by Ian Cannon
“Heh—” Ben said pacing right, then left, waving a finger at Varkin. “You know, that’s what the last Cabal security guy said.”
Varkin acknowledged his manifest and docket information. “I know,” he said. “Dekorrah’Bha. Security minister Troicka. Irrelevant.”
Ben froze on his feet. The two men locked eyes. Ben got the sneaking suspicion he was being thrust into an unwinnable situation. It squirmed up his spine. That kind of thing usually ended in a fight. He pursed his lips, hiding his thoughts.
Two guards. One to either side. Both with hip blasters. Both with stun batons. Could be worse.
Varkin continued, “It also says you’ve recently been to the Mortus moon.”
“Yeah.”
“For what reason?”
“Aqua run,” Ben answered. “It’s right there. It’s all in my freight history.”
“There’s no need for aqua on Mortus,” Varkin said. He tilted his head at him in observation, those steely eyes going into slits. He was reading him, testing. It made Ben shiver. Varkin said, “There’s no outpost out that way. No colonies.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Ben said in reflection.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Varkin said sharply.
Ben gave him a look like a dog that got caught eating cat plugs. His face melted into a wide, toothy grin, if not a bit sly. “Look, have I done something to pinch you guys by the penirs?”
Varkin inhaled and steepled his fingers on his desk. “You’re also from Golot Major.”
Ben made a that’s-just-typical look and said, “Ah—and there it is.”
“You’re Golothan.”
“I’m an independent.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Uh—yeah there is.”
“Uh—no there’s not,” Varkin returned. There actually was. But Ben knew what he meant. High Major Varkin’s point was clear—I’ll say what is or isn’t.
Ben nodded in a capitulatory way. He was space punked for sure.
And of course there’s the admin guy. He would be no problem in a fight. But Varkin? That guy was an X-factor.
“Are you telling me you people never have privateers from Golot?” Ben asked with that sly, distrusting tone of his.
Varkin gave him a condescending grin and said, “Captain Standish,”—at least he didn’t doubt Ben’s fake name—“we are the United Confederation Front. Golotha is the capitol world of the Imperium. Do you take us for fools? This project is being built for military purposes. Even an independent from Golotha would consider that rock to be their homeworld.”
“Not me.”
“Regardless, we’re issuing a seizure of your vessel for security inspect.”
Ben drew in a large, angry breath. “You’re detaining me?”
A smug smile. A head nod. “That is correct.”
Four guys. Not too bad. With a little surprise, anything was possible.
Varkin continued, “You’re carrying a shipment of heavy industrial alloy-gel. What better disguise could there possibly be for the transport of heinous materials?”
“Uh—bad cannon casings. Rigged blaster cells. Faulty plasma engines. Second hand O-rings. Old gaskets.”
“You have a partner, too,” Varkin said cutting him off.
Ben flinched back the tinniest bit.
“A Raylon female.”
Ben’s anger hit the top of his head, almost blew out.
Varkin said, “She’s currently in the personnel holding lobby.”
Ben said as unemotionally as he could, “What about her?”
Varkin said in a sharp, authoritative voice, “Detain her, too.”
The security admin nodded, “Yes, sir,” and spoke into his wrist mol subcutaneous comm device. “Sector seven, holding bay nine, personnel security. We have a Raylon female that came in with an RX-one-one-one freight hauler. See to her immediate detainment, command order six-six-seven-eight-oh-one.”
Varkin’s eyes drifted to Ben bearing the slightest grin. He said in a flat, careless voice, “We will hold her as leverage, you see? That is, until you give me the answers we want to hear.”
Ben gave Varkin his most even-featured look trying to hide his processing. This was a botched job. It was time for fight or flight.
Or both.
Ben forced a smile at him and held it until it hurt his face.
“Now,” Varkin said, “if you don’t mind, I’d very much like it if you—”
Ben spun around, jacked the nearest guard across the eye socket with a violent sucker punch. The guy’s head jerked back. Ben went for his blaster, but the guy recoiled and unleashed his baton. Ben had to redirect on the fly. He grabbed the guy’s weapon hand and the two pirouetted around leading the baton in a full circle.
The other guard surged forward on the attack, but the baton jabbed him in the throat with an electric sizzle. His mouth opened and he spumed a wretched noise. Vomit splashed everywhere.
The others froze, shielding themselves from the spray. Everything went quiet as Ben and the guard locked against each other, both making an impulsive, “Ick!” noise.
“I fink he gonnit in ma mouf!” Ben cried.
