by David Estes
“Minnow,” Vee cautioned, though she was thinking the same thing, licking any residue from her lips.
“Sorry, Mom,” Minnow said.
“Magic,” a voice said from nearby.
Vee turned toward it, surprised to find McGee sitting up and looking at her. The skin on one side of his face was mottled with dark bruising, his eye swollen shut. “You’re a—” she started to say, but he scampered to his feet and hustled away, climbing the ladder to the mage seat. She frowned, watching the man’s back for a few moments as he stared through the membrane. Where had the brave, heroic mage knight gone? And where had he come from in the first place? “Thank you!” she shouted. She twisted to look the other way, where Minnow had started toward Terry. Frank was already prowling around, sniffing the Chameleot’s body.
“He’s alive, but weak,” the cat said.
Vee, feeling much herself again, clambered to her feet and joined them, ignoring the other bodies, which were comprised of a human and a Bronzian—both bound and still alive—two dead Jackals, an unconscious Grobnik, and one deceased Gremolin mage.
“We should get him to the medical bay,” Vee said, stifling a sob. Seeing Terry like that…it was hard. She’d known him her entire life. Not once had he appeared so…helpless.
“I’ll get a backboard,” Minnow said. “We need to stabilize his spine and neck, just in case…” He left the rest unfinished, which Verity was grateful for. She’d brought Terry here. Yes, he’d willingly signed up, but that didn’t change the fact that it was she who’d asked him. It was she, Verity Toya, who was the common denominator in an equation that was swiftly looking like the code to the destruction of everything she touched.
No, she thought, taking a deep breath. This is Dacre’s doing. He’s the one working with the Jackals. He’s the one who stole a prime artifact and a shitload of pure magic, enough to destroy entire planets. A fresh swell of anger rose up in her and she felt the need to hit something, anything. Her fingers twitched. She stood there, chest heaving, as she fought off the desire to trace a series of destructive glyphs into the air itself.
She knew she could do it, just as she had with the stone she’d turned into a fireball without the use of her mag-pistol. Is this what it feels like to be a Class 5 mage? she wondered. Her MAG/EXP counter was just north of 175,000, but the next stop was 300,000 and Class 4, not 5. Class 5 was like a distant star millions of light years away. Still, she couldn’t deny the raw power she felt thrumming through her.
“Fool,” she muttered. She was no warrior mage. Black Hole, she hadn’t even been able to defeat a single Grem.
“What?” the cat asked.
“Nothing,” Vee said, finally quelling her anger. The more she learned, the muddier things seemed to become. Only one thing was certain:
She needed to find Dacre before he did something stupid. Well, more stupid.
Chapter 18
Wheeling and dealing
Weaponless, Dacre watched as the gate opened, extending into a ramp that clanged onto the landing strip. Several Jackals hovered around him, their leathery wings beating the air into a frenzy. Their belts were empty of the aura-tipped darts and guns that were usually holstered there. It had taken a fair amount of convincing—and some threatening—before they’d agreed to attempt peaceful negotiations rather than resorting to violence.
Half a dozen of my best fighters could take this entire rock, General Kukk’uk had grumbled as she left her dart gun behind.
Now, the general flew on ahead, fearless, flanked by her soldiers.
Dacre followed behind, feeling the pull of artificial gravity with each step. As he descended to the airstrip, he scanned the platform for any signs of movement. The other docked ships were dwarfed by the star-rig. After all, only a fool or madman would try to pilot such a huge vessel through an asteroid field.
Dacre wondered which category he and his allies fell into. Both, probably, he thought with a wry smile.
Movement caught Dacre’s attention at the beginning of the airstrip, where the metal platform met the side of the asteroid. A large gate opened, and a group emerged, traipsing toward them. They were mostly human, though two Grobs were amongst the group, the huge creatures hefting large pulse cannons on their shoulders. The humans carried pistols, and all of them were leveled on Dacre and the Jackals.
I don’t like this, Kukk’uk clicked. Feels like a trap.
