Exile's Throne

by Rhonda Mason

  Good for the rebels, at least.

  He and Rigger got dressed, thanked Tooms for the evening, and then grabbed a transport to the prison.

  “Well that sucked,” Rigger said as they rode. He could only nod in perfect agreement.

  “Focus on the mission,” he said, as much to himself as to her. As an IDC agent, they’d both done plenty of distasteful things, things that didn’t sit well. Focusing on the good they were doing was the only way to get through it.

  “That ship had damn well better fly,” Rigger replied, and gave him a half-smile as they exited the transport.

  The prison lot had plenty of beat-up hovercars, service vehicles, and tactical vehicles, but what caught Malkor’s eye were the two sleek luxury hovercars, with fresh indigo paint and the imperial seal on both sides, waiting out front. Some bigwig in the occupation must be visiting today, which was drawing a whole lot more attention to the place than he would like on a day he had to run an op.

  Vega? The odds seemed impossible that she would be right here, right now. With the way their luck ran, though…

  The guards on the prison steps looked edgy—not a good sign. But with eyes peeled for external threats, they only glanced at his and Rigger’s IDs before waving them through the doors. Security inside was much tighter. A line of Wyrds, likely there for visiting hours, folded back and forth on itself, fitting as many people as they could into the space in front of the first security checkpoint.

  Apparently an imperial uniform was a fast ticket to the front, because the guards called them up immediately, ignoring the Wyrds who must have been there a while already. In this instance, though, he didn’t mind abusing the system. Get in, get Mesa, get out. That’s all he wanted to do.

  They had their weapons catalogued and locked up, their bags searched, tagged, and hung on pegs for them to collect on their way out, and they had their mobile comms and datapads scanned before being returned. By then Malkor was thankful just to be able to keep his belt.

  The guard buzzed them through the gate and waved them down a long corridor as if Malkor and Rigger knew where they were going. No doubt visitors would have been escorted through the prison. Hallways branched off in each direction, so they followed signs toward maximum security. The prison was as ugly inside as it was out. It had been built module-style, each section prefabbed in a factory, packed, brought to Ordoch, and popped up in place. Over the years, it had been expanded as the need to incarcerate Wyrds had increased. The organoplastic wore different colors determined by exposure to light, and they traveled into the newest—and thus darkest gray—section of the prison. It wasn’t the most secure of facilities, but considering Ordoch didn’t have any prisons, this was the best the army could do.

  They showed their IDs at the interior checkpoint and got buzzed in to speak with the guard at the desk, the gatekeeper who knew where everyone was and what everyone was doing.

  “Names?” The guard, whose tag said Lassar, held out a hand for their IDs.

  Malkor and Rigger gave them, then waited while Lassar scanned their IDs. Malkor aimed for “casual” while Rigger stood stiff, going for “very official.” It was a combo that usually played well on a mission—folks tended to dislike one type of personality, which gave them an instant sympathy for the other.

  Lassar, it seemed, was all business. He scrutinized their faces, compared them first to the IDs in his hand, then to the image that came up on his complink, before finally returning the IDs. “What’s your agenda here today?”

  Malkor might outrank her, but Lassar had clearly related to Rigger’s serious mien and directed the question to her, so she answered. “Prisoner transport. We’re here to collect one Pipa Mesa and escort her to Senfranco Base, per Base Commander Chen’s orders.” Malkor held out his datapad as she spoke, showing the orders.

  The guard at the desk frowned as he took the orders. “You’re not on the schedule.”

  Shit. How crucial was that going to be?

  Rigger took a polite approach. “I apologize for the inconvenience. Our orders came down at the last minute; things had to get shifted around.”

  Lassar’s expression didn’t change from his frown. Apparently he took his job seriously and actually followed schedules and read orders, instead of just waving people by. Just their luck.

