by Rachel Aukes
He limped away from the table. As he passed Reyne, he said softly, “She’s in a mood today. Good luck.”
“I heard that,” she called out.
With a sly grin, Sixx scurried away to leave Reyne alone with Doc.
She patted the table. “Your turn, Captain.”
He winced as he pulled himself onto the slab.
“Where do you feel pain?” she asked.
“Everywhere.”
Her gaze narrowed.
So he added, “My chest hurts the most.”
With no further acknowledgement, she helped him lie back before moving to her control panel.
The overhead scanner lit the small room in its ambient glow. Beginning at his head, the bioscanner’s silent line of light progressed slowly toward his feet.
When the light finally shut off, Doc read the results on her tablet. “You got off easier than Sixx. Your chest hurts because you have three bruised ribs. You also have some tearing in your shoulder. A single injection and some sleep should have you recharged in no time.”
She pursed her lips. “You need to be careful. You’re twice Sixx’s age. Your body isn’t going to snap back after every new abuse you subject to it.”
“Trust me,” he said, sitting up. “It reminds me every minute of every day.”
Her voice softened. “How’s the arthritis?”
He didn’t respond.
She motioned to the man-sized booth in the corner. “You’ve got to start spending more time in the gravity chamber. Too many years in ships’ point-seven gravity factor has added decades to your bones and joints.”
His upper lip curled into a snarl at the booth, finding it hard to breathe as his mind painted an all-too-real picture of the cramped space inside.
Doc cocked her head. “I know it isn’t easy, but it’s important.”
“I’ll log an hour in it tomorrow.”
Her brows rose. “Promise?”
“No.”
She sighed. “Have you tried watching a movie in there to take your mind off your claustrophobia?”
“Doesn’t help. Nothing relaxes me in there.”
She placed a hand on his chest and pressed him back down on the table. “I know something that can help relax you,” she said in a sultry voice.
“Later,” he said, brushing her off. “I need rack time. Go find Sixx.”
Her lips thinned. “I thought I lost both of you today. I couldn’t bear it.”
Reyne’s gaze softened, and he allowed her to press him back onto the table. The woman used sex as a way to deal with stress. They’d never had an emotional relationship, but he also had no problem helping her out in that area. Everyone needed companionship on long space runs. And, that she was far too easy on the eyes didn’t hurt.
She straddled him, her pale skin against his dark skin. He knew he had no more chance of swaying Doc when it came to her sexual needs than Sixx had earlier in asking for painkillers.
Some time later, Reyne finally pushed off from the table. Doc began tidying up the med bay.
“Where’s my pill?” he asked.
“Your injuries don’t warrant a painkiller,” she replied as a matter of fact.
“Come on, I’m the captain. Doesn’t that warrant any special privileges?”
“All the more reason not to have drugs clouding your mind.”
“Oh, but it’s okay for Sixx?”
Doc shot him a wry look. “Do you really think Sixx’s decision-making abilities could get any worse?”
“Good point.”
She shooed him away. “Now, off with you. I’m starving and need some breakfast.”
Doc didn’t have to tell Reyne twice. He headed straight back to his bunk, collapsing onto the mattress. He felt himself swirl into sleep.
Then his viggin’ comm chimed.
He muttered out a long string of cusswords before answering. “What now?”
“Hello, grumpy,” Throttle replied. “You should take a nap.”
“Brilliant idea,” he gritted out.
“Except it’ll have to come later. Kason’s pinging you.”
He groaned. “I’ll be right there.”
He dragged himself up and made a detour through the commons to grab some food and drink. When he reached the bridge, he tossed Throttle a food bar and drink bag, and she caught both.
“How’s Boden coming along with repairs?” he asked as he tore into his own food.
“He needs a couple more hours. Then we’ll be good to go as long as we keep running on solar sails. I’ve plugged in our scalar plan to Ice Port. We should arrive in eighty-seven hours.” She yawned. “Oh, and Kason’s on channel Four.”
“Eighty-seven hours is cutting it close.”