Dacre didn’t disagree, but he also preferred not to be vaporized, which is what the voice had threatened through the commlink. “Let me do the talking,” he said. The Jackals weren’t exactly known for their diplomacy. Then again, this was the largest black market in the galaxy, and Dacre doubted diplomacy mattered.
“Hello,” he said with a big smile and a wave. “I am Dacre Avvalon, you might have heard of me through the galactosphere? No? I am the most wanted criminal this side of the galaxy.”
The men were hard-looking, many of their faces flashing with holo-tattoos, their hair shaved into various formations atop their scalps. None of them so much as cracked a smile. They were wearing strange bodysuits made from some sort of flexible polymer that allowed a full range of motion. The man at the forefront was older than Dacre, perhaps forty, and his hair was longer, almost in his eyes, which were a crystalline blue. His face wasn’t tattooed, though he wore a neatly trimmed goatee.
He carried no weapons, his mannerisms relaxed and easy. Dacre immediately recognized him as the leader of the welcoming posse.
“We don’t take kindly to strangers showing up on our doorstep,” he said, his voice identical to that which had spoken through the star-rig’s speakers. “Especially those being hunted by the Alliance.”
“Not even those with Vectors to spend?” Dacre asked.
“You said something about information worth trillions. Not about spending Vectors. Did you lie to me? Be careful how you answer. Here in Coffee’s Alley, loose lips are frowned upon.”
Dacre’s instincts told him this man was not one to be trifled with. Despite his casual demeanor, there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Who are you?”
“Answering a question with a question,” the man said. “You are testing my patience. But I will answer this one, for my identity is easy enough to learn. I am Clay Coffee, and you’re standing on my airfield, which is connected to my rock, which sits at the core of my asteroid field. You are here because I have allowed it, and if you do not answer my question in the next three seconds, I will likely lose my temper. Trust me, that’s not what you want.”
Dacre was about to respond, when he heard a sound that sent a shot of fear through his chest: Weapons being drawn from holsters.
Just as swiftly, the humans and Grobniks tightened their grips on their own weapons, each taking a different target.
Dacre glanced at Kukk’uk. The general and each of the other Jackals were now gripping dart guns, each of which were leveled at those across from them. Kukk’uk clicked, I’m sorry, foolish human, but one does not walk into a trap empty-handed.
Dacre gritted his teeth and turned back toward Coffee. “I swear I didn’t know they were hiding weapons.”
“And yet they were.”
“I can fix this.”
“So can I.” Still weaponless, Coffee raised his hand slowly. All around Dacre, he could sense the Jackals preparing to squeeze their triggers.
The attack came not from Coffee and his gang, nor from the Jackals, but from the airstrip itself. The area on which they stood was suddenly like an electromagnet dragging everything—not just the metal—toward the ground.
Dacre was slammed down, pain shooting through him as first his knees, then his shoulders and jaw collided with the hard metal platform. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several Jackals, including Kukk’uk, trying to flap their wings unsuccessfully against the pull.
Gravity, he thought. Coffee’s raised arm had been a signal. Someone who had been watching knew to crank up the grav field. Clever. “What is this, ten times standard gr
avity?” he said, finding it hard to even open his mouth to speak.
“Twenty,” Coffee said, still on his feet. Clearly their suits somehow managed to negate the effect of the added grav. “Should we try a hundred? Your very bones will shatter. After a few minutes, you’ll be vaporized. I do not make empty threats.”
“Listen,” Dacre said. “I did not lie. The information I have is worth more than my entire payload.” He tried to gesture over his shoulder to the banged-up rig but found his hand unable to move. Instead, he flicked his eyes in what he thought was the right direction.
Instead of asking about the information, the man said, “You are carrying the stolen aura from Archimedes, I presume?”
A pro, Dacre thought. Talk about something else to force your opponent to bring the conversation back to the more important topic. It was standard procedure in any hostile negotiation, something all the mage acolytes had been taught back in the Academy. “Of course. Enough to destroy—”
“Entire planets,” the man finished, clearly not impressed. “Then again, your”—he eyed the pinned Jackals—“friends…already have the largest reserve of aura beneath their home planet, no? Why expend all the effort to steal more?”
