by Alan Black
Caine whooped and crashed into the closet knot of people, swinging his recently acquired stun rod like a club instead of a long taser. His twin bulled his way into the room through the other hatch, swinging his assault rifle like he was chopping down trees with a dull axe, dropping men to the deck and knocking others from their chairs. Chrissie stepped into the room and calmly put a round from her small assault rifle into the chest of a man digging for a handgun lost in the folds of his shirt, under his fat beer gut. The small pfft from her gun was a distant echo to the noise York’s gun made.
The other pilots held their rifles at the ready, one in each hatchway. They both had hopeful expressions that no one would try to leave and no one else would try to get in. They were both pale, yet willing to stand their ground, looking the part if nothing else.
Leaving Caine and Able to deal with the rest of the crew, York slowed to a walk and deliberately ambled up to the captain’s chair. Captain or not, the man had a young girl on his lap. He sat there with a shocked look on his face as if he didn’t understand what was going on. York pointed the big bore of his handgun at the man’s forehead. The Captain ducked behind the girl, hiding his face. He was weaponless.
York looked at the girl. She wasn’t a child, but she wasn’t a woman either, maybe twelve or so. She didn’t look drugged, but he recognized the look in her eyes. She might not have even come from Liberty, having been stolen from some other distant poor planet. No matter where she came from, they’d been abusing her for weeks. She looked back at him with dull eyes, expecting only more pain and abuse from him. He knew how she felt and knew deep in his heart that little girls weren’t strong enough to survive such terrible treatment for long.
York had been abused by Brother Calvin at the orphanage and again by House Master Albert at the prep school. Unlike delicate young girls, he was strong enough to survive such deviance and come out unscarred. He’d endured it and he was fine, knowing there wasn’t anything wrong with him. Sure, he didn’t like people to touch him, but that was only because he liked to be alone. Looking at this girl, he knew she wouldn’t survive much longer and would only survive after her rescue if she had an understanding family and years of therapy.
He holstered his pistol and nodded at the captain. “Sir, I promise on my mother’s life I won’t shoot you, nor will I allow anyone to harm you, but you must let this girl go.”
The man clutched the girl closer, burying his head behind her matted hair.
York looked behind him. Chrissie stood ready to put a bullet into the man’s head if she could get a clear shot. “Petty Officer Altamont, please have one of your pilots find a room to lock up the command crew. Well, any that Caine and Able haven’t killed. Boys, good job! Help Altamont drag these bodies out of here. Let’s close and lock one of these hatches. We need to make sure we keep the pilot’s consoles locked down.”
Chrissie pointed the barrel of her gun at the slaver captain with a questioning look in her eyes.
York nodded. He reached forward, as the man cringed backwards, dragging the girl into a huddle. He pried two fingers up from the man’s hand. The girl was turning bright red from being squeezed. Her eyes still had a dull, uncomprehending look, but she didn’t struggle, accepting more abuse without complaint. York began slowly bending the fingers backwards. He didn’t yank or force it, just slowly increased the pressure. Something in his head kept repeating: ‘The finger bone’s connected to the hand bone. The hand bone’s connected to the wrist bone. The wrist bone’s connected to the arm bone. The arm bone’s connected to the elbow.’ With each repetition, he pressed harder, peeling each of the man’s fingers away from the girl. The fingers brought the connected hand with it. He twisted the wrist until the elbow began to pull away, letting the girl slump from the captain’s lap onto the deck.
York continued pressing backward on the fingers. He looked over his shoulder at Chrissie. “Petty Officer Altamont, please take care of this young lady. Be careful with her, she’s in shock.” He turned back to the captain, completely unconcerned about Chrissie following his orders, or whether the young girl cooperated or not. He didn’t quit pressing until he heard a small pop. Not knowing if a finger, wrist or elbow finally gave way, he eased up on the pressure. Yanking the captain out of his chair and to his feet, he dragged the man to a small side hatch.
York asked, “Sir, is this your day office?”
