allies and enemies 02 - rogues

by Amy J. Murphy

  Would it kill the man to use the gym? Might do a world of good for those skinny bones of his.

  “The vessel is a Eugenes stryker class. This array data is from eight days ago.”

  “So? Someone lost an old stryker.” She frowned. The location was a nest for marauders that preyed on smaller ships stupid enough to traverse the area. It was a comfortable distance away, which made it none of their business. “Bad neighborhood too. They’ll find it up on cinderblocks in the morning.”

  Her XO didn’t even bother to ask for an explanation of her joke. He was a Martian kid and would probably never know what it was like to ride in an automobile. A shame.

  “Major, this borders the same location where we found the prisoner three weeks ago.”

  “That creep?” She felt a visceral urge to dismiss anything associated with Maynard, (which was a stupid name, by the way). And not just because he was an alien hostile. The Eugenes may look Human, but there was something expressly alien about him. To the point where it made her skin crawl.

  Wren had been spending way too much time with their houseguest.

  She powered down the treadmill and straddled the belt as it slowed down. Grabbing the tablet from him, she tapped through the pages. Another drawback to commanding a station filled with geeks. No one talked plain damn English. Not even her own XO, who walked the line between command and research. Everything had equations, charts.

  “Intel says this location isn’t settled,” she said, thrusting the tablet back at him. “Just pirate activity. There’s been no sign of Regime or Fleet presence in this region. As I understand it, they’re incapable of travel here and consider this whole belt off limits.”

  Roughbook’s location was a good blind. None of the natives that could travel out here did. It was likely they still believed Sceeloid occupied it.

  There’d only been the incident two years ago with the Agamemnon, a deep-sleep cargo with personnel and provisions destined for Roughbook. They’d found the Aggie adrift, and the Human cargo—six eggheads—were missing, cryo coffins and all.

  Snowden stepped off the treadmill. “That’s two vessels in less than a month. First a Eugenes lifeboat and now one of their assault vessels. Do we have a problem?”

  A small craft like a stryker needed support or a base of operations. It was highly unlikely the ship was on its own.

  “Indeterminate,” Wren said. “The prisoner claims to not know much about the region. He’s willing to provide a scan code frequency for us to track the targets like this. But he wants certain assurances.”

  “Assurances. What are you? His lawyer?” Snowden balled the towel up and flung it into the recycle bin. Wren flinched at the sudden motion. “The fact that he’s still sucking in my air and eating my food is amazing.”

  She moved across the cavernous room. Wren followed doggedly. Spread out, the equipment and furniture seemed child-sized in the massive space. Roughbook used only about twenty percent of the tunnels and rooms left behind by the previous inhabitants, Sceeloid. The nasty scaled albino creatures had engineered the installation in directions that would make sense only to them. None of them were left around to offer explanation; the viral weapon had been very efficient in that regard.

  “He’s willing to offer full cooperation.” Wren actually sounded desperate.

  “What’s the catch?”

  Wren chewed his lip. The guy would make a rotten poker player. “He wants to be present on any away missions to investigate. He’ll be of use if we do capture any more targets.”

  Snowden turned, fixing him with a stare. He had to be kidding, right?

  “He’s a prisoner of war, not a foreign exchange student. He stays put. His people declared war on us and ripped apart two colony ships.”

  At least he had the common sense to look sheepish.

  Of course, Miles didn’t get it. He was probably busy getting beat up by grade school bullies on one of the Martian colonies at the time. The Sterling and the Namaste had been nearly thirty years ago. The Eugenes may have forgotten about Humans, but the UEC sure as hell hadn’t forgotten about the Eugenes.

  “Break it down for me,” she said.

  “Worst case scenario, there is a Eugenes insertion of military power into this area and we miss our chance at an early warning. Best case scenario, we capture one of their assault vessels for study.”

  She grabbed a fresh towel from the dispenser and started walking toward the private showers. Wren actually looked as if he’d follow her inside, tablet and all.

  Snowden turned. He pulled up short, tablet clutched to his scrawny chest.

