Roon cursed softly. She felt the sudden fingers of panic squeezing at her throat. Her hand trembled as she eyed the broken blister the huntrex had placed in her palm. Closing her fingers around it, she took a slow, measured breath. They were officially through the looking glass. If they failed, Fenton was doomed. Xenecia’s fate would likely follow a similar trajectory, and while Roon herself might be spared based on her corporate connections, her career almost certainly would not. Relative to her cohorts, she had so much less to lose. The thought focused her, bringing her the clarity to staunch the growing sense of dread coursing through her.
“Okay,” she said, coaching herself. “Get ahold of yourself, Roon. You can do this. Just get him up and moving, one foot in front of the other.” With Fenton still struggling to regain consciousness, she had no choice but to pass the blister beneath his nose a second time. This time he awoke all at once. Sputtering and coughing, he turned instinctively from the source of the offending fumes. Roon pulled the blister back quickly, allowing him a moment to blink and take in the state of the room. And what a state it was, between the bulkheads blackened and scarred from the flashbang; the dead officer at the end of the room; and, last but not least, her monstrous godfather busily succumbing to an incapacitating dose of triggerfly venom as administered by the huntrex.
“What the hell?” he finally murmured. He lifted his hand to his nose as if searching for blood.
Already on her feet, Roon snatched at his wrist. “No time to explain. Come on, we have to get moving, now. There’s no telling how far she’s already gotten.”
“Huh? Wait, who—?”
“Fenton!” Clearly he was still rattled from the detonation. Be that as it may, they simply didn’t have the time required for him to sit about putting the pieces together. “Follow me if you want to live.” She gave his hand one last hard yank. Finally he relented, pulling himself upright. Without even waiting to gauge his steadiness, Roon led them out of the cell to follow in Xenecia’s wake.
It took all of a minute to catch up with her. She had already cornered and subdued a brusher patrol, one of the three-man teams tasked with swinging into action whenever the atmospheric integrity alarm is tripped. Clad in chunky neon orange hazmat suits that seriously restrict motion and limit the vision of the wearer, they would have been easy prey for the huntrex. Roon was aghast as she looked over the scattered bodies. How could Xenecia have confronted and killed three men only meters from the cell without making so much as a sound? What had she been thinking, entrusting her and Fenton’s safety to such a murderous and coldblooded mercenary? Suddenly she couldn’t imagine a scenario in which this half-cocked “rescue” didn’t end with the two of them dead at her feet, just like the brushers.
Xenecia had already stripped the suits from two of the brushers. She was busily appropriating the last suit from the tallest of the three when she looked up and said, perfectly deadpan, “Unconscious. Not dead.”
The distinction greatly relieved Roon. Still, she couldn’t get that grisly image out of her head no matter how hard she tried.
At least until more pressing concerns demanded her attention. Somewhere in Fenton’s lightly scrambled brain, it had clicked that this was the amethyst-skinned woman who captured and delivered him to the very beast he had been running from for so long. Roon could practically hear the breath catch in his throat and the dry, saliva-less swallow that followed as he declared, “You.”
“Fenton…”
He was starting to hyperventilate now. “This… this crazy bitch… almost… got me killed. Almost… killed me herself! And here—she brought… me here!”
“Fenton.” Speaking slowly, she took his face in her hands, forcing him to look her in the eyes and focus on her words. “I know this is hard to accept, but she is on your side—on our side—and all three of us are neck-deep in this thing together now. You have to trust me.” She waited a beat before adding, “You do trust me, don’t you, Fenton? That I want to help you? That I’m here for you?”
Her slow, measured statements seemed to have the desired effect, calming Fenton until his breathing was as slow and measured as hers. “Yes,” he said quietly, nodding his head between her hands.
