allies and enemies 02 - rogues

by Amy J. Murphy

  Her shoulder took the force of the impact. She pushed up, hands squishing into the mud. Her target rolled to his side, pulling a shatter gun. She dodged right. His shot zinged off the metal wall behind her. She kicked the weapon away before he could take aim again. Another kick and her heavy boot connected with his jaw. There was the satisfying click of teeth. Quickly she pivoted back to the street. The roof runner jumped into her path.

  She skidded to a halt, drawing up the A6. Her aim leveled squarely at his face.

  “My fight’s not with you.” Then she added, in Regimental, “Stand down.”

  He was from Koenii’s den. The one that had scrambled over the others to open the hatch for her. The worship was absent now. His face was dead set. He had orders, a purpose.

  Dex. That was his name.

  Behind her, the other climbed to his feet with a painful groan. She angled her body to watch them both. It cut off her route to the road, but put the relative safety of a metal wall at her back.

  Dex reached into his coat. She cycled the primer on the A6, triggering the unmistakable high-pitched whine that the rain failed to drown out.

  He stopped.

  “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking you can draw before I can take you both out,” she said. “Well, you can’t. So…don’t.”

  She gestured with the barrel of the A6. “Very slowly, you’re going to take your weapon out and kick it over to me. Got it?”

  He seemed perplexed, as if he were trying to figure out why she had not yet shot them. Dex nodded. His hulking size made his moves seem almost clownish as he complied. Watching for sudden moves, Sela snatched the discarded pulse gun up in her left hand. Now both men were targets.

  “Boss just wants a talk. That’s all.” This from the one on her right. He was bent over, one hand wrapped around his torso. Her landing must have broken ribs.

  “Funny way of sending an invite.” She jerked her head, indicating for him to join his partner.

  “Told ya no shootin’, Vin,” Dex scolded.

  “Missed her all the same,” came the defensive response.

  “Skew.”

  “What’d you mouth?” He lunged at his cohort.

  “You heard. Frek-face skew.”

  This is actually happening. Sela resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Her patience dissolved under the cold, hard rain.

  “You’re skew! Motherless—”

  “Boys!” Sela bellowed. Both of them jolted as if suddenly remembering her presence. She waggled the A6. They sobered, chins tucked in like scolded children.

  “Even if she kills us, still tellin’ Boss you shot at her,” Dex muttered.

  She sighed, feeling more irritated than endangered. A part of her was vaguely insulted that these were the two Heavies Koenii had set on her.

  Honestly.

  “You got me at a really bad time,” she said. “I’m tired and wet. I want to go home. And I really, really want to shoot someone right now.”

  The two men exchanged looks.

  “A few years ago, I would have shot you both on general principle alone.” She gave a half-shrug. “Or because I just…felt like it.

  “You see, I’ve been trying to change.” Sela tucked the pulse gun into the waistband at the small of her back, leaving the A6 trained on them. “I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen really hard. And if there’s an original thought in either of your heads, you’ll do what I say.”

  82

  Seventeen minutes later, Sela ducked into the alcove of a ruined shrine as soon as she was sure she’d put enough distance between herself and the Skids. The rain showed no sign of slacking. She was soaked thoroughly. The old injury to her left shoulder was beginning to ache in protest of the cold.

  The rain had driven everyone else indoors. So far, the Heavy Gravs had not decided to follow her. Perhaps her speech about seeking independence from Koenii had sunk in. She hoped so.

  Satisfied that she was alone, she fished the ancient vox from the inner pocket of her coat. It emitted the disconcerting clink of tiny pieces rattling somewhere inside the battered casing. With a frustrated growl, she shook it. More rattling. A pop of static.

  “No.”

  Still hopeful, she activated it. Nothing. Mashed the button more firmly. Dead.

  She uttered a string of curses up at the sky. The decrepit thing must have been crushed during the scuffle. She needed to contact Jon, tell him to step up the pre-flight on the Cass. Dex and Vin might have been easy to persuade to her means, but they weren’t the only men that Koenii controlled. She had merely bought breathing room.

