had left to create the distraction they needed. She'd only been gone a few moments, but long enough for fear and uncertainty to creep in. There were so many things that could go wrong. Failure seemed so much more likely than success. Whatever the hell 'success' even looked like—
A gunshot, off to the right, back the way they'd come. It was some sort of pulse gun, but the sound was so distorted she couldn't tell for sure. Was that Lanari?
More shots. A series of shots in rapid succession. Her curiosity got the better of her and she edged closer, leaning around the corner to scan the alley.
Bursts of gunfire echoed in the dust-filled darkness; entire salvoes, from more than one source.
Sounds of yelling filtered through the murk, accompanied by more gunfire from other directions. Whatever Lanari had done, it sounded like half of Canteen was suddenly out to kill the other half. She focused her attention toward the door, squinting into the swirling clouds of dust that swept down the alley.
There. In the dim glow across the alley, she saw movement. She couldn't tell if just one guard had left, or both. Maybe they'd only gone a few metres, and were still close enough to see the door. She hesitated. Should she wait to be sure? Wait for a better opportunity?
Here goes nothing.
Yaella moved forward, into the alley, beckoning the others to follow.
She felt hopelessly exposed as she ran across the alley. The low staccato rattle of gunfire continued, accompanied by yelling. She heard the occasional echo of distant footsteps, but no one appeared. Maybe it was close, but it was hard to tell. How had Lanari started so much chaos by herself? How long would it last?
She crossed the alley, making a beeline for the side door. The glow resolved into a single light fixture covered in dust. There was no one else visible, but there could be an army ten metres away and she wouldn't know. Yaella swallowed, realising how quickly she was breathing. She fought to keep calm.
She crouched next to the door. The warehouse was clean and new. It was one of the very few buildings in Canteen that was built on purpose — an actual building, as opposed to a collection of scrap metal piled together. The door was steel, streaked with rust like everything else in this town. The handle was part of a modern security lock, with a tiny console screen. The high-tech lock looked out of place, its composite shiny against the rust-streaked door.
Dark silhouettes emerged from the reddish-brown murk: Bucky and the Doctor, who both crouched next to her.
Ocean came last; she didn't see him until he was right in front of her. He stood up straight, walked calmly, and appeared totally unconcerned. Covered from head to toe in rust-coloured grit, he looked down at the three of them crouched around the door.
"Get down, you idiot," Yaella hissed.
Ocean pointed at the door. "Is this the door you need opened?"
"What?" She frowned at him through her visor. "How many do you see? Yes, this is the damn door. Open it already, will you?"
She kept checking back up the alley, in the direction of the distant gunfire. It was getting intense over there, with the sounds of a dozen guns blasting away. She wondered how the hell anyone was hitting anything. Did they have some way to see targets despite the blowing dust? That'd put an end to this plan real quick—
A loud metallic clang made her flinch. "What the…"
Ocean stood at the door, the fancy composite lock on the ground at his feet. His dust-caked face smiled at her, as he touched his hand to the door. With a gentle nudge of his fingertips, the door swung inward.
"Holy shit," she breathed. "How did you… never mind. Thank you."
Bucky was crouched beside her, peering into the murk of the alley. She tapped him on the shoulder. "Door's open. Won't be long. If anyone comes—"
"Warning shots," said Bucky. He had his carbine in his hands. "Got it. Be quick, okay?"
"Will do." When she turned back around, the Doctor was examining the lock on the ground. "C'mon," she said. "Leave that. Let's make this quick." She shouldered the door open, and stepped into the warehouse.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. A metre-wide path led off in front of her, between two floor-to-ceiling walls of identical crates.
As soon as she took a step forward, a flash of red light lit the room like lightning. "Shit," she muttered, as the light flashed again. She knew they'd have alarms — Lanari had told them to expect it — but it still made her anxious.
There was only one way to go: forward, down the narrow passage between the walls of crates. "C'mon, Doc," she said, and led the way.
The sounds of gunfire outside were becoming more distant; when she checked that the Doctor was following her — he was, and was surprisingly quiet about it — she could see the wall of dust streaking by the open door. They needed to hurry.
Yaella followed the path along the stacked crates. Whoever was in charge of the Guild's warehouse, they were organised; she had to give them that. Despite the ramshackle appearance that Canteen showed visitors, the people running this place had their act together.
The pulsing strobes of the alarm's lights made her movements seem jerky and awkward. In front of her, the pathway between the crates ended at another wall of shelves, branching off left and right. "Huh," she muttered. "Which way—"
"Left."
Dr. Munshaw was behind her, studying a datapad. In his other hand, he held a small device; she figured it was some sort of scanner. "Left?"
The Doctor stepped sideways past her, bumping into her as he went by. "This way," he declared, moving down the left-hand passageway. He advanced confidently between the walls of stacked crates, toward a steady light in the distance. Yaella took a last look back toward the door. The dust hadn't abated; if anything, it was getting worse.
