Captain Bayne Boxed Set

by James David Victor

  Patch spoke into the comms. “Blighter, this is the Royal Blue shuttle. Open your rear hatch and prepare to be boarded.”

  A small stretch of silence. A small moment full of endless potential for wrong.

  A ring of light shone as the hatch opened. “Come aboard, shuttle,” a voice answered.

  Patch steered them in and set down. Sigurd was on his feet before the engines went into standby. “All right, away team. Lock and load.”

  Bayne stood, clearing his throat.

  “Right, sorry, sir,” Sigurd said with the mischievous smile of a toddler. “Not used to you being here is all.”

  “Shill said he would comply,” Bayne said. “But if he was a trustworthy sort, he wouldn’t be a pirate. Safeties off. Sigurd on point. Turkle and Cruz take up the rear. Smythe, you guard the shuttle, secure our way out.”

  “Ayes” all around, and the side hatch popped open.

  A nod from Bayne and the team exited the shuttle, fanned out and formed a perimeter. The docking bay was empty, save for the familiar smell of solvents. Sigurd took point, leading the team through the room and into the corridor, also empty.

  An ill feeling rose in Bayne’s gut. They pressed on, feeling less at ease than if they were facing down an army.

  They moved like ghosts down the corridor, passing room after room, the mess, cabins, engineering, janitor’s closet. Not a soul.

  “This a ghost ship?” Sigurd asked.

  “No,” Bayne answered. “Pirates are just cowards. Keep your guard up.”

  They reached the end of the corridor—a solid metal door, unornamented, with a single latch in the middle. An old sort of mechanism not found on modern ships. The Blighter had a pretty paint job, but it was old on the inside, where it really mattered.

  “Enter,” came a voice from the other side. “You’ve already been invited, after all. No need for formality.”

  Bayne nodded to Sigurd, a silent command issued and acknowledged. Sigurd turned the latch, and they stormed onto the bridge.

  “No need for any of that,” Shill said, raising his arms and gesturing to his empty bridge. “As you can see, it’s just me.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Bayne said. “Where’s your crew?”

  Shill laughed as he hoisted a bottle from a nearby console and put it to his lips. “About,” he said, exhaling with a stink reminiscent of the hangar bay. “They aren’t much for guests.”

  With a subtle flick of his wrist, Bayne signaled for Sigurd to search the bridge. Empty, as it appeared to be. Or, as it seemed to appear to be. Bayne reminded himself that this was a pirate ship. Riddled with secret hatches for smuggling, slaving, and hiding—the only things a pirate did well.

  Safer to assume there was always eyes on them.

  “We’ll find them,” Bayne said. “Or we won’t. And their fates will be what they will be once we scuttle this ship.”

  Shill’s face tightened at that. Not so much at the thought of his crew going down like rats on a ship, Bayne assumed, but the thought of the Blighter going down at all.

  “Sig,” Bayne said with a nod.

  Sigurd stepped forward, his rifle trained on the pirate. “Wex Shill, you are hereby remanded to the custody of the United Navy for the crime of piracy, and probably a few others that we’ll tack on later. Hands in front.”

  Shill brought his hands around, fluttering his long waistcoat. Bayne caught sight of the sword dangling from his belt, and then the smile dangling from the pirate’s lips. “Won’t put up a fight. Man of my word. Unless, of course, the good captain would oblige me?”

  A familiar, if recently uncommon, heat lit in Bayne’s gut. “Meaning?”

  “A duel,” Shill said. “Like the days of old.”

  Sigurd waved Turkle and Cruz forward. “Let’s wrap this sack up and beat it back to the shuttle.”

  Protocol for the capture of hostiles: Present terms. If terms are accepted, bring prisoner aboard, notify Central Command, and return with prisoner. If terms are not accepted, bring prisoner into custody by whatever means necessary. Never negotiate.

  Sigurd kept his rifle trained on Shill. Turkle stepped forward with the shackles.

  Shill never released Bayne’s eyes.

  “Hold up, Chief,” Bayne said to Sigurd.

  The security chief craned his neck to look at the captain, but never took his gun of the target. “Captain?”

  “Knew I recognized something in you, Captain,” Shill staid. “Something I see in the mirror each morning.”

