The corridor remained empty, the crew having learned to keep clear of her. But up ahead Sigrid’s optical implant revealed a number of thermal signatures—men, waiting for her. Her electrical scans told of the heavy weapons they employed. It was a textbook defensive position, and they seemed perfectly prepared to wait for her to walk into their trap. Unlike the crew that had rushed to meet her in the airlock, Sigrid knew these men to be professionals. So the Merchantmen were employing mercenaries after all.
Her pressure suit did not permit the use of her cloak. She could not rely on stealth here. Sigrid thought to discard the suit, but she suspected she would need its protection before this scenario played out.
The ship’s PA crackled. Sigrid heard the unmistakable voice of Corbin Price echoing in the corridor.
“Ms. Peters. There is no need for further violence. I have your captain, your crew. We will be through the Relay in moments. I have all that I came for. The information we carry will pay us handsomely. But I am quickly learning that you and your kind may well be worth more. It would be my pleasure to discuss this with you further. Perhaps we can still arrange a deal. Come to the bridge, and let’s discuss this in a civilized fashion.”
Sigrid cursed. She had learned her lesson; there could be no bargaining with the trader. She stepped toward the entrance of the engineering section—halted.
“I warn you, Ms. Peters. If you attempt to damage my ship further, you will only serve to kill your captain. Would you really allow that to happen? Is that something you could live with? Especially when there is no need? I still have something you want. You clearly have something to offer me. I see no reason why we cannot emerge from this alive and profitable. Those machines? They’re nothing compared to what I have to offer. I have information—information you might find of immense interest. Names, Ms. Peters. I can give you names. Names of the men who would do you harm. I would even give you the names of the men who I was to sell the location of your home to. Isn’t that of value to you, Ms. Peters?”
Sigrid listened to the fat man prattling on. Despite his offer, Sigrid had little intention of dealing with the man again. She’d learned her lesson. But all the while he talked, pontificated, reveled in the sound of his own voice, Sigrid was busy tracking his signal, routing it through the ship’s communications. Despite what he had said, Corbin Price was not on the bridge; another lie she’d failed to detect. He was here, in engineering, cowering behind the remnants of his mercenary guard.
“Very well, Mr. Price,” Sigrid said, standing, walking slowly forward. “Perhaps we do have something to discuss. But let us do so face to face.”
Sigrid emerged into the engineering section. With her arms raised, she tossed her sidearms to the side, hands held above her head in surrender and submission. The lights in the section had been disabled, but it mattered not; Sigrid could see as easily in pitch black as she could in the light of day, albeit in a hazy monochrome grey.
“I know you’re here, Mr. Price. The captain, too.”
Banks of floodlights flashed on—aimed at her. Sigrid lifted a hand to shield her eyes while her optics made their adjustment. She stood in the middle of the wide room in plain view. Armed men watched her from fortified positions on the raised catwalks above. A turret had been set up near the main reactor, manned by a fire team of mercenary soldiers. They tracked her movements, the muzzle of the great gun swiveling, whirring to follow her. Sigrid logged each of the targets in her PCM, marked them in order of priority. She smiled inwardly as Corbin Price emerged from his position of hiding.
He pushed Captain Trybuszkiewicz in front of him, a gun pressed to his back, careful to keep the Kimuran officer between Sigrid and his fat figure.
“I’m very impressed, Ms. Peters. The rumors of your skill pale in comparison to the reality. If I had known, I never would have attempted this ruse. We might have saved each other a lot of trouble. That is my failing, and for that, I apologize.”
“Agreed. Now, what are we going to do about it?”
The fat Merchantman furrowed his brow in concentration. “I would offer you a new proposal, if you will.”
“I’m listening.”
“I propose a service contract. Not binding. Terms would be negotiable. You would work for me and no one else for, say, a period of three years, with an option for two more. For that, I will return the stolen information and release your captain.”
“A generous offer. And during that time I would, what, gather your cleaning, or perhaps act as escort to private functions?”
