by Alan Black
They had dropped into a common bunk area. York thought bunking arrangements were a human oddity since spacecraft engines moved a ship from place to place without concern for the ship’s size or mass. A designer could build a ship as large or as small as the owner wanted. Most ships had enough cabins and compartments for every occupant to have their own sleeping quarters, yet so many times, humans still managed to share quarters. This one had two double bunks. The upper bunks were empty. The bottom bunks were occupied.
York laughed out loud with genuine humor. A man was tied hand and foot on one of the bunks. Stuffed in his mouth was a red ball-gag, his hands were stretched over his head, and his wrists were raw and bruised. He was stripped naked and tied face down, his buttocks were propped high in the air, his legs forcibly spread, and a can of engine lube was stashed near his feet. The man had a wild look on his face as he stared wide-eyed at the gathering crowd around him.
Fugget was about to cut the man free when York said, “Leave him, Master Chief.”
Fugget’s face grew red with frustration. “But, Ensign Sixteen, he’s—”
York interrupted, “Master Chief Fugget, I’d like to introduce you to Ensign Takrel, formerly of the Gambion. I do believe Lieutenant Altamont has something she would like to discuss with him. So, if we leave him tied up, we know where to find him.”
Fugget nodded, looked down at the man, his face growing cloudy, he turned and went to the hatch, checking the corridor.
Rodriguez was leaning over the other bottom bunk. “This one’s dead, sir. It looks like she choked on her own vomit.”
Most of the skyrider’s looked away, turning pale, one even retched quietly in the corner after looking at the woman’s body. She was tied face up, stripped naked, her face and hair covered in dried sperm and vomit. Below the waist, she was a mess of feces, blood, and other human fluids. Rodriguez started to cover her, but York waved her away.
“Leave her as she is. This is Ensign Baker, also formerly of the Gambion.”
Even though most people in the compartment didn’t know the specifics of Kenna Altamont’s kidnapping and subsequent rescue, everyone in the 44th knew the names of the missing Gambion officers and knew they had been involved or complicit, if not actively guilty. Rodriguez’s eyes lit up hearing the name of one of Kenna’s rapists, specifically the woman leaving bite marks on Kenna’s breasts. As a Liberty volunteer police officer, Rodriquez was well informed about details that weren’t public.
York commanded, “Form up your teams. We don’t have all day, people. If we don’t get control of this ship none of us goes home and we won’t rescue anyone.”
The plan called for the assault force to break into four teams of six, each team with three combat trained fighters and three pilots. Captain Altamont had argued splitting their forces was a bad idea, especially when half of York’s assault force consisted of little more than low ranking teenagers with big guns. He’d finally relented when he realized there was too many things needing to be done at the same time. Although the skyrider pilots were young and inexperienced, they were still military reservists, theoretically trained as trigger pullers. Each now held an assault rifle, was dressed in a flak jacket with helmet, gloves, eye protection, and each according to his or her character wore a determined grim look on their face. The older crew was anxious to get started, mainly because the quicker you start the quicker you finish. York was anxious to get started, on the other hand, he wasn’t anxious to be done. His heart was pounding in anticipation.
The plan was to move quickly through the ship locating specific targets. Senior Chief Petty Officer Rodriguez was Delta Team. Her team was assigned to cut straight across the ship to the far side, searching for the shuttle bays in an effort to seal the doors keeping the slaver’s shuttles from escaping. The shuttle bay was the best place to gather rescued people, not to mention, the shuttle bay was where they were most likely to catch a ride home. Fugget was Bravo team and a small wiry whipcord petty officer was Charlie’s team leader. Bravo and Charlie teams were to search fore and aft for engineering to prevent the engines from spinning up and the ship from leaving the system, taking them and their captured people along.
York led Alpha Team. They were going to the center of the ship. Ship designers usually put central command in the middle. York had argued he should lead one of the teams searching for engineering. Going fore or aft, might have given him the best opportunity to search in a wider pattern, maybe finding a few slavers to dispatch along the way. Heading straight towards central command would limit his options. Captain Altamont had insisted York, as the only officer on the assault team, exercise his responsibility to take over command and control of the ship, if possible or to destroy it, if necessary.
