Exile (Tales of the Acheron Book 3)

by Rick Partlow

  A black-gloved hand reached through the smoke and slapped against the red emergency release button on the machine’s control panel, and the heavy slab released with a pneumatic hiss, the pressure lifting from her shoulder so abruptly she almost passed out. She slid from beneath the massive, two-meter-long press and coughed fitfully at the thick, black smoke. It shut out the light, visible and infrared, and somehow even made the thermal imaging and auditory analysis from her bionics harder to interpret, and she felt an unfamiliar disorientation that somehow angered her more than Jordi’s threats.

  Something was pressed into her hand, something heavy and metal and coldly comforting in its familiar, lethal lines: her own Gauss slug-shooter.

  “Follow me, and stick close.”

  The voice was as familiar as the gun, though not nearly as comforting. But it was all she had at the moment, and she went with it, grabbing with her free hand to grasp his and letting him lead her through the smoke and clamor. She couldn’t see the door other than as a slight thinning of the smoke, but he led her to it as if he had the layout of the place projected inside his head…and, for all she knew, he did.

  Then they were outside, and the streets were just as dark, the streetlights sabotaged and inoperable, but she could see on infrared now, see that they were somewhere in the industrial district, somewhere the buildings were closed and boarded up. Outside the walls of the shop, she saw the bodies of the sentries Jordi had left, their heads looking back over their shoulders, necks snapped.

  They ran. They ran as fast as she’d ever run, and he led her at that speed, which was something he never could have done before but she didn’t want to distract either of them with questions now. The streets seemed empty, but Jordi Abdullah was nothing if not forethoughtful, and she didn’t dare bet that he hadn’t left a trail of drones or remote cameras or paid informants in his wake. But blocks became kilometers, and closed-down shops and warehouses and factories became shut-down bars and restaurants, and some that weren’t shut down, and their pace slowed to a simple run, then a jog, and then a casual walk.

  She holstered her pistol and dragged her heels to halt them both, gripping his hand tight enough that he couldn’t let go and keep walking. He turned, his face blocky and expressionless, and somehow, miraculously, whole again. The last time she’d seen Jagmeet Singh, the bounty hunter had been carrying half a face full of metal, to go along with the left half of his skull, his left shoulder and left arm. It wasn’t a simple synthskin camouflage job like hers, either; she could see on thermal that it was flesh, and so were the arm and shoulder.

  “You’ve had quite the makeover, Singh,” she told him, cocking her head appreciatively.

  He still had his sidearm in his hand, but after taking a quick glance around, he shoved it into a holster beneath his black, armored duster. It wasn’t just the skin that was new; he had a short, close-cropped beard as well, and a fashionable, swept-back haircut that nearly made him look a new man.

  “I owe it all to you,” he told her, his voice smooth once more, lacking the lazy slur that had marked it when half his jaw had been metal. “Consider this repayment.”

  He started to turn, but she caught his arm with a hand, shaking her head.

  “If you think I’m letting you walk away from me without you telling me what you’re doing here, perhaps you haven’t learned as much from me as you might believe.”

  His eyes narrowed and he seemed to consider it for a moment before he jerked his head down the street.

  “Not here. Come back to where I’m staying and I’ll explain.” He smirked, something of the old bastard she knew him to be shining through his new look. “Unless you’re afraid this was all an elaborate trick to lure you somewhere private and kill you myself.”

  “Shit,” she drawled, turning the word into something with three syllables as she glanced at him sidelong. “I’d love to see you try, boy.”

  “Ah, Fontenot,” he sighed, turning back down the sidewalk and waving for her to follow. “I’ve missed you.” He chuckled. “I’ll aim more carefully next time.”

  ***

  “They’re back,” Ash muttered, half to himself, knowing Sandi wouldn’t hear him over the alarms. He hit a control to silence them as he plugged the interface jacks into his sockets. His touch lingered on the cold metal still, after all these years. He wondered if there would ever come a time when it didn’t.