“Touching,” Xenecia put in flatly. She had removed the third man’s suit and was already stepping into it. “Now that that is all sorted out, we likely only have a few more minutes before they realize we hoaxed the AIA. Time to get moving. Hand signals from here on out.” Shouldering her way into the top half of the suit, she hiked the hood over her head, securing it. Behind its polarized faceplate, she could have been any of the brushers sent to ferret out the source of the leak; only her bandolier and that distinctive modified mare’s leg carbine gave away the ruse. She held up a single finger, then went to secure the intersection of corridors ahead.
Roon helped Fenton don the taller of the two remaining suits. Even as she did, she couldn’t help wondering why they were disguising themselves. Why, if only to make it perfectly obvious they were not who they were pretending to be? The answer came to her quickly. They weren’t showing their hand; they were going all-in on their bluff. From there, anyone they confronted would be far more concerned with the damage Xenecia’s carbine could do to those protective suits than asking questions. That they, too, were now wearing the same suits added to the impression that whatever was in the air, they didn’t want to be in contact with it any more than the brushers did. In the interest of preserving their own lives, the brushers would go quietly and without resistance.
That was the idea, anyway.
Xenecia looked to Roon as they approached—of the two of them, she was about a head shorter than Fenton—gesturing with two quick pumps of her fist. Roon nodded. They had discussed the need to be as quiet as possible back in the huntrex’s quarters. There was an understanding some rudimentary hand signals would be necessary. Xenecia began to creep down the corridor, leading the way. Fenton fell in behind her, Roon following close on his heels but checking frequently to make sure they weren’t about to be taken unawares.
She’d barely been in the suit a minute and already the closeness of it was beginning to press upon her. The thing was practically an ecosystem unto itself! Cumbersome and smelling overpoweringly of the man who had last worn it, it came complete with the vague, overlapping patter of other patrols and technicians piped in through the hood’s internal comm. Each step was like wading through a noisome, chittering bog of someone else’s lingering funk. That, and the hood prevented her from covering their retreat without doing a full revolution to peer behind her every few steps. Between the din of chatter, the bodily reek of the previous occupant, and all the turning and tip-toeing, Roon was starting to feel about as dizzy as a ballerina trying to dance through anti-gravity.
Roon was executing more of that awkward, on-the-move footwork when she nearly bumped into Fenton. She planted a hand against the small of his back just as the booming report of Xenecia’s carbine nearly sent her leaping out of her skin and the suit covering it.
No, not the carbine. The opening of a hatch echoing down the corridor. Had it really been that loud? Maybe because she wasn’t expecting it.
It was one of the emergency access conduits, useful for traversing between levels during power failures and evacuations.
Xenecia shouldered her carbine, pointing one finger straight up the conduit.
Time to climb.
Climbing in the hazmat suits proved every bit as awkward as moving in them, and then some. That one of them might lose their grip and fall was first and foremost among their minds, but none of them did. The stakes were simply too high.
Level after level they climbed. Hand over hand, foot after foot. Roon had a great view of Fenton’s shapeless ass in the oversized suit when she chose to look up, but mostly she just concentrated on not looking down at the ever elongating drop below them.
Hand over hand, foot after foot.
After ten-plus levels, Roon was sweltering. Beneath the suit she was slicked w
ith sweat. Her odor had long since fused with that of the previous wearer, creating a sickly sweet cocktail her stomach was increasingly on the verge of rejecting. A few minutes more and she wasn’t sure she would be able to contain the rising tide of bile in her gullet.
Two things happened in the next few moments, both of which proved to be nothing short of minor miracles, at least so far as Roon was concerned.
The first was a sudden shift in status as M-H Tau stood down from green alert. “Attention, all personnel,” the voice of Lieutenant Commander Harlan Garrity proclaimed over the public address. “Be advised that the previously declared alert has officially been revised. Return to normal duties. Repeat, return to normal duties.”
The second was the end of their long and laborious climb. The three of them emerged into the central junction linking the cargo bay, the staging bay, the standard landing bay, and the executive landing bay. Of the four of them, the executive landing bay was the smallest, large enough to accommodate up to three courier command vehicles.
