by Tammy Salyer
I keep my mouth shut, hoping the situation sorts itself out.
Her words are like blunt objects, pummeling them. “When did you get the impression that this is up for discussion?”
The muscles in Strahan’s jaw clench hard, about to pop through his cheeks, and Vilbrandt slumps in childish capitulation.
She continues, “The operation runs out of an old mine. The Administration abandoned the site, but the men we’re dealing with use the remaining structures to run a smuggling op. They bring in and sell whatever they can, and it turns out they have about as many solar seeds as we can use right now. They’re dangerous, but they’re the only people within a month’s travel with energy for sale, and they’re willing to deal. I don’t trust them and I want to make sure we have enough firepower with us to convince them we’re not an easy mark. That means you, Erikson.”
“Do I have a choice?” I’m sure it’s a purely rhetorical question.
“No. Desto, get the Rover ready. Make sure the grenade launcher is full. Strahan, show Erikson where the rest of her gear is.”
“Captain, can I have a word with you?” Strahan isn’t ready to let this issue go. I’m not sure I am either, but if it means not being locked up, it might be worth it.
Her reply is curt and absolute. “No. Anyone else have a problem with this? No? Good.” She looks the crew over, ready to squash any disagreements with pure rage. “And Karl, our guest won’t be needing a shadow after this.”
Vitruzzi exits and everyone else disperses to attend to their duties. Without looking at me, Strahan stomps out toward the crew quarters. I follow him, keeping my footsteps light to avoid attracting his attention. I don’t need to bring any more shit down on my own head than I have to. Stopping in front of my door once more, he turns toward a storage locker in the opposite wall. Another keypad is mounted beside it.
“The code is alpha, zed, omega, two, one, zed, same as your bunk,” he grunts, and stalks off, jaw still clenched.
It’s been a while since I’ve provoked this kind of raw hostility in anyone. Shrugging, I start sorting out my gear.
* * *
Body armor, equipment vest, AK-80 pulse carbine, Sinbad pistol in my left side holster, Mini-Derg laser concealed within a boot-sheath; the only thing missing is my NKT bolo. I strap everything on in efficient movements honed from the hundreds of times I’ve done it before, as if slipping into a second skin. The familiarity of my gear makes me feel more in control of an otherwise uncontrollable situation, and I’m pleasantly surprised at finding they’d picked up my carbine from the dock control room floor. The carbine has saved my ass too many times to count and I think of it as a lucky rabbit’s foot. The sights are calibrated and the stock is specially molded so the weapon fits like an extension of my body. It would have been easy to spot—the only weapon present that wasn’t military issue.
It’s been twenty minutes and we should be hitting R’Kadia’s orbit soon. They’d given me my gear, but my magazines are all empty. It’s time to catch up with Vitruzzi. Heading back up the corridor, I run across Desto and get directions to the flight deck.
I approach the cockpit quietly out of habit and catch Strahan and Vitruzzi in conversation.
“She’s a liability, V. You know that. The longer she’s aboard, the more likely it is the Admin’ll pinch us and everything we’ve worked for will be over. We don’t need her on R’Kadia. It’s not worth the risk. We have no idea what she’ll do.”
“Relax. She needs us right now as much as we need her. And she knows it.”
“Yeah? We could lose our citizenship, our contracts, the Sphynx. We don’t need the disc to get Zeta and Doug and the rest. We’ve got Vilbrandt and he’s just as useful. I don’t trust her. And I think you’re wrong—we don’t need her.”
“Karl, you don’t trust anyone who hasn’t taken a bullet for you, so why should she be any different? Besides, I trust Vilbrandt even less. He worked for the Admin, after all.”
“So did we…once.”
There’s a pause, and then Vitruzzi takes a deep, resigned breath. “Point taken. But our chances are doubled with both the disc and Vilbrandt’s cooperation. You know I’m right. I’m not giving up on Doug and Zeta and I’ll be surprised if you are.”
“But we don’t have…”
It’s time to stop eavesdropping. Scuffing my boot on the metal floor just loud enough to be heard, I step through the hatch into the flight deck. They both turn toward me, slightly surprised at my intrusion. Immediately, Strahan brushes past me toward the exit. I give him plenty of room to pass.
