Relic of Empire

by W. Michael Gear

  Light splashed down as Red opened the hatch. “Nice! Hang on, Mac. I’ve got a torch here. Look the other way. “

  After Red had hacked a hole into the cargo bay, Mac had wiggled, slithered, and somersaulted through. Hanging from his fingertips, he dropped nearly three meters to the deck. In the pressurized hold, he had finally shut down his helmet generator.

  It’s over. I’m alive. I did it. As his team dropped behind him, Mac tried to still the fluttery feeling in his guts. Andrews landed with a thud, the last of his ten.

  ‘Everyone all right?” Mac asked, aware of pale faces and trembling hands.

  “Never again,” Richmond gasped. “You want me to die, you just take me out and shoot me.”

  “Shit, man,” Andrews grinned nervously, “We made it! You show me a bunch of rougher bastards than us! “

  Mac accessed his comm. “First Section, this is MacRuder. Anybody copy? Anybody inside?”

  Nothing. Where were the others? How many had nerved themselves for the jump? And if only his team had gone, could he actually bring charges against any who refused? He wiped a hand over his mouth. His team wouldn’t have gone if he hadn’t thrown Viola off the ramp in desperation. They’d been paralyzed, frightened out of their wits.

  “All right, folks, let’s go. No one puts a finger close to the firing stud until I say so. If anyone so much as hiccups, we’re jittery enough to blow holes in everything-including ourselves.”

  Mac led the way to a hatch and checked the readings: standard atmosphere. He undogged the heavy door and pulled it aside, leading his team through into a long corridor. Light panels glowed in the ceiling and the walls had been painted white. Dry felt might have been in his mouth. His electric nerves had frayed to snapping. Yeah, just like Makarta Mountain, all right. Still scared shitless and walking into trouble. They passed another hatch, and entered what looked to be crew quarters. “Keep sharp, people. We’re getting close. “

  “Where in stinking hell is the bridge at anyway?” Red whispered.

  “Guess we’re going to find out.” Mac started forward again, letting the ugly muzzle of his blaster lead the way. What if someone sounded the alarm? Ignorant of the ship’s layout, how could they hope to fight? We’re in a pus-licking trap!

  Mac drew up at an intersection. Four corridors came together at a lift. Mac walked out calmly and shrugged, palming the lock plate. The lift opened with barely enough room inside for all ten of them. Viola’s weapon gouged Mac between the shoulder blades. Cavalierly, he ordered, “Bridge, please.”

  The lift carried them up for a count of ten before it slowed and the door slipped to the side with a squishing sound. Mac stepped out into a well-kept white-paneled corridor and looked around. Two large hatches-both with security monitors overhead-were set in the bulkhead across from him.

  Mac swallowed dryly and motioned his team forward. “Looks like the game gets real serious right here, and if I’m not mistaken that’s a standard lock design. Red, you take that hatch, Andrews, take this one. If that alarm goes off, blast the hatch-and pray. “

  As his teammates pulled out their cutting tools, Mac slapped the lock plate on general principle. To his surprise, the hatch slid back. What? No security? But then, this was a civilian freighter not a warship. Mac peered carefully around the corner and grinned as he waved his people onto the Sassan bridge.

  The Comm First sat surrounded by equipment, leaning back with arms crossed, headset on as he stared at his boards. Across from him, a pilot lay on the recliner, a worry-cap on his head. The command chair stood empty.

  Gripping his heavy blaster, Mac tiptoed up behind the communications officer. Adrenaline shooting rockets through his veins, Mac plucked the man’s headset off and immediately dropped a choking forearm across the officer’s neck and pulled him backward out of the chair.

  “Looks like we’ve got the ship,” Red observed as the rest of his team placed a guard on the hatches. Mac pulled his struggling captive back and shoved his pistol into the Comm First’s contorting face. “Quiet now, or this will go off. Answer my questions, and do so at a whisper.

  The Sassan peered up with frightened eyes. “Who.... What do you want?”

  “Where’s the captain? The other officers?” “Dinner! It’s.... They’re in the main mess.” Mae jerked his head at the pilot. “He’s tied into comm? If we want him to send a message to Imperial Sassa, he can do it for us?”

  The Comm First gulped and whispered, “No. Only intraship. Monitoring the reactors and course. Takes ...takes my comm. I’ll have to send your message.”