  Checking out Wren’s site was not outside their mission parameters, especially if there was a potential threat. Any reports she transmitted back to Vesta were likely to be buried under more pressing issues. Vesta’s last trans had warned that resupply would be delayed by six months as the corp-owned colonies squeezed an undersized government for power. Roughbook had been shuffled to the bottom of the deck.

  “Okay. You get one team. Bring the marines.” Snowden sighed. “And that creepy asshole stays in the brig.”

  She felt a wild urge to squash the eagerness that rolled off him. “Miles, you better lock your shit down. You can look for the vessel, but keep a low profile. I mean it.”

  PART IV

  20

  They took Korbyn first. Even as the hatchway from the pilot’s den smashed open, he stood, tensed, his arms still bound at his back. He did not look at Erelah. There were no smarmy comments. He stared down at the deck, devoid of swagger, as they dragged him down the cargo ramp.

  It took everything in her power not to panic when Ott came for her. He stood over her, his face unreadable under the thick brush of his beard. Then he scooped her up as if she were a small child. Each of his heavy steps drove his wide shoulder into her stomach, forcing her breath into shallow gulps.

  Beneath her, the deck changed from speckled rust to a coated matting of another floor. Straining her neck, she glimpsed a cavernous hangar, like the types found on a citadel class vessel.

  No sign of Korbyn. What she did see drove back the panic. A second larger vessel, corvette sized. The rear cargo hatch was open to reveal the proud silver arc of the Jocosta caught in layers of cargo netting and cables, like a captured bird.

  An undeniable certainty swelled in her: I’ll never see her again.

  As Ott marched on, she retreated inside, a trick from the murky blur of her time as Tristic’s captive. This was not full surrender. That would not serve. She would be ready. She would watch and listen and—

  The new room echoed with the voices of many. Zealous, jubilant.

  Jostling of bodies. Hands thumping Ott’s back, her buttocks, in some type of raucous salute. There was music, off-key twanging and heavy drumming, partially drowned out by the din.

  A chant rose from one corner of the room, soon swelling through the crowd of unwashed bodies.

  “Ix! Ix!”

  The shoulder beneath her shifted away. Erelah slid down the immense arm, barely catching herself on hands and knees. She lurched up, off balance but ready to run. Ott’s monstrous hand grabbed her by the collar and she slammed to the deck. There was a smattering of chuckles. Cautiously she climbed to her knees, whipping hair from her face.

  “None ’a that, little hack.” He clamped down on her shoulder, pressing.

  Although she felt the very distant tremble of engines, the floor beneath her was not simple deck plating, but laid out in a tiled mosaic of mimicstone and copper.

  Visible through gaps in the press of bodies were walls inlaid with jade-spiral wood. It glinted with a tired iridescence and stretched up to moody shadows. Amber sconces reflected off carvings set in the walls. Clinging to it all was the steady work of decay. This was no ordinary salvaged vessel, but one of the lux carriers. More than likely it had once been a prized asset of a Kindred. Now relegated to a pirate’s den.

  The rest of her view was restricted to the press of bodies around her: a mo
tley mix of scavenged uniforms and grungy shipsuits. She saw the familiar weathered dark-red duster only a few feet away. Broad shoulders. Shaven head. Korbyn. It brought a tiny flutter of relief. He’d been forced to kneel as well.

  A Zenti stood before her, his back turned as he strained to see above the heads and shoulders of the congregation. That was when she spotted the pulse gun strapped to his thigh in an ill-fitting holster. The baleful red glow of the charge light was like a beacon. Hungrily, the Tyron-voice rose up.

  A twenty metz caliber, a phase six style judging by the design of the grip. Old. Three minute charge capacity if the charge indicator’s accurate.

  Her cuffed hands twitched in that direction. The impulse to have it was undeniable.

  Ott’s hand clenched her shoulder. She gasped in pain. The giant leaned down over her. “Be still. You be seein’ the boss soon enough. Play nice now.”

  The chant died out into an echo in the vast room.

  A new layer folded over her fear.

  I nearly lost control. What else could Tyron—or the other lives—make me do before I noticed?

  Suddenly the press of bodies began to part. There was a commotion in the outer edges of the crowd, louder voices raised in excited chatter. Someone had arrived.

