by Liam Clay
“It's kind of like being back in bootcamp, huh?” Francis says.
“Speak for yourself.” Tikal says. “I've gone from drill instructor to slave.”
Below us, the first bars of morning light are stretching across the mountains: leaping from peak to peak, leaving the valleys in shadow. Amy is watching the sun's progress, paying no attention to our conversation. Placing a tentative hand on her shoulder, I say, “Are you alright? The slavers were talking about what you tried to do, back there.”
The look she turns on me is a dark one. “Oh yeah? And did they mention that I couldn't go through with it?”
“No, they just said you were trying to kill yourself.”
“Trying and failing.” She says bitterly.
“Are you seriously upset that you're still alive?” Lucy asks. “Granted, we've been made prisoner, but all of us have been in worse spots than this.”
“Of course we have. But if this had been a Null ship, the Architect would already be torturing the Kogi's location out of me. All because I was too chickenshit to pull the trigger.”
Francis snorts. “So what? It wasn't the Null at all.”
Amy is about to reply, but stops when the white-haired man sidles over. His face looks like a piece of paper that has been scrunched up and then reflattened, but his eyes are young and lively.
“Peace, my dear girl. Are these the friends you’ve been telling me about?”
In my experience, ‘dear girl’ is the kind of thing you call Peace if you want to get shot in the balls. But she doesn't seem to mind.
“Yeah, this is them. Squad, meet Timothy. Timothy, meet the squad.”
“Charmed, I'm sure.” The old man says, bowing deeply at the waist. “Despite the inauspicious circumstances.”
Amy turns to Peace. “Where'd you find this guy: inside a Jane Austen novel?”
“A what novel?”
“Never mind. Who is this guy?”
“Just some old dude who likes to talk a lot. But he's better than the other people in here. I can barely get anyone else to string two words together. It's like they're practicing being downtrodden for when we reach Ninetown.”
Timothy smiles at the little sniper. “You are too kind. And pardon the interruption, but I wished to enquire if you have pondered my predicament any further?”
“What predicament is that?” Francis asks curiously.
Adjusting a pair of absent glasses out of lifelong habit, the man launches into an explanation.
“When I first met the Amateurs, I made the mistake of introducing myself as a scientist. They became enamored with the idea of selling me to a lab that exists at our destination. Ugly is expecting to get quite a sum of money for me.”
“So what's the problem?” Lucy says. “Were you lying about being a scientist?”
“Of course not! That would have been terribly bad form. It's only that I am not that kind of scientist.”
“Then what kind are you?”
“The socio-political kind. I have spent the last 25 years of my life traveling the world, collecting data on the organizational structures of the communities I find.”
“What for?”
“Why, for my book of course. It will contain practical advice on which political systems communities should adopt based on their situations, and guides for implementing them.”
“Uh huh. And how close are you to finishing this book of yours?”
“I am still in the research phase.” The old man replies airily. “One cannot rush these things, you understand.”
“But you said it's been 25 years!”
Timothy looks mildly put out. “Yes, well, it's rather a difficult world out there, isn't it? Traveling from place to place can be tricky. But I have almost all the data I need now. Not that any of it will help me at this lab the Amateurs keep talking about. Why, I would be hard pressed to tell you the chemical equation for photosynthesis! And if I can't work in the lab, they might put me into -” he shudders theatrically “- the general labor pool.”
Lucy frowns. “You wouldn't last a week in a factory.”
“Quite so. But if I tell Ugly any of this, he might throw me out a hatch for my trouble. So, do you see my predicament now?”
We do. But none of us can think of a solution to his problem - or our own. The Amateurs may not be the epitome of evil, but they still intend to sell us into slavery. And this room they've trapped us in is nothing if not secure. Aside from the bathroom there is only the one door, and the walls are smooth steel with no handy vents or ducts. Timothy keeps us amused for a while with anecdotes from his travels, but even he isn't an inexhaustible source of distraction. Silence eventually descends over the group, and we each sink into our own thoughts.
