by Sara King
On the ground, Steele’s mouth should have been gaping like a fish, no oxygen getting to his brain, but instead, he looked utterly unconcerned, that smirk still on his face. As she looked down at him, she saw his eyes find and focus on her face, even disembodied on the concrete, and the smugness there disgusted her. She kicked his head away, making it roll toward across the tarmac, then surveyed the battlefield for the source of the formaldehyde smell, expecting some sort of contingency trap on Steele’s part, maybe a nerve gas.
Instead, she located Steele’s camera crews still standing beside their equipment, forgotten in their companions’ rush. Their jaws had fallen open, their tech slack in their hands, not even bothering to film the scene anymore. She walked toward them, grabbed the camera from the closest man, ascertained that it was on, and then pointed it at herself.
“I am Magali Landborn,” she said softly. “And this is to all the unwelcome Coalition forces on Fortune: I know you assholes aren’t going to stick to Colonel Steele’s bargain, so let me let me make one thing clear: Fortune is a free and independent state, separate and autonomous from the Coalition. You continue to lay claim to something that isn’t yours, we will hunt down and kill every single Shrieker on this planet. We will burn the corpses, and we will destroy every vial of Yolk we have left. If you send for reinforcements from the Core, if you bring back an armada to take our resources without paying for them, I swear to you, by my father’s name… You will never see another drop of Yolk from this planet. We. Will. Destroy. It. All. If you don’t want that responsibility to rest on your shoulders, go back to where you came from and tell your superiors Fortune is free.”
She handed the camera back to the blinking cameraman, then turned and walked back to the ship, pausing to kick Steele’s head one last time before she returned to the ship. Captain Eyre’s mouth was open, but no sound was coming out. The cyborg simply followed her as Magali walked up the ramp into the belly of Honor, where she paused one last minute to scan the airfield, still bothered by the strange ozone-preservative smell, then, seeing nothing, closed the hatch.
“I’d like to go home now, please,” Magali said, lowering the weapon to the side of the ship’s cargo bay wall.
“You got it,” Drogire said from the cockpit. Immediately, he fired up the engines and in moments they were moving at several hundred miles per hour, though with the ship’s fancy grav system, it felt like only a slight jostle.
“I, uh, expected more of a fight,” Pan said. “I mean…” He blinked. “You didn’t even fight.”
“I went there to kill him, not to fight,” Magali said. She sat down on the troop bench and dropped her chin into her hands, staring at the far wall.
“But it was on camera,” Pan insisted. “The whole world was watching. You were supposed to make a show of—”
Tatiana grabbed Pan by the ear and hauled him out of the room, back into the cockpit with Drogire. She thrust him through the hatch, then sealed it behind him. Then, grumbling, she came back and sat down beside Magali. Wrapping her arm around her, she said, “You did good.”
“Thanks,” Magali managed, the stress of what she had just done finally overwhelming her, tears starting to fill her eyes. “How’s Patrick?”
“Boys found him just fine,” Tatiana said. “They got Patty loaded on a ship before you even cut that bastard in half.”
Magali nodded, sniffling. “Good.”
Tatiana hugged her again, then they shared a few minutes of silence together. Finally, Tatiana pulled away and said, “You know, uh, Joel said today he was never gonna fly Honor again, seeing how Jeanne’s a ship now and everything…”
Magali, who had been seeing the faces of the dead in the support structure of the inside of the ship, twisted to give Tatiana a blank look.
“I mean,” Tatiana said quickly, “Milar told me you wanted to give Honor to…someone. He didn’t mention a name.”
Magali frowned. “You mean Kestrel?”
Tatiana cocked her head. “Who?”
Magali scowled, once again wondering how intoxicated her friend was. “You know, the willowy redhead with the ass-revealing short shorts?”
“Yes! The skeenk!” Tatiana cried, sounding relieved. “Oh gawd, I thought I was the only one. That is so twenty-nine-fifties. I mean, showing cheek? What is she, a Triton’s slut?”
“She flies good,” Magali said, shrugging.
Tatiana’s mouth fell open, looking like Magali had just stabbed her in the heart.
“…but you’re better,” Magali quickly offered. “Even when you’re high.”