Xenecia emerged first, immediately setting aside her bandolier and carbine to strip out of her suit now that it was no longer needed. Fenton and Roon gladly followed suit, Roon in particular. “Quickly, quickly,” the huntrex encouraged them. “We don’t have a moment to spare.”
“But they revised the warning,” Roon said before sussing out the devil in the details. “Oh. Revised, not canceled.”
“Precisely. They know we have Fenton and they know we are attempting to escape. Which means—”
“Spare it. Let’s go already.”
The executive landing bay was all but deserted. The lone exception was a woman in a Morgenthau-Hale pilots’ uniform skimming a flexpad. She started as the trio charged in, led by the huntrex and the carbine she held before her.
“Oh, god! Don’t shoot! Please, please…” The flexpad clattered to the floor by her feet as she brought her arms together in front of her face, her body folding in on itself.
Despite the woman’s instinctive attempt to become as small and harmless a target as possible, Roon recognized her immediately.
“Ensign Cassel?!”
12 • OVERCOM
Xenecia scowled as the mousy advocate woman interposed herself between the end of her carbine and the cowering pilot. “I gather you know this one.”
“Yes!” Roon exclaimed. “She escorted me to the station. She’s an excellent pilot. She can help us.”
She eyed Ensign Cassel coolly, her mirrored lenses betraying nothing of her disposition. A tense beat passed before she lifted the carbine. “Good. It so happens we could use one of those about now.” She gestured to the Commander’s yacht. “That one. Quickly, please.”
Cassel straightened, emerging from her cage of limbs once it became clear she was not in imminent danger of being shot in the face. Still, she held close to herself even as she spared a quick glance toward the Commander’s yacht. “I-I-I can’t,” she protested limply. “I’m not stationed here; I don’t have the voice authorization. I was just about to depart when you three stormed in.”
“You are very quickly outliving your usefulness, Ensign Cassel…”
“Do not hurt her,” Roon warned.
“Stand aside. I have no intention of leaving a witness to our escape.”
“If you hurt her, you won’t get a single credit.”
The room reeled at the statement like a slap to the face. Still, Roon refused to shrink. Xenecia bristled with pure malevolence.
“Is that so?”
“Roon,” Fenton said with a worried whisper. “Roon, for god’s sake don’t—”
Roon ignored him pointedly. “That is so.”
Now the scowl flared across Xenecia’s face like a supernova in full swing. Looming menacingly over Roon and Ensign Cassel, her mouth set in the universal rictus of contempt, she wondered, “Then what is to stop me from—”
Before she could finish the thought, a measured, synthesized, almost asexual voice cut in all around them.
“Override: Command Interrupt Protocol initiated. Voiceprint transfer of Commander Knolan Orth’s yacht to Ensign Ohana Cassel authorized. Ensign Cassel, confirm voiceprint transfer?”
The four of them exchanged awkward, uncertain glances with each other and the ceiling for several silent seconds until the voice, unfazed, repeated, “Ensign Cassel, confirm voiceprint transfer?”
“Yes!” she blurted. “Confirm!”
“Voiceprint transfer confirmed. Ensign Cassel is hereby granted voice authorization over Commander Orth’s yacht.”
Perhaps feeling adventurous in light of her still-ongoing brush with death, Ensign Cassel dared ask the question that was on all their lips: “Who—What are you?”
“Greetings, Ensign Ohana Cassel; Advocate Roon McNamara; Xenecia of Shih’ra; Fenton James Wilkes. I am OverCom, a bypass subroutine embedded within the command net superstructure of Orbital Station Tau’s primary data matrix. I was given orders by Creator to intervene in the present dispute before it could devolve into violent action. Creator trusts this has been accomplished to your satisfaction?”
“Yes, thank you very much, OverCom!” Fenton offered quickly, turning to Roon. He was just about to entreat her to get them moving when the synthesized voice cut in once again.