Stonewall is already starting to feel like a dream to me. This is closer to the reality we know: imprisoned and treated like cattle, with nothing but misery ahead of us. Home sweet home. Around mid-afternoon, Blindy enters carrying ration packets of a grainy substance that tastes like nothing but kills my hunger quite effectively. While he's eating, Francis tries to engage the Amateur in conversation.
“So, why are you called Blindy?”
“Who wants to know?” She replies without looking at him.
“Me.”
“And who are you?”
“I'm Francis. Nice to meet you.”
Defeated by my friend's good cheer, she offers up an answer.
“I'm called that because I can read the serial numbers on a piece of salvage from fifty meters away.”
“Cool. And is that what you guys did before: hunt for salvage?”
“That's right.” She says proudly. “My great grandmother was a salvager in the years after the Tungsten Rain. She taught me the trade before she passed.”
“The Tungsten Rain. Do you mean the time when all those space stations fell out of the sky?”
“That's right, except they didn't fall. The stations were knocked out of orbit by the 9th Pyramid.”
Francis blinks, taken aback by this new information.
“The 9th Pyramid, you say. As in the arcology that gave birth to Medival, Worldpool and the other members of the Union?”
“Yup.”
“But the 9th was destroyed too, wasn't it?”
“More or less. They killed each other off, is how my great gran told it.” The woman's eyes narrow. “You know a lot more history than most. Who are you people?”
I expect Francis to claim that we're nobody special, but he has a better idea.
“You mean you haven't heard of us? We're world famous! Why, I personally have saved thousands of people from certain death. And my friends are even more accomplished.” He points to Tikal. “She once killed a giant with her bare hands, and that guy,” he indicates me, “used to be one of the biggest celebrities on the planet. And then there's Amy here. She is actually a digital clone of a mad genius in a girl's body, and -”
“Enough already!” The woman interrupts with a laugh. “If I wanted to hear tall tales, I would ask Clutz about that time he fucked a mermaid.”
Her suspicions allayed, she hands out the last ration packs and leaves the lockup. We spend the rest of the day watching the mountains march past below. I make a game out of searching for signs of life; but aside from the occasional carrion bird, there is nothing to see. One thing is for sure, though: we are headed straight for the coast.
CHAPTER 6
The next morning, we are allowed to work out in the Tub's gym. Chaste and a purple-haired man named Horse have been tasked with watching over us. Both are fully armed and armored.
“Why are you letting us exercise at all?” Lucy asks as we fan out through the space.
“Because it's a long way to Ninetown.” Chaste answers. “And we need your asses looking good when you finally get up on that sales block.”
“But we can't be far from the ocean now. Where is this place?”
“Way, way offshore. This is just the first leg of the trip.”
�
�Then what's the second?”
“We're on our way to a place called the Outpost. It's a kind of staging area for people traveling to Ninetown. We'll put the Tub into storage there, and book passage on the Stormline. It will take us the rest of the way.”
“What’s the Stormline?”
Chaste scowls at her. “This is the problem with questions. They always travel in packs. Now shut up and get lifting.”
Horse just leers and says nothing. If his name refers to what I think it does, then he's overcompensating, which makes his behavior pathetic rather than intimidating. Almost as pathetic as my attempts at pumping iron. Without my arm, there isn't much I can do for my upper body. And even leg exercises are difficult. But it does feel good to get my blood flowing, and the others seem to enjoy themselves as well.
I'm finishing up when Ugly comes storming into the gym. His walks over to me, twists my arm behind my back, and force-marches me away from the others. Tikal protests, but the sound of a gun being cocked is the only reply. Crossing the dancefloor, we pass through a door and into what must - at some point in the distant past - have been a solarium or breakfast room. Curved window frames look back over terrain we’ve already crossed, and the walls are sheathed in soft leather the color of clotted cream. But the glass has been replaced by rows of angular steel slats, and a squat cannon stands in for furniture. I only have a second to absorb all of this, however, before Ugly slams my face against the slatted plates.
