Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  Jax watched the scene with bemusement, until Runstom turned and shoved him into the boarding tube. He came in after the operator and leaned out the side of the tube, sending laser fire down the corridor. After a few blasts, he turned to Jax and shouted, “Get down the tube to the ship. Make sure we can fly the thing outta here!” Jax started to turn, but Runstom yelled “Wait!” He unhooked the stun-stick from his belt and handed it to the operator.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” he said, fear creeping into his voice.

  “There might be a pilot standing by. Just press the button on the handle and poke him with the round ball at the end.” Jax stared at the stick in bewilderment. “Go, now, goddammit!” Runstom shouted, and the look of intensity and violence in the officer’s eyes made Jax want to go down the tube and face someone less terrorizing. Like maybe a bloodthirsty gangbanger.

  Runstom stuck his gun back out the breach-end of the tube and with a battle cry, continued blasting. Jax could hear Halsey join in, and for that brief moment he imagined the ModPol officers were a two-man army, fighting off a wave of invaders. He spun around and headed down the tube.

  The tube itself was barely large enough in diameter for a grown person to stand. Being B-fourean, Jax was taller than many other humans and had to crouch as he picked his way through the flexing tube. There were handles dotting the length of it, and he quickly discovered their intended use. Once he was off the barge, the failing artificial gravity was no longer a factor, because there was no gravity at all. The tube was some kind of segmented metal. It was not transparent, and for this, he was thankful. It didn’t seem like a good time to be confronted with the vast emptiness of space.

  After a minute or two and some distance Jax couldn’t judge, he reached the end. He could still hear Runstom shouting and blasting, and he was pretty sure he could make out the clapping of Halsey’s rifle even at this distance. The hatchway at this end was open. That seemed like a terribly dangerous thing to do, and Jax had to imagine it violated all kinds of safety regulations. So, yeah, he thought as he slowly pulled himself through the hatchway. Add that to their list of atrocities.

  ***

  The ratio of ducking to returning fire for Runstom and Halsey was steadily growing in favor of ducking. There was a palpable increase in pressure coming from the center of the barge as the gangbangers reassembled their forces and returned to their only escape route. It seemed like a good plan, but now Runstom was having his doubts about getting between a legion of Space Wasters and their ships.

  “George,” he said in between blasts of his laser pistol. “George!”

  Halsey stopped shooting and leaned back into the tube he occupied on the opposite side of the corridor. He struggled with an extra ammo clip that was affixed to the side of the heavily modified rifle. “My last clip,” he yelled. “We need to get out of here.”

  The gangbangers didn’t waste time taking advantage of the short pause. Runstom and Halsey were both forced to lean back into their tubes as the hallway crackled with machinegun fire. Runstom panted as his heart threatened to climb out of his throat. He and his fellow officers had combat training, but it didn’t come close to preparing him for something like this mess. He looked down at the cellpack in the laser pistol. It was down to about a ten-percent charge. He had no idea how many shots that translated into.

  The continuous rain of bullets smoothed into a series of rhythmic bursts, and for a brief moment he thought that maybe it meant the gangbangers were running low on ammo as well and were attempting to conserve it. This thought gave him a flicker of hope until he remembered all the blades attached to the guns. Maybe he was better off getting shot before it came to that.

  A new sound caught his attention, a strange metal-bouncing-on-metal sound. He and Halsey both looked into the corridor from their opposite-sided shelters. A cylindrical object bounded along and continued all the way to the supply hold they’d come from only minutes before.

  “Shit.” Runstom wanted to yell to Halsey that it was a grenade, but the explosion beat him to it. The heat of it blew up the hall and into his tube, but there was nothing more than that. He ventured a peek back down toward the hold and saw the burned scarring just inside the open doors.

  He realized in that second that whoever had thrown the grenade hadn’t accounted for the low gravity. The next one came with an adjusted aim, rolling to a spot directly between them where it stopped and spun idly like a bottle in a party game.

