by Nick Webb
Ben kept his eyes closed. He would not so much as give the man the satisfaction of even a glance.
“You will be here a very, very long time.” Stone continued, softer now. “There is no sense in resisting. Your ship has already left. There was no sense in risking more lives to save yours. They left you, Seven. Forever.” The stuttering seemed to fade away as the man’s confidence grew. He dropped his voice to a near whisper. “But you’ve found salvation with me. I will save you from your filth. And in time, I’ll introduce you to my research.”
Ben thought of his time in the Imperial Academy on Earth, trying to stay focused on happy memories. For the first time in his life, he had felt accepted by his peers. At least at first, before the whispers and furtive glances started up again. Those same worried looks had followed him all through his teenage years—all the people his age were jealous. Jealous of his talents, his strength, his body, his brain, everything. He graduated, and was assigned to Viper squad, and finally, for the first time in his life, he found friends.
Real friends. Jake. Megan. Some of the others. They liked him. Respected him.
He focused on them, and tried to ignore the sound of the whip.
“Very well, Seven.” Ben could almost hear Stone smile. “This is the best part anyway.”
***
Jake let his body down on the cold, stone floor with a grunt and stretched out next to Alessandro. They’d made their quota, but only just. The boss had examined their cart, and clucked his tongue when he saw the readout. “You warts are cutting it pretty close.” But a quota was a quota, and he waved them on through to the main entry chamber where apparently there would be some water. And maybe even some food.
Alessandro hunched over the omni-scanner—he’d found a tiny piece of metal wedged into a crack in the floor and somehow he’d managed to remove the scanner’s casing. Mumbling to himself, he poked and prodded at the circuitry, reading off numbers and integrated circuit board serial numbers—Jake wondered if he was as good at electronics as he was at gravitic field theory. If he even knew half as much of the one as he did of the other, they would be in business.
“You know what you’re doing?” said Avery, hunched over and holding his head in his hands—obviously he didn’t want anyone to see he was talking, much less talking to Bernoulli.
“My father repaired viewscreens, Avery.” Alessandro sniffed, and wiped his nose with a dirty sleeve. The shaved half of his upper lip had begun to show a shadow, and his mustache, at least in the weak lighting of the chamber, looked almost like a regular one. “I spent hours disassembling and reassembling the old ones that he gave to me. The ones too old or obsolete to repair.”
Jake eyed the other slaves around them. Up above, on his rafter, the boy Jeremiah was perched in his usual spot, gnawing on some hard biscuit thrown out by the boss’s henchmen. The other people just lay there on the ground, silent, but with a few whispers here and there. Most had given them a wide berth—he wondered if the boss or Velar had warned them all to stay away, or if it was customary to avoid the new arrivals.
One man kept glancing furtively at them and then looking away whenever Jake caught his eyes. It was the same man who’d eyed them before. The one that Jeremiah had trailed after. After the third or fourth round of this, he leaned over to Avery. “Watch over Bernoulli for me, would you? I’ll be right back.”
Before Alessandro could protest, Jake rolled over onto his knees and grunted as he stood. Approaching the man, he stopped short. The man glanced nervously at him and almost looked ready to bolt. Jake took one small step backwards—no need to make him too nervous.
“Hi. Jacob Mercer.” He held out a hand to the man still sitting on his haunches. A grizzled old face peered up into his, and a distrustful look gave way to surprise. Jake wondered if it was at all common for the slaves to talk to one another, but surmised that the boss had to give some kind of leeway to all his fellow slaves, or he’d be faced with a crowd of angry men and women who would have no problem wrenching the collar controller from his hands, setting it to maximum, and pointing it straight at their tormentor’s head.
“Tovra. Did they capture you in a raid, or were you dumb enough to come down to the surface?” Tovra’s face, though worn and pasty, was the face of a man who couldn’t be older than forty or so. Yet the years of slavery had taken their toll. Loose, haggard skin hung from his neck and cheeks, and hardly any fat or muscle showed under his tattered clothing.
