Ranger Bayne (The Deep Black Book 3)

by James David Victor

  But he knew no prayers and was not gifted in comforting, so he clapped Hep on the back and changed the subject. “What is this?” He pointed to the box.

  Hep tapped the box with his foot, not quite hard enough to be considered a kick. “Everything I could cannibalize from the bounty hunters’ ship. Some pieces from their navigation monitors. Took their comm array apart. Captain wants me to reconfigure ours again in case the Navy’s gotten our signal.” He rubbed his left temple with his thumb. “She showed me how to do it one time. Not like I’m any kind of expert. It’d be a lot easier if she were here.”

  Mao sighed, a release of pressure that suddenly built inside him. “A lot of things would be easier if she was here.”

  Mao’s personal comm rang. “Any word?” Bayne had become increasingly terse over the previous weeks. It left Mao to interpret much of what the captain was saying by assuming the things he wasn’t saying.

  “Horus is on his way back,” Mao said. “He has a mission report.”

  “Let me know when he lands,” Bayne said. The line went dead.

  The stench of rum preceded Horus by several meters. Mao smelled him coming before he rounded the corner in the corridor and stepped onto the bridge. “What’sa good word?”

  Mao looked at him through narrowed, judgmental eyes. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Means what it means,” Horus said with a belch.

  Mao shook his head.

  Bayne entered the bridge, trailed closely by Wilco, then Sig a bit further behind. The order didn’t please Mao. Sig distancing himself was understandable. It was Wilco’s closeness that bothered him.

  Hep was sitting in the navigator’s chair, one of the many duties he’d taken on in the past few weeks. He was a quick study. His time as a pirate troubled Mao initially, but it was now proving useful. He was knowledgeable of ships and familiar with their systems, if not versed in how to use them. His background allowed him to pick it up quickly, and he was always eager to learn more.

  Wilco never seemed eager to do anything other than fight. If Hep was becoming more a sailor, Wilco was becoming more a pirate, relishing the opportunities where his tendency toward violence made him an asset.

  “Let’s hear it,” Bayne said.

  After a stretch of silence, Horus looked around at the eager faces, waiting for someone to speak. “Well? Out with it,” Horus finally said.

  “He’s talking to you,” Wilco said with a chuckle.

  “Right,” Horus said, touching his finger to the tip of his nose. “Knew that. Out with what, then?”

  The muscles of Bayne’s jaw pulsed. “Mission report.”

  Horus’s face lit up with understanding. “Aye, that’s right. Report. It’s in the shuttle. Tucked in the cargo hold.”

  “What is?” Mao asked, his patience spent.

  Horus fell into the nearest chair. “That ghostly fella I was sent to nab on Teo,” he said with a satisfied smile. “Abbaghast.”

  3

  The anger on the bridge was stronger than the stink of rum on Horus’s breath. It stung Bayne’s nose as he breathed it in.

  Mao was suddenly the only other man on the bridge with Bayne. He had the ability to do that, draw your attention so completely that everything else faded away. And he did so quietly, like a thunderstorm on the horizon, far enough you couldn’t hear it, but you could see the flashes of lightning.

  “You sent Horus to Teo?” The weight of Mao’s question pressed against Bayne’s chest. “That’s the next quadrant over. He crossed two Byers trade routes. By himself. And none of us knew. None of us were prepared to provide backup should he need it.”

  “I knew.” Wilco appeared in their conversation, stepping through the fog born of Mao’s intense gaze. He quickly faded back into it when Mao turned that gaze on him.

  “Three of the last five bounty hunters we questioned said they got the contract through the same broker. I need to question him.” Bayne didn’t wield protocol like a weapon anymore. He didn’t shut down dissension with a snap of his fingers. He’d relinquished that authority after Triseca. But Mao couldn’t wield it either.

  Though he still tried to. “You put Horus at unnecessary risk. You should have at least sent one of us with him. No solo missions can be executed without authorization—”

  “From who?” Bayne snapped. “Admiral Ayala? Would you like me to run the details of my mission plans by her?”

