When a normal man punched another man due to a difference of opinion, someone ended up with a bloody nose or a bruised cheek. When a cyborg punched another man, a skull broke into a thousand pieces and someone ended up dead.
Cortez shook his head, trying to push away all the newspaper headlines he’d read over the years as one former colleague after another got in trouble for losing his temper and hurting—or killing—civilians. Sometimes, it had been nothing more than an accident. On occasion, the courts were sympathetic and didn’t demand the death penalty, but they always ruled that people who couldn’t control their actions in civil society had to be locked away where they couldn’t hurt others again. Such as in remote asteroid prisons….
Two guards paced outside the door to the medical facility where the lethal injections were given. They were arguing over their wristcomps and asking for status reports.
One heard Cortez and his team coming and turned, lifting a pistol. But the man wasn’t fast enough. Cortez and Pip fired first, using non-lethal stunners this time. Since these men weren’t armored, that was sufficient. The stun bolts took them in the chest, and they pitched to the floor.
Cortez ran for the door and found it locked. He looked at the control panel, doubting the palm lock would open for him. Instead of trying, he gripped the door with both hands, set his feet, and pulled, wrenching it open with the power of his shoulders.
He leaped inside, his weapons in hand again.
A startled man in a blue prison smock threw up his arms, a needle gun dropping from his hands and clanking to the floor.
Cortez growled, half tempted to shoot him even though he was surrendering. A thick liquid filled the ampule in the needle gun, a bead of it leaking out from the tip. Cortez had no doubt it was a lethal substance.
“Holy shit,” came a voice from one of three metal tables. The speaker’s arms and legs were pinned down by massively thick chains, the steel as enhanced as the muscles of the man’s bare torso. His feet were also bare. Horrifically bright orange trousers covered his legs and groin—some small dignity given to the prisoners? Two other men on the slabs wore the same attire. “Professor Cortez, I never dreamed you’d arrive to read me poetry before I died.”
“I’m wounded, Sergeant Jerick,” Cortez said, waving the rest of his men in to make sure there weren’t any more enemies hiding. “I know it’s been a while, but I thought I would have starred in at least some of your dreams.”
“I know you wish you did, sir.” Jerick grinned. His face was haggard, but a hint of his old feisty spirit glinted in his blue eyes.
Cortez was relieved to see that. He hadn’t been sure what he would find here, but he’d imagined emaciated men with all their ribs jutting out. Jerick still looked fit, if leaner than before, and Cortez thought most of the scars on his chest had been received during the war, before he’d been locked up. He had no idea what kind of mental torture Jerick had undergone in the two and a half years he’d been here, but Cortez liked to think that his men, after enduring the privations of war, could handle anything.
Still, he knew being in a place like this could be worse than death for some. And then, there was death itself. He eyed the needle on the floor and walked over to smash it under his boot.
The man who’d intended to handle the injection flinched and skittered back to the wall.
“Watch the door, Pip,” Cortez said, turning to consider the chains securing Jerick. “Everyone else, free these men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cortez didn’t see a keyhole for Jerick’s shackles. He lowered his weapons on their straps and gripped the metal with both hands to see if he could pull the chains apart. Though he’d already decided the steel was enhanced, he had a lot more leverage from this angle than a prisoner would. He grunted in satisfaction as the metal gave under his grip.
Jerick watched him, a familiar smirk flirting with his lips. “Good to see you haven’t let yourself go, sir. I was concerned when you came in wearing that jacket with the elbow pads.”
“This is my Clark Kent attire.” When the metal snapped, Cortez moved on to the other ankle shackle.
“Your what, sir?” Pip asked from the doorway, the alarm continuing to wail in the corridor.
“Clark Kent, the innocuous alter ego for Superman. I refer to the latter comic hero, of course, not the villain modeled on Nietzsche’s Übermensch. Though I confess Nietzsche has been on my mind of late.” Cortez snapped another shackle.
Jerick snorted. “I see you haven’t changed much, sir. Do you have some poems ready to quote as we go into battle?”
“I’m hoping the battle is done and that we can use reason and logic to get what we want.”
“You’re the history expert—when has that ever worked when dealing with human beings?”
“Rarely,” Cortez said softly, meeting Jerick’s eyes as he came up to his wrist to work on that shackle.
For a second, before Jerick covered the expression with a smirk, Cortez glimpsed his true emotions. The fear of impending death, the loneliness of meeting his end here, and also the relief that someone had come for him. A hint of moisture gleamed in his eyes, something that his bravado and snark couldn’t hide.
Cortez looked down at the shackle, a lump of emotion forming in his throat. He should have come earlier. When he looked back at the last two years, the countless times he’d written politicians and even stood before the Colonial Congress to argue that the cyborgs who’d been imprisoned for accidental damage or deaths should be given another chance, or be allowed to go somewhere they could be free but wouldn’t have to worry about hurting others… It had all been in vain. He wouldn’t say that everyone’s ears had been deaf ears, but they had been the ears of those who couldn’t understand, who didn’t know what it was like to be a massive square peg in a society of small round holes.