  Halsey took two steps into the corridor that was still being peppered by cover fire and swung his rifle like a club, smacking the cylinder with one of the blades at the end of the barrel. The grenade flew back down the hall and Halsey cried out as a spray of red burst from his forearm. The rifle clattered to the floor and he dropped back on his ass and kicked at the floor with his feet, pushing himself back into the tube.

  “George!” Runstom reflexively stepped toward his partner, but the spray of bullets drove him back.

  The returned grenade blew and the cover fire was momentarily interrupted. Runstom didn’t have time to wonder if it actually took anyone out, he just used the space of a breath to dive across the hall and into the other tube. He grabbed Halsey by his good arm and hoisted him to his feet, but the other officer cried out as he stood.

  He pulled away the bloody arm to reveal thicker, darker blood coming from his abdomen. “Stan,” he gasped, reflexively holding his wound once again. “You gotta go.”

  “No.” Runstom tugged roughly at Halsey’s arm. “Come on, George. We’re both going.”

  Halsey groaned but didn’t protest further. Runstom tried to think but he had no time. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and it was clear the rest of the barge had fared even worse. Space Waste had won. He looked down the nearby tube. No doubt there was a ship at the other end, but he’d already sent Jax down the tube opposite. More than ever, Runstom thought their only chance at escape was to stick together.

  In the several seconds that had passed, the gunfire had not returned. “Come on, George,” he said with a tug. “Now or never.”

  They limped across the width of the spacious hallway. A burst of gunfire sent them diving for the tube. Runstom felt the bite of one shot in his thigh and the ripping sting of another across his midsection before he hit the inside of the tube. He spun around to see Halsey twisting in the corridor, spitting curses and clutching his leg.

  “George!”

  Another cylinder bounced along the floor, thumping Halsey in the chest. He grabbed at it, bobbling it until he spun it around and found the safety clip. He clutched at it and looked at Runstom. “Go, Stan!”

  “George, what are you doing? Throw it back!”

  “Go!” He started belly crawling toward the tube. Sporadic bursts lit up the air. “Go before I blow us both up!”

  Then it clicked. He was going to blow the tube loose so that no one could follow.

  “Damn you,” Runstom said and turned away from his only ally.

  He flung himself as deep into the tube as he could, then scrambled to yank himself along by the handholds when the gravity disappeared altogether.

  ***

  Still coping with the weightlessness, Jax pulled himself through the small ship slowly and carefully. He was in what appeared to be a passenger-seating and load-out room. There were twelve or so “seats” on the walls which were angled in a way that, if there were any gravity, one could walk up to them and strap in securely without actually sitting. They were similar to the mount that was in his cell, only made for voluntary use. On the other side of the room was a series of racks that contained a few spare guns and what looked like suits of armor.

  On the opposite wall from the hatchway was another door. This one was closed, and apparently locked, according to the lit sign on the front of it. There were a few flimsy-looking spacesuits hanging haphazardly on either side of it. Jax realized that this was probably the cockpit door. It was a small ship indeed; a personnel carrier, probably hijacked from a military out
fit at one time. Just enough to get a boarding party from one big ship to another. They’d be lucky if it could even do Warp.

  Jax knew the cockpit door wouldn’t open unless the outer hatchway was closed. He’d have to cut off the ModPol officers long enough to secure the ship. He put a foot against the wall, hit the door trigger on the hatchway, and sprang his body across the chamber to the opposite side, grabbing onto the latches on the wall and hiding himself behind the spacesuit closest to the cockpit.

  He waited. The seconds passed. He tasted bitterness in his own saliva and he forced his breathing to slow, trying desperately not to vomit. Finally he heard the internal mechanisms of the door sliding around, eventually clinking into place. The door slowly opened.

  “Hey, fellas,” a voice said. “Back already? Hello?”

  Suddenly, unexpected to both Jax and the pilot, there was a series of clanging sounds coming from the outer hatchway.

