The Girls from Alcyone 2: The Machines of Bellatrix

by Cary Caffrey

"I'm afraid someone has been having fun at your expense, Mr. Price."

  "Granted, these things are always exaggerated. But I've learned to trust in the kernels of truth buried inside. I suspect you are being modest, Ms. Peters. The truth probably lies somewhere in between."

  Sigrid was eager to turn the conversation away from her, back to the industrial machines. "Exactly what services would you have me perform?"

  The captain raised a hand in objection. "Let us not get ahead of ourselves. Ms. Peters' services are not negotiable."

  "Wait," Sigrid said. "I would still like to know, Captain. Those manufacturing platforms would be invaluable to us."

  "Invaluable!" Corbin Price said, steepling his fingers with interest. "Well, then…"

  "Of value," Sigrid corrected, cursing herself; she knew little of negotiation tactics. "If it is something within my power, then perhaps we might have a deal."

  "Sigrid…" the captain cautioned. "I do not think it wise—" But Sigrid nodded; it was all right.

  Corbin Price bowed his head. "Very well. There is a man arriving at the station tomorrow. He has stolen from us. Services were rendered, but no payment received. His theft hurt our organization. We cannot allow his dishonesty to go unpunished—not good for business. I want to see that he is hurt in return."

  Sigrid braced herself. All her life she had been trained as a mercenary, as a soldier, and yes, an assassin. Certainly, she had taken lives and done so without hesitation. But that had been her choice. Her duty. Until this moment she hadn't truly appreciated how it would feel to have someone ask her to kill another. What was it the mercenaries said? For coin and contract?

  "He carries with him something we would find of value," Corbin Price said. "I wish you to retrieve it and return it to me."

  "Retrieve? Then…then you don't want me to kill him?"

  "Kill him? Heavens, no! We are Merchantmen, Ms. Peters, not mercenaries—apologies to present company. No, I don't require him harmed; although, should you leave him bruised, possibly maimed, no one will think worse of you. Retrieving the package will suffice."

  Sigrid studied the fat merchant closely. The job was simple—too simple—but Corbin Price appeared quite earnest that she should perform this service for him. Her sensors revealed his heart rate was steady, his skin cool. If his blood pressure was elevated, it seemed more a result of his diet, his immense bulk and the excitement he felt at the prospect of a deal. But she could sense no duplicity. Her scans registered no lies.

  "That's all, then? Retrieve a package?" Sigrid asked.

  "That is all."

  True.

  "And bring it to you?"

  "Yes. And bring it to me."

  True.

  "And you'll give us what we want?" Sigrid asked.

  "If you perform this task to my satisfaction, I will be happy to deliver all that you desire."

  Something still didn't fit. The man appeared sincere—sincere for a thief, a con artist. But there was more. Sigrid could sense it, but could not put her finger on it.

  "What does he carry? What is so important?"

  Corbin Price raised a finger. "That, my dear, is on a need-to-know basis. And there are some things you don't need to know."

  "Any information you have on a job is information I need, Mr. Price. Let's call it a deal breaker."

  "A deal breaker? Ah. Well then, if I have no choice—"

  "No. You don't," Sigrid said. "Not if you want me to do this for you."

  "All right. It is information he carries, nothing more. A client list, if you will. Information that could prove of great value. Losing it to me will not be looked on kindly by his superiors; something I imagine they will make him suffer greatly for—also of great value to me."

  "Why me?" Sigrid asked. "Why not one of your own men?"

  Corbin Price looked to the beefy men to his sides and chuckled. "Them? They serve a purpose, but I'm afraid they lack the finesse required for a job like this. The man I seek works for powerful men, Ms. Peters. Dangerous men. The men they answer to more so."

  "Incorporated?" Sigrid asked. "Federates?" She was well aware of the power and reach of the Federation of Corporate Enterprises, even in a place such as this.

  "Let's just say, they will not part easily with this information. As for my men, we are simple merchants and not much good as spies. You, on the other hand…"

  "We will have to inspect the platforms," the captain said. "Ensure they are in working order."

