Ronin

by Jan Domagala

  Stryder followed Tchercovic through the hatch. He saw him go through the outer hatch into the walkway umbilical that led to his ship, when suddenly the station’s alarms went silent.

  Startled by the sudden quiet Tchercovic spun around and saw Stryder standing there, large as life in spite of having been shot twice.

  Stryder’s NI tingled and he said, “Kind of busy right now.”

  Sinclair’s voice came through clear, as he said, “We’ve managed to regain control of the computer and reversed the reactor from going critical. You just need to retrieve the project data now.”

  “I’m on it, sir,” Stryder replied. He smiled because some of the pressure was off, although his task was still far from easy. He was still facing a determined, armed enemy with no means of defending himself. It could get interesting.

  “I had no doubt that you would be able to crack my code, although I never thought you’d have had the time,” Tchercovic said, bringing up the Sig P996 to point directly at Stryder. “No matter, I’ve got what I need, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me,” he added.

  “You’ve shot me twice Howard, and I’m still here, so there seems to be nothing you can do to stop me,” Stryder replied.

  “Is that a fact? Perhaps a headshot might stop you. It should at least slow you down enough so I can reach my ship,” Tchercovic said as he aimed the Sig carefully at Stryder’s head.

  The walkway umbilical was basically a tunnel. It was large enough for the loader to transport cargo from the docking bay to a waiting ship, or vice versa, but a tunnel nonetheless. There was effectively, nowhere for him to hide.

  It had already been proven that he couldn’t dodge the plasma bolts, so he knew he was in trouble.

  His only chance lay in the fact that Tchercovic had said he would try for a head shot, the most difficult shot to make with a moving target. Even a marksman would find it tricky, as it was the smallest target to hit, so he planned to make it even more difficult for him.

  Seeing it as his only option, he adopted a fighter’s stance. Dancing from one foot to the other, his weight evenly distributed as he balanced lightly on the balls of his feet he began to bob and weave. He moved up and down, then left and right, presenting a frustratingly elusive target. Then he started to approach the Black Knight.

  Tchercovic saw what Stryder was trying to do, so he fired.

  His first shot missed, the plasma bolt searing the hair on Stryder’s head as it passed harmlessly on the left. He fired again, more carefully this time and again it missed.

  Stryder was getting closer with every shot; soon he would be within arm’s reach. He had to stop him.

  He fired again and again as he began to allow panic to set in. His aim became more and more erratic, and then finally, his battery clip was empty.

  In desperation he threw the useless weapon the fifteen or so feet now separating them. Deftly Stryder caught the Sig in his right hand and tossed it straight back catching Tchercovic full in the face.

  Stryder closed the distance between them before the Black Knight had recovered from the blow.

  Stryder grabbed him by the front of his shirt then delivered a thunderous right punch, hitting him flush in the face. As his nose broke blood spurted out, cascading over his face and, for good measure, Stryder hit him again.

  Releasing his grip, Stryder allowed him to fall to the floor stunned.

  Quickly he searched his prone form and found the data card that was loaded with everything from the project. Getting up, he started to walk back towards the hatch.

  Tchercovic began to revive and saw Stryder walking away. He knew he must have the data card and, seeing his Sig within reach, took his chance.

  Picking up the fallen weapon and ejecting the spent battery clip, he inserted a fresh one from his back pocket and then pulled back on the slide to prime the clip. This gave him another twenty shots, which would be more than enough for what he needed.

  Getting to his feet he prepared to shoot Stryder in the back.

  Stryder heard the battery clip being ejected and another rammed up into the grip of the Sig. Then he heard someone shout, “DOWN!”

  As Stryder dived for the floor a high energy plasma bolt shot over his head and struck Tchercovic full in the chest, throwing him several metres back towards the outer hatch on the walkway umbilical. Blood from his wound traced an arc through the air.

  Stryder looked up and saw the Marine standing in the doorway of the hatch sighting down the barrel of his assault rifle. As he brought the weapon down he looked at Stryder and smiled.

  “The alarms went silent, which meant we were out of danger from the reactor core going critical and you were walking from him holding a data card. I assumed it safe to say you didn’t need him alive any more. Was I right?” he said, his smile fading slightly.

  Getting to his feet Stryder smiled and said, “You were right, and thanks.”

  “Stryder to General Sinclair, the data card has been retrieved and Howard is dead, sir,” he said using his NI.

  “Good work Captain, bring the data card here and I’ll debrief you.”

  “Sir, can the debrief wait? I’d like to get back to bed,” Stryder said.

  Laughing, Sinclair said, “Okay Captain, I think you’ve earned it. See you at o eight hundred.”

  Stryder looked at the Marine. “I’m bushed. Hey, I never got your name.”

  “Captain Storm sir, call sign Guardian,” said the Marine.

  “Guardian?” Stryder enquired.

  “Yes sir, my men gave it to me, said it was because I always looked out for them,” Storm told him.

  “Well, I can certainly vouch for that. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a pillow on my bunk that’s got my name on it,” Stryder said as he led the way out of the docking bay.