  Bayne stomped forward. “Not a thing about me is anything at all like you.”

  Shill just kept on smiling. “Of course. Well, blades it is, then?”

  The sucking inhale of disbelief from his subordinates surprised Bayne only in that he did not mirror the sentiment. He did not scoff at the absurdity. He did not chuckle at the obvious desperation in the pirate’s attempt to prolong his life, if for only a few moments. His voice was devoid of sarcasm when it said, “I don’t carry a sword.”

  “Lucky for you,” Shill said, raising his arms so that his waistcoat brushed aside and revealed the hilt of another sword strapped to his lower back, “I carry two.”

  “I don’t think I can fully put into words how bad an idea this is, sir,” Sigurd said so only Bayne could hear.

  “No signs of any shuttle or pods leaving the ship,” Bayne said. “The crew is still on board. Could be in the walls, underneath us. I refuse, they pop out, take us out. Twisted as it is, pirates have a code. They’ll stab us in the back as soon as take a breath, but if I beat Shill now, they stand down.” It was an act of logical gymnastics, and Bayne felt like he was out on the wire without a net. He loved the feeling of his stomach turning as he looked down.

  Whether out of obligation or belief, Sigurd gave a reluctant nod. He stepped back, but never lowered his rifle.

  “Go ahead,” Bayne said.

  At that, Shill pulled the blade from its sheathe on his back. It was a beautiful piece of weaponry. The blade had a hint of blue to it, mixing with the shimmer of the steel. There were countless minerals and metals available out in the Deep Black, mined from meteor fields and asteroid belts and planetoids no other person had set foot on. It could be anything mixed in there, but Bayne reckoned it was pacifite, known for its ability to mix well with other metals and enhance the strength of both.

  The blade was curved and thin, extending from an ornate hilt and handle. It looked quick, agile, and Bayne could barely wait to hold it.

  “Drop it,” Bayne said to Shill, who obliged. The ring of the blade hitting the deck was something from a symphony. “Now step back.”

  As the pirate stepped back, the captain stepped forward, bent, and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. Bayne had carried a sword in his early days as a Ranger, but Navy protocol forbid them, which he always thought foolish. Blasters were devastating and efficient, but cumbersome at close range. When nose to nose with your enemy, a blade would save your life, whereas reliance on a blaster would get you gutted.

  Bayne reckoned that was why the Navy forbid them—they didn’t want their sailors fighting nose to nose, and so their sailors had lost all sense of how to do so. He still remembered the day the Navy collected his sword, the day he was commissioned an officer. A bittersweet pang.

  It felt like an old friend in his hand. A firm handshake from an acquaintance fallen out of touch. The balance was great. The weight was perfect. And that blade…

  He glanced up to catch Shill smirking at him. “I know,” Shill said. “A fine piece, that. A gift from—”

  “I don’t care,” the captain said, cutting him off. He ignored the disbelief in Shill’s eyes and the cocky tilt to his smile. He sliced at the air and took a few steps, like dance moves he’d not practiced in ages.

  With his back to Shill, he whispered, “Once we start, Turkle and Cruz will leave, search the corridors, find his crew. Sig, you’re with me.”

  “Always, sir,” Sig said, tightening his grip on his rif
le.

  With a flourish, Bayne spun back to face Shill. “Shall we?”

  Shill’s cocky smile widened to one of pure joy. “We shall.”

  3

  Shill’s sword sung as he pulled it from its sheathe. Bayne barely contained a gasp at the sight of it. A perfect complement to the one Bayne held. Equally ornate hilt and handle. The blade straight, but no wider than two fingers, was pure black. No doubting the make of it. Black Star, one of the rarest metals known, and the hardest. It took an absolute genius of a smith to forge it, and a near fortune to employ his services.

  “His sister,” Shill said, gesturing to Bayne’s sword. “Aye, this one’s a lady.” He twirled his sword effortlessly, artistically. “A gift from the only person in this life I respect.”

  “I don’t care.” Bayne thrusted the beautiful blue blade at Shill’s gut. The pirate parried, then took two quick steps back, out of striking range.