  “Son of a bitch,” Sandi swore, louder than he would have, maybe louder than she would have when this trip started.

  She had a worn, haggard look that came from too much time in zero-g and not enough rest; she’d been trying to sleep in the cockpit when the alarms had sounded. And he knew she wasn’t just mad because the raiders were back, she was mad that they’d come back when it was his turn in the left seat.

  “That’s less than forty hours turnaround time! Are these different ships?”

  “Not according to the sensor readings,” he told her, then he dove beneath the interface and was beyond conversation.

  Space shrank, or perhaps his perceptions grew, to the point where he was a giant kilometers tall, floating in the dark firmament. Even the ore barge seemed tiny beside him, the length of his stride measured in light seconds. And there they were, the intruders again, slipping into their midst like coyotes squeezing through the fence into a sheep fold for the third night in a row, driven by the persistence of hunger. It was the same two boats, there was no doubt; their drive signatures were identical to the ones the sensors had recorded during the last attack.

  He could see the Savage/Slaughter lighter’s fusion drive flaring to life, trying to move into a position to intercept them, but she was on the far side of the barge; she would never make it in time, and she couldn’t micro-Transition the way the Acheron could, lacking her multiple jump capacitors. They didn’t even have a clean firing solution for their beam weapons, and none of their missiles could intercept before the enemy ships got into position for a railgun shot.

  He had very little time to think, but he forced himself to take it. If he jumped in, he’d have empty capacitor banks, and all they’d have to engage the predators would be the Gatling turret and their limited ammo supply for it. By the time the capacitors were charged enough for a volley of proton cannon fire, the two cutters could jump back out. He had to try something different, something risky, something potentially stupid. Something Sandi would do if she were flying this boat...

  “Aw hell,” he muttered. He wasn’t sure if he’d said it aloud.

  The Acheron Transitioned, just a step around the corner as his old instructor used to say, a micro-jump that was hard to control as exactly as he was attempting. That was why this was risky, maybe stupid. If the ship’s navigation systems were a hair off, just centimeters off, they could slam right into the barge or one of the cutters, and they’d never even know they were dead. Just an eyeblink and then…whatever. Darkness, void, nonexistence, Heaven, Hell, reincarnation?

  None of the above, he had time to think, ignoring the blaring of the proximity alarms, ignoring Sandi’s surprised squawk from the right-hand seat.

  They were three hundred meters from the closest of the cutters, in line between her and the barge…and the enemy vessel was burning right into the mouth of the Acheron’s fusion drive coils. With a thought, Ash ignited the drive and a star-hot plume of fusion plasma washed over the enemy cutter nose-on.

  They weren’t destroyed; Ash knew that wouldn’t happen, not at this range, and he couldn’t have cut it any closer. But when he tapped into the barge’s exterior camera feed, he could see the cutter’s electromagnetic deflector screens were awash in flames, a glowing Christmas-tree ornament, for a good two or three seconds before her belly jets lifted her above the bore axis of the Acheron and out of her exhaust. The raider vessel’s bow was black, her nose armor ablated and her maneuvering thrusters damaged…and most importantly, her railgun emitter melted to slag.

  She’d cut her boost and so had he; the burn had taken the Acher
on too far for the drive to be an effective weapon. The enemy ship hung there, looking still and helpless in relation to them, despite the fact that they were both traveling at hundreds of meters per second. Ash saw the capacitor indicator lights going green and had barely had time to think about flipping the ship around for a shot at the other cutter when they Transitioned.

  She blinked out of realspace in the rainbow ring of a warp corona; it was what Ash had expected and he was already swinging the nose around, killing his drive and aiming the proton emitter at the second ship. They were turning as well, trying to line their railgun up with the barge. He’d figured the other crew would at least try to fire off a shot at their target, that they’d give him the chance to take them out rather than give up on the attack altogether. They didn’t disappoint, but he shot first.

