Heart of Vengeance (Vigilante Book 1)

by Terry Mixon

  That effort ended when Brad completed the kata and removed his foe’s head.

  Brad crossed to the main console, brought up the interface, and started accessing the fusion reactor’s control systems. He’d only just begun when a slight hum behind him sent him diving to the side. A blue filament flashed through where he’d been standing.

  He came to his feet with his activated blade in his hand, but had no time to do more before his new attacker was upon him.

  Their blades clashed in rapid succession as each probed for weakness. The man was good. Better than good. Better than him.

  Brad ducked a horizontal slash and tried to take the man’s legs off, but the bastard nimbly jumped over his swing, grinning through his transparent faceplate.

  That’s when he saw the red skull and crossbones on the man’s cheek. It was the Terror! Rage and fear alike filled him as he straightened.

  “I’m going to kill you for Shari,” he ground out between clenched teeth, using his anger to hold down his fear.

  “Much as I’d love to dance, I have better things to do,” the man said with a grin. “Have a nice trip. Kill the grav and open it!”

  Brad had been so focused on his opponent that he hadn’t seen the other pirates slip into the engineering compartment. One of them stood beside the massive equipment lock.

  He tapped the controls and the hatch slid open right as the gravity cut out. He must’ve overridden the safety interlocks, too, because the air rushed out in an instant.

  Brad was just a moment too late activating his grav-boots. The hurricane sucked him off his feet and hurled him out of Mandrake’s Heart in a flash.

  Spinning wildly, he caught glimpses of the ship as he tumbled away. That was it, then. It was over. Nausea from the fight and the spinning hammered into him and he vomited into his helmet, releasing his blade.

  Safety systems in the helmet sucked away the vomit, and safety systems in the weapon deactivated the blade. It hung by its strap, spinning with him.

  His weapons were useless now. Nothing could change his fate or save his ship. He was as dead as Shari. As dead as the rest of his family. His body just hadn’t realized it yet.

  His vac-suit had minimal emergency thrusters, but even as he watched, Mandrake’s Heart’s engines flared to life. The freighter and the escorting pirate ships dove away into the deep dark, leaving him behind.

  The Terror had turned him into a Dutchman. His frozen corpse would orbit in the unrelieved darkness of space for eternity.

  For a moment, he considered ending it. It wouldn’t be easy, not with his pistol empty and both weapons drifting by their safety straps, but he could manage it.

  The stars were peaceful, though. He didn’t want his last moments to be violence and death and hatred. He had a few hours of air, and he could find a better use for them than suicide.

  He could spend his remaining hours remembering his family. His ship. The woman he’d never truly had a chance to love. His memories were the one thing the Terror couldn’t take from him.

  Death could have him when he finished.

  Chapter Two

  He opened his eyes, then had to close them again immediately.

  The light hurt. After a moment, he twitched his eyelids open a bit, keeping his eyelashes low to shield himself from the stark white brightness surrounding him.

  He tried to remember how he’d ended up there, and started to panic. He didn’t remember anything from before he woke up. He couldn’t even think of his own name.

  Even as he tried to jerk upright, his body failed him. Fear lashed through him as his limbs moved weakly, barely half-responsive to his commands.

  “You’re awake. Are you okay?” a masculine voice asked from beside him.

  Even though he understood the words, he couldn’t figure out how to answer. He moved his head slightly and licked his lips. That part of him seemed to respond, a minor sop against his growing panic.

  The man who’d spoken sighed. He sounded relieved. “Thank the Everlit. You’re in the infirmary aboard the Commonwealth cruiser Freedom. You gave us quite a scare. You’ve been out for nearly a full day. Lay back and relax while we get the doctor.”

  It was somehow exactly what he needed. “Doctor” was a promising word, one that meant help—and while he couldn’t quite remember what the Commonwealth was, he knew it meant safety.

  The man went away for a few minutes and someone else returned. The sound of the footsteps was different, so he knew this was someone else. He could only make out a vague shape through his mostly closed eyelids.

  “Can you open your eyes?” a woman asked.

  He shook his head, a spike of renewed fear hitting him at the thought.

  “Let me turn down the lights and see if that helps.”

  The lights dimmed and he slowly opened his eyes. Between his blurry vision and the dim light, he could only barely make out the woman standing beside his bed.

  “I’m Dr. Sarah Merrine. Can you tell me who you are?”

  He tried to speak, to tell her he didn’t know, but something clogged his throat. He began to panic again, but Merrine put her hand on his shoulder, a warm connection that helped him regain some calm.

  She poured a glass of a clear liquid from a container, put a straw into the glass, and held it for him. “Drink some water. Just a sip or two.”

  He did so and found the cool liquid helped. He tried to speak again, but it came out as an frustratingly unintelligible garble.

  “You spent nearly a day and a half on minimum oxygen,” she said kindly. “There are a number of potential side effects from that. Don’t worry. We’ll get a handle on them now that you’re over the worst part.”

  She reached out of his sight and picked something up. His slow mind supplied the thing’s name. It was an injector.

  “There appears to be some nerve or muscular damage to your face,” she said in a matter of fact voice. “We’ll need to take care of that as soon as possible. I’m going to put you under again so I can fix it.”

