Free Space

by Sean Danker

  They were also only words.

  In practice, imperials were no different from anyone else. Only now was Salmagard beginning to understand that. There was no natural law or higher power that prevented the wrong people from finding their way to positions of authority.

  The Empress wasn’t omniscient or omnipotent, no matter how much it might seem so at times. She wasn’t really eternal. She was only a woman. If she was even real.

  And for all anyone knew, the Empress of today had beliefs nothing at all like those of the woman who had unified Earth all those years ago.

  Some Evagardians were Salmagard’s people. Some weren’t. How was she supposed to know the difference?

  She didn’t want to go home to that. That wasn’t home at all.

  Salmagard vaulted lightly over a short fence, avoiding the light and keeping close to the buildings, never slowing down. It was late in the habitat’s cycle—everyone should’ve been asleep, but lights were on, and people were moving. The town was on alert.

  She didn’t care. Salmagard kept running.

  A week before—no, a few hours before—nothing had been more precious to her than her Empress and her home. The thought of never going back would have been unthinkable. Life apart from the Empire wasn’t life; it was a disgrace. A living death.

  Surely the Admiral had once felt the same way. Only a profound love for Evagard could have driven him to undertake the tasks that he had. To make the sacrifices that he so cavalierly accepted.

  He had known after the destruction of the capital, even before he met Salmagard, that his bond with the Empire was broken. That he could never go home.

  Salmagard had never disobeyed an order in her life. Not from her family, not from her mentor, not from the Service.

  If she ever did, it wouldn’t be a matter of wanting or not wanting to go home. She’d be no different from the Admiral. She would no longer have one.

  Salmagard rounded a corner into an alley, only to be tackled from her immediate right. She threw her weight in midfall to ensure that her attacker got the worst of the impact. She shattered his collarbone with her elbow, but he wasn’t alone. Salmagard leapt up, going after her nearest aggressor—there were only three, but she had to take them all down before their allies showed up to reinforce them.

  She reversed course and landed a sharp kick to the knee of the man behind her. Salmagard gave him a hard shove into his friend, anticipating the grab from behind. She slipped aside and hit him hard in the kidney, then threw a punch to the temple that knocked him out cleanly. There was only one more obstacle still on his feet, and this one backed away, hands raised.

  Salmagard kicked him savagely in the stomach, sending him crashing to the ground. Even if he couldn’t fight, he could still tell someone her position. But he couldn’t talk if he couldn’t breathe.

  She got moving, trying to recall the layout of the town. There hadn’t been much time to study it, but she remembered that the widest street led directly to the airlock.

  But the widest street was hardly where Salmagard wanted to be. The alley was narrow, narrow enough for some acrobatics. If Diana and Sei were doing their jobs—and it sounded like they were—then taking the high ground could be useful.

  There were massive containers on the ground, up against the buildings, and plenty of handholds to work with. Next to an imperial obstacle course, this was nothing.

  Figures appeared at the mouth of the alley, cutting her off, but Salmagard wasn’t going that way anymore. She bounded onto the nearest container, ran its length, and leapt to a mechanical protrusion, which was not as sturdy as it looked. It immediately came loose, threatening to drop her, but she was fast enough to catch the gutter. If she’d known a little more about these early-twentieth-century things, she might’ve known it wouldn’t be able to support her weight. This was all a little too authentic. On Earth, many structures were made to look old-fashioned, but they were built to imperial standards, with proper materials. They wouldn’t fall apart so easily. Had the structures of the past really been so flimsy?

  She hauled herself up, clambering onto the shingles and leaping to the next roof, catching the edge and climbing.

  Evagardian authorities had no detailed information on Cyril or his ship—only what they could get from Free Trade Peacekeeping Corps case files. An open investigation into Cyril’s employers had led them to this scheme, which the Free Trade Commission apparently felt no need to involve itself with. What did they care about some mental invalids who couldn’t even see that their little cult was nothing but a death trap? There was money to be made elsewhere, and though the Free Trade gene pool was less guarded than the imperial one, even Free Traders knew they were all better off if these people didn’t reproduce.

  The only good information that Salmagard and Diana had on the habitat and the ship pulling it was what they’d been able to get on scanners during their approach—and now that information existed only in their memories. There was nothing to consult, no one to ask. Salmagard didn’t even have a combat scanner to rely on.

  There was a mighty crash and a loud shout from somewhere down and to her left. Salmagard didn’t know how closely they were sticking to the Admiral’s plan, or if they were at all. But the key factor—forcing Cyril to divide his forces in pursuit—that much was working.

  From the rooftops she had a new perspective on the town, but it wasn’t helping her navigate—instead of doors and windows, all she saw was other rooftops.

  She had to keep moving.

  Salmagard couldn’t imagine that anyone here could stop Diana, and Sei had a pilot’s survival training. His combat training wasn’t quite as extensive as that of a negotiator, but he was more than a match for anyone they might encounter here. Cyril’s best guys were down, neutralized back on the road. They had been the ones escorting Sei and the Admiral.