The smaller woman let out a gleeful, relieved sound, which Magali realized had turned into sobbing just before Tatiana lunged at her, grabbed her around the shoulders, and started bawling into her chest. “Thank you! I’ll be the best pilot you ever had, I swear! Thank you!”
Magali, who hadn’t been about to offer the captaincy of Fortune’s greatest ship to a woman who saw little green men marching in tandem across her sandwich when she was trying to eat, swallowed uncomfortably. “Uhm.”
“Thank you,” Tatiana continued to bawl. “Milar and Jersey think I can’t do it! Even Pan, that little shithead, thinks I can’t do it, but I can. I can, I’ll show you, Mag! Thank you so much!” Tears and snot were beginning to sink through Magali’s armor, staining it a darker blue.
“You’re…welcome,” Magali said reluctantly. She patted Tatiana on the head, wondering whether or not she would remember it in the morning.
“Oh, I’ll remember!” Tatiana cried happily, jerking her head up. “And to seal the deal, I’ve got something for you! Found it in that dead alien hiveship, back when it was still alive.” She jumped to her feet and snagged Magali by the sleeve, tugging her towards the sleeping quarters. “Come on!”
Magali had heard that Captain Eyre had been one of the lucky few to explore the hiveship before it dissolved, she nonetheless stayed where she was. “I think I need to stay here in case Patrick calls me.”
Tatiana all but jerked her off the bench. “Come on. It’s only fair to give you something in return. It’s custom on my planet.”
“Which planet might that be?” Magali asked, wondering how, exactly, Tatiana managed to give her something in ‘exchange’ for a ship like Honor.
“Ne’vanth,” Tatiana said. “They’re all about trades on Ne’vanth.”
That was true enough. But then Magali squinted. “I thought Milar told me you were from Gorgon.”
Tatiana flushed. “Well, uh, I spent some time on Ne’vanth, so I picked up some of their customs. Now come on. Milar told me not to let anyone else see this thing, but screw him, I think you’d appreciate it.”
That piqued her interest. Magali got to her feet and followed Tatiana into the captain’s bedroom, which, Magali noted, Tatiana had the key to. Inside, there was a picture of Milar and his bared dragony chest front and center on the wall—definitely not something she envisioned Runaway Joel choosing to look at before he went to bed. Further, there was jewelry, makeup, and nail-polish crammed into the drawers, and the closet was so packed with dresses and hats that several were falling out onto the floor.
“I ‘lost’ the key when the skeenk tried to claim it,” Tatiana explained. “I mean, I’d already started moving in!” She went over to the bed and pulled it down from the wall, revealing matched purple bedding. “And I mean, I figured you’d come to your senses anyway, so I just kept the snoopy man-monger out of it.”
Magali crossed her arms over her chest. “You intended to have this conversation. And intended to misunderstand me.”
Tatiana froze, her hands on something under the covers. Even from this distance, Magali heard the cyborg swallow. Then, before Magali could say anything else, Tatiana cried, “Catch!” and, spinning, threw a long, cloth-wrapped bundle at her.
Magali caught it midair out of reflex.
“There!” Tatiana cried. “Deal’s done. You gave me a ship, I gave you something of equal value, we’re good.”
&
nbsp; Magali snorted. “I don’t know what you think could possibly make up for a ship, but—” Then the cloth slid free of the upper part of her burden, revealing a gleaming, rippling blue-black tovlar katana, its blade etched in the pattern of a dragonfly’s wing. It had a dragonfly for the pommel, blood-holes down the center of the blade, and was half-sheathed in a tovlar scabbard. Her breath catching, Magali slid the blade out a bit further to reveal the poem engraved down one side.
May your transformation be gentle, your first flight be true. May you reach the sky, my Dragonfly.
Dragonfly. Magali flinched, her hands tightening on the sword. It sparked something she’d heard, long ago, something that had been murmured in her ear or whispered against her forehead with a kiss…
Goodbye, Dragonfly…
Dad, Magali thought, remembering a rugged face, strong arms, a hug.
“Yeah, I dunno what it says,” Tatiana said, squinting at the poem. “I took a semester of Dead Languages, and it kinda looks like Old Japani.”
