by Joshua Guess
“How close can we get?” Fen said suddenly, interrupting her. Her reptilian face contorted into a surprisingly human expression: embarrassment. “Sorry, I just had a thought and it kind of took over my brain before I could stop it.”
Spencer shrugged. “If you have an idea that won’t get us all killed, go for it.”
Grant tapped his lips again. “Depends on what you mean, I guess. Our stealth mode is pretty good. Visually we’re almost impossible to see. Most active scans will absorb right into the hull, and I doubt they have the sort of technology that can detect us that way. Only real problem is thermal bloom. If we move using the conventional drive, we’ll put out heat. If they’re looking for it, they’ll see it.”
Fen nodded. “Okay, and if that wasn’t an issue? How close could we get to that base without being seen, do you think?”
“Within a hundred, hundred and fifty thousand kilometers or so,” Spencer said. “Assuming they aren’t looking hard at random stars blinking out as we pass between them.”
Fen nodded. “So why don’t we do that? Use the thrusters the get us moving so there’s no heat to track, then use them again to bring us to a stop. It’ll be slow, but it will get us there.”
Grant raised an eyebrow. “Why, though? It’s not like being closer changes our odds.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Fen said with a smile. She pointed at Iona. “But if we can get within a light-second, I’m betting she can duplicate her trick from our last mission and take over their computers.”
*
“God in heaven, please have mercy on us, your children,” Krieger muttered as the last of his programmed maneuvers engaged. The ship slid into an orbit a hundred and fifty thousand kilometers from the base after hours of drifting along on some creative bursts of thruster fire. Not just the Seraphim thrusters, which would have been exhausted before achieving orbit, but every source of compressed gas available short of tapping into the supply for the reactor itself.
“Is this going to work?” Grant asked for the tenth time as the ship began its slow gravitational dance with the planetoid in the far distance.
Iona sighed. “It should. This place is a clearinghouse for data the Red Hand collects. Passive scans make me certain they don’t have a gap between comms and their main system. I should be able to get in without a problem. How many times would you like me to repeat that, sir? I can do so while I slice into their system.”
Grant probably should have given her a dark look, but the fact that she was relaxed enough to be sarcastic filled him with an odd species of confidence. If it didn’t work, they’d still be invisible. The enemy would know someone was out here, but Grant knew Krieger was pilot enough to get them out of firing range in plenty of time to form a warp bubble and escape. The mission would be blown, but Grant’s people would live.
It was worth the risk simply for the trove of information housed here. What they’d taken from their captive Red Hand ship was only a fraction of the total data contained here. If they were very lucky, Iona would be able to find not only hints to the location of the Smith, but a clue where Drummer was getting his technology from.
If not, at least they’d break the back of the Red Hand. Taking the base would leave the fleet scattered and independent, each vessel forced to find its own supplies and ports elsewhere.
“Keep me updated,” Grant said.
Iona glanced at him. “Oh, I’m already in. I’m just looking around at the moment. As soon as our signal hit their system, I dove in and made sure none of the readouts or alarms let them know they’re even getting a signal.”
Fen, who stood near the lift, chuckled. “That’s fine work. Our sim was never that creative. He was a bit stiff.”
“I’d still like to know exactly what you’re up to, if you don’t mind,” Grant said. “I’m just the captain, I know, but if you’d consent to lowering yourself to my level I sure would appreciate it.”
Iona smirked and took control of the monitor. With the ship in standby, it didn’t need much of its overall processing power. That power was considerably higher than it had been before the refit and rechristening thanks to a series of requests from Iona. Tasking the additional nodes with rote, brute-force work made multitasking easier for her, and she took full advantage.
“As you can see, I’m fully inside their system,” Iona said. “Right now I’m reprogramming the surface displays so I can show them anything I want. In a moment I’ll begin tweaking sensors and dozens of other systems so any double check or deeper will support what they’re seeing. Everything should be ready in a minute or so. Would you like a live video feed from inside the station? I have access to the command center.”
Grant raised his eyebrows. “I remember when you were quiet and a little timid. How you evolved into a showoff, I’ll never know.”
“Learned from the best, sir,” Iona said evenly. “Here you go.”
A video feed popped up, showing the bare bones crew in charge of monitoring the base’s systems. They had the look of any non-professional group of desk jockeys, which is to say that they were only marginally less strict about keeping watch than someone in the military might be. Space, even after centuries of exploration and technological development, was dangerous as hell. No one who spent much time in it failed to learn that lesson and develop strong habits for mitigating those dangers. Technology was wonderful but no amount of it stopped the universe from tossing rocks at you.
“I’m ready to implement on your command,” Iona said calmly.
Grant waved a hand. “Do it.”
What followed was a symphony of confusion and chaos that would have done Loki proud. Without warning, every alarm in the base lit up at once. They showed an impact at the reactor, failures in every emergency backup system, and the general evacuation alarm. Iona tricked the readouts into displaying false radiation and thermal data—essentially the worst-case scenario. The few people on duty did as they were trained, trying to run down the problems and verify the apparently lethal conditions.
