by Joe Vasicek
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Sore,” she said, stretching out her legs and rubbing them down. She watched him out of the corner of his eye to gage his reaction, but his cyborg face was difficult to read.
“Can you walk?”
“I—I don’t know,” she said, more to see what he would do than because she didn’t think she could.
To her delight, he scooped her gently up and carried her in his arms through the airlock. She held on tightly with her face close to his, the scent of his heady musk filling her nostrils.
“Do not worry,” he told her as they walked down the dimly lit corridor. “You are safe now, Princess. I will leave you with Doctor Avanadze. She will tend to you.”
“Th-thank you.”
“My name is Roman Andrei Krikoryan. Our captain is Danica Nova. Your brother has sent us to bring you home.”
Not right away, I hope, she almost said aloud. Instead, she faked some tears and clung to the old cyborg mercenary with all the tenacity of a little girl. If this was what it felt like to be rescued, she almost wanted to be captured again.
* * * * *
The door to Danica’s quarters hissed open. “Ah, Roman,” she said, smiling warmly. “Please, come in.”
Roman stepped into the immaculately furnished room. Four authentic mahogany bookshelves stood off to his left, while a dark leather couch sat across from a pair of armchairs that were almost as old as the ship itself. A painting adorned the wall above the couch, showing an ancient tribal hovercraft speeding across the rocky wastes of Tajjur V.
To the homeworld, he thought as he installed himself in one of the armchairs. Surrounded by antiques from his country, he couldn’t help but feel a familiar pang of loss and regret.
“Would you like something to drink, Roman?”
“No, thank you,” he said. “I am well, Captain.”
“Suit yourself.”
She walked in carrying a mug of steaming hot coffee. From the rich, bittersweet aroma, it was without a doubt an authentic Tajji blend. Roman raised an eyebrow—he’d thought that the ship had run out of Tajji-grown coffee years ago. She must have been under a great deal of stress to break into her personal stores only now.
“I trust that Yuri has taken us away from the distress beacon?”
“Yes, Captain. Our next jump will be in one hour.”
“Good,” she said, nodding. “And the gunboat?”
“Scuttled, as ordered. We mirrored gunboat’s computer core and recovered some personal items first.”
“Such as?”
Roman shrugged. “Some knives, another flight suit, small picture-player with images of his family.”
“Make sure that he doesn’t know we have them.”
“Of course, Captain.”
“I’d also like to see that picture-player,” Danica added. “Does it have any images of his mother?”
“I do not know.”
“I don’t suppose it matters, but I’ve always wondered what happened to that girl. Sholpan—the universe must have a strange sense of humor to bring us her son.”
Roman nodded and patted the captain’s knee. She looked up at him and smiled—an old smile, but not unlike the one she’d had almost fifteen years ago, after their first mission against the Hameji. He still thought of the young boy whose sister they’d tried to rescue, though he’d long forgotten his name. Danica never forgot names—or faces, for that matter.
“What do you plan to do with Hameji prince?” Roman asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It depends who’s willing to pay more for him: the Federation or the Hameji.”
Roman grunted. “The Hameji will pay us in blood before they pay us in money.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. Do you think we should have just left him in the gunboat for the Hameji to find him?”
“Of course not. They would still come for us even if boy were safe.”
She nodded. “You’re right. The older I get, the more I second-guess myself.”
“But we do not second-guess you, Captain,” said Roman. “The men love you—you are like mother to them. Stern, unyielding mother, perhaps, but mother nonetheless.”
His words made her smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“As for Al-Najmi,” he added, “I learned something interesting. Her people were desert tribesman, not Imperials—same as Abu Kariym.”
“Abu Kariym. I wonder whatever happened to him?”
“If he did not find rejuvenation, no doubt he has passed away by now.”
“Perhaps,” said Danica, taking a sip of her coffee. She set her mug on a hand-woven coaster on the antique wooden table in front of them. “With the Federation defeat at Eyn-Gatta, it’s going to be a little tricky getting back.”
Roman drew in a deep breath. Danica always had a way of understating the severity of a situation when they were slogging through it. Perhaps it was a way to cope with the stress, but he knew her well enough to tell that she was worried—perhaps even terrified.
“Yuri is ready,” he said. “He is good pilot, even if he is stubborn.”
Danica nodded. “We’ll need Al-Najmi’s help with this, too. If the Hameji interdict us with jump beacons, we may need an avid hacker to give them … a surprise.”
“A surprise?”
“Just make sure she’s on our side. When the time comes, she’ll know what to do.”
He nodded and grunted. “Understood.”
“And the princess? Is she doing well?”
“I have not heard from Lieutenant Avanadze, but I assume that is good thing.”
“So do I.”
She rose wearily to her feet, retrieving the mug from the table. “In that case, I suppose I’ll be needed on the bridge shortly. Thank you for your time, Roman.”
“Captain,” said Roman. He snapped to his feet and gave her a brisk salute before walking out the door.