  Mac gave him a cold grin, and, forearm still across the man’s throat, jerked him back. He kicked and made gurgling sounds as he was pulled through the hatch and into the hall.

  “Now,” Mac told him, “you’re going to tell me how to get to the mess. “

  “Take the lift ... just ask. It’s voice activated.” “That better not be a lie, because if I find it is, I’ll make a call on my comm, and Red, here, will cut you in two.” Mac gestured at the monitors.”You didn’t see us through those. What happened.”

  He closed his eyes in torment. “We’re just a freighter, coming home from the war. It didn’t ... I mean .... “

  “In other words, you weren’t watching.” Mac chuckled. “Red, you and Andrews hold the bridge and keep an eye on this guy. Use some adhesive and glue him down on the floor here. The rest of you come with me.”

  Mac entered the lift and called brazenly, “Main mess.” The lift dropped silently.

  Mac tried his comm. “MacRuder here. Anybody else inside?”

  “Firmative, Group D here, sir. We’re back in some cargo hold. We tried to come in through the bottom of a crate. Found out it’s full of parts for an armored-“

  “All right, come on forward. We’ve got the bridge and are on the way to catch the rest. When you get to a lift station, just ask it for the main mess. “

  ‘Firmative. Wait a second. Part of B Group is in, too. Rotted Gods, Mac, not everybody might have been able to muster guts enough for that jump.”

  “Yeah ... whoops, gotta go. We’re at the main mess.”

  Mac stepped out into another ot the corridors, this one looking similar to the bridge deck, but the hatches were on the other bulkhead-and open. Mac could see people inside, all engaged in the noisy business of feeding themselves.

  He snuck up to the large open hatch, hearing the sounds of dinner. “As soon as we’re in the mess, walk around the walls and take up covering positions. If anyone bolts for a door, shoot him down.”

  At first, no one noticed as Mac and his people filed through the entrances and started around the room. One by one, however, people stopped in mid-gesture and talk began to dwindle.

  Mac headed straight for the raised table at the head of the room. A rotund man-the captain-baldheaded, wearing some sort of Sassan uniform stood up, demanding, “Who are you? What’s the meaning of....”He gulped as Mac leveled his pistol.

  “Did you know that you Sassans slur your words? But then, we’ll have plenty of time to work on pronunciation. Sit down, please.”

  The captain sat as a murmur of voices rose. Mac cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, ladies, please. We are sorry to inform you that as of this moment your ship has been commandeered by Imperial Regan forces. No one will leave this room. If you stand up, you’ll be shot on the spot. “

  At that instant, members of C Group appeared from a doorway across the room, prodding people who looked like kitchen staff ahead of them.

  “Rotted Gods,” Mac muttered to himself. “It looks like we might pull this off after all. “

  Comm informed, “Red here, Mac. The pilot is asking me questions through the speakers here. He says he’s got a proximity alert. Says a ship is passing real close and he’s a bit nervous.”

  “That’s Gyton. Anybody in a position where they can broadcast on comm?”

  “Simms, sir. I’ve got a line.”

  “Good. Tell,Rysta to match and send a pilot a
nd comm first over. This ship ... by the way, what is the name of this air bucket?”

  “The Markelos,” the captain growled, face gone florid. “And you’ll never get away with-“

  “Right. Simms? Tell Rysta we’ve got the Markelos and everything .... “

  As he scanned the ashen faces of the people sitting at the captain’s table, Mac stopped in stunned silence A frosty chill ate its way up from his guts as he level’d his pistol and stared at the woman through the sights. “Wait!” The pudgy little, fop with the shaved head and pompoms on him who sat next to the woman cried out. Heedless of Mac’s warning, he struggled to his feet, waving his arms and pleading, “In the name of the Divine, man! Don’t shoot!”

  The woman seemed paralyzed, her color draining with disbelief .

  “I’m Governor Zacharia Beechie!” the man pleaded as he dropped to his knees before Mac. “She’s my wife! Don’t shoot!”

  Mac hesitated, refusing to lower his guard. “Your wife?”

  “Yes! My wife, Marie Attenasio!”

  A cutting edge, like shattered glass, sliced at Mac’s soul. “Then, friend, you’re married to a Seddi assassin. “

  “S-Seddi? Assassin?” Beechie stumbled, craning his neck to stare wide-eyed at the auburn-haired woman. The rest of the room might have faded into nothingness as Mac took a step forward, sweat leaking down the inside of his armor.

