by J. N. Chaney
I balled my fist up and pulled it back, wanting to strike the wall, and I very nearly did before I forced myself to relax. “Easy, Jace,” I whispered. “Take a breath and think.”
I closed my eyes as the light from the tunnel swept over me and I tried to remember anything before I’d woken up in this place, but still there was nothing.
Only fragments. Pieces of thought scattered like a broken holo that had been split up and pieced back together again.
I shook my head. I didn’t have time to sit around and wait for my head to clear up. There was someone else on the ship. Someone who didn’t deserve to be here, and they needed help. I had an obligation to find them, because they were a part of my crew. Whatever the reality of my situation happened to be—no matter how I’d gotten myself into this mess or where this ship was going—my priority remained the same.
Find the Eternal. Take the godsdamn ship.
Whatever came after that—whatever gaps needed filling in my head—I’d just have to figure it out when I got there. Here we go, I thought as I eased back into the corridor. Just gotta take it one step at a time.
The one thing you had to remember about the Sarkonians was that they didn’t play nice with anyone. That included pretty much every colony in the Deadlands, regardless of loyalty, position, or influence. They treated them all the same. You could be the head of a high value medical mega-corporation importing rare goods from the other side of Union space and the Sarkonians would still come in and tear you down. There was little strategy to their conquests—hardly any forward thinking. They only cared about expanding the empire, which meant they only cared about land and resources. They didn’t have time to barter or deal in foreign politics—a stark contrast to the way the Union operated—which is why it came as a surprise to find out they were working directly with the Union government on a mission to capture a little girl and her band of rescuers.
As it went, their unprecedented partnership went a little deeper than we had initially thought. Aside from a few border worlds inside the Deadlands, an area of space that seemed to grow smaller with every passing year, the Sarkonians had been offered a very specific system known as the White Cross.
The White Cross was, according to Alphonse’s intelligence, a resource-rich system with two asteroid belts and ten planets, each of them full of precious metals and rare materials, the most important of which was something called N02-99, a metal used to reinforce Sarkonian hulls. It was highly durable, lighter than most other alloys, having almost no conductivity or magnetic susceptibility, and retaining low malleability. This meant metals as strong as tungsten and as light as aluminum, with the insulating potential and magnetic resistance of rubber, and all for a bargain price for the one in control of the White Cross. That was why the Union had seized it during an aggressive incursion into Sarkonian space nearly three decades ago. The Sarkonians had, ironically, taken the system from a corporate mining company several decades before that.
The problem was, the White Cross had become the sole provider of N02-99 after three other reserves had dried up. Now that it was gone, the Sarkonians had no other way to obtain the metal, except through trade or aggressive invasion.
After hearing this, it was easy to guess which option they’d chosen.
This was the moment that began the fast decline of the empire’s economy. It created a cascading effect, resulting in a wide range of changes and political reform. Their ships were weaker and less capable of holding their own in a one-on-one fight with a Union vessel, thanks to the lack of N02-99, which forced them to rely on numbers rather than technology. They began forcing their citizens to join the military, throwing them on half-completed ships, and sending them out to attack and lay claim to nearby worlds. Over time, approximately thirty years, the Sarkonian Empire went from being the Union’s equal to little more than a nuisance that could be largely ignored, except when it came to the Deadlands.
If there was one thing the Sarkonians wouldn’t allow—one thing they refused to step aside for—it was their once-rival to take even more of their territory. In this case, that meant the Deadlands, since the Sarkonians believed they had a right to it. They couldn’t play offensively the way they once had, but they could certainly hold the line and stop the Union from pressing its way deeper into unclaimed space.
Because of this new dynamic between the two, the Union and the Sarkonian Empire found themselves in constant skirmishes inside the Deadlands.
And every time one of them stole another world, it was always the people who suffered for it. The Union would arrest anyone with a record, take whatever reserves the colony had, and install a local militia. The Sarkonians would simply burn the colony to the ground, conscript the survivors, and build a new outpost.
It was a desperate attempt to stay relevant in a galaxy that was quickly being swallowed up by the Union. Still, the Sarkonians believed they were succeeding. Hell, maybe they were. I couldn’t really say.
And maybe they were right, in a way. Maybe this was the only card they had left to play. Gods knew none of us wanted the Union in charge of the entire galaxy.
The Sarkonians were the only thing keeping Union cruisers from going too deep into the Deadlands. The power dynamic was good. It kept us free in our little bubble of free space. But eventually, something was gonna give, and everyone knew the Union would get tired of all the fighting. They’d come in, conquer whatever remained of the Deadlands by that point, and there’d be nothing left for any of us.
None of that was to say that I liked the Sarkonians. Far from it. And when I found the rest of the crew on this ship, I’d have no qualms about putting every last one of them down. The Sarkonians and the Union were two sides of the same, twisted coin, forged in blood and greed. They’d stop at nothing for more, and the lust would never end—not until every scrap and grain of sand in all the Deadlands was claimed or glassed. Not until every free man, woman, and child was dead.