  This could work. There were nearly two hundred people in this little community, but ten percent of them were children. Sixty percent of the remainder were women, none of whom had combat training. The same went for the men—veterans were not well represented here, and half of them were too old to be of use in a physical confrontation.

  Some of the buildings had sloping roofs, forcing Salmagard to scramble up one side and slide down, but one such roof ended on a cross street, marking an abrupt end to her route.

  Lights flashed, and a vehicle came around the corner at a truly irresponsible speed. Sei was piloting it, waving at her animatedly. Salmagard didn’t hesitate. She leapt from the roof, landing on the rear of the cruiser, which was sliding wildly. She held on and jumped into the seat beside Sei, surprised that she’d survived the landing.

  “Everyone could see you up there,” the pilot admonished her, spinning the wheel, struggling to regain control of the vehicle. He got it straightened out and accelerated. “Your boyfriend’s too cautious with all the fake-outs,” he shouted over the wind, careening around another corner. “These people are sheep. We just have to be fast. Which way?”

  “That way,” Salmagard replied, pointing. She disengaged her helmet. A man ran into the road, then immediately changed his mind and dove out of the way. Sei laughed and followed Salmagard’s guidance. Salmagard decided that, in a broad sense, she did not care for the approach that these fighter pilots took to operating vehicles.

  There wasn’t much wind inside the habitat, but in a fast vehicle there was plenty. Salmagard stood up, gripping the windshield.

  It felt good. Her rage was manifesting as blood pressure and an odd sort of heat behind her eyes, pressing on her temples. Her EV’s temperature control couldn’t keep up.

  The wind was so strong that it blew her hair free of the ribbon she’d used to tie it up. Her knuckles ached from her grip on the windshield.

  Sei’s vehicle slid into the main street, but he pulled it around to a hard stop, going through a full spin to do so.

 
There was a mob in the next street—but they weren’t interested in Salmagard and Sei.

  “Let’s go,” Salmagard said.

  “That’s got to be her,” Sei replied, still staring at the crowd.

  “We have to go.”

  “You go.” Sei opened the door and got out, taking a few steps and looking back. He spread his arms helplessly. “I can’t leave her,” he said, and the look on his face told Salmagard he knew it was the wrong choice. Protocol. Training. They had worked so hard to teach Salmagard that these things were absolute, but they weren’t. Out in the real world, they were nothing.

  Salmagard didn’t reply. She just dropped into the pilot’s seat and pulled the door shut. She’d seen how Sei had operated the vehicle. More or less. There was no time to argue with him.

  Sei hadn’t been there; he hadn’t seen how dangerous Diana was. Maybe he didn’t know.

  Or maybe she really did need help. Salmagard understood Sei’s thinking, but she didn’t respect it. What he was doing was strategically unsound, but under the circumstances there was nothing she could do about that.

  If Sei wasn’t going to stick to the mission, Salmagard would. This was her responsibility.

  She had no authority over Sei. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help Diana—because she did—but the best way to do that was to get the SOS out.

  She seized the wheel and pushed down on the pedals, finding the correct one. The vehicle shot forward, and she turned the wheel desperately, thudding onto the curb and over the grass before rocketing into the street.

  She knew where she was going. At the very end of the road was a single blue house. That was her destination. Salmagard pushed the vehicle harder, though it was protesting—she was probably doing something wrong. There had to be more to piloting it than turning the wheel and stomping on these antique controls, but she had no interest in doing it properly.

  Another vehicle screeched into the road ahead of her. Salmagard couldn’t avoid it. She struck the front of it at top speed, sending both vehicles spinning in a melded mess.

  Glass shattered and metal wailed. The faux stars overhead spun in a blur, and Salmagard crashed to the ground five meters away and rolled.

  New stars, black lines, and white spots scattered across her eyes as she came to rest on her back, fire spreading from her right arm, which was broken. Her head pounded.

  There were running footsteps, and rough hands seized her. Salmagard felt herself being dragged upright, and her training couldn’t ignore it. She thrust her leg between the nearest man’s own and threw her weight into him, sending him toppling over.

  She caught the arm of the other attacker and locked it, jerking him down and felling him with a head butt. Salmagard had never known physical pain like this. Nothing even remotely like it. It was inhuman.

  A blade flashed, and she caught the woman’s wrist, snapping it and seizing her hair, jerking her head down and slamming her knee into the woman’s face. Shapes and figures moved around her, indistinct. Everything swam, and she was light-headed. But this wasn’t something she had to think about. Even with only one functioning arm, she was still a negotiator. Fighting was automatic.

  Something heavy struck her and she fell, catching herself with her injured arm and letting out a cry of pain.

  She caught a foot before it could reach her face and she twisted the ankle hard, pushing to her feet and overbalancing the man.

  Another one lunged in, and she knocked his arm aside and twisted it, forcing him to his knees. He struggled, but Salmagard raised her good arm, preparing to deliver a lethal strike to his exposed throat with the flat of her hand.

  But she stopped.

  Nothing was moving.

