by Cary Caffrey
The Machines of Bellatrix
The Girls from Alcyone II
by Cary Caffrey
The Machines of Bellatrix. Published by Cary Caffrey. Copyright 2013 by Cary Caffrey. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, visit Cary Caffrey at carycaffrey.com
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This novel is a work of fiction created by the author. All characters, events and organizations portrayed in this novel are works of the author's imagination.
Copyright 2013 by Cary Caffrey
carycaffrey.com
Cover art by Anne Pogoda
Published by Alcyone Studio, NB, Canada
For Gisele
Contents
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
Train à Grande Vitesse
July 14, 2348
Bellatrix
The TGV sped along, cruising at a pedestrian 782 kph. The noise and crowds of the city were quickly left behind. There was nothing before it now, nothing but open desert and the thousands of kilometers of empty track that stretched into the night.
There was little to see outside and even less to hear. Not even the rushing blast of transonic winds could penetrate the insulated passenger compartment. The only sounds in the cabin came from the labored breathing of Dr. Farrington's slumbering companion. The doctor didn't know the man's name, nor did he care to. He was far too preoccupied, too busy mulling over the course of recent events. Events that had led him to this godforsaken armpit of a planet.
Independents.
How Farrington had become involved with a group of rebels was beyond him. He never cared for politics and avoided such topics when possible. It was only his work that mattered.
Farrington cursed. The whole thing was academic. The facility on Scorpii was lost, and his work now in the hands of the Council for Trade and Finance. He was a wanted man. A fugitive. And he was still no closer to an answer.
He knew whose fault this was. It was Lady Hitomi Kimura. She was to blame. She should never have fired him from the project. Without him, Project Andraste would not exist. Not without his research. Not without his diligence. Without him, Andraste would still be a proposal sitting on some middle-manager's desk. And for this, for all his efforts, he'd been sacked. It was Hitomi's fault he'd been forced to continue his work elsewhere.
And it was Hitomi's fault he'd ever been found by the Independents.
Dr. Farrington sat a little straighter then. He tugged on the edge of his shirt and thrust his chin out. It mattered not. He would start again. Here, if he had to. There were always new investors. No one knew more about Hitomi's work than he. And this time it would be different. This time he would be in control.
Dr. Farrington had made certain of that.
Farrington dug deep into his coat pocket. His damp fingers coiled around the tiny object thrust there, if only to assure himself that it was still there and still safe. It hadn't been easy to smuggle off of Scorpii, but he had done what was necessary, and now it was his and his alone. Farrington withdrew his prize. The tiny data-module was no more than two centimeters square, but it was crammed with vast petabytes of data, exact copies of the Primary Control Modules taken from seven girls captured on Alcyone. Now, all he needed was time. Time to study. Time to plan.
Farrington leaned against the window of the small cabin and looked out. Not that there was anything to see. Bellatrix had no moon to light their way. It was not a scenic planet. Flat and arid, the only landmarks of note were the squat scatterings of manufacturing centers that dotted the landscape, huge factory complexes surrounded by squalid ghettos that had sprung up to house the migrant working population.
People didn't come here for the sights, they came here to die.
But that suited Dr. Farrington just fine. No one would be searching for him here.
Farrington felt the slight shift in the cabin. He checked his wristwatch again. They would be slowing now as they made their approach into New Shēnzhèn. He reached for his bag. From here it would be a simple matter to lose himself in the crowds. He would find a quiet place to hole up, rest, and yes, work. Here he could finish his work without the nonsense of wars or rebellion to distract him. And when he was ready, he would name his price, he would—
"Excuse me, Dr. Farrington?"
Farrington gave a start and looked down to see the meaty hand that gripped his wrist. For the first time he took notice of his cabin companion. The man across from him slumbered soundly no more.
Farrington tried to pull his arm away, but the man held him fast. He realized the bulk he'd mistaken for fat wasn't fat at all. The man was on the large size, but he was powerfully built, barrel-chested and with thick strong arms. He had the stern look of a professional, one used to giving orders and having those orders followed.
Mercenaries.
"Let me go—release me!"
The mercenary considered the request. "As you wish." He relaxed his grip, causing the doctor to tumble back against his seat. Farrington's eyes shot quickly to the cabin door.
"You are free to go," the mercenary said. "I didn't come all this way to hold you hostage, but fleeing won't serve either of us."
Breathing heavily from the exertion, Farrington glared back at him. There was only one thought in his head—flight. Farrington lunged for the cabin door and threw it open—only to bounce off the person standing in the doorway, a steel wall blocking his way.
