Starship Rogue series Box Set

by Chris Turner

  “Get him down,” snuffled a robed figure. Blood dripped from his cheek and flattened nose.

  Four of them overwhelmed us at last and twisted my arms behind my back, smacking me hard in the gut. Another whacked me a couple of times in the face.

  “Don’t damage him, Paneu. Mong’ll want to have words with him when he gets back. The last time some new recruit got frisky and made a break for the river, Vorcox roughed him up good and Mong brutalized Vorcox for playing the overzealous policeman.”

  Five more came huffing and puffing to our side. I saw Zan pressed in the ground a few feet away. The meslars hauled us gasping and cursing to the refectory, now a place of operations for dealing with the fire. Armed men stood around trading bitter words and questioning meslars and disciples.

  A half a day must have passed, maybe more. I wallowed in a blur of memories, hazy voices coming in and out of my fuzzy brain.

  Through vision half blurred I saw Master Mong stride in, wearing a Star Lord’s crown and nursing a lion’s snarl. I guessed he’d preempted his mission just to try to save the cindered prayer hall.

  One of the captors who’d taken me down jerked a thumb in my direction. “Fire boy here and his crony tried to get to the rice paddies. Likely wanted to loop back and make a break for the hangar. Figured if they’d made it past the first fence, they could double back and steal a ship.”

  Mong shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me, Rusco, with your juvenile antics. It almost makes no sense to me.”

  I looked over at Zan, crouched in a ball, cowed against the wall. Why’d I listen to that shaven-headed idiot?

  “Sometimes I think there is some genius to your moves but mixed with these dumb, rat-brain schemes makes me pause. How are you even still alive? Did you actually think you’d be able to make it past a battalion of trained men not a mile away? I thought you a man of some resource, that you’d devise something more innovative?” He frowned, a heavy sigh pulling down his lips.

  I shrugged. “Well, desperate times demand desperate measures, don’t you think, Master Mong? You would know something of that.” I grinned, spat out a chipped tooth and a thin spray of blood. I remember regurgitating some dumb line like that back on Bantam when Noss’s hand had been chewed up.

  Mong clicked his tongue. “It saddens me to think you’ve corrupted innocent minds into committing arson. Brother Zan is a loyal member of our Brotherhood.”

  I broke out in a laugh. “Brother Zan would cut your heart out and eat it if he had the chance.”

  Mong stared at the rebel who sat crouched, scowling with a sullen gleam in his black eyes. “Perhaps. The truth will be ironed out in time. I am confident in Zan’s loyalty despite your claim.”

  I shrugged. “You can keep on believing your fantasies.”

  “I see my tests have failed,” he cut in. “I expected you to try to escape—I was wondering when and how. Surely not some lackwit effort from the master of mayhem, Jet Rusco.”

  “Well, now that we know the truth, it’s cause for celebration. Just a dumb grifter in need of Sister Kazoo’s teachings.”

  “Get them out of my sight,” he barked. “Take this wiseass to the Chamber of Redemption. Zan too.”

  Chapter 21

  They dragged us to the Temple of Light, several doors down the hall from where Blest and Lady Volia were held prisoners. I guessed Mong kept all his subversives here.

  Before a lofty iron-bound door, Zan and I slumped with armed guards on either side. Balt and Hadruk were among them.

  After a time, Mong arrived in a black mood, murmuring curses through his teeth. He stared at me, as I looked up at him, sullen and red eyed.

  “You disappoint me, Jet Rusco. I told you about my rules—no escape. What do you do? Try to escape.” He exhaled a caustic breath. “I’ve been far too lenient with you. It’s been an expensive mistake. I fear I’ve done you a karmic disservice by not counseling you properly.”

  I grinned in a crazy daze of unreality. What the hell was he talking about? I contemplated his words in my hazed, beaten-up condition as Balt kicked the grin off my face and a new level of pain tingled through my nerve centers.

  “A few prayers first.” Mong declared, beckoning us curtly into the main chamber of the Temple of Light.