The cockpit is smallish, just enough space for the navigator’s seat and the pilot’s controls. Nobody sits at them now; we’re on auto. The ceiling is low, and two jump seats line the walls to either side of the cockpit’s rear, stowed in the recesses built to hold them.
“Got a second?” I ask.
“Yes. I wanted to speak with you anyway.”
Leaning against the stowed jump seats, I try to seem relaxed. I want things to go smoothly, just this once. “I haven’t thanked you for the way you patched me up. I’d be in bad shape right now if you hadn’t, so thanks for that.”
She nods, impatient for me to get to the point.
“But we have a problem. Is this side trip to R’Kadia absolutely necessary? The longer we stall, the harder it’s going to be to regroup with my team and get you what you want. My brother’s life is on the line.”
“You really think he’s still alive?”
“Maybe not, but my first priority is to find out.”
She ponders my words for a moment, measuring how determined I am. “Vilbrandt told you about our missing friends? Doug and his crew?”
I nod.
“Did he tell you why the Admin arrested them?”
“Theft. Stealing energy.” She’s deviating from the point, but I have no leverage to stop her. Gritting my teeth, I wait for her to continue.
“They’re not civilians, but they’re not criminals either. We all live in an independent settlement on Spectra 6. We don’t bother the Admin and they don’t give a damn about us. But it isn’t easy, and sometimes we have to be creative in finding the basics we need to survive. Three weeks ago Doug and a crew of four, all good people, tried to jack some solar seeds from an Admin warehouse on Obal 8, and got caught.”
“I thought you said they aren’t criminals.”
“Don’t argue semantics with me, Erikson. You know as well as I do that the Admin doesn’t have the right to hoard the system’s seeds. People on the outer planets need them, citizens or not.”
I let it rest, not wanting to provoke her.
“We have no alternative. We need the seeds for energy, both at home and for the Sphynx. We won’t get far without them. Spectra 6 may not be close to Admin oversight, but it’s not plush with resources either.” She steps over to the navigator console and inputs the course-sequencing diagram. “If you’re worried about how long it will take, we’re only going about ten hours off our course. Look at this chart.” Pointing to a moon orbiting Spectra 5 in the system’s Delta quadrant, she continues, “Here’s R’Kadia. And we’re headed to Spectra 6, right here. It’s on the way, just a quick detour. If you help us get these seeds, you’ll get your ride back into the Obals and we can finish our other business. If not…” She allows the statement to hang.
She’s using me, but if I were Vitruzzi, I’d play the same cards. Her friends and my brother, both in Admin custody, both probably being held at the Fortress. What wouldn’t I do to try and rescue David? Doesn’t matter, the similarities between us end there. Vitruzzi isn’t trying to come out rich in this deal, she just wants to do what she can for her friends.
Facing the fact that I’m not going to change her mind, I bring up another issue. “How much do you trust Vilbrandt?”
She regards me cannily before answering, “I don’t. I know he’s trying to make a deal with you, but it doesn’t matter, does it? Listen to me carefully, though. If you and he try to double-cros
s us or get any of my crew hurt, you’ll be dead before you ever see the Fortress, or your brother.”
There’s no mistaking the promise in her words. This is the second time she’s threatened me, and the message is coming through loud and clear. Her loyalty to her crew is fierce. “David is my brother. I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize whatever chance he still has.”
“We have an understanding then.”
Can an alliance formed out of desperation and distrust end any way but badly? We’ll soon find out. “One more thing, I’m low on ammo. Do you have any 5.7 millimeter rounds, about three magazines, and…”
“Go to the cargo bay. Desto can sort you out.”