Corbin Price found this of great amusement and laughed jovially. “I’m sure I can find something more worthy of your talents. But do not mistake me, Ms. Peters. This offer will expire shortly, and its terms are non-negotiable.”
“No,” Sigrid said, surprising the trader. “It is negotiable. Here are my terms. Halt your vessel here. Captain Trybuszkiewicz and the crew go free; the location of New Alcyone must be cleared from your computer banks. Do this and I will perform one task for you.”
“One task? Only one? I’m not sure if…”
“One, Mr. Price.” Recalling the trader’s own words, Sigrid added, “Should this go well—we can discuss terms for a second.”
Corbin Price laughed, his hand holding his immense belly. “Very well, Ms. Peters. I think your proposal sounds like a bargain.”
Sigrid could sense the man’s confidence. He’d relaxed his stance and allowed more of his frame to be exposed as he talked. The mercenaries picked up on this change of events, as well, and relaxed their guard, their focus more on the conversation than on her. Even now, the soldiers were looking to Corbin Price for direction rather than taking notice of Sigrid and what she held in the palms of her hands.
She opened her hands now, held above her head. The action was one of submission; the reality quite different. Eight tiny pinhead grenades sprung forth from her outstretched palms—Sigrid’s preferred mix of flashbang, concussion and fragmentation. The tiny explosives arched up and away, scattering to the sides of the engineering section, up onto the catwalks above. The three-second delay was all she needed; the eight explosions shattered the brief calm of the negotiation.
Men, parts of men, bits of shrapnel flew in all directions. Captain Trybuszkiewicz, seasoned soldier that he was, seized the moment of distraction and elbowed Corbin Price hard in the sternum, relieving him of his pistol and diving for cover.
The men manning the turret were left unharmed—too close to the captain for Sigrid to risk a grenade. They opened fire now, the fifty-caliber slugs piercing the air, ripping into the rear bulkheads.
But their target was long gone. The heavy turret could not track nearly fast enough. Sigrid was a blur, leaping, diving under its firing line, charging straight for the startled mercenaries. Three shuriken sprang forth from her fingers and sliced the air between them. One of the men screamed, a shrill, startled shout of pure fear. He ducked, too late; the star-shaped throwing knife caught him squarely in the throat. Sigrid was already on the survivors, directly in their midst. Her own weapons discarded, she leapt on the first of the soldiers, her booted heel on his neck, strangling him, pinning him back. She ripped the pistol from his grasp, firing into his chest, turning quickly, firing and dispatching the last.
Sigrid scanned the room quickly, infrared then thermal; eight mercenaries lay dead; four wounded, incapacitated. She sensed movement on the catwalk overhead—an injured mercenary reaching for a dropped weapon. Sigrid fired. All was quiet.
The entire fracas had taken but seconds.
Black smoke filled the room, alarms bleated, licks of flame marred the floor and walls. Captain Trybuszkiewicz knelt squarely on the back of Corbin Price. The fat merchant coughed, choking, wheezing for air. Sigrid retrieved her discarded pistols before making her way to him, staring down at his prostrate form.
“We—we had a deal!”
Sigrid pulled a set of plastic binders from her belt, fastened them to his wrists. “I learned from you, Mr. Price. I lied
.”
Roughly, she hauled the fat man toward the reactor chamber and fastened him securely to its shielded outer wall. “What—what are you doing? Wait!”
Sigrid gave a quick look to the captain. “Are you injured, sir?”
He shook his head, squinting, coughing, waving to clear the smoke. “Quite all right.”
“Wait!” Corbin Price protested. “You—you can’t leave me here. The machines—the industrial platforms. I can still get you those. I’m not lying. You must believe me. Please, Ms. Peters, we can make a deal!”
Sigrid retrieved another frag grenade from her belt, twisted the top, and reset the delay for five minutes before slapping it onto the reactor’s outer wall.
“My name is Sigrid Novak.”
* * *
Captain Trybuszkiewicz led Sigrid quickly back through the ship to the holding cell where the three captured crew of the Ōmi Maru were held. There was little resistance left. The surviving Merchantman crew hurriedly abandoned the doomed ship, wisely preferring escape to combat—something Sigrid knew she had to do, and quickly.