  Wilco briefly appeared again from the fog, barely stifling his laughter.

  “There is no higher authorization than that which comes from me.” Bayne heard the arrogance in his words, though he didn’t intend it.

  Mao heard it, too. The look on his face made Bayne keenly aware of everyone else on the bridge. The fog lifted, burned away by the heat radiating from Bayne’s cheeks. The crew looked to Bayne for…something. He wasn’t sure what. To further grind his heel on Mao’s insubordination? Humility? Likely, they wanted both.

  “Collect the broker,” Bayne ordered Wilco. “I’ll question him in my quarters.” There was no room for humility. No room for second-guessing, not from his crew or himself. He needed a firm stance, always. One foot firmly planted with the other moving forward, toward something. Taking a step back meant walking into his pursuers or giving up on clearing his name. Or losing more crew. They could not see him waver.

  Wilco hoisted Horus to his feet and steadied him. They walked off the bridge. A nod from Mao sent Sigurd and Hep following after. Then it really was just Bayne and Mao.

  The silence that stretched between them was as vast as the Deep Black, and just as encompassing.

  “Permission to speak freely, sir,” Mao said, adopting a formal stance and tone.

  “We aren’t Navy anymore, Taliesin. Enough with the protocol.”

  “Then what are we?” The force of Mao’s voice slapped Bayne across the face. “Better you don’t answer that. I’m not sure I would like the answer. I know what I am. I am a sailor. I am Navy whether the Navy accepts that or not, so I will continue to behave as such. And I will continue to act as the XO I have always been, by pointing out to you when you are on a path that will inevitably lead to regret.”

  Bayne squared his stance, the indifference gone. “I did not set myself on this path.”

  Mao stepped up to him, matching Bayne’s intensity. “You sound like a child. No one is responsible for your decisions besides you.”

  “Then stop trying to affect my decisions.” Bayne walked off the bridge, Mao’s burning anger searing holes in his back.

  Bayne imagined he was back sitting on the beach, pole in his hand, eyes on the bobber. It was bouncing on tempest waves now.

  Wilco was propping Horus up outside Bayne’s quarters. The older man looked like he might vomit, or pass out. His eyes were open only enough to notice that it was Bayne who approached. “Captain, my captain,” he slurred. “Apologies for the state of…me. Had to play the part.”

  Bayne placed a reassuring hand on Horus’s shoulder. “Take him to his quarters,” Bayne said to Wilco. There was enough open space on the ship now that nearly every remaining crew member was able to have their own cabin. “We’ll debrief in the morning.”

  Horus grunted something unintelligible as Wilco walked him away.

  Bayne pushed the image of the Royal Blue’s corridors once bustling with sailors and friends out of his mind. He could not make decisions out of a sense of loss. That only led to more loss.

  He opened the door to his quarters.

  A well-dressed man stood to greet him as if Bayne had stepped into this man’s quarters. He nodded, welcoming him, making Bayne question where he was for a half-second. Abbaghast was in his early forties, Bayne knew from an intel report, but he looked much younger, possibly confirming a rumor mentioned in the report that Abbaghast underwent frequent cosmetic surgery. Even the motivations of the supposed act were merely rumor. Some suggested it was a way of eluding arrest, even though most of his activities of record were legal. Assuming brok
ering bounty contracts was his only business. Others suggested he ran afoul of one of the largest crime families in the system, the Pesmergas. Others suggested it was Parallax of whom he’d run afoul. Both entities had a reputation brutal enough to warrant changing your face.

  This man standing before Bayne looked no older than thirty. His hair was jet black and streaked with midnight blue. He wore an easy smile and an expensive, tailored suit. His tie hung loose around his neck, suggesting either a laidback disposition or a rough trip from Teo.

  “Captain Bayne, I presume?”

  Bayne nodded.

  Abbaghast’s ghostly blue eyes fell on the swords hanging on Bayne’s hips. “Ranger turned Navy captain turned system’s most wanted fugitive. Yours is a story I would most like to hear.”

  “That why you’ve been brokering so many contracts for my capture?”

