by Kal Spriggs
Deserter’s Redemption
The Renegades, Book One
Flames in microgravity had an indescribable beauty.
Mike watched the fire wash through the Noriko‘s bridge. It crawled through the air like a living thing. It enveloped other crewmen and turned them into shrieking sparks of fire. Like some trapped and hungry predator, the fire came for him… came to take his life.
Just before it reached him, he stepped backwards. He fell, despite the lack of gravity. Then suddenly he hit the water. Cold blackness enveloped him, and he could feel things slither around him in the water…
Mike let out a hoarse scream as he awoke. For a moment, he thought his capture by the Chxor was an extension of his nightmares; just one more horror among many, something his mind must have fabricated. He wiped at the sweat that soaked his face and felt the cool metal deck under his back.
The cold metal made him remember the tribunal, such as it was, and the sentencing. The cold and emotionless Chxor had sentenced him to a lifetime of prison labor. The steel prison that held him and the other prisoners on Saragossa seemed more difficult to picture. The Chxor had built the utilitarian structure to process the conquered populace of the human world. Well, the populace and one random pilot in the wrong place at the wrong time, Mike thought with a sardonic smile. He could only vaguely remember the prison after the tribunal and then how the other prisoners had begun to fall…
They gassed us, he realized. It made sense. Mike figured it would be easier to move potentially dangerous prisoners that way, especially when the prisoners knew their final destination would be one of the infamous Chxor work camps. Mike stared up at the metal plating overhead and felt the thrum of a ship’s engines beneath him. The noise and vibration told him he was aboard a ship.
If they had transported him by ship, his camp probably lay off-world. He felt a sliver of hope that he would not work himself to death at a quarry or digging ditches. The Chxor death camps had obtained an almost mythical status of misery amongst the Colonial Republic. Not that he had ever expected to be sent to one, or even to encounter Chxor, not since his unorthodox departure from the Republic Liberation Fleet.
He ran a hand through his close-cropped jet black hair and rubbed at his eyes. His black eyes took a long moment to adjust to the dim light. Mike sat up and looked around the dingy compartment. The small cargo bay stretched ten meters long and three meters wide. The light came from a portable electric lantern. Mike lay at the middle of a line of figures that extended down the center of the bay.
He saw a hatch on each of the long walls of the hold. One door was clearly a pressure hatch to the exterior, complete with a green and red light to show whether or not the ship had a good seal, the other hatch presumably led deeper into the ship. Mike judged from the size of the bay that the door probably led to whatever passed for an engine room, and from there to the cockpit. It could not be a large ship, he figured, not with the noise from the machinery so close, and not with such a small cargo hold.
He stood up and went to look at the inner hatch. He saw no sign of the controls or any other means to open it. That did not surprise him, really. They would not put prisoners in an unsecured bay.
He glanced at the outer hatch. Well, no means to escape it alive, he corrected. The emergency release near the hatch would open it, but it would also vent them all into space-if the red light over the door indicated danger to the Chxor as it did to humans.
“I would stay away from that door,” a deep voice growled from the corner.
Mike jumped into the air, startled. He spun around. He frantically searched for the source of the voice, but it took him a long moment to make out the dark form that loomed in the shadows of the corner. Initially, he felt a wave of relief because he thought he had gone mad.
The relief faded when he made out the shape. Panic replaced relief as the Wrethe emerged from the depths of the shadows. “Yes, human, fear me,” the alien growled, his voice a deep baritone that Mike could feel in his chest. Like most Wrethe, thick hair covered his entire body. He stood tall, taller than most Wrethe that Mike had encountered, yet he had a lean look. His thick fur had the same dark color as empty space and almost seemed to absorb the light. Lean muscle rippled under his fur. He stood bipedal, with a long black tail that hung behind him. His jaws gaped in either a smile or a snarl in some terrible combination of hunger and humor. His jackal head pointed straight at Mike. The Wrethe’s small dark eyes seemed little more than two inky pits of deeper darkness against his black fur. Anger and hunger lurked there, and a dreadful intelligence that saw Mike as merely food that could reason.