  The proton beam took them in the nose, and at this range, even their deflectors couldn’t shed the full strength of the blast. BiPhase carbide armor sublimated in sheets centimeters thick, and he could see the bow of the cutter being blown to starboard by the sudden jet of vaporized metal. Then they were gone, ripping a hole in space and pulling it in after them, and there was nothing left of them except a glowing cloud of ionized particles.

  Ash sighed and fired off a corrective burst from the fusion drive almost absent-mindedly to correct their attitude toward the barge. Sandi surprised him by grabbing hold of his chair and kissing him firmly and passionately.

  “That was brilliant,” she said, the exhaustion and exasperation temporarily banished from her eyes in a rush of adrenalin-fueled passion. “That was exactly what I would have done.”

  He caressed her cheek but couldn’t keep the frown of dissatisfaction from tugging his face downward.

  “What?” she demanded. “What’s wrong, Ash? You just kicked their butts; it’ll take them days to repair that ship.”

  “They have days,” he pointed out, trying not to take his frustration and anger out on her. “And eventually, they’re going to get through our escorts and take this barge out, just like all the others.” He shook his head, eyes going hazy as he accessed the ship’s sensor web over the interface. “We’re going at this all wrong, Sandi. We’re playing their game, letting them choose the time and place for the battle. You don’t win that way.”

  He found the data he’d been searching for, and his vision snapped back to reality.

  “We need to talk to those Savage/Slaughter mercs. It’s time to take the fight to the enemy.”

  Chapter Eight

  Korri Fontenot eyed the rickety chair uncertainly and in the end, decided she’d rather stand. The wooden floor creaked miserably under her feet as she shifted her weight, and she began to wonder if standing was a good idea either. There was a scraping sound as Jagmeet Singh pushed the door shut, then a solid thump as the locking bolt shot home.

  “I love what you’ve done with the place,” she said, gesturing around at the one-room apartment.

  It was barely four meters on a side and most of that was taken up by the bed, which sagged in morose resignation on a frame of faded and splintering wood. Above it, the gossamer blades of a ceiling fan turned slowly clockwise, the only light in the room coming from the bulb that hung beneath it. The spiteful tap-tap of a bad gasket in the sink faucet echoed off the thin, panel walls, and she guessed that the toilet and shower were behind the plastic curtain that hung across a narrow doorway in the corner. There was nothing else to the room; no window, no closet, no entertainment console. Just a tiny, round table with two chairs she didn’t trust.

  “It’s cheap,” Singh commented, stripping off his duster and throwing it on the bed. Beneath it, his clothes were all black, a mixture of spacer’s leathers and utilitarian work gear, and the nylon straps of a shoulder holster ran across his chest, supporting the weight of his Gauss machine pistol. “And the bar downstairs is about two weeks’ receipts from shutting its doors permanently, so they were happy to have the money.”

  The big man shrugged. “I don’t spend much time here.”

  “Do you have a ship?” she wondered. “How did you get here?”

  “No ship. Too expensive and I’ve never been much of a pilot.” She thought she saw a dark shadow pass over his face, and she remembered that it had been his late wife who’d flown their ship…the wife Ash Carpenter had killed in aerial combat. “Anyway,” he seemed to visibly shake off the memory, “I invested most of my accumulated liquid assets in some physical improvements.”

  “I noticed,” she admitted, nodding. “And not just that you had your bionics replaced with cloned tissue; you were running as fast as me out there. You’re jacked.”

  “I was having the work done anyway,” he motioned toward his repaired face. “The docs who were fixing me up told me they could boost me, for a price. Bionic servos in the joints, bone laminants, boosted reflexes, an implant ‘link and a headcomp to run it all. They offered some more exotic stuff, like implant blades but…” He shrugged, making a face. “I didn’t want things to get too complicated. And I was already pushing the limits of my various bank accounts. I barely had enough to buy a ride off the books with some old acquaintances heading this way.”