The guard looked at him horrified.
Ben reeled around bending the baton at his attacker. The guy struggled back, desperately. They floundered across Varkin’s desk, Ben on his back, the guard on top. Varkin leapt back, assessing. He lurched forward to join the struggle, but Ben forced the baton at him.
Another sizzle. Another wretched hack. Ben dodged, thrust himself from under the guard, hit the floor. Varkin vomit rained down onto the desk. The guard faded back, the look of repulsion all over him. Ben grabbed the fallen guard’s blaster, came up and fired. It was a paralyze beam. The blast hit him in the back and spun him around. They made eye contact, both agreeing it was better than the stun wand. Ben shot him again and he dropped unconscious.
A groan came from the corner. Ben spun around, blaster at the ready. The admin assistant shrank in the corner, eyes wide.
“Call off the seizure on my wife,” Ben commanded.
“I—I can’t,” he said.
Zap—Ben shot him. He fell twitching and shimmying. It was time to haul some narse.
Ben bolted from the office spitting like a maniac and wiping his tongue on his shirtsleeve. He had to get to Tawny, get to REX, get the hells off this station.
Now—where do they keep the senior staff hover skiffs? There, through that airlock hatch.
He sprinted into a vehicle bay and spied a long row of executive craft. Some were single-manned vacuum dinghies, others were larger four-seaters. He went to a voice pad and said, “Six-six-seven-eight-oh-one.”
One of them buzzed into life, bobbing on its sudden mag cushion. It was a disc-shaped two-seater job with a full canopy over the pilot seat. It made Ben smile.
“So what are you, on leave from your platoon?” Dorlin asked still grinning in that guessing kind of way.
Tawny said, “Yeah. On leave.”
“Just had to come check out the cannon project, eh?” he said proudly presenting the view like a game show host presenting his stage.
“That’s right,” Tawny said, shooting for amicability.
“So how long ago was the seven-ninety-first? Seven, eight years ago?”
Not wanting the conversation, Tawny quipped, “Feels like a hundred.”
Dorlin wore a big smile. He was obviously reflecting back on their time together in the same platoon—the many skirmishes, the battlefields, the colliding armies. “It sure does.”
Dorlin twitched. He blinked once and gave an impulsive nod. He looked back up at her, his face going tight with a thousand unseen nuances. Tawny flushed with a knowing sensation. She knew when a soldier’s brain-implanted comm mol gave him an order. Dorlin had just received one. It was probably something like—apprehend the Raylon female.
Dorlin relaxed, gave her a smile, asked, “What have you seen?”
“Seen?” she said.
/> “Any combat?”
She nodded, vague. “Oh, plenty.”
“Which campaign?” he asked.
Tawny crooked her lips. She had removed herself from the war as completely as possible in the last several years—removed herself from the bi-solar military nets, avoided battlefront news. She didn’t know any of the recent campaigns or battalion movements. She didn’t care.
She guessed, “Golotha.”
“The Golothan offensive,” Dorlin said, coolly.
“Right.”
He clicked his lips. “That was a big one.”
“Pretty big,” she agreed.
He drummed his fingers together, studying her like a riddle. “Any lunar action?”
She squinted at him. What was he getting at? She said, “Plenty.”
“Which moon?”
“Prime,” she returned unchallenged.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “The ninety-seventh, first calv,” he assumed.
Tawny forced down a grin. There was no ninety-seventh. Everyone knew that. He was testing her, trying to catch her in a lie. “No, not that one,” she said.
He cocked his head, impressed. “Okay. Which?” he asked.
Now she was stuck, felt her pulse rise. She had no idea which calv detachments had been a part of that battle. She cleared her throat and guessed, “Third calv.”
He nodded. “What was your regiment?”
What was this, an interrogation? She felt herself grow insulted. She said, “They’re all the same.”
He nodded, still with his eyes like slits. It was a judging look. “Top Admiral Lar Mott, then.”
Tawny flapped her lips shooting for ambiguity. “If that was his name.”
Dorlin asked, “You didn’t know your top’s name?”
Tawny flicked a wrist at him, said, “There’s so many.”
He tilted his head, drumming his fingers slowly on the table. Then he stopped, stared at her. “Funny though, isn’t it?”
“Hilarious,” she said, sparring back.
“Very, very funny.”
Her lips tightened. “Mmm.”
“There is no third calv.”
She was caught. They stared at each other. She grinned. “There’s no ninety-seventh either.”