  Corbin Price raised his shoulders. "That may prove problematic. The platforms are far too valuable to risk transporting to a place such as this. You understand."

  The captain flashed a knowing smile. "Of course."

  "They are safe, I assure you. And in good condition. Not new, but functional. Nothing your skilled technicians can't take care of."

  The captain chuckled, shaking his head. "They’re wrecks, aren't they? Salvage."

  "They are what they are. But if you are not interested…"

  Sigrid leaned forward. "If I do this for you, get you this information, you will give us the platforms? Both of them?"

  "Both?" Corbin Price's smile broadened. "Why, Ms. Peters, complete this task for me and I will give you one of the machines. But…should this go well, I would be happy to discuss terms for the second."

  *

  Work loading the first of the supplies began first thing in the morning. Sigrid stood with Captain Trybuszkiewicz and the chief engineer overseeing the loading, all done by hand since the station's automated systems had long since failed. The supplies were trickling in, brought in in dribs and drabs by hired laborers; their slow shuffling serving to raise the captain's ire. It would take days to complete loading at this rate.

  "I don't like this," the captain said. "I don't trust these Merchantmen. The supplies should be here, waiting. And this business with this man—what he carries. This is all too convenient."

  Sigrid set the ninety-kilo cargo container onto the floating handcart to her side. "He's telling the truth, Captain. I know it. My scans—I can tell when a man is lying."

  "But you can't rule it out," the captain said.

  "It is not a precise science—it's not mind-reading, if that's what you mean."

  "I might not have your abilities, Ms. Novak," the chief said. "But this business has a smell. It reeks. And we still haven't seen these platforms. Do we know if they even exist?"

  That was something not even Sigrid could answer. She was certain Corbin Price was telling the truth. But truth about what? The existence of the industrial platforms, or the fact that they weren't here. There were too many variables. But if there was a chance—having even one of the machines could mean the difference of life and death for her friends, the survival of their colony. Was it not her duty to take that risk?

  The captain dismissed the idea.

  "It's too dangerous. I don't like it. We will have the supplies we came for…" He looked at the few scant sundries they'd loaded so far. "Soon, I hope. When we are done here, we will return to New Alcyone."

  Sigrid grabbed hold of the captain's sleeve, tugging. "Captain, please…" The thought of losing the valuable machines was too much. "I know the risk."

  "That is what I'm afraid of. The risk. This man—this merchantman—I don't trust him."

  "I don't trust him either. But Captain, this is what I've been trained for. If there's even a chance…"

  Captain Trybuszkiewicz looked into her wide eyes, sighed heavily, as one does when faced with an unwinnable battle. "Lady Hitomi warned me this might happen."

  "Warned you!"

  "She tasked me with watching over you, Ms. Novak. I am to keep you out of trouble. Should something happen to you… Well, a court martial may be the least of my concerns."

  Sigrid squeezed his arm, a very unmilitarylike gesture. "I'll be careful, sir. I promise."

  "We'll monitor your progress from the bridge. If you sense trouble, anything, you are to abort, return here immediately. We will lend what aid
we can."

  Sigrid was already running for her quarters, already playing the mission over in her mind.

  "I'll call. I promise."

  The captain watched her scurry off.

  "She's very skilled," Chief Topa said. "She can take care of herself."

  "But she's young, Andrzej. She doesn't yet know the lengths men will go to get what they want. This man, Corbin Price…" The captain's voice trailed off. He reached for his weapons belt, strapped his sidearm back on, and walked quickly from the docking platform.

  "Keep watch of her progress from the bridge, my friend."

  "Me? Where are you going?"

  The captain called back over his shoulder. "I'm going to pay a visit to Mr. Price. I have more questions for him. We will have…a conversation."

  *

  The transport began offloading its passengers to the ventral docking platform a little after midday. Sigrid waited amongst the crowd of onlookers, mostly vendors and flesh traders who crowded forward, shouting offers to the passengers as they disembarked.

  Sigrid remained to the rear, watching. She had the identity of the man she sought uploaded to her PCM. His name was Bernat Wereme, a retired financier with a criminal record nearly as impressive as hers. Guilty of numerous accounts of fraud, he had been stripped of his licenses and banned from work within the Federation of Corporate Enterprises. It explained how he had ended up out here dealing with the likes of the Merchantmen.