"Found it," said the Doctor, ducking out of sight around a corner of crates. Yaella rushed to catch up. The timer on her wrist said they'd only been in the warehouse for ten seconds, but it already felt too long. She paused at the corner where Dr. Munshaw had turned, and peered around the crates.
A small work space, no more than three metres a side, surrounded by towering shelves of crates. Along one wall was a workbench. A small task light shone down on the bench's surface.
Unlike the rest of the warehouse's tidy and precise organization, the workbench was a chaotic mess. Tools and wires and bits of equipment lay strewn across its surface, dangled over the sides, and scattered on the floor.
In the middle of the workbench sat a massive metal sphere a metre across, propped up by a circle of wedges. "Is that it?"
Dr. Munshaw ignored her. He warily approached the giant sphere, staring at the datapad in his hand. His other hand held out the scanning device.
The smooth surface of the sphere was marred by dents and gouges; a small pile of broken cutter blades lay on the bench nearby. A blowtorch was discarded on the floor; it matched the ugly scorch marks on the sphere's surface. "Doc?" she asked again.
He was still staring at his datapad, his back to her.
"Quickly, Doc. What is it?"
Dr. Munshaw shook his head. "I don't get it," he muttered. He slid the scanning device into his pocket, and reached out to touch the sphere.
"C'mon, Doc." They didn't have time for this. Every second they spent in here made it more likely that some Guild guards or McLean-Irvine mercenaries would arrive. They couldn't afford to get caught—
"Here," said the Doctor. He rubbed his bare hand over the surface of the sphere, his thumb wiping away some of the soot. Underneath were markings on the sphere: three perfectly-spaced rows of three dots each.
The Doctor shook his head. "That's it?" he asked.
"Doc?" asked Yaella. "C'mon, we really—"
A crackle in her earpiece: Bucky's voice, breaking radio silence. "Unicorn, unicorn!" A crack of gunfire echoed through the earpiece as the transmission ended.
"No!" she yelled. That was the panic word: everything had gone to shit. "Doc! Now!"
They'd been in here too long, and now Bucky and Ocean were in trouble. Yaella ran back along the row of crates, reaching into her pockets. Pulling her heavy handgun from one pocket and a magazine from the other, she loaded the gun. She pulled the slide back as she rounded the corner and headed for the door.
The storm was clearing. She could see out the door, all the way across the street. Though half-obscured in the blowing dust, she saw Bucky huddled in the gap across the alley. He was leaning around the corner, gun in hand, pointing it down the alley the direction they'd come. He took a few shots, then ducked back into the gap as sparkling streaks of light came up the alley in return. Two rounds struck the ground outside with a thud, throwing up clouds of dust and dirt.
Yaella stopped before the open door, shoulder to the wall next to the doorframe, the gun heavy in her hand. She peeked out.
Across the alley, Bucky looked up from where he crouched between the buildings. His eyes went wide.
Yaella was about to shout to him, but flinched as a deafening roar filled the air. A blinding light lit up the alley, creating sharp shadows inside the doorway. A hail of weapon fire flooded the alley, a solid stream of shots spraying like a firehose. Yaella ducked back inside; the wide-eyed Doctor flattened himself against the wall of crates.
After several deafening seconds of spraying gunfire, it abruptly stopped. The alley fell quiet. Yaella could barely hear anything over the pounding in her chest and the gasping of her breath in her mask. She crept closer to the open door.
A tinny, synthetic voice broke the quiet. "Control, this is Blackjack. Primary threat neutralized." A man's voice. Probably speaking through a mask or helmet. Whoever he was, he was right on the other side of the wall, just outside the door. "You there. Show yourself. Don't try anything."
Me? Had they seen through the wall? Yaella leaned a little further, far enough to peek outside.
Across the alley, Bucky was facing someone out of sight to her right. He moved slowly, raising his hands above his head, the gun in his hand pointing carefully at the sky.
"Drop the gun, buddy," said the voice. From the sound and the direction Bucky was facing, Yaella had an idea where the voice was coming from.
Fuck it.
Yaella lunged out through the open door, holding the heavy gun in both hands and bringing it up, ready to fire.
A McLean-Irvine mercenary, in dust-covered red-and-white armour, held a giant weapon in both hands. He didn't even have time to move; she was already pointing her gun at his head from barely two metres away. "Drop it!" she yelled.
She realised she should've thought about it ahead of time. She'd acted impulsively once again. If she'd been thinking, she would've used a scanner, or even her eyes, to see if there was anyone else outside. The two other McLean-Irvine mercenaries swung around, taking careful aim at her. They couldn't possibly miss.
"Shit," Yaella whispered.
No one moved.
After a few long seconds, the mercenary with the huge gun spoke first. "Thing is," he said carefully. "I can't drop it. It's attached to this harness."
