Renegades

by Thomas Locke

  One of Vance’s team asked, “Can you go anywhere?”

  “Anywhere we have been before,” Sidra replied.

  “And that is the catch,” Logan said. “That’s why Nicolette and Sidra must perform the first duty when we arrive. It must happen before we make landfall. While they do not know why we’ve come.”

  As though in confirmation, the ship’s gong sounded. Logan rose and said, “First team, prepare yourselves. Vance, Nicolette, Sidra, come with me.”

  As they walked a long iron tunnel, through the crew’s quarters and another mess hall, Sidra drew Logan back far enough to hiss, “I can handle this first duty alone.”

  Logan pointed to where Vance and Nicolette stood before the steel portal leading to the flight deck. “Study them well. Let them teach you by example.”

  “Did you not hear what I said?”

  “And I answered you. Why do you think they’re here at all?”

  “They are military.” Her mouth shaped one word, her face another.

  “They understand how to form and lead a team. Your chance to do the same will come soon enough. You must learn everything they have to teach you.” Logan walked away. A moment passed, then Sidra followed.

  When they joined the pair by the access door, Vance murmured, “You are a better man than you let on.”

  The door slid open while Logan was still searching for a response. The four of them entered the flight deck and froze.

  The flight deck was rimmed by a steel rail forming an interplanetary balcony. Before them was a wall of stars.

  A fraction of Logan’s brain said he had to be looking at giant monitors. But most of his mind was as immobilized as his body. He stared at the center of the galaxy. Seeing a photograph and staring at the view from space were entirely different. Before him a vast blanket of stars formed a cloud of fire and splendor. The colors were without name, the brilliance almost blinding.

  Captain Hattie was a brusque woman with the hands of a bricklayer and a voice to match. “You’ve never been to space?”

  Logan licked his lips, swallowed, then managed, “No, ma’am.”

  “You may address me as Captain Hattie or Skipper. All right. Enough gawking.” She glowered at them. “Listen up. I won’t be hauling anybody’s ashes home, no matter what some general might think. You buy the farm on Aldwyn, you rot here. Read me?”

  “Aye, Skipper.”

  She said to her pilot, “Swing the image.” The sky pivoted to the right. Gradually a dark mass bit a slice from the stars to their right, and their destination came into view.

  Aldwyn was a planetary name from the distant past, and in the old tongue the word meant thief. Eons ago, the wandering planet was said to steal away men’s breath, turning them old before their time. The miners called it the Dead World and took pride in its title. Aldwyn was a tomb of slag and glistening rock, adorned with little save frozen streams of lava.

  The scientists had argued for centuries over how Aldwyn came to be. The current theory was that it was in fact an orphan world. At some point in the far-distant past, a sun had gone nova, blasting its core in a furious display that had consumed all the inner worlds. But Aldwyn had been expelled, cast from its orbit and sent to wander the empty reaches. Centuries passed beyond count until the Cygneus star had captured it. Which was a very good thing indeed, despite the ancient fables. For Aldwyn was filled to bursting with treasure.

  There was gold to be had and a multitude of other precious metals. But most valuable of all was an element found nowhere else. Ditrinium, the scientists named it. A miner’s weight of rarified ditrinium promised a lifetime of wealth and ease. Ditrinium now formed the heart of their most potent weapons and transports. It defined who ruled the Cygnean system.

  Gradually Aldwyn had been parceled out between the most powerful clans. All but one small segment, a pirate’s haven known as the Outer Rim. It had been ruled by outlaw fiefs for eons. So long, in fact, that some suggested it was time to recognize the Outer Rim as a nation unto itself. But it was controlled by a clan that still preyed on others. They had no interest in joining anyone. They took pleasure from the warrior’s creed. The clan’s name was Havoc.

  Captain Hattie said, “Those lights you see in the bottom right—that’s supposedly our destination. You know it?”

  “Loghir, capital of Aldwyn,” Logan said. “In the old tongue it means ‘lost lands.’”