  “What the hell?” said the pilot to himself. He was still out of view from Jax. The banging of something solid on the metal hatch came again. “Okay, I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he shouted, then said in a quiet aside, “How did those idiots manage get the inner door to open without coming through the outer door?”

  Jax could hear the snapping sound of belts being unclipped. He tensed and poked the little ball at the end of his stun-stick between the sleeve and the midsection of the spacesuit, pushing the sleeve aside just enough for him to watch his aim. A body began to float by and he hit the button, jabbing the stick forward.

  “AAAhhhhnnnnNHHHHH!” the pilot screamed, his body contorting with almost mock-athleticism in the absence of gravity. After a few seconds it went limp, and he hung there, arms dangling like a scarecrow-bot.

  “Shit, guys,” Jax breathed. “I hope that’s you.” He didn’t know how to fly a ship, so he figured he was dead either way if it wasn’t Stanford Runstom or George Halsey on the other side of that hatch. He punched the close button on the cockpit door and floated over to the hatchway.

  He hit the release and Runstom came through. He quickly spun around and slammed on the button to close the hatch. He looked wounded, blood oozing from different parts of his uniform. Jax tried to look into his eyes, but the officer was looking down, eyes squinted in pain.

  There was a low boom and the ship seemed to drift slightly, an odd sway that moved around them while they floated weightless in the center of it.

  “Stanford,” Jax started.

  “Halsey,” Runstom rasped quietly, looking at the closed hatch.

  “Shit.” Now Jax read the pain on Runstom’s face differently. He wasn’t good at dealing with grief, but he suddenly thought of his mother and it felt like something was tearing apart his stomach. “Stanford,” he said, putting a hand on the officer’s shoulder. “He was a good man.”

  Runstom swallowed a couple of times. “That asshole was the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in years. He didn’t deserve to go like that.” He closed his eyes for a moment and Jax stayed quiet, despite being terrified of the danger they were still in. After a few seconds, Runstom opened his eyes. His lips quivered and pursed and his forehead creased as his eyebrows tensed. Jax could only guess what was going through the other man’s mind. Pushing down the pain, burying it for another time. “We don’t have much time,” the officer said finally. “We have to move.”

  Runstom grabbed the floating pilot and briefly checked his pulse. He took a restraint band off his belt and pulled the pilot’s arms together and bound them. “Strap this guy into one of those,” he said to Jax, pointing at the harness-seats. “And then get up to the cabin. I’m going to warm up the engines.”

  Jax did his best to strap the unconscious pilot in, and then floated into the cockpit. There were four seats, each facing a long, narrow window that looked into the blackness of space. Runstom was already strapped in, and Jax picked a seat at random and followed suit.

  “I’m detaching the boarding-tube now,” Runstom said, and Jax could hear the crack in his voice. He cleared his throat and then turned with a quick jerk. “Do you have the notes I copied for you?”

  “Yeah, of course. They were the only thing I grabbed when the alarms started.” Jax had a standard, prison-issue satchel strapped to his body. He pulled the collection of papers out of it and handed them to Runstom.

  Runstom took the notes and quickly found the page he was looking for. He set them down on the console. “I’ll need to navigate away from the barge a few thousand meters, then we’ll be hitting Xarp speed.”

  “This thing can do Xarp?” Jax asked, trepidation in his voice. Warp was light-speed, and that was terrifying enough, but Xarp was even faster; a speed appropriate for mammoth interstellar vessels, but insanely dangerous in such a small ship. His experience with space travel was about to compound as it went from a day and a half of looking at the stars through a porthole the size of his hand to a faster-than-light escape from a murderous space gang.

  “She’s an interplanetary, military personnel transport. Designed to be launched in packs, usually about a hundred or so at a time, delivering squads of elite soldiers to a target without warning. Usually sent from deep, deep orbit on the outermost part of a system, where a warship can sit undetected.” Runstom looked up from the console for a moment, but not at Jax. Not at anything in particular. “She’s not much for luxury. All engine and fuel storage. Designed to bring the fight to your enemy’s doorstep.”

