“I’m here from Hececcrir with an urgent SEC-COM for the warden. I was told I would find him in his office.”
“Yes, sergeant. I’ll announce you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Molon said as he pulled the automag from behind him and fired a silenced round into the guard’s forehead. His other hand shot forward and grabbed the man by the collar before he could fall, easing him slowly to the floor.
In the same instant Molon had fired his pistol, a blood-covered projection in the shape of a blade emerged from the chest of the second startled guard. The man hung there, bleeding, suspended on Voide’s invisible sword. Voide turned off her stealth field as she pulled the blade out of the back of the now dead security officer and also eased him to the ground.
“Quick and quiet,” she said. “Now let’s facilitate Doc’s chat with the inquisitor and get off this dirtball before someone worth fighting shows up, huh?”
Molon nodded and the three burst into the warden’s office, with Molon and Voide dragging their respective guard corpses inside and out of sight. There, sitting with his feet propped up on the desk, was the porcine torturer. To say the man was surprised would be a massive understatement. He looked more like someone desperately trying to thrash themselves awake from a nightmare.
“Wh-who are you? What have you done to the guards? This is my office, how dare you barge in?”
“You don’t remember me?” John growled. “Well, let me refresh your memory.”
Before Molon could move, John dropped Voide’s bow and launched himself across the room toward the torturer. He had the man laid out on his desk and was about to deliver the fifth punch to the man’s face by the time Molon and Voide could pull him off the warden inquisitor.
Molon had never seen John like this. He was like a man possessed. Rage and grief together was a potent draught, capable of pushing even a Faithful into the depths of madness.
“John, enough!” Molon said. “Are you here for answers or revenge?”
“A bit of both is always nice,” Voide quipped.
“Stow it, Voide,” Molon growled.
Suddenly, a calm demeanor more befitting the Faithful doctor replaced the violent rage that had just controlled him. He stepped back from the groaning, beaten torturer lying half senseless on the desk. John gazed at his bloodied knuckles as if he were trying to figure out who they belonged to.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” John mumbled. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“It’s all right, John,” Molon said, placing a hand on John’s shoulder. “After all you’ve been through, who could blame you.”
“No,” John shook his head. “That’s not who I am. These hands heal, they don’t harm. I took an oath.”
Voide pulled the moaning warden from his desk, dumping him into his desk chair. She pulled several sets of manacles hanging from pegs on the wall, and used them to secure the warden to his seat. Voide had no stake in the fate of this man, but Molon knew her well enough to recognize her inner fight against the bloodlust which battle and blood-scent invariably awoke in her.
John stood a couple of feet from the warden, his gaze panning between his bloody hands and the warden’s battered face, as if trying to fit two jigsaw puzzle pieces together whose edges didn’t match up.
Molon mused at how different his two companions were. Voide was on a knife’s edge for lack of sufficient violence, while John was broken and haunted over the smallest taste he had delivered to his former torturer. Molon fell somewhere in between.
Turning to the warden, Molon delivered an open-handed slap to get the man’s attention. Removing his tac-helmet, he drew his muzzle within an inch of the warden’s nose, pulling his lips back over his canines and letting a low growl from his throat underscore his words.
“I wonder if you can take it as well as you dish it out, torturer. I tell you what—you lie, delay, or even think about giving a remotely evasive answer, and I promise you we are going to find out. I’ll peel the skin off you one tiny bite-sized piece at a time and snack on it while you watch.”
Right on cue, Voide removed her own eyewear, revealing her bright, yellow eyes. She tapped the switch on her wristband to turn off her human skin tone camouflage and let her full, Prophane-gray epidermis shine through. She drew in close, putting her face right next to Molon’s muzzle, staring deeply into the jailor’s eyes.
“And then it’s my turn,” she said, baring her own vampiric fangs as the man trembled where he sat. “And I won’t stop at the skin.”
A dark spot began to grow at the front of the man’s trousers. Warm yellow liquid seeped off the wooden chair and began to drip on the floor. Typical, Molon thought. The most ruthless of men, when they were in power, often turned into weak cowards when someone else had the upper hand.
“What do you want to know?” the man said, his voice somewhere between a whimper and a weep. “I don’t know anything. I’m just a warden of an empty prison.”
“It is not completely empty,” John said, snapping out of his stupor and pulling Molon and Voide back away from the prisoner. “Who is the old man?”
“I don’t know!” the warden insisted. “Just some Faithful dissident. He was here when I got here five years ago. Word is he was caught in a place he wasn’t supposed to be shortly after the Shattering. He’s been here forgotten ever since. I tried asking about him once I arrived, but never got an answer, so here he sits until someone tells me what to do with him.”
“And the prisoner who used to be a guard?” Molon asked. “What was his offense?”
A sudden recognition flared into the jailor’s eyes and for a brief moment indignation overcame his fear.
“You are the one! You were the Lubanian that broke out the doctor and blew up my hangar.”
“That’s right,” Molon said, “and this fine gentleman who introduced himself with his fists was that doctor. Maybe you didn’t recognize him without his face all bashed in.”
