by J. N. Chaney
Awen caught herself staring into his green eyes longer than she’d intended. She looked down and sipped her tea some more.
“Listen, Awen. I get feeling like you’re not in control. Like, other people think you’re crazy for doing what you do. And I get wanting to give up. I do. And you know what? You can. No one is stopping you. But I’m not sure you realize what’s about to happen—what has happened.”
“And what’s that?”
“We’re at war. I don’t mean a clash with some small-sector rebels; I mean all-out war. A war that I’m not sure we’re going to be able to win. You and I both know that the Jujari lead the largest non-Repub alliance in the galaxy. So, whatever’s on that stardrive, and whatever the mwadim saw in you, you’d better make it count, because that may be the only play you have left. You’re in charge of your own destiny, so live it before someone else kills it.”
12
Abimbola knew something was wrong as soon as he saw the orange glow hanging over the Dregs. Berouth slowed the skiff as it crested a bluff so they could survey the scene below. Flames and billowing smoke rose from the center of the city and stretched into the night sky like the torrent of some violent funeral pyre. Abimbola lifted himself out of his seat to hear klaxons blaring and the cries of a city in upheaval.
“What happened?” Berouth asked.
“They are after her,” Abimbola replied, more to himself than to his second-in-command. “Come on, let us go.”
The skiff entered the city limits and fought against a rush of pedestrians and vehicles flowing in the opposite direction. Berouth did his best to point the skiff to the city center, as Abimbola was increasingly confident that the fire had begun in his warehouse.
The streets became less crowded with the living and more populated with the dead as Abimbola and Berouth neared the epicenter. Abimbola saw badly burned bodies, some missing limbs, others torn in two. This hadn’t been a fire; this had been a detonation, and the flames were just the aftermath. More explosives, he thought, his mind connecting this violence to that in the mwadim’s tent.
Whoever had terrorized the mwadim’s meeting had done this too—Abimbola was sure of it. But was the girl worth so much devastation? Perhaps. He thought of all the women whose lovers had decimated entire worlds for their sake. But maybe they weren’t after the girl. Maybe they were after the stardrive and believed that whatever was on it was worth killing innocent lives for.
Abimbola thought of his men, most of whom, he feared, were now lost. And if any of them had survived, they wouldn’t be alive for much longer. Still, he wouldn’t be the one to abandon them. He wouldn’t be the one to go back on his pledge to protect them.
“Let us go on foot from here.” Abimbola leaped from the skiff as it slowed. He drew his bowie knife and headed down a side street to avoid the worst of the heat. The roar of the flames moving through the tops of the buildings sounded like a stampede of Limbian granthers on their way to a new watering hole.
Despite the likelihood that the bombers were long gone, Abimbola kept his head on a swivel, eyes searching for prey. The last thing he wanted was to be picked off by some low-rate sniper, all because he had been too hasty to return to his men. He’d seen too many good warriors lost that way. He hadn’t survived this long by luck alone.
Abimbola and Berouth made two more turns before they approached the remains of the hideout. The building now resembled the charred skeleton of a defeated behemoth, its metal spine and ribs twisted from the force of a blast, the corrugated flesh chewed away by flames. Abimbola felt the ruins’ pulsing heat against his skin, the blackened metal glowing a dark red near the worst of the tears.
“Look for survivors,” he said. “But do not expect to find any. Meet back here once you have done what you can. And be careful.”
“Yes, my lord,” Berouth said.
They moved into the derelict building, picking their way through the wreckage. Abimbola used his knife to move debris aside and pry apart sheet metal. Fortunately, the worst of the fire had already consumed most of what was available to burn, but the heat and burnt rubble made searching difficult.
Twice, his boots stepped on humanoid corpses. At first, he thought they were merely the contents of a supply room or blown-up refrigeration unit. He cursed, kneeling to identify the remains he’d desecrated, but it was no use. The bodies were so damaged that as far as he could tell, they could have been one of the game carcasses from the hunting grounds of his youth. He closed his eyes, made the sign of blessing, and moved on.