York’s six-man team consisted of two commandos from the 44th. They were twin brothers and far too old for their low ranks, an obvious indication they yo-yoed up and down the rating scale, promoted and demoted with regular frequency. Able was the brighter of the two, with a wide scar across the bridge of his nose from, by all accounts, a beer bottle thrown in a less than friendly bar brawl. Caine wasn’t as smart as his brother, but he was meaner, with a matching scar across his nose. No one doubted his claim the scar was from wrestling an angry pterodactyl to the ground bare handed. No one doubted it because he wore, despite regulations to the contrary, a necklace of pterodactyl teeth and claws.
Even though they weren’t clearing the ship room by room, they still couldn’t leave large contingents of slavers at their backs. They had to move quickly and quietly for as long as possible. York hoped the slavers wouldn’t realize they’d been boarded long enough for him to find ample opportunity to dispatch a few slavers with his knife. He ushered all teams into the empty corridor, signaling everyone to move out.
Rather than follow Alpha team as planned, York stayed in the cabin and started pulling the hatch closed. Chrissie Altamont caught his eye. She was on the highest ranking enlisted on his team, but she wasn’t a trained assault commando. Her eyes flicked to Takrel, tied to the bed and back to York. As Kenna’s younger sister, she was more than familiar with the rape and torture Kenna had endured. She nodded slightly to York and turned her back as the door clicked closed.
York smiled with genuine pleasure. He knew if anyone asked, Chrissie could honestly say Ensign Takrel was alive the last time she saw him. Stepping quickly to the bunk, he sat next to Takrel. He wanted to spend time with this one, but he didn’t have as much free time as he wanted.
Takrel was thrashing as much as his restraints would let him, trying to speak around the ball-gag.
York said, “You recognize me, I’m sure. I wanted to ask you if you knew where they were keeping Balderano, but it doesn’t look like you’ve been out of this bunk for a while. I admit you never personally attacked me, nevertheless you always seemed to be with the Gambion pack who did. We both know you prefer taking advantage of drugged young women. Now, I can’t say I really care one way or the other all that much about what you did to the young woman on Liberty. I do know you, Samdon and Baker were directly responsible for raping her, right?”
Takrel mumbled and continued thrashing about. York patted him on the back of his head. “It’s okay. We know the truth, you don’t have to answer. I’m sorry I don’t have more time to do this right, but … ” He paused and pulled his knife, letting the edge glimmer in the overhead lights. “But, we have things to do and I have to cut you loose.”
Takrel sighed through his nose and a look of relief passed over his face.
York leaned down and pressed the point of his knife deeply into Takrel’s inner thigh. It pulled out with a slight sucking noise followed by a dark red flow of blood from the great saphenous vein returning blood from the leg back to the heart. He wiped what little blood there was from the knife blade and slid it back into the sheath.
Takrel screamed, but the gag muffled the shriek.
York leaned down and said, “Oh, I am sorry. Did you think I was cutting you free? No, I said l
oose, as in loose from this life. Please try to behave yourself in the next one.” He grabbed a blanket off the top bunk and covered Takrel from the waist down, hiding the blood flow.
He pushed the door wide open. Chrissie was still standing there and as if against her own will, she looked into the cabin. Takrel stared back at her, eyes wide, face screaming without coherent sound. She looked at York with a puzzled expression.
York said, “Yes, he’s alive. I wanted to ask him if he knew where the other kidnapped people were. He wasn’t in a mood to talk or he didn’t know anything, so I just left the gag in. Let’s go. We can come and get him later when we need him.” Of course, he knew Takrel would only be among the living for the next three minutes or so and conscious for a much shorter time than that.