“I-I was only doing my job,” the warden replied, his voice cracking and wavering with fear.
“And his job is being a doctor,” Molon continued. “I bet he knows all kinds of ways to hurt you without killing you, and my gray-skinned friend here just loves to try new things. So answer the question. Why are you torturing your own guard.”
“Blame yourself,” the warden snapped. “He was the lead guard in the interrogation chamber when you showed up. Imbecile didn’t even realize you weren’t one of our Lubanians. He’s been making restitution for his lack of attentiveness.”
“And what about the woman?” John pleaded, shaking the jailor in his chair. “Where is she?”
“What woman are you talking about?” the warden replied. “We only have the two prisoners here.”
Voide pulled her dagger and put it to the warden’s throat. She grabbed him by the nape of his neck, his lack of hair denying any better handhold, and pressed the blade to his skin just hard enough to draw a trickle of blood from beneath the sharpened steel.
“Did you hear that little warble in his voice?” Voide asked no one in particular, never turning her intense stare from the bound jailor. “He’s lying! Where is the woman, pale? Tell me while you still have a throat.”
“The woman who was with me,” John added. “The one whose throat you cut, where is she?”
“Dead,” the warden answered, his eyes flashing back and forth between Voide and John.
“Liar!” Voide exclaimed and drove her blade a fraction of a millimeter deeper.
“Where is her body?” John asked, desperation filling his voice. “If she is dead, then where did you put her remains?”
“The incinerator, where they all go. Lazy guards never clean the thing, so if you want to sort her ashes from the hundreds of others in there, be my guest.”
Molon knew they were running out of time. Even a nearly empty prison had to have dozens of guards. How long before the perimeter fence hole was noticed, or the front gate guard’s body, or the two bloodstains they had l
eft spattering the walls outside the warden’s office?
“John, we’ve got to get out of here,” Molon urged turning toward the door. “Voide, cut his throat and let’s move out.”
“No!” John objected. “We are not going to murder this man.”
Molon turned back to stare at John. Voide had pulled her knife away from the warden and looked as if she were debating sticking John with it.
“Are you crazy?” Voide snapped. “We’ve just killed two people getting you in here.”
“Three,” Molon interjected, thinking about the young private at the main gate.
“Three, then,” Voide continued. “So what’s one more body, especially when it belongs to a stinking torturer?”
“The others were armed enemy combatants,” John answered. “Taken by surprise, no doubt, but armed enemies nonetheless. This man is tied to a chair. Killing him would not be a casualty of war but murder, plain and simple. I won’t be a party to it, and neither will you if you expect to get paid.”
Voide spun toward John, dropped her knife on the desk, and pulled her sword halfway out of its sheath. She took a step toward him before Molon held up a hand which checked her advance.
“Drecking frags, Molon,” Voide spat a vitriolic response, never taking her gaze off John but fully sheathing her sword and picking up her dagger once again, also returning it to its sheath. “I told you bringing this civvy pale along was just asking for trouble. So what, Doc, you plan on hauling this overweight pig back to Tede to stand trial or something?”
“No,” John answered, calmly. “We are going to leave him tied up right here.”
“John,” Molon said, clenching his jaw. “We can’t just leave him. Either kill him or take him, but we’ve gotta pick one right now. If that alarm sounds none of us is leaving alive.”
“I will not kill him,” John answered, folding his arms defiantly. “The Lion of Judah says to bless those who curse you. Perhaps this man will realize he owes his life to God and will change his ways. Besides, we can’t take him.”
“Why not?” Molon asked.
“We are going to have our hands full.”
“Full of what?” Voide said, clenching her fists as if she were fighting back the urge to punch John.
“An old man and an unconscious guard,” John answered.
Voide kicked the side of the warden’s desk and began sputtering and swearing under her breath. Even Molon shook his head and ran his hand through the fur on the top of his head and back of his neck.
“You really are crazy,” Molon said. “You’re going to risk our lives to rescue two people you don’t even know? Need I remind you one of those people stood and watched while this twisted freak murdered your wife?”
“So did you,” John replied.
There had not been so much as a hint of anger or condemnation in John’s voice when he delivered that verbal blow, but Molon could not remember a punch to the gut ever hurting that much. That settled it. John was the patron for this assignment, and he gave the orders. If he wanted to let this inquisitor live and rescue two strangers, then that’s what they were going to do.
“Molon?” Voide asked.
“Stand down, Lieutenant Commander. We have our orders. The guy paying the bills wants a rescue, we launch a rescue. Gag that pig so he doesn’t yell and make sure his bonds are secure. Grab the security card off his belt and let’s move. The quicker we nab the prisoners, the quicker we can get off this rock.
They encountered no guards and no obvious alarms sounded on their way back to the cells. Molon couldn’t help but feel they had far overstayed their welcome. Every second increased their likelihood of being discovered and, even with only a skeleton crew of guards manning the facility, they would be hard pressed to fight their way out with a non-combatant doctor and two helpless prisoners in tow.