  The chant took up again with more ferocity. “Ix! Ix! Ix!”

  The Zenti to her left stepped away, pulse gun forever out of reach now. She felt an alien pang. The space on that side cleared and she met Korbyn’s direct gaze. His eyes were cold. As if he were a stranger eying up an impedance, and had not spent the past few hours with her in communal dread. The cold surety of his gaze made her wonder if that had all been an act as well.

  Have I been taken in? Is my truce with him a mistake?

  It would be so much easier if the Sight could actually sense him. Instead, there was just a Korbyn-shaped hole, a flatness where his energies should be.

  “You call for me, brothers?” a thick voice called out, perfectly timed to the lull in chanting and calls. “You bring me gifts, I hear!”

  A new chorus of shouts and eager laughter greeted this.

  The excitement of the crowd drew closer. The crowd parted to reveal the new center of attention.

  This could only be one person: Lucien Ix.

  He was a Eugenes male of average height, nearing middle age with the start of a paunch. Other than being clad in a finely cut coat of synthskin and firesilk, he seemed completely unremarkable. Everything about the man suggested this attention was expected, if not demanded. Under the thinning crown of mousy hair, his dark eyes flitted over Erelah in rapid appraisal. She shrank down, folding her shoulders and tucking her chin.

  Don’t get noticed, Korbyn had instructed.

  A difficult thing to do when you were being presented as a type of prisoner-tribute.

  The man dismissed her and his attention swiveled to Korbyn. Ix strode up to him, making the most of their differences in height. Erelah estimated that Ix would probably be half a head shorter on the best of days.

  The voices of the group lulled into an anticipatory mutter. Their faces were eager.

  “Brother Korbyn, welcome home.” Ix‘s tone seemed jovial, condescending, like a grand patron welcoming a guest of diminished means. “We have been without your company for too long.”

  A smattering of chuckles.

  This was all for show. This man feeds on the attention.

  “I have such…plans for you, brother.”

  The crowd parted once more. This time moving with uneasy reverence to reveal a new arrival. Swathed in flowing gossamer clothes, the woman moved with a calculated feline grace. Stacks of jeweled bracelets clanked and jingled on her arms. A subtle sneer moved over her generous mouth, marring otherwise beautiful features. The woman’s cold maroon gaze appraised her.

  Binait. Like Asher.

  The sneer changed into an icy smile as she looked at Korbyn next. Behind that was unmistakable hatred.

  Korbyn had never mentioned this woman. Plainly, she knew him.

  For all of her pleasing appearance and soft looks, this Binait was far more dangerous than Ix. It clung to her like a fragrance.

  Why would Asher not have mentioned her?

  The woman noticed her stare. Erelah ducked her head.

  Don’t get noticed. Don’t get noticed.

  The Binait wound a hand through the crook of Ix’s elbow and leaned against him to whisper. Her other hand pressed against his chest.

  Ix regarded Erelah with a new interest. “Tell me. Who is your enchanting friend, Mr. Korbyn?”

  “Just a crewie,” Korbyn grunted. “Bad one, at that.”

  “Truly?” Ix raised his eyebrows.

  “Says she’s a velo hack. Of’n Delphix,” Ott volunteered, yanking down the collar of Erelah’s shipsuit. She strained to avoid his touch. “She’s inked and all.”

  Ix leaned down to inspect her Kindred mark, his hands folded behind his back as if he feared the risk of touching her.

  “An engineer,” the Binait teetered in a voice like honeyed silk. Her tone suggested she was unconvinced. “How quaint.”

  “Found her hidin’,” Ott added. “And Korbyn givin’ chase.”

  Ix laughed. “Interesting indeed.”

  He tsked at Asher. “Do you think me foolish? She wears Fleet colors. And you possess that magnificent stryker bearing Fleet markings as well. How curious these details did not make it into Mr. Spivey’s report. Now. What could Fleet be doing all the way out here, keeping the company of a Guild spy? A new partnership perhaps?”

  Discordant rumbles came from the crowd.

  “That’s right, brothers,” Ix announced. “Korbyn is a spy, sent by Ironvale!”