  “Arta Fera! Ily saved you last time. But this time I’m going to kill you ... and may the Rotted Gods have mercy on your polluted soul!”

  His finger tightened on the trigger as he stared into her frightened amber eyes.

  Staffa stopped pacing as Kaylla’s antigrav appeared in his security monitors. He rubbed his warm brow and ordered: “Clear Magister Dawn for entry.”

  He glanced again at one of the monitors on his cluttered desk. A white dot marked the location of Skyla’s yacht as she boosted for Tyklat’s disabled cruiser. Watching that point of light inch across space had become an insidious new torture he’d devised to make himself miserable. Like an addict aware of impending death, Staffa couldn’t force himself to clear the screen.

  He stood in the main room of his personal quarters. Compared to his rooms in Chrysla, his Itreatic living space was designed with masterful simplicity. Fiber optics integrated into the walls allowed him to choose the color scheme of the room and attached holo tanks were spaced every five meters. The ceiling consisted of an internally lit crystal lattice that refracted the light in shifting diamond patterns. The carpet software generated shifting mosaics of geometric figures that merged, metamorphosed, and created new designs. In the rear, a single secunty doot led to his bedvoom, personal bath, and toilet.

  On one of the large reclining gravchairs, a suit of Skyla’s white armor lay draped over the headrest where she’d left it. A notebook comm rested under the limp sleeve. Beside that stood an empty stassa cup she’d placed there. Across the room, on the counter, Skyla had left one of the epaulet clips for her hair and a pair of battery packs.

  Staffa tapped the heel of his fist into a hard palm as Kaylla stepped out of her shielded antigrav and emerged through his double air lock entrance.

  She gave him a piercing inspection as she nodded in greeting and stopped, surveying his quarters. She wore the loose white robes of the Seddi Magister, the belt pulled tight at her thin waist.

  “Well?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as she came to stand before him. “I trust you didn’t call me halfway across the complex for a social occasion. What’s gone wrong?”

  Staffa turned to his comm, ordering, “Play the Tyklat file.”

  Kaylla gave him a worried glance before she began to watch as the,comm replayed Tyklat’s conversation with Skyla. When it finished, Kaylla continued to stare

  at the blank monitor for long moments. She straightened slowly, as if physically pained.

  Staffa resumed his restless pacing as Kaylla fingered the collar of her robe, eyes staring vacantly.

  “Skyla has gone out to bring Tyklat in?”

  Staffa wheeled on one heel, propping his hands on his hips. “She has. What do you think? ‘You must have some profile on Tyklat ... on Nyklos. You heard the allegations. Could Nyklos be doubled by Ily? Did Tyklat sound like he’d been? Would a doubled agent be willing, even eager to turn himself over for interrogation?”

  Kaylla’s eyes remained unfocused. “Is there any way Ily could have done something to Tyklat? Placed some deep trigger in his mind the way the Praetor did to yours once?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve sent Andray Sornsen a query on that. He hasn’t had time to reply yet. I called you as soon as I returned to my quarters. If it is Nyklos, we’ve got to neutralize him immediately, and very quietly. If he picks up the slightest hint that we’re on to him, he’ll make things very difficult for us.”

  “We don’t know anything yet,” Kaylla reminded.

  “No. We don’t. If Ily managed to take Tyklat in, she didn’t have him for very long, certainly not long enough to do a complete job of reconditioning his brain. But does he have a lever somewhere? Something Ily could use to manipulate him? A person? A secret? Debts?”

  Kaylla’s expression hardened. “No. Tyklat was professional to the roots. He cut any ties that might have jeopardized him years ago. As to his loyalty, I’ve no reason to question it. Bruen doesn’t either. I talked to him about Tyklat. He thought him to be one of the best of our agents.”

  “Which brings us back to the allegation that Ily has someone in your organization. Tyklat suspects Nyklos.” “And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t allow myself the luxury of my personal feelings. Not when the security of Itreata is at stake. If he’s not Ily’s agent, and I take him out, haven’t I just helped to cut my own throat? So let’s forget the personal aspect and get down to solving the problem. “

  She relented, a humorless smile on her lips. “Very well. The first step to defanging a Cytean cobra is to get hold of the beast. What do you have in mind for Nyklos-assurning he’s the one?”