* * * * *
Abaqa stood up from his hard metal cot as the door to the brig slid open. In spite of the narrow cell they’d given him, with its heavy electrified bars and hole in the floor for a toilet, he would not let these planetborn break him down. If the princess could hold out as long as she did, he would prove that he had at least as much spirit as her.
The sound of boots against the hard metal floor met his ears, followed by the beeping of a keypad. The door to his cell swung open with a groan. The light from the corridor was too dark to see the face of the man who had come to see him, but Abaqa recognized him from the red glow of his left eye.
The man grunted a command, and a younger soldier walked in and cuffed Abaqa’s hands. He considered putting up a struggle, but decided that that would accomplish nothing besides the complete and utter forfeit of his dignity. Strength was all about the conservation of power, after all—those who fought unwinnable battles only demonstrated their own weakness.
The cyborg soldier led him out of the brig to a small, windowless room with a retractable metal table in the center and harsh fluorescent lights lining the ceiling. He took a seat on the far side, while his underling deposited Abaqa on a bench facing him. A moment later, the door hissed shut, leaving the two of them alone.
Abaqa drew himself up to his full height and calmly examined the man sitting across from him. For a planetborn, he was impressively large, with broad, muscular shoulders and wide, powerful hands. In the light, though, the entire left half of his body seemed to be made of metal. With his olive-green uniform on it was impossible to tell, but at the very least his left arm and the entire side of his face was prosthetic—and an intimidating prosthetic at that. As Abaqa stared into the laser-like light of that eye, he felt as if he were staring at a machine with a man sewn on.
“You are Prince Abaqa, son of Qasar,” said the man, his voice deep and gravelly. “Your mother is woman from Karduna system, known as Sholpan.”
“Yes,” said Abaqa, swallowing his surprise. Suddenly, the room felt a lot warmer.
“You t
ransmitted this information in distress signal,” the man continued. “Of course, since your gunboat is smashed to pieces, they will think you died in battle.”
“That’s not true,” said Abaqa, clenching his fists. “My brothers will come for me, planetborn. They know I’m alive.”
“Oh? And how?”
His cheeks reddened as he realized he’d said too much. Still, the old cyborg shrugged, as if he didn’t care.
“It matters little. Even if they make pursuit, we will evade them. We have evaded Hameji before.”
“I don’t believe you,” Abaqa muttered. “No one evades my brothers—certainly not a planetborn weakling like you.”
The old cyborg grinned—a grotesque expression, when only half of his face was made of flesh.
“Planetborn, eh? You use that word like insult. Would you like to know which planet we are from?” He tapped his metal fingers against the tabletop, filling the room with an annoying rasp.
“What does it matter?” Abaqa said with a sneer. “All planetborn are the same.”
“Not true. We are Tajji, most of us—our captain, myself, and all of my men. Do you know what we think of you Hameji? What you are to us?”
“Conquerors.”
“Barbarians. People without culture and without humanity, no better than beasts.”
Abaqa laughed. “That comes as no surprise. We slagged your world, didn’t we? My father should be there even now—he was one of the commanders who oversaw the bombardment.”
He watched for any trace of emotion, but the weathered old cyborg simply smiled and tilted his head at him, the way a parent smiles at a child.
“If that is true,” he said, “then there are men on this ship who would consider it honor to kill you.”
Abaqa puffed out his chest in defiance. “Then let them try.”
The old cyborg threw back his head and laughed, an unsettling sight considering how much of him was machine. “You remind me of your mother’s brother,” he said, slapping his good hand on the table. “That is exactly what he would say.”
“My—my uncle?” said Abaqa, frowning. “How do you know him?”
“Do not worry; it does not matter.”
“Yes it—” he began to protest, then sat back and folded his arms. “All right,” he said, “what do you want with me?”
“Let us be frank,” said the old cyborg, leaning forward with his hands clasped in front of him. “You do not wish to die, and we do not wish to kill you. However, there is nothing in this universe that does not have a price.”
“So you’re mercenaries, then?” said Abaqa. He spat on the floor to indicate his disgust.
“Exactly. And you, my friend, are worth very, very much.”
“If you want me to beg to my brothers to ransom me, I won’t do it,” he said. I’ve already suffered enough humiliation as it is.
“Ah, but have you heard of Federation methods of interrogation? I hear they use direct neural interface to extract information.”
“That’s impossible,” said Abaqa, tensing a little.
The cyborg smiled and turned his head, revealing a large socket at the base of his skull.
“It is not.”
Abaqa swallowed, struggling to keep his composure. Fortunately, the old cyborg rose to his feet and keyed a button on the wall. The door hissed open, and a soldier entered to escort him back to his cell.
“We will continue discussion later,” said the old cyborg. “Until next time, consider your options carefully.”
Abaqa sneered as the soldier led him out, but inwardly, he couldn’t stop shuddering.
* * * * *
“How do you feel, Master Sergeant?”
The sound of the old man’s laughter made Hikaru sit up. She slipped her bare feet over the edge of her bed and tip-toed to the divider, peeking around the corner. The cyborg soldier who had rescued her sat on the examining table, taking up the entire length with his massive, shirtless body. Doctor Avanadze opened his patient’s gown at the front to check his vital signs with her instruments.
