The Chase (Huntress of the Star Empire Episodes 1-3)

by Athena Grayson

  The psypath she’d tracked a few months ago—an escapee from the Detention Center at the Ares Arcology—hadn’t “gone bad” yet, it seemed to her. But that one had been farked up from the start of things. Wenn DiVrati had come to Prime himself, to beg the Prime Minister to allow the Ursis system to secede from the Union. Treska wasn’t part of the original team that had taken him into custody, and she was uneasy with the confusion surrounding exactly why DiVrati had been taken, or why he’d been taken to the detention center in such secrecy. Once he’d escaped Ares Arcology, he’d become a fugitive and she didn’t have to question his guilt or innocence. But I didn’t mean to become his executioner.

  The poison in her wrist tranks was a new strain developed by the lab, intended to keep a psypath so deeply unconscious that the psypath would be unable to even unconsciously influence the sentients around them. The lab miscalculated, and DiVrati died in her arms, babbling nonsense and filling her head with sour fear of going back to the arcology. So much fear that his talents tore through her training and made his fear her own.

  Those last moments haunted her more than she cared to admit. She’d wavered in her purpose in the face of that fear. Something so terrifying as to cause a sentient being to race towards death rather than return to it—it unnerved her. As much as DiVrati’s behavior. His eyes had focused on hers for an agonizing second. “So—beautiful,” he’d said.

  She’d killed the man and he called her beautiful.

  The Director dismissed her concerns. “It was an accident. He was a fugitive. You were in extreme circumstances and you took the necessary steps to secure the safety of the citizens of the Union. That’s all you need to know.” He’d considered the matter dropped, and she didn’t object.

  Prime Minister Vakess’ personal visit had eased some of her doubts. In low, measured tones, he assured her that, although the loss was regrettable, it further demonstrated that even psypaths themselves were tormented by their talents.

  But the next time she had to visit Ares Arcology, she found another place to be. In the intervening months, her own response to the mad terror had faded, but the doubts—and DiVrati’s wild-eyed death mask—had not. In the end, he’d been not a god-monster, ready to rip the thoughts from her mind and the will from her body, but a frightened human male. Just a man, if only for the moments right before his death.

  When Xenna emerged from the trapdoor in the floor that housed the hatch, the glowing gold assessment of a Vultron female took in her appearance. “Oh good. You’ve had your fun.”

  She scowled. “Not so much.” Her lip curled. “Had some real True Believers.” She shook her head. “I expect corruption. I welcome it. It’s understood. This zealotry…I have never understood it.”

  Ahveen’s golden eyes narrowed. Her tightly folded wings gave a shiver; the Vultron equivalent of a shrug. “I have never understood humans or their need to ascribe intelligent intent to nature. Urges to mate or instincts to kill have no morality to them. They simply are.”

  “Ascribing intent to instincts is a way to belong.” Xenna shook out her cloak. “You don’t understand humans because you don’t understand loneliness. You’re part of a hive mind.”

  “I have individuality. The pursuit of it is of great import to us.” Ahveen took her cloak with a russet-skinned claw. “This ‘New Morality’ movement is not individual.”

  Technically, it wasn’t ‘new’ anymore, either. Ten system years ought to have been plenty of time for hysteria to have passed and calmer heads to prevail. She couldn’t deny her own fear of the unknown aliens in the abstract, but the New Morality’s grip over people was characterized by an almost-slavish devotion to reliving the horrors of the attacks as if they’d just happened, and the belief that they were about to happen again at any moment.

  Instead of bothering to continue dusting the cloak, the Vultron stuffed the whole thing into the reclamation drawer. “The scents of Hathori are the breath of their goddess.”

  “You make a better priestess than I do. Want the job?”

  “I believe I am missing a critical element, in that I am not Hathori.” She gestured to Xenna to sit on the bench.

  Next, she pulled off Xenna’s boots. When she turned towards the reclamation drawer, Xenna held out a hand. “Wait. I like those and we don’t have so many resources that I can get another pair.”

  Ahveen dropped the boots. “Then you may sanitize them before we leave orbit. I should not need to remind you that bio-matter reveals more of our activities to the Union than we can control.”