SIX
Desto isn’t in the main cargo bay, but there’s a wide blast door at the rear that’s partially open. Curious, I approach quietly and peer inside. Just left of the door sit several rows of missile transport tubes chained securely to the wall. A glance at their stenciled labels confirms: this is serious firepower. AU5 Glower missiles, perfectly suited for striking planetary targets from orbit, and farther down the row, RFX Murphys, which wouldn’t be out of place in a full-blown fleet action. Beyond them, an entire wall is dedicated to ammo bins, holding rounds and magazines for about everything I’ve ever used. Another wall houses neatly stacked crates stenciled with the names of different weaponry components and military-issue equipment. It’s an ammo vault. How and why do they—?
“Glad to see you found your way down here.” My head jerks back in surprise toward where Desto works, his back to me. Impressive—my entry had been completely silent. I’ve known people who have developed that sixth sense, that internal radar that never quite shuts off, usually soldiers or survivors with a good deal of combat behind them. What’s Desto’s story?
“It’s not that big a ship. But by the arsenal you have here, I’d think I was aboard a fleet cruiser.”
With an amused grunt, he says, “Just tools in our toolbox. So what do you need, sweetheart?” Uh-huh. No answers here, I guess.
“Just some 5.7.”
The bemused grin never leaves his face. “For that little AK-80 of yours, right? Yeah, we’ve got some right over here,” he says, moving farther along a stack and taking out a regulation, standard-issue crate of Corps ammo.
I feel a twinge of annoyance at his dismissive reference to the carbine I carry. “It’s light, handy, lets me move fast, and it’s never jammed on me in a fight. Plus, I can carry more ammo.”
He smiles, not missing the opportunity to crack a joke at my expense. “Miss often, do you?” Before I can respond, he continues, “You should try one of my toys sometime.” He steps past me to some lockers closer to the door opposite the missiles and pulls out a large, dark-colored rifle scabbard.
“Thresher M-2209,” he says, slipping the scabbard off and hefting out the heavy weapon with ease.
Holy shit. I haven’t seen one of those since early in my Corps training. A squad-level weapon, used to supply more punch when standard rifles and carbines wouldn’t do. Not long after I’d joined, it was dropped in favor of lighter, smaller-caliber weapons with smart ammunition. Just remembering its brutal recoil makes my shoulder ache.
“Now,” he continues, “unless you hit them in the head or heart, it might take two or three rounds with 5.7 millimeter to put somebody down. With the 7.9 in the ’209, here,” he sights down the barrel affectionately, “one round is all you need.”
“Old fashioned, isn’t it? Christ, the grip is made of wood! And the ammo is heavy as hell.”
“Yeah, it’s nothing like caseless, but this baby can’t be spoofed or jammed, either. And body armor doesn’t help. At best, your insides are still going to be pounded into salsa. As for the weight…”
“Right. Of course.” What was I thinking? This guy could probably hold one in each hand without much trouble.
He hands it to me. Well used but definitely not abused. Examining the wooden fore grip closely, I notice something else. What I at first thought was the standard checkering to give the shooter a better hold is actually an intricate carving of planetary scenes, starscapes, ships, and people. A tapestry of his life?
“Is this—?”
Vitruzzi’s voice rings over the intercom: “Approaching atmosphere. We should be entering in five minutes. We’ll hit dirt in less than an hour. Everyone who’s going, meet me at the Rover. Out.”
“Better get your ammo loaded up.” Desto takes the Thresher and slings it across his back. “Anything else?”
“Yeah,” I answer, snapping back to practical reality. “I need something to replace my bolo.”
He looks around thoughtfully. “I have a Torcher that would fit in your vest.”
“Not the same as a knife, and I’m not crazy about lasers.”
“Something we agree on.” He snaps a knife off his own harness and tosses it to me. “Here you go. I’ve got another one.”
Business concluded, we walk out into the cargo bay to finish prepping the Rover, the Sphynx’s auxiliary land transport. The bay is about twice the size of the weapons vault, room enough for plenty of cargo. There are stairs leading up from either side to the crew quarters and galley level, ending at a landing that runs the circumference of the bay. In the middle of the floor, a hatch to its short-range shuttle is surrounded by yellow paint to mark its border. A few crates and boxes lay around, but the space is mostly empty. The Rover sits to one side, secured to the deck by heavy cables. It’s a four-wheeled all terrain vehicle, covered by a bubble made of clear, bullet-resistant plating. The metal upper frame provides adequate strength to withstand a rollover but is sparse enough that the passengers have a 360-degree view outside. Four interior bucket seats are arranged back to back, two facing forward and two backward. Gray material covers them, worn and thin, and in some places torn away, revealing solid metal plates underneath that were probably built to withstand an external blast. Attached in the front and rear are a set of cargo racks that look sturdy, designed to carry a lot of weight.
