“I want to know who she is and where she is,” the admiral said. “Nothing else matters.”
“But, sir, what about the fleet?”
The admiral froze the image and centered on the woman’s face. “The fleet,” he spat, “will do what the fleet has been ordered to do. She is all that matters now. Find her.”
9
When Awen came to, her eyelids felt like they weighed a hundred kilos each. Her sheer force of will finally got them to open wide enough for her to see blurry shapes moving in the distance. She felt like a thick blanket had been stuffed inside her head, slowing her ability to remember… to remember what?
She blinked. The shapes turned into lines, and the lines turned into bars, and the bars turned into trees. Where am I? She tried to raise her head, but the attempt brought on a wave of vertigo. What’s happening to me?
She tried reaching out to the world around her, feeling with her hands, stretching with her legs. But her limbs weren’t responding to her instructions. So she leaned toward the Unity of all things, willing her soul to move beyond the bounds of her… of my what? She was having trouble seeing herself—or seeing anything. It was as if her entire existence was wrapped in a shroud… like the fabric walls of Oosafar.
Oosafar. The mwadim!
Awen’s heartbeat quickened. There’d been an explosion. Then falling. She pictured running through alleyways and dodging heads. No, not heads. She laughed to herself. Containers. There was more running, and then… the Jujari found us. No. She tried to shake her head. That’s not right. Jujari attacked us; someone else found us. They had weapons and candy and then…
And then what? But she felt too giddy to keep trying to sort things out, as if all of those jumbled-up memories were funny and she could start laughing at any moment. Maybe she was laughing already.
Her body felt light as if she were floating on a cloud. Clouds. Clouds made her happy, and happiness made her want to fall back asleep.
She heard her name being whispered by a chipmunk. Not a chipmunk. A monkey face. A naked monkey face, or maybe a naked monkey butt. Like baboons have. So disgusting. And that made her laugh even more because the disembodied thing was talking to her.
“Hi, naked monkey butt,” she replied. “What’s your name?”
* * *
Magnus swung from a metal beam with his hands bound above his head, his feet half a meter from a concrete floor. He blinked himself fully awake to see his helmet on the ground. While his armor had taken the brunt of being strung up, his body still ached. His shoulder was on fire, and he noticed bite marks in his armor, claw marks on his thigh, and more punctures on his foot. Dried blood caked the plating. His lips tingled… from being stunned. He suddenly remembered the alley and the four men. He looked up and searched the room to find Awen hanging two meters away on the same beam. She was mumbling something, her head drooped.
“Awen!” Magnus said.
She didn’t reply.
“Awen, can you hear me?”
Her head swayed a little, and then her eyes met his—sort of. She blinked a lot then said, “Hi, naked monkey butt.”
“Uh, what?” Magnus replied, eyebrows raised.
“You’re attractive for a monkey butt.”
“Awen. Awen, listen, I think you’ve been drugged.”
They must have known she was a Luma. They were suppressing her, and that meant the enemy was informed. Her last feat of magic, saving them from the falling concrete block, must have been draining, and that was what let the enemy get the drop on her. The upside was that she probably wasn’t in any pain. He knew she had to have plenty of injuries.
“Okay, NMB,” Awen replied.
“NMB?”
“I’m making acronyms,” she said with a giggle. “You know, for your name. All you military guys love your acronyms.”
Magnus couldn’t help but chuckle, despite the circumstances. She did have a point.
“Listen, Awen. We need to get you out of here.” Magnus searched the rest of the room. They were in an unfurnished cell with a single barred gate, no windows. Sheet metal made up the walls, and the air smelled like grease. The only light came from work lights in what looked to be a big warehouse on the other side of the bars. There he saw his MAR30, his MZ25, his duradex knife, and his two remaining grenades sitting on a table.
“I don’t understand, though,” Awen said with a slur.
“Understand what?” Magnus worked at the chains around his wrists.
“How’s an NMB going to get us out of here, anyway? You’re just a butt.”