This was where constant training and readiness itself became a weapon. Grant watched as the residents inside the base, conditioned over years to prepare for exactly this situation, did what they were supposed to. Iona switched video feeds to show pirates and families alike donning emergency suits and heading for the various ships sitting on their docking pads. No one wanted to be within a thousand kilometers of even a small fusion reactor working its way toward disaster.
It played out beautifully. Every soul was up and out within ten minutes, and every ship lifted off.
Grant let out a low whistle. “I can’t believe that worked. Nicely done.”
Iona bowed her head slightly. “I increased the temperature inside the base to sell it.”
“Too bad we won’t be able to chase all those ships down,” Fen said. “They’ll make it through the gate while we’re here uploading data.”
It was the only part of the plan Grant was truly unhappy with.
But again, Iona surprised him. With a grin, she gestured to the ships darting away from the planetoid. “Well, about that. Turns out all those ships dumped their own data via hard link when they landed and left those links open. Made it really easy to get into their systems, too.”
Grant’s lips twitched. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what did you do?”
“I programmed their navigation systems to lock on to the nearest navy signal and beeline toward it while their comms belt out a repeating signal explaining that they’re part of the Red Hand fleet. I made sure to include the fact that there may be children on board any given ship, so they won’t be shot down, but I have a feeling these particular pirates won’t be a problem from now on.”
Grant felt his eyes go wide. “That’s one of the most evil things I’ve ever heard in my life. I might be a little in love with you myself, now.”
Iona did a little bow at the waist. “I aim to please, Cap.”
17
Dex made a great many observations during the h
ours spent skulking in the hollow between two dunes a few hundred meters from the new arrivals. Chief among them was the bizarre fact that none of the men—mercenaries, he thought—carried any technology more complex than a sword.
They wore light combat armor, the sort you saw security forces on any Alliance station sporting for everyday use. Chest protectors capable of fending off ballistic strikes from projectile weapons along with armored helmets, gloves, and boots. All of them carried melee weapons of one kind or another, from long, straight blades to heavy batons meant to crack skulls.
He counted sixty all told, and they seemed to be taking orders from someone who’d come down in one of the drop pods. Dex knew that much because he’d seen the spindly man in the white suit exit the building and gesture commands at the gathered troops in front of him.
The mercenaries set up a base camp over the course of several hours. Dex couldn’t help noticing there were no tents or other enclosures, no fires to keep them warm. Every man carried a field pack complete with bed roll and presumably the other necessities for surviving out in the wild for a few days.
The camp was clearly meant to be more of a central command post than anything else. Dex knew it for sure when three groups of four were sent off in the night, quickly vanishing once they were outside the circle of light centered on the camp. That was when he took his leave; there was no way those guys weren’t heading toward his people.
His people. Huh. When had he started thinking of the other test subjects that way? It didn’t matter. They were probably worried over the arrival of the ships and wondering what might be coming their way. Dex saw enough to know it wasn’t anything good.
The three teams went off in different directions. It might have been odd since surely they knew right where the prisoners were, but Dex understood the need to scout and get a lay of the land. He’d been trained the same way. Gather information, make notes, understand the enemy. Or in this case, the prey.
You don’t land sixty armed and armored fighters, scarred and looking tough as old boot leather, without meaning to use them as the weapon they are. It would only be a matter of time.
“No,” Dex said to himself. “Fuck that.”
Finding a trail was child’s play, and catching up was laughably easy. The only trouble Dex had was staying silent enough to get the drop on them. He had better vision at night than most people did in full sunlight, which made keeping a fixed distance from the pack of mercenaries he’d latched on to no harder than finding them. The last thing he wanted was for one of them to shout out and draw in friends to help.
After several kilometers, he felt it was safe. Dex picked up his speed, moving at a jog to close the distance with the plodding group of four men. Thirty meters away, he broke into a dead run, feet throwing up rooster tails of grit.
That old part of him, the coiled thing made up of every harsh lesson, every drop of spilled blood, came fully alive as the gap between Dex and his enemies grew smaller. It revolted him even as he took comfort from it; the years of training and torture molded that suppressed corner of his personality into a fine tool for survival. And, if the occasion truly warranted it, killing.
The four men heard him coming. They had just enough time to slow and begin to turn their bodies when he was on them.
Muscles like carbon fiber hummed as Dex flew through the air to crash into the nearest enemy, left hand cutting the air in a tight arc. The impact spun the mercenary all the way toward Dex, and the crushing blow he struck against the side of the man’s neck did the rest of the work for him. Dex hit with every joule of energy his considerable strength was capable of providing, and he felt the delicate structures there collapse under the hammer blow.
The mercenary dropped like a stone. Dex plucked his weapon from the unconscious man’s hands before the body could hit the ground.
The baton was metal, a meter long, and meant to be used with two hands to crack skulls. Dex spun it easily, whipping the heavy rod into the wrist of another enemy and shattering the bones. A straight sword dropped to the dirt as screams filled the night air. The follow-up strike muted the shrieks as he slammed the baton into the offending throat.