Despite the two carbines pointed at her, Yaella blushed. "Ah," she said. "I see." her hands were starting to shake, and her mouth was dry.
"Still," said the mercenary. "Bold move. Now how about you go ahead and drop your gun instead?"
"No goddamned way." She tried to sound confident, but her cracking voice gave her away.
"Ah," said the man. "Well then. What to do? If you shoot first, you might get me, but my two colleagues will definitely get you. But if I shoot first—"
Yaella heard a brief metallic rattle, and saw movement. One of the carbine-wielding mercenaries yelped as the front half of his gun fell away. The other barely had time to react before a blur of movement swept in front of him, and his gun fell apart in his hands. A long segmented blade appeared against his throat, held in place by a slender white hand that disappeared into a shimmering rust-coloured cloak behind him. The Handmaiden's voice was clear and cold. "Captain, do I kill him?"
The artillery-wielding mercenary slowly turned around, then froze when he saw his disarmed comrades and the threatening blade. "Oh, shit," he breathed. "Madam Artahel? I apologise. I had no idea."
What? Yaella stared. Madam Artahel?
Lanari was barely visible behind the disarmed merc, holding her blade against his throat. Umber-coloured dust swirled around them; the storm was gathering strength again. "Point that thing somewhere else," she said. "What are you doing here?"
The big man swivelled his weapon skyward. "Of course, Madam Artahel. Our orders are to retrieve the Planet-Killer's droid."
Yaella couldn't see the man's face, but saw him nod in the direction of the gunfire echoing in the distance. "Not to hurry you, ma'am, but the Guild will be back soon, and—"
"Captain?" asked Lanari. "Are we done here?"
Dr. Munshaw was standing behind Yaella, watching out the door. "Yes," he said. He sounded annoyed. "I'm done with it."
Yaella raised her voice so everyone could hear her. "We're done here."
"Very well," said the Handmaiden. "My crew leaves, then the droid is all yours."
The mercenary with the giant gun slowly nodded. "Understood, Madam Artahel. That is fair."
"Captain? Go."
Yaella kept a wary eye on the mercenaries. "C'mon," she said, but the Doctor was already moving. Across the narrow alley, Bucky emerged followed by a rust-covered Ocean.
"Go," Lanari said again. "I'll find you later."
Yaella backed slowly away up the alley, with the others close by. The storm was gaining strength, and the rust-coloured pall thickened around them. She could see that Lanari had released her hostage, and she and the three McLean-Irvine mercenaries were backing away from each other as they disappeared into the murk.
"God damn it," Yaella hissed, as she lowered her gun. The four of them started moving quickly, retracing their steps along the alley. "Whose side is she on?"
"I trust her," said Dr. Munshaw.
Yaella shook her head. "I don't think I do. If she comes back to the ship—"
"She will."
Yaella snorted. "Well, when she comes back to the ship, I've got some questions I want answered."
Chapter Fourteen
Zura straightened her uniform as she stepped off the bottom of the stairs, her armoured shadow Antur close behind her.
As she headed toward the door of her outer office, she suppressed a yawn. By any
one else's standards, she hadn't slept well. Four hours of restless tossing and turning was as close as she came to a fitful night's sleep.
Yaella had called in the evening; it was good to hear from the girl. By the sounds of it, this Dr. Munshaw had taken it upon himself to teach the girl how to think ahead. Good. If Yaella wasn't going to listen to her own mother, at least she'd listen to someone. And now, the girl had a plan — such as it was — to find that thing left behind by the Planet Killer. Yaella was still waiting for the right night to put her plan into action.
Zura didn't like it. So much about the situation was beyond her control. There was still the matter of the damned Artahel on Yaella's ship, despite assurances from Pentarch Yenaara that the commando could be trusted. Assurances and promises were all well and good, but they were no substitute for control.
The honour guard pulled open the double doors, and Zura acknowledged them as she passed. Inside, the rows of staff officers were already rising to attention at their desks. She gave a dismissive wave of her hand as she marched by, and they returned to their work.
It didn't look like anyone was waiting to see her. That was a good start; maybe she could start her day smoothly. That would make an unprecedented two days in a row. A cause for celebration.
Halfway to the doors of her inner office, she stopped at the desk of Commander Zhou, the human in charge of her appointment calendar.
"Mahasa," said the officer, bowing.
"Commander." She took the offered datasheet, which unrolled at her touch. She started to read.
A meeting with colonial governors. A meeting with the long-range planning committee. A private meeting with the governor of New St. Lawrence about aquaculture: something about Earth fish. Riveting.
"What's this?" she said, pointing at the bottom of the calendar. "'Fashion show'?"
Commander Zhou bowed again. "Yes, Mahasa. A social event this evening, at the conference hall. You are attending with Doctor Singh."
Zura raised an eyebrow. "I don't remember agreeing to that."