  The thought of sleeping again was terrifying. What if he didn’t wake up this time? He somehow managed to raise his hand to stop her.

  “It’s all right,” she said soothingly. “You’re safe now. Rest and we’ll have you feeling better very soon.”

  It seemed he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He slowly lowered his hand and she pressed the injector to his arm. He heard a slight hiss and felt a tiny prick of pain. The doctor faded from view.

  When he woke again, things were a little clearer. At least he could open his eyes without severe pain. His hands moved when he lifted them, letting him look at them. He still felt weak, but he could move, and that helped with his earlier fears.

  The lighting in the room—an infirmary, his brain supplied—was significantly dimmer than it had been the first time. Dim enough that he could only barely make out someone sitting at a desk a few steps away, just on the other side of a translucent curtain.

  The curtain only obscured part of his view, so he looked around at what he could see of the infirmary. Nothing seemed familiar. He was aboard a ship, but it wasn’t his ship.

  His ship? Why did he think he had a ship?

  He struggled again to remember what had happened and had more success this time. He remembered gunfire and flashing lines of light. And fear. And hate.

  He cringed away from the memories as his head began to ache. Well, maybe ache was too mild a word for what felt like nails stabbing into his temples. He groaned in pain.

  The nearby figure looked up at the sound, stood, and stepped around the curtain. It was the woman who’d knocked him out. The doctor. Her eyes were concerned, but her presence was reassuring. She was familiar now. That helped keep the panic at bay.

  She smiled. “How do you feel?”

  He managed to get a single word out. “Bad.”

  “That’s not surprising,” she said sympathetically. “A number of nerve connections in your face decayed from oxygen starvation, as did some
cerebral neurons. I had to regenerate them.”

  “How long?”

  His voice sounded strange in his ears. Weak and rusty. Was this how he sounded all the time or was it just fear and injury talking?

  “You were out another day with surgery and regen. You’ve been aboard Freedom four days now, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  He frowned. Four days. What had happened to him before that? Why couldn’t he remember anything other than the shooting and bright lines of light and the fear and pain?

  “I can’t remember,” he admitted, his voice even weaker as the fear shivered through him.

  The doctor watched him a long moment and shrugged slightly. “Frankly, I’m not surprised. You’ve mostly recovered from your Dutchman, but you’re still suffering from the side effects from when you died.”

  He bit his lip, pushing down a spike of pure terror. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. “I died?”

  Somehow, he already knew what a Dutchman was. It meant he’d been loose in space, in just a suit. A horrible fate that most people didn’t survive.

  “You went into shock when we cut you out of your vac-suit,” she told him gently. “Your heart shut down. I revived you, but throwing that on top of long-term hypoxia and low pressure, your body took quite a hit.

  “Now that you can communicate, I need you to tell me if you’re having any problems.”

  “I can’t remember my name.” His throat seemed clearer each time he spoke.

  “That isn’t unheard-of. The amnesia is almost certainly short-term. Things will start coming back over the next week or so. They’ll come in flashes. Maybe a week after that, you’ll recover everything. Probably all at once or close to it.

  “Things might come when someone directly prods you about something. Like asking you a direct question. What’s your name?”

  He concentrated, pushing aside the pain for a moment. Out of the fog of fear and nothingness, something came to him. “Brad? I think I’m Brad.”

  He knew there should be more. A last name. But it wouldn’t come.

  “I can’t remember anything more. I’m sorry.” And afraid.

  “Don’t worry about it.” She laid her hand on his arm, clearly understanding what he hadn’t said. “This is excellent progress, even if it frustrates you. You’ll get it all back in time.”

  She glanced at something above his head. “You should sleep again. You’ll tire easily for a few days, so you need to rest.”

  He wanted to argue, but he knew she was right. Even this short conversation had been enough for just not panicking to have drained his reserves. He lay back and let the exhaustion take him.

  Brad pulled himself into a sitting position as the captain—he somehow recognized the rank insignia—entered the infirmary. The officer pulled up a seat next to Brad’s bed.

  “I’m glad to see you with us, Brad. We were all very worried for you. My name is Mark Fields and I’m Freedom’s captain.”

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” he said softly. He would have died if the cruiser hadn’t lucked along. There was no question in his mind about that.

  The man smiled. “That’s what Fleet is here for. Sarah tells me you’re suffering from temporary amnesia. I understand you might not remember what happened, but I’m going to ask you some questions anyway. ‘I don’t know’ is a completely acceptable answer. No pressure. Clear?”

  “I’ve tried remembering what happened,” Brad said with a nod, “but I only get impressions of gunfire and blue lines of light.”

  “That makes sense.” Fields gestured to someone near the door of the infirmary. The second man—this one in the uniform of a lieutenant—hurried over with a bundle, which he handed to the captain.

  After a moment, Fields laid it on the small table beside Brad’s bed. “We found these when we rescued you. Do they look familiar?”

  Brad looked at the bundle. It was a belt with two holsters and two plain boxes in snap pouches attached to it. One holster held a slim black cylinder and the other an oddly shaped device.