There were weapons enough lying about, and Sigrid made certain the Kimurans were armed before heading for the lifeboats. Her PCM fed her a persistent, if somewhat annoying reminder as to the time left before detonation. Sigrid went from berth to berth, desperately searching for one of the remaining lifeboats. She had to haul a frightened merchant crewman out of the only remaining pod before pushing the captain and Kimuran officers inside.
The captain held fast, his arm braced against the door frame. He saw what Sigrid saw. The lifeboat only held room for four.
“Get in,” Captain Trybuszkiewicz commanded.
“Captain—”
“I’m an old man, Ms. Novak. Your time is not yet—”
There wasn’t time. Sigrid grabbed the captain by his belt and collar, lifting the older man off his feet, ankles kicking in protest, and thrust him bodily into the pod. “I’m sorry, sir. But there’s no time to discuss this.”
“Ms. Novak! Sigrid—”
Sigrid slammed the release. The lifeboat’s door crashed shut. She heard the series of thumps—pins holding the pod in place exploding free—then a pronounced bang as the lifeboat was ejected from the ship.
The numerals displayed in her HUD changed from amber to red. Ten seconds.
Shit.
Sprinting, Sigrid ran for the nearest airlock one deck down. She wasn’t going to make it.
She heard the first explosion, felt the deck plates buckle under her, then a surge that sent her tumbling upward. The ship’s gravity failed then, and she floated free, tumbling down the lengths of the corridor, banging her head solidly on a collapsed beam. She had just enough of a mind to close the visor on her helmet. The second explosion was far greater—the reactor breaching. She heard the thunderous roar beneath her, a rolling boil growing ever louder, then the shuddering surge of release. Metal groaned and tore like paper, shredding about her. The bulkhead and deck plates behind her broke apart, blowing anything not nailed down out into space, Sigrid along with it.
“Blast!” Sigrid said.
She was tumbling free at an incredible rate, end over end, twisting and turning, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. With nothing to grab hold of, no resistance, nothing could stop her as she tumbled out of control, moving deeper and deeper into the blackness of space. Stars spun by her fractured visor. Debris from the explosion had penetrated her suit, venting more oxygen, losing pressure. The splintered faceplate would not hold for long. Her PCM flashed the expected time of her suit failure in bright bold colors: eight minutes, fifty-eight-point-three seconds.
Nine minutes to live.
It was a fitting end to a failed mission. How was it possible she’d misread Corbin Price so badly? The captain had sensed his duplicity. The chief, too. Only Sigrid had missed it. Had she allowed the prospect of the industrial machines to cloud her mind, or had she simply grown so overconfident in her abilities that she thought it didn’t matter?
She had nine minutes to think about it.
Seven minutes, eight-point-nine seconds, her PCM corrected.
Sigrid cursed.
Another wave of debris blew past her; twisted bits of metal mingled with body parts. At least she had stopped the Merchantman. The ship would not reach her next port, would not report the location of their hidden home. Her friends were safe. The captain and crew were safe.
Or were they?
Sigrid pondered that question. They were safe from the Merchantmen. She’d seen to that. But how many times had they been attacked now? How much energy, time and resources had their enemies expended, all for the chance to control them? How many more attempts would they be forced to endure?
No. Her friends were not safe. Her friends would never be safe. Men would always come for them.
Because they were not afraid of them.
It was then that Sigrid realized the simple truth and her greatest failure. Her enemies were not afraid of her. They did not fear her.
They would.
She made a promise then, to herself and to her sisters. No one would ever harm them again. For the simple fear of their own lives. This she would make certain of. This was her promise. And she would keep it.
If she could survive past the next…
Two minutes, six-point-nine seconds.
“Blast…”
Sigrid felt a lifeline snaking around her waist, coiling, tightening. Her forward trajectory changed as the line went taut, and she found herself rotating end over end in a gentle twenty-five-meter circle. She craned her neck, looking up. On the other end of the line was a figure in a stark, white EVA suit. Behind him floated the welcoming bulk of the Ōmi Maru.
