Triorion Omnibus

by L. J. Hachmeister

  “Never forget my love for you. I will be with you, always.”

  White light, as brilliant as a star, formed from the woman’s aura and eclipsed her figure. Jaeia extended herself, expecting to find some tangibility, but found herself being drawn forward, just out of reach. The world rushed past in a blur, but Jaeia hardly noticed.

  If I can reach her—

  A voice wrapped around her, filling her soul. “Find Ashya. Help Kurt. Come home...”

  JAEIA OPENED HER EYES and found herself standing over the helm controls, the ensign awkwardly bent over sideways, allowing the captain to manually navigate the ship. At her fingertips flashed coordinates that put them in the western part of the northern hemisphere.

  “Sir, I’m detecting a freight crusher, beta-class, with activated distress beacons at position 39-104,” one of the deck hands said over the hushed bridge crew.

  “Enhance view by two hundred percent,” Jaeia said, moving to the center of the bridge.

  The tell-tale pattern of wreckage made her shake her head. “Oh, Jetta...”

  No matter what the circumstances, her sister always seemed to crash her starcraft in the same way. A smile crossed her lips; a small part of her wanted to point out to her sister that she was zero for two on her terrestrial landings, but she quickly doused the thought with the sobering truth of her sister’s recent behavior.

  “Ready an evac team,” she said, signaling her ground crew.

  “Captain—I’m not sure if my instrumentation is reading correctly, but it appears as if there are other life forms present in their cargo hold.”

  “Species?”

  The officer hesitated, a puzzled look furrowing his brow. “Not human.”

  “Let’s move,” Jaeia commanded, checking the biostat on her uniform sleeve. Her numbers showed another low-grade fever and a decreased white blood cell count, but she couldn’t imagine how Jetta felt—sleep deprived, hungry, and most likely injured. Maybe even—

  No. She wouldn’t think that.

  Jetta, she called through their silent connection. Hold on—I’m coming.

  (YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE you’re going,) an inner voice whispered as Reht ran down another empty hallway in Shandin’s warehouse. Wild need spurred him on, suppressing his instincts. (This isn’t you.)

  In some remote corner of his mind he recognized that control had been lost to him long before he touched down on the dead world.

  (Disowning Triel, taking that stupid, much too coincidental bounty board on Diawn—) When he heard Shandin’s voice rise from the grave. (It’s wrong—all wrong.)

  And he couldn’t stop himself.

  “You check down that way,” Reht said, fanning his crew out around the maze of the warehouse. Mom stayed at his side, not heeding his order to check the upper stairwell.

  “What are you worried about, old friend? Half his Johnnies are already down. Nothin’ we can’t handle.”

  His gut told him otherwise. (It’s a setup.)

  It was too easy getting in, too easy defeating the Johnnies threatening the two Scabber girls.

  “Mom, Dad—”

  His young, unscarred hands reached out, tugging at his father’s hair. The dead man’s mouth fell open, spilling gobs of coagulated blood.

  Reht flexed his hands, nerve memory recreating the burn of the acid.

  “Chak,” he whispered, pushing the feeling aside. Focus; can’t think of the past. This is my chance—the only chance to make things right.

  “Gods, what is that smell?” he exclaimed, covering his nose. The smell of decay got worse and worse the farther they traveled into the warehouse. It reminded him of—

  Two hands emerged from the shadows, pulling him behind a hidden door. Mom roared when his captain disappeared behind the partition, slamming his fists against the barrier.

  A cloth that smelled like sour cabbage and ether clamped down over his nose and mouth. After one breath, all the energy sapped from his body. His eyelids grew heavy, his muscles relaxing without his consent as strong arms dragged down an unlit passageway.

  “You... jingoga...” he muttered.

  His attacker threw him into a chair. A caged fluorescent bulb shined down on him from above, illuminating only a small radius in an otherwise dark room. As his struggled to keep his head upright, someone tied his hands and feet to the legs of the chair.

  Is that... blood? He smelled a fresh kill, and the tinge of bile and digestive fluids from an opened gut. The peculiar dampness to the air made his stomach turn.