It wasn’t until he neared the former holding cell where Awen and Magnus had been kept that he heard the first scratching sound of a survivor. He moved toward the toppled metal wall of the cell and started ripping at it with his knife. Abimbola pried away a corrugated plate to reveal the ash-covered face of his prison guard, the one Magnus had called Weasel.
“Hey, boss,” the man said in a daze, squinting in the orange glow. “Is that… really you?”
“Yes, yes,” Abimbola replied. “Hold on, let me—”
“I don’t want to die, boss.” The man started crying. Tears created fresh pink lines on his blackened face. “Splick, I don’t want to die.”
“I know you don’t,” Abimbola said, trying his best to comfort the man but not wanting to lie to him either. He’d seen too many well-meaning people tell those doomed to death that they were going to be all right. He never understood how lying to someone in their last moments of life was honorable. “Did you see who did this to you?” Abimbola hoped to help the man get his mind off the inevitable and provide something useful.
“They were… were…” Weasel coughed globular clumps of red from his mouth, then his eyes went wide in terror as if looking as some demonic apparition.
“Were what? What were they?”
“Ruthless. I was so afraid.”
“Who were?”
“Blasters. Anyone they didn’t kill, they…” The guard coughed again, wincing in pain. “Interrogated. Wanted to know where the Luma was. Stardrive.”
“What did they look like?”
“Said if we didn’t tell them, they’d torch the city.”
“What did they look like?” Abimbola asked again. “What can you tell me?”
“But I didn’t tell them, boss. I didn’t crack. So they cracked my ribs. Spine.”
Abimbola lowered his head, knowing the guard was moments from death. In truth, he couldn’t believe the man had survived at all. “Well done,” Abimbola said. “I am proud of you. Any idea who sent them?”
“Darkness. They were darkness.”
“Darkness?”
“And black armor,” the guard said, his voice fading. “White lines.” He started choking, head tossing, eyelids flitting in a spasm. “Please! I don’t want to die.”
Then the man’s face froze in place, suspended in a state of fear. Abimbola reached out and closed the corpse’s eyes and made the sign of blessing for the departing soul.
Black armor with three white stripes on the shoulder—Abimbola knew that look. He had seen it before, as if in a dream. He’d been a boy then, hoisted into an air ventilation shaft and told to stay put and not come out until two sunrises after he heard the last blaster shot ring out. The caring people, the ones who resembled Awen, spoke to him and tried to reassure him that everything was going to be okay, that nothing was going to happen to him. But he sensed their fear. He knew they were all going to die. They’re coming, he heard them whisper to each other. Try not to make any sound.
“I believe they left the system on a highly modified light freighter.” The trooper in the holo-projection wore a sleek helmet that looked more like the nose of a racing sled than a Marine bucket. The black full-face shield reflected a spotlight from the hoverbot that transmitted the video link.
Admiral Wendell Kane inclined his chin, insisting the report go on.
“Katana class,” added the trooper. “Most likely headed to Worru.”
Kane nodded. “Plumeria.”<
br />
“That would be my guess, sir.”
“Good work.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
“Any witnesses?” Kane asked.
“All loose ends have been taken care of.”
“Good. Level the warehouse, and then get back to the ship. Your work there is complete.”
“Right away, sir.”
Kane swiped the channel closed and looked to his XO. “Ready the Peregrine and her crew, then prepare a course for Worru. I’ll depart the moment Captain Nos Kil and his platoon return and are aboard the Peregrine.”
“Aye, sir,” the XO said, but then he hesitated.
“What is it?” Kane asked.
“You plan to go after them without any assets on Worru, sir?”
Kane smiled at the man but without any genuine mirth. “Who said I didn’t have assets on Worru?”
The XO stared for a moment then nodded and walked away.
