The Return of the Grey

by Robert Lee Henry

  He watched the screens. It developed fast. ‘Follow my lead.’

  ‘Now!’

  He keyed the outer lock and spun the transport into the massed Ships. The marines sprayed out like bullets. Then it was chaos. The Ships panicked, broke in all directions, many crashing into others in their effort to get away from the suited figures. The marines kept the confusion going, the recoil from their projectile weapons throwing them into the path of new targets until eventually they became projectiles themselves, the munitions packed on their bodies insuring an end to both parties.

  Trahern’s eyes were on the screen but he could sense everything happening in the space around him as if he was still hooked up to a Weave. The third transport blew and its fighter escort tried to come across to the second. Only one fighter made it all the way but as he joined the others the Ships broke the formations apart. No organisation now, a melee. Yet with the panic and the press, it was almost as devastating as the Weave had been. Final blasts from the scattered marines were flaring all over the battle zone, like a large-scale version of the lights the Ships made when they disintegrated.

  The transport shook violently. Something blew through the wall and bits of metal spun his way. He brought his hand up but was hit.

  *

  Consciousness returned with a dim red glow, barely enough light to see by. He hadn’t been out for long. He could tell from the blood. Head wounds bleed like split hoses and his blood had only just covered the screen. Trahern wiped it off with his sleeve and the light brightened. The display was unusually quiet. The enemy craft showed as individual white dots now and he could see through them to the empty space beyond. Finally.

  Of his command there was nothing. Nothing left but the tiny orange dot that represented his capsule, an emergency module, the flight control section of the transport, closed down during the blast.

  The orange dot tumbled slowly and the white dots held station around it.

  It should be grey. I’m the last of the Greys. All gone. His head slumped forward and blood flowed over the screen again. He straightened with a start. Damn. He shook his head to clear it and almost passed out. He had to clench his eyes shut and squeeze the edge of the console to regain control. The pain in his left hand helped. Cut across the back, by whatever had hit his head. It bled slowly compared to the other wound. He flexed the hand. It still worked.

  The Ships were holding. He didn’t know why. Time to finish it. He looked around. The module had no weapons. Only a simple propulsion drive. That will do. He flipped the right hand panel open to get to the circuits, scratched off the failsafes, waited until the roll of the module aimed the front toward the closest Ships then crossed the cables to dump all the fuel at once and ignite the drive. The module blasted forward. One last thing. With his wounded left hand he triggered the Grey call. The last challenge of the Greys. We all die today.

  He added his death cry to the noise, a great shout that sprayed the blood streaming down his face across the capsule.

  But the Ships did something he did not expect, something that they had never done before, and his cry died in his throat.

  CHAPTER 1: ARMITAGE’S TAVERN

  NINE YEARS LATER,

  PORT, BASE PLANET

  Year 215 of the Bisegna, 7225 Post Expansion

  It had been a slow night. The bar was nearly empty but the drinking was regular enough to please Armitage. The old register was singing. The keys and cash draw belled and clanged as he entered chits and coin. The song was slow but steady. A marine at one of the small tables and a dockman at the end of the bar provided the rhythm. A beer for the marine, change in, polish the bar, a brandy for the dockman, chit in, polish the bar. Other orders scattered in between provided bits of melody. All music for Armitage’s heart, or wallet, which most believed were one and the same. The regular drinkers would pay for costs, the rest was profit.

  The marine was large and drank with his chair tilted back so that his long legs could stretch out alongside the table. The glass rested in his left hand on the tabletop between swallows. When it was empty the marine would push his head back gently against the post behind and allow the chair coming forward to launch him to his feet. Two steps and he was at the bar. Armitage admired the economy of movement and energy. This man would be able to drink all night. He fit himself to the marine’s pattern, moving back down the bar as he sensed the slight head movement that began each cycle.

  The dockman also stayed in time, although his movements were less predictable. Half dances, arms coming out to snap fingers, head tossing black curls, arms dropping, back on the stool curled over his drink, mumbling phrases and snatches of songs. In a world of his own, thought Armitage, and a long way from here besides. Some warm planet in one of the far galaxies, a long way away. The dockman would not last the night but it would be a good effort.