  She grunted approval. “The lights mark the mine heads and the landing site. The city’s mostly underground.” She pointed to the curved border where the stars met the planet. “The Outer Rim is beyond the horizon there to your left. If you want my advice, you’d be better off not splitting your troops.”

  “Four of my team members have to make landfall at Loghir,” Logan insisted.

  “Whatever your reasons, they’re as insane as your being here at all,” Hattie barked.

  “We’re wasting time,” Logan said.

  Biting down on her argument gave her voice a savage note. She stomped about and yelled, “Ready the pod!”

  12

  The Messenger guards who came for Sean and Dillon were polite and very alert. They brought two fresh uniforms, Academy cadet green and Attendant grey-blue. But every emblem had been removed from both, including the buttons. Sean felt slightly queasy as he sealed the seams of his jacket and trousers, thinking the outfits had been specifically made for their trial.

  They traveled to the surface by way of a glass-tube elevator rising from the internment levels to a judiciary forecourt. It was the first time Sean had seen the sky in a week. The guards were evidently used to inmates needing a moment to adjust. They hovered but did not push. There was no need for the guards to keep hold, as the clamps attached to their ankles kept the twins in place.

  Sean took a slow look around. The sky had never seemed so beautiful. Every cloud was a work of art. The mild wind carried a chilly whisper of farewell. He had not missed his freedom so much as at that very moment. Now it formed a bone-deep ache.

  The guard said, “That’s it. Let’s move.”

  The forecourt to the Halls of Justice was a stone-walled circle carved from a much larger plaza. The floor was inlaid with the galactic-sunburst emblem of the Human Assembly. All around the plaza, people stopped and stared at their passage.

  Dillon muttered, “I don’t get it.”

  Sean nodded but did not speak.

  “We’ve committed the crime of the century?” Dillon glanced over his shoulder. “Everybody’s still watching us.”

  The justice building was shaped like a palace from some Arabian nightmare. Round towers rose from a pale building with softly curved corners. Seven turrets soared high overhead. Seven flagstaffs pierced the sky like spears. The stairs and the doors and the foyer were all oversized and very grand. Sean tried to tell himself it was all meant to intimidate. Repeating that helped—not much, but a little.

  They passed through the massive portal, crossed the foyer, and climbed stairs that curved around a huge rotunda. They entered a windowless courtroom that formed another incomplete circle. The Assembly’s sunburst was repeated twice, inlaid into the raised wooden dais where the three tribune Justices would sit, and carved into the rear wall. A dozen empty pews formed ranks between them and the dais.

  Their escorts pointed the twins forward, then positioned themselves by the rear portal. A third guard entered and took up station by a smaller door beside the Justices’ dais. The chamber’s only other occupants were their former Advocate Cylian and a man who stood with his back to the room.

  The Advocate shot them a look, her blank mask still in place, then went back to her whispered conversation with the man. The pair stood between a small front door and three rows of seats that rose like giant steps by the side wall. Sean assumed the seats were for the Assembly’s version of a jury. Or maybe they required a certain number of official witnesses for an execution. He swallowed hard. His lack of knowledge filled the chamber like sulfurous smoke.

 
As they walked the central aisle, Sean murmured, “It’s not too late. We can still ask the Advocate for her help.”

  Dillon snorted. “All she’ll do is help tie the noose.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “And I’m telling you it doesn’t matter.” Dillon’s face was so tight it appeared bloodless. “This whole deal is over before it starts.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “I kept expecting somebody to show up and rescue us,” Dillon replied. “Think about it. We’ve got a whole planet in our debt. Not to mention all those people we worked with—Carver, Tatyana, Elenya’s father . . .”

  “Forget her family. Elenya’s mom is probably watching this and cheering.”

  “Still, none of those people could spare a few minutes to find out what happened to us?”

  Sean slipped behind the front table. “I wondered about that too.”

  “They’ve obviously been blocked,” Dillon said. “We’re cut off from our allies.”

  Sean settled into the padded chair. “But why?”

