Raider

by Justine Davis

  “Very hard,” Ordam retorted instantly. “No one wishes that pestilence gone more than I. But the results are unvarying. No one knows who he really is, where he came from, not even his own followers. By his command.”

  Now that was interesting.

  “His own command?”

  “It is said he orders it, so that no one can be forced to betray him.”

  He leaned back in his chair, studying the man before him. “Ziem’s total population is a quarter that of any other planet the Coalition has reached. Two-thirds of those live here in Zelos. And you’re saying no one recognizes this man?”

  “Have you not heard? The man is hideously scarred.”

  “I have heard.”

  And if the scars are all you see, if you notice nothing else about him, not his height, his build, his way of moving, his mannerisms, then you are even bigger fools than I thought.

  Ordam glanced quickly around as if he feared a hidden watcher, then whispered, “They say he wears that helmet not to protect from injury but to hide something even worse than the scars that are visible. Some say there is no flesh left on his skull beneath it.”

  Paledan didn’t bother to ask who “they” were. He’d encountered enough of the types who simply had to have a horror story to pass around, for the momentary importance it gave them. In their own minds, anyway.

  “This is all you know?”

  “It’s all I want to know,” Ordam said with a shudder that was visible.

  And I’m sure you are very good at limiting your knowledge to what you want to know.

  He dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. Ordam stood, hastily, but then hesitated.

  “Something else?” Paledan asked, not bothering to disguise his distaste for the man.

  There was another moment of hesitation before Ordam asked, “Does this mean you intend to do something about him? I only ask because . . . Frall never did.”

  Paledan’s gaze narrowed sharply; he might not think much of the bumbler himself, but he would not tolerate such disrespect for an officer from a man he thought even less of.

  “Are you referring to Coalition Major Frall?” he asked, his tone icy.

  “I . . . of course. I’m sorry.”

  “We’re finished,” Paledan said flatly.

  “Yes, sir.” Ordam nearly tripped over his own feet in his hurry to leave.

  When the man had gone, Paledan leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers before him. He thought about the orders Legion Command had given him. Or rather, the result the Coalition expected; how he got there was left up to him. Which was both a mark of his own reputation, and the Coalition habit of deniability; what they hadn’t specifically ordered, they could not be held accountable for. Not that they cared what they were blamed for; the more horror stories that circulated, the more fear existed, which suited their purposes.

  Besides, when everyone was following the same handbook, orders didn’t need to be spelled out. He didn’t need to be told all Ziemites except for the planium miners were expendable; that was a given.

  But he also knew that wiping out the rest of the population, including their families, could tip the miners into a refusal to work. When men lost everything they loved, they seemed to no longer care about life or death. He did not possess or quite understand such emotions, but he knew they existed. He knew as well that the lack made him an oddity, but it also meant that by not being prey to emotions, he was better able to see the necessary path through them.

  He leaned forward and keyed the comm system.

  “Brakely.”

  “Sir?” his aide answered almost instantly. Marl Brakely had once been a rising star, expected to go as far as his famous uncle, who had made his reputation as the much-honored commander of the Brightstar, a premiere Coalition battleship. Commander Brayton Brakely had survived, barely, the misfortune of having had two traitors serving together on his crew. That they did not turn traitor until long after they had left the Brightstar did not alleviate, in the Coalition mind, the fact that they were the two most infamous and grievous traitors the Coalition had ever known: Califa Claxton and Shaylah Graymist.

  Commander Brakely’s heroic career and stellar history had saved him then, but it had not saved him from Coalition rage after the second defeat on Arellia just a few months ago. The Coalition had taken out its anger on the man who had been in charge during the battle that had ended with Coalition forces unable to even approach for fear of being blasted to bits all over again by the unexpectedly fierce resistance of a people they had thought easily defeatable.

  Something those who thought the same of Ziem might be wise to remember.

  Brakely’s nephew had been condemned to the same fate, having first committed the sin of being a cadet at Claxton’s much vaunted academy at the time of her betrayal, and now being related to his disgraced uncle. Such was Coalition thinking. He saw the sense of it; if you knew your entire extended family would pay for your sins, you were more likely to think thrice before betraying your masters.

  But, by the other side of the token, saving someone from that fate earned you a kind of loyalty it was hard to gain any other way. So plucking the younger Brakely out of the death line had been a calculated move that had paid off well. When he had offered him the position as his aide, the look in the man’s eyes told him he had assessed him accurately. And the man had served him loyally ever since. Now there were few he trusted more.

  Although there was no one he trusted completely.

  He glanced at the document open on his viewscreen. Claxton’s classic Aerial Combat Tactics. Although he was not a pilot, the treatise had always been in his collection for the simple reason that, in the end, surprisingly for an air fighter, Claxton had agreed with him. Or rather, the other way around, given that he’d been all of fifteen when he’d first read it. She’d stated that while great strides could be made by air in any battle, it could not be finished without troops on the ground.