  Other orders came and went, flasks and tabs, a whisky from one of the dusty bottles on the top shelf. The last was especially pleasing. One of the things that drew him to this trade was that spirits gained value with age rather than lost it. Not that much of his stock was old. Most he made up himself from field-compressed compounds as demand required. The beer was real, as they would say, up from the Ag Sector. Plenty of grain there to make it and beer compressed well. Customers were used to seeing it come from taps, easy to reconstitute it in the pipes. The rest, though, they preferred from bottles or flasks. It was a habit he’d seen all through his travels. Once they were on a planet, people wanted the old containers around them, the cheap ceramics, glass, formed organics. Stuff that was too bulky to be shipped through space. Comforting, he reasoned. The plastron and alloys used to make compression cylinders were too strong a reminder of their time out in the big empty, with only a thin metal skin between them and the dark. Too much space in space for most people.

  Well, be that as it may, it helped him conduct his trade. His bottles were real, and some were old too, he could say that much. That was his wealth, his bottles, and a wide knowledge of labels gained from his travels.

  The high price he put on the whisky did not seem to disturb the tall man who bought it. That one didn’t even check his change, just swept it off the bar one-handed and headed for the dark booths at the back. The orange overalls the man wore marked him as a freighterman. Probably just in port for the night, thought Armitage. A lash out on whiskey before he goes back to his slow progress through the big empty. The Passages moved traffic along quickly but there was a hell of a lot of conventional flight between jumps for a freighter, all the small systems to stop at, individual stations and planets to serve. A trip like that up or down the Arm would take years. A whiskey now and then would not be such an expensive habit.

  Armitage watched the freighterman move into the shadows. For all his carelessness with the change, the man carried the whiskey with a sure hand, didn’t spill a drop. Not so easy with the small glass full to the brim. Something about his looks had made Armitage pour more than full measure. Something familiar. Not the scar, maybe the eyes.

  Curiosity ends at the edge of the bar, he reminded himself. Don’t look for trouble. The man is sitting in the shadows for a reason. Leave him to it. Armitage turned and lifted the bottle back up onto the shelf, admiring the colour of the whiskey through the old glass. Old whiskey too, he corrected, nine – ten years on this shelf, bottle and contents both. It had been a long time since whiskey had been in demand. A drink of the Greys years back, it had fallen from favour as had they. Unfair, thought Armitage, the only memory to attach to drink was price and the only disappointment if it was sold too cheaply.

  The yellow and black stripes on the shoulders of the two blue uniformed men that came through the door and down the few steps into the bar drew his eyes as they were meant to do. Warnings of the deadly skills of the men that bore them, they gave a jolt to all the people observing, including Armitage, although he did not outwardly show it. The next one stopped him in his progress down the bar. Gold and black stripes, the highest level, only one o
f those at present in the whole Guard.

  As Armitage served the three, he glanced around the bar and was sad to see that his two best drinkers had not marked the presence of these dangerous members of the Blue Cadre. It was his experience that men with such skills required recognition - to be left alone but definitely to be known.

  The three Blues stood halfway down the bar, with the curly-haired dockman on the far side and the marine behind but to the right, nearly in front of Armitage and the register. The marine was out of the way and his few steps would not impinge on their space. The dockman was fine as long as he did not dance again. He had been quiet for a while and Armitage hoped he would stay so, long enough for the three to finish and leave. They were bad for business. Already the bar was emptying and no new customers were venturing in. He did not expect them to stay long.

  The marine rocked forward right to the beat. Armitage had the beer poured. As he lifted it to the counter he smiled at the three Blue cadremen. The fluidity of the marine’s movement had startled them. Armitage’s smile was to convince them that it was a drunken stagger and of no import. The two yellow and black-striped cadremen turned away. The Gold kept staring. Armitage started down the bar. It was time for the brandy. While moving he slid his hand under the bar and tapped the first of three buttons. These carried alerts to the military police. The first notified of a possible situation, the second a brawl or similar disturbance, while the third was life-at-risk. The Security Patrol would come by on the first alert if they were in the area. They had to attend on the second but generally left it late so they had fewer standing to deal with. The third brought them fast and furious; life was not cheap on Base.

