Heart of Vengeance (Vigilante Book 1)

by Terry Mixon

  “Ms. Roland,” he greeted her, rising as she approached.

  “Are you ready to go?”

  “Certainly.” He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  She frowned. “You don’t need that.”

  “I don’t have a key to my room,” he pointed out, “so it seems prudent to take what little I have with me on this excursion. It’s not much, but it’s all I have.”

  “We don’t have a problem with theft here. You can leave that in your room and it will still be there when we get back.”

  When he merely raised an eyebrow and gestured toward the door, she sighed and led the way out.

  He again studied the rapidly shifting crowds as they walked. The vast majority of people around them had the lankiness his hindbrain identified as the sign of the spaceborn. All of them moved quickly in the long, gliding strides allowed by the low gravity.

  Roland made no attempt to ask him anything. She simply directed him where to go and otherwise said nothing.

  It took them ten minutes to reach the tunnel access leading out to the net of domes that made up the spaceport. It sat just outside the main city dome. He’d seen that when he’d flown in.

  Armed guards in the black fatigues of Commonwealth Marines guarded the spaceport entrance, blades and pistols at their waists and slug rifles held at the ready. The sight of the weapons sent a shiver of fear down his spine even as the Commonwealth uniforms reassured him.

  The only one of them not armed with a rifle stepped up as they approached. “ID check.”

  “Jane Roland, Social Department.” She flashed her wrist-comp across the man’s scanner. “He’s with me.”

  The marine waved her through and turned to Brad, who pulled out the temporary ident card Roland had given him.

  The marine scanned it and then glanced at Roland. “All right. Pass through.”

  “Is that normal?” Brad asked as he followed her into the spaceport. “The marines, I mean.”

  She shrugged. “Not really. There was an attempted hijacking last night, so security is going to be tight for a while. Normally, they’re less intrusive.”

  And less secure as well, he presumed, though the intrusiveness itself was mostly theater. How he knew that, of course, was beyond him.

  That thought faded as they walked into the main observation dome of the Ceres City Spaceport. It was positioned on a stubby hill looking over the spider web of tunnels and hangar domes that stretched across forty square kilometers of asteroid rock.

  His eyes roamed over the hundreds of ships scattered in front of them, each nestled up against a dome with a temporary pressurized tunnel leading to the ship. Some of the smallest ones—and all of the shuttles—were tucked into large multi-craft transparent hangar domes with massive airlock doors like the one he’d landed in.

  “Impressive,” he said softly.

  “Indeed,” she agreed. “It’s the largest spaceport outside the planetary systems. Can you identify any of those ships?”

  He looked at the closer ones and his eyes locked onto a sleek, black-painted, lethal-looking vessel near them.

  “That one,” he said, pointing. “It’s a Centaur-class corvette. Three-thousand-ton base hull plus armament and cargo. Civilian construction, not Fleet.”

  “How can you possibly tell who built it?” she asked curiously. “Wouldn’t the design be the same in all cases?”

  He shook his head. “Fleet would have the name on the nose. Also, her fins are serrated. It looks pretty, but Fleet prefers stability over style. Both her engines are Skylark IV ion/fusion sets with three thousand kilonewtons each.”

  Roland seemed impressed, but Brad barely noticed as he spun and gestured at another ship. “That one is Fleet, though. A Corsair-class destroyer.”

  The ship he now gestured toward occupied one of the largest landing areas in the port. It was ninety meters long, painted white, and had notable protrusions where it mounted weapons. Her name—CWS Buzzard—was emblazoned on her nose.

  “Twelve thousand tons with torpedo primary armament,” he said. “She carries four parasite shuttles and a marine company. I see six Falcon V ion/fusion drives with six thousand kilonewtons each.”

  It was easy to identify the engines. Everything from the shape of their nacelles to the angle they attached to the hull differed from brand to brand and model to model.

