by Paul Barrett
“That’s right,” Hawk said. “And, much as I hate to do it, we’re going to give her a paint job. I’m thinking bright red with black highlights.”
“Won’t she kind of stand out?” Ashron asked.
“Yes,” Hawk agreed. “She’ll stand out so much that no will even consider that it’s the same vessel.”
“Hide in plain sight,” Gerard offered
“Exactly. Any more questions?”
“Yeah,” Ashron said, “What am I supposed to do for the next two days?”
Wolf stood up with a grin. “Glad you asked. To start, there’s a transmitter on a landing gear that needs patching. Then there’s more.”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“I know,” Wolf said.
Muttering, Ashron stared at the table.
“We’ll do ripsleep in ten minutes,” Hawk said. “When we’re back, Gerard and Trey can get busy on those corporate records.”
“Captain, good news,” Ship said.
“Great. I could use a little.”
“I found a picture and statistics match for Anne. A most interesting woman.”
“Dump it in my room,” Hawk said. “I’ll look at it on the other side of rip.”
Hawk whistled in amazement as he finished the information Ship had placed across the terminal. “I lucked out again, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
Anne Siliar’s real name was Madrin Abarla. Judging by her past work, she easily ranked in the top echelon of assassins floating around the galaxy. They had no way to get an accurate count of how many beings she had killed; the rumors Ship could find had it in the neighborhood of a hundred.
“So, Ship, in the past five years, how many times do you think sheer blind luck has saved me?”
“Thirty-two. Of course, that’s just a rough estimate.”
“I need to start relying on more than luck, then. I’d say mine’s about run out. Do we have any way to track her down? I’d like to have a chat with her.”
“There are channels I could go through if you’d like me to put out a false feeler.”
“Do that. It may not matter, but I don’t like the idea that she’s running around out there and we have no inkling where she is.”
“Aye, Captain.
“That was a good call, Trey,” Gerard said. “They are definitely building up for something big.”
They had been working with Ship for the past day, searching, locating and compiling information on purchases made by Unicybertronic and any of their subsidiaries. What they found staggered Gerard. In a little over three years, the company had purchased ten thousand ships for a total cash outlay of roughly four trillion Standards
“I didn’t know companies made that kind of money,” Trey said.
“Many of them don’t,” Gerard told him. “UCT is one of the rare exceptions. That’s no doubt why Moran approached them.”
“If they’re that rich, why do they want to overthrow the Council?”
“For a lot of people, money isn’t enough. They want power, too, and they think by overthrowing the Council, they’ll have the power they want. People will do horrible things for power.”
“I know,” Trey stared down at the table.
Gerard patted the boy on the back. “I know you do. But I don’t think the executives at UCT have fully thought it through.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Council is only able to exist because the planets involved let it exist. If UCT takes over, the only way they’ll be able to continue ruling is through force. Ten thousand ships may be enough to overthrow the Council, but it’s nowhere near enough to make two hundred and eight planets bend to your will.”
“What about ten thousand ships like Ship, only bigger?”
“Ten thousand sentient ships?” Gerard considered it. “It’s possible. And if they ever learn how to do it, they could build as many as they want. Ship, download this to Hawk. Come on, Trey, we need to show him what we found.”
As they moved down the hallway toward Hawk’s cabin, Gerard asked, “So, the ripspace visions have stopped?”
“Not totally,” Trey admitted, “but I can handle them now.”
Gerard nodded. “And your finger exercises and multiplication tables.”
“The finger stuff is easy now; I’m getting better with the math.”
“Five times seven?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Six times six?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Three times ei-”
“Twenty-seven. No, twenty-four.”
Gerard smiled. “Keep working at it. You’re doing well.”
Trey returned the grin.
When they arrived at Hawk’s door, they saw it already open. Hawk sat in a blue fabric chair. Trey liked Hawk’s cabin. It was a neat, well-kept room, unlike Gerard’s machinery-strewn wreck, or Ashron’s, where his discarded clothing served as a carpet.
Trey approved of Hawk’s cleanliness. He didn’t like messes. Life had shown him it was messy enough without adding to it. The walls were a shade of blue that was almost black. Much darker than the other walls in Ship. A holo-picture of a beautiful woman with short brown hair and tan skin sat on his nightstand. Trey had never asked who she was. He now realized it had to be Sara. Her hazel eyes, even in the static picture, took Trey’s breath. She resembled Laura; Trey decided he probably shouldn’t say that.
Another holo hung on the wall, this one of Ship, a younger Hawk, and a black-haired man Trey suspected was Moran.
Trey wondered why Hawk kept such painful memories where they could torment him. Trey had left everything behind on Kel, wanting to take nothing with him. The memories had followed him anyway. He suddenly wished he still had a picture of his parents. Maybe seeing the memories helped. He would have to ask Hawk sometime.
Hawk broke into Trey’s thoughts. “Ship told me you were coming. Show me what you’ve got.”
Gerard explained their discoveries while Hawk followed along with the information Ship put up on the monitor.