  7

  Over a thousand light years away, deep in the heart of Alliance space on the planet Dalos IV, one man was eagerly awaiting news from Research Station Five. That man was General Solon, late of the Black Knights, himself now head of Special Operations, which meant he was in charge of all covert missions against the Confederation.

  Sitting at his desk, he was going through some mission reports. Still in his prime despite being over sixty years of age, he had been head of Special Operations for the past ten years. His hair was completely white, which was possibly the only indication of his true age. A face devoid of wrinkles, except those around the eyes, looked intently at the computer screen before him on his desk. Large fingers deftly worked the keypad controller as he scrolled through the reports.

  He was a large man in every way, tall, standing at just over six feet six inches, and muscular. He had the physique of a weight lifter, still toned despite his age. He was undoubtedly courageous, being one of the most decorated soldiers in Alliance history. His nose was slightly askew, a feature he chose not to correct as it reminded him of all the battles he had fought over the years. He was an expert in close-quarter combat and, even now, practised daily. His eyes were slate grey and at times, cold, like those of a shark. A scar ran from his left eyebrow to the point of his cheekbone in a curved line, another testament to his many battles.

  The door to his chambers opened and Captain Nokorovic walked in, a grave expression on his average features.

  “Yes, Captain, what is it?” Solon asked, his deep bass voice booming out from his barrel chest.

  “Sir, we’ve just received a coded transmission from our informant at Col Sec Headquarters,” Nokorovic said, his normal voice sounding positively anaemic next to Solon’s rich, textured, bass voice. Nokorovic was average in every way – looks, build and personality. It was a mystery how he got to be the great man’s aid to everyone except the great man himself. Solon had heard of Nokorovic’s undercover work for which his plain, mediocre appearance made him well suited. He had asked for him personally to be his aide, after his cover had been blown and he had become a known face to the analysts at Col Sec.

  “And?” enquired Solon.


  “There’s been an incident at Research Station Five, sir. Tchercovic has been reported killed, sir.”

  “Killed, how?” Solon asked, a feeling of dread beginning to spread through him.

  “They’re saying it was an accident sir, but our informant says that they knew Tchercovic was a traitor. They don’t know his true identity and they may never know. One good thing’s come out of this though, sir.”

  “What’s that?” Solon asked, hoping for something, anything, positive to come out of this debacle.

  “Col Sec has abandoned the project sir. It seems it’s too dangerous to pursue any further.”

  “And do you honestly believe that Captain? It’s more likely that they were successful. Find out all you can about this project from our informant. If they were successful, I want to know. Find out the names of any surviving test subjects. If the informant can’t tell us what we want, we’ll go directly to the source and grab one of them.”

  “Aye sir, I’ll get right on it.”

  STRYDER LOUNGED ON his reclining chair on the front veranda of his house, which had a magnificent view of the bay below.

  Over the past two weeks since his debrief and departure from Research Station Five after being granted permission for leave, his skin had darkened to a rich tan. His blond hair had lightened under the hot sun and his body had become stronger through his regular exercise routine, interspersed with hefty doses of relaxation.

  The property he called home was a two-storey detached villa constructed of white brick. On the ground floor were the garage, kitchen, gym/armoury and utilities room, which housed spare equipment and also served as a laundry room. Upstairs the entire floor was given over to living space. There was a spacious lounge with glass patio doors opening out onto the veranda, and large enough to accommodate a table and chairs for a six-place setting, plus enough lounge chairs for the same. There were also four bedrooms, two bathrooms and a study.

  Stryder had inherited it from his parents after a tragic road accident took their lives three years previously. They had all lived there together as a family. When his parents took early retirement after selling the family business for a hefty profit, they took to travelling in a luxurious ground car, until the day of the accident. Their car had been forced off the road by a driver who was on the run from the local Constabulary, causing them to fly off a cliffside road only to meet their death on the rocks below.

  Out of all the locations they could have chosen this was the one they finally decided upon. Celeron was one of the first planets the Confederation had settled over three hundred years ago, and after terraforming it into the planet it was now, it had, over two centuries, developed a vibrant culture of its own.

  Similar in climate to that of Earth, Celeron boasted four large landmasses surrounded by oceans. On the landmasses grew the two major cities, Jamestown and Jacksonville named after the original colony leaders.

  Stryder’s parents were born and raised in Jacksonville and his father had proposed to his mother where the villa now stood. That area of the coast had become an attraction for holidaymakers, not only from that planet but also from all over the Confederation.

  Stryder was assailed with memories of his parents every time he returned there. It was almost as if their very essence imbued the place.

  Whenever he felt he needed to recharge his batteries there was no other choice, he returned home every time.

  That’s how it had been this time. After the incident on Research Station Five and his realisation of how the project had altered him, he made a decision, one he had been thinking about ever since he returned home.

  After retrieving the data card from the traitor Howard he began to wonder about the harm that data could do – not the good, but the harm.

  If the Alliance knew it was still out there, to what lengths would they go to obtain it? If it were returned to Col Sec, would they develop more experiments like the one he’d endured to perfect the Super Soldier? Where would they stop? How far were they willing to go?