  “Just business, friend.” Abbaghast looked to Bayne’s desk. “For one who values discretion above all, I consider it a cardinal sin to snoop through a person’s home. But it was a long and rather unpleasant trip.” His easy smile turned to a knowing one. “Could I trouble you for a nip of that black rum you keep in your top drawer?”

  The broker put Bayne at ease, which, once he was aware of it, made Bayne uneasy. Abbaghast was a businessman. A very good businessman from all accounts, and this meeting did nothing to disprove that. Bayne had swords. Abbaghast had charm. Both were equally dangerous when wielded with skill.

  Bayne took the bottle from his drawer. It had dwindled significantly in recent days. He poured two glasses and handed one to Abbaghast. The broker sipped it. His easy smile grew more genuine. He took the rest of the glass in one gulp. “Now, friend, I am in fine spirits.” He presented the empty glass to Bayne. “Provide me some fine spirit, and I think I may be better company.”

  Bayne obliged. He corked the bottle and sat at his desk. “I’ve come across five bounty hunters in the previous two weeks. Three of them were sent by you.”

  Abbaghast objected. “I do not send any hunters anywhere, friend. I merely connect individuals of particular skillsets with jobs to which they are uniquely suited. I am a middleman.”

  Bayne sipped his drink. “That your business card?”

  Abbaghast sat in the chair at Bayne’s dining table. “One of them. I have many.”

  “Who sponsored the contract?”

  “I am a man who values discretion above all else.” He put his hand over his heart. “To violate that principle would be a violation most personal.”

  Bayne uncorked the bottle and refreshed Abbaghast’s glass. “Yet you have no qualms about violating that principle when you’re thirsty.”

  Abbaghast sipped the fresh drink. “Extenuating circumstances. I’d just been abducted by the most wanted man in the system.”

  “You don’t strike me as a man who scares easy.”

  “I strike men in a great many ways,” Abbaghast said. “I am not above fear when the situation calls for it.” He sipped and smiled. “I’m not sure this situation calls for it. You don’t seem the most wanted sort.”

  “Then perhaps you can help me.”

  The pale blue of the broker’s eyes seemed to darken. “I’m afraid that would violate the one principle which I hold as holy doctrine—self-preservation. My business and my body would be ruined.”

  “Then the sponsor has threatened you?”

  “Nothing so base as an outright threat. It is implied, however. But I am positive that I would never receive another contract if I were to reveal the sponsors to you.”

  Bayne’s ears perked. “Sponsors? Plural?”

  Abbaghast’s easy smile spread wide over the rim of his glass.

  The Navy and Byers Clan were the obvious choices. But if they were each sponsoring contracts, then they were separately searching for Bayne, not coordinating their efforts. Parallax may have been successful in shattering their alliance before it fully formed. He had created a schism between them and focused their attention on finding Bayne instead of breaking Ore Town.

  He couldn’t help but be impressed by Parallax.

  “Tirseer.” Bayne lobbed the name out like a grenade and waited to see if it exploded. He realized by now that Abbaghast gave nothing away that he did not intend, so he knew the flicker in the broker’s eyes was a signal.

  Centel was leading the hunt for him. Bayne had assumed as much. It was Centel that orchestrated the massacre of the Rangers. It was Centel that was orchestrating something in the dark. It was Centel that had the most to lose should Bayne go public with that knowledge. Not that he had anything to go public with, aside from Horus, who was hardly a credible witness; he was complicit then and a drunk now.

  But what did the Byers Clan want with him? Simple revenge for Triseca? A forthright motivation would be refreshing.

  “Who in the Byers Clan made contact with you?”

  Abbaghast set his now-empty glass down on the table. “You are quite persistent. Or dim. I’ve yet to decide.”

  Bayne leaned back and considered his options. He considered the well-dressed man sitting across from him. Charming, sleek, slimy. How was it that he found himself sitting across from people like that so often? The doublespeak made his head ache and his gut bubble with anger. He’d sooner cut the forked tongue out of their mouths than try to untangle what it was they were and were not saying.

  The swords hung heavy at his side.