Magnus rolled his eyes. “Remind me never to take you out drinking with the boys.”
“You got it.”
Just then, a male voice spoke in a whiny soprano from somewhere in the warehouse. “Look who’s awake.”
“Yum-yum,” another voice said, this one low.
“Somebody get the boss,” the first one said.
Magnus saw silhouettes move in front of the work lights as a few figures approached the cell. They unlocked the door and swung it open on squeaky hinges.
Four figures entered the room, each wearing leather, fabric, and mismatched armor plates from any number of star systems—just like the men from the alley. Only these weren’t warriors.
“Careful, now,” the squeaky-voiced male said. “Don’t get too close to that one. He’s gonna be a fighter.” Magnus decided to call him Weasel, thinking that two could play Awen’s nonsensical game. “But this one here”—Weasel turned to Awen—“is going to fight in different ways.” He removed a knife and scraped the edge along his stubble.
“Look!” Awen gasped in delight. “More butts!”
“What’d she call us?” the low-voiced captor said, his armor unable to cover his bulbous midsection. Magnus pictured a talking turtle head poking out of a geometric shell. And I’ll name you Turtle. He chuckled to himself.
“How should I know what she called us?” Weasel replied. “She’s piped up on drip, idiot.” He pointed the knife at Awen. “Now, let’s see if she wants to play.”
“I really wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Magnus said.
Weasel turned, noticeably uneasy with the way Magnus stared at him.
“Or what?” Weasel said, stepping toward Magnus.
That’s right, Magnus coaxed him, stay focused on me. Any movement away from Awen was all he wanted until he had time to formulate more effective goals.
“Or I’m going to adjust the composition of your face forcefully. Most will think it’s an improvement.”
Weasel let out a long whistle, but Magnus detected the faintest waver in it. This warehouse rat was no trained warrior, just someone’s hired scum ball picked off the street and handed a blaster and a regular plate of scrap.
“With what?” Weasel said. “How you gettin’ down from your tree, monkey man?”
Awen laughed. “Monkey man!”
Weasel turned toward her. Magnus had to keep his attention away from Awen. “Hey, Weasel, can you help me out here?”
Weasel’s head whipped around. “What’d you call me, buckethead?”
Struck a nerve, Magnus thought. “Weasel. Wait, that’s not your name? ’Cause your boys have been calling you that behind your back ever since I woke up.”
Weasel shot the big one a glance. “Uh-uh,” Turtle said, waving him off. “I swears I didn’t call you nothing. Swears!”
Weasel looked back at Magnus and took a step toward him. “Nice try, buckethead. I see what you’re trying to do.”
“And what’s that, Weasel?”
“Stop calling me that!”
One more step.
“Weird,” Magnus noted as if talking to himself. “Maybe his mother’s name is Weasel.”
That was all it took. Weasel raised a blaster and took another step. Magnus swung his legs out, twisted the blaster out of the man’s fingers with his boots, and scissor clamped the man between his knees. His body’s weight reversed directions and pulled Weasel off his feet. T
he man expelled a gasp of air as Magnus’s thighs squeezed his body like a vise. Magnus heard his armor’s servos kick in, and more pressure was added, snapping a rib. Weasel yelped.
“I’m going to crush you now,” Magnus said.
“No, you are not,” came a booming voice from outside the cell. The man’s presence was so commanding that Weasel stopped fighting for his life and strained to look at the imposing figure at the door and the dozen or more armed men who accompanied him.
“And you would be…?” Magnus asked, still squeezing Weasel.
“The name is Abimbola,” the man said, taking a stride into the cell, followed by a few of his entourage. “And I own this establishment. Which means no one crushes anyone here unless I approve of it.”