“Look out there and tell me you see.”
I try to break free, but my body is not the machine it used to be. Ugly has no trouble keeping me in check, and I am forced to respond as demanded.
“I see nothing worth fighting for. Just dead summits and canyons in all directions.”
“Pleasantly melodramatic, but not entirely correct. Look harder.”
I do as he says. And presently, I see what he's talking about. The ship is larger than this one and flying low - to avoid radar detection, I assume. From this distance it is impossible to make out its design.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“You tell me.”
“Wait, do you think that ship is coming to save us? You're over-estimating our resourcefulness, man.”
“What about the villagers you were staying with? Maybe they weren't so peaceful after all.”
“Not a chance. Those people were pacifists to the core.”
“I'm afraid I don't believe you.”
His calloused fingers find purchase on the neural shunts in my neck. But before he can smash my face into the plates again, the door opens behind us.
“Hey Ugly?” Clutz says tentatively.
“Can't you see I'm busy?”
“Yeah, but... it's about that ship.”
“Fine, spit it out then.”
“You're not going to believe this, but I think those are the Pros back there.”
My tormentor freezes. “How can you tell?”
“Because it says so in huge letters across the top of both wings. Or that's what Blindy told me, anyway.”
“Who are the Pros?” I ask.
“We used to be part of their crew.” Clutz replies. “Until Ugly convinced us to kind of, um...”
“Doublecross them and leave them for dead.” The handsome man finishes. Turning me around, he brushes specks of imaginary dust off my remaining shoulder. “Apologies for the confusion. Nothing personal and so on.” He turns to Clutz. “I need everyone to gear up right now!”
I snort with laughter, and both men stare at me.
“Sorry. It's just that if I had a dime for every time I've heard that phrase, I would have enough credit for a war sandwich by now.”
“Sounds gross.” Ugly says. “Now get moving. You're going back into the lockup.”
An idea occurs. “Why don't you let us fight for you instead? And all we ask in return is to be set free afterwards.”
Now it's Ugly's turn to snort. “And have you stab me in the spleen while my back is turned? I'm not that desperate just yet.”
He grabs my arm and hustles me back into the ship. Chaste and Horse are still watching over the other prisoners, using their rifle butts to maintain order. We cross the dancefloor without issue, but then the Tub rocks in mid-air, sending me sprawling into a rack of free weights.
“Did those fuckers just tether us?” Chaste yells.
Ugly nods. “I didn't think we were in range yet - that new ship of theirs must be the real deal.”
“What should we do?”
“You and me are going to climb out onto the hull and cut that cable loose.”
“What about the prisoners?”
“Horse can handle them. Clutz, go to the bridge and bring back Dunce and Angry.”
Ugly strides over to a ladder and climbs up to a hatch in the roof. He flips a switch, and it pops open. The wind catches the steel square, flipping it around and down onto the hull. Through the gap, I see a thick cable running back toward the stern. Chaste follows her boss, and they venture into the maelstrom together. Horse takes two steps in my direction. But the ship rocks again, and Tikal stumbles into his path. He turns to fend her off, and she uppercuts him in the chin. He keels over like a drunk. She retrieves his gun and moves to my side.
“What the hell is going on?” She shouts over the tumult above.
“It sounds like the Amateurs screwed over their old crew, and now they've come back for revenge. Was braining that guy such a good idea, though? Convincing Ugly to let us help is our best chance of getting out of here, and that didn't do us any favors.”
Tikal mulls this over. “Damn it, you're right. Force of habit, I guess.”
We can hear footsteps in the hallway that leads to the bridge now. I point my friends toward the solarium door, which has a small window set into it. We push through just as Clutz enters the gym with two of his crewmates. I watch them kneel down to check on Horse, who is still out cold.
“Hey guys?” Francis says behind me. “You might want to take a look at this.”