Chrissie looked relieved. York understood most humans have an aversion to killing or even being tangentially involved in someone’s death. Some humans even went so far as to grant forgiveness rather than participate in a sanctioned death penalty. York understood it, but it didn’t make sense to him. No matter what might have happened at a trial, he had just guaranteed Takrel wouldn’t ever drug, kidnap, or rape another young woman. He’d wanted to spend time torturing the man, but the slavers beat him to it. He shouldn’t have wasted the time with Takrel, he hoped to get to central command before they lost their element of surprise, but what little time he’d just spent helped calm his nerves. Now, he was ready.
Bravo, Charlie and Delta teams had disappeared down the corridor. Pointing at Alpha team and picking a direction at random, York indicated the way. Caine took point. York followed behind him. Chrissie and the other two pilots clustered in the middle. Able trailed behind, walking backwards with his head on a swivel.
York said, “Caine, take a quick peek into any compartment before we roll past, but if a hatch is closed, just leave it. We need to get to command on the double. Chrissie, if a closed hatch has a lock, lock it on your way past. Don’t fall behind.”
Caine grunted and switched from a cautious walk to a trot, barely glancing into the compartments as he ran past. Chrissie and the skyrider pilots, threw hatch switches and levers, hopefully locking anyone inside their cabins. Caine rushed past a door, slid to a stop, and hooked a thumb in the direction of the door he had just passed. Not wanting to make noise and without breaking stride, York pulled his knife and ran into the compartment, bouncing off the hatch frame.
There were three people standing at a small counter in what looked like a break room or a wardroom. They were laughing and jostling each other trying to get to a coffee pot. York grabbed the closest man by the back of his shirt, surprised at how light the man felt, and threw him backwards into the waiting arms of Caine. He had a flash of satisfaction, working out in 1.5 gravity paid off, no matter how onerous it was while was doing it.
He drove his knife deep into the second man’s chest. He felt the tip crunch through the breastbone, splintering it as he forced the blade into the man’s heart. Grabbing the third man around the neck, he squeezed with as much force as he could muster, holding the man still while he pulled his knife clear of the second man’s chest. Having already taken too much time with Takrel he didn’t have any to spare for these three. Retrieving the blade from the second man’s chest before the man could collapse to the deck, he shoved it through the third man’s ear, deep into his brain. Holding the handle, it pulled free of its own accord when the man dropped to the deck, dead before his heart knew it.
Caine was holding the first man off the deck in a sleeper hold. York stepped up and disregarding Caine’s arm he shoved the knife into the man’s eye socket, swished it around and stepped out of the way when Caine dropped the body to the deck. York picked up the body and tossed it back into the compartment, yanking the hatch closed. He dropped the locking lever in place.
Caine looked at him with surprise. Chrissie and the other pilots looked away at his sudden brutality. York wasn’t sorry the men were dead. They were involved in turning babies into orphans and selling children as sex slaves. He was sure the slavers had just gotten off easy and he was the one who was cheated, knowing from experience they deserved worse than a quick death.
York snarled, “Move it, Caine.”
Caine said, “Yes, sir, but I’da done him—”
York interrupted with a growl, “Too slow. This ain’t a bar fight, man. We aren’t dancing a foxtrot. Next time, kill him and move on. Now, lead the way or get out of my way.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Caine scooted down the corridor until he came to a fork. He shrugged, looking both ways and waited for York to catch up.
York reached him quickly, read the wall chart saying, ‘you are here’, located the room marked central command and said, “Two decks down, then left, left, right and we’re there. Go. Ladderway through that hatch.” He pointed and pushed Caine by a flat hand on the man’s shoulder.
Caine took off at a run, smashing into two slavers coming out of the ladderway’s open hatch. The men crashed into the bulkheads and dropped to the deck. Caine stomped the closest man in the throat, crushing his adam’s apple, turning away before the man’s next breath changed from a gasp to a gurgle. York reached them just as Caine, grinning, sent a steel-toed boot crashing into the second man’s testicles, crushing them. He looked at York and said, “He ain’t goin’ nowhere, leave him for Able.” As an afterthought he added, “Sir.”