“It certainly looks like a nice little coup attempt to me,” Hawk said when Gerard had finished. “I think Grendarin will be able to get the Council to act on this.”
“I believe I’ll mention this to my Order, too,” Gerard said.
“Why?”
“That size a force might have some manipulators connected to it and my colleagues should know that. Plus, they might be able to find out more information for us.”
“Okay,” Hawk said. “Never hurts to have a flock of spellburners on your side.”
“Flock?” Gerard’s pale eyebrows quirked in amusement. “I’ll refrain from telling them you said that.”
Hawk’s face reddened. “I’d appreciate that.”
Moran brooded in his dimly lighted office, the ebon walls a reflection of his mood. Despite the painkillers and bone menders, his sternum still ached from the impact of the lasers. The cybernetic eye destroyed by the sniper’s blast had been replaced immediately with no complications. The skin around it, shredded by the exploding metal, still healed and itched constantly. Moran dared not scratch it.
That he should be dead never entered Moran’s mind. He had come close to death and survived by sheer will so many times he felt he couldn’t die. Each close encounter with the grim specter had resulted in the loss of some portion of himself, which he replaced with a machine part. He would simply become more and more machine until the only human element left was his brain. He knew a machine, properly maintained, could run forever.
He intended to make sure he was properly maintained.
The pain in his ribs was only a minor annoyance. The major anguish came from knowing Hawk—a seemingly indestructible survivor like himself—was still alive with the ship in his possession.
Moran cared nothing about the ship itself. Sara, trapped inside, was another matter. He would free her and make her his. The fools at Unicybertronic could babble about overthrowing the Council all they wanted. Moran wou
ld help them, since ruling the known universe had a certain appeal. But he would do it with Sara at his side. He would continue with the experiments and the project as long as there was no chance she would come to harm. The destruction of their research lab on Meta Brévé had been a setback, nothing more. They had other labs making progress. When the starships were ready, Moran would be ready, too.
A knock on the door intruded into his melancholy thoughts. “Enter,” he said.
The door slid open, and one of the nameless, faceless corporate flunkies walked in. “Sir, we have a tracking lock on the vessel. As you suspected, they patched the broadband transmitter to send a false reading.”
“Did they find the secondary?”
“Apparently not, sir. Here’s the data and projection information.” The technician walked over and handed a small cube to Moran.
“Is that all?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may go.”
The technician turned and left. Moran looked at the cube. His face contorted into what he thought of as a smile; most would have seen it as a grimace.
I’m still smarter than you are, Hawk, he thought as he dropped the cube into its slot. They had found the decoy, which he fully expected, and completely missed the real transmitter, which had been his hope.
It was a tiny piece of equipment, no bigger than a thumbnail, so small and low-powered that not even Ship’s hypersensitive apparatus could detect it. Its drawback was that it could only send data over a short distance, usually no more than ten kilometers. Moran had modified the device; instead of a constant transmission, it sent out a static burst every six hours, which were intercepted by powerful scanners tuned to its pattern. The power cell on the device allowed for four such bursts. Ordinarily, this would have been useless for figuring out a vessel’s projected course, but Moran knew enough about Hawk’s mindset that he felt confident he could fill in the blanks left by technology.
Moran turned on the screen, viewed the line of static discharges, studied the routes projected by the computer, and laughed. Hawk was almost making it too easy.
“Back to Red’s? Well, I’ll make sure what you meet there keeps you entertained.”
26
A Bad Night At Red’s
Hawk pushed through the batwing-style double doors. They clattered behind him, swinging smoothly on well-oiled hinges as he let go. He scanned the tavern with its motif of Old Earth West and felt a brief disappointment the crowd hadn’t gone instantly silent when he walked in. A few people did glance at him before returning to their business. The two-man band didn’t even pause in its playing. He would have to talk to Red about that later.
He shuffled to the bar, sat down, and placed his back against the edge of the bar’s wooden railing so he still faced the crowded room.
“What’ll it be, stranger?” the boisterous Red asked from behind him.
“Banana shake,” Hawk said. He felt more than saw Red’s puzzled expression. Without turning around, he added, “I’m on the starship.”
“Good,” Red said.
Hawk grinned as he rested his elbows on the bar and studied the crowd. To Hawk, the Galaxy consisted of two types of individuals: hunters and prey. Hawk considered himself the former. Recent events had shown him a view of life as the latter. He did not enjoy it and was ready to resume his place in the ranks of the predators. Places like Red’s drew hunters as inevitably as blood attracted sharks.
Red had informed Hawk earlier that one of the major predators had shown up hunting for him, much as he had been seeking her. He decided to turn the tables and flush her out before she had a chance to take him down.
Hawk found his mark. She sat in a far corner staring at him. She diverted her attention and continued to study the room as if the eye contact had been incidental. He continued to stare at her. She gave no indication that she noticed.
A hand touched his shoulder. Without turning away, Hawk held out his hand. A cold glass pressed into it.
“Any luck?” Red’s voice said behind him.
“The fishing’s fine, thanks,” Hawk answered, staring at the female. She studiously avoided his direct gaze. A tactical error. Hawk hadn’t been sure she was the one. Her continued evasion of his stare confirmed it.