Mike felt his stomach twist and sweat break out on his forehead. The sudden, visceral realization that he shared the small space with a creature that could end his life struck him like a knife in the gut. Even so, Mike felt something force his spine ramrod straight; some instinct drove him to match the predatory stare and not retreat a single inch.
“You easily could have killed me before. You haven’t — so either you want something or you don’t feel like killing. I’ve never heard of a Wrethe that didn’t feel like killing, so that means you want something.”
Mike’s meager height didn’t come near the Wrethe’s two meters, but he stood as tall as he could anyway.
The Wrethe barked and his lips drew back in a snarl, “So you’ve got a bit of spine. Good. Perhaps you have some worth. We will see about the others.”
“Since when does a human have to prove anything to a Wrethe?” Mike said. “As I remember, we’ve won all of the wars that your race started.” He felt some of his confidence return with that knowledge. “No… you will have to prove your worth to me, especially if you want to escape.”
“I can kill you if you try to leave me behind,” the Wrethe said, “Along with whatever stands in my way when I make my move. The question you should ask is what skills do you possess that will make me want to let you live?”
“If we go down this road, dog, you won’t like where it leads,” Mike sneered. He used the insulting slang intentionally. He saw the Wrethe’s hackles go up at the word. Good, so it knows enough about Humanity to hate the implication of the racial slur, Mike thought. That means he’s worked with humans before, or fought them. “I’m no physical match for you, but I refuse to play dominance games. I say we call a truce… You might as well acknowledge that the others won’t follow a Wrethe, not without you having to watch your back for a knife and Wrethe or not, you have to sleep eventually.”
“I’m listening,” the Wrethe said, his deep baritone growl sounded slightly less hostile. Mike hoped that meant he had the Wrethe pondering more than just its hunger.
“We set up a deal right now… I do the talking, while you pretend to be just muscle. In return, I’ll consult with you before we make decisions. You gain protection because the others will underestimate you, and you’ll have my assistance,” Mike said. He fought the urge to lick his lips as the Wrethe stepped closer.
“A good plan… but you don’t seem to be one that I could manipulate from behind the scenes,” the Wrethe said, “Why shouldn’t I just kill you and propose that to a more… malleable subject?”
Mike felt sweat start to bead on his forehead. He forced himself to keep his voice level and meet the Wrethe’s dark gaze. “You’re smart enough to know that you don’t know everything. You need someone who can talk fast, who can think on his feet, who can manipulate the emotions of others, and who would make a good partner. Frankly… you need me… partner.”
“Partner…” the Wrethe seemed to chew on that word. The alien’s lips drew back from his teeth, as if it disliked the taste in its mouth. Its fur rippled as if it felt uncomfortable. “Very well… partner. You have a deal. That is, until a better
one comes along.”
“Good to know,” Mike answered as he held out his hand, “I’m Mike.”
The Wrethe stared down at his hand for a moment that seemed to stretch to infinity. Something uncomfortably close to hunger lurked in its eyes. Mike felt his heart race as the Wrethe stood in motionless contemplation. Finally, however, it extended its own hand to take his, and Mike saw with relief that its talons remained sheathed. “I am called Anubus by your kind.”
“Fitting,” Mike said, and tried to restrain an eye-roll. Just like a Wrethe to pick such a name, vicious and cruel. Mike had encountered a few that used names of human gods—or variations thereof—before. They seemed to get off on that sort of thing. Mike stepped back as he asked, “So, Anubus, do you have any skills besides taking people apart with your claws?”
“That’s is both a survival trait and something I enjoy,” Anubus answered. His bared teeth made it clear that he would demonstrate if given the opportunity. “I also know how to pilot a small vessel… though I don’t know how to conduct Shadow Space navigation,” Anubus said. “And as you noticed… I can be very stealthy.”
Mike gave the Wrethe a nod, “Yeah, you can say that again.”
“Excuse me?” Anubus said.