  She slammed the hateful device to the street, where it exploded into plastic shards.

  “Damitall.”

  83

  By the time Sela had finished the seven-click hike back to the Cass, her clothing was soaked through to the skin. She wanted nothing more than to peel off her wet clothes and crawl into the bunk beside Jon. There, in the languid dark, stretched out beside his warmth, she could drift off to sleep and listen to him recall some errant memory of his absurdly undisciplined childhood or his dour-sounding Uncle. She grunted. All a pleasant diversion that would need to wait.

  Koenii was after them now in earnest. Retreat was the appropriate action here.

  They now had the monetary means to pay their way through the flexer. She had some vague notion of the process involved and was certain Jon could talk them through the rest. The final detail to settle was the destination. She frowned, pausing.

  During her exchange with Jon in the alley, he had never agreed to a specific destination. She’d offered two possible locations and he had simply agreed to move on from this system. She hoped he didn’t mean to use that as a reason to stall further. They didn’t have the luxury of time and she was in no mood to bicker with him over the possibilities of a miraculous reappearance of a dead sister.

  She shouldered open the inner hatch and relished the slightly warmer corridor. At least the environmentals still worked. Peeling off her soaked duster, she allowed it to plop to the deck. Her drenched shirt soon joined it. Gooseflesh pimpled her bare skin. She paused, had already drawn in breath to call out to Jon when her hand went to the A6.

  Something felt wrong.

  The interior lights were all active. Nothing seemed out of place.

  Things were quiet. That was it.

  If Jon were prepping the Cass to leave port, there would be the customary organized chaos for getting the aged vessel ready. The ailing cesium manifold alone took hours to get to prime.

  Nothing was happening.

  With a silent curse, she drew her sidearm. Crouching low against the doorframe, she stole a quick glance into the common passage. To her left, the command loft was dark. Driving her fears to a greater indication that something was wrong. To her right, light fell onto the floor from the open doorway of the galley. Then she picked up the soft rustle of fabric. The less subtle footfalls of booted feet against the deck plates. She knew all of Jon’s sounds. They were part of her life of nearly two years of calling this run-down vessel home. Whoever was moving about in the galley was not him. A new dread formed like a hard knot.

  Keeping low, she turned right, careful to avoid the section of plating that groaned when stepped on. More movement came from within the galley space. Whoever was in there was not being careful about hiding his sounds. A careless, ham-fisted thief.

  Sliding lower still, she edged to the doorframe and slipped the combat blade from the sheath on her calf. The bright metal of its surface reflected the room from beyond her range of vision. Sela glimpsed a dark-clad figure, shaven head, broad shoulders still damp with rain. She released a silent sigh.

  Great. Another Heavy Grav. Apparently, Dex and Vin had not heeded her. Or Koenii had learned the location of their ship and sent different men.

  This damned night never seemed to end.

  Content that the intruder’s back was turned, Sela peeked into the room. Oddly, he seemed to be rummaging through th
e meager remains of their medikit. He seized the black duffel and pulled out the box of medicines.

  Probably looking for a fix.

  She shook her head.

  Sela slipped into the room, A6 in hand. This was too easy.

  84

  “Put the bag down and I won’t shoot you right away.” A woman’s voice speaking in neatly clipped Commonspeak accompanied the unmistakable priming whine of a pulse weapon. Asher knew who it would be without looking.

  Tyron. An odd surge of emotions welled from that area of his brain where Erelah’s memories were permanently lodged—healthy respect that bordered on fear.

  In turn, for Asher it forged an instant dislike to know that Erelah—his Erelah—felt threatened by this woman.

  “Got the wrong idea.” He lifted his hands to shoulder height. “I’m here to help.”

  She scoffed. “Doubt it. Where’s Jon?”

  He turned and immediately noticed two things: She was nude from the waist up. And, she really did not seem to care.

