Mercy Kill

by Aaron Allston

  Bhindi sighed. “It’s on my list. Keep going.”

  “Well, when Step One is done, that makes all the other steps a little easier. With our master comlink active, we can walk anywhere on the vessel and know that the security holocams and other sensors aren’t picking us up. But it’s still chancy because, for instance, two holocams with slightly overlapping fields of vision could end up showing very different views at the point of overlap.”

  Bhindi nodded. Clearly she’d heard this sort of thing many, many times before. Voort certainly had, but he listened closely anyway. He found his appreciation for and trust in Trey’s abilities increasing, despite the man’s too-youthful mannerisms.

  Trey paused to gobble down some small, globular winefruits. “Job Two, then. Sabotaging the hyperdrive. It’s not as safe to just try to inject new code there. One mistake and I could screw things up, sending us into hyperspace forever on our next jump.”

  Turman, relaxing in his true Clawdite form, remained deadpan. “Let’s not do that.”

  “What we do instead is install what I call a disintegrating tripper at a crucial connection in the hyperdrive itself. It’s an electricity-conducting form of duraplast that breaks down, basically detonates, under enough heat. And there’s a tiny amount of explosive there, too. Run a microfilament wire of the same stuff off into the wall with a comlink receiver and a timer. Later, whenever you want, you issue the signal, the comlink triggers the timer, the timer activates the little explosive charge, the tripper mechanism explodes with just enough force to knock the wiring connection free. Maybe does so without damaging it, maybe does a little damage, an easy fix in any case. And there’s no forensic evidence left behind except for a little powder that used to be the tripper.”

  Bhindi sounded uncertain. “And the comlink in the wall.”

  “I’m pretty good at hiding those. And the repair crew sent down to investigate why the hyperdrive isn’t working have a number one priority of getting it working before the captain reams them. If they do discover the timer or other evidence, it’ll be a day or days later. When it will be too late to be relevant.”

  “All right, I’m convinced.” Bhindi snatched up the last of the blue butter pastries just before Trey managed to get his hand on it.

  “Trey, I didn’t ask you yesterday.” Jesmin’s voice was suddenly very serious. “This hyperdrive-sabotaging technique. Is it something you learned somewhere, some trick widely known in the profession?”

  Trey paused, confused. “No … I came up with this method myself. Yesterday. Why?”

  “Some of you know I spent years investigating rumors of a very big, very sophisticated black-market ring.” Jesmin looked decidedly unhappy. “Of course, anywhere you have a flow of supplies, there may be crews working to divert part of it for profit. But a while back, a good friend of mine, a fellow Antarian Ranger, was murdered on Toprawa, and the evidence I found pointed toward a major black-market ring. I took a long-term leave of absence from the Rangers to look into it. Spent a couple of years under the name of Zilaash Kuh, Force-using bounty hunter and criminal for hire, trying to crack it. And failed. One of the things I kept running across was reports of Alliance naval cargo vessels being hijacked, whisked away, no sign ever emerging of their cargoes or crews, and there was a lot of speculation about Interdictor cruisers or pinpoint hyperdrive sabotage. So I was curious.”

  “Oh.” Trey shook his head. “No, I didn’t practice for my Wraith Squadron audition by pirating naval cargo vessels. Sorry.”

  Bhindi cleared her throat. “One of those hijackings happened just the other day. So Five’s question was relevant. But we need to focus on the task at hand. Job Three?”

  “Right.” Soulful-eyed, Trey stared at the still-uneaten pastry in Bhindi’s hand.

  She glared. “I’m your commanding officer.”

  “I’m a growing boy.”

  With an exasperated noise, she handed it over. “Job Three?”

  “Job Three is choosing the lifeboat escape pod we want to use for the mission, then assembling data on every ship’s sensor that could possibly detect it, and setting up a onetime sensor loop at each of those sensors to keep them from detecting its launch. Not to mention disabling that lifeboat’s own alert notifications. With those three jobs done, we’re good to go.”

  Bhindi fixed him with a stern eye. “So you’ll be getting to work immediately?”