  Brad’s mind picked up the various identifiers and gave him a name, manufacturer, and an encyclopedia entry’s worth of information about them at a glance. She’d been right. The spaceport was a treasure trove of stimuli for his memory.

  He knew a lot about ships. Data and knowledge reappeared in his mind in massive chunks. He couldn’t tell you how either part of a hybrid ion/fusion drive unit worked, but he was pretty sure he could fix one. He could rebuild one from parts and make some of the parts himself if he had an anvil-vat.

  The joy of knowledge, of restored memory, swept aside his anger for a moment—until his questing gaze settled on a ship near them, a medium-sized cylindrical bulk freighter. He gestured toward it.

  “That’s a Telstar III-Class bulk freighter,” he told Roland, his voice soft for some reason. “Twenty thousand tons. About the largest ship anyone is going to bother landing on the surface. That one has eight Falcon IV ion/fusion engines with five thousand kilonewtons each.”

  Brad’s eyes stayed on the Telstar for a long moment, and he blinked as a memory washed over him.

  He was young. He knew that, though he didn’t know how old he was. The man beside him towered over him. Not in a threatening manner, but because he was an adult.

  Brad looked up at the man. “Uncle?” His voice was high-pitched. That had probably annoyed him at that age.

  The burly man shook himself. “Sorry, Brad. Woolgathering.”

  He gestured out the tunnel window toward the ship. “That’s her, nephew. Mandrake’s Heart. I know she’s not much compared to your father’s ship, but I hope she’ll come to feel like home in time.”

  The man’s voice was scratchy, as if he’d been crying.

  “Come on,” he continued, clearly forcing himself. “If we don’t get aboard soon, your aunt will leave without us.”

  Brad reeled physically from the sudden flashback, grabbing at a nearby bench.

  “Are you all right?” Roland asked, her voice concerned.

  Before he could reply, another memory came crashing in. It featured the same man but in a different place.

  “Like hell I’m letting them make slaves of us without a fight,” Boris said, his thoughts obviously paralleling Brad’s. “Better a clean death than a life toiling for monsters.”

  He glanced at the blonde young woman at the assistant pilot console. “Or worse.”

  Boris turned to the lead pilot. “Give me as good an evasive pattern as you can. See if you can generate a vector they can’t intercept us on.”

  “I can tell you right now that I can’t, Cap’n,” the pilot said.

  “Try anyway,” Boris ordered flatly, and then turned to another woman. “Can you send out a distress signal?”

  She shook her head jerkily. “They’re jamming us. If I had a target, I might be able to punch a laser through, but no general transmissions.”

  Boris swore and turned to the rest of the bridge crew. “Split into groups of two. Brad, take Shari. Jordan, take Karen. Ryan, take Ferris. Cover the locks with guns and blades. Stop them if you can; bleed them if you can’t. Michael and I will hold the bridge as long as we can.”

  Brad waved Roland’s hand away as she reached to help him, slumping down onto a bench. He gasped as another memory slammed into his mind with brutal force.

  The gore betrayed the charging pirate. A glob of blood splashed across the man’s faceplate, blinding him.

  Brad opened him up lengthwise and turned back to help Shari just in time to see yet another pirate step from the airlock and engage her.

  Before he could move to help, the new man slashed the young woman open,
sending her crumpling away from his blade with blood spattering the corridor wall.

  “No!” Brad brought his pistol up and shot the man in the head, far too late to do any good.

  He gasped for breath as the flashbacks faded. He remembered everything now: Mandrake’s Heart, the pirates, and the battle. And Shari.

  His recollection of how he’d ended up in space was still a little fuzzy, but he remembered dueling the Terror in the engineering compartment. The man who’d destroyed his family, his life, and his sweetheart. The man who had quite literally taken everything from him.

  Now he was glad he’d turned down Captain Fields’s offer. There was no way he’d let anyone else avenge his family. No way the law would deal with the Terror like the bastard deserved.