The man shook his head and said, “I ain’t no captain. I’m just second officer on my shift. I ain’t in charge.”
York pushed the hatch open, taking a quick look inside. There was only one way in and one way out. He tossed the man into the room sending him crashing into a table covered with half empty glasses and fully empty bottles. Turning back, he looked around central command. Chrissie wasn’t in the room.
Caine saw him looking. “Petty Officer Altamont took the girl out of the room to find somewhere to stash her for now.”
York said, “No one except our team comes in or goes out of central command until I say otherwise. Altamont is in charge when she gets back. Send the transmission that we have taken central command. Keep an eye out, we don’t want to have the slaver’s trying to take this back from us.”
Caine and Able both laughed. Caine said, “Actually, I hope the sons-a-bitches do try. Where are you going to be, sir?”
“I’m going to ask this piece of ratshit a few questions.”
Caine asked, “You need any help, you just ask, sir. I’m not much at thinking up questions, but if you need an exclamation point, I can provide that.” He raised a massive fist and flexed his arm.
Able jabbed a thick finger, pointing into the captain’s day office behind York. York glanced over his shoulder. Showing little concern that the slaver was swinging a bottle at his head, he swept the man’s arm to the side, sending the bottle skittering across the floor to break in a corner. Sliding his knife from its sheath, he grabbed the man’s wrist, flattening the slaver’s hand on the table. He pinned it down by jamming the knife through it and deeply into the wood table.
York turned back to central command, nodding his thanks to Able. His expression hadn’t changed, nevertheless he was excited to be interrogating the slaver. He knew taking any time with this deviant was dangerous. He barely had time to do what he wanted to do and many people on Liberty wouldn’t condone his methods. Many people thought torture was cruel and never effective. York disagreed with that line of thought. He was sure this man wouldn’t enjoy what was about to happen, while he, himself would enjoy it beyond measure. His enjoyment was all he needed to motivate himself, even if the man lied or said nothing at all.
York kicked the hatch to the day office closed. Turning back to the man, he yanked the knife loose from the table. Pulling up a chair, he sat and smiled.
TWENTY-SEVEN
York hadn’t been alone in the room with the slaver for more than a few minutes, but it felt like time flew by instantly. He wanted to take his time with the man, yet time wasn’t in great supply. He still didn’t know if Bravo or Charlie teams had managed to take control of the engine room. He didn’t know if Rodriguez’s Delta Team had control of the shuttle bay. He didn’t know if Captain Altamont had survived the destruction of Dead Meat, their old cattle hauler. He didn’t know where Lieutenant Altamont in Ernie’s shuttle was located. What he did know was where the slaver’s home base was located, who the captain of this particular ship was, and how long it took a man to die once you cut his femoral artery with the jagged edge of a broken bottle.
The dead slaver looked, even to his practiced eye, like he’d attacked York again with another bottle and had lost the ensuing fight. He had lost badly, with a few of his soft parts almost completely cut away. With a shake of his head, York managed to knick his own forearm, hoping his self-inflicted defensive wound wouldn’t become infected because of the dirty glass he used to make the cut.
Opening the hatch to central command, he almost bumped into Chrissie Altamont. She was just about to knock on the door.
“Sir.” She glanced behind him into the room. Seeing the dead man, she looked back at York.
York shrugged. “He was opening up about their main base and this ship, when all of a sudden he attacked me.” He held up his bleeding arm. “Can we get someone to wrap this up? I’m not in any danger of bleeding to death, but I’d rather not take the risk. I think we could have gotten a lot more information from him if he hadn’t gone crazy and attacked me. I guess we’ll have to interrogate the rest of the crew to get more data.”
Chrissie nodded. “Shame, sir. I’d have liked to gut that asshole myself for what he’s been doing to that little girl.”