  “And the shocking news that there’s a Tenrayan cell of the Restoration would ripple through the inner orbits and blot out the very sun itself.” Xenna’s mouth twisted. “Still, leaving this orbit would be nice.”

  “You may do so at your leisure, but that shocking Tenrayan cell requests a de-briefing.” Ahveen flashed a grin. “I reminded them that Hathori dress does not bother with undergarments.” The Vultron woman shook her head, sending the flexible, skinlike tendrils across her scalp dancing like a nest of snakes. “I do not think I am grasping the nuances of humor with your kind.”

  Xenna smirked. “No, you’re getting it. I think the Tenrayan cell is a humorless bunch. I can’t blame them, given what this dustball has become.”

  Ahveen smiled again, showing a mouthful of razor-sharp points capable of breaking through the tough outer shells of the giant insects that were her people’s main source of food. “It would be good of you to remind them, Priestess. Perhaps a benediction?”

  A cold blade sliced through her midsection. “I’m not a priestess anymore, Ahveen.” Her lips twisted in a sneer. “I’ve been Re-educated, remember?” She set the boots aside and worked at the clasps of her clothes. The constables that detained her had taken the lovely gold mesh robe and replaced it with a serviceable gray jumpsuit. The chemically-treated fabric scratched her skin, leaving irritation where sensation should be, in the name of protection.

  The buttons refused to release. “I can’t—” She squeezed the clasp until her fingers hurt, but it refused to budge.

  Ahveen’s sharp-eyed, golden gaze zeroed in. “Tracking buttons. I should have anticipated incarceration measures in a garment meant to be its own prison.”

  “Get them off me, now!” She pawed at the garment now, suddenly trapped by the bindings at the cuffs, ankles, neck, and waist. No stranger to bindings in more desirable situations, a priestess of the Hathori goddess knew the difference made by intent. Her breath came more sharply and even the spacious cargo hold became too close, with too little air. The camps had issued garments like these. At first, they’d been ordered to wear them, until the administrators figured that Hathori refused to be self-conscious about their nudity, even in unpleasant atmospheric conditions. Like the others in her block, Xenna had woken up one day to find the garments had been put on her while she was unconscious. Endure, the senior priestess she was housed with said. We will prevail. The goddess will shelter us.

  Her fingers became clumsy, her movements jerky instead of graceful. “Get this—thing off me!” The fabric prison tied her without her consent, and rage boiled up from her midsection.

  Ahveen snarled low in her throat in response. Her claws came out and her voice deepened to gravelly roughness. “Hold, Priestess. I will free you.” She sliced through the garment, shredding it to ribbons.

  Xenna tore at the ribbons of the coarse fabric, contorting her body until she lost her balance and fell against the Vultron. Ahveen’s wings came out. “Shh-shh-sh.” The alien woman’s claws nicked at Xenna’s wrists and throat, sliced at her waist. Cut straight through the crotch and down her inner thighs until she reached the fabric closures at Xenna’s ankles.

  Above her, Xenna struggled, gasping. A gentle flap of the Vultron woman’s wings sent air currents soothing against her exposed skin. Ahveen undid the clasps on the short vest she wore to protect her torso and shrugged out of it. Her leathery skin surrounded Xenna and the touch-contact soothed her.

&nbs
p; The hum of the ship’s life-support system sent vibrations through the bulkheads. Xenna’s heartbeat slowed to match the harmonics of the hum. She slumped in the other woman’s arms and felt shame pickle her innards.

  “A benediction, Priestess.” Ahveen smoothed a sweaty lock of hair from Xenna’s forehead. “As much for you as for them.” Her yellow eyes held Xenna’s, anchoring the Hathori woman to the present. “Your goddess still speaks to your heart.”