Kane turned to face the observation windows, his gloves squeaking as he made fists behind his back. “We’ll have the coordinates soon enough. Soon enough. And then the long slumber will be over.”
13
The Stones had been aboard Destiny’s Carriage for exactly two days when Piper started to have the visions. The ship sailed through subspace, bound for an obscure water-covered moon in the outskirts of the Theophanies system, and without a playmate, Piper soon found she was terribly bored. She was curled up in the crash couch in her quarters, drawing on her holo-pad, with Talisman acting as half companion, half pillow.
The picture Piper drew consisted of three people standing on a mountain, looking over a picturesque valley. To one side of the green expanse lay a vast ocean, and to the opposite was a forest. Her mind had begun to wander when suddenly, the drawing came to life. It was not that the lines were animated, as all art programs could do, but that the lines became real. Piper was no longer looking at a little girl who held the hands of her parents; she was the little girl. Immersed in the image, she was aware of the wind playing with her hair, the warm sunlight dancing across her skin, and her mother and father holding her hands in theirs. She couldn’t see their faces, but she knew they were there, were real, and that they loved her.
Far below them, stretching to the horizon, lay the valley. Wild horses raced through it while sea creatures splashed in the ocean and birds flocked in twisting swirls over the forest. The moment felt as real as any she’d ever had—perhaps more real.
Then the sunlight dimmed, and a cold breeze pricked Piper’s skin. She shivered, drawing herself close to her parents. She watched as the sea creatures disappeared, the birds dove into the trees, and the horses made for cover. Something evil was coming.
She felt her parents pulling her, their hands yanking on hers—only they weren’t pulling her forward or backward. They were tearing her apart. Piper yelled to them, wondering if in their panic they didn’t realize what they were doing to her. Quickly, however, the forces working at her hands became painful, so painful that she screamed. It was as if the darkness grew fangs and bit at the middle of her heart. Her parents were literally tearing her apart.
She screamed again, the pain filling her with fear, until she realized that she could no longer hear her own voice. It was as if her mouth were covered with a muzzle: no matter how hard she thrashed her head about, she couldn’t shake it free.
She felt powerless, at the mercy of the two people she loved and trusted more than any in the cosmos, at the mercy of their warring hands and lack of concern for her torment.
Stop! Stop! she cried over and over. You’re hurting me! You’re killing me! But they could not hear her any more than she could hear herself.
It was then that fear swallowed her like a gaping maw that formed in the ground beneath her feet as if the mountain wanted to swallow her whole. No, it was swallowing her whole, pulling her through its gullet, into a stomach devoid of light and beauty. She grasped at the stones around her, fingers digging into the throat of rock that gave way to the shadowy depths below. There was only darkness and fear—the fear of being alone and never being discovered again.
Lost. I’m really, truly lost and alone.
“Piper? What’s wrong, sweetie? Baby, you have to wake up. Piper!”
Piper jolted awake. She sat on her acceleration couch, Talisman under her head, holo-pad clenched in her hands. She looked up at her mother. “Mama?”
“Piper, baby! You were dreaming.”
“It was… it was horrible.”
“A nightmare, love,” Valerie said, smoothing back Piper’s hair with the warm flat of her hand. “But you’re okay now. I got you.”
“It was real.”
“No, baby. Those dreams aren’t real.”
Piper became indignant and sat up a little. “No, Mama. It was real. I felt it.” She shook her head. “I was there.”
“Baby, you just—”
“Mama!” Piper sat upright. “You don’t understand! I was there.”
Valerie looked at her daughter and took a deep breath. “Okay, my love. You were there, but now you’re here, see? Wherever it was you were, that place is gone, and now you’re here with me. With Talisman. Look,” she said, grabbing the stuffed animal and placing it in Piper’s arms. “He’s with you. And everything’s okay, my heart. I’ve got you.” Valerie wrapped her arms around Piper and squeezed.