“I’m going to go with dumb,” Jake replied with a wry grin. “You? How long have you been here?”
“Shhh!” Tovra’s finger darted up to his cracked lips. “Bad luck to talk about our time here.” He scanned the far wall, looking for the boss and the guards, but they had disappeared. “I seen hundreds come and go through here.”
Jake took a few steps closer and sat down on the bare, rocky ground next to Tovra. With a grunt and a curse, he swept a small stone that had dug into his rump and tried sitting again. “Hundreds, huh? People leave here often?”
Tovra sniffed. “Only in body bags. A couple get promoted to groundsworkers—usually the ones who do favors for the guards.”
“What kind of favors?”
The man rolled his eyes back into his skeletal head. “You don’t want to know.”
“Ah. So just like any old prison.”
“Worse. In regular prisons, there are ostensibly rules against mistreatment of prisoners, even if the rules aren’t always followed. Here? We’re property. They protect us as we are an investment, but not beyond that. If we break, we’re replaced. Simple as that.”
The man didn’t sound like a regular old toothless grunt. His vocabulary was too big, and his accent reminded Jake of the more cosmopolitan planets like Earth, Corsica, or New Kyoto. Not a backwater like Destiny.
“You from around here?” he asked.
“Sound like it?”
“No.”
Tovra laughed. “Good. Then I haven’t lost my Oberanian accent.”
“Oberon? The moon in the Sol system? Around Uranus?”
Tovra scowled. “Sol? Hell no. The Oberon system. One of the last few places outside the Empire that still has art, culture, science—you know, civilization?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Oberon?”
“No. Civilization.”
Tovra’s scowl softened into a wry grin that matched Jake’s. “I like you. I take it you’re from the Sol system? Earth?”
“That’s right. North America, if that means anything to you.”
“It does, it does.” Tovra scratched his long, filthy beard. “My ancestors were from there. Emigrated way back in the twenty-fourth century, when the Oberon system was settled. A good chunk of the settlers came from already settled parts of the Thousand Worlds. Young families seeking to start up a brand new world by themselves. Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? To start all over again, on a new world, unsullied by Empire or syndicate or crime. Only hard work standing in between you and a blessed life of luxury?”
Jake wondered how the man was able to speak so many words without the shock. Did old-timer slaves get a higher quota?
“Huh. I’d always heard that the first settlers to any world always had a rough go of it. You know, what with the lack of buildings, roads, irrigation, bars—that sort of thing—shit!” The shock came like a dagger to the brain and he winced.
Tovra snorted, ignoring his pain. “Well that’s because you’re a lazy Terran who thinks life should be served to him on a gold platter.”
Jake glanced back at Alessandro, who continued to work on the omni-scanner as Avery kept watch. So far, no one seemed to have noticed the activity—the boss had reappeared, and looked to be preoccupied with portioning out the rations. “So, why hasn’t Oberon been conquered? If it’s as rich and beautiful a world as you say, wouldn’t the Empire have taken it over by now? You know, for its own protection?” He emphasized the last work with sarcasm.
Tovra’s eyes flashed with excitement,
as if he were about to divulge a great secret. “That, my friend, is a good question. One I happen to know the answer to since I captained a small frigate in my day. Tell me, how massive is Sol?”
“Uh … roughly one standard solar mass?”
“No shit?” Tovra glared at him. “Of course it is. It set the standard. Corsica’s star is maybe 1.5 solar masses. New Kyoto is .9. Guess how big Oberon’s star is?”
“Two solar masses? Three?” Jake stabbed blindly at numbers, wondering where the man was going with it. The pain slowly ebbed away from his head.
“Point one. As in one tenth the size of Sol. Only you hardly notice because Oberon orbits so closely to the star. Imagine looking at your sun, but through the reddest glass imaginable. That’s Oberon’s star. Red as a campfire. In fact, our eyes have started to adapt over the centuries. We see better in red light than offworlders.”