“You know as well as I do that much of the magic on Jarnum is almost impossible to get to. The bedrock chews up tritonium drill bits like it’s made of soft cheese. The little the Jackals are able to harvest is used to lace their weapons.” It wasn’t a complete answer, which Dacre had done on purpose. He needed to know how much this man knew about the galaxy around him.
“Stop testing me, Dacre,” the man said. “I’m no fool, and the Jackals aren’t either. They have a substantial store already harvested over many years. So tell me why they need even more? If you lie or leave anything else out again, this conversation is over. You don’t want it to be over.”
Dacre managed a shrug, as if the answer was no secret, which it wasn’t. The gesture felt like lifting mountains with his shoulders. “Their target is the Alliance.”
“No kidding, really? What I was asking was what is their plan? To attack the Council? The Archchancellor herself? Take out one of the key races?” Dacre noticed the man hadn’t asked how they were going to use the aura to carry out any of the preceding.
He knows I’m a powerful mage, or at least suspects it. It was just another reason why the enhanced grav field was so smart. If I can’t lift my fingers, I can’t cast any spells. He shook his head, which required a monumental effort. “No. Their target is less…obvious.”
General Kukk’uk clicked a warning, but Dacre ignored her. Sometimes the truth was the best way to get someone’s attention. And it wasn’t like this man would turn informant for the Alliance. Plus, they were out of options, at the mercy of Coffee and his goons.
“We’re going to destroy the Mage Academy,” he said.
~~~
After that, things had moved more quickly, but not necessarily in a good way.
Clay Coffee had them bound with pulse cuffs and anklets, which would blow them off their feet at the press of a button. Then he’d hustled them along through the large hole cut into the asteroid. The wide corridor was brimming with activity, especially now that the launch strip was reopened. Apparently, Coffee had closed it down temporarily just to deal with them.
It’s like I’m a celebrity, Dacre thought wryly, watching the small hovertrucks race past. Many of them were empty, heading back to their ships after a successful black-market sale. Others, however, were full, carrying various items including a variety of dangerous-looking weapons. One truck was piled high with what appeared to be mag-rifles, a fact that was both eye-opening and disconcerting. Dacre almost laughed at his own thoughts. Says the guy consorting with terrorists and hauling around stolen aura.
Thankfully, no one had frisked him or they might’ve discovered the amulet dangling around his neck. Not that he could use it. Coffee had been very clear that the pulse cuffs he’d been given were “special,” made of magium and designed to thwart an escape attempt by a mage. “Just try it,” Coffee had said, and it felt like he wanted him to. Dacre was tempted, if only because he could feel their timetable slipping away. If he was one day—no, one second—too late…he shivered to even consider it—everything would be lost.
The corridor eventually spilled into a cavernous space cut into the asteroid. Giant tritonium columns ensured the ceiling wouldn’t collapse. Littered throughout the space was the market. Dacre had to admit it wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d thought the famous black market would be tucked away in a shadowy hole somewhere, hidden safely in the asteroid belt. This place was well-lit, bright even, and…gasp!...organized. If he was being honest, it appeared more organized than the Intragalaxy Securities Exchange, or ISE, which he’d visited once as part of a field trip while in primary school. The ISE had been full of thousands of robots racing about, narrowly avoiding colliding with each other as they placed bids for shares in various public enterprises using unique access codes. To a young boy, the scene had appeared chaotic. All grown up, Dacre still didn’t understand how it had all worked.