  Rough hands hauled Zan and I forth through marble halls, high-ceilinged as a basilica’s. In truth, an odd and surreal display of opulence not generally known in these depressed times. As if I saw it for the first time, the Temple of Light’s apse loomed before me. Seen from another angle, graced with dreamy, multi-colored light filtering through the stained-glass windows, to illuminate the altar screen gilded of only purest gold inset with pearls. Paintings were strewn lazily on its walls of war scenes, inspired by works of art from long ago Earth.

  Before the altar, Mong muttered a few desultory words at the macabre tanks. “I must clear my mind of this fiasco. Balt, Hadruk, be my witnesses. Bow and meditate, Rusco, all of you. Pay obeisance to the old gods!” He bowed his head in silence. Minutes passed. At last, marching footsteps drifted to our ears behind us and a massive, square-shouldered man dressed in leathers and furs like Mong swept forth stiff-legged. He had a troubled frown on his flat-nosed face.

  Mong tilted his head up. “What do you want? Why disturb me now?”

  “It’s the planet Sargon, sir. It is—”

  “What of Sargon? Full report.”

  “Seems they took the Vendecki lead and fired by propaganda—”

  “What, Freduk, what? Spit it out.” Mong glared at him.

  “I’m afraid, the Sargonians triumphed and managed to seize Keryutti, the capital city.”

  “What of our outer defenses?” Mong barked.

  “Lost. Bastions crumbled.”

  The Star Lord’s fist clenched. “I gave you full command. What of the squadron of attack ships I deployed under your leadership?”

  “Repelled, sir.” Freduk winced, his lip downturned. “By some unknown force field.” He quivered. “More Vendecki tech. We believe they were colluding with the Melinarians.”

  At the mention of the name, Mong sucked in a long, slow breath. He moved toward the altar on tired feet, his boots echoing ominously on the marble. He stared at the memorabilia there for some time, the medallions, incense holders, the hallowed cups and carved, commemorative bowls, lit a candle and looked up into the ancient, dead face of his stone god lost in the mists of time. He murmured a few words then withdrew, turned his weight full around. “You idiot! May Yrzin punish you for your incompetence.” He lifted a hand and in barely concealed wrath, the guilty lieutenant Freduk’s eyes bulged. Blood pooled around those lids and his face shriveled, crimson with fluid.

  Freduk slumped in an unruly heap. “Clean up this trash,” Mong said with disgust. “Throw his body to the eagles and buzzards on the other side of the river.”

  Balt nodded.

  Mong scowled. “If I had have been there, Balt, instead of playing policeman to Rusco’s stupid high jinks, none of this would have happened.”

  “Agreed, lord. Give the irritant to me. I will kill him, slowly and painfully. We will be rid of this pesky canker.”

  Mong swelled in irritation. “No!” He gave the explosive order with impatience and walked away, waving Balt off. “Rusco will come with me. He will not get off so easily.”

  The Star Lord seemed to master his anger; once more he resumed the warlord in control with a face of relaxed manner, if such could be said for a psychopath like Mong.

  “Come,” he said to me in a curt voice, “I will show you what you could have been and what you both could have had.”

  I traded glances with Zan. Mong took us to the Orpheum, that garish chamber decorated with barbaric fountains of gold and animals carved in marble and twined around the legs of its statuary. Pearl-gray waters were stocked with rare tropical fish. Amongst the splendor, lounged a dozen diaphanous silken-clad beauties of all races. I saw Volia there, drugged out of her mind, sprawled on silken cushions w
ith her mouth and legs open amidst tropical plants. Others, men and women, drank from golden goblets or fanned their dainty faces with exotic feathers. Mong’s concubines? Or perhaps for the general use of his privileged captains?

  He mustered a sly smile. “Yes, Rusco, sloe-eyed nymphs from Alphanor, geisha girls from Nashene, courtesans knowledgeable of a hundred pleasures and tricks of the trade to drive a man out of his skull. Pleasure, ecstasy beyond his dreams.” He grinned, an animal grin. “And you thought I was a eunuch. Pah!” He shook his head in wonder. “Yet you have disqualified yourself from all this.” He swept an arm in a grand, mocking gesture. “You have repeatedly broken rules and proven yourself unworthy. Phase 3 is now upon us. I must take necessary action.”

  We returned in swift order to the hall sporting the iron-bound door. Hadruk unlocked it and set it creaking inward, then he and Balt thrust Zan and me inside.