“Figure of speech, it means you made an understatement,” Mike answered. “It is an archaic human phrase.”
“Whatever,” Anubus said as it shifted back into its corner. “I’ve kept watch since the Chxor gassed the rest of you. They transferred us from a Shadow Space transport to this vessel after a short jump. We’ve been under way for over twenty hours since then.”
“The gas they used doesn’t affect Wrethe?” Mike asked.
Anubus shrugged, “You ask a lot of questions, human. I remained awake. Now I am tired, so I will sleep… unless you wish me to renew my energy in another manner… perhaps by eating?”
“Is there food?” Mike asked
“For you… there’s a bucket of gruel. For me… well, there’s plenty of meat available, but I’ll restrain myself… for now.”
“I appreciate that,” Mike said wryly. “We might need these others.”
“We’ll see,” Anubus muttered.
Mike didn’t have long to wait before one of the other prisoners began to stir. The young woman did not seem troubled by the same nightmare that shocked Mike into awareness. The tall, blonde woman had a broad smile on her face with no sign of Mike’s panic. When she opened her eyes and sat up, she looked as relaxed and at ease as if she had awakened in a luxurious hotel.
She looked over at Mike, “Hello!” Her bright blue eyes and broad smile made his heart flutter. He smiled in return, yet at the same time, it gave him considerable pause. Mike had dealt with his share of crazies in his life and her happiness under such dour circumstances suggested he add her to that list. She stood up, and looked over towards the corner.
“A Wrethe, how interesting!”
“Uh…” Mike immediately thought of Anubus’s threat to eat him.
She turned back to Mike, and extended her hand, “I’m Ariadne Hutchins. Pleased to meet you.” She wore a battered civilian ship’s uniform, though someone had torn the ship’s patch off the shoulder.
He started to extend his hand, “Mike Golemon.” As the words left his mouth, he realized he had given her the name of a dead man….
* * *
“Spacer Second Class Mike Golemon, duty position helmsman,” Mike identified himself as the hatch of the escape pod opened. He felt like nineteen years hadn’t lasted nearly long enough as he stared into the barrels of the raised weapons. It took Mike a long moment to realize that they didn’t wear RLF uniforms or even any uniform at all. The woman and two men wore battered environmental suits, with multiple patches and what looked like custom repairs. They bore a mix of weapons, too. The three firearms aimed at him appeared pieced together from scrap, though the battered condition of their weapons did little to reassure Mike.
The woman snorted, “Well, crap; we have ourselves a survivor,” She gave an exasperated sigh, “I figured you’d all have done the decent thing and died already. At least it’s just the one, less effort to space him if he gives us trouble.” She looked over at her companion, “Jessi, check the supplies and the power level, lets see what is worth taking.”
Jessi nodded, “Aye, Captain.”
“Excuse me?” Mike asked.
The woman glanced at him, “Shut up, kid, I’m doing business here.” She spoke absently, almost as if she didn’t consider Mike to be even worth the thought. She tapped the other man on the shoulder, “Roger, get back up to the bridge and scout out the debris cluster. See if there are other transponders, where there are transponders, there’s power, and where there’s power… we might find some good salvage.”
The woman turned back to Mike, “Okay, Golemon, what ship was this, and did it carry any cargo?”
“Cargo?” Mike asked. “Am I a prisoner of war? Are you pirates?”
The woman gave a snort, “Nope, just salvagers.” She had a rough face, one that had seen hardship and it showed in every line, seam, and gray hair.
Mike straightened up, “I’m not required to give you any more information: not to a scavenger like you, come to pick over the dead.”
The woman stepped forward and seized Mike by the collar. “Listen up you self-righteous little prick! I just burned three hours of fuel to pick you up. Your pod’s been out here, what? Three, maybe four weeks? You’re low on food, air, and water, and if you had even one more person you’d both be dead. Whatever faction of the RLF you served abandoned you here — left you and your fellow crew-mates to die.”
Mike looked away at that. She had echoed the very thoughts that had run through his head over the past few days.