Magnus was instantly impressed with Abimbola’s presence. Unlike the prison rats, this man was an impressive hulk of muscle and bone. Magnus guessed he was Miblimbian, since he was almost as big as a Jujari. Bright-blue eyes contrasted with his black-skinned head, and a cliché scar ran the length of the right side of his face from neck to temple. He wore a similar patchwork of discarded plate armor as the other men but chose to keep his tattooed arms bare to the shoulder. A bandolier of frag grenades wrapped his chest, and an old bowie knife in its worn-out sheath was strapped to his thigh.
He was a warrior—one with a code. That was something Magnus always respected, even if the person was on the other side of the battlefield. He despised people who fought merely for fighting’s sake. Theirs was a desperate need for validation and identity manifested in a power trip—usually a reckless one. War never told people who they were, only what they were capable of. In contrast, Marines who understood the warrior ethos, regardless of their creed, knew what it meant to fight sacrificially. They took lives so others could go on living their own. That was who true warriors were.
“And do you approve?” Magnus asked, nodding at Weasel.
“Normally, yes,” said Abimbola. “But today is the twenty-first day in the cycle, and that is a lucky number for me. So if you crush him, I will have to crush you.” Abimbola clucked his tongue and shrugged his shoulders. “Shame.”
“Hmm. Getting crushed wasn’t on my to-do list this morning. Fair enough.” Magnus let Weasel fall to the ground, and the little man gasped for breath as he scrambled along the concrete.
Abimbola nodded. “Thank you. Now, to what do we owe the honor of finding a Repub Marine and a Luma in our fair city?”
“Your city?”
“I have adopted it,” Abimbola replied, snapping his fingers.
Turtle leaned outside, grabbed a chair, and placed it behind his leader.
Abimbola sat, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced, the chair audibly straining under his weight. “My own city was… dismantled. I have relocated for a time.”
So Abimbola is either a refugee or a convict. Sensing he shouldn’t press the matter, Magnus decided to offer some information, since Abimbola had revealed a sliver of his own. “Well, I was going to say that the Republic wanted to purchase some large plots of real estate to turn into resorts, but we both know that would sound slightly suspicious,” he said, eliciting a half smile from Abimbola. “Instead, this lady here got herself on the wrong side of a negotiation, and the Corps asked if I’d look in on her.” Magnus looked at Awen, but she’d passed out.
“I see,” Abimbola said. “And that has nothing to do with the mwadim’s doghouse going up in flames, does it?”
“I told them not to play with fire.”
“Yes.” Abimbola nodded. “One’s tendency is to get burned.” He pursed his large lips and sat back. “And her? What was she doing all the way out here on Oorajee? I didn’t realize the Luma were in the market for vacation properties.”
Before Magnus could reply, Weasel pulled something from his pocket. “She had this on her, boss.” He handed him a silver metal cylinder marred with soot and dried blood.
“A Jujari stardrive?” Abimbola said, flipping the object in the air and catching it. “Expensive little thing. And”—he glanced at the indicators—“locked up tight too.”
“It’s not going to be your shade of lipstick, I’m afraid,” Magnus said.
“Open it, sir! Let’s see what’s on it,” Weasel said gleefully.
Abimbola looked at Weasel and shook his head. “It is a stardrive. The only person who’s opening this,” he said, tipping his chin at Awen, “is her.”
Despite their aggressive nature and often backward culture, the Jujari still managed to give the galaxy several technological achievements, the stardrive being one of the most significant. The cylindrical devices were not only imprinted with the owner’s DNA, but a small neural program in them required a brainwave match. This meant that in order to unlock the device, the owner had to recall the memory of when he or she had been imprinted. The neural software could also detect coercion, so there was no forcing anyone to open one. It was one of the few things in the galaxy that was truly tamperproof, which made it the preferred choice of smugglers, traders, and elitists for high-end data storage.
“You do not happen to know how she got this or what’s on it, do you?” asked Abimbola.
“It might be unsightly holo-vids of Weasel here,” Magnus replied, trying to be helpful, “but I heard those were banned in most parts of the sector.” That produced a small smile from Abimbola and a loud expletive from Weasel.