  Trey froze in mid-nibble. “I was going to get some sleep. Ten or twelve hours.”

  “Time is wasting, Trey. There are only two really good spots along this cruise route to do this.”

  Trey shook his head. “I think I misspoke. With those three jobs done, we’re good to go. Those three jobs are done. Five and I were up all day and night yesterday doing them.”

  “What?” For once, Bhindi looked as though she’d been taken completely off guard.

  Jesmin cracked up, buried her face in her hands. “It’s true, One. He’s very … energetic.”

  Trey shrugged. “We’re good to go. Now can I sleep?”

  Bhindi stared at him, stunned. Finally she found her voice. “Four, I apologize for being cross with you earlier. Will you marry me?”

  “Uh …” He checked his chrono. “Sure, why not?”

  “Don’t do it, One.” Turman’s voice was low, somber. “He wakes up before dawn every day. He exercises constantly. He’s healthy and pure.”

  “Sorry, engagement’s off.” Bhindi stood. “Our first opportunity to do this is about fifteen hours from now. Convene here in twelve hours, rested and ready. Until then, enjoy yourselves, and don’t make anybody suspicious.”

  Pastry still in hand, Trey joined the other men heading toward the door. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Voort shook his head. “In just a few hours you impressed your boss and teammates, had a very brief affair of the heart, and emerged with your heart unbroken. I’d say you did quite well.”

  In fifteen years, Voort had forgotten just how tense even the most placid and error-free Wraith activities could be.

  This one took place with the same efficiency Trey had shown in setting up the event. The Wraiths began by wiping down each of their cabins with bleach and other ordinary chemicals that would destroy genetic evidence and other forensic details pointing to their true identities. Most of their baggage and clothes ended up in a waste chute destined for the burners deep within the ship.

  Finally the Wraiths gathered in Bhindi’s cabin, carrying one small bag each. All wore the disguises and personae in which they had boarded, including Scut in his smiling neoglith masquer.

  Silent, casual, and unmemorable, they walked in pairs to the turbolift and took it down to a deck devoted to function rooms and seminar chambers. Only the ship’s library was occupied, and they tiptoed past it, past the few ship’s passengers who preferred the lure of texts and educational programs to drinks, formal dinner wear, bathing suits, and the company of the idle rich.

  At the end of the corridor was the irising door to an emergency bay holding an escape pod. Trey checked his comlink-equipped datapad, entered a few commands, and then nodded at the others. Voort and Turman quickly disengaged all the nearby overhead glow rod assemblies, plunging that end of the corridor into near darkness.

  Bhindi slapped the red panel beside the door. There was no sudden shrill of ship’s alarms, no voice from a nearby speaker demanding answers. The round door simply irised open, revealing a two-step antechamber and a similarly open door into a spherical golden escape pod.

  They boarded in silence. Trey, the last one in, broadcast more commands from his datapad, and both the bay door and the pod door irised closed.

  Trey went through a quick, silent checklist on his datapad. Then he relaxed and leaned back. “Safe to talk. Two minutes until the hyperdrive fails.”

  Bhindi buckled her restraining straps. “Everybody comfortable with zero gravity?”

  “Usually.” Voort grimaced. “But I’m feeling a little queasy. Anybody have something to
settle my stomach?”

  The Wraiths looked blankly at one another as they strapped themselves in.

  Voort extended his straps to their maximum length and was finally able to get them around him and buckle in. “One, we really do need a team medic.”

  “I know.” Bhindi shrugged. “I was pressed for time, trying to put together a team as fast as Face wanted. I had a really good sniper and close combat specialist all lined up, but I couldn’t track him down—too busy recruiting Scut. I had to ask Face to go after you.”

  “Your loss. If we go into zero gravity and I begin throwing up …” Voort patted his belly. “I carry a lot of ammunition.”

  Turman, directly opposite Voort, turned to Bhindi. “Can I trade places with you?”

  “No. Seven, throw up in your bag.”

  More seconds passed, until there was a beep from Trey’s datapad. He glanced at it and smiled. “We are out of hyperspace. Right on schedule, and ship’s computers tell me we’re at the right spot. You may all kiss my hand.” He tapped a button. “Sequence activated.”