“Ah! You know I’m right, don’t you?” She gave him a harsh smile. “Nothing to do out here but think, I bet, and you must have been able to hear those bastards in suits as they gasped out their last.” She glanced at the pod’s radio. “Did they damn you, with their last breath? Did they beg for help that never came? How many did you hear grow weak and then fade over the days, while you watched your own supplies dwindle?”
Mike shuddered as she brought back the memories, “What do you want?”
“It’s not what I want,” the woman said. She had a strange accent, one that suggested she came from a backwards world on the edge of space, “But what you need. You’ve seen that the RLF doesn’t give a shit about their people. Ship with a pod like this, must have been a cruiser, maybe an armed merchantman… Ship like that would have escorts. They left you, abandoned you. You need someplace, a new start. You go back to them and they’ll hang you for desertion as likely as they’ll welcome you…” She gave him a hard smile, “Come to think of it, one man in a pod like this, they probably have reason.”
Mike couldn’t force himself to meet her eyes.
“You’re alone now, with nothing and no one to have your back out here in the depths of space. You need friends, Golemon. Friends can help you get a new name, new identity. Friends can put you down on a world where they won’t care what uniform you wore so long as you can pilot. You’re a helmsman, right? That kind of skill could get you a place on almost any kind of ship,” she leaned in close, “So, you aren’t going to be Spacer Second Class Golemon, anymore are you? Golemon died with that ship out there. You want to be one of us, right? You want Captain Flynn to like you?” She waited for his nod, “Good lad! Now tell me, what was the ship’s cargo?”
Mike told her everything he knew. Mike’s shaken loyalty to the Shogun and the vision of a united and strong Colonial Republic didn’t die, it just didn’t matter, not any more. He told her because she was right, Mike Golemon had died with the RLF Noriko.
It couldn’t be any other way.
* * *
Mike snapped out of his reverie. He could see a slight frown on Ariadne’s face, and Mike wondered how long he had remained motionless. He must look like some kind of idiot with his hand extended whi
le he stood trapped in his memories. I haven’t thought of Captain Flynn in years, Mike realized, must be an aftereffect of the gas. Mike gave her a practiced smile and clasped her extended hand. She had smooth hands, yet he felt a solid strength to her grip - one that suggested she had an iron will underneath her sunny exterior.
“Good to meet you Mike,” Ariadne said. She held his hand for a moment, and cocked her head at him, “You’re former military, aren’t you?”
Mike felt an icy shock wash over him, “How would you—”
“The way you stand. You’re uneasy… nervous… so your old habits surfaced, I think. You’re almost at parade rest. Enlisted, right?”
“Yes…” Mike’s eyes narrowed, “You seem to know an awful lot for a, what is it you do again, Miss Ariadne?” Dammit, now that she mentioned it, I have reverted to military forms, next thing I know I’ll call her ma’am, he thought darkly. It must come from his use of his former name, nothing else made sense.
She gave him yet another sunny smile, “Oh, I’m a navigator and pilot. I’m not classically trained, though. I mostly go by intuition. I’m pretty good at that, if I do say so.”
“Right,” Mike stepped back. He had to hide a wince at the thought of what mistakes a self-trained navigator might make with Shadow Space. Clearly her attitude indicated some emotional instability. He could not think of anyone desperate enough to use an untrained navigator.
“You think I’m crazy?” Ariadne gave a laugh, “I get that a lot. I’m not insane though, I’m just psychic.”
“A psychic?” Mike stared at her with wide eyes and open mouth. He would have been less surprised if she had claimed to be the Emperor of Nova Roma. His next thought was that she must be a liar or a con artist. He remembered the last man who claimed to be a psychic navigator, and how near that ship had come to destruction based on his input.
“Now we come to the tedium of explanations and arguments…” She shrugged. “How about I just demonstrate?” She held up a hand, as if she held something delicate. A flaming sphere five inches across suddenly leapt into existence. “Enough parlor tricks, for now?”