  Bayne circled, watching Shill, studying him; how he moved, how he stood, how he held his sword. The captain wasn’t so arrogant that he believed this fight a foregone conclusion. He was great once, but he hadn’t swung a sword in years.

  Shill had a loose grip, a confident one. An overly confident one, maybe, and he walked with a swagger, not the measured step one would normally take during a fight of life and death. He was unafraid.

  Protocol for dealing with one such as him: make him afraid, shake his confidence.

  Bayne dashed forward, his blade point low. Once in striking distance, he brought the tip up in a swift arc. Shill barely managed to bring his blade down to block. But, in so doing, the pirate missed the fist coming at this face. Bayne drove it into Shill’s left cheekbone.

  For the first time, the cocky facade cracked, letting a look of shock show through, but Shill quickly patched it together. “Knew I recognized something in you.” Shill slashed down at Bayne, who blocked with his own upward attack. They swung several more times, the clangs of metal, scuff of boots, and heavy breathing blending into one mash of sound.

  They broke apart, both men sweaty and heaving. Both men smiling.

  They rushed forward again, the time for thought and banter now past. Bayne moved on instinct. His muscles took over, muscles he’d forgotten he had. Until the black blade cut through them.

  Shill ducked a cross-slash, dashed forward, and dragged his sword just along the surface of Bayne’s thigh.

  Pain shot up and down Bayne’s leg. He dropped to his knee, and a sudden shock of panic surged in his chest. He slashed wildly in front of him, aiming only to keep the enemy back. He planted his free palm on the floor and shoved, rolling back from Shill.

  Bayne’s heart punched at the inside of his chest. His head swam as his blood pumped like lava through his body.

  Protocol when injured and facing death: stand up.

  Bayne growled through clenched teeth as he stood. The crimson stain spread along his pants. He watched it for what seemed like a lifetime. In that life, Bayne felt his Navy captaincy slip away. His uniform unraveled and fell off his body. Central Command dissolved. The United Systems broke apart. But he remained, and he was a Ranger again. His ship. His command. His orders. His desire at the helm.

  The snaking new timeline collapsed in on itself, and Bayne was back in the present, a blade slicing through the air on course to lop his head from his shoulders.

  Bayne tucked his chin to his chest and rolled forward. He felt the shift in the air as the black blade barely missed him. The world spun around him. He was dizzied by the explosion and collapse of time, the unfurling of alternate lives, and when things finally stopped moving, he was alive still, and had another man’s blood running up his arm.

  The blue blade was covered in red, run through Shill’s midsection up to the hilt. The pirate coughed and sputtered, but still wore that cocky smile. “Knew I recognized something in you.” He dropped his sword, then he dropped onto his side, head banging off the deck. “Shame you been kidding yourself so long.” Black blood ran from his lips. “You ain’t no officer.”

  The room went black for a second, so quick it could be mistaken for a blink, but the flashing lights that followed could be mistaken for nothing.

  “What is this?” Bayne asked.

  The sound of blaster fire answered him. Sigurd ran for the door and pressed his ear to it.

  “What’s happening?” Bayne asked again.

  Shill answered through his bloody smile, choking every other syllable. “Ain’t nothing. Ship’s self-destruct is tied to my vitals is all. I ain’t leaving this world without her.”

  “What’s our status, Sig?” the captain asked, flicking the pirate’s blood off his fingers.

  “Hell if I know,” the chief answered. “A few shots and then quiet. Patch says the shuttle is secure. Can’t get Turkle or Cruz on comms.”

  Shill’s breathing shallowed and filled with a gargling, raspy sound. “Pirate…” A fit of coughing swallowed his next words, but, like the arrogant man all of his cut were, he forced back death for a moment so he could speak. “In uniform. So blind. He’ll open your eyes.” His head fell back. “Fair winds and following seas.”

  He was dead.

  A robotic voice came over the sound system. “Our most glorious captain has passed into the void. Ever the glutton, he has chosen to take his ship and all aboard along for the ride. Five minutes until self-destruct.”

  Bayne stood over the dead body of Captain Wex Shill—opportunist, murderer, smuggler, slaver, drug-runner, pirate, free man. He squatted beside him. As pointless as his death was, Bayne couldn’t help but feel some amount of jealousy for his life.