“Every time, you ask me this question,” he said. “And every time, my answer does not change.”
“You’re not just a machine, Sergeant. You’re a human being, and my patient.”
“Perhaps. But I feel nothing, doctor. I am machine.”
“Nothing?” Hikaru blurted, covering her mouth the instant she said it. Both the doctor and Roman turned to look at her, making her cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“You need your rest, Princess,” said the doctor, with all the insistence of an annoying nanny. “Please, if you—”
“I feel fine,” she blurted, stepping out into the examining room. “Besides, I wanted to talk with Roman.”
“Oh you do, do you?” said Roman with a grin. “What do you wish to say?”
“Well, uh,” she began, finding herself at a loss for words. “I wanted to thank you for saving me, of course.”
“The pleasure was mine. Anything else?”
Suddenly, she felt like a little girl on her way to meet her betrothed for the first time. Hot blood rushed to her cheeks, and she held her hands behind her back with her toes turned inward.
As she struggled to think of something, the doctor returned to her patient and continued checking him. Roman took it in stride, as if it were perfectly normal for a woman to poke and prod him.
“What do you mean, you feel nothing?”
Doctor Avanadze stopped and eyed her for a second, but Roman didn’t seem to mind. “I mean exactly that,” he said. “My body is more machine than muscle. I have lived for so long, it is only like shell to me—but cyborgs never die. Their humanity fades, until they become like me.”
“That’s not true,” said Hikaru, stepping closer. “You’re still human—I know you are.”
He chuckled and turned to the doctor. “Lieutenant Avanadze, I see you have new protegée.”
“The princess is just my patient, nothing more.”
“Why do you feel so empty?” asked Hikaru, looking Roman in the eye. “You’ve still got plenty of spirit. Why would a few prosthetics get you down?”
His good eye narrowed as he returned her gaze. He fitted the eye patch over the prosthetic side of his face before rising to his feet and buttoning up his shirt.
“You are young girl,” he said. “Your life still lies in your future. There are many things you would not understand.”
“But I want to,” she said, following him to the door. “I want to underst—hey!”
He walked out of the medical bay, all but ignoring her.
“I’m sorry,” said Doctor Avanadze, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Sergeant Krikoryan is a little … difficult sometimes.”
“Has he been a soldier for long?”
“Longer than you or I have been alive. Here, let me check you over.”
Longer than I’ve been alive, Hikaru thought as she climbed onto the examining table. That means he’s seen more of the universe than anyone on this ship. Certainly more than she’d ever see. Her adventure would be over once the soldiers returned her to the palace, but until then, anything could happen. She’d have to see that it would.
Chapter 10
“You betrayed us,” said Katsuichi, his hands trembling with barely suppressed rage. “Victory was within our grasp, and you abandoned us like cowards.”
“Cowards?” said the colonel, smiling in a way that only aggravated him further. “With all due respect, Your Highness, some of us are old enough to know the difference between cowardice and wisdom.”
Kenta hissed between his teeth to show his displeasure. For his part, Katsuichi took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. The lights in the empty observation deck suddenly seemed very bright, the recycled air a bit too stuffy. He gazed out the wide observation windows to hide his rage, staring out at the milky band of stars that made up the galactic disk. New Vela shone like a sapphire in the midst of it, only a few light years away—and directly in the line of the
Hameji advance.
“Why did you leave the battlefield?”
“My allegiance is to my men,” said Colonel Webb, clasping his hands comfortably behind his back with an air of authority. “When I determined that the battle had reached a point where it could not be won, I withdrew.”
“Without coordinating with us?” said Kenta, his eyes burning with rage. “You were not trying to save your men—you were abandoning us in the most dishonorable way possible.”
“Don’t speak to me of honor,” said the colonel, lowering his voice. “Do you think that honor matters to the Hameji? How do you expect to defeat them by clinging to your archaic traditions? If you want to learn to defeat an enemy, you need to be willing to take extreme measures that your enemy would consider unthinkable.”
Kenta opened his mouth to argue back, but Katsuichi silenced him with a wave of his hand. He turned and looked the colonel in the eye, searching for some hint of an ulterior motive, but the cunning man was all but unreadable.
“Why didn’t you coordinate your withdrawal with us?” he asked.
Colonel Webb gave him a sly smile. “What makes you assume I would want to coordinate?”
The question hung in the air like a sword ready to fall. Katsuichi opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel preempted him. “The Federation is very fragmented right now,” he said, turning to leave. “There is a power vacuum at the highest levels of command, and each battle fleet is essentially an independent unit. Dishonorable men thrive in such environments, Your Highness.”
With that, he palmed the door and stepped through, leaving Katsuichi and Kenta staring after him in disbelief.
“Impossible,” said Kenta, breaking the silence first. “I warned you, Your Highness—this man is no better than a criminal.”
“You are right, Kenta—of course, you’re right. But if we do not fight alongside him, the Hameji will come through the rift and destroy us.”