The tether on which she’d been snared was hooked to a winch. The figure waved as he began to reel her in, their orbit around each other ever tightening.
She closed with the figure. A hand reached out and grabbed her arm, his faceplate pressed against hers. It was the chief—Chief Engineer Andrzej Topa.
“Your comlink seems to be malfunctioning, Ms. Novak.”
Sigrid checked the system; she hadn’t noticed during all her tumbling. Too out of breath, too dazed, too numb to respond, Sigrid nodded and gave the standard thumbs-up signal. This satisfied the chief, who smiled back at her.
“Good girl. Now let’s get you home.”
end of preview chapters
The adventures of Sigrid Novak continue in The Machines of Bellatrix
<<<<>>>>
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* * *
THE NARROWING PATH, David J. Normoyle
Dystopian, by David J. Normoyle
It’s a dog eat dog world we live in. Throughout history, dystopian societies are more the rule than the exception.
We mightn’t want that to be true but a look through the history books doesn’t provide comforting reading. If history provides warnings from the past, dystopian fiction sends warnings back from the future; society tries to avoid repeating mistakes from the past, but also strives to avoid Orwellian futures.
In The Narrowing Path, we explore the concept of an extreme form of survival of the fittest. The population is limited, and the ruling class want to keep the status quo. They have plenty of children, and they want to ensure only the best males survive. But how to define best in this context, and how to test it? In this technologically backward world, the only way is to let the children prove themselves in a real world setting.
So just as the rulers of this world scheme amongst themselves, and trade, and try to build enterprises, so their teenage children are set loose in the city to show they can do the same. The rulers watch the progress of the teenagers, taking note of which of them are successful in their ventures, which of them are clever in their schemes, which of them are strong and ruthless in their dealings with rivals, and which of them show the leadership that will allow them to suc
cessfully rule the future generations. It’s a fight to the death, but with wits rather than weapons. Only about one in twenty of the sons of the noble families are allowed to survive and go forward to become future rulers. The noble daughters live longer, but life isn’t much better for them; they spend their days in harems until discarded by their husbands when they age.
But even when society as a whole is bleak, the human spirit often provides the strength to break free. In the world of The Narrowing Path, the lower classes work together and help each other, often sacrificing themselves so that others might live. They have to deal with not just the problems of the strictly limited population, but also the brutal regime inflicted on them by the ruling class, but their suffering makes them stronger rather than weaker, makes them love more than they hate.
It’s a dog eat dog world we live in. But it can and will get better.
The Narrowing Path
David J. Normoyle
Prologue
Dread coiled inside my stomach. It wasn’t that I would be seeing so many corpses; as ascor, we accepted death before we ever became Greens. But this was an ending beyond death. I shared a glance with Cenarro and could see that the old man felt the same as I did.
The heat, heavy and wet, pushed down on me. Each time the Infernam came, it seemed as though my spine curved another notch. I could no longer stand as tall as I used to. Today was a day for a bowed head, in any case. A sad day.
“Come on Kesirran, let’s get this over with,” Stenesso said to me. He stood erect and strong as ever. There was an edge of triumph in his voice that disturbed me. This was a night for regret and reflection, not gloating. He didn’t understand like Cenarro and I did. Stenesso was too young to lead, but the Greniers always favored raw strength above wisdom.
The three of us approached the mansion. Stenesso nodded to the marshals and they moved aside. He struggled with the door, and only when he put his shoulder to it and shoved hard did it lurch open. He slid inside and the door shut behind him. When I pushed through after him, I was hit with a wave of nausea as the stench of sweat, excrement, and vomit hit me. Children’s bodies lay piled up against the door and on the floor. I tried to avoid looking too closely at the small corpses, but the images burned themselves into my brain. Bile seared my throat. Some of their faces looked serene and peaceful; others’ were frozen into a rictus of horror. A black tongue poked out of one mouth. A red haired boy had scratches across his face. One child’s hands clutched at another boy’s throat.
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