  “But why’d you come out here?” she insisted. “I know you said you weren’t going to work for Jordi anymore, but I didn’t think you were going to war with him.”

  “I didn’t declare war on him,” Singh corrected her, easing down cautiously to take a seat on the bed. It squeaked plaintively at his weight, but held. “He declared war on me. When I showed up back in the Core worlds without his ship or his people, he put a price on my head. I’ve been dodging bounty hunters and hit squads for months now, and yes,” he eyed her with a sour expression, “I am aware of how ironic that is, before you say anything.”

  “You decided to take him out.” A grin spread across Fontenot’s face almost of its own accord. “I’d bet you’re the one who organized the other cartels against him.”

  “I contacted the right people,” he allowed, tossing his head as if it were no great thing. “The sentiment was already there, they just needed some encouragement. Then I heard about this place.” He snorted a humorless laugh. “I have to admit, for a desperation move, it’s genius. If he could pull it off, he’d be in position to control the black market for the whole Periphery. No one else would have the connections, the proximity, the political pull that he would. We can’t let it happen; he’d be nearly unstoppable. I gather your friends in Fleet Intelligence have come to the same conclusion.”

  “Yeah, if only they’d bother to help,” she muttered with just a trace of bitterness.

  “Things are complicated right now,” Singh allowed. “I’ve heard rumblings of it; everyone with connections has. The Corporate Council is making some sort of power play; their Corporate Security Force is swarming all over the place in the Core worlds.”

  “Sorry,” Fontenot said with an indifferent shrug. “I only have a vague idea of what exactly the Corporate Council does.”

  “Yes, you have been out in the sticks for quite a while, haven’t you?” There was something in the look that he gave her just then, something like curiosity. “They were a product of the First War with the Tahni, an emergency stop-gap to get around monopoly regulations and let the economy run more efficiently to help with war production.” The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “And of course, since it made everyone involved very, very rich, that ‘emergency measure’ became permanent. The Corporate Council Executive Board controls all major industry in the Core worlds; and over the years, they’ve developed an unhealthy amount of influence with the Patrol Service and the DSI as well…not to mention the office of the President. Apparently, it’s all coming to a head, and it makes some cartel power-play in the middle of nowhere too small-time to worry about.”

  Fontenot grunted in distaste. “Makes me glad I live out here. We have enough to worry about without all that back-room political shit.”

  “Yes, this is so much better.” Fontenot recognized th
e sarcasm but let it go. Singh leaned back, seemingly determined to get through with his story. “I’ve been watching the port, and in the last three or four days, I’ve seen shuttles coming in, bringing down one load after another of what looks to me like hired muscle from the Pirate Worlds. I don’t know how long Jordi’s been here, but he’s getting ready to make his move.”

  “People like that,” Fontenot said, shaking her head in confusion, “they gotta’ have records. The Constable didn’t strike me as a careless man; you’d think he’d have noticed.”

  “That was the whole point of stirring up the Tahni,” Singh pointed out. “So he wouldn’t have time to notice. But I think you’re missing the bigger question here, Ms. Fontenot.”

  She sniffed, spreading her arms in a welcoming gesture.

  “Enlighten me, Mr. Singh.”

  “Where,” he asked, “are they going to get weapons for all those people?”

  ***

  The road played a rhythm under the tires of the old cargo truck, the ruts and ridges notes written by time and erosion. Kan-Ten wanted to let the song of the road and the grumble of the engine and the darkness of the cab lull him to sleep; it seemed like forever since he’d slept. He’d had to keep his guard up since he’d arrived here, unsure of who to trust. If he listened to Fontenot’s advice, it would be fairly simple; she’d tell him to trust no one.

  He looked sidelong at the driver, who was chanting a mnemonic to keep himself awake. He was a young male, too young to have fought in the war, but he wore his cue wrapped around his neck as if he were a warrior. He probably thought himself one now, because he’d engaged in a few street brawls with human vigilantes.