  Xenna inhaled deeply, catching the bleak dessication of her own pheromones of fear overriding the dry whisper of Ahveen’s favorite skin balm. She pulled away from the Vultron’s embrace and straightened. “A greater benediction would be to find out if our Schoolboy’s been able to turn the Huntress.” She stuffed the remains of the detainment clothing into the reclamation drawer and stabbed the panel. The satisfying sound of molecular disintegration soothed her troubled emotions. “Thanks for the lift.” Naked, her confidence restored with her freedom, she released the door that led to the main cabin. Perhaps a benediction was what she needed. Every small rebellion against the paranoid asceticism had to count for something. And there were worse ways to pass the time while they waited for word that the Restoration’s weapon had penetrated the heart of the Union. Or the heart of the Huntress. Oh, Schoolboy, I hope you know what you’re doing.

  Without A Map

  “Needle’s Eye, this is Tenraye Jumpgate station, confirming your pre-filed jump plan to Eston, please acknowledge.”

  The scratchy male voice echoed through the cockpit and Treska adjusted the volume. She didn’t want her passenger waking up. “Tenraye station, this is the Needle’s Eye, transmitting a change in plans. I need priority access to make the jump to Galladance.”

  “Deviations from filed plans are subject to approval from the schedule manager.” The connection popped. “Needle’s Eye, please confirm. Did you say Galladance?”

  Treska’s lips tightened. “You have the data, comm. You tell me.”

  The comm officer cleared his throat. “Specs on your craft are at the edge of compatibility with that long of a jump.”

  No, they aren’t. The Needle’s Eye could handle that long of a jump just fine. It was only the specs that said otherwise. “Am I queued for Galladance or not, Comm?”

  A moment later, the comm opened again. “Needle’s Eye, this is the schedule manager for Tenraye Jumpgate station. We’ve transmitted an alternate route to get you to Galladance in two Jumps. Suggest you take that one and save yourself the maintenance bills.”

  “Standby to receive authorization override from the Department of Special Affairs, manager. Unless you don’t mind me docking for the wait. I’m sure there are many interesting things for a Vice Hunter to see aboard your station.”

  The comm went dead. Several minutes later, the channel reopened and a third voice came through. “Needle’s Eye, you are cleared for jump to Galladance. Objections have been logged for insurance purposes, and you’re third in queue. Move into position at chronometer mark. Safe journey, Huntress. Tenraye out.”

  Treska leaned back in the piloting couch with a smirk. Funny how all sorts of obstacles dried up with a clear idea of who outranked whom. She flipped the HUD to her forward view and the smirk faded.

  The Jumpgate hung before her, impossibly big, hanging in space and dwarfing even the longjump freighters capable of transporting an entire colonial settlement to an outer orbit planet in two jumps. The structure itself was intimidating—a massive ring, set inside another ring. The banks of floodlights mounted on scaffolds were easily the size of buildings, yet they illuminated tiny slices of the Jumpgate.

  The scale didn’t bother her as much as the Jumpgate itself. It, and its dozens of cousins, could be found in each orbit around the Jewel, from the innermost habitable orbit of the Capitol all the way out to the frigid edge of the system, where only comets survived. The Jumpgates bent space, creating stable wormholes through which a ship, properly configured, could leap from one orbit to the next, and cut ridiculous amounts of time off the journey.

  The Jumpgate and its brethren had been here longer than any of the sentient races in the system. The architects of the Jump system were long gone or long dead, and even the scholars who’d spent generations of lives studying them had no idea where the Jump architects had gone, who they were, or how they’d managed to leave such enduring and perfect means of transport—along with instructions on how to use the transports that all the species in the star cluster had been able to figure out. That last fact alone made them as gods.

  But Treska didn’t have gods. She had the Union. She had her experiences. And the Jumpgates had let the Marauders in. From the edge of the system, all the way into the Capitol orbit, in one Jump. With no warning.

  She saw the stars behind the Jumpgate ripple as gravity warped inside the ring. The engines of the Needle’s Eye strained to maintain her position—this wasn’t her turn, so she kept her distance.

  The Jumpgates operated on an automated schedule, opening between systems in a pattern that relied on timing—if you missed your jump, it could be days before the Jumpgate cycled back through. But each Jumpgate connected to the orbits adjacent to it.