And that was something I could not abide. Not when I was a Renegade living between two borders, and certainly not now.
I slid the badge I’d stolen over the reader at the end of the hall near a large door. Based on my position in the ship—or where I thought my position might be—I guessed I was nearing the centermost area. That probably meant the lounge, crew quarters, and mess hall. Maybe the laundry room. It was hard to say without knowing the layout, but most Sarkonian ships this size handled those areas the same way. The only difference was the order.
This meant there was a chance I was about to walk in on a few crew members eating their afternoon sludge of a meal. If I was lucky, I’d catch them by surprise before they had a chance to call the bridge and report my ass. That was all a guess, though, so I’d have to play it cautious.
As the doors opened, I placed my back against the nearby wall and raised my gun.
“What’s that?” asked a faint voice from the other side.
“What’s what?” asked another.
The direction of the voices told me one was to the left and the other around the corner to the right. I wouldn’t be able to get them both at once, which meant I’d have to choose.
Without more than a few seconds’ pause, I swung around and tore into the open doorway, my gun extended at the nearest soldier—the taller man to my left—and fired.
His eyes widened, the look of confusion and faint realization overtaking him at the same time, and the bullet dug itself into his chest, straight through the center of the t-shirt he wore that resembled the logo from a famous old holo band called My Synthetic Brain. I’d seen them on the nets before and decided they were shit.
The man staggered back, clutching the fresh wound I’d just gifted him. At the same time, his friend—freckled and blonde—charged at me, apparently quick to react. He was shirtless, still holding his jacket and undershirt in his hand.
His shoulder slammed into my side, hitting me in my wound and sending a shockwave of pain through my entire body. I let out a short scream before biting down on
the inside of my cheek so hard that I tasted blood. He pushed me into a wall, pinning my weapon hand at the wrist. The man lifted me into the air, with both of his arms wrapped around my waist.
He went for my armpit with his fingers, probably hoping to hit my nerve cluster. I reached across with my free hand and blocked him, then kneed him in the stomach, causing him to stagger. He refused to let go of my wrist, pulling me to the floor, and we fell together.
I ignored the impact and the pain that came with it, my wound still on fire from the commotion. We tossed on the floor and I went for his throat, slamming a fist into his neck. It wasn’t a strong blow, but it was enough to get him away from me. I hurried back, getting to my feet before he could process what had happened. As he looked at me, and right as our eyes met, I greeted him with the heel of my boot, straight across the jaw.
Spit flew from his mouth, but he didn’t waver. The first soldier I’d shot was there, his hand covering his wound while also grabbing at my wrist in a desperate attempt to disarm me.
But he was disoriented and bleeding out. There was hardly enough strength in him to stop me. I shoved him away with the same hand he was trying to hold, and he quickly let go and doubled over.
I pulled away, then kicked the wounded soldier in the knee, forcing him to bend and allowing me to move. The freckled one lunged at my gun as I attempted to aim with it, but he was too slow, his grip too weak to hold me. I twisted the weapon and fired. The blast of it tore through half his throat, popping the back of his head like a cherry under pressure.
The man fell on his shoulder, gripping his neck as he struggled to understand this new, horrifying reality I had just created for him. I turned into a prone position on the floor—good enough to get a clean shot at the one with the hole in his chest, and then I fired.
A bullet through the skull this time, two centimeters from the temple. Quick and easy.
He fell forward with a hard smack, his face and chest in the freshly made puddle of blood.
I was breathing hard, chest heaving as the pain in my belly returned. The air was suddenly freezing, like I was in the middle of a snowstorm. But I didn’t have time to think about that right now. Not until—
The door on the opposite side of the room slid open, revealing another Sarkonian soldier. This one with a few extra ranks on his coat. His gun had already been drawn, no doubt hearing the battlefield I’d created in this room. His eyes dropped to the massacre before him, momentarily stunned. “T-Trevar?” he sputtered in disbelief. He followed the blood to my half of the room, finally noticing me as I lay there with one hand on my side and the other on my gun.
“Pretty sure Trevar’s dead,” I said. “You ain’t the sort to follow, are you?”
He glanced back at his two friends, then again me, all without a word. His eyes flicked to his gun, and his hand twitched.
I pulled the trigger and sent him sprawling to the floor, motionless.
“Guess you are,” I exhaled.
I pushed myself up from the floor—first to my knees and then to my feet. It was hard to move now, the ache in my ribs growing more and more sharp with each passing breath. I had to find a patch, and soon, or risk—
I coughed, then edged my way toward the side corridor that I suspected led to the crew’s quarters. I placed my hand against the wall as I tried to catch my breath between coughs. The burn in my flesh continued to grow, and I wanted to curse. I couldn’t afford to keep doing this. If I didn’t slow things down or find a med kit, this whole ordeal was gonna end with me on that floor in a pool of my own godsdamn blood instead of theirs.