  Malkor looked back the way they’d come. The entire corridor was empty. Family members who came to visit were sent to a different series of checkpoints and waiting rooms. He and Rigger were the only people there on official business this morning. Time to be a little less polite. “I can see that the schedule is quite full at the moment.” He nodded toward the datapad Lassar still held. “But as you can see, we will be taking prisoner 23-541 with us today, per Base Commander Brid Chen’s orders. Flagged highest priority.”

  “Wait, prisoner 23-541?” The way Lassar asked for confirmation had the hairs standing up on the back of Malkor’s neck. He set the orders down and typed something into his complink.

  Then the whole op started to slide sideways. Malkor felt it like a physical shift in his footing. At the same time, Rigger slipped her hand into her pocket, the one that held her mobile comm and thus the detonation code for the charges set around the base of the prison. They were already inside the gates, it was just a matter of locating Mesa’s cell…

  Lassar reached for the phone on his desk. “I’m going to have to call my superior. If you’ll just wait a moment…”

  His superior? Not Chen, to confirm that the orders he signed were authentic?

  Shit.

  Lassar was turned away from them, speaking quietly into the phone, so Rigger leaned closer to Malkor and whispered, “Time to walk away from this one.”

  She was right, damnit.

  Lassar glanced back over his shoulder at them, and Malkor gave him an encouraging smile. So close.

  At that moment footsteps sounded at the end of one of the halls beyond. A voice he knew all too well could be heard as several people rounded the corner.

  “I appreciate the constraints you’re operating under,” a woman said. “So far, however, your interrogation techniques have failed to produce results.”

  And there she was—Senior Commander Vega herself, talking to the general he assumed used to be in charge of the occupation.

  “I’m placing Agent Schäffer in charge of interrogation, effective immediately. The IDC has some techniques that might prove more… effective.”

  It was the relish with which she said that last word that turned his stomach. Worse than that, though, he recognized the prisoner being led by a guard, following in Vega’s wake: Mesa. No way would anyone believe General Chen had sent orders to retrieve Mesa to Senfranco Base when Vega was taking possession of the same prisoner.

  “Our mistake,” he said, but by now they were way past that. He felt the locked gate at his back, and Vega’s curious stare as her party approached. His hologram better be flawless because if she recognized them, their lives were over.

  “Wait a minute—” Lassar said, but Malkor ignored him.

  “Now, Rigger!”

  The insane bang of the charges detonating ripped through the air. Everyone covered their ears reflexively and hit the floor. Sirens blared into life; klaxons muted in the wake of the explosion’s massive concussion of sound. A second explosion, much closer this time, rocked the prison, and the lights blacked out.

  Inky darkness ruled, close and suffocating. Ringing sounded in his ears and the entire world felt muffled. Holy shit—that was way too much explosive.

  Seconds later emergency lighting came up and he staggered to his feet. The dimly lit corridor filled with smoke.

  “Get the gate,” he shouted to Rigger. She seemed to understand, and lunged over the guard’s station to access the controls while he sprinted to where Vega and the others lay sprawled on the floor, afraid of more blasts.

  He jumped over Vega’s prone form, on a laser-focused mission to retrieve the scientist and get the void out of there. Mesa glared at
him with intense hatred when he grabbed her by the shoulder and hauled her to her feet.

  Rigger shouted something about the power and the base being on full lockdown.

  Perfect. Time for a plan B.

  Mesa pushed off with both hands, intent on making her escape, but he caught her by her manacled wrists. Time enough later—like when they could hear clearly—to explain that he was a friend.

  By this point Vega was starting to rise, so he kicked her in the head to keep her down and took off down an offshoot of the corridor, dragging Mesa behind.

  “We need an alternate egress stat,” Rigger said right beside him. They got maybe ten meters before something hit them from behind with the force of a transport, launching them through the air to land face first against the floor tiles. Rigger’s mobile comm hit the tile with a bang and spun away from her.