  Armitage’s hand movement was slight yet the Gold caught it. His stare lifted to Armitage’s eyes, then moved on. Tacit approval, acknowledgment of recognition.

  ‘The sun is not so bright, it does not kiss your skin,’ mumbled the dockman as Armitage slid the brandy in under his bowed head. The curly hair lifted and a fine featured face smiled up at him.

  ‘No sun in here mate,’ growled Armitage in what he thought was a civil manner.

  The nearby Blue cadremen finally registered with the dockman. Either he did not know what the stripes meant or was too drunk to take them in, so instead of drawing back, he slid off his stool toward them. One of the Blues also had the dark curly hair and olive skin of Mediterranean descent, and to him the fellow called ‘What do you think of this place, compadre?’ He got no answer. In his drunken good nature he thought he had not been heard. He did not notice the stiff back of his ‘compadre’ or the momentary pause in the others around him. ‘A brandy for my friend’ he called to Armitage.

  Here we go, thought Armitage. He placed another brandy on the bar then had to move along to serve a whisky and be back in time for the marine’s beer.

  It had already started by the time he got back. The friendly gesture rebuffed, the drink spilled and an insult laid on top. ‘I don’t drink with civscum.’ A sharp retort in Greco that Armitage didn’t understand but felt translated as ‘Well, up yours then,’ in Anglo.

  The Blue cadreman cuffed the now angry man, who hit back faster than anyone who had drunk that much should have been able to do. Pulling away, the Blue bumped his cohort, spilling that fellow’s drink on both of them. They tried to hit the dockman at the same time and got tangled up, allowing him to snap one in the chest and the other in the stomach. Very fast. If he had a knife they would both be dead, thought Armitage appreciatively.

  The two cadremen finally remembered their training, shifting to gain space to move. The Gold had stepped back earlier and looked on in disdain. The dockman did not land many more blows despite his speed. The cadremen systematically beat him, his pride holding him up stubbornly to take more punishment, his eyes fixed on the curly-haired Blue throughout, this cadreman getting angrier and striking for more damage.

  Armitage went for the buttons. The Gold glanced his way, flicking an unvoiced command to stop. No one orders me on this side of the bar, glared Armitage in return. He hit the second button.

  Suddenly the marine came past the Gold. He had turned his tilted chair so that he was launched along the bar into the fight. All his momentum went into a push into the backs of the two cadremen who flew across the remainder of the room and slammed into the wall. The big fellow caught the slumping dockman by the shoulder and eased him back onto his stool.

  ‘That’s enough now, fellas,’ said the marine to the two struggling to their feet. They stepped back, hands to parts of their bodies that were hurting. That could have been the end of it but the Gold flicked his head back in toward the marine. The two battered cadremen moved in reluctantly, going high and low on the big man. Their reluctance was well founded. Their blows landed but the counters were stronger.

  The noise died as chairs and bodies came to rest. The big marine slowly straightened, rubbed his jaw then looked across to the dockman who managed a weak smile in return. The battered man’s eyes swung away from his rescuer and the smile faded. Armitage followed the dockman’s gaze. The Gold was on the move, careful steps taking him away from the bar, out around his fallen comrades. He eased chairs and tables out of the way as he went, always with his eyes on the marine. Then he started back in.

  This is serious now, thought Armitage, glancing up hopefully toward the door. He did not want to see the marine hurt badly. Although the big fellow had nowhere near the Gold’s skill, Armitage sensed trouble in this match-up. He hit the third button.

  The Gold’s attack had the grace and fluidity of a high level kata. The marine’s training was sound but was only capable of blocking a few of the blows. His long arms soon dropped and the Gold closed in to make his punches more telling. Caught between the bar and the rapid blows, the marine could not fall. Armitage feared for the beating the big man was taking, soon there would be permanent damage. The dockman lurched into the two, managing to come between, but only for a second as the Gold savagely chopped him, smashing cheek and collarbone. As the slight man was forced down, the marine drove a fist over his curly head, catching the Gold square in the face, driving him all the way back into the tables and onto the floor. He came up quickly and attacked again, blood dripping from his nose and mouth.