  Balt held back my flailing fist while Hadruk secured Zan. This secret chamber I guessed was Mong’s inner sanctum, only the privileged few got to witness it. He’d set up a mini altar here, though several degrees creepier and more sinister than that of the Temple of Light. A strange primal drumbeat echoed from deep within the candle-lit gloom.

  The man seemed to have a thing for altars, pious sod he was. Here he had not only his two tanks with live Mentera on display but two extra ones, one which contained Blest, staring out of his glass cage like a deflated grouper. My jaw sagged in dismay. Likewise Zan uttered a croak of despair. I almost had to turn my head, seeing Blest like that, but my own morbid curiosity would not let me look away. His dirty blond hair floated like seaweed from his scalp; he hung suspended there like an underwater scarecrow, his legs floating a few inches off the floor, one leg turned a deep shade of yellow where the parasite still clung, his thin lips parted in a O. That blank expression, the eyes staring, his unblinking gaze all unnerved me. Slowly his pale hand lifted and a small bubble rose from his open lips. I gave a crow’s squawk of panic, struggled for sanity to return to my brain and stop the dry heaves from coming. A grisly sight, yet, truth be told, the scene didn’t surprise me.

  Breathe, Rusco, breathe.

  My gaze flickered to several ropes suspended from a beam above. Light chains too looped around that high beam and dangled from the ceiling. Some of the rope ends were frayed and bloody.

  I licked my lips. Did Mong do public hangings in this dark crypt? I rejected the thought. That Zan and I were worthy of such an easy death seemed unlikely. I sucked in another breath and willed myself to be strong. How much worse could it be than a few broken fingers?

  Much worse…stuffed into that spare tank.

  I stared at the usual assortment of adjuncts and curios spread on Mong’s altar. Candles, incense, sacred texts, mortar and pestle for grinding alchemic substances and aromatic herbs or other odiferous things to toss on a candle flame. Secured in a glass case sat the bulb that Follee had coveted and had once clutched in his trembling hand. A brown, fist-sized pod with rough skin like a coconut’s. A reminder to me that Mong kept all his weirdest curios here—relics, grotesques, commemoratives—a place where he inflicted the utmost pain upon his favored residents.

  The drumbeat grew louder. Without warning a big brown-faced man, looking totally stoned out of his mind, came ambling forward, tapping what looked to be a deerhide drum with his tanned palms. He sat before us wearing a trance-like grin. Bristly, black-matted hair spread from the scalp—Oriental, like Mong, of some mixed race of old Earth lineage.

  Glaze-eyed, I opened my mouth to speak, but Mong spoke first. “Boauk is a faithful servant of mine, don’t mind him. Listen to the drum beat, Rusco. Let it draw you toward the inner world of mystery.”

  “I’ll get right on that,” I said.

  Mong chuckled and flashed me one of his hideous grins. “You jest, Mr. Rusco. But maybe you will not be joking an hour or two from now.”

  I motioned to the two grisly tanks of Mentera arranged at the front. “Running out of space to put your pets?”

  Mong smiled. “The Mentera demand further study. As do these tanks, before I install them as permanent fixtures in the Temple of Light. I hesitate to release the creatures, knowing their diabolic tendencies. How to study them without emptying their tanks? A little conundrum that troubles even my formidable mind, so for now they will remain tucked away in this little cubbyhole.”

  “How fitting. I suppose we could use the company.”

  Mong stared at me, a sullen grin twisting his face. “I see my Redemption Chamber has not fazed you much. That shall change. Your meddling and sabotage at Othwan has set back my research a month or two.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Condolences acknowledged. Now to our program.”

  “Wait!” I grumbled. “I still don’t get why these bugs are in their own tanks. Didn’t you say they fed on humans?”

  “I did.” Mong sighed. “These specimens were likely criminals, punished to serve as a type of cannibalistic nourishment for their fellow locusts. Sacrifices—given as sluts to the state, so to speak—not peculiar, if one studies history. The irony is, these prisoners have outlived their overlords, cruel jailors they were.”

  My skin prickled. Not unlike others I knew.

  Mong motioned. “Blest, as you can see, is cooling his heels in one of the feeding vessels.”

  I nodded. “I imagine the waters are quite chill there. So, Blest is dead. Does it give you a particular thrill?”