  Mesa shouted. Some unseen hand, some psionic, dragged her backward as Rigger scrambled on hands and knees for her comm. He made a grab at Mesa and missed. Beyond her shoulder Vega still lay on the ground, but she had one hand outstretched and her face contorted in intense focus.

  Somewhere organoplastic shrieked as parts of the walls were sheared away.

  “We gotta go, boss!”

  If he lunged after Mesa and got any closer to Vega’s orbit, they were done for. Shit shit shit.

  “Abort,” he shouted to Rigger, and followed her at a run away from Vega.

  * * *

  Once away from the central area, the prison lightened considerably despite the increasing smoke, as sunlight hit the few windows in what must be the visitation wing. Everywhere, people were crouched on the floor, screaming, uncertain of what to do. Malkor didn’t spare them a glance.

  He got a sense of déjà vu as they ran, looking for a way out. The same modular sections used to build the prison were used in temporary medical centers, supply depots, and housing units in disaster areas all over the empire, minus the cell doors. He recognized the layout: he’d been in too many temporary buildings all over the galaxy.

  “What’s the plan, boss? It’s not like we can use the front door.”

  He spied the module he was looking for and banked a left at the next intersection. “This way.” Should be offices or an administrative wing, based on the layout.

  The acrid smell of melting organoplastic filled the air. He coughed on each breath, blinking the sting from his eyes. The fumes from organoplastic weren’t supposed to be poisonous, but they weren’t supposed to be inhaled, either.

  “This module has the largest windows,” he said. “Check that side.”

  They slowed to a jog, going room to room. One office offered a sizable window, but the glass was perfectly intact. They passed two, three more like it, and then came to the end of the line at a sitting area. Actually, it looked like a combination sitting area and kitchen. It had tables and benches…

  … and a gap opening up between two wall sections. The strain on the rest of the building was putting everything out of whack. The separation in the sections caused the window casement to sag and warp, which in turn caused the glass to crack.

  “Excellent,” Rigger said. She rummaged through the drawers while he selected the best hammering weapon, which turned out to be a lamp perched on an end table.

  “Ah ha!” Rigger held up her find—a metal soup ladle—and began stripping off her uniform shirt.

  People cowering under a table in the corner looked at them like they were crazy, as Malkor ripped the shade off the lamp and tossed it aside. Crazy, maybe—just as long as they weren’t crazy and captured.

  He met Rigger at the window. She gripped the ladle in her wrapped hand and set the point of the handle to the crack in the window. The bell of the ladle rose up like a target.

  “Ready?” he asked her. He gave the lamp—forty centimeters of molded steel—a practice swing to get a sense of its heft.

  “Is that heavy enough for military-grade glass?”

  “Maybe not the first time,” he said truthfully.

  Rigger gave her trademark grin. “What the void: I’ve got two hands. Let’s do this.” She turned her head away from the window and shut her eyes.

  “That’s my line.” He drew back, fixed his aim, and swung with all his might.

  Glass shattered as the force radiated outward from the tiny point of contact between the end of the ladle’s handle and the window.

  “Frutt!” Rigger had relinquished her grip at the last second, but not soon enough to avoid getting clipped by the bowl of the ladle as it went past. She clutched her hand, hopping around in pain as he knocked the remaining glass shards from the frame.

  “Shit that hurts,” she said. But since her hand hadn’t been completely demolished and she didn’t have the white look of someone about to pass out, triage could wait.

  He stuck his head out the one-meter-square opening. They’d gotten lucky—this side of the building didn’t face the main street. It also didn’t have any cover, though, and since it sounded like people were coming their way, they’d better move quickly. He gauged the drop to the ground—no more than four meters.

  “Rigger?”

  “Ready, boss.” The lacerated shirt still wrapped around her arm and hand blossomed with spreading blood, but she ignored it. He helped her out feet first and she took the drop like the pro she was.

  Smoke billowed into the room, drawn by the change in air pressure. Fire would no doubt follow. Indeed, he could distinguish screaming coming from inside the prison as well as without.