He glanced away to another part of the room. In a small booth beside the fireplace sat another female. Feline in appearance, with multi-hued chocolate fur and dark green eyes. She sat in an alert posture, her claws sliding in and out as her hands flexed. She left no doubt about her place on the hunter/prey scale. She gazed at Hawk and, with minute gestures, gave him the all clear.
“Tasha looks much better now than when she first arrived,” Red said.
Hawk took a drink of his shake, enjoying the creamy cold as it went down his throat. He almost didn’t miss the vodka he used to put in them. “Do you think she’s ready?
“Oh, yes. I saw her workout this morning. She’s more than ready.”
Upon their arrival yesterday, Hawk and crew had been surprised to find Tasha waiting for them at Red’s cabin, alive and well. Tasha told them about the kidnapping and how she struggled to find a way to Red’s, not knowing whom to trust and forced to avoid medical attention lest her name show up in official databases. She finally managed to stow away on a freighter heading to the right system and steal one of the escape pods, which she immediately charted for GH-5955.
Later that night, Red told Hawk she had arrived near death, and it was a miracle she made it at all. The poison from the needler could not kill her outright like it did humans, but without any antidote, it continued to weaken her system. Unable to eat and barely able to drink, she arrived malnourished, dehydrated, and incoherent. How she piloted the escape craft into the hanger without crashing was still a mystery, since she remembered nothing about it. Red had told Hawk that when she first arrived, the odds on her living through the night were about a hundred to one.
“It’s amazing,” Red said as Hawk stood up from the bar. “If you had told me four nights ago she would be up and back to normal within a week, I would have thrown you in the hole for being a liar.”
“Well,” Hawk said, “maybe Pralins have nine lives, too. Showtime.”
He gave one last glance at Tasha. Nodding, she stood and slid to a better position, ready to back up Hawk if he needed it.
With his drink, Hawk strolled toward the table where the woman sat. Noticing his movement in her direction, she smiled and took a casual sip from her drink, a dark green liqueur that smelled of mint and fresh grass.
“Hello, Sean,” she said as he reached the table. “It’s been a while.”
“Hello, Anne,” Hawk pulled up a chair and sat. “Or should I call you Madrin.”
She started at the use of her real name—a hesitation so brief only someone trained like Hawk would have noticed—then smoothly regained her composure.
“Either is fine,” she said. “I see you’ve been doing your homework.”
“I think I liked you better as a brunette.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, touching her short, tawny mane. “This is my natural color.”
“Is it?” Hawk asked. Ship’s file had included every picture of Madrin that could be found. An expert in disguise, she had one feature she could not change. The keen vision of her race relied on a chemical composition that made their eyes highly sensitive to any touch. Colored contacts would have her writhing in pain within thirty seconds. Color correction surgery would have blinded her. The golden eyes Hawk remembered so well had given her away. “I’m disappointed you didn’t stick around that night so we could have said proper good-byes.”
“I had a pressing engagement.”
“Fair enough,” Hawk said. “Moran can be a little impatient.” She offered no reaction to the name other than a quizzical frown.
She’s good. Hawk thought. Standing, he said, “Then I’ll say good-bye now.”
“So soon? I was hoping we could dance.”
“Funny, I thought
we just did.”
She smiled and sipped her drink. “Some other time then.”
Hawk smiled back. “I look forward to it.” He offered a slight bow and left the bar, turning his back on her.
Madrin watched him leave, sliding her needle gun back in her boot. She could have taken him then, but it was hard to collect a fee on suicide missions. As soon as she shot Hawk, the crowd would have grabbed her, she would have been found in violation of Red’s code, and they would have tossed her in “the hole.”
The hole was just that, a ten-meter wide, twenty-meter deep concrete pit that contained absolutely nothing. By Red’s decree, anyone found guilty of killing someone on GH-5955 was lowered into the hole. Lowered with them was an eight-legged creature known as a Spiner. It immediately latched on to the trapped convict, stunned the victim with a nueropoison, and laid eggs in various appendages. The Spiner died shortly after impregnating its host. The eggs took years to gestate, and they fed on the host, causing pain so mind-crushingly intense the person went insane within a year. If anyone was caught helping any person try to escape the hole, they also received the same treatment. It was a brutal, effective punishment. Word had spread, and there had been no murders on GH-5955 in ten years.
She watched as the Pralin female who played back up left behind Hawk. No murders in ten years. She planned to change that tonight. She would take as many as she thought she could safely get away with. Hawk was the priority. If she could manage the whole crew, all the better.
She downed the rest of her drink and walked toward the exit. She needed to be even more cautious than usual, since Hawk obviously expected danger. Experience and common sense dictated she should wait a night or two, lying low so they would assume she had left, but she had no way of knowing if the Knights would even stay that long.
Besides, she grew tired of the cat and mouse game. She had deigned to work this last job for Moran after he agreed she could go it alone and do it quietly instead of grandstanding. The pay, though excellent, was by the head and not the hour. She was ready to move on.