Here, in Coffee’s Alley—it should be called Coffee’s Giant Asteroidal Warehouse, Dacre thought—the scene was more subdued. Hole, there were lines! Buyers and sellers of various races waited their turn at each hoverstall. The stalls were mobile, most of them hovering in fixed position. Some of them had samples of their product, like the stall Dacre had just noticed, which featured an unarmed display version of twelve different types of rockets, each of which were larger and more destructive than the last. He heard one potential buyer, a tall, wiry Jhinn man, ask whether he could get “a hundy,” which Dacre could only assume meant one hundred. The seller, an aging Bronzian who still appeared strong enough to crush moonrocks between his fists, laughed and told him he could arrange three times that amount if desired. He also heard mad amounts of Vectors being tossed about. “Millions” was used casually, while thrice he heard mention of amounts in the “Billions.” Good thing I said ‘Trillions’, he thought, or else Coffee might’ve blasted their star-rig before it had even landed.
Dacre shook his head, trying to come to terms with the sheer volume of weaponry being sold in this one place. Enough to outfit a large portion of the Alliance forces, surely.
Several of the buyers and more than one seller glanced at the captives as they were marched through the market. Their gazes didn’t linger, however, and Dacre wondered whether such a thing was a regular occurrence.
At the opposite end of the market was a hoverlift guarded by two burly Grobnik. Dacre expected the two guards to nod or show some form of interest in the pack of Jackals considering the two races were supposed to be neighbors and allies, but the Grobs stared straight ahead as if they didn’t exist. Their horns were sharpened to points that Dacre thought looked like they could gore the thick skin of a Bronzian grinder.
The lift doors opened, and the prisoners were ushered inside. Though the space was large, they barely fit, packed shoulder to shoulder. On one side Dacre’s shoulder was pressed against the edge of Kukk’uk’s leathery wing, and on the opposite side Coffee’s elbow poked unapologetically into his ribs.
“Where are we going?” Dacre asked, the silence wearing down on him.
Coffee grunted but didn’t respond.
The hoverlift rose rapidly and Dacre felt his stomach lurch. The vessel decelerated and then moved on a strange angle—not just up but to the side as well, or so it felt. After a few tense moments it stopped, and the doors opened. More well-built Grobnik guards met them with steely stares and hefty stun-rifles.
A series of magium-plated corridors branched off from the hoverlift. Coffee finally spoke: “My inner sanctuary,” he said. “Constructed of grade-A magium harvested from the mountains of Urkusk. Not a single spell has ever been cast here, but you’re welcome to try. Guards—remove their shackles.”
Dacre rubbed his wrists once the cuffs were off, firing warning daggers at Kukk’uk and her Jackals. Don’t t
ry anything. He doubted they would—their weapons had all been taken.
Down one of the corridors they went, the path soon coming to a crossroads. Second fork from the left, Dacre memorized, picturing the reverse in his head. Soon, however, he became confused, each new fork leading in a different direction. How large is this place?
Coffee seemed to sense his thoughts, grinning. “Yes, it’s a maze of sorts. Only those who have spent decades here truly know all the nooks and crannies. Which basically means me. I grew up here. This is my playground.”
Yes, but what sorts of games did you play? Dacre thought.
Eventually they stopped at a heavy-looking door. The plating reminded Dacre of the blast-proof doors on the Alliance starships he’d seen back at the Academy. Coffee strode up to a reader on the wall and let the device scan his eyes. Accepted, a sultry voice said, and the door opened from bottom to top with barely a whisper. Inside was an empty room. “Get in,” Coffee said.
When Dacre started forward, Coffee stopped him with an outstretched arm. “Not you. Them.”
The Jackals hesitated but were soon shoved forward by the rest of the posse. They clicked their protests but disappeared when the door clamped down once more.
“What are you going to do to them?” Dacre asked. Though they were only his temporary allies—a means to an end—and he had no love for the Jackals, he didn’t want to see them tortured or killed. Especially Kukk’uk, who he’d begun to develop something akin to comradery and respect for.
Even if she does want to blow the Mage Academy halfway across the galaxy.
“They will not be harmed unless you do something foolish,” Coffee replied after a moment’s pause. “Their fate is in your hands, so to speak.”
Great. I never do anything foolish.
“Sounds good,” he said. “Where to next?”
“My office.”
Clay Coffee’s office was a sprawling suite made up of a series of rooms, each more extravagant than the next. “Hold all my comms,” Coffee said to a bot sitting at a desk when they first entered.