“You are very welcome, Fenton James Wilkes. Creator instructs I should extend well wishes and kudos on behalf of us both, which I henceforth do, as well as to inform you that you have three minutes to depart before you are met with armed resistance to an otherwise tidy escape. This, of course, not allowing for certain distractions and obstacles, of which Creator is diligently at work crafting. Creator asks, Do you need additional cajoling?”
“Not a bit, OverCom,” Roon said, having finally torn herself away from a renewed staring contest with Xenecia. “Tell Creator we are indebted for your help.”
“Indebtedness declined. Creator says the scales are balanced and to be immediately upon your way. No further delays, except those created in your own interest. Please be off now. Safe travels!”
They didn’t argue. Even Ensign Cassel fell into the retreat as part of the team without further prodding. Roon guessed she understood that someone had saved her from a sudden and brutal execution, and that the least she could do to thank them was to use every skill in her arsenal to see these fugitives outside the reach of the long arm of corporate justice as quickly as possible. Hell, if she played dutiful hostage long enough she might even live to be able to claim cooperation under duress. Assuming she too lived long enough, Roon had every intention of standing as witness to that defense, no matter how much it incriminated herself in the process.
Up the ramp to Commander Orth’s yacht they ran, Ensign Cassel stopping only to take a bracing and no doubt prayerful breath before announcing, “Authorize entry, Delta-Delta-Cassel-Five-Six-One-Six-One-Zero-One-Beta-Gamma.”
The hatch didn’t open, but neither was the code denied. An unnerving number of seconds passed, the foursome loitering nervously on the gangway, expecting to be overtaken at any moment. Their only hope was that OverCom’s so-called Creator had managed to throw some obstacles in the way of their pursuers.
Ensign Cassel, meanwhile, fretted endlessly. “C’mon, c’mon… This happens sometimes, y’know… It usually takes a few minutes for the voiceprints to refresh… It really shouldn’t be much—”
The keypad lit green before she could finish, the hatch opening to allow their entry. “Voiceprint accepted. Welcome aboard, Commander.”
“—longer. Oh, thank god.”
Xenecia and Roon shared broad, toothy grins as together they strode aboard the Commander’s yacht. Ensign Cassel hurried ahead of them to take the controls; moments later, the deck of the yacht lurched subtly beneath them as they took flight.
Despite its name, the Commander’s yacht put far greater emphasis on its defensive capabilities than a sporty, showy interior. There was room enough for all four of them to spare, but it was of a more utilitarian nature than o
ne might have expected. Some space was given over to a small galley, a few racks, and, further back, a bank of biostasis units for especially lengthy flights. Otherwise, the majority of the yacht’s space was claimed by the ultralight proprietary ceramic engine technology that made Morgenthau-Hale vessels the fastest and most maneuverable among the fleets of the various sovereign corporate powers. Because it was the Commander’s yacht and not a standard transport vessel like the one Roon and Ensign Cassel had arrived on, its engines were even more powerful, configured to allow for maximum evasive capabilities—something Xenecia had worked out they would shortly be very much in need of.
“I can’t believe it,” Roon said as they accelerated forward and shot out of the executive landing bay. “We did it. We actually did it. Well, you did it.”
Xenecia scoffed. “That was the easy part. The rest is up to your pilot.”
“Our pilot,” Roon corrected under her breath. Xenecia heard it regardless but said nothing. She was right, after all; if Ensign Cassel couldn’t outrun their pursuers, it was all their asses in the fire.
Given that her ass numbered high among her best features, Xenecia very much wanted to avoid that fate if at all possible.
“Deploying chaff packets,” Ensign Cassel said from the pilot’s seat. It was a purely rhetorical statement, more for herself than anyone else. The chaff packets were densely packed canisters of ionized metal particulate that would deploy in a staggered formation over the span of several seconds. Once the entire string of chaff packets had been released, the onboard flight computer would automatically signal them to detonate, creating a massive particulate cloud. The cloud, in turn, would shield them against attempts to lock onto them with an inducer beam or disable the yacht’s engines.
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