“You’re taking a long time with that one,” Jerick observed. “Are my orange pants distracting you?”
“They are blinding.” Cortez snapped the shackle.
“You can cut them off if you want. Then maybe I’d star in your dreams.”
Cortez snorted softly and moved around the table to the last shackle, hoping his old sergeant didn’t notice the slight reddening of his cheeks.
He couldn’t deny that he’d had sexual thoughts from time to time when they’d all been out in the far reaches, defending the borders from the Hrorak, with no women along on their ships, no contact with home for months at a time. As a teen growing up in a liberal family and a liberal community, he’d never batted an eye at homosexuality or bisexuality, but he’d also never been particularly drawn that way. He’d always drifted toward women, finding their warmth and support to be as appealing as the curves of their bodies, and he’d also thought often of having a family. But he’d struggled to find someone to settle down with, being too obsessed with the fight for other cyborgs, the fight to get his people out of prison. And now… now, there was little hope of having a family or of any return to normalcy. With his actions here today, he had proclaimed himself no longer a hero, but a criminal. Whether there was blood shed here in the prison or not, the fleet would likely shoot him if they caught up with him.
As soon as the last shackle snapped, Jerick jumped off the cold metal table. He staggered, gripping the edge for support. Cortez offered a hand and wondered what drugs they had pumped into him to get him on that table.
“I’m all right,” Jerick whispered, his voice thick. He looked down at Cortez’s hand on his forearm but didn’t shake off the grip.
One of Cortez’s people had freed the second imprisoned cyborg, someone he knew by name only—Sanchez. The man had a long unkempt beard that made him look like a wild animal, and there was a hint of wildness in his eyes too. He had been imprisoned for multiple murders, and Cortez wasn’t certain if all of them had been accidental. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake by freeing the cyborg, but he couldn’t imagine leaving him shackled here and walking off with only Jerick.
&nbs
p; Jerick himself went to the third cyborg to break him free, giving him a pat on the shoulder before starting in on the chains. Cortez, not familiar with that man, found the gesture encouraging, vouching of a sort.
“Is that Captain Cortez?” the man whispered.
“Yeah, he’s wearing his professor costume, like Clark Somebody from a book. But underneath the tweed, he’s a master strategist, and he’s going to get us out of this hell.”
“Clark Kent,” Cortez said, because it was easier to respond to that than to the rest. He wasn’t a master of anything. He’d just gotten lucky more often than most during the war. He’d had a creative mind rather than a military one, something that had seemed to flummox the logical and analytical Hrorak. “I can’t believe you haven’t read Superman, Jerick.”
“You know I never liked books.”
“They’re comic books. Practically all pictures.”
“Pictures with words all over them? Not interested.” Jerick winked, freeing his friend.
Cortez merely shook his head. He’d worked with Jerick for more than five years on the Black Star. He knew the sergeant was smarter than he let on, even if he often pretended he was just interested in sex and sports.
“What do we do with Needle Boy, Captain?” Jerick asked, his gaze chancing upon the man who’d been about to lethally inject him and the others.
The would-be executioner was trying very hard to turn himself into wallpaper, and at this question, he threw an alarmed look at Cortez.
Jerick stalked toward the man, his fingers balling into a fist, a frosty glower stamping his face. The faint scars on his forearm, reminders that implants had been inserted there years ago, tightened as he flexed his muscles.
Not sure what his old sergeant had in mind, Cortez shifted to block him, lifting a hand to his chest. He could understand it if Jerick wanted revenge on someone who had hurt him—and would have killed him—but he couldn’t condone it, even if he hoped fate would one day make the prison executioner regret that he’d chosen this job.
“We’ll tie him up,” Cortez said. “I’m collecting hostages.”
At first, Jerick didn’t respond. He had let Cortez stop him, but he glared down at the hand on his chest, his expression turning belligerent, almost challenging.
They had sparred together in the ship’s gym long ago, and Cortez knew Jerick could best him in a fight. They’d even come to blows a few times in the past, during heated moments, and he well remembered the sergeant pinning him once, but Jerick had always backed down in the end, always respected the chain of command.
But neither of them was in the fleet anymore. Everyone on the incursion team had been giving Cortez “yes, sirs,” out of respect for the past, or because it had simply been habit, but he had no right to those sirs. He was a civilian now. And Jerick was too.
“Hostages?” Finally, Jerick loosened his fists and backed up. “For negotiations?”
“For negotiations.”
“What’re we negotiating for? Transportation off this rock?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“You know that wherever we go in Colonial Space, they’ll hunt us down and find us, right? Some of us…” Jerick looked at the two other men in orange pants, then down at his own hands. “Some of us committed crimes that they won’t forget. They won’t forgive.”
Cortez gripped his shoulder. “I didn’t come without a plan.”
“Oh, I expected that, sir. It’s just that I don’t always like your plans.”
“They always got our people out alive, didn’t they?”
“Not always with their sanity intact.”
“Sanity is only that which is within the frame of reference of conventional thought.”
“Are you quoting some old dead guy, sir?”