  Asher curled his lip, making his inspection obvious. Beautiful but in a cold way, the way you imagine a battle-god. Her torso and arms were sculpted muscle. A nasty scar dominated her left chest, an injury you don’t easily walk away from.

  It was the same face from those supplanted memories. In the flesh she seemed slightly older, weary. There was no more regulation buzz cut. Instead, her dark blond hair had grown long, gathered back into a thick plait. Amber eyes that told nothing of her thoughts. Regardless of her noticeably casual style of dress, everything about her presence screamed soldier.

  “Ty, right? You look different in person…shorter,” he said in Regimental. “Nice scar.”

  The skin around her eyes tightened. “Don’t make me ask again. It’s been a very long night.” Although it was clear she understood Regimental, she did not switch from Common. The gun did not waver.

  “He brought me here. Got himself in a bit of trouble,” Asher answered.

  “Sela. What are you doing?” Veradin’s voice, both berating and surprised, echoed from the common passage. Then: “Where’s your shirt?”

  Her shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly, yet her glare remained on Asher. “What is…this…and why is it on my ship?”

  Jon stepped into the galley, moving as if he still did not trust his legs. Surprisingly, he spoke in Eugenes to her. Perhaps they’d made it their own secret code, as speaking it in public was not the best idea for Hadelia. “It’s alright, Ty. He’s here to help.”

  Worry flickered over her features. This time she did glance at Jon. She replied in the same, her pronunciation perfect, but stiff, as if she were replicating the language instead of truly understanding it. “What’s happened? Are you injured?”

  Losing time. Losing time.

  Asher stepped closer and the pulse gun pressed into his throat. He leaned back. “We really don’t have time for any of this. He got dosed at this tavern.”

  At the mention of the tavern, Veradin flinched. Tyron’s frown deepened. This time it was for her man. “Why were you at a tavern? You were supposed to return to the Cass—”

  “For Miri’s sake…” Veradin groaned, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “Can we just not do this right now? My head is splitting.”

  Her eyebrows drew up. “Is there a better time then?”

  Asher tried to catch Veradin’s bleary-eyed gaze. “The longer we delay, the less time Erelah has.”

  “What did you just say?” Tyron’s head swiveled back to him. The center of her armed, angry attention was not the best place to be.

  Veradin slid closer to his domesticated killer. He placed a hand lightly on the forearm that supported her weapon. “Erelah’s alive, Ty. She needs my help. She sent him.”

  If she had been holding her anger in check, Asher witnessed the fury swell in her almost instantly. It wasn’t meant for him, not all of it, at least. She shrugged away from Veradin’s touch, took a half-step closer to Asher. The barrel of the silver gun loomed now directly in his face.

  Her voice was low and even, like the menacing growl of a spike hound that’s already made up its mind to attack. “How dare you do this? You have no idea what you’re doing to him.”

  There was a threat to her man. She’d gnaw through anyone’s throat if it meant protecting him. Asher had miscalculated. How much about Tyron had he taken on assumption? He had never met a real Volunteer; he’d only heard stories and knew Erelah’s skewed perception of this one. Dangerous trained killers, raised separate from the rest of the Known Worlds and made to do the bidding of their Kindred masters. That was a hollow description, hardly worthy of this woman. Here was ferocious loyalty masquerading as love.

  But the closest thing he felt when it came to Erelah.

  In that moment, he got it. Finally.

  “This isn’t a scam,” Asher said quietly. “I don’t want scrip. Or you. And I certainly don’t want your piece-of-crap ship. I’ve got my own piece-of-crap ship.”

  He stepped closer, hands still held high, until the barrel of the weapon rested against his chest, in that same spot where Erelah’s hand had pressed and she’d wedged inexplicably into his very soul.

  He recognized the threat he saw in Tyron’s gaze from his own reflection. He’d known it every waking moment of his search for Veradin. Desperation to keep safe what is yours. A willingness to stand between that harm and the thing that keeps you whole and sane. All this time, in those weeks he had been driven, not really stopping to examine that urge, the push that churned him ahead and spurred him on regardless of each dead end or false step. It burned there, a keening hollow ache, perhaps worsened knowing it was so close to being mended.