“Fascinating,” grumbled Jake, though really he was gazing hopefully at the rations table, which was now teeming with slaves eager for a bite to eat.
“But the mass is not the only part. Guess how far it is away from the nearest star? I’ll answer for you since you seem too hungry to think. Ten light years. Ten! Do you know how much energy it takes to shift from that star to ours?”
Jake thought a moment before understanding the man’s point. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s more energy than most capital ships have. Even a Centurion Class cruiser. I bet only the ships with the largest power plants relative to their size would—“
“Precisely! That’s why Oberon remains free, because it is isolated. For the Empire to invade would require immense resources. And so they let us be. Makes you wonder why more pirates and resistance movements haven’t tried exploring the Void.”
The table of food was almost empty. Luckily, most of the slaves had retrieved their rations and had sat down to eat. “Uh, sorry? The Void?”
“The Void. The giant molecular cloud in between Antares and Vega. Absolutely empty. Or so they say. Oberon is right on the edge, and there’s a legend on our world that tells of desperate people fleeing into the Void and finding sanctuary there. A haven. Or maybe even heaven—you know how wild stories tend to escalate.” Jake could tell from Tovra’s face that he was kidding, but the idea of an unreachable region of space—a protected sanctuary—appealed to him.
“So tell me, has anyone on Oberon tried to—“
A sharp voice pierced the dank air of the cavern. “Hey! What are you all doing? It’s grub time!” The boss was walking angrily over to Avery and Alessandro, who tried to stuff the pieces of the omni-scanner in one of his pockets. Jake jumped to his feet and intercepted him.
“Problem?” he said.
The boss spluttered. He looked drunk. “Yeah. Your friend there. What’s he up to?”
“Looks like he’s resting. You taking issue with that?” Jake said dangerously.
The boss put a hand into a pocket and sneered. “Don’t tempt me, maggot.” He glanced up to the girders lining the ceiling, at Jeremiah, who sat on the one right above them watching them closely. “Or you’ll answer to the prophet up there.” Jake wondered at the nickname—if it was some kind of epithet or something.
With one hand Jake motioned to Avery and Alessandro to go get their rations, but he stayed with the boss—he needed to make sure the drunk man forgot about Alessandro and stayed focused on him. He took a menacing step closer. “You listen to me you little rat.” He towered over the man, who only came up to Jake’s shoulders. “You may like playing with your little toy there, but don’t think for a second that I won’t rip your fucking head off with my bare hands if you cross the line with us.”
A momentary look of terror passed over the boss’s face before he fumbled with his pocket, yanked out his collar controller, and clamped down on one of the buttons.
Nothing happened. Behind the boss, Jake saw Alessandro holding the omni-scanner once again, manipulating its controls with a look of triumph on his face.
The boss glanced down at his controller again, and clamped his thumb down on one of the buttons more firmly. In response, Jake yelled, and tried to give the best impression of writhing pain that he could. He breathed a series of short, shallow breaths, all the time keeping an eye on when the boss’s thumb left the button—he had to make this absolutely believable.
And he made it a mental note to promote Alessandro if they ever got out of there.
The boss sneered, a bit of drunk spittle clinging to his chin. “There. I told you before, don’t speak out of turn. Next time I’ll just leave the damn thing on and you can sweat it out for a few hours. How would you like that?”
Jake rubbed his head in false agony. “Yes, sir. I’ll behave.”
“Good. Now go get your grub—I can’t afford to have you maggots collapsing on the job.”
As the boss left, Avery and Alessandro fell into step next to him as he hobbled over to the ration table. He leaned over and mumbled in Alessandro’s ear. “Al, you’re a certifiable genius.”
The man leaned over and whispered back, “Friend, tell me something I don’t know.”
***
Captain Titus surveyed the viewscreen on the front wall of the bridge. The ship—Vorat’s tiny freighter—blasted away from the Caligula’s main fighter deck several gold bars heavier. It was show time. Either the man was lying, and Titus would blast the fool out of the sky, or he was telling the truth and the Phoenix was just one orbital adjustment away.