  He grabbed the blue-bladed sword and ripped it from the free man’s gut. Then he pried the black-bladed sword from his hand. “Let’s get out of this coffin,” he said to Sigurd.

  “Aye, sir. On my mark.” At the count of three, Bayne opened the door. Sigurd moved out, swept the corridor, and took a defensive position. “Clear,” he said.

  The corridor was as empty as when they were in it last. “Patch,” Bayne said into his comm. “Fire up the shuttle. We’re coming to you.”

  “Aye, sir,” the pilot answered.

  “Any word from Turkle or Cruz?” the captain asked.

  “None, sir.”

  They stopped at a bend in the corridor. Sigurd peered around the corner. “I found them, sir,” he said heavily.

  Bayne stepped around the chief despite Sig’s objection. Turkle was slumped against the wall, a smear of blood painting his downward path. Cruz lay across from him. Judging from the odd curvature of his head, his skull had been smashed in.

  “Sir, no.” Sig objected further as Bayne ran down the corridor to his two dead subordinates. The chief ran after him, his rifle up. “We can’t linger, sir.”

  “We can’t leave them.”

  “Can’t carry them and protect you at the same time. They’ll get a sailor’s send off when this ship goes down.”

  The thought made Bayne’s guts turn. Of his men getting a sailor’s burial on a pirate’s ship. Then he looked at the blades clutched in his bloody hands.

  They didn’t hear footsteps, only yells. Maybe there weren’t any footsteps. Maybe they appeared out of nowhere like ghosts. Maybe they just couldn’t hear them over the sound of blood and anger pumping in their ears. Either way, a dozen pirates appeared at either end of the corridor, trapping Bayne and Sigurd between them.

  The pirates had their blades drawn, but left their blasters holstered. This could’ve been a shooting gallery. Should have been, if killing the captain and his crew was the pirates’ intention.

  “They’re stalling us,” Bayne said. “Trying to keep us here until the ship explodes. They plan on going down with it and want to take us along.”

  “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, Captain,” Sig said.

  “Might not have a choice,” Bayne said.

  “Certainly a tight spot.” That voice was certainly the act of ghosts—hollow, metallic, coming from nowhere a
nd everywhere. “Allow us to help you out of it. Follow the light.”

  Before Bayne could ask the spirit for clarification, the corridor filled with smoke. It poured out of the overhead vents, thick and black. Bayne couldn’t see two feet in front of him.

  A roar of voices erupted around them.

  “Sir,” Sig said.

  “I see it,” Bayne said of the flicker of light that appeared low to the ground just to their side. Bayne grabbed Sig’s shoulder and said, “Go.”

  They ducked down and chased after it. The light moved away from them with each step they took. Chasing fairies on the advice of ghosts. Bayne would have laughed at the thought if he wasn’t about to die. They moved toward the aft, Bayne thought, toward the docking bay where the shuttle waited, but he doubted, no matter the cleverness of ghosts and magic lights, that he could sneak through the legs of six pirates.

  The light suddenly darted to the left, at the wall, through it, assuming the wall was still where Bayne thought it was.

  “Keep your head down,” a ghost said, but this one sounded different. Not hollow, not metallic, or far away, but like a boy.

  A rush of disorientation washed over Bayne, like hitting the last step at the bottom of the stair when you thought there was one more, as he passed through a space that should have been occupied by wall. He felt a hand, much too small and nimble to be Sigurd’s, grab his wrist and pull him further into the space that shouldn’t exist. Then a metal clang echoed behind them, quiet but definite.

  “Go, go, go,” the voice said, and young hands pushed on Bayne’s back.

  The smoke cleared as they moved another few feet, and Bayne could tell now that they were in an access tunnel, used by techs so they could tend to the inner workings of the ship firsthand. Modern ships did away with them because that level of mechanical work had been largely automated.

  The tunnel opened into a connecting point, a nexus of tunnels that snaked through the ship.

  It was then that Bayne first saw his ghost—a fifteen-year-old boy with long black curls and olive skin. His eyes were almond-colored and looked to have seen more than they should have. He wore a tattered white shirt and a simple pair of black trousers. No shoes. His hands were calloused, scarred on the knuckles. He was skinny, but not alarmingly so, and had a sturdy frame.