  The bay and escape pod interior lights dimmed to blackness. A blank durasteel wall centimeters beyond the rear viewport slid aside, revealing starfield. There was a lurch, like a recreation park ride first going into motion … and moments later the irised bay door visible through the front viewport retreated, becoming a circle of diminishing size within a dark square bay of diminishing size, itself surrounded by dark blue hull and gleaming running lights.

  Voort suddenly felt a touch dizzy, off balance from the abrupt cessation of artificial gravity. But his nausea did not worsen. He focused on the Bastion Princess drifting away from him at the slow rate of a few meters a second.

  “Why do I feel like we need to whisper?” That was Turman, whispering.

  Voort glanced at him. “Because you’re bad at science. Or perhaps you’re just overwhelmed by the psychological effect of a kilometer-long vessel so close, our lives possibly forfeit if someone catches a glimpse of us through a viewport, our lives possibly forfeit if no naval vessel spots us and Myri cannot get to us …”

  Turman glared at him.

  Voort warmed to the torturous subject. His nausea continued to diminish. “In fact, we could scream our throats hoarse, and of course no sound would cross the vacuum between here and there, no one aboard would notice …”

  “Not quite true.” Jesmin’s attention was on the view of the cruise liner. “If we were screaming, genuinely upset, a Forcesensitive aboard might feel it. Might even flash on a mental image of us in the escape pod. If there was a trained Jedi or Sith aboard, it would actually be pretty likely. So let’s stay calm.”

  They did, across ten long minutes, during which they drifted nearly two kilometers away from Bastion Princess by Voort’s calculation. Then the cruise liner surged ahead. For an instant it seemed to stretch, and then it was gone.

  “Perfect.” Bhindi sounded jubilant. “Well done, Trey. Well done, Jesmin.”

  Trey perked up. “Do I get somebody to do my laundry for a couple of weeks?”

  “No.”

  “You said something about rewards when you recruited me.”

  “You got my last butter pastry, and had a one-minute window in which you could have married me. So far, you’re doing great, reward-wise.” Bhindi sighed. “But now we restore lights, falsify a ship’s identity for this pod, turn on the emergency beacon … and wait.”

  Bhindi extended her hand and accepted the grip and the unneeded aid of the Imperial Navy lieutenant, junior grade, who stood just outside the escape pod’s door.

  The lieutenant was dark-skinned, doubly handsome in his gray officer’s uniform, and had courtly old-fashioned manners. He had a voice to match, deep and resonant and mature beyond his evident years. “Welcome aboard the Concussor, Lady Sadra.”

  Bhindi made her voice breathless. “Oh, my.” She allowed the lieutenant to draw her out into the vessel’s belly bay, a chamber barely large enough to hold the boxy military-grade rescue shuttle, two ball-cockpit TIE/In interceptors, and lifeboat escape pod currently occupying it.

  As the other Wraiths emerged, feigning weariness by blinking, yawning, and stretching, Bhindi introduced them. “My yacht crew. Fili and Dili, my security—Fili’s the he one and Dili’s the she one. Murt, my soon-to-be-former pilot—he’s the bland one in black. The one who’s all smiles is Voozy, in charge of entertainments. And the porter is Gronk.”

  “I am Lieutenant Phison. And I apologize for my haste, but I have to get some information and comm it to the bridge before we get you settled into quarters. Your emergency comm mentioned pirates.”

  Bhindi nodded, eyes opening as if she were bewildered. “We weren’t yet out of the gravity field of the asteroid belt we were admiring when there they were, half a dozen starfighters that looked like they’d been slapped together from scraps and spit.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Uglies, in fighter pilot parlance. Did they mention their names?”

  “Not individually; they didn’t introduce themselves. But they called themselves … Dinner Squadron.” She heard a grunt, as if caused by a minor pain spasm, from Voort. “My yacht was unarmed, unarmored. What choice did we have? We surrendered. They were actually sort of nice to us. No killing, no abusing, they took us out to a trade route and let us eject in my pod. That’s sort of polite, isn’t it?”