  Frustration gripped him. So many innocent people trapped in here.

  He pushed the thought from his mind and climbed out the window himself.

  16

  Malkor crept to the edge of the building and peeked around the corner. The front of the prison looked like a war zone, with fire and debris, injured people, and blown-up vehicles. “Put your hand to your forehead and smear some of that blood on it,” he said to Rigger.

  “Might as well make it useful, if my hand is going to hurt so damn much,” she quipped. Trust her to find some amusement in what was their worst blown op in a decade.

  He put an arm around her like he was supporting her, she clutched her head and moaned for effect, and suddenly they were just two more casualties of the day, joining the panicked tide of people trying to get away from the disaster as they stepped out into the street. They blended in and were swallowed up in the shared anonymity of a mob.

  Looking back on it an hour later, that really was the easiest part of the day.

  The city was a mess in the wake of the attack, the streets jammed to a standstill with transports and people everywhere. Sirens wailed. Troop transports and emergency vehicles made grudging progress through the morass only by laying on their horns and shouting threats. Vidscreens on every corner carried news of the attack and the massive manhunt now underway for the few lucky prisoners who had escaped.

  The city was going into lockdown, but Malkor would be damned before he got trapped here. They trudged kilometer after kilometer on foot, and still moved quicker than the traffic did.

  Rumors swirled of protests in other parts of the city. Despite the planet-wide ban on using psi powers, a few Wyrds dared to levitate themselves above the crowd and zoom ahead. Three ion blasts from a soldier with a rifle and exceptional aim made short work of that nonsense. It also started a stampede.

  Malkor and Rigger flattened themselves against a storefront as the crowd surged forward. Beside them a woman clung to a scrawny teenage girl to keep her from being dragged away by the storm of people. A man gripped an awning like it was his lifeline, and the store owner prayed.

  The stampede wore itself out, no doubt passing the insanity to people farther down the line. They finally managed to catch a transport once the roads cleared up. The bulk of the vehicles were headed toward a different part of the city where a gate marked for civilian vehicles stood. Malkor lost track of how long it took to get to the gate, even with the reduced traffic. At least Rigger’s wou
nds had coagulated.

  Rather than wait in the interminable line that led to the gate, Malkor shouted loudly about official business and escaped prisoners. People practically jumped out of his path, desperate not to get singled out by a soldier even if he was cutting the line. He and Rigger, who had assumed the expression of a constipated drill sergeant, elbowed their way through. When at last they reached the checkpoint, Malkor slammed his credentials down on the counter and started shouting at the guard before the man had even opened his mouth.

  “Do you know how long we’ve been waiting? Too damn long, that’s how long. I’ve got orders to get to Senfranco Base ASAP. Orders from the new commander herself!”

  “Sir—” the guard stammered.

  “Don’t you ‘sir’ me, boy. Just get that damn door open so I can move sometime this year.”

  “Can’t you tell we just came from the prison?” Rigger barked. “Do you have any idea what it’s like there right now? It’s a frutting war zone.” She shook her bandaged hand at the guard. “We’re lucky we got out alive.”

  Apparently Rigger in full furor did the man in, because the guard handed over Malkor’s ID and buzzed them through the gate.

  Neither said a word until they had crossed through the flak tower and exited on the other side. They kept moving until they were well past the city walls and out of range of the weapons turrets. They needn’t have hurried. All guards keeping watch from the towers were looking inward, focused on the chaos of the city down below. Nonetheless, they made it to the depot station in record time.

  Rigger sent a message to the rebellion through secure channels. A reply came through almost immediately.

  “What’s the word?” he asked, and Rigger grinned.

  “Our ride’s on its way.”

  He smiled in return. “You know, those are the sweetest words you’ve ever said to me.”

  * * *

  THE YARI

  It was surprisingly hard to search an entire warship with only four people.