“Don’t you let your father hear you talk that way! Remember, we can get more information from a suspect by pretending to be their friend. People lie under torture, even the most effective torture. We just didn’t have the time to convince this one that we thought of him as anything other than a lump of muskrat excrement.” He hoped the young woman didn’t hear the hypocrisy in his voice. Changing the subject, he added, “Speaking of your father, have we heard from Captain Altamont or your sister?”
She shook her head no. “Fugget’s Bravo team has taken engineering. The engines are off line. He lost a couple of his team and he’s barricaded in there. He says there is a large group of slavers pounding on the hatch, but he says they’ll be fine for a while.”
“Senior Chief Petty Officer Rodriguez and Delta team?”
“They’re locked down and they’re shepherding what victims they’ve collected to the shuttle bay, plus restraining a few prisoners. Charlie Team has joined with Delta since Bravo achieved their objective. Charlie swept up a few prisoners and victims as well. They have to put a guard on the slavers to keep the victims from killing them.” She glanced sideways at York, “We shouldn’t let them kill them, right?”
York shook his head. “I think we need to interrogate them first, don’t you?”
With a nod, she added, “She says they have more volunteers from the victims than they know what to do with. Most aren’t in good enough shape to fight back, but they’re more than motivated to help us.”
“Even with volunteers, does Delta have enough force to hold the shuttle bay? If we can’t hold the bay, Kenna can’t bring in Ernie’s shuttle to give us a ride home, after finding your father first, of course.”
Chrissie said, “We could always try to get the slaver’s shuttles running.”
York said, “We’re counting on that. It may take awhile for Master Chief Fugget to crack their pass codes and biometric lockouts to get them started. From the looks of it, we’ll have more people going to Liberty than we can fit in Ernie’s shuttle.”
Chrissie spat a very unladylike spew onto the deck. “Ernie! That dickwad! I still don’t know why you let him help pilot the shuttle with the reserves.”
“Because he’s the best pilot for the job and knows his shuttle better than anyone else. Don’t worry, your sister will keep an eye on him.”
“I still don’t understand how could he have helped the slavers.”
York said, “Money. It’ll boil down to money just like it will for Lieutenant Commander Blaque on Empty Space, for most of these slavers, and for the rich businessmen who hired them.”
“Do we know who hired them?”
“Not yet. We have to get out of this mess before we can start asking these slavers that very question. Most won’t know, however their captain should have enough information to be worth becoming his friend and offering special deals. Get on your comms and tell Delta to make sure the slavers aren’t killed by their ex-victims before we get around to interrogating them. Tell her to make sure the shuttle bay is secure and then send everyone she doesn’t need with Charlie Team to sweep from her position towards engineering to relieve Bravo. Kill where she has to, but capture if she can.”
“And us?”
“You and your two buddies will lock yourselves in here. We have signs, countersigns and distress codes, so you don’t let anyone in who doesn’t give you the right answers, not even me. See if you can get on the ship’s scans to help Lieutenant Altamont find Captain Altamont. We can use their reserves as soon as they can get here.”
He waved the twins over. “Able, Caine and I are going to start a second sweep to help Bravo secure engineering. Remember, Petty Officer Altamont, lock it down.” He hoped he could manage to accidently get separated from the twins. If he could, he might have time for a little personal hunting.
TWENTY-EIGHT
York pointed at the map on the bulkhead just outside of central command, thankful the slavers hadn’t thought about how useful a guide would be if they were ever boarded. He looked carefully at both of the twins. “We’re here, right?”
Both men nodded with identical expressions that indicated they weren’t complete idiots. York wasn’t so sure that was the case, so he pointed at where the map said engineering was. “That is where we’re going. Bravo Team is trapped there. We’re going to smash into the back of the slavers who have Master Chief Fugget surrounded.”
Idiots or not the twins understood the instruction and both smiled with anticipation.