  There were still half a dozen of them around her. Salmagard forced her eyes to focus, gasping for breath, hand still held high. The world blurred, then became clear. Her ears were ringing.

  They were staring at her in horror. A woman was screaming. Another was weeping.

  The ground was littered with groaning people. There was blood.

  There was a clatter, and Salmagard saw another woman who had just dropped a knife. She backed away.

  They were all backing away.

  The man on his knees in front of her was old enough to be her father, and he was staring up at her. There was naked terror on his face.

  She let him go and stepped back.

  Salmagard straightened, looking around her. No one moved forward. No one was approaching. There was no threat. Her broken arm hung limp, useless and painful. Her ankle felt wrong; she wobbled but didn’t fall. There was a wave of dizziness, but it passed.

  Still watching Cyril’s people, she took another shaky step back.

  It had gotten very quiet. There was no shouting, no sound of vehicles. No one made a sound.

  Salmagard turned and staggered toward the blue house.

  No one interfered. There were a couple of them ahead, but they all got out of her way. Salmagard stumbled up the walk to the door.

  There was no handle, but there was a doorbell. It was just camouflage for the release. She hit it and the door slid aside, revealing the perfectly modern airlock that coupled the habitat with the ship towing it.

  Salmagard stepped inside. The metal deck shuddered beneath her feet, and she felt a distinct change in the air pressure. The hatch closed behind her.

  She crossed the airlock and leaned on the release.

  Nothing happened.

  The airlock was dead silent.

  Behind her, a small world. On either side, metal, and the emptiness of space.

  Ahead: absolutely nothing.

  They’d locked her in. Salmagard wasn’t a breaker; she couldn’t beat this electronically. She didn’t have breaching tools, and they’d be too dangerous to use in such close quarters regardless.

  It had been obvious. Of course they would do this. Inside the habitat, the deception, the dreamworld—there were no rigid security measures there. But this—this was the real world. Any ship had this capability. Any hatch could be remotely sealed.

  She sagged against the bulkhead, still trying to get her breath, still fighting down the nausea. Her loose hair was plastered to her face by sweat. Her breathing wasn’t quite loud enough to drown out the sound of the recycler deactivating.

  They were draining the air from the chamber.

  23

  THE door swung inward.

  Cyril stood framed against the light in the hall, looking thoughtful.

  I reached over and closed the folding console, leaning back in Cyril’s chair. I was in his study on the second floor of the house, behind his desk. It was a beautiful little room, if authentic, extremely detailed nostalgia was what you were into. Paneled walls, paintings with period-appropriate lights attached. Real books on the shelves. The room smelled like leather and paper. There were lots of Evagardians who liked this stuff.

  I wasn’t one of them.

  He leaned against the doorway, folding his arms and gazing at me. He’d loosened his necktie and rolled up his sleeves.

  I turned the chair to face him, enjoying the plush leather. Cyril looked tired, and a little cross.

  “Did they have chairs like this back then?” I asked, rubbing the leather of the armrest admiringly.

  “I think so,” he replied.

  My eyes fell on the decanter at the edge of the desk.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Help yourself,” he said.

  I poured myself a drink and took a sip. It was whiskey, but it tasted like something you’d get in a dive bar on Oasis. But Oasis wasn’t around anymore. I wasn’t sure where you’d have to go now to get liquor this bad.

  “Is this appropriate to the period?” I asked, frowning at the glass.

  “I have no idea.”

  “It’s awful.”

  �
�That’s why it’s still full. So everything you said just now was for my benefit.”

  I shrugged and threw back the rest of the glass. It burned.

  “Once I knew this was a ship, it was obvious,” I told him, putting the glass aside. “Your people think you know things? You’re just a voyeur. If this is a synthetic habitat, then obviously you’ve got absolute surveillance. That’s how you caught me and Sei so fast. The only reason we surprised you is because you weren’t looking. And you noticed our friends’ ship coming, so you bailed on us in town to look into it. I think I’ve more or less got it at this point.”

  Cyril nodded, chewing his lip. “And you pretended to be weak. You knew I was listening. You sent your friends out to wreak havoc on my town, all so you could come up here and get at my console.”

  “Come on. You’re running the show. Of course you’re going to have some kind of com at home—you’re not going to commute to the ship every time you need to get something done. I knew it had to be here, but if we started looking for it, you’d have brought your mob in here and stopped us.”

  “Then I guess your plan worked. What did you do?” He jerked his chin toward the console, disguised as the blotter on the desk.

  “I called for help,” I said, holding up Salmagard’s data crystal. I’d taken it from her pouch when I kissed her. “Something tells me you weren’t going to just let her hijack your ship.”

  “No, I can’t let her do that. For some reason.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “You think anyone’s going to get here in time to help you?”

  “Who can say? It’s out of our hands.”

  “I have to say, this is an unconventional rescue. Two people? They didn’t seem very well equipped or prepared either.”

  “It’s complicated,” I replied. “I don’t know the whole story myself. But I’m right there with you. It’s odd.”

  “I’m surprised you’d send your lady friend out like that.”

  I smiled. “You think you have anyone that can take her?”