  Of course, agreeing with a notorious traitor was never a good thing to advertise.

  Of Graymist and Claxton, Claxton had been the harder for him to believe; he’d studied all her writings on tactics and strategy and thought her a genius. He’d regretted that her academy had been closed before he’d been old enough to attend; he’d been looking forward to it for years. But it had been bombed to rubble after her defection to the Triotian forces. A defection the Coalition had tried to cover up, but she was too well known, and the whole Triotian fiasco too big to hide for long. Someone had fallen down on the job; someone should have noticed what was going on with Claxton a lot sooner.

  And he’d be damned to hades if he would fall into that trap. If he was ever beaten, it would not be because he failed to track potential threats.

  “Gather everything you can find on this raider,” he said over the comm link. “I want it all, fact or legend, any rumor you can pick up, including hearsay and speculation.”

  “I’ve already begun, Major.”

  And that, Paledan thought, was the mark of a good aide, anticipating what his commander would want. “Excellent,” he said.

  “Do you want what I have so far?”

  He considered that. “No. I want to see it all at once. But make it your first priority, Brakely.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  And in the meantime, he would change into civilian clothes and take a walk through the streets of Zelos before the night curfew. Not many knew what he looked like yet, and he might be able to pick up something of interest himself.

  Chapter 19

  THE MIST HAD vanished.

  The sky glowed clear and blue, and the white light of the center star blazed over Ziem and burned off the near-constant fog. Some claimed they could even see the second star, tiny and distant, behind the center star. With a sigh, Drake thought of the time when a day lik
e this would have sent many scurrying to the observation center to take a look through the big scope. But the center was controlled by the Coalition now, and no one wished to draw that much attention to themselves. Especially given the suspicious nature of the Coalition scientists that ran it; they were unable to accept innate curiosity in those they thought beneath them in intelligence, and thus attributed any interest to subversive reasons.

  As if looking at the center star would help somehow.

  He shrugged off the feeling of futility that had overtaken him last night. It was stronger now than it had ever been, yet with less reason. They had a rail gun now, which was no small feat. Yet it still seemed small, if he let himself think about the galactic might of the Coalition. If he let this feeling grow, take hold, he would not be able to rouse himself to any kind of action, including getting out of his bed in the morning.

  How did you do it, Father? How did you keep going, in the face of insurmountable odds and the viciousness of the Coalition tyrants?

  As always, no answer came to him. And so he did the only thing he could do at the moment, and set about his daily work. Donning the apron that had become his regular attire here, he focused on wiping down the bar, sweeping the floor yet again, and setting the chairs at every table neatly on the floor. As if each task was the only thing of import in his life. As if each thing required every ounce of his concentration. For right now, the only thing that mattered was keeping his mind from straying to things that had no answer except pain.

  When he reached the table in the corner, where Brander held his games of chaser, he paused. He’d seen the new post commander come in again last night. He’d heard the whispers among the patrons first, then turned to look. The air of command about the man was unmistakable. It wasn’t just his breadth of shoulder or steady gaze, it was something more intangible but very real, a sort of presence that spoke of confidence and the skill to back it up.

  And after the man had gone—with, according to the buzz, a sizeable chunk of Brander’s coin—he saw in his friend’s expression a combination of grim contemplation and respect. Not a good combination for the people of Zelos.

  Brander would go up the mountain, where they could discuss his assessment in detail, later. The mountain where his sister was likely roaming at this moment.

  And, that quickly, he was back to that nagging concern, keeping Eirlys alive and safe. She might be nearing adulthood, but she was still and would ever be his little sister. Her safety was his responsibility, as was that of the twins. It was a difficult load to carry, but there was no one else. This was not the life he had wanted, expected, or would have chosen, but it was the life he had. He must balance it as best he could.

  For a brief moment, he allowed himself to think of a time ahead, when Nyx and Lux would also reach, Eos willing, adulthood. Then, perhaps, he could turn to his own life. If there was anything left of it. He shook his head sharply. He’d already lost Kye in one form; did not dare let her in in his other guise. Better to assume there would be nothing if and when this was over, than to hold out hope and have it shattered.

  He would always feel a responsibility toward all three of his siblings, especially the twins, but even they would be off to make their own way eventually. Hopefully wiser and more cautious than they were now.

  And he grimaced at the thought of how much trouble those two could get into were he not here to disentangle them. It was a sobering thought.

  It suddenly all seemed too much. He threw the wipe rag down on the chaser table, turned, and walked out the back door. The normally dark alley behind the taproom was flooded with golden light. The noises from the street, mostly troopers shouting orders, seemed distant, even without the mist to muffle them. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the warm rays wash over him. But after a moment, he opened them again and looked around. The alley itself was not improved by the brightness; there were things piled here and there that were probably best when hidden by the usual mist. And the aroma that was rising, of discarded leavings that had no doubt attracted muckrats and other charming scavengers, and the signs of a flock of squawkers that nested in the various abandoned buildings, could also do with the cooling effect of the mist. Gone were the days when Zelos had been spotless, when no one would have thought of leaving a trail of garbage behind them.