Piper could feel her heart pounding in her chest, sweat beading on her forehead. No matter how much her mother insisted otherwise, she had been there, wherever there had been. On that mountain, looking over that valley and sinking into that mountain. She envisioned herself falling down, down, down within the throat of that terrible mountain beast, hands grasping at the stone walls, hoping for something to hold on to. But it all broke away, and she fell into the darkness.
Then she felt something in her hands beneath the holo-pad. Something loose and wet. She wasn’t there anymore. She was definitely here with her mother, with Talisman between her arms. Piper pulled the holo-pad away and looked in her palms, letting Talisman drop to the side. There were bits of rock and dust mixed with blood from her fingertips.
14
“The captain would like to inform you that we are nearly there,” TO-96 said from the lounge doorway.
“Thank you, Ninety-Six,” Awen replied, looking up from her conversation with Magnus. The bot hesitated and started to turn back. She wondered if she had been too hard on him in sick bay. “Hey, listen. Do you want to come sit with us?”
“Why, Madame Luma dau Lothlinium, I would be delighted.” He shuffled toward them, and Magnus gestured toward the open bench seat beside him.
“I don’t suppose you want any tea?” Magnus asked with a smirk.
“Ha, ha, ha,” came TO-96’s mechanical laugh. “That’s a good one, Lieutenant Magnus.” The bot looked back at Awen. “I must say, it is truly a joy to have you both on board. It’s not often we get guests. In fact, the last time we had guests was precisely one hundred four days, sixteen hours, twenty-three minutes, and forty-eight point six two nine seven seven—”
“We get it,” Awen and Magnus said at the same time. They looked at each other in surprise.
“My apologies,” TO-96 said. “Ezo often grows weary of my accuracy as well. Anyway, I’m afraid the trip did not end well for those clients.”
“And why’s that?” Magnus asked.
“It turns out our clients were wanted in three systems.”
“Sounds like your boss didn’t do his homework, then.”
“No, no, he did. Our clients had done a masterful job at recoding their records. In truth, I had missed it myself until I discovered a modular algorithm variation in the compression codec.”
“A what?” Magnus asked.
“A pattern,” Awen explained.
“That’s correct!” TO-96 exclaimed, pointing at her. “Well done, Madame Luma dau Lothlinium.”
“That’s such a mouthful, Ninety-Six. Do you mind calling me Awen?”
“
Very well, Awen it is.”
“So, what happened to these clients of yours?” Magnus asked. “You turned them in?”
“Turned them in? Why, no, Lieutenant. That would break the third universal rule of bounty hunting.”
Magnus jerked back, eyeing the bot with something between skepticism and incredulity. “There are rules for bounty hunting?” He looked to Awen. “You know about this?”
Awen laughed. “Nope. Now I’m curious.”
“The third rule states that under no circumstances shall a bounty hunter ever go back on his, her, or its word for the initially stated intent of the contract, regardless of any provisos that may otherwise place the contractor in financial, corporal, or mortal peril.”
Magnus laughed out loud. “So you’re telling me that bounty hunters have a code?” He shook his head. “And here I thought they were just out for themselves.”
“Oh, some are, Lieutenant. That is quite true. But they are untrustworthy.”
“This is fantastic,” Magnus said, clearly entertained.
“I’m not sure I understand your conclusion, sir. These types of bounty hunters have the lowest earning potential and are, more often than not, wanted by governing agencies, former clients, and other bounty hunters. Moreover, their life expectancy is minimal. Therefore, fantastic is not an accurate descriptor.”
Awen laughed at the exchange, delighted by the unexpected levity. She liked this bot if for nothing more than making Magnus laugh. Seeing a battle-hardened Marine interact with a high-functioning android unit was pure poetry—awkward poetry, but poetry nonetheless.
“We’re going to have to agree to disagree, bot,” Magnus replied. “I’m sticking with fantastic.”