  “Reht Jagger. Little Keedai.” A cold voice, with inflections of vicious delight. Shandin’s face dipped into view. “I didn’t think you were still alive, mukrunger. I thought you would have killed yourself after I raped your world.”

  Reht picked up his infinitely heavy head, trying to look Shandin in the face. Somewhere in the distance he could hear his Talian warrior beating on the walls, howling in agony for his captain.

  “Who... how... did you...?” Reht said through thick lips.

  (Mom, Dad—I’m so sorry—)

  Shandin’s face remained emotionless, his voice even and unaffected. “You’ve always been so useful to me, Jagger. First, you give me the fertile and profitable planet of Elia. If it wasn’t for you I would never have been able to get rid of those godich natives. You knew all their secrets.”

  “Etaho benieho!” Reht managed to sputter.

  What did they drug me with? He panicked, his heart going into overdrive as tried to move his arms and legs. Numbed limbs responded sluggishly, barely putting up a fight against his restraints. But even the slightest movement, the rope holding down his wrists or the leather jacket collar rubbing up against his neck, agonized his nerve endings. Sounds, even the shuffle of feet in the shadows, felt like thunder blasts against his eardrums, and the harsh light from the bulb made his eyes water.

  Shandin’s trying to get in my skull—

  —he’s going to pull my brain apart—

  Removing a knife from his waistband, Shandin sliced the bandages off of Reht’s hands. His face remained uncut by any kind of emotion, yet his words dripped with satisfaction. “Ah, yes. Diawn told me about your legendary self-inflicted scars.”

  My scars—

  (Not deep enough. They’ll never take away the suffering of Elia, of the tribespeople I helped Shandin slaughter.)

  Shandin pressed his thumbs into the backs of Jagger’s hands. The dog-soldier bit his lip, stifling his scream. “Acid and your father’s woodcutter, is that right? Very painful, very appropriate for what you did. And you never once let that filthy leech heal your wounds.”

  Pain awakened the faces he had done everything he could to lock away. Chief Dannu, with his weathered skin and steadfast gaze. His daughter, LaLanna. Long, braided dark hair and eyes the color of glacial rivers. Kino, his blood-brother, riding on the back of a six-legged torsen, challenging him to jump across the Deadman’s cliffs.

  (I never meant to—)

  Shandin brushed back Reht’s hair, making clicking sounds with his tongue. “And now you’re a dog-soldier captain? Does your crew not know the truth about their fearless leader? That behind the charm, that vile facade, is an impuissant little boy who so readily betrayed his own friends—his own family?”

  He screamed. It came out of him with such fervor that it shocked the guards that paced beyond the circle of light.

  Shandin’s soulless eyes met his. “And now, little Keedai, you’re going to help me once again.”

  “Keedai. What the hell does that mean?” a throaty, familiar voice said.

  He hadn’t been called Keedai since he was a boy. The natives of Elia had given him the nickname after he tried to steal the chief’s bow.

  Absently-mindedly, he mumbled the answer. “Mischief... maker...”

  Diawn stepped into view. At first he couldn’t tell at what was wrong with her face. New makeup? She usually wore too much.

  No, not makeup. Fighting the nerve pain, he braved opening his eyes a
little wider. Her face appeared swollen, deformed. A bandage, caked with dried blood, covered her right eye.

  He rolled his head onto his left shoulder and tried to turn his face to her. “What the hell... your... eye?”

  Diawn scowled at him as she took her place behind Shandin. As they stood close together, Reht noticed the criss-crossed scars around Shandin’s right socket, and a slight difference in the coloring of his eyes. Someone’s marked both of them—but not as prized pets.

  No, this was different than the privateer practices of the outerworlds. Someone didn’t mark these two as their underlings. This felt bigger, more ominous, especially if they did something specifically to their right eyes.

  “Why can’t I have this one?” Diawn sauntered back over to the dog-soldier captain. Holding up his chin up with one hand, she ran her razorcutter nails along the old scar on his cheek. “You get to kill all the Lurchins.”

  Despite the contempt seething from his pores, Shandin’s tone never changed. “He’s the boss’s property now.”

  “But he’s a Sleeper!”