  “On the contrary, Blest will return to the land of the living soon, as shall you, to continue the rigors of my discipline. Blest’s penance is not yet up.”

  A cold ball of fear knotted my gut. “Death is death, Mong. Why mince words?”

  Mong flashed me an enigmatic glance. “You don’t believe in the other worlds, do you, Jet? The life after death?”

  I snorted. “Do you?”

  “It is not for me to preach. I know the truth. Whereas you do not.”

  I gave a grunt of exasperation. “This ancient religion you market to your stooges and that you model your ‘learned’ teachings on does little to convince me of anything. Nor is your unreal world of drugged up cultists and yes-men you’ve recruited to fly your warships and carry out your dirty work, credible.”

  “Is that what you conclude?” Mong inquired with amusement in his eyes. “How’s this then?” He clenched his fist. The walls started to shake. He closed his eyes. A rumbling as fierce as any earthquake grew. The tanks rocked, their glass panels jiggled, waters sloshed and Zan started to whimper and whisper prayers in all the languages he knew. My eyes darted about in instinctive panic. Did the man have control over the elements?

  “Does that interlude not convince you of its reality?”

  “I do not understand any of these voodoo tricks of yours.”

  “Not voodoo, Jet Rusco. Science and physics. Intelligence and power mixed as one. I am the first of the true augmented humans.” He saw my skeptical, grimacing look and smiled. “These circuits I’ve implanted amplify my telekinetic powers. I’ve had many engineers working on the ins and outs of the problem for some time.”

  “An augmented arm then.”

  “Yes, Jet Rusco.”

  He pulled back the brown leather on his right arm and exposed bare skin. He peeled back a flap. I saw dense circuitry there that went up and probably past his elbow.

  “As well as being left-handed, I have ESP and psi power. I am considered demonic and a warlock by my own people. My mentors recognized my potential from an early age on my home planet, Vasgon. Some of them worshiped me, others persecuted me. I had to slay most of those who became too ambitious and tried to use me for their own ends. Their mistake. I had the augmentations custom-built to my needs.” He raised his augmented hand, flexed it, and I heard a clicking from within. “You marvel?” asked Mong.

  I gave a curt shrug.

  Mong closed his eyes. Flicking out his finger, he sizzled a small hole in the far wall. Black smoke billowed out from the indentat
ion.

  “A nice parlor trick.”

  “It’s more than a trick, Jet Rusco. I see you have a machine hand too. But much cheaper than mine.”

  “We all don’t have access to unlimited funds.” I stared at his flexing hand, feeling a wave of nausea as he made to demonstrate more.

  “I think it’s time to see how you fare in the lower realms, Rusco. Prepare for an awakening.”

  Quicker than a snake, he smacked the palm of his hand into my solar plexus in sync with the next boom of the drum. I felt a tingling queasiness in that flat fleshy part of my gut below sternum and centered between my rib cages. It sent an avalanche of pain through my nerve ends—taking every breath out of me. Something else with it—my tenuous link with reality. My waking state world disintegrated as I was thrust into an altered consciousness.

  Chapter 22

  I could only vaguely discern the past privilege of having a body, gasping, sweating, feeling the pain of what it was like once to be human. It made Myscol seem like a kindergarten field trip.

  Visions swam before my eyes. Souls of the dead. My dead mother in her shroud. The guy I killed with an ice pick back in that bar out in Brefus on a chop job. The dozens of others who had perished by my hand. All crawling around my bug-infested skull, floating out of mists of nightmare. All the close scrapes in every hole and seedy dive. My hand exploding into bloody bits. The hundred climaxes with nameless flings on the road. The infinite light years travelled through the star highways—the restless spirit that followed the body of Jet Rusco. All peaking in one final climax. Then nothing.

  Blackness. No body. Jet Rusco, effectively dead.

  But a vestige of the old Jet Rusco still remained, drifting soundlessly in some freakish ether on the gulfs of time.

  Somewhere I was still alive, like being in an obscene tank perhaps, but not connected to anything, or any reality. I was everywhere at once, but nowhere at once, and it scared the living bejesus out of me. I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t flee anywhere. Only the basic truth of existence was laid bare before my mind’s eye.