  Bayne stood, tapping his fingers on the handle of each sword. Benevolence and Malevolence.

  “I respect your dedication to your business principles,” Bayne said. “But not so much as to dissuade me from what I must do.”

  The easy smile slid off Abbaghast’s face. “And what is it you must do?”

  The sad truth was, Bayne didn’t know. He just knew that he had questions and wanted answers. He wasn’t even entirely sure what the questions were.

  “Survive,” Bayne said. That was enough for now. Everything else to follow was predicated on that one simple concept. “And you may be able to help me with that. So, you’ll remain my guest until my survival is assured.”

  “Keeping me prisoner will not end the contracts,” Abbaghast said. “There are other brokers. They will still come for you.”

  Bayne said nothing else to the man. He left Abbaghast to his fine suits and subterfuge. He returned to the bridge. Mao seemed surprised to see him. Bayne wanted to be offended, but he knew he had been avoiding the bridge. It was the control center of his life—all of their lives—and he no longer wanted control.

  “Sir?” Mao said.

  “Open a channel,” Bayne said. “Black frequency. I need to talk to Delphyne.”

  4

  Three months ago…

  Triseca was nothing more than a gas cloud. The oxygen pumping through the breath tubes from the filtration system to every room and corridor. The nitrogen and carbon dioxide being processed and filtered. The bodies.

  Delphyne watched the scanners, secretly hoping the large yellow dot would flash back onto the screen, signaling the end of some horrific nightmare. The space it once occupied was still empty when they flew out of range.

  “Lieutenant.” Bayne’s voice sound far away. She wanted it to be far away. She wanted it to be full of something other than urgency and command. Regret, sadness...something. But it sounded like the voice of a captain. Steady, collected. “Open a channel to Admiral Ayala.”

  She didn’t answer but scanned the Navy frequencies. Each one broadcast the same message. An alert announcing the destruction of Triseca and the altercation that preceded it. Parallax’s forces had declared open war. There had been casualties on both sides. Severe civilian casualties.

  “Lieutenant,” Bayne repeated for the unknownth time.

  Delphyne was lost in the message.

  Severe civilian casualties.

  She snapped back from the brink and scanned the channels reserved for officers to officer communications. They all broadcast the same message, which ended with instructions to ha
lt all communications and await further instructions.

  They believed Bayne was a Parallax mole. They must have assumed that if there was one, there could be others. They wouldn’t risk open communication if it was at all possible their communication network was compromised.

  “Frequencies are all closed, sir,” Delphyne said.

  Bayne cursed. He had grown increasingly unconventional of late, but he always kept his composure on the bridge. Though, that was the least concerning change in his behavior. He paced around the captain’s chair, stroking his chin and staring at his feet. He stopped abruptly, his eyes lit by an idea. “Hail frequency echo-three-echo.”

  Delphyne’s fingers hovered over her keypad. “An echo channel? Those are black channels, sir. Reserved for deep-cover communications.”

  Her mind raced, like a torrent of water finally broken through a dam, down paths she’d, until now, reserved to let it wander. Moles. Black operatives. Double agents. Centel. And, now, an echo channel typically used by deep-cover operatives to communicate with their handlers. Was Bayne an operative? Was this whole thing a black op? Were the rest of the crew just pawns in a shadow game? Did they know about it? Maybe it was just Delphyne floundering in the dark, searching for something familiar to cling to.

  “Ayala and I established a back-channel years ago,” Bayne said. “A direct link to Naval Command. All of the Deep Black captains did in case they ever needed to bypass the bureaucracy in an emergency. I don’t think this is quite what Ayala had in mind.”

  He had the audacity to smile. As her world burned around her, quite possibly lit by a match struck with his hand, he smiled. She keyed up the frequency. It was open. Static. No emergency alert.

  “This is Captain Drummond Bayne of the UNS Royal Blue. Admiral Ayala, do you read?” Static-filled silence washed over the bridge. “Admiral, are you there? I’m adrift in the Black here.” The silence stretched further. It felt heavy, like it was pressing Delphyne into the floor.