  “Exactly.” Reht saw the hate in his eyes, the way he despised her ignorance. “He’s programmable.”

  “Chak... you...” Reht said. He tried to spit in her face, but without enough power behind the action, the gob dribbled over his lips and down his jacket.

  Something chirped in the shadows. A familiar whirr, a strand of blonde hair over a cherubic half-face.

  “Billy... Don’t...” Reht huffed. Tears streamed from his eyes. The little ratchak tin can. If Diawn had him, then that meant—

  “I hope you don’t mind I took Billy,” Diawn said, circling him. “Seemed a fair trade since you borrowed my girl. Tech seemed upset about it. So did that psycho-chak Vaughn. But Femi took care of them for us.”

  And then she stepped into view. The ebony princess, the virginal beauty, spattered with blood.

  “No...”

  “You animal,” Diawn said as Femi joined her by her side. “All it ever took was a godich punte and you came running.”

  Femi smiled at him, her white teeth gleaming in the light. “And you thought you were so suave,” she said in perfect Common, with only a hint of a Qau’ti accent.

  Pressing her body against Femi’s, Diawn growled, locking eyes in a standoff until the younger female submitted and lowered her gaze. He saw it then. Femi is Diawn’s girl. Diawn set him up, knowing that he wouldn’t have been able to resist her obedient servant, and that she would be the perfect tail for keeping tabs on his activities.

  “Billy...” he called to the little Liiker idling behind Diawn. Blood dotted his metallic torso, but he appeared unharmed. That meant that Tech or Vaughn—or both—had been—

  “Let’s get on with it,” Shandin said, motioning for something from the shadows. Someone handed him a pointed, gouging instrument.

  “No, let me.” Diawn danced her razorcutters above his orbital socket. Reht tried to turn away, but she held fast to his chin. “I want to take his pretty little eye.”

  Holding the instrument close to Reht’s face, Shandin whispered, “A word of advice, little Keedai: I tried to defy him once. After I destroyed Elia, when I tried to take his prize. You’ll find the boss very... persuasive.” He motioned to his right ear. “He gets in your head.”

  Now that he had been directed towards Shandin’s ear, he could see that something had been surgically done to it. The top half was missing, and the opening was scarred and sewn shut.

  A thug rolled a cart of silver instruments next to his chair. Reht’s heart slammed against his sternum, his bowels clenched. Whatever chakked up thing happened to Shandin and Diawn is about to get done to me—

  Despite the pain, Reht fought with failing strength against his restraints. Oversensitized nerves shrieked, pulling him back and away, into a time he had chosen to forget.

  The interrogation light, the restraints, disappeared. Jerky images organized into corroded metal walls and lights strung together with scrap material. Yeasty smells of home-brewed beer, unwashed patrons, and vomit touched his nose, awakening his senses.

  New Haven, he recalled. The only bar in the newly industrialized zone on Elia.

  Why the galactic corporations had an interest in the undeveloped world was beyond him at the time. Only eleven, he hated his life. He wanted the fast-paced, high-stakes life of a gunslinger, or the adventurous, vagabond life of a dog-soldier. Not the drab life his missionary parents had wanted for him. In no way did he want to protect the Wiconte forests or the natives’ land, or spread the word of God. Besides, his only understanding of God was in the dead eyes of his brother Derex as his mother held his lifeless body and wept.

  The barkeep, a rough fellow with a bald head and a teardrop tattooed on his cheek eyed him from across the bar. Rumor had it that the scar across his forehead was given to him by one of the natives after he had trespassed on their land. “Hey, kid. What are you doing here?”

  “Nuthin’,” Reht said, trying to hide the bottle of Redfly behind his back.

  The barkeep snapped his towel at him. “Get the hell out of here, kid.”

  “Naw, he should stay,” one of the dog-soldiers said, swiveling around on his stool. Reht tried to run, but the dog-soldier had him by the back of his neck before he could duck out through the front door. “Young pup like this ought to know what real life is like.”

  The dog-soldier brought him back to the bar and plopped him down on a stool. “What’s your name, kid?”