  Sigrid spotted him in the crowd. He was tall and thin, an elderly gentleman well past his prime. A simple briefcase was the only luggage he carried tucked under a frail arm. And he was not alone. Sigrid spotted his escorts: three men, professionals by the looks of them. Mercenaries. They were armed, but that was to be expected. If her information was accurate, they would have to make their way across the station to the portside docking ring where the connecting transport to Vega IV awaited. Sigrid would need to relieve Mr. Wereme of the package he carried before that time.

  It was all too easy. And that bothered Sigrid.

  Keeping her distance, she followed the men as they made their way through the maze of intermodal containers that littered the lower levels. Sigrid wasn't the only one monitoring their progress. The armed gangs who roamed the station took note of all newcomers. They stopped many of the travelers, questioning, interrogating, but more often than not simply shaking them down for money.

  The gangs kept their distance from her target; Bernat Wereme's mercenary escort made certain of that. There was easier prey to be had.

  The thugs proved more of an obstacle than Wereme's armed guard, Sigrid realized. Tangling with one of the groups would surely bring others running. Whatever she did, it would have to be off the streets and out of sight.

  Not for the first time, she found herself wishing Suko was there. It would make things much easier—if not more pleasant. But of course, Suko wasn't. She had remained on New Alcyone, her duties training the new girls of far more importance than a simple trade mission. Sigrid was on her own. She would have to make do.

  And time was running out. Konoe was not so large; it was only a short walk to the transfer point. Whatever she did, she would have to act soon. The opportunity presented itself when Wereme pointed to one of the eating establishments on the main concourse. There was some discussion, but his escort relented, and the men went inside. Sigrid waited what she thought an appropriate amount of time and entered behind them.

  Bernat Wereme sat at the counter, one of the cooks already doling out something that looked like soup and doing a fine job of spilling a generous amount onto the counter. The elderly financier seemed oblivious, digging greedily into the meal, lifting the spoon to his mouth in a trembling hand.

  One of the mercenaries had already noticed her. She saw his hand fingering the handle of his sidearm; she logged the threat, continued her scan. The eatery was quite spacious, but she counted only fourteen patrons, six staff in attendance, all well dispersed—minimal risk of collateral damage.

  Four shuriken dropped from her sleeve into the palms of her hands. She had already calculated the trajectory needed to take out each of the mercenaries quickly and silently when a completely different idea occurred to her. One that would solve two nagging problems.

  Sigrid approached the banker, prepared for all hell to break loose. "Mr. Wereme?"

  She was, however, not prepared for what happened next.

  The elderly man looked up, more soup spilling from the shaking spoon. Bright, interested eyes greeted her. "Why, yes, my dear," he said, blinking at her in a friendly fashion. "What can I do for you?"

  The tallest of the mercenaries stepped forward and placed a meaty hand on her chest, pushing her back. "All right, all right… Whatever you’re sellin', Mr. Wereme ain't buying."

  "Selling?" Did they actually think she was one of the flesh traders, and dressed like this? It was obvious the mercenaries didn't think much of this 'little girl' or suspect she might carry the arsenal of destruction she did beneath the bulky sweater.

  "Actually, I rather thought I might have something Mr. Wereme might be interested in," Sigrid said hopefully. "Some information."

  The mercenary, still with his hand on her chest—somewhat liberally, Sigrid thought—pushed her back again, ushering her along. "That's enough, young lady. Mr. Wereme don't need no information. Now bugger off before I—"

  He never finished the sentence. Sigrid had his arm by the wrist, twisting it up and around, bringing the much larger man crumpling to his knees. Too stunned to cry out, he stared up at her, eyes filled with bewilderment. He reached for his gun—gasped as he found only an empty holster. Sigrid flipped the gun over, grasped it by the barrel and used it as a bludgeon to bring down the second of the mercenaries as he charged in. The first man struggled in her grasp; a quick jerk broke his arm; neatly, it would heal without difficulty.