  “Take him out while he’s asleep. That can be done effortlessly by means of a soporific in his food or drink. When he’s out, we’ll have the medical center run a complete scan on him. Remove your infamous Seddi tooth.... Perhaps his tooth didn’t malfunction when Skyla cornered him in Etarus? Now wouldn’t that be an interesting convolution of events?”

  “And from there we put him under the scan and drug him up with Mytol. Then we suck him dry,” Kaylla finished bitterly. “Quantum Gods, I hate this business. “

  “We’ll know,” Staffa reminded gently. “Further, if Nyklos is clean, he’ll probably assent to the interrogation of his own free will. No matter what I think of him, the man is a professional. He knows the stakes as well as you or 1. If he’s innocent, he’ll want his name cleared no matter what.”

  Reluctantly, Kaylla nodded.

  Staffa walked over to stare at Skyla’s monitor. Why had he allowed her to talk him into it? He tried to settle his roiled emotions as Kaylla came to stand beside him.

  “You’re worried sick over her, aren’t you?”

  Staffa nodded, fingers closing on air. “I can’t order her to stay out of harm’s way. She’d never allow it. “How about sending a backup team?”

  Staffa pointed to a dot of light. “That’s Ryklos ... Sassan territory. Among other things, I returned here to find a report from Myles Roma. The Sassan military has been put on alert. They’re to report any violation of Sassan space by Companion warships. If such ,Sassan can and will respond.”

  “And will Skyla draw such a response?”

  Staffa tore himself away, crossing the room in adrenaline-powered strides. “I doubt it. She’s been advised, and knowing Skyla, she’ll keep her mass and reaction damped. We’ve had the plot on their detection buoys for years now, and the regional governor at Ryklos isn’t exactly known for his enthusiasm for innovation. If Skyla is detected, she’ll have Tyklat and be halfway home before the Sassans c
an have a ship manned.”

  “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

  Staffa shrugged, running his fingers over Skyla’s armor where it hung over the headrest of his gravchair. “Having the Companions for a next door neighbor discourages raids by antagonistic powers and breeds a sense of security-as long as you think you’re one of the Companions’ good allies. I’m sure that since Than Jakre’s latest order went out, a lot of people on Ryklos have begun to get a queasy feeling in their guts. “

  “She’ll be all right,” Kaylla told him, pointing to where he stroked the silky armor.

  Staffa smiled self-consciously. “Yes, I know. As

  she’s told me so many times, she can take care of herself . “

  “She took security with her?”

  “ Five of Ryman’s best ST people. She’s no one’s ol. “

  “Then why do you have that horrible look on your face?”

  Staffa closed his eyes, remembering. “Because I have so much to lose ... again. Rotted Gods, over the years, I’d forgotten the way worry eats at the soul. Kaylla, love is a curse. What if something happens? When the Praetor stole my wife and son I went mad ... took it out on the whole of Free Space. I was only half a man then, could only give Chrysla half of myself. But with Skyla, I’ve surrendered myself totally. Do you know how terribly frightening that is?” give that love to a woman who wasn’t like her? Skyla never ceases to amaze me. I’m not sure I like her, but by the quanta, I respect the hell out of her. “

  “If Tyklat’s bait in a trap. . . .” Staffa’s fist knotted. Ily will curse the day she was ever born-even if I have to pry her pus-soaked tail out of Rega’s ash-strewn wreckage.

  “Staffa? Staffa!”

  His thoughts returned to the present and Kaylla who watched him uncertainly.

  “Were I Ily Takka, and could see your expression just now, I’d be worried.”

  “And well she might be.” Staffa shook off his black mood and squared his shoulders - “Very well, what ate we going to do about Nyklos?”

  The naked man in the chair leaned his head back, pain-glazed eyes rolling as Ily paced back and forth before him in her cubicle of an interrogation room. The straps on the chair had eaten into his spare flesh and pulled on the taut skin. Despite the cool air pumped in to keep prisoners uncomfortable, trickles of sweat slipped down the captive’s skin. The monitoring equipment gave a complete profile of his metabolism, anxiety, and rising fear. For the mom6nthe’d fixed his gaze on the cameras that lined the angle of the concrete ceiling.