  Reht stayed silent, still trying to hide the bottle of Redfly behind his back, but the barkeep spotted the lump under his shirt.

  “Thief!”

  “It’s on me, Teardrop.” The dog-soldier took the Redfly from his hands and placed it on the counter in front of him. With one yellow and one brown eye he regarded Reht, staring in a way that made him uncomfortable. “Now, I asked you a question, kid—what’s your name?”

  One of the drunks near the jukebox lifted his head and laughed. Reht recognized him as one of the natives who had joined the mining force in town. It paid dismally, but with Elia’s increasing industrial presence and modern commodities, more young natives were being drawn into the illusions of city life. “That’s little Keedai!”

  “Keedai...” The dog-soldier tapped his chin as he thought it over. “Mischief maker, right?”

  Reht sat motionless, keeping his eyes trained ahead.

  “Didn’t think you were from the reservation,” the dog-soldier said, pulling back on Reht’s hair. “You’re too much of a pretty-boy to be a featherhead.”

  Reht flicked his head away and smoothed his hair back, showing his teeth. Everyone on the planet feared his freshly cut adult incisors. At least the native kids his own age did.

  The dog-soldier laughed. “Breaking into a bar, stealing Redfly—you’re something else, aren’t you, kid? You want to be a dog-soldier when you grow up?”

  He tried to casually shrug off the question, but his reddening cheeks gave away his secret.

  “Good,” the dog-soldier said, a scheming grin quirking his face. “Then drink up, son. Show us what you’re made of.”

  Other patrons chimed in: “He’ll never make it!”

  “He’ll puke!”

  The excitement and fear made his heart race. He had never tasted alcohol before, but from the way it made the adults act, and how vehemently his parents protested against its consumption, he had to have it. More importantly, he sensed the chance to impress a horde of dog-soldiers and privateers as the entire bar circled around him, chanting his native nickname.

  Grabbing the bottle by the neck, Reht brought the mouth to his lips, feeling the sting of Redfly on his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut and downed the liquid fire, his stomach spasming as it seared his insides.

  Don’t puke don’t puke don’t puke—

  He kept it down. He had to. For the endless school days where he was teased by the native children for his alien looks, or the times he got lost in the dark Wiconte forests
and cursed his parents for uprooting him from his real home—for a dead God that had ruined his life and taken his brother’s.

  The dog-solder slapped him on the back and winked his yellow eye. “Nice.”

  Coughing forcefully, Reht wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Despite the funny feeling in his head, he felt strangely relieved.

  “To little Keedai,” the dog-solder proclaimed, raising his glass, “the pretty God boy from the rez. You’re one of us, kid.”

  One of them. It felt right. At least more right than staying on an undeveloped world caught in the midst of religious and political warfare. Flying across the galaxy, always on the run, seemed better than the pointless cause his parents had committed themselves and their family toward.

  “Who are you?” Reht said, playing with the black and red label on the Redfly bottle.

  “Lugger, but that’s captain to you. I run a five-man drug-running crew,” he said. He produced a cigarette from the front flap of his pilot’s jacket and offered it to him. “You in or what?”

  Reht took the cigarette and grinned.

  Other memories interjected, asserting themselves in random order: his first taste of methoc, the way the powder stung his tongue. How the entire world exploded with light as he injected his first booster. His first girl, her waifish hips gyrating against his. Watching the life bleed out of his first kill, the way the man’s blood stained more than his clothing.

  “You have to stop,” his mother sobbed. “You’re ruining your life—our life.”

  After forcing him to church, his father asked him over and over again, “Why have you turned against God?”

  No answer would satisfy his parents, so he ran away, leaving for weeks—even months—at a time. It didn’t matter if they locked him down in the church or sent him off with the tribe; he always found a way to return to the city.

  “Keedai, you must stop running,” the chief of the Koiwros, a tribe in the valley, told him after he returned from a two-month stint. The thrill of it all—the narcotics bust, barely getting away with his life as a rival crew tried to move in on their arrest—hadn’t abated. He only wanted more, even though half the crew had been killed, and Lugger had been shot nine times. “You cannot run forever. One day you will have to stand and face these restless spirits inside you, or they will consume your soul.”