“Well, judging by the look of her, she is not going to remember how she got this anytime soon.” Abimbola sighed and placed the stardrive in his pocket. Then he locked eyes with Magnus.
Magnus couldn’t tell if the man was waiting for him to offer more information, deciding whether to let them go, or choosing how to kill them.
“Well,” the giant of a man finally said, clapping his hands together and rising, “if that is all, I will let the boys kill you now.”
Kill us? Perfect.
Abimbola must have seen Magnus look over at Awen, because he added, “Oh, not you as in both of you—just you.” He pointed at Magnus. “She is coming with me.”
“The last one run out on you?” Magnus quipped.
Abimbola smiled. “This one is going to be worth a lot of credits to somebody. Stardrives do not just hitch rides on nobodies.”
“Monkeys!” Awen suddenly yelled out, startling herself awake.
Abimbola’s eyes went wide. “I thought you said she was brain-dead?” Abimbola said to Weasel. “What is this? This is not brain-dead.”
“We drugged her, boss,” Weasel said. “Just like you told us to do with Luma. Got her necklace for you too. She’s Luma all right.” He handed Abimbola the leather cord and gold medallion.
“You’re all so cute!” Awen exclaimed. “I want to take you home.”
“See,” Weasel continued. “I meant she’s brain-dead, like, her brain is broken. You know, crazy. She’s talking all crazy and stuff.”
Abimbola looked from Weasel back to Awen. “How much did you give her?”
“Twice what you said. Figured this one was probably dangerous, with a soldier like that protecting her and being way out—”
“Got it,” Abimbola said, raising a hand. He walked over to Awen.
“You’re not going to want to touch her,” Magnus said. “She’s highly allergic to people touching her.”
Abimbola paused. “So protective for a Marine. If only you all were.” The man turned to Awen. “What is your name?”
“That’s not a hard question,” she slurred. “My name’s Awen. Next question.”
“Where did you get this?” He held up the stardrive.
“I didn’t know monkeys wore lipstick!”
“Told you it wasn’t your shade,” Magnus said.
Abimbola shook his head. “This is going nowhere.” He produced a small syringe from a compartment in his pants, removed the cap, and stuck Awen in the side of the neck.
“You just made a big mistake, buddy,” Magnus said, jerking the chains around his wrists.
“E
asy, Marine. Stand down. This is just something to bring her back.”
Awen winced then took several deep breaths. “Wait… where am I?”
* * *
Awen’s head hurt. Come to think of it, her entire body hurt. And it was getting worse by the second. She blinked several times and noticed an enormous warrior standing in front of her, holding a syringe. She panicked and tried to move away, realizing immediately that her hands were bound overhead. Her attempt at movement brought on a new wave of pain in her wrists and shoulders.
“Where am I?” she said for the second or third time—she couldn’t be sure. Awen glanced over and saw the lieutenant hanging about two meters away. “Lieutenant! What—”
“Welcome back,” the large man in front of her said. “You have been out for some time.”
Awen blinked at him, faint memories of trees and monkeys swirling in her aching head. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
“It is temporary, I can assure you, miss…?”
“Temporary because you’re planning on killing us or temporary because you’re ready to let us go now?” She reached out to the Unity. It was time to get out of here. “Because I can assure you that by the time you—” Awen broke the sentence off as a wave of pain severed her concentration from the cosmos.
The warrior wiggled the syringe. “Interesting stuff, isn’t it? Brings you back from oblivion but makes it very hard to stay focused. Which, for a woman of your talents, means it is harder for you to do all those marvelous things you do.”
“So,” Awen said, squinting, “what’s next? Torture? Isolation? Interrogation?”
“A woman who likes to get straight to the point. I like that. First, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Abimbola.”
“His city got blown up,” Magnus added. “That and a bad hair day make him a special brand of pissed off.”
Abimbola tilted his head, raised an eyebrow, and nodded. “That is not too far from the truth. As for you”—he stepped closer to Awen—“I plan on collecting the ransom on your head.”
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