  “Same reason all those people around the plaza stopped and watched us. This thing is a lot bigger than helping Carey’s cousin.”

  Sean studied his brother. “You’re not nearly as dumb as you look.”

  Dillon offered the first smile in what felt like years. “I’m smart enough to know you need to handle this one. Not some flunky assigned by the guy who wants to sink our boat.”

  The guard by the front portal snapped to attention and called, “All rise.”

  Kaviti said, “The accused may be seated.”

  Ambassador Kaviti was the oldest of the three Justices, but only by a few years. The other two were female. One was a handsome, dark-skinned woman who glared at them with Zulu intensity.

  Dillon indicated her with a jerk of his chin and murmured, “I know about that one.”

  “Tell me.”

  “She used to teach at the Academy. A couple of years ago they ran her off. Too tough.”

  Sean glanced over. “Is that a joke?”

  “Watch closely,” Dillon replied. “This is me not laughing.”

  The third Justice was a rotund white-haired woman who wore her rumpled uniform like a bathrobe with buttons. Any hope of grandmotherly affection, however, was erased by a single glimpse of those merciless grey eyes.

  Kaviti occupied the central chair. He addressed the woman standing by the empty jury box. “Assume your position, Advocate. Let us begin.”

  “Begging the Justices’ pardon,” Cylian replied. “I have been dismissed.”

  “Dismissed? By whom?”

  “The accused, Your Honor.”

  “This is outrageous,” Kaviti sputtered. “Cadets refusing counsel? I’ve never heard of such nonsense.”

  “Nonetheless, Your Honor, it is their right as accused—”

  “Rubbish.” Kaviti aimed across the distance at Sean. “You there. Sean Kirrel. I am hereby ordering you to accept the wisdom of your betters.”

  Sean rose to his feet. “Gladly, Your Honor. But only if you permit us to appoint our own Advocate.”

  Kaviti sniffed. “Out of the question. Advocate Cylian is perfectly suited to the task at hand.”

  “She is also on your personal staff,” Sean replied.

  “Tribunal Justices are tasked to remain impartial. Advocate Cylian was appointed to serve your best interests.”

  “Just the same,” Sean replied, “your own assistant has said it’s our right to make the selection.”

  “Unacceptable,” Kaviti snapped. “We intend to complete these proceedings without further—”

  “Point of order,” the Zulu Justice said.

  Kaviti sniffed again but subsided.

  The dark-skinned woman said, “Kirrel, is it?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Sean Kirrel.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  “This entire proceeding is a charade,” Sean said. “And Kaviti knows it.”

  “You will refer to him as ‘Ambassador’ or ‘Your Honor,’” she replied, but without heat. “Do you realize you could face years of incarceration?”

  Sean glanced at his brother, which was a very good thing. Dillon’s gaze carried the confident rage that had seen them through numerous early battles. His look said all. He had Sean’s back and total confidence in his brother’s ability.

  Kaviti snapped, “Answer the question.”

  Sean directed his words to the Zulu. “Can I ask a question of my own?”

  “Very well.”

  “Who brought these charges against us? I’ll bet it was Kaviti.”

  “I will not warn you again as to the proper form of address.” She fingered her tablet as she spoke.

  “Was it him? Because I’m pretty sure the charges don’t have anything to do with our actions, and everything to do with him hating me from the first day I set foot—”

  “Silence!” Kaviti said.

  The Zulu passed her tablet to the dumpy woman. “I for one would like to hear the cadet’s full response.”

  “This is a waste of the court’s time,” Kaviti muttered.

  “Nonetheless.” The Zulu motioned to Sean. “Continue.”

  “You heard him yourself, Your Honor. First he orders us to take his own assistant as our counsel. Then he claims that he’s totally impartial. Now you discover that he’s the one who—”

  “I’ve heard enough of this garbage!” Kaviti’s face was beet red. “The accused will sit down and this court will proceed with its judgment!”

  The man who had been standing in the jury box’s shadow stepped forward and said, “Point of order, if the court allows.”