“We’ll make it.”
He sat down and took a long drink before opening the comm channel. Unable to get a live video feed this deep in the fringe, Kason’s picture showed instead on the screen. Clean-cut and generally well-behaved, he was one of the few guys in the Collective that Reyne would trust to date Throttle.
“Tell me you’ve got the package,” Kason said without any sort of salutation.
“I’ve got the package. I’ll reach Ice Port on day one-twenty-six around time—” he looked to Throttle.
She flashed her fingers in a quick succession of movement.
“—twenty-six-forty-five common time,” he finished. “If we can drop it off at the stationhouse, all the better. That package puts us behind schedule on our mail delivery.”
Audio relays were delayed by a couple seconds per every ten light years or so. Kason’s response came faster than Reyne expected, meaning the Alluvian was in the fringe rather than back on his home world. “Genics Corp gave specific instructions. You are to hand deliver the package to Vym Patel. They won’t transmit the credits until you verify she’s personally signed for it.”
Reyne frowned. Vym was Ice Port’s stationmaster. The old woman’s vocal opinions against Collective companies were no secret. “Genics Corp must be paying her a hefty sum to get her involved.”
After a delay, Kason’s answer came. “No idea. Anyway, I need to sign off. I’ll be at Ice Port by the time you get there. Report in when you land.”
Reyne closed the channel, put his feet up, and looked out the view panel. He could see nothing but infinite space before them. The cosmic solitude was a stark difference from the star swarm they’d escaped barely two hours earlier.
This particular solar system had hundreds of large asteroids in orbit. Generations of using space as a dumping ground for satellites, stations, and other waste had led a few of the larger asteroids to suck up space junk into their destructive mass. As an asteroid accumulated junk, its path widened, shooting through anything unfortunate enough to be caught in it. The largest four swarms had even been given names. The particular one they’d escaped was called Hugo. By now, anything left of hauler M4029LW would be a part of Hugo’s gravitational pull, flying forever in an orbital path.
A loud beep broke his concentration. “What now?”
“That’s strange,” Throttle said. “We’re being hailed, but I didn’t pick up anyone on radar.”
Reyne’s feet dropped to the floor with a thud, and his hands flew over his console. “Stealth.”
“They sent a message.” Her voice bore a nervous tinge.
“Speakers,” he commanded.
“Hauler Playa-Seven-Five-Five-One-Bravo, this is the Collective Unified Forces warship Arcadia. You have been flagged for a standard dock check. You are hereby ordered to dock onto the Arcadia at port number Two. You have five minutes to comply. If you show any signs of noncompliance, you will be fired upon. Respond within sixty seconds of your confirmation of receipt. Convey ship logs and crew list with response.”
“Shit,” Reyne said. After taking a deep breath, he hit the transmit switch. “Arcadia, this is Playa-Seven-Five-Five-One-Bravo. Received instructions and will comply. We’ve been doing some maintenance and are running slow. It may t
ake us a bit longer to dock.”
“Hauler Playa-One-Bravo, you have five minutes to comply.”
Reyne glanced at Throttle. “You can always count on the CUF to be consistent,” he said.
“Yeah, consistently be assholes,” she muttered.
“Language,” he added absentmindedly before broadcasting an alert to the crew. “Red alert, guys. We’ve been invited to tea with our CUF friends. Check your bunks. Make sure you hide anything less than perfectly legal, because we’re about to be boarded.”
Chapter Three
Collective Cages
Collective Unified Forces ships stopped and searched fringe haulers all the time—sometimes out of boredom, sometimes after being tipped off that a particular hauler carried contraband, most of the time just to make life harder for colonists.
Throttle’s brows were furrowed in confusion. “Why do you think they used stealth on us?”
Reyne shook his head. “Don’t know, but I bet we’re about to find out.”
It was unheard of for CUF ships to burn the extra juice needed for stealth, using the advanced tech only when they needed to make sure their prey wouldn’t see them coming and run. In Reyne’s twenty years as a runner, he’d been dock checked every few months by a CUF patrol, but he’d always been careful. With a past like his, he had to be. He played by their rules, and every single time he’d left with his cargo intact, often with a frivolous citation or two as a memento.