  “I want Erelah to live. That’s all I care about.”

  The gun in her hands drifted down, slightly. Something in that amber gaze softened. “Jon?”

  “Just listen to what he has to say, Ty.” Veradin placed his hands on her shoulders. He leaned against her, voice softer still. “He can prove it.”

  Jon glanced at him. “Show her the message.”

  85

  “This changes nothing.” Sela tossed the handheld onto the table the moment Erelah’s message finished. Jon sat up, startled by the noise from his semi-daze. The pounding in his aching brain sprang back to life. “It is possible this was coerced.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense. No one knows we’re here. And why?” Elbows planted on the counter, Jon propped his head upright. He shut his eyes. At least the nausea was gone…for now.

  What the Sceelah had they given him, anyway?

  There was no reply. Sela had left the room.

  With a monumental act of will, he pushed up from the bench. He sensed he was missing a chunk of time. Corsair was gone. Last time he’d seen him, he was an impatient shadow pacing along the corridor while he and Ty argued.

  He found her in the bunkroom, shoving things into his battered duffel. “What’re you doing?”

  “Packing.” She knelt, pulling a modest stack of neatly folded clothes from beneath the bed. His clothes, most specifically.

  “What. Why.” His brain felt as if a layer of mold had grown over it, slowing everything.

  She exhaled. Her shoulders stiff. “You’re still impaired. I’m saving you the energy required to argue. Ultimately, you will try to convince me to go with Corsair to Erelah’s presumed location. I’ll feel required to go with you given our relationship status.”

  He scoffed. “Fates, you’re such a romantic. If I weren’t about to puke, I’d kiss you.”

  “And you are reckless.” She paused, arms filled with more gear.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned in her way. “You love it. Admit it.”

  He knew how far he could push her. There was always a hidden pool of anger there, just beneath her surface. She dug through another storage box, but he glimpsed the subtle upward curl of a smirk. “We would have departed Hadelia tonight in any regard.”

  He winced, guilty. His intention had bee
n to dissuade her from leaving. Jon flopped back onto the bed, his arm thrown across his face to blot out the glare of the lights. His legs extended across the only open pathway in the tiny room, forcing her to step over him.

  “Does your head hurt?” There was mocking, gloating sympathy in her tone. He could easily envision her using it on a whiney booter.

  Her noisy rummaging had stopped. He moved his arm away.

  “Had worse. I’ll live.” Her smugness urged the lie from him. In truth, this was the hangover to end all hangovers.

  She had changed into the broken-in shipsuit that was worn through at one knee. It wrenched his pride to see her in castoff clothes, although she’d never complain. But it was better than her wandering around the Cass topless with Corsair onboard. Modesty was a weird thing for her. She had no problem menacing someone while half-dressed, but put her in anything clingy and she was suddenly “naked.”

  With an unconvinced smirk, Sela climbed onto the bed. She reached across him, the confined space forcing her to straddle his torso as she claimed the pulse gun from the storage rack.

  There was a self-satisfied glint in her eyes. “Serves you right…going off on your own.”

  “I’m sure it was no less dangerous than your secret mission. Whatever that was.”

  She sat back on her heels. Any amusement instantly evaporated. “Irrelevant, in light of current matters.”

  “Well, if it’s so irrelevant, you can tell me then.” He reached for her, but she stepped off the bed, purposefully avoiding his gaze.

  “Why did you not return to the Cassandra as you said you would?” Sela drew the A6 and busied herself with checking the charge compressor.

  “You first.” He pushed up on his elbows. The motion created a new wave of nausea.

  The hungover part of him didn’t want this nascent argument. But he could tell that whatever she’d done or discovered on her clandestine mission had bothered her. Things that bothered Sela had a way of coming back to bite him in the ass and often at completely inappropriate times.