  The distance freighter disappeared into the ring, winking out of existence between one instant and the next. The next freighter lined up and drifted towards the gate. Tenraye was a medium-sized Jumpgate, capable of reaching several orbits sunward or outward. The smallest gates only Jumped one or two orbits in or out, acting as local spokes leading to larger Jumpgates, which in turn led to more populated destinations.

  The next ship vanished, and Treska’s HUD chimed to indicate her own impending Jump. The piloting couch responded to her body’s movements and she accelerated towards the gravity distortion that filled her field of view.

  Between one moment and the next, her control of the ship ceded to the gate. The Needle’s Eye entered Jumpspace, and time and space moved out of order.

  For some, Jumpspace was an amazing journey, not unlike other mind-altering activities, most of which were outlawed in the New Union. For others, it was a time of terror, requiring tranquilizers. Treska suffered mild nausea, which she attributed to the head injuries she’d sustained back in the Marauder attack, and hallucinations, which she could also attribute to the head injuries, but since she never told anyone about them, she couldn’t be sure.

  She compensated by pre-loading the necessary commands she’d need to re-enter normal space, and kept her visions to herself. They were the only secrets she dared or desired to keep from the Union.

  The hovercraft landed outside a shabby-looking farmhouse of traditional Tenrayan architecture, clinging to the side of the fertile foothills leading to the continent’s main mountain range. Clad once again in a micro-mesh shift, she left the transport, carrying the boots she refused to recycle. Tenrayans liked their curves, and the conical roof of the main domicile reminded Xenna of the awnings that shaded the circular pools in the Hathori Temple where she’d been trained as a priestess.

  “Inside. The others are waiting.” Ahveen began moving objects from what looked like a pile of worthless junk, until parts of the hovercraft began to fade from view.

  She left the Vultron to finish camouflaging the transport and entered the building. The main floor was dust-filled and empty, save for a few bits of broken furniture that had once been beautiful. That’s the story of Tenraye, isn’t it? The only decoration of note was the delicately-carved scrollwork around the arched doorway at the head of a staircase leading down. Someone had taken the time to clean the ornamentation, right down to the textures on the grape leaves.

  She descended the stairs. The modestly-sized landing held three separate doorways, each obscured by heavy fabrics. The rough weave only looked simple—the fine hairs on her arms stood on end, warning her away from touching them. “Disruptor netting. Very nice.”

  A photonic ripple traveled through the center of the curtains. They parted to reveal a thickly-built human with tawny brown skin. “Welc
ome, Priestess. You grace us with your presence.” He stood aside and held the curtain back, gesturing her inside.

  She catalogued his features and her memory supplied a name. “Lord Bran of House Samedi.” She bowed.

  He returned her bow, inhaling deeply as he rose. His pupils dilated and he stepped forward, his hands sliding around her waist. Through the thin mesh of her robe, the warm contact points of his fingers sent familiar sensations through her, igniting well-traveled paths in her mind and body. She turned her head and accepted his kiss.

  Long moments later, Ahveen cleared her throat from behind Xenna. “Apologies, friends. The local constabulary’s been alerted to the absence of their detention team.”

  Xenna sighed. “On to business, then.” She disentangled from the lord, who affixed a slender nasal filter to the bridge of his nose. She preceded him into the main room past the curtain. The lower floor opened up to a much larger domicile. A low-ceilinged main room held furniture that had been reclaimed and repaired. Sumptuous fabrics covered the seating, patched with care instead of reupholstered, because the bulk of the Union’s textile manufacturing had turned to utilitarian fabrics.

  The room was dominated by a conference table. A Treemian male stood at the head of the table, next to the main comm console. Besides him, Ahveen, and Xenna herself, the rest of the company were humans in various shades of tan.

  One by one, they fitted nasal filters, while Xenna shook her head. Whatever gets them going, she thought. They insisted on as many protocols and niceties as the most uptight of the priesthood ever had in the Temples. For all the good it did us. When the fire rained down, her goddess had not cared.

  Lord Bran joined the Treemian. “Our intel has confirmed the presence of the Huntress on the planet, and intercepted comms indicate she’s captured her prize. Ladies and gentlemen, the plan is in motion.”