Ensign Evans called out. “Sir, Vorat is hailing us.”
Titus waved a hand, indicating to the Ensign to pipe it through.
Vorat’s voice wheezed through the comm. “Captain Titus? Is your ship ready?”
“We are. Transmit the coordinates and we’ll all be on our way.”
A long pause.
Ensign Evans nodded. “Sir, they’re coming through. Uh, sir, these coordinates put us right back at the north pole.”
“Indeed. Well, perhaps we didn’t look closely enough.”
Vorat replied, after a hacking cough. “You’re right Captain, you did not. You didn’t look down. Way down.”
Titus paused. “Are you telling me that the Phoenix is down on the surface?”
“Further.”
Further?
A sitting duck. Titus couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome. They’d be able to drop a single nuclear warhead. The Phoenix wouldn’t have time to get out of the way if it were at rest in some underground cavern.
Vorat continued, “Let’s just say your little bird has become a little fish.”
In the ocean? Was it even possible? Could a ship survive underwater without imploding? Titus started to have even deeper misgivings about having transferred five gold bars over to Vorat’s ship.
He motioned to the helmsman to follow the coordinates. “Take us there, Ensign.”
“Sir, we’ll be there in just a few minutes—we weren’t that far away to begin with,” replied the helmsman.
Even better. He turned back towards the comm.
“Ensign Evans, inform Admiral Trajan that we may have located the Phoenix.” He didn’t often want his superior looking over his shoulder, but this was a moment he wanted Trajan to witness: the moment that he, Captain Titus, found their quarry.
“He’s coming, sir,” said Evans from the comm station.
Titus finally smiled—possibly the first time he’d done so in days—and lowered himself into the chair. The captain’s chair. His chair. He wanted to make sure Trajan saw him in it when the moment of triumph came, to leave no doubt in the man’s mind about who had found the Phoenix.
“Just another minute, sir,” said the helmsman.
The door to the back of the bridge slid open and Trajan strode through.
“You have news for me, Captain? Something that couldn’t be delivered to me personally? It had better be good.” The Admiral stopped near the tactical station—not close enough to warrant Titus standing up. Well, technically, military protocol dictated that t
he entire bridge crew stand upon the entrance of an Admiral to the bridge, but Trajan had long since dispensed with that formality. It lowered efficiency, the Admiral claimed.
“Good news indeed, sir. We are seconds away from the Phoenix. Or so this merchant claims,” he replied, motioning to the viewscreen. Vorat’s ship was still barely visible ahead of them, a tiny speck against the backdrop of stars.
“Seconds? Very good Captain. And have you paid him already?”
“Half. Five gold bars.”
“Five?” Trajan’s eyebrow raised up—the one over the pit, which Titus thought odd.
The Captain’s stomach knotted slightly. “Yes, sir, five. I thought the information worth the price.”
“And how do you know he isn’t leading us on some wild chase? He could disappear in an instant and we’d never be the wiser.” Trajan’s single eye penetrated Titus’s face with an intensity the Captain was not accustomed to. He forced himself to meet the gaze.
“Well, sir, we’re about to find out. Helm?” He turned to the station next to the command console.
“We’re there sir.”
“Full stop. Sensors,” he looked back at the tactical station, “scan the surface. What do we see?”
“Ocean, sir. Nothing but a sea of broken-up ice sheets.”
Trajan wheeled on Titus, his face turning into a deadly sneer.
“And beneath the ice,” Titus continued in a hurry.
A pause.
The sensor officer glanced up, and smiled. “The Phoenix, sir. Right where the merchant claimed.”
Titus stood up. “Under the water?”
“Yes sir. Under one of the ice sheets.”
Titus turned to Admiral Trajan. “Sir? Shall I order nuclear strike?”
Trajan, without missing a beat, took the situation in stride. “No. I want that ship intact. But we can disable it. Fire two torpedoes—the water will transfer enough of the shock to the ship that we just might disable their gravitic drive.”