  Then his memory clicked. It was a weapons belt. The cylinder was a mono-blade, the device was a pistol. The black boxes were magazines holding bullets for the pistol. Somehow, he knew the weapons were his. And he wanted them.

  He nodded slowly, controlling his desire to grab the weapons, and returned his gaze to the captain. “I know what they are and I know that they’re mine. I even feel as if I could use them. Nothing beyond that.”

  Fields sighed. “I was hoping they’d jolt your memory a little more. That you could tell us what happened to your ship. Hell, I was hoping you could tell us what ship you came from.”

  Something flashed into Brad’s mind. A fragment of a memory. In it, he turned just in time to see a man attack a young woman and slash her side open, sending her crumpling away from his blade.

  He felt himself flinch and then shudder. The memory had been so vivid. The fear and pain—and rage—flooded his body and he exhaled sharply, breathing steadily to try and control his emotions again.

  “Combat flashback?” Fields asked, his tone subdued and sympathetic.

  Brad nodded, uncertain how the man had known. The term wasn’t familiar to him, but it fit.

  “I’ve seen the signs before and we knew you’d been in a fight. Your pistol was empty and your mono-blade filament had deformation consistent with a blade fight. Did you remember something specific?”

  “A woman…no…a girl being killed. With a blade.” Even just saying it hurt. Who had she been that it hurt this much?

  “It’s all right,” Fields said gently, his eyes sympathetic. “Or, at least, it’s over. We’ve searched the area we think you came from, but whatever ship you were on is long gone.”

  He glanced around the infirmary. “Dr. Merrine tells me you’ve recovered physically, so we’re going to move you out of here today. She still wants to see you every day and you can call her anytime you need to, but we both think getting out among people will help you recover more quickly.”

  The captain stood, pulled his jacket tight, and picked up the weapons belt. “I’ll send a petty officer to help you move. Try to relax. It will all come back to you eventually.”

  He tried to remember more, without success. Even the slightest thought of the girl in the memory brought flashes of powerful emotion. Pain. Fear. Rage…Warmth?

  Who had she been? He’d clearly known her, but how well? Someone had killed her in front of him. He felt as if he should at least remember why.

  A young petty officer with a bag over his shoulder interrupted his dark musings. He walked straight to where Brad sat and extended his hand. “I’m Petty Officer Second Class Mike Richmond. Just call me Mike.”

  Brad took the man’s hand. “I’m Brad. I can’t think of anything else for you to call me.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Richmond replied with a cheerful grin. “I brought you some clothes.”

  He set the kit bag on the bed, opened it, and revealed several sets of ship fatigues with the insignia removed.

  “Thanks,” Brad told him, surprised to find tears in his eyes from the minor show of support.

  “Not a problem. Throw one of those on and we’ll get you straight to your new quarters.” He stepped back and closed the curtain.

  Brad dressed quickly, his body significantly more stable now than his emotions or mind. Once he finished, he opened the curtain, and the other man gestured toward the infirmary door.

  They went through a number of tight corridors and passed men and women in uniform. It felt to Brad as if they were all staring at him, and he wondered if they could see how much mental pain he was in. Minutes later, they arrived at his new quarters.

  “It isn’t much,” the PO said as he gestured through the hatch.

  Brad looked around the tiny compartment. There was barely room for the built-in desk, bunk, and locker. “It’s fine, Mike. It really is.”

  “Is there anything else I can get you?” the petty officer asked
.

  Brad turned to look at the blank wall opposite the door. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “Do you know what the Everlit an anvil-vat is?”

  “Of course I do,” Richmond said briskly, his eyes narrowing in question. “A vat of nanites used by nano-smiths.”

  “Good to know. I knew I wanted one, but I didn’t know what it was.”

  “Wait a minute,” the PO said. “You’re a nano-smith?”

  “Maybe?”

  “There’s only one way to be sure,” Richmond said as he hurried out. “Be right back.”

  Brad sat there after the man had left, staring at the small room and wondering what other surprises lurked in the depths of his mind. He was afraid many of them would be horrible, like the girl’s death.

  What he remembered already terrified him and left him filled with anger. He almost wished the rest would never come back.

  A short while later, he stared down at the anvil and the handful of pistol cartridges lying next to it. The captain had kept the weapons, but he’d agreed to give him some ammunition to work with.

  Brad felt as if he’d done this many times before. The process hadn’t come easily, but he’d eventually figured it out and now had a shiny pile of new rounds on the desk in front of him.

  Mike looked over Brad’s shoulder and smiled. “It appears you are indeed a nano-smith, my young friend.”

  “Yeah,” Brad said dazedly, not entirely free of the tightly focused concentration necessary to bend the nanites to his will. He slowly removed the electrodes from his forehead and returned them to their receptacles on the anvil.

  He suspected he wasn’t a very good one. His brain was quite certain that duplicating an item he could drop in the vat as a sample was as easy a task as there was, and it had taken him over an hour to make a dozen bullets.

  Mike’s chrono beeped and he glanced down at it. “Shit. I forgot the time. I go on duty in twenty. Look, the anvil is ship’s property, but Commander Douglas—the chief engineer—said you could borrow it while you’re aboard.”