I had too much to do before I keeled over and died, especially on a Sarkonian ship this far from home.
I shook my head at the thought. I didn’t know how far this was from anything. Not really.
The only thing I knew with any certainty was that I was traveling through a slip tunnel, which meant I could be anywhere in the entire galaxy.
An image of Lex and Abigail flashed inside my mind, giving me pause as I stood there, hand against the wall propping me up. I blinked, teary-eyed from the strain of the fight, my bones aching and my gut burning, and all I wanted in that moment was to be home again. To be with them.
What the hell had possessed me to climb on board this ship with only Felix by my side? I must have been out of my mind.
Another rush of pain hit my waist. I covered it with my hand instinctively. When I pulled my palm away, I found more fresh blood.
Where was a healing pod when you needed it?
3
The brig couldn’t be far. I could almost sense it. Wandering this ship was like being lost in a cave, and I could feel the sunlight around the next corner.
“Commander-Weir,” called the voice in my ear. It was the one in the brig. What was his name?
“Yes, Cardona? Did you make any progress?” asked Weir, answering my unspoken question.
“I’m afraid not, sir. She still refuses to talk.”
I lowered the volume on the earpiece, but the voice remained. It was coming from down the hall, echoing through the walls. Whoever this Cardona was, he sure as shit didn’t know how to keep his voice down. Lucky for me.
The commander let out a short sigh. “I sincerely hope you didn’t just contact me to tell me that you’ve failed, because that’s the last thing I want to hear, Ensign.”
“No, sir. I think I have a way to get around leaving any marks on her—”
I followed the voice through the hall, slowly minding each corner as I passed them. In my current state I couldn’t deal with another surprise. One more and I might not last the hour.
As I thought about it, my abdomen flared. Every nerve screamed white-hot and I pressed an unsteady hand against my side to silence the pain. I clutched the wound before staying my hand then shook my head and tried to focus on what I had to do next. Namely, following that voice.
“You mean the shock collar?” asked the commander, his words interrupting my thoughts.
“That’s right, sir. The same one we used on the dog before it died,” confirmed the ensign. My blood was starting to go hot.
I stepped closer to one of the doors, leaning so that my ear was against the crack.
“She won’t be able to stand it, and I’ll keep the intensity low enough that it doesn’t burn.” He was so close now, so much that it felt like I could reach out and grab him, right on the other side of this door.
“Do it,” said the commander without hesitation. “The girl must know something. Whatever it is, get it out of her.”
I waited until the ensign signed off from the comm, ending the call, then took the badge I’d stolen earlier and swiped it across the scanner.
The light blinked green, and I raised my revolver.
The door slid open and I saw the back of the man I’d heard on the comm. He was my height, a little stalky, with black hair. I pointed my gun at him, noticing the metal collar in his hand. I’d gotten there just in time to stop him from using it. “Back up!” I growled at him, waiting for him to turn around.
As he did, I caught sight of a small chair with two little feet dangling off the front. Finally, I saw her face and the same familiar blue eyes I’d come to know so well. “Lex?” I choked out. The name left my throat in hesitation. I could barely say it. I could barely process any of this.
“Who the hell?!” shouted the ensign. He took a step in my direction, and I reacted by pulling the trigger. I didn’t even know I’d done it until it was over and the bullet had struck the soldier in his arm. He jerked and fell to the floor, dropping the collar as he landed with a heavy thud.
“Mr. Hughes!” yelled Lex, a wide smile across her face. For a girl about to be tortured, she seemed unconcerned. But Lex wasn’t just any kid. She’d been through more than most adults.
My heart continued to race so loud that I could feel it in my temples as I slowly raised the gun to meet the man in front of me. His eyes locked with the barrel.
“Please, gods. I wa�
��”
“Shut up,” I snapped, giving him a look that suggested if he spoke again, that would be the end of it. “Take your weapon out, slowly, along with the comm in your ear, and kick them both to me. I’ve already put down five of you so far, and I’m itching to make it six so, please, give me a reason.”
He gulped, slowly and carefully doing as I asked. It was possible he’d been drafted into the Sarkonian army, forced into this life against his will. Many Sarkonians volunteered for their service, but some had to be forced. I wondered briefly which kind of citizen this man had been? A loyal dog or a reluctant puppet? The thought gave me pause, but then the sight of the metal collar caught my eye again, and my fingers tensed around the revolver in my hand.
“The collar, too,” I said through gritted teeth. “Kick it over.” My trigger finger tightened; another hair and this asshole would be on the ground where he belonged.
But I needed information from him. I forced myself to breathe easy and calmed my mind.
I was too tired to do more than stand there, so instead of restraining him, I motioned for him to move the gun.
“Get her out of the restraints. Now,” I ordered, and he was smart enough to follow.
He took the keys out and fumbled with the cuffs until Lex was free. He dropped them and quickly bent down.
“Easy!” I barked, causing him to freeze, half-sunk to the floor.
His eyes slowly rose to me. “I’m just getting the—”