  The pause, short as it was, helped the marine. He was a natural boxer and now he melded this aptitude with his combat techniques. It was a combination Armitage had not seen for a long time. Few people could take the blows the marine was absorbing. No one was ever trained to take them. The big man let some strikes in and countered. Not much speed now but with his reach and strength many of his punches landed. He was actually holding his own with the Gold. This is not supposed to happen, thought Armitage.

  A heavy hit to the ribs dropped the Gold to the floor again. This time he rolled defensively, covering for the blows he was trained to anticipate. The marine was still back at the bar. He did not have the training or the inclination to pursue the advantage. Armitage was sure the big fellow would stop if allowed. Not much chance of that, though, he thought. The Gold would not stop until the big man was down and not moving. Nothing else would end the contest in his eyes.

  Rising, the Gold studied the marine before advancing. With methodical brutality he targeted the long limbs of his opponent, using kicks and darting full arm strikes, all of his training employed to disable then destroy. With each blow, the crack of bone. Right arm broken near the wrist, left arm above and below the elbow. A slashing kick to crush the left knee, then up to the collar.

  Armitage went onto the bar as the Gold struck for the neck but he wasn’t fast enough. A flash of orange cloth was all he saw as the marine was rolled to one side and the attacker to the other. Armitage caught the big marine and draped his arm over the wide shoulders. Amazement registered as he glanced over his own shoulder to see the freighterman spin the Gold away a second time.

  Blood from the broken nose had streaked out over the Gold’s face giving him a demonic look that matched the madness in his eyes. He attac
ked again and again but each time was shifted and swung away without connecting. Armitage had never seen anything like it. Yet something was familiar. His memory worked at the edge of his awe, prodded by the freighterman’s stance between actions, his height, the grey eyes.

  Finally, the Gold backed off, trembling with anger and frustration. He steadied into a fighting pose then exploded into a flying kick. It was a killing stroke, as Armitage knew well. He had used it himself in the past, and his opponents had found no defence against it. Almost too fast to be seen, the freighterman went into the air, mirroring the movement, rolling, enfolding the Gold, rotating back, driving him on and down. Their flight ended with a crash that jarred Armitage’s knees off the bar. He let go of the marine, got his feet to the floor and straightened in time to see the orange overalls go up the steps and out the door.

  Armitage leaned over the bar to steady the marine and gaze down at the Gold. That one’s neck sat straight and the head seemed all right, not wry and concave as he had expected. The chest moved faintly. ‘Alive,’ nodded Armitage. The other two Blue cadremen were still unconscious. The only motion in the bar was the dockman struggling to his feet in the corner.

  With a crash the door flew open and two Base Security patrolmen moved onto the landing, covering the room with stunners. Another stepped between them, swept the bar with his gaze then centred on the marine. It was so quiet that Armitage could hear him speak into his chin mike. ‘I’ve got five. Three down, one civ on his feet, one marine.’ The voice grew louder and more urgent. ‘Three Blue cadremen down -SHIT! - Two yellow stripers and the GODDAMNED Gold! And a big lump of a marine leaning on the bar! GIVE ME BACKUP! NOW!’

  ‘Where have you been?’ called Armitage to the senior patrolman, ‘You’re late!’ From the look on the bulky armoured SP’s face, Armitage guessed that he thought he’d timed it just right. Armitage had to agree with the patrolman. His memory had finally clicked. He knew who the stranger was now. Freighterman, my arse! It would have gone bad for the SPs if they had tried to take that one down, stunners in hand or not. Back from the dead … or worse. Nine …ten years? Trahern of the Grey Cadre. Maybe the deadliest fighter in the Guard since the time of the Mad Command. They were all killers; that is why they were here, but Trahern had come with the bloodiest hands, from the Games out in the Fringe not from the Inner Belt at all.