I turn. The other ship is much closer now. Its hull is covered in rubbery suckers, and clawed appendages bracket them like mandibles around an insect's mouth.
“Who are these people?” Francis says.
“I don't know.” Lucy replies. “But we will get to meet them soon enough.”
The cable I saw earlier originates from a gun on the enemy's bow. The vessel is flying higher in the sky now, and soldiers are ziplining along the tether, headed in our direction.
Francis shakes his head in disbelief. “I've about had it with all this special ops shit. Can't we just go back to the lockup and wait this one out?”
A bullet ricochets off the Tub's slat armor. The Pros are close now. And one of them must have spotted us, because she has her gun aimed in our direction. The woman's armor looks far superior to that of the Amateurs; apparently these people landed on their feet after being left for dead. The soldier behind her is carrying an RPG, and now he targets us as well.
“God damn it.” Francis mutters, and then it’s back inside we go. Amy is the last one through the door. She slams it shut just as the rocket hits the solarium. The window flares red and the glass breaks, allowing a rectangle of flame to blaze through. I reel away and trip over Horse, who is on all fours searching for his gun (which Tikal is still carrying). From the ground, I see Clutz, Angry and Dunce raise their weapons. Then there is a sound like a whipcrack from above. Through the open hatch, I see the tether flailing around like a beheaded snake. Then Ugly and Chaste blot out the view. Slamming the portal shut behind them, they clatter down the ladder and bend over, wheezing with exertion. Only afterward do they take in the situation that has developed around them.
“I think these guys were trying to escape.” Clutz explains.
“Who cares?” Ugly snaps. “We've got bigger problems. Chaste managed to cut the tether, but there are at least 12 Pros clipped to the hull right now, and they will tear us apart if we try to go out there again. Which means it's just a
matter of time until they -”
THUNK.
“- peg us with another tether. Shit.”
“Could someone please tell us what that thing is?” Francis asks.
“It's called a trapship.” Chaste replies. “They can latch onto other vessels in flight for the purposes of boarding. Very popular with pirates.”
“You mean, like, skypirates?”
“Yeah.”
“That is so cool.”
“They're less cool in real life, believe me.”
“Bummer. So, what should we do?”
Ugly raises an eyebrow. “What’s all this ‘we’ stuff? I can't really blame you for trying to escape, but that doesn't mean we're going to arm you.” He points to Tikal. “Speaking of which, where did you get that gun?”
“I stole it off the guy with the tiny dick.”
Horse turns purple when he hears this, until his hair and face match. Ugly doesn't seem concerned, though.
“Well give it back, will you?”
“Fine.” She throws the weapon to Horse, who promptly drops it. Everyone laughs, but a clanging sound to either side of the Tub puts a halt to our mirth.
“Those will be the claws.” Chaste says dully. “The suckers usually come next. Ah, there they are.”
We hear a noise like air being sucked out of a milk bottle, and then sparks begin to rain down on us. Looking up, I see a curved line of molten steel appear in the roof.
“Now can we go back to the lockup?” Francis asks hopefully.
Ugly glances over at him. “I've got a better idea. Someone show these assholes where the digger is, and get them to bring it in here.”
Clutz's face lights up. “Great idea, boss.”
We follow him down the corridor that leads to the bridge, stopping at a door about halfway along. It opens onto a storage room full of gear leftover from the crew's salvaging days. One of the largest devices is a four-legged robot, the torso of which is an industrial strength laser.
“It's called a plasma-digger.” Clutz explains wistfully. “We used it for breaking into underground bunkers and such.” I step toward the robot, but he pushes me away.
“Not you.” He grunts.
Swallowing my frustration, I move aside. Lucy, Tikal, Francis and Amy each take a leg; and together, they drag the device back to the gym. Dunce and Angry help them flip it upside down so that the laser is pointing upward. The Pros have cut a half circle into the roof now. Ugly starts to prime the digger, talking as he works.