In all that time, he’d never been tracked by a warship, let alone by a warship in stealth mode.
Whatever the reason for this stop, Reyne knew it didn’t bode well for him and his crew. His sore body was quickly forgotten while he watched in trepidation as Throttle brought the Gryphon alongside the massive, gray warship. He stared at the ship’s name—ARCADIA—emblazoned on its hull as the Gryphon glided to its docking bay.
“I see they’ve rolled out the welcome mat,” Throttle said, and he then noticed the opened doors a couple hundred meters down from their current position. The number 2 was painted in iridescent white near the opening.
“Slowing to point three. Setting thruster for sixty-degree turn,” Throttle voiced her maneuvers aloud, a habit she picked up at the age of eight. She effortlessly negotiated the docking procedures, and claw-like rilon mooring bars clamped onto the Gryphon with a metallic clang.
Reyne took a deep breath, suddenly feeling trapped much like that Myrad hauler had been just before being destroyed by the star swarm.
“Well, I guess we’re in their hands now,” she said. “At least they were gentler grabbing onto us this time. We still have a shimmy in the gear after the last dock check.”
“It’s on the fix list.”
A pressurized tube shot out from the dock wall and fastened over their port. The comm panel beeped.
“Hauler Playa-One-Bravo, we read green on docking sequence. Power down your ship immediately. The entire crew must proceed through the tube for decontamination and interviews. No weapons or hostility of any kind will be tolerated.”
Throttle unlocked her seat and wheeled back. “I suppose we shouldn’t keep our gracious hosts waiting,” she said with her usual dash of sarcasm.
“No, I suppose we shouldn’t,” he echoed.
He followed her down the narrow hallway. The rest of the crew stood waiting for them at the small port door. When Reyne approached, Sixx cranked open the door. He then took a step back and waved in an exaggerated motion. “After you, boss.”
Reyne chortled and entered the tube that was no more than four feet in diameter. He walked in a crouch through the tunnel, his bruised ribs crying out against the constrictive stance.
“Viggin’ CUF,” Boden grumbled as he crammed his muscular body into the tunnel.
“Careful. If they hear you, you’ll be issued a citation,” Reyne warned over his shoulder.
Throttle followed Boden into the confined docking tube that was too round and too narrow for her to ride her wheelchair. The sounds of her legs dragging behind her echoed through the confined space.
Reyne reached the other end and dropped down into the decontamination chamber. Boden landed heavily on his feet, turned around, and caught Throttle. Doc followed, with Sixx covering the rear.
As soon as Sixx was clear of the tube, a door snapped shut, sealing them in the small chamber.
“Decontamination commencing.”
Mist shot out from the walls, encapsulating them in a damp spray. Reyne didn’t mind this part, but he hated what came next. After several seconds of the spray soaking their skin, the wind shot out, nearly knocking him down. The wind—what was commonly called the rinse cycle—burned his eyes and etched his skin raw.
All CUF ships and space docks had decontamination chambers to prevent the spread of disease, and Reyne was convinced they cranked up the rinse cycle on anyone from the fringe just to be assholes.
When the fog cleared and Reyne could see again, he turned to his crew to see them all red-skinned and with tears streaming down their faces. “You all good?” he gritted out.
He received nods and rough affirmations.
Boden jostled Throttle, and she smacked his chest. “Damn it, you big lug. I’m not a viggin’ doll.”
“My eye itches,” he replied, sounding hopeless.
She grumbled something Reyne couldn’t make out.
Sixx grinned. “Oh, quit your moaning, Throttle. You know you like it.”
She flipped him off before sulking in Boden’s arms.
The entire wall shot up into the ceiling with a whoosh, and Reyne found himself face to face with a dozen armed dromadiers. Each soldier held a photon gun and had stun sticks strapped to his legs. They wore blue chimesuits, a nickname earned for the sounds that emitted from the copious number of alarms and warnings built into the smart suits.