“Indeed I am.” Cortez tilted his head toward the corridor. “Let’s round up our hostages. It’s time to contact Fleet Headquarters.”
3
Skylar eased her locker door open, squinting at the light in the shuttle, and peered up and down the corridor before stepping out.
She half expected one of the burly cyborg guards to spot her, shove her back in, and slam the door shut again. But she hadn’t been quiet about rattling around, finding a plas-torch in an emergency kit in the bottom, and burning through the lock. Especially when she had also burned through her skin. Surely, someone would have checked on the noises coming from the locker earlier if anyone remained inside the shuttle.
Fortunately, her logic appeared apt. She didn’t spot anyone inside. The cockpit was powered down and the lights dimmed, though it was still bright enough for her to make out the smashed communications panel.
Skylar gaped at the warped metal. A normal human being would have needed a sledgehammer to do that kind of damage. Cortez had simply slammed down a fist.
She’d known he was a cyborg, of course, and understood what that entailed, all the surgeries and implantations he’d undergone to give him that great strength, but she’d never seen one in action before. She’d been far from the front lines during the war, and she’d only seen the Hrorak on the network casts. If she hadn’t traveled in person to the eleventh colony and seen the wreckage that was all that remained of the three major cities there, the war would have been largely academic for her.
Thumps came from a nearby locker. Skylar stepped over the spacesuits the cyborgs had dumped on the deck to make room for her and Keiko. She turned the handle, the lock unfastening automatically, and snorted at how much easier it was to open the door from the outside.
Keiko burst out, her fists raised and her face flushed red.
Skylar stepped back, lifting her own hands. The pilot looked like she wanted to smash someone in the face and didn’t care much who it was.
“Where are they?” Keiko demanded. Her cap had come off somewhere, and her black ponytail whipped about as she snapped her head left and right to check the shuttle.
“In the asteroid somewhere.” Skylar lifted a shoulder. “They neglected to tell me their plans.”
The hatch in the side of the shuttle stood open, the bay outside pressurized and oxygenated. A distant alarm wailed. It seemed the prison staff knew that unfriendly company had arrived. Skylar had no idea if that small strike team could take over the facility. Was that even their intent? Or were they breaking out friends?
Even though she had never met Professor Cortez before that shuttle ride, the fact that he was a part of this—no, he was leading it—floored her. He was a darling of the news reporters. He’d been a great hero during the war, one of the fleet’s ship captains who’d had tremendous success against the Hrorak. What could have prompted this madness?
“How’d you get out?” Keiko lowered her fists, glancing at the other open locker door. It hung from a hinge. “They shoved you in before they shoved me in.”
“I used science.” Skylar smiled and wriggled her eyebrows.
“Really?”
“Nah, my locker came with an emergency kit with a plas-torch inside.”
“Handy. Mine came with two canteens and a stale half-eaten energy bar.”
“It’s important to stay fed and hydrated while being held prisoner.”
Keiko stalked toward the console and sat in the pilot’s chair. “They probably expect us and the shuttle to be here when they get back. I plan to disappoint them.”
“That sounds reasonable.” Skylar slid into the co-pilot’s chair. She didn’t know a thing about flying spaceships, but the seat offered a good view once Keiko hit the power button and the big front screen came on. “I didn’t particularly want to stay here for six months anyway.”
“What made you volunteer for it?”
“I didn’t volunteer so much as I was pressured.”
Not that it had truly mattered if she stayed on Earth for the rest of the year. It wasn’t as if there was anyone left at home for her. Between Damian leaving the year before and her sister dying, there hadn’t been many people she’d chatted with lately asid
e from colleagues and network gaming friends she’d never met in person.
“Bet that’s how everybody ends up out here,” Keiko muttered without going into how she’d gotten this assignment. Of course, she’d merely been dropping cargo and people off, not staying for months. Keiko glanced at her bare wrist. “They took my wristcomp, the bastards.”
“Mine, too, not that there are any satellites out here. It’s not like we could have checked on the health of Earth’s stock indices.”
“Well, there’s a disappointment.” Keiko leaned forward, peering through the view screen at the empty shuttle bay. “Huh.”
“What?”
“I’m surprised he didn’t leave one of his men out there to stand guard. He must not have thought we’d get out.”
Skylar was relieved nobody was watching them, but it did seem an obvious error, especially considering the man was reputed to be a great military strategist. Unless he didn’t care about them or the shuttle. Maybe he planned to get out of the prison some other way, and it didn’t matter to him if they escaped. Or maybe he’d assumed he would need all of his men to take over the prison.
A thunk-hiss sounded as the hatch shut.
Keiko reached for the comm, then grunted and waved her hand, acknowledging that it was broken. Cortez’s fist had done an amazing amount of damage with that single, swift blow.
“We’ll head for the forcefield, hope it senses us and lowers automatically,” Keiko said, tapping buttons.
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Then we’ll have a problem.” Keiko frowned, tapping a couple of buttons that she’d already tapped. That part of the control panel remained dark. “Correction, we already have a problem.”
“Something’s not working?”
Unchained_ A science fiction romance adventure Page 3