“Where did you get this?” Magali whispered. Her whole body was shaking, her heart pounding uncontrollably.
“I told you. That broken-down mothership,” Tatiana said. “It looked kind of like a musker sword, and I’d always wanted a musker sword. Milar didn’t even bring me one, and he fought muskers!”
Magali’s hands felt sweaty, her fingers locked into place. She pulled the sword the rest of the way free and it immediately started to shimmer a firebug green, the lacing throughout the blade taking on a brilliant luminescence.
“Whoa.” Tatiana blinked up at it. “That’s…” she swallowed hard. “…really cool.
“Dad,” Magali whispered, looking up at it. She closed her eyes, acutely aware of the entire length of the sword as if it were part of her own body. The dragonfly felt smooth and perfect in her fingers, and it seemed to fill her with a warmth she didn’t have before, almost like she’d just found a piece of herself she didn’t know was missing.
“You okay? Come to think of it, maybe it shouldn’t be glowing like that. That really looks dangerous. I’ll go get Pan—” Tatiana turned to move around her, headed for the exit.
Magali held out a hand, stopping her cold. “I’ll take your trade.”
Tatiana seemed to forget all about how dangerous the sword looked. Breaking into an evil grin, she said, “Excellent.”
CHAPTER 45: Stalemate
12th of June, 3006
Camphor
Fortune, Daytona 6 Cluster, Outer Bounds
Jersey slammed another Nephyr through the concrete wall, then spun and hurled him down the corridor, where Miles hit him with the EMP as he slid by.
“That it?” the colonist asked, straightening.
“Looks like,” Jersey said, glancing around. He glanced at the final door, then did a quick imaging for possible booby traps. It revealed nothing out of the ordinary. “You want me to do the honors?”
“Sure,” Milar said. Surprisingly, the colonist had started to accept the fact he didn’t need to charge in, guns blazing, when he had a glittering, invulnerable battering ram to do it for him, instead.
“All righty. Here goes.” After how easy it had been to get here, Jersey almost expected some sort of trap. Steeling himself, he reached out, took the knob, and turned. When nothing exploded and no gasses hissed forth, he gingerly pushed the door open.
In the shadows beyond, a miserable-looking Patrick Whitecliff sat on a small wooden chair in the middle of a bare, windowless concrete room, his head down, hands tied behind his back. Up the sides of his neck, over his scalp, down his arms, and presumably continuing over his chest, Patrick’s body now bore a tattoo identical to that of his twin brother. The prisoner looked up when they entered, and, immediately upon seeing Jersey, his face darkened.
“We’re the good guys,” Jersey said, imaging the place again for more traps before moving forward to help him.
Milar grabbed Jersey’s shoulder. “Check him for electronics,” he warned. “They’ve tried this trick before.” It was easy enough—get rescuers to take a Gryphon that looked like a missing rebel straight back into the rebel base to blow everything up from the inside out, then fudge the paperwork afterwards, once all the opposition was dead and a few missing documents made the legality of such action moot.
“Hey, no offense,” Jersey told Patrick, “but I gotta take a look.”
Patrick’s response was a shrug. He didn’t even look up.
Jersey switched views, first sonic, then thermal, then to an electronic resonance image. His scans showed nothing but human blood and bone. They hadn’t even tried to tag him…
…which was really, really odd.
“He’s clean,” Jersey said reluctantly, switching back to the visible spectrum in confusion. Why the hell was he clean? Surely they would’ve tried to at least track him… He started another scan, looking for something he’d missed the first time.
“Cut him loose and let’s get outta here!” Milar said from the doorway. “Reinforcements will be here any minute!” He had his EMP primed in one hand, his gun in his other, and he was looking at something coming at them from down the hall.
Jersey switched back to the visible spectrum again. The guy wasn’t a robot, so that much was good. “Come on,” Jersey said, ducking to snap the ropes holding Patrick’s feet to his chair. When straightened, he caught Patrick looking at him with unmistakable malice in his amber eyes. Malice and…something else. Something that reminded him of his brief dealings with Anna Landborn. Jersey froze for a moment, some instinct making him want to take a step back.