Strahan enters the bay and, passing me without a glance, opens one side of the Rover’s hatch. It swings up on a set of center-mounted hinges on the top bar like a giant clam. After loading two rifles into racks attached to the seat frames, he secures a smallish crate to the cargo rack.
“Can I help with anything?”
“Just stay out of my way.”
And just like that, my patience gives. “What’s your problem, Strahan? Did I steal your lunch money in another life or something?”
He drops the cam strap securing the cargo and focuses on me for the first time. “I think you’re dangerous, Erikson. People like you will do anything for profit. I think Vitruzzi made a mistake bringing you on board, and I’m not going to give you a chance to prove me right.”
Icy cold fury rushes through my veins. His comment hits me somewhere deep inside, a visceral strike with the force of a tank. Sucking breath through my clenched teeth, I face him woodenly. “Don’t think for a second that you know me, Strahan. You don’t know anything about me.”
“Just stay where I can see you. I’m not getting stabbed again.” His tone, still level, is dismissive.
Vitruzzi and Desto approach and Strahan jumps aboard the Rover. Desto nudges me and says with an impish grin, “Don’t worry. That’s how he shows he cares.”
“Get ready. We should be down in about ten minutes,” Vitruzzi says, and turns to me. “Here, put this on.” She hands me a small, white breathing apparatus, and points toward my nostrils. “It’ll filter out things you don’t want in your lungs. You’ll feel light-headed at first because the air is mostly oxygen, but you’ll get used to it. Just remember to breath through your nose as much as you can.”
I press the flexible device into my nostrils, and the walls and floors begin to vibrate furiously as we penetrate R’Kadia’s atmosphere. On most military ships, it’s best to be strapped into something for this part, but no one seems worried. My stomach does a lazy flip-flop as we begin decelerating, a
nd I brace myself for the sudden shock that usually occurs when breaking through the troposphere. The vibration increases for a few seconds, making the shipping crates rattle, but then, just as suddenly as it had started, the bumpiness ends and we’re sailing smoothly through the air, like fish through water. Whatever else they’d done to this craft, modifying their atmospheric thrust compensation could be the most impressive.
Venus’s high-pitched, girlish voice floats out from the intercom: “Setting us down in five, Captain. Looks like a nice day outside, no weather issues. Temp is thirty-four degrees C.”
As the ship maneuvers through rising air currents from the ground, we all take our seats in the Rover, Vitruzzi at the wheel next to Strahan, Desto and I beside each other in the back. Once we’re on the ground, she remote-opens the cargo bay door and then we’re out, rolling over rough sandy terrain.
I’ve never been to this moon. It’s bright out, but I don’t see any of the Algol stars illuminating the landscape. It must be approaching night here. Brownish-green plants dot the landscape, but not many, and they are all short and dry looking. Not a very habitable planet, but the air is relatively clear. We cruise along quickly, eating up kilometers, as the Sphynx shrinks behind us.
Vitruzzi speaks into the com unit, telling Bodie and Venus to be online for a quick retrieval. Her actions are sure and direct, not nervous, but alert, ready for anything. I turn around in my seat to look ahead. We’ve gone about halfway and are quickly approaching the entrance to a canyon with steep sloping walls.
Desto suddenly tenses up next to me and I turn around quickly to see what has set him on edge. There’s a flash of light, as if from a solar panel, behind us on a hilltop to the east.
“Vitruzzi,” Desto warns.
“I know, they’re signaling each other. There’s another one up there.” She points ahead toward the western cliff.
“They must not be using radio. They’re signaling each other so we can’t pick up what they’re saying,” Strahan says.
“Only people who have something to hide are worried about other people hearing them.” Desto sounds angry.