They took the ladder going down three steps at a time. York heard a series of muffled thumps in the distance. He was sure the noise was gunfire coming from somewhere aft and above. Aft was the direction Fugget had led Bravo team. He hoped the sound didn’t carry to central command. If it did, and the slaver’s command crew shut and locked their hatches, they might end up a dozen systems away before his team could break in and wrest control away from them. Maybe not if Fugget or Charlie team could find and disable the engines. Then nobody would be going anywhere.
Two decks down, Caine burst through the hatch into the corridor and turned left. York saw Caine swing a wild haymaker at someone. Following as close as he could, he pushed through the hatch. The corridor was crowded with a dozen men and women, most had their hands and feet cuffed with plastic zip ties. They were shuffling along, stunned by weeks of captivity or drugged. Caine wasn’t stunned. He laughed as his haymaker found its mark, dropping an unsuspecting man unconscious to the deck.
Caine vaulted over the man’s body, with a forearm he deflected a stun rod pointed at his direction, and punched a second man in the nose, splattering blood across the man’s face. The commando ignored the man’s howl. He locked an arm around the wrist holding the stun rod and twisted. A sickening snap, a howl, a screech, and the man dropped the stun rod. Scooping up the rod, Caine twisted the knob on the bottom to full strength and tapped the man in the middle of the chest. The slaver dropped to the deck as if dead, twitching as excess electrical current ran circles around his muscles. Caine raced ahead, swinging the stun rod at every slaver he encountered like he was chopping his way through a thick jungle.
York spotted a knife in the boot of one of the downed men. He yanked it free and tossed it to Chrissie. He pointed at the prisoners and turned back to race after Caine, but not before he saw Able catch up to them and put a big boot to the head of one of the slavers laying on the deck. He heard Chrissie tell someone in the line of prisoners to cut the others free and get to the shuttle bay. York didn’t slow down enough to check if the person followed the command or not or even if Chrissie was following him.
He had thrown the switch on Caine, turning the man loose from all restraints. If he didn’t keep up, the man was likely to get so far ahead York might not catch up. He needed to stay close, as he wasn’t sure Caine could remember when to turn left or which right to take.
The next corridor was clear, as was the next. Before he knew it, his team was outside the open hatches of the ship’s central command. Their team was still intact. Caine was splattered in blood, not all of it from his victims. The man ignored a deep gash ac
ross one forearm. Vomit splattered one of the pilots, likely a young lad who would retire from the navy before his next promotion. Chrissie looked grim, but unharmed. Able pulled up to the rear, no less bloody than his twin.
There were two hatches set twenty yards apart along the bulkhead to central command. Both hatches were open and dogged to the bulkhead. A woman stepped through the hatch before they were ready to make their surprise entrance, her eyes focused on a tablet. York grabbed her by the front of her top. It tore, but held together long enough for him to yank her off her feet and throw her behind him. With a thud and a crack, Chrissie hit the woman in the forehead with the butt of her assault weapon. The woman’s feet shot out from under her and she hit the deck with the back of her head. It sounded like a heavy sledge crushing a melon.
York directed Able, pointing him to one hatch. He pointed between Caine and the other hatch. He bolted through the closest hatch, hoping the element of surprise was still his. A dozen people sat at various monitors and consoles throughout the room. For such a big ship, central command wasn’t a big room, yet there was plenty of space between each station. The command crew had enough elbow swinging room for comfort. There was too much floor space to cross for York’s liking. It didn’t appear that they were heavily armed, no more than a few handguns and a plethora of stun rods were visible.
One man seated at a console shouted, “Boss, I got a cloaked shuttle off the port bow. It ain’t—”
Before the man finished, York pulled his Liberty Special and put a round into the back of his head. Fugget had been right about the force of his bullets. It passed through the man’s head, spraying the console with syrupy blood and various chunky bits. Travelling on, the bullet dug a deep furrow into the monitor, spraying parts and sparks in every direction. More startling than the brute force was the noise. The room was already loud with people talking and laughing. Everyone fell silent when his gun discharged. The only noise was the air hissing through the air exchanger.