He fell back on his seat and stared up at the person who had prevented his escape. A woman! Not even a woman. A girl, a teenager of no more than seventeen and half his size. The long black coat she wore came down nearly to the floor, hiding most of her slight figure. Dark lenses shielded her eyes. She turned slowly toward him and stared down, her face cold, thoroughly devoid of emotion.
Farrington shuddered.
The mercenary waved her forward. "Come in, Victoria. Shut the door."
The girl obeyed. She stood with her back to the door, hands at her side, feet apart. Farrington wasn't going anywhere.
Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Far
rington dabbed the sweat from his forehead. "I-I thought you said I was free to go."
"Yes, but not before returning what you stole from us."
Farrington's hands shot to his pocket. He pawed at the lining, searching, digging deep, but his treasure, the data-module, was gone.
"I'll take that, Victoria," the mercenary said.
Farrington watched as the girl handed the prize over to him. All his efforts, all this time, it was all for naught. He had lost. Without the stolen module, he was nothing. This mercenary should have killed him. It would have been more merciful.
"Oh, do cheer up, Doctor. It's not as bad as all that. You must know we couldn't let you leave with such a prize."
"Who—who are you?"
"My name is Tarsus. Major Karl Tarsus. My companion's name is Victoria. Say hello, Victoria."
The girl turned her head toward him as if on a swivel. She looked down at him, but said nothing. Farrington felt himself recoil despite himself.
"What…what will you do with me?" Dr. Farrington asked; he feared he already knew the answer.
"That, my good doctor, is up to you. You have two choices, as I see it. You can walk out that door—yes, I'll let you go, I assure you. Ah, but what waits for you out there? That is the question. Have you considered that? I think you'll find the realities quite harsh. You're a wanted man now, Doctor. A terrorist. I'm afraid the authorities are well aware of you and the role you played on Scorpii. They have prepared quite the reception for you. But, fear not. It wasn't chance that got you this far, Doctor, I assure you. You're only here because we wanted you here."
Farrington noticed his mouth had drooped open and closed it. "Here? On Bellatrix? Why…?"
"You didn't think the facility on Scorpii was the only one, did you? No, I can see you didn't give it much thought. Well, then I'll tell you. Scorpii was nothing. This…" Tarsus gestured up around him, his palms open, arms wide. "This is where it began. And this is where it will end. With your help."
"You have the data-module. You don't need me."
"Don't be so modest. If all we wanted was the data, we could have taken that when we spotted you at the transfer station on Hadar. You are one of the few remaining people to have worked directly with Lady Hitomi Kimura. That experience is of value to us. And perhaps we have something of value to offer you."
"I want nothing to do with you." It was a mistake. Farrington knew it. Yet he couldn't stop himself from asking. "What could you possibly offer me?"
"Security, for one. Your life, for another," Tarsus added, leering meaningfully. "Oh—and perhaps we have one other thing to offer you. The one thing you need more than anything."
Farrington caught the gleam in Tarsus's eye and took the bait. "What?"
Tarsus glanced to the girl by the door. "Why, Doctor, we have volunteers, of course."
Volunteers…?
Farrington stared up at her as if for the first time. He understood then and felt the fool for missing it. "She's one of them, isn't she?"
"You mean from Alcyone? No, Doctor, Victoria is something entirely different. Isn't that true, Victoria? Why don't you show the doctor?"
The girl removed her glasses to look upon the doctor with her own eyes. No, not eyes at all, Farrington saw. Bionics. Constructs. He spotted the artificial irises, the lenses shifting to focus on him, scanning him. Little attempt had been made to make them look human or natural. This was pure mechanical efficiency. Farrington rose. His fear vanished in an instant, replaced by scientific curiosity.
Without thinking, he reached out, held her face, turning her head back and forth. Her skin was cold to the touch. But when he moved to examine her eyes, her gloved hand came up to halt his probing fingers. The hand that gripped him felt hard, unyielding.
He looked at the glove and then to Tarsus. "May I?"
Tarsus nodded.
Farrington peeled back the glove and stared at the artificial limb. Plasteel skin stretched all the way up to the girl's elbow, where it melded to the reddened flesh of her natural arm. The bionics were advanced, efficient. But this was a blunt instrument, ugly, simple and crude. This was not the work of Lady Hitomi Kimura. Farrington had seen this work before.
"Wolsey."
"I'm impressed," Tarsus said. "You recognize the man's work."
Farrington's lips formed into a sneer. "The man wouldn't know a micro-dermatome if it slapped him in the face."
Tarsus chuckled.
Dr. Wolsey had worked under him during his time at Kimura Corp—using most of his time to plot against him, apparently. It had been Wolsey's report that had seen Farrington dismissed; the student betrays the mentor.
Farrington looked again at the girl. It was clear they'd made advances, solved problems that had eluded him. The jealousy burned within him.