“Let’s go!” Milar shouted from the hall.
Patrick’s gaze never wavered. For a moment, Jersey actually couldn’t move, feeling as if he were looking into the eyes of something…inhuman.
Then Patrick gave him a sick smile, the dragons stretching across his neck. “You gonna get my hands?” It sounded seductive, almost playful.
Every instinct Jersey had was telling him to back away and leave Patrick sitting right there in that damned chair. He automatically imaged Patrick again, expecting somehow to see Magali’s former lover loaded with mechanics.
It was just a man.
Jersey swallowed, still finding it hard to keep from running. He’d seen that look before, and it left him cold to the bone.
“Goddamn it, you two can compare dicks later!” Milar shouted. “They figured out we’re down here!” He raised his gun, aiming at something out of sight.
It wasn’t, however, until gunshots resounded in the corridor that Jersey managed to snap out of his paralysis. He reached for the rope around Patrick’s hands.
Before Jersey’s fingers reached it, however, the rope fell away in loops, as if it had never even been tied down. “Thanks,” Patrick said, a brutal cunning livening his yellow eyes. As Jersey blinked, taking a quick step back, Patrick smoothly got to his feet and stretched, as easily and as powerfully as a predator.
“I’ve been looking forward to this,” Patrick said. He smiled again, and it chilled Jersey to the bone. “I’ve heard so much about you.” For a crazy split-second, Jersey actually thought Patrick would grab him by the throat.
“Now, guys!” Milar shouted.
Then, with a wink that drew streaks of ice through Jersey’s gut, Patrick simply yanked a weapon from Jersey’s hip, turned, and walked out into the hall to join his brother in clearing a path through the Coalition reinforcements. Heart pounding, Jersey watched him go. It was several moments before he could bring himself to follow them.
They met decidedly little resistance on the way back to the drop zone—mostly a few heroes who wanted to impress their unit commander by taking on the rogue Nephyr and his resistance buddies, dying horribly in the process. In fact, as they ran back to the drop zone, it seemed almost as if there had been too little resistance.
And Patrick, well… Aside from giving Jersey weird-ass tingles, he almost seemed to be acting. Like he really wasn’t concerned by the guys with guns that
came running at them, firing like crazed desperados. Like the whole situation was amusing to him.
Jersey waited until Milar was sequestered behind a barricade, making calls for their pickup, out of hearing range from his brother, to grab him by the shoulder. “Miles,” he whispered, “I think there’s something wrong with Patrick.”
Immediately, Milar’s face darkened. “Oh yeah, cupcake? Why’s that?” Milar’s yellow eyes had gone dangerous, his big body tensing with some barely concealed violence.
Realizing he was about to shatter what little rapport he’d developed with the colonist, Jersey grimaced and hastily modified what he was about to say. “Dunno, guess he’s just not acting right.”
“He was tortured by guys like you, you fucking dumbass. Of course he’s not acting right.” Milar scowled. “As if you would even know…you met him like, what, twice? When he was fifteen?” Then Milar cocked his head, yellow eyes narrowing further. “Or are you just worried he’s gonna sneak in and steal your girl, now that he’s back?”
Jersey winced, because that had been a worry he’d agonized over for the last three weeks, once he found out that Magali and Patrick had been an item. Would Magali decide she wanted Patrick at her side, rather than Jersey? It had been excruciating, and he hadn’t been getting much sleep, knowing that if he lost her, he would lose his last contact to humanity. “No, I just thought—”
But Milar must’ve seen the truth in his expression, because his eyes grew really dark. “My brother wants his girl back, he gets his girl back. You and your glittering pansy ass can just go nose-dive into a star for all I care. You’ll stay out of the way, or you’ll disappear.”
“No, that’s not—” Jersey started.
“Problem?” The word was smooth, confident, smug. When Jersey turned to look, Milar’s brother had come around the barricade to join them and was standing a couple feet away, his muscular arms crossed over his chest, making Jersey feel kind of scrawny in comparison. It was the look Patrick was giving Jersey, though, that made his heart start hammering in panic. It was one of total smugness, of oozing confidence, of murder.