  He’d felt hate for the man before but hadn’t known why. Now he did. No. The law would never support what he had to do.

  His next step, therefore, had to be getting away from the law. He needed to get into the Outer System and start building a new life. One dedicated to wreaking his vengeance on the Terror and the Cadre.

  Roland stared at him, concerned as he slowly stood. “Are you all right? What’s happening?”

  Brad Mantruso nodded calmly. The anger was still there, but remembering why he was angry gave it new focus. The fire no longer burned without answers. Now it was a forge, an anvil on which he would forge himself into a weapon.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” he told her. “I’ve remembered a few things—painful things—and need some space to process everything. I’d like to have some time alone to do that.”

  She looked as though she thought this was a bad idea, but eventually nodded. “Do you remember how to get back to the Social Department building? Come back when you finish. We’ll talk then.”

  He watched her walk out of the port. It might take a few hours, but she’d eventually realize he wasn’t coming back. He needed to be gone before she sounded the alarm.

  True, he’d broken no laws, but the authorities would be concerned that a man lacking his memories might harm himself. Or others.

  He couldn’t allow anyone to know Brad Mantruso was still alive. Word might somehow get back to the Terror. He didn’t want the man to know he was coming for him.

  That thought made him laugh. As if the bastard didn’t have thousands of people wanting to slit his throat already. Tens of thousands, probably. Possibly more. He was just the latest one in line. Possibly not even the angriest, though he’d never imagined in his life he could be this angry. Hate this much.

  Well, he could ponder how to move up the queue after he devised a plan to get out of there. First things first. He needed to get lost in the crowd. If Roland came back to check on him, he needed to be elsewhere.

  An hour later, he sat on a different bench, watching the people flow back and forth as he skimmed through the memory in his now-accessible wrist-comp. Financial accounts, a diary, birth certificate, certifications, credit status, and more sat in the tiny computer.

  No one knew the owner of his account except him. Accounts were numbered so as to provide a measure of privacy and security in a post–physical currency age. That meant he still had his money.

  Due to his stubbornness, he still had his weapons and gear. He’d need a few more items for the trip out, but that was a problem he could easily solve.

  The shops in the port quickly provided all the supplies a traveler would need. The authorities would trace his movements eventually, but that couldn’t be helped. Once they realized he’d left Ceres, their interest would cease.

  Hefting his bag over his shoulder, he made his way to a ticket kiosk.

  “Morning.”

  “Good morning,” the woman behind the counter replied cheerily. “What can I do for you?”

  “When does the next ship leave for the Outer System?”

  “Which destination?”

  “Anywhere.”

  When she gave him an odd look, he leaned forward and sadly shook his head. “I broke up with my fiancée, and her brothers want to have a long, painful discussion with me. I really don’t care where I go, so long as it isn’t here. Too many bad memories and the risk of them showing me the outside of an airlock without a suit, if you know what I mean.”

  Understanding blossomed in her eyes. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Let me see what I can find for you.”

  Her hands moved out of sight, accessing a computer. “The Louisiana Rain departs in fifty minutes for Ganymede. They’ll still be boarding for another twenty-five. Does that work for you?”

  “Perfect.”

  “That’ll be one thousand credits for a dorm bed.”

  Brad hesitated, then shrugged. His uncle hadn’t paid him well, but he’d had almost nothing to spend it on. His resources paled against the task he’d set himself, but he didn’t need to share a dorm with potential threats.

  “How much for the least expensive private cabin?”

  She accessed her computer again. “Second class is the lowest ticket with a private cabin, sir. Four thousand, five hundred credits.”

  He lifted his wrist with the comp. “Do you take direct transfer?”

  “Of course.” She lifted a reader from behind the counter and held it out.

  Brad moved his wrist-comp into its field and okayed the transaction. A soft beep from the reader confirmed the successful transfer.