  He himself preferred the mist anyway, the foggy coolness, although he didn’t mind this occasional visit by the light. This one was unseasonal, given they were still in the early rebirth months, but it would fade soon enough, perhaps until it returned in the sun-season and stayed for several weeks.

  A noise drew his attention. A scrabbling sort of sound in the alcove of the back door of the old weapons shop, long ago closed by the Coalition, across the way. He saw only a large, male figure, but something about the way he was moving warned him, in the instant before a tiny, terrified scream hit his ears.

  A child. He reacted instantly. Instinctively. He moved, as quickly as he could and still maintain stealth. The dark figure—a hulking man in a Coalition uniform of guard rank—didn’t turn, didn’t seem to be aware of his approach. He was intent on his prey, a small girl not even as old as Lux, who was struggling wildly against his crushing grip.

  He had no weapon. The man had at least half again his body weight on him.

  You fight with what you have.

  Drake freed the ties on his apron. Pulled it off in the last few steps. In the moment he got within reach, the man jerked away the hand that had been covering the girl’s mouth. Drake heard a sharp curse. The girl screamed. Louder now.

  “Bite me, will you?” the man growled out.

  Good girl.

  The man lifted his hand for a blow. Drake took the last two steps. Lifted the heavy cloth of the apron. In a split second, he had it over the man’s head, over his face, with the ties wrapped around his neck holding it in place. Now sightless, attacked from behind, the man roared. His hands flailed toward the blaster at his belt. Drake pulled the ties tighter. Then grabbed the blaster from its sheath. The temptation to use it, to blast this child assaulter to tiny pieces, was strong. Only the likely aftermath stopped him. He tossed it aside.

  He dodged the man’s blows, wild and blind, easily. Pulled back even harder. Forced the man to stagger back. His shouts were mere strangled gasps now. The brute stumbled over the rough stones of the alley. Went down hard. His huge, bald head hit the stone. He went limp.

  Drake whirled. The girl, a tiny thing with huge eyes, stared at him. Tears streamed down her face.

  “It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

  She scrambled to her feet. She was wearing a worn tunic that had seen many better days even before this lout had torn it. She looked at him warily. He took a step back, held up his hands to indicate he meant her no harm.

  She darted away, toward the entrance to the alley. He stayed where he was, reasonably sure by the way she was moving that she wasn’t badly hurt. He’d gotten there in time.

  When she got to the alley opening, she turned back to look at him again. He thought of Lux, and his stomach turned at the thought of her in such a brute’s hands.

  “Thank you,” the girl whispered, so softly he almost couldn’t hear it.

  He nodded. And then she was gone, out into the street that was beginning to fill with people going about what business the Coalition allowed them.

  Quickly, he knelt by the Coalition soldier. He freed his apron, revealing a face that was vaguely familiar. Someone who had likely been in the taproom before, he decided. He thought quickly. Grabbed up the blaster, wiped it with the apron and slid it back into the sheath, as if he had never touched it. Then he put the apron back on as he ran back to the back door of the taproom. He opened it and stood just inside, leaving it open just enough to press his ear to the gap.

  After a moment or two, he heard a scraping sound, of something moving a
cross the stone. A second later, he heard string of curses that started out low and grew in volume and foulness until it was a yell of obscenity aimed at everyone in the vicinity and their mothers.

  Drake waited until it had lessened to intermittent indictments of various creatures, including a suggestion for a goat that he thought was physically impossible. Then he steeled himself, put on his most worried expression, and shuffled out into the alley.

  “Oh!” he exclaimed, as if he’d just seen the big man who was leaning against the opposite wall. “Oh, sir, are you all right?”

  The man blinked, as if his vision wasn’t quite right yet. But after a moment he seemed to focus. And to recognize Drake. So he’d been right about him being a taproom customer.

  “You’re the tapper.”

  “Yes,” he said, trying to sound worried as well as look it. It wasn’t hard, given the suspicion in the man’s narrow eyes. He thought about rubbing his hands together anxiously, but if he judged by the look of him—and the smell—such subtleties would be lost on this man. “I heard some noise out here, and I got nervous. Do you need help, sir?”

  The fawning words and tone worked a minor miracle. The suspicion vanished. And it didn’t seem to occur to the man to question why he’d come out at all, if he was so nervous. “I was attacked.”

  Drake widened his eyes. “Right here? In my alley? That’s . . . disgraceful!”

  “It is,” the man boomed out, confidence regained. “And I’ll hunt them down, you can be sure of that.”

  “Them, sir?”

  “At least two of them. Maybe three. But I fought them off.”

  Right.

  Mostly out of curiosity over what the man would say, Drake asked, “Were you looking for something back here, sir?”

  The expression on his brutish face became guarded. “I was merely taking a shortcut.”

  “Of course,” Drake said with a nod. Never mind that this alley in fact was the longer way around to anything else on the street.