  13

  The Outer Rim was dominated by a man named Tiko, who had claimed for himself the title of duke. It was possible that his forebears might once have ruled a fief, but the Outer Rim was a place earned through battle and lies and subterfuge, and it was just as likely that Tiko had invented the title when he bulled his way into the ruler’s cavern.

  One thing could be said about Tiko without risk. He was a survivor. He had ruled his segment of the Outer Rim for thirty-seven years, longer than anyone in living memory. He had used the time well, building defenses that had brought down the invading fleet. Up until that victory, Tiko had allowed the smaller fiefs to maintain their mines and their townships, so long as they bent the knee to his rule and paid their dues to his coffers. But once he had defeated the Cygnean battalion, he became hungry for more power and more mines. Slowly, steadily, he began devouring the smaller clans.

  To those mini fiefs rich enough to afford strong defenses of their own, he took a different approach. The Outer Rim reservoirs were all within Tiko’s territory. So he slowly began cutting off their supplies.

  All this Logan knew from reports sent back by the governing council’s representatives on Loghir. There was supposed to be a strict quarantine against the Outer Rim, but their mines were rich, and Cygneus was a long way off. The Loghir black market kept the outer fiefs from dying of thirst. Even so, for many of the smaller Outer Rim fiefdoms, water was more valuable than a man’s life.

  Which was why Logan had chosen his cargo.

  For Logan’s plan to work, he needed what Nicolette called an outlier station. Logan felt the name did not apply to what they intended. But he didn’t object, mostly because plans like theirs had never been attempted before.

  The transport pods were shaped like giant metal seeds. Captain Hattie had a perfectly good reason for sending a pod to the planet’s capital. The skies above Aldwyn were thick with ships, and those that carried time-sensitive cargos bribed their way into a quick berth. Such negotiations were best carried out in person, so Hattie radioed a request to the city’s terminal and the transport was granted passage.

  Once the pod left with Nicolette and her three teammates, Hattie made no more outright criticisms of their plans. But her grumbling filled the flight deck, and her crew ducked every time her gaze shifted. Logan made no attempt to hid
e himself away, and Vance remained firmly by his side.

  Finally the captain snarled, “What now?”

  “I must communicate with someone in the Outer Rim,” Logan said.

  She glared across the steel deck. “Explain yourself.”

  “Here’s what I know,” Logan continued. “The Outer Rim has a main landing site. And then there is a smaller one tucked well away. This second site is in disputed territory. A number of outlaw fiefs claim the surrounding region. The landing strip is used by all and is the one point where they do not battle. Anyone who breaks the peace is banned.”

  She squinted at him. “You know this how?”

  He met her gaze. “The question is, do you know this second site?”

  “I do.”

  “Ping the site’s control tower,” Logan said. “Tell them I have a delivery for Linux Hawk.”

  “What manner of pup dares order me about?”

  The face glaring from Captain Hattie’s monitor was aged but still very handsome, almost refined. Linux wore his white hair with dignity, carefully tended and swept back from a high forehead. His face was seamed, his eyes as dark as the planet he called home. Logan thought he looked like a soft-spoken killer with a taste for the good life.

  “I salute you, Uncle,” Logan said.

  Linux did not respond as Logan had expected, with suspicion and questions only a clansman could answer. Instead, he squinted and leaned closer to the screen. “You’re the Count’s whelp.”

  “Aye, sir. I am.”

  “You carry the look of him. Are you a fighter as well?”

  Vance spoke from behind his right shoulder. “That he is, sir.”

  The old man’s gaze did not waver. “How did you know to find me?”

  “As a child I heard you had carved out a haven for those who survived and were ready to give up marauding.”

  “Give up dying, you mean. It was true enough, once. But you’ve come at a bad time.”

  “I know that.”

  “You know, and yet you came?” He snorted. “You show as much sense as your old man.”

  “I do not seek refuge, I’ve come to offer it,” Logan replied. “What’s more, I bring water.”