  The elderly Mr. Bernat Wereme seemed to find this of great amusement and put his spoon down clattering on the counter, and clapped his hands in appreciation.

  "Bravo! Oh, well done. Well done, I say."

  The other mercenary wasn't amused by Sigrid's antics. He leaned toward her, but Sigrid held up a cautioning finger and wagged it back and forth before his face. Wisely, he placed his gun back in its holster, taking his seat at the counter, hands raised.

  "Hey, I'm not even on salary."

  "Good man."

  Sigrid took the empty seat next to Bernat Wereme.

  "Marvelous, dear," the banker said. "Well done. You must be here to rescue me. Did my sister send you?"

  "Your sister?"

  Sigrid studied the strange, thin man; he smiled, beaming at her.

  "Carol said she'd send for me. She's such a dear. You know Carol, of course. She said I could ride on the ship. I do so love ships. They're marvelous, don't you think?"

  "Uh-huh…" Sigrid nodded, words failing her. She scanned the older man; a look to the third mercenary confirmed what she was thinking, confirmed her scans—not that she needed the technology to tell her the obvious; Bernat Wereme suffered from dementia.

  "Excuse me," Sigrid said to the mercenary. "I think there's been some kind of mistake. Where is it you're escorting Mr. Wereme?"

  The mercenary shrugged. "It's not a secret. The retirement community on Vega IV. Assisted living."

  Assisted…?

  "If you don't mind me asking," Sigrid said. "Why the escort?"

  Before the man responded, Sigrid knew the answer.

  "He won't go on his own," the mercenary said. "He has a habit of running off. Isn't that right, Mr. Wereme?"

  "What's that? Hmm…yes?"

  Sigrid shook her head. "I'm sorry. I think there's been a terrible misunderstanding."

  And then the realization hit Sigrid like a brick. There was a misunderstanding, and it was hers. "Shit."

  Turning, running, Sigrid bolted for the door.

  "Hey! Wait!" the mercenary called after her. "What's this all about?"

  Sigrid almost forgo
t, turned, and grabbed the old man's briefcase. "Sorry—I'll be needing this. And sorry about your friends!"

  In a flash she was gone, heading quickly back toward the gentlemen's club, leaving the startled mercenary to tend to his friends and the babbling Mr. Wereme to enjoy his soup.

  She needed to have words with Corbin Price. Whoever Bernat Wereme was, he was harmless. His days of defrauding companies were long in the past. Was it possible he actually had something on his person worth all this trouble? Had he really cheated the Merchantmen? Wereme was hardly a threat, hardly worth sending someone of Sigrid's skill and training for. Why was this worth so much? She had to inform the captain.

  "Captain Trybuszkiewicz," Sigrid signaled through her comlink. "Come in, Captain."

  Nothing. Static.

  "Ōmi Maru, this is Sigrid Novak. Are you there? Andrzej?"

  Again, nothing. Sigrid felt the panic well within her and quickened her pace. Her search through Bernat's bag revealed little. Notebooks filled with illegible scribblings, empty meal wrappers, old tissues, a scarf. There was nothing here. Had she missed something? Perhaps on his person—perhaps him?

  No. There was no package. The entire operation had been a ruse. But for what?

  Sigrid stopped in her tracks. There was indeed something of value on the station? The bounty on her head was no secret, but Corbin Price had expressed little interest. If he was really after her, why not set a trap? Why send her on this goose chase—what purpose would it serve?

  Sigrid felt the cold realization creep along her spine.

  It was the ship. It was the Ōmi Maru, or rather, what it held. The freighter's navigation computer held one thing of tremendous value: the location of New Alcyone.

  Sigrid turned back the other way, ran for the docking platform as fast as she could. If only there was time.

  *

  The docking platform lay abandoned, the laborers gone. And the Kimuran crews were missing. Unstowed cargo lay strewn about, dropped and forgotten. Sigrid called with her comlink again, but still there was no answer. Her heart sank as she entered the hold. Blast marks scorched the walls, evidence of the recent skirmish—a skirmish that Sigrid knew she was responsible for.