When they got to the prisoners, the old man was conscious but could barely walk. Voide refused to help at all other than being ready to clear any resistance. She was in a seething mood, holding the grenade launcher loaded and ready in her hands. Molon knew that at that moment, if she could fire one down John’s throat, she would. What they were doing had to be rubbing every nerve in her Prophane body the wrong way.
John had returned the bow to its folded position and snapped it back into the bandolier so his hands were free to help the old man. The guard was unconscious. After John had examined him and determined there were no life-threatening injuries that would prevent him from being moved, Molon took the job of carrying the man over his left shoulder while keeping his automag in his free right hand.
There would be no way to squeeze the two prisoners easily through the small opening in the shuttle bay door. Even if they could, it would mean trying to navigate two nearly immobile prisoners down the cliff face below the bay exit. That left them only the front doors as a viable exit. If any alarm sounded, Dawnstar forces could easily form a defensive barricade at the front gates. That would bring this little rescue attempt to a sudden and violent end.
They were almost to the front exit when the PA system in the complex came on. Playing over the loudspeakers was an all-too-familiar message.
“John, I…I don’t know if you will hear this, but I found a way to uplink to the…to the System Express boat in orbit. I looked for you when the explosions freed me. You weren’t in our cell. I…I don’t know how long I can stay hidden. I’m afraid, John…If you get this message, please come find me. I’m alive, John. I’m waiting for you.”
John stopped in his tracks, nearly letting the old man fall to the floor.
“It’s a trick, John. The jailor probably got free and played the message to lure us back. She’s gone and we have to go.”
As if in answer, a klaxon sounded throughout the complex. Red warning lights flashed an alert.
“No, Molon. This message had more to it than the one we received. She said she was alive. She said she was waiting. She’s here, Molon.”
“The rest of the message was exactly the same, John, word for word. They just cut off the one they sent via the System Express jumper. They are taunting you to draw us back into an ambush. We have to get out of here now!”
Voide slapped John across the face hard enough to draw a deep flush of red to his cheek. He staggered back and it was the old man who steadied the doctor.
“Snap out of it pale,” Voide said, seething. “We are leaving now. Payday isn’t worth spit if we are dead, so come with us or stay on your own.”
“You are right,” John said, moving himself and the old man he was half carrying toward the exit. “Elena isn’t here.”
A pitched battle rolled along their path back to the STS. Small squads of Dawnstar guards harried them from defensive positions. They had little trouble fending off the advances, but Molon felt this was likely just a delaying tactic. Their real challenge was likely to come once they reached the STS, if Dawnstar had not already destroyed it.
Voide had spent half her grenades and Molon had emptied four magazines from his automag to clear the path back to the STS. The defense forces for the prison complex only seemed to be advancing at about the same pace as the escapees. However, someone had radioed ahead to the settlement for help. Near the STS were two hovercars marked as local law enforcement. Eight members of the Ratuen constabulary had arrayed themselves behind cover, and their hovercars flanked the path through the spires hiding the STS. Molon and company ducked behind a spire just out of line of sight of the defenders.
“We’re fragged,” Voide growled.
“Maybe not,” Molon replied. “These are local yokels. I doubt they have anything capable of breaching or blowing the STS, so our ride home is probably secure. Looks like these guys may have some light slug throwers, maybe shotguns.”
Voide harrumphed.
“This is still a Dawnstar planet. For all we know, these techno-hicks might be packing plasma pistols.”
“It’s a Dawnstar planet on the butt-end of Dawnstar space. I seriously doubt the local
flatfoots are going to be better armed than the detention facility guards.”
“In that case…,” Voide said as she dived from their cover.
Before Molon or John could react, the dull thump of the grenade launcher sounded twice in a row, separated by the sliding click indicating the chambering of a new grenade round. Molon snapped his last fresh magazine into his automag and stepped from cover just as the two hovercars erupted in metal-rending fireballs. The explosion sent the local police officers not caught in the initial blast scrambling for a place to hide from the artillery barrage.
John scrambled behind Molon, half leading, half dragging the older prisoner. Molon carried the still unconscious guard, but had already determined the man would be a body shield if things got too hot. He fired a couple of rounds off in the direction of the fleeing constables, which only served to intensify their desire to go farther and faster in any direction away from the escapees. Voide’s pyrotechnics had robbed these locals of any will to fight. Molon doubted the border-worlders had seen anything more exciting than a rambunctious drunk since settling this dusty rock.
Reaching the STS without any further conflict or pursuit, Molon tapped in the access codes that opened the boarding hatch. After quickly scrambling to get their prisoners secured, Voide turned to John.
“Since you brought along extra guests and this STS only seats four,” she said, “then I guess you get to hang on and stand for the trip back to Star Wolf.”
“Fine by me,” John replied, grabbing the webbing attached to one bulkhead and bracing himself.
Molon cleared the flight systems and Voide dropped into the co-pilot’s seat, scanning sensors for any indication of serious pursuit. The small arms of the local police couldn’t penetrate the STS, but if they had bigger guns somewhere, or even a defense force, the unarmed STS might be in trouble. They lifted off and began the ascent back toward Star Wolf. Molon called ahead on a secured comm frequency.
Star Wolf (Shattered Galaxy) Page 34