  Jax looked around, wondering if he had missed some kind of informational plaque on the way into the cockpit. “How the hell do you know all that?”

  Runstom shrugged. “ModPol training, mostly. Plus my grandfather was in the Sirius Interplanetary Navy. And…I guess I probably watch too many documentary vids.” He grabbed the throttle and the ship started to move with a jolt.

  “Stanford,” Jax said tentatively. “You do know how to pilot this thing, right?”

  Runstom was quiet, concentrating on the stick. “Every ModPol grunt has to fly patrol for a couple of years before they get to start doing real police work.” The ship shuddered and Runstom quickly reached for the panel in front of him, hitting a button and flipping a switch. “Of course, this thing is just a little different than a one-man patroller.”

  The view panned to the left as the ship rotated, the side of the barge disappearing to the right. Jax leaned forward to angle his head back and forth and take in the view without unstrapping himself. As the emptiness of space opened up before them, he looked at the rear monitor to see the barge coming into view. There was another small craft next to it on this side, tethered by a boarding tube. Next to that he could see the boarding tube that was once attached to their newly acquired vessel, now just floating idly, a jagged hole in one side of it where it was half-hanging from the barge like a misplaced tentacle. Despite the lack of wind in space, it flapped oddly.

  “I think the barge is decompressing,” Jax said, watching the monitor.

  “Nothing we can do,” Runstom said quietly. “I don’t know if anyone but Space Waste is left. Our problem is that they probably expected all boarding parties to detach at the same time. So we have to get out of here quick before they figure out something is wrong.”

  Jax looked away from the monitor and back to the view from the window. There was a ship in the distance, but with no frame of reference he couldn’t tell if it was a large ship far away or a small ship close by.

  “That’s the command ship,” Runstom said before Jax could ask. “She’s pretty far out, but she’s got some fighters close by. That’s the contact computer.” He pointed at a crude holo-screen positioned front and center of the cockpit. It displayed a large red blob surrounded by a handful of green dots. Another green blob sat farther off from the rest. “The red one is the barge. The little green ones are combat vessels. Small fighters and personnel assault ships like this one.”

  “And the big green one is the command ship,” Jax guessed.

  Runstom angled their vessel in a direction that woul
d take them away from the barge and the command ship equally and they edged forward slowly.

  “Faster might be a good idea,” Jax said, realizing suddenly that he was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his fingers hurt.

  “To run is to be chased,” the officer said quietly. “We’re just one of them for another minute or two, then we’re nothing but Xarp-wake.” He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. “I’m surprised nothing has come across the comm. They must be keeping radio-silent.”

  Jax thought about that as they inched ponderously away from the action. He thought about these gangbangers, who seemed to him like fictional space pirates, with their ridiculous weapons and uniforms. The fact that he had not really gotten a good look at any of them only served to fuel his imagination more. The very idea that they were so organized; able to cripple the barge and board it, all while maintaining such a committed level of stealth. Radio silence meant sticking to a plan, it meant discipline and competence. These were qualities one didn’t associate with anarchist space pirates.

  He hadn’t noticed the wide but short flat panel that ran part-way across the center of the top of their viewport until it lit up and blinked red a few times. It stopped blinking and a series of numbers appeared on it.

  Jax looked at Stanford and opened his mouth, about to ask him what they were looking at, but the officer had a grave look on his face as he stared at the numerical sequence that lit up the cockpit. “It’s message traffic on the comm.” He frowned and looked straight forward determinedly, as if he needed both eyes on the road at that moment. “I don’t know what it means.”

  “Oh,” Jax said, realizing. “It’s code.”

  Runstom cast him a sideways glance and Jax read interest on his face for a fraction of a second before he re-gripped the throttle and stared back into space. “Code?” he asked idly.

  “Like a cypher.” Jax tried to get at his satchel, which was wedged between his thigh and the seat restraints. “Want me to write it down? We could try to—”