"How—how did you solve the issue with the Recombinant?" Farrington asked.
"I promise you, I have absolutely no idea. Perhaps you'd like to ask Dr. Wolsey in person?"
"In person? He's here, then."
"Has been from the beginning. Before me."
Tarsus tossed the prized module back to him. Farrington promptly dropped it and scrambled to pick it up, clutching it to his chest.
"The key is now in your hands, Doctor. It's time to finish what you started. What say you?"
Finish? Was it possible?
His eyes shot again to the cabin door. The logical part of him knew he should walk out, run as fast as he could. But there was another part, a vengeful petty part, and it wanted something else entirely. It wanted revenge.
"I want to see this facility, Major Tarsus. I want to see it all."
CHAPTER TWO
Merchantman
"Blast!" Sigrid said.
Twisting, turning, arms spread out or tucked in, nothing she did made any difference. With nothing to grab hold of, no resistance, nothing could stop her as she tumbled out of control, moving deeper and deeper into the blackness of space.
Stars spun by her fractured visor. Every point-four-six seconds she saw the blinding binary stars of Alpha Phoenicis flash past. It was only Sigrid's enhanced physiology, the nano-swarms that surged within her system, that halted the rise of bile in her throat and kept her from losing consciousness completely. But she had greater worries to consider.
Debris from the explosion had penetrated her suit and damaged her oxygen feed. The mixture was far too rich. Her bionic systems did their mechanical best to compensate, but they were taxed at their limits. Worse, a chunk of the Merchantmen's ship had struck her, nearly cracking open her helmet. A quick calculation determined that the weakened faceplate would soon succumb to the pressure and shatter in less than nine minutes.
Nine minutes to live.
This in itself did not depress Sigrid or bring on any sense of panic. She was too busy cursing, punishing herself. She'd missed all the signs, ignored the warnings of the captain, and allowed all four of their ships to walk willingly into the trap. The traders had never intended to deliver their supplies. Sigrid doubted they ever had them. They were liars. Thieves.
And yet she hadn't seen it.
Another wave of debris blew past her; twisted bits of metal mingled with body parts, all that was left of the Merchantman.
Small mercies, Sigrid thought.
*
September 16, 2348 (Forty-Eight Hours Earlier)
Alpha Phoenicis Space
White light gave way to the blackness of space. Like snow melting away, large white droplets scattered, forming into billions of individual stars. Her warp jump complete, the Ōmi Maru swung around, blasting toward the heart of the Alpha Phoenicis system and her destination, the Konoe Transfer Station, still hundreds of thousands of kilometers away.
The captain of the tramp freighter leaned back in his chair, his fingers kneading the wiry mess of stubble he called a beard.
"Do you honestly think we'll find what we're looking for here," Captain Trybuszkiewicz said; it was more a statement than a question.
&nb
sp; Honestly? Sigrid wondered. I have no idea.
All she knew was their new homeworld was in desperate need of supplies. Not just food and materiel for shelters, but machines and equipment, parts for vital defensives systems, everything they would need to make their new homeworld self-sufficient.
Frankly, Sigrid didn't have a clue what she was doing here or why Lady Hitomi had assigned her this task. Sigrid could think of any number of people more qualified. Karen seemed the obvious choice. The ex-Kimuran orientations officer had a knack for understanding all the nuances of trade regulations; things that repeatedly escaped Sigrid. Of course, no one was more qualified to lead a trade mission than Lady Hitomi herself, though it was far too dangerous to allow her to do so, for obvious reasons.
Lady Hitomi was now an enemy combatant as far as the Council was concerned. Sigrid was no less a target. The authorities had not taken kindly to her actions at Scorpii or her destruction of the Warp Relay. For her actions, the Council had placed a bounty the size of a small planet on both of them.
They were wanted, barred from trading with anyone from the Merchants Guild. This left a very thin list of willing trading partners, with even fewer legitimate options open to them.
And so it had been decided. Sigrid would take their four lone transports—four stolen Kimuran freighters crewed by expats and defectors from Aquarii, men and women thoroughly loyal to Lady Hitomi Kimura. Her destination: an outpost far outside of Council-controlled space, long abandoned by the Federation. Here, with luck, she could make contact with the only persons left willing to trade.
The Merchantmen.
These brokers of goods were not aligned with the Merchants Guild or with the Federation of Corporate Enterprises. They considered such stilted bureaucracies an annoyance, an impediment to true free trade.
"Black marketeers," Captain Trybuszkiewicz said. "You should not trust these men, Ms. Novak."
Sigrid agreed. "I'm not sure we have much choice, Captain."
"With all due respect, the smartest course of action is to go in, take what you need, and leave. If you happen to injure a few along the way, I'm sure no one will mind."