In a display that proved how experienced and practiced the mercenaries were, the other two sprung back and drew weapons in the few seconds it took Dex to take down the first pair. They moved to either side of him and attacked as one, a move that came either from practice or decades of experience in reading teammates’ body language.
It would have worked on just about anyone but Dex. Even with his enhancements, they came close to gutting him. A sword blade skittered across his belly, cutting through the shirt and leaving a shallow gash burning through the scar tissue there. Dex saw it coming but the other man’s overhead strike would have cracked even Dex’s skull and so the ways he could move were limited. Which seemed to be the plan.
Dex took the cut and parried the baton blow, letting the pair extend themselves while he remained steady. When their bodies were stretched forward at the apex of their attacks, Dex pushed the mental button that forced his body into metabolic overdrive.
The baton in his hand whistled through the air as he brought it around in a tight S and smashed it into the face of the mercenary with the sword. The skull collapsed, but Dex was already spinning on his heel. His free hand fell on the baton held by the remaining mercenary and tore it away.
Dex leveled his own weapon at the lone survivor. “We’re going to have a conversation.”
*
When he finally made it back to his own camp, Dex looked like a blood-soaked Father Christmas. He carried an enormous bundle containing all the weapons and supplies and some of the armor from the dozen mercenaries he’d hunted down overnight. He could have carried everything if it were a matter of weight, but the makeshift bundle was bulging and huge, just blanket rolls held together with a few belts taken from the enemy. He’d left the rest in a pile he could run to in an hour or so, but the quiver in his legs said that trip wasn’t likely to happen today.
“Dex?” Fatima said, rushing to him as he lowered his bag of gifts to the stony ground. “You’re hurt. Where have you been? What is all this stuff?”
Dex teetered drunkenly. Moving here with all that weight on his back had been a strain unlike anything he’d felt in years. Constantly triggering the glands that boosted him came with a price equal to the benefits provided. “It’s mostly not my blood. I have a cut on my stomach. Listen, I’m gonna pass out in a second but you guys need to know a few things. Bad guys are coming. There’s some weapons and armor here. More armor stashed a ways back. You can follow my tracks.”
Then he fell over.
Unfortunately for him, the sweet release of unconsciousness—or hey, even death, at this point Dex wasn’t picky—was denied. They meant well, but really the rest of the group should have just left him there in the dirt.
Instead, Fatima turned to the gathering crowd and began to organize them. Dex, fluttering in and out of true consciousness, only caught parts of it. Erin showed up and asked questions before claiming a few weapons for a small group and setting out in the early morning light in the direction Dex came from.
While this was happening, people worked on Dex. They checked him for injuries, one older man hissing in displeasure when he saw the belly wound. After Fatima was satisfied he wasn’t going to die on the spot if moved, Dex was unceremoniously rolled onto a blanket and carried inside the camp proper.
He tried to struggle and argue when people stripped him down to his underwear, cleaning his body with as little water as possible. In a moment of perfect lucidity, Dex appreciated the pragmatism in this decision. The stream they got water from wasn’t far off, but the number of containers was limited. Too much waste meant a lot more trips.
Someone put a piece of wood wrapped in cloth in his mouth and told him this would hurt a lot.
Yes, being stitched up without anesthetic hurt like a son of a bitch. Dex cursed the availability of any kind of medical kit. Stu
pid supply drops.
Over the course of half an hour, he was carried, stripped, stitched, bathed, and eventually fed. No one complained when he wolfed down an entire day’s rations in the span of a minute and asked for more. When he apologized between massive gulps of water, the older man who’d stitched him up stared at Dex in naked amazement.
“Son, you brought us a warning, supplies, and weapons. I think you’re welcome to eat all you like,” he said, patting Dex on the shoulder. “Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Fatima makes everyone else back off until you have your pick of the stuff you brought back with you. I do have to ask why you’re suddenly so hungry, though. I’m curious.”
Dex relaxed back against the low stone step that served as the back of his bed. “The next time I get marooned on a backwater planet, it better have actual buildings.” He shook his head and tried to focus. “Sorry. What’s your name? I’m not real clearheaded right now.”
The older man smiled, the corners of his mouth turning to deep grooves. “You can call me Penn. Short for Pendleton, if you can believe any parent is so cruel.”
Dex smiled back tiredly. “Well, Penn, you know about my enhancements by now. When I use my artificial glands too much, it makes me burn through calories like you wouldn’t believe. Leaves me tired and weak afterward, too. I’m not sure I’ll be up and about by the time those mercenaries get here. We outnumber them, but they’re all healthy and they’ll be ready for us now that I’ve killed twelve of them.”
Penn rocked back. “A dozen? Jesus, kid. I don’t know whether to be impressed or scared.”
Dex snorted a laugh. “Killing people isn’t impressive. Any idiot can do it. As for being scared? You should be, just not of me. I don’t know if this is some kind of fucked-up test or if they’ve just decided the experiment has gone far enough, but they’re coming for us either way. Chances are I’ll be recovering when they hit us. I can only do so much.”