  The woman pushed several keys on her computer. “The Rain is in berth two-five-one. You have cabin A-twenty-five. My comp just transferred your boarding pass to you. Present it to the steward when you board. Have a good trip and good luck. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “Me, too,” he said as he resettled his bag and headed away from the counter. Signs directed him toward the berth. He set out at a jog. He wouldn’t want to be late to his own escape.

  Chapter Four

  Louisiana Rain, a pretty standard passenger transport, squatted on its landing pad like an old and battered albatross. A white paint job, streaked in places with the black of heat-charred paint, added to the impression of age.

  Brad recognized her as a Tempest IX liner. Fifteen thousand tons’ mass with six Falcon IV engines. She probably didn’t boost all that fast, but she’d get there all the same.

  A pair of uniformed security guards stood at the entrance to the pressurized boarding tube leading into the transport’s airlock. They were checking tickets against their list.

  He stepped up to them confidently and offered his wrist-comp.

  One of them scanned it. “Name, please?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “Brad Madrid.”

  The guard didn’t seem to notice his hesitancy. A moment later, the man’s scanner beeped, confirming his boarding pass. Like many electronic documents, it was linked to his comp, not his name—the easiest way to provide a small amount of privacy in an era where everything was in the computers.

  “You’re good, Mr. Madrid. The lift is just inside the airlock. It’ll take you up to A deck. Watch your step. Shipboard gravity is at point five.”

  Brad nodded his thanks. At almost double what Ceres Municipal Authority maintained, that was the sort of difference that could trip even an experienced spacer who wasn’t expecting it.

  He stepped between the guards as they turned to another passenger huffing toward the ship, struggling with his ungainly luggage.

  The tiny cubicle he’d paid such a large amount for was about what he’d expected: a crowded little box two meters on a side, a dresser built into one of the walls, a coffin-like closet, and a tiny desk. A single bed occupied more than half the room. He’d have to find out where the lavatory was after they took off.

  He sighed. Rain’s travel time was nearly fifteen days. For some odd reason, he wouldn’t be surprised if he got bored.

  It took him almost an hour to find the gym after they took off. The crew had it tucked away in a half-hidden corner of the ship, well outside the areas normally frequented by the passengers.

  He spent almost t
he entirety of his first sleep period in it, practicing, trying to burn off some of the adrenaline-fueled energy his anger gave him. He’d rather avoid the passengers during the day, anyway.

  The blade katas he favored seemed different now. Before, he’d only gone through them as practice, as a test. They’d mostly been training but still at least something of a game. He’d never had to use them until the Terror had boarded Mandrake’s Heart.

  His cold-burning anger and the thought of everything he’d lost made him redouble his efforts. He brought the book he’d studied for most of his training—The Path of the Blade—up on his wrist-comp. He’d already mastered the basics, but there were advanced techniques it hinted at he could try to figure out.

  That wasn’t the same as finding a teacher with the knowledge, but it beat sitting in his room and brooding.

  He spent the next two days using the gym throughout the entire sleep period before he saw anyone else in the room at all. When the stranger walked in, Brad was going through the motions of a half-remembered kata his teacher had shown him once. One he hadn’t mastered.

  The sound of the door sliding open startled him, and the practice blade slammed into his shin as he lost control of it. The capacitor attached to the thin metal blade discharged and his leg went into spasms. He hobbled to the bench and sat heavily.

  It took him a moment to regain his breath, so he used it to study the man. He was shorter than Brad, barely topping a hundred and sixty centimeters, yet still had the lanky build of the spaceborn. He’d tied his blond hair back into a ponytail, leaving piercing blue eyes and sharply angled features visible.

  “That rates a seven on the oops scale,” the stranger said calmly.

  “Thanks,” Brad said shortly. “If you don’t mind my asking, what brings you here at this hour?”

  The stranger shrugged. “From the look of things, exactly the same thing that brought you. I only managed to find this place today, and I figured I’d come by while everyone else was asleep. The real katas, after all, tend to hurt unsuspecting bystanders,” he added with a grin.