  And then there was the effect it had had on him and would have, in the future. The Confederation would not leave him be if they knew the extent of the changes taking place in his metabolism. He would be forever under scrutiny, under examination or worse, some sort of super agent sent on covert ops where the chance of survival was usually nil, but now of course that had all changed.

  That was why when Sinclair told him that all the data had been downloaded onto the card and deleted from the memory core, he told him that the card had been damaged and the data corrupted and therefore he had destroyed it.

  Sinclair was furious, obviously, especially when Stryder told him that there had been no changes after the last run of tests he had undergone.

  To all intents and purposes, the project was dead in the water.

  He knew Sinclair didn’t believe him, but his leave was granted anyway. Stryder knew that Sinclair still wanted him working for him, but he wanted him voluntarily and not having been coerced.

  As he lounged on his veranda overlooking the coast, with the verdant blue seas and sailing boats below, he took out the data card and looked at it again. On the small table at his elbow was a long, cold drink that he lifted with his free hand and took a sip. It was white rum and pineapple juice over a mound of ice cubes. Savouring the taste of the blended flavours he pondered the small object in his other hand.

  What should he do with it? Should he return it so they could continue their research and take the consequences, or destroy it as he had said?

  There were potential advances in medicine to be gained from this research. Many lives would be saved if they could harness it, but also, as with any great discovery, there was an equal potential for harm.

  It was a dilemma that had plagued him this past fortnight. He was no closer to an answer now, than he had been at the start.

  “Hello in there. Is there anyone home?” said a female voice from below the veranda.

  Hurriedly putting the data card away in the pocket of his shorts, Stryder got to his feet and went to the railing at the edge of the veranda.

  Wandering around below, looking about her was a young woman. As she turned to look up she wore an expression of frustration on her lovely face.

  She was tall, standing around five feet ten, with an athletic figure and a full bosom. She was wearing a tight, low-cut white tee shirt and khaki shorts that showed off her shapely legs. On her feet she wore open sandals. She was dark skinned and her complexion was almost perfect.

  Her dark eyes were like limpid pools in which a man could drown, given time. Although dark skinned, her nose was slender rather than squat and her lips were full and sensuous. Her hair was braided, long and pulled back from around her face and tied off at the nape of her neck.

  When she spoke her voice was soft and smooth as silk.

  She said, “Hello, can you help me please, I seem to be lost?”

  Although she was asking for help, he got the impression that this was a situation she was unaccustomed to. She gave off the air of being very self-sufficient.

  “Certainly, hold on I’ll be right down,” Stryder said. As he passed through the lounge he made a quick detour to his wall safe where he deposited the data card. Then he continued to the staircase, which would take him down to the front door below the veranda.

  As he opened the door she was facing the other way, her back to him as she took in the amazing view.

  “Hi,” he said. As she turned he added, “I’m Kurt Stryder, please come in. Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “Thank you, but it’s really not necessary. I just need you to point me in the right direction,” she replied.

  “If I can, I will, but first some refreshment to speed you on your way, Miss err...?”

  “If you insist, my name’s Zara Hardy,” she said reluctantly, stepping into the villa.

  “There’s no need to worry Miss Hardy, I don’t bite,” Stryder said with a smile, as he followed her back inside.

 
; He indicated for her to go upstairs and when she reached the top of the landing she said, “Very nice Mister Stryder.”

  “My friends call me Kurt,” he said coming to stand next to her.

  “But I hardly know you,” she replied coyly, smiling at her host.

  “Well, let me get you that drink and we can rectify that now, can’t we?” he said going over to the mini bar by the wall.

  He poured two fingers of white rum into a tall glass tumbler then poured a good measure of pineapple juice over it topping it off with a handful of ice cubes.

  “There you go, that should refresh you a little,” he said as he handed her the drink.

  After tasting it she said, “Very nice.”

  “Join me,” he said as he walked through onto the veranda. She followed him and took the offered seat next to his.

  “Now this is very nice. You’ll have to be careful Mister Stryder, I may not want to leave,” she said smiling.

  “Kurt, call me Kurt,” he insisted.

  “Okay, Kurt,” she agreed with a nod of her head.

  “Tell me where you’re looking for?” he asked.

  “I’m actually trying to find my way back to Jacksonville, but I must’ve taken a wrong turning somewhere along the way.”

  “Jacksonville’s not that far away actually I’ll give you directions when we’ve finished these drinks and you can be on your way.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate it, really. If I can ever repay the favour, you only have to ask.”

  “That implies that we’ll keep in touch, or is it one of those gestures that people make just to be polite but that they never intend to keep?” Stryder asked. Then after a short pause he added, “I’m sorry, I put you on the spot there.”

  “No, it’s fine, honestly, and no, it wasn’t an empty gesture,” she replied.

  “Okay then, how about dinner tonight? I know of a wonderful restaurant. You tell me where you’re staying and I’ll pick you up at, say eight. How’s that sound?”

  Smiling broadly she said, “That sounds great. I’m staying at the Wyatt Hotel, room 3121.”