  Angry shouts and mutters rose in a wave.

  “Tell me your name, girl.”

  Erelah’s gaze flicked to Korbyn. He gave a subtle shake of his head.

  She tucked her chin and stared at the cracked tiles of the floor.

  “My love, you frighten her.” There was the brush of gossamer over tile as the Binait moved closer. “Her colors are chaos.”

  Erelah risked glancing up and found herself peering directly into the woman’s eyes.

  “Neesa, come away,” Ix snapped. “You don’t know where that’s been.”

  “Poor thing.” Neesa’s voice oozed with false sympathy. “Poor little wretched thing.”

  A strange pressure built behind Erelah’s eyes. Something invisible dragged across her skin, like walking into a spider’s web. The sensation built. The Sight stirred awake and hungrily rolled up from the depths.

  Distantly, Erelah was aware of Ix talking: “The girl is yours, brothers, for now. Until I have a chance to question her properly. Consider her your boon for a job well done.”

  “No.” Korbyn leaned forward, attempting to stand. Heavy hands wrestled him back to his knees.

  The strange energy from Neesa snapped, dissolving. Her head swiveled sharply as she zeroed in on Asher.

  Ott’s forearm wrapped around Erelah’s middle and he lifted her from the floor.

  A wicked smile moved over Neesa’s mouth. “Ott, leave her be.”

  “Neesa?” Ix seemed to be on the verge of pouting, unhappy with such a countermand in front of his audience.

  “My love, perhaps you are hasty,” she pattered, like chiding a wayward pet.

  She waved Ott off. The giant released his grip. Erelah slipped back to the deck. Neesa stood over her.

  “Perhaps our dear Asher cares for this wretched little thing?” Neesa walked in a semi-circle as she hummed. Erelah thought of her first meeting with Tristic. Another dangerous creature that eyed her with ravenous regard.

  “You hold a great worry. What is it that could possibly trouble you so?” Neesa traced a hand over Erelah’s shoulders, bracelets clanking. Her hand paused at the back of Erelah’s neck. Her fingers wound into Erelah’s hair and yanked her head back in a painful snap. “Your colors are remarkable, my lovely. Like layers of secrets…I like secrets.
They’re fun to pull out of people.”

  She released her and straightened as if the attack had never happened. “You have a Gift. It’s like a dirty trick played on you. Poor thing. Can’t undo it. Can’t control it. Eating away from the inside out. Even now it burns the marrow from your frail little bones. You’ve learned a few tricks. You think you control it, but you’re wrong.”

  Neesa gave Korbyn what looked like a triumphant sneer. “You meant to keep her for yourself, didn’t you? You knew there was a use for her. Somehow you—”

  Her gaze settled on his chest. Her generous mouth twitched into a bitter pull. “Now I see.”

  Korbyn’s forehead wrinkled with confusion. He glanced down, looking for whatever had distracted Neesa. His eyes widened, then flicked to Erelah.

  That’s where I touched him. When I tried to use the Sight. Could Neesa see it?

  “Oh, little girl, you are wicked.” It came out in a breathy hiss. The woman glided back to Erelah. An icy wave of jealousy radiated from her. Gracefully, the Binait folded at the waist, her hands primly clasped together.

  “You’ve been playing with things that aren’t yours.”

  The fragrance of water jasmine engulfed Erelah like a sickly cloud. She thought of Tristic’s darkened audience room, a slick knot squirming in her stomach.

  Erelah leaned away as far as Ott’s grip would allow.

  Neesa’s warm breath reeked of peppervine. She seethed. “Would you like to know what happens to such wicked little girls?”

  She pulled back, maroon gaze pinning Erelah. Finally, she straightened with the clack and jingle of bracelets.

  “Someone with such a gift would be wasted as a toy for your men.” Neesa spoke to Ix now. Her sudden fury had disappeared under a demanding pout.

  A carefully manicured hand rested on Erelah’s shoulder. The fingers tightened, nails digging into her shoulder like five hot needles. “My love, let me keep her please.”

  The Binait’s hand slid up to the bare skin of her neck.

  Erelah’s world folded away.