“Form a line, facing us,” a dromadier ordered, consistent with the same protocols they’d experienced during every CUF dock check before. Without hesitation, Reyne and his crew did as they were instructed.
An officer emerged, followed by an assistant carrying a DNA scanner.
The pair stopped in front of Reyne. The officer’s skin had the bluish tint that all citizens who’d spent a lifetime on the silver-rich planet of Myr had. “I’m First Officer Laciam of the Arcadia, serving under Commandant Heid, and you’ve been stopped for a standard dock check.”
Reyne’s brows rose, not believing for an instant that there was anything “standard” about this dock check. Instead of saying what he really thought about the officer and their current situation, he said, “I’m Aramis Reyne, and this is my crew. We’re happy to be of service.”
The officer’s eyes narrowed as though he’d bit into something sour. “I know who you are, torrent. Now, bare your left forearms for identification. Do not make any sudden moves, or you will be arrested.”
Laciam’s assistant—a pale, scrawny fellow who didn’t look a day over seventeen—pressed a dark rectangular instrument against Reyne’s forearm. Reyne winced at the quick prick as the instrument drew a sample of his blood. The young man looked at the screen and announced, “Identity confirmed. Aramis Reyne, Playa colonist.”
Laciam didn’t acknowledge the results, as he’d become engrossed with Throttle. He cocked his head, as though he was looking at a three-eyed dog. “What’s wrong with you?”
“My legs don’t work,” she answered simply.
Laciam frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m paralyzed,” she said with a deadpan expression. “My legs don’t work.” She said her last statement slowly, as though speaking to a child.
He took an obvious step back, as though she were contagious. “I’ve heard about such things but have never seen one in real life. You know, if you were a citizen, your faults would’ve been repaired.”
Reyne chimed in. “Too bad colonists don’t have those kinds of luxuries.”
Laciam ignored him, still staring at Throttle. “You wouldn’t be bad looking—for a co
lonist, that is—if you weren’t broken.”
She clenched her fists but said nothing.
Reyne bit back the urge to rip out the officer’s throat. “I’m sure you’re busy, officer. What can we do to help you process us so we can get out of your hair?”
Laciam snapped around to face him. “You don’t speak until spoken to, got it? One more unsolicited word from you, you get to spend a week in the brig. You want that?”
“Not especially,” Reyne answered drily.
The CUF officer glared at Reyne for an endless moment before finally breaking eye contact and nodding to his assistant to resume the task at hand.
Boden had to jostle Throttle again to reveal his forearm to the assistant.
“Confirmed. Tren Boden. Alluvian non-citizen,” the assistant read from his monitor before moving onto Throttle. “Confirmed. Halit Herley. Terra colonist.”
Then came Doc. “Confirmed. Aila Chapei. Terra colonist.”
Finally, Sixx held out his arm. “Confirmed. Jeyde Sixx. Spate colonist.”
Laciam scrutinized Reyne and his crew. “It’s your lucky day. It seems you match up with your crew list.” Laciam motioned, and the dromadiers closed in around Reyne and his crew as though they’d try to make a run for it. Even if they wanted to—and Reyne certainly did—it wasn’t as though any of them could escape while deep in the bowels of a CUF warship.
“Follow me to your holding rooms for interviews,” Laciam ordered and took off ahead without waiting for a response.
“We know the routine,” Reyne said under his breath.
Laciam led them down a large hallway until they reached a line of doors along one wall. He punched keys on his wrist comm, and several doors opened.
“One per room. Get moving,” the officer commanded.
Reyne’s crew split into their cells. The dromadiers were none too patient as Boden carried Throttle into a room and set her down. They yanked him back and shoved him into a cell next to hers. “Lay off,” Boden snapped. “I’m going, I’m going.”
After his crew was in their individual cells, Reyne entered the last open room. Even though he had no control over what the CUF did to his people, he still felt responsible for them and would damn well do everything in his power to see that they were treated as well as colonists could expect to be treated.