York continued, “However, we aren’t going to go rushing any deeper into this ship with the possibility of leaving a large force at our back. We can’t allow ourselves to get sandwiched between two forces, right? Three of us can’t fight a two front battle.” He was sure the twins had been in more bar brawls than military actions, but the experience of drunken fights might serve them all much better in this fight than orchestrated military strategies. “Able will take point. Caine stay on his heels. We’re moving forward fast so if any of us gets separated we don’t stop for anyone, our rally point is inside engineering right beside Fugget, got it? Good. Go!”
York watched the two men race down the corridor towards a ladderway taking them deeper into the ship. The slaver’s ship was huge and sophisticated. It could be crewed by as few as a dozen or a many as several hundred men. Considering their cargo, the ship probably had more cargo handlers and guards than ship’s crew. Locking hatches was an effective tool to imprison their captives, however they needed personnel to control, feed, and maintain their human cargo.
The real ship’s captain and crew quarters should be near central command. It also made sense that the slavers would keep their high-value prisoners close by. Chrissie had locked a number of the slaver’s central command operators into a nearby room. Glancing up and down the corridor he spotted a hatch, locked from the outside and checked it on the map. The map designers labeled it a break room.
He locked his helmet’s faceplate in the down position, protecting his face. Drawing his handgun, he opened the door. The remains of the crew they had already subdued were inside. Most of them were lying on the floor, moaning or bleeding from the twin’s attack. The body of the dead man York had shot lay in their midst. One man was up and standing at a service counter. He spun, knife in hand preparing to throw it. Doubting it would get through his armor, York put a bullet through the man’s chest anyway.
Behind the darkened faceplate, York’s voice didn’t change tone or volume, speaking pleasantly he said, “The next time someone opens this hatch, if you try that again, I’ll have everyone in here shot and spaced, or spaced and then shot, depending on how badly you piss me off. So behave yourselves, okay?” He hesitated slightly as if he expected answer, but he didn’t and pulled the door shut before anyone responded.
He saw an unlocked hatch on a diagonal course across the corridor. The cabin was in the direction he was going, so he pushed on the hatch and it popped open. A young man sat on a bunk, his knees pulled up to his chin and his eyes wide at the intrusion. York gestured for him to stand up. He was as tall as York, trim and well dressed, to the point of straightening wrinkles from his perfectly tailored suit.
“I’ve been a prisoner. You’re here to rescue us?”
York could hear the upper class accent. Privilege and power oozed from him.
York kept his faceplate down
, keeping his face hidden. “The 44th Naval Reserve from Liberty has taken control of this ship. We’re working to rescue kidnap victims. Who are you?” He stepped into the room and pushed the hatch shut, throwing the lock.
The man noticed him locking the hatch. “I am Trevor Blaque. I … uh, have been kidnapped and held for ransom. Who are you and why did you lock the hatch?”
The man’s name wasn’t lost on York. “Blaque? Are you related to Lieutenant Commander Blaque on Empty Space?”
Blaque nodded and smiled, “Of course, he’s my uncle. Our family is from Greenfield in the Eltis System. Do you know him?”
York asked, “Don’t you think it’s odd kidnappers would keep a prisoner in an unlocked room without a guard.”
“Of course, why—”
“Because your hatch wasn’t locked, you didn’t have a guard, and I already know your fat asshole uncle was working with the slavers. My only conclusion is you are a low-life asshole like your uncle.”
“You can’t talk to me that way. Do you know who my father is?” Blaque stepped close to him and thrust forward a flat unmuscled chest in usual upper class bluster.
York said, “No, I expect you’ll tell me.” He stepped forward and slapped Blaque across the face with the barrel of his pistol. Blaque dropped to the deck, spitting teeth through a bleeding mouth. Holstering the pistol and pulling out his knife, York yanked a deck chair over next to the man and sat down. He propped his feet up on the man’s back and waited.
“My family will pay a hefty ransom for me. We can make you a rich man.”
York shook his head, “Nope.”
“You’ll be sorry if you don’t let me go. You let me go or my father will hunt you and your family down.”
“I’m counting on it. If you do find my family, let me know, would you? I’d like to see them, too. Say, you didn’t go to the Yards, did you?”