  Lieutenant Phison nodded. “Very, by some standards. Now I have to ask, is your yacht in Imperial registry, and are you Imperial citizens?”

  Bhindi let an expression of disappointment cross her features. “Well, I’d say so. I’m from Coruscant, from when the Emperor ruled. But my family fled when those ghastly Rebels took over. We’ve never been back. Is that Imperial enough?”

  “I certainly hope so. I’ll get that information to the captain. Please come this way.” He gestured toward the exit blast door.

  Unbidden, Bhindi linked her arm through his and walked with him. “How many men are aboard a boat this size?”

  “We’re a Burst Fire–class Deep-Space Patrol Vessel—what we like to call a pocket corvette. We have a crew of thirty.”

  “Perfect! But I don’t mean crew, silly. I mean men. Human men.”

  The blast doors opened for them. “I’m, uh, not sure. Sixteen? Eighteen?”

  “Oh, how wonderful.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Voort kept up a litany of grunting, squealing, petty complaints in Gamorrean while Trey meticulously searched and scanned every surface, nook, niche, shelf, drawer, and furniture underside in the junior officer’s cabin that had been assigned to Bhindi. It wasn’t that Voort was genuinely unhappy; the noise he made would divert anybody listening in by eavesdropping device.

  Finally Trey returned to the gleaming white datapad that rested on the cabin’s tiny fold-down desktop. He picked the datapad up, switched it off, and snapped it shut. “That’s it. No mikes in the walls or possessions. Just one innocuous datapad left behind on a shelf, set to record.”

  Bhindi, who’d been stretched out on the lower bunk ever since Trey had finished searching it, offered him an expression of disappointment. “The good old Empire would have had every one of their officers under surveillance. That’s what the old-timers say, anyway. I feel let down. Call the others in, Seven.”

  Voort rapped three times on the aft bulkhead wall, and then moved over to repeat the knock on the forward bulkhead.

  In moments the other three Wraiths entered, filling the small cabin past comfortable capacity. Trey swung himself into the upper bunk, giving himself and the others more room. “I’ve reassembled the component parts. We have three ugly, sort of recognizable blasters that the Imps don’t know about … in theory. But we can’t test them without making a lot of noise.”

  Bhindi stretched as if indifferent. “We’ll just have to trust you, then. With all our lives …”

  Trey flinched. “Stop it.”

  As soon as the passageway door was shut, Turman turned toward Bhindi. “That was an awful p
erformance.”

  She shot him a hurt look. “I thought I did rather well.”

  “Oh, vocal inflections, mannerisms, your commitment to the character, they were fine. Amateur, but fine. But the character herself—stomach-turning. One-dimensional. Nothing there for an audience to connect with.”

  “I’ll have you know that Imperial military males have a history of appreciating breathless women with the brains of a bantha.” Bhindi sighed. “Everyone, listen up. The captain will have already transmitted his preliminary report on us, his new rescues, and will be awaiting orders. If my experience with the New Republic Navy is any guide, those orders will be to keep us aboard and continue with his patrol until his course takes him near a place where he can drop us off with minimal loss of time or use of resources. Which gives us maybe a day. With luck, two.”

  Jesmin sat at the foot of Bhindi’s bunk. “We’ve been pretty lucky so far.”

  Bhindi nodded in agreement. “We’ve been terrifically lucky so far. Down to the craft that picked us up. We should be able to crew it long enough to limp somewhere we can pick up additional spacers.”

  “We should not have brought Piggy.” That was Scut, his tone flat, a curious contrast with his smiling expression. “All the reports of insurgency … someone will notice that there’s always a ‘Gamorrean porter.’ His presence endangers us.”

  “Maybe.” Bhindi sounded bored. “But Seven is a seasoned enough veteran not to speak someone’s name when we’re behind enemy lines. Which you, Six, and even you, Five, are not. Not yet. Not to mention, Six, that you forgot and used a name he doesn’t wear anymore. And here’s another reason he’s along with us. Let’s say the next phase of this operation goes perfectly and leaves us in possession of the Concussor. What’s next?”