He reached for his gun. She whipped her right leg up over the table before he could draw. Kicked him square in the teeth. He tipped back in the chair and spilled across the floor, along with his teeth. Before she could get to both feet, a very large, very strong body wrapped her up like a bear from behind. The voice that came with it was deep, “Thought I didn’t recognize ya?”
Brotly. That’s his damn name!
With one leg still stuck in a mol bot brace from a shattered knee, she couldn’t maneuver against him. No other option—she slammed her head back once, real hard, and met pay dirt. The guy’s face made a wet, impact sound, but his grip remained. He gave her a laugh.
She did it again smashing the same big face with that same hard head. This time he growled at her.
The third head butt released her and she lurched forward. Brotly staggered back blinking his eyes, and for some reason, smiling.
He flicked a wicket of blood from his lip. “Like to play rough, huh?” he said.
She turned and hobbled as quickly as she could toward the exit. He bolted after her. The other cargo runners and privateers scattered out of the way, chairs falling over, tables being shoved aside. Tawny hit the exit fast. Brotly stopped at the hub exit and watched her run, grinning at her. He called out “There’s only one way off this sector, honey!” He slapped an alarm button on the wall and a klaxon started wailing out. “I’ll be waiting!”
Tawny could hear the siren pound through the passageways. The passages were small, half-circular corridors divided by bulkheads with pipes running overhead. In seconds they’d be teaming with security mobs coming after her.
One way off this sector, he’d said.
Okay great. Which way was that?
There was a juncture up ahead. Shadows moved and stretched across the passage. They were coming already. “That was fast,” she said, half thrilled by the chase. She was outnumbered and crippled. Her best chance was evasion.
She bolted down an adjoining passage and toward another passenger hub. Its door hatch was open. She could see the commotion inside. People were reacting to the klaxon, everyone looking around curious.
Tawny busted through. Dozens of eyeballs looked at her. It was another holding hub, similar to the last one—long viewports to the left and right, lounge tables placed throughout, exits at either end. The space ruffians reacted to her presence, all surprised and excited. There were a dozen of them, all wearing the utility clothes of privateers—flak jackets, vacuum dungarees, maintenance armor.
These were her people now.
She bolted through with all her senses cranked to ten. The first thing she noticed beyond the viewport were the dozen security bikes heading toward the other hub. Their riders were tucked away under vacuum carapaces.
“Station security! Halt!” a voice yelled from behind. She looked back. The security team charged at her from down the hall. One of them called into a station communicator, “The fugitive is in holding bay ten. Redirect, redirect.”
All at once, as if directed by a common signal, the security bikes banked toward her new location, each of them zipping into a hard angle like a flock of birds. They were coming.
She smiled a devilish grin. She didn’t see approaching trouble. She saw a means of escape.
Tawny wrenched the nearest table toward the doorway sliding it violently across the floor, and bolted for the opposite exit. The security personnel bowled through knocking the table out of their way, grumbling commands and wearing their visored security helmets.
A voice bawled, “Liberataus!” and the ruffians surged forward to engage the security team. The place became a mesh of flipping tables, flying chairs, bodies colliding.
Laughing out loud, Tawny hit the far exit and found herself in another passage, leaving the calamity behind.
A directional plaque on a bulkhead read in its hieroglyphic language: Hub 10 docking platform.
She stormed down the passageway and into a long, narrow space with a lowered catwalk. She could hear the bikes thudding against their crane restraints just outside. A series of circular floor hatches began opening like steal orifices. The pilots ejected upward, each landing on their feet and running toward the far exit. She ducked behind a bulkhead and waited for them to scurry off, their footfalls sounding rapidly until they were gone. She peaked back out. The place was suddenly empty. It made her smile wildly.
But her smile faded.
Voices came from behind. The security team had muscled their way past the privateer squad. Their footsteps were thundering down the hall.
“There!” one shouted.
Time to scat.
She headed down the stairs and out onto the catwalk. Not knowing fully what to expect, she bolted to the nearest floor hatch. It read her approach, opened up, yanked her into a controlled, headfirst tumble through the hatch, slammed a vacuum carapace around her, flipped her head-over-heals and dropped her onto one of the security bikes, all in a single, immediate motion. The thing lit up as she straddled it. It dropped from its station restraint. She was outside. She was free. And she had a security bike.
Oh—this is too good!
She zipped away at top speed.
Ben’s hover skiff was an excellent model. In just a few seconds he’d learned its control functions—accelerator control. Up. Down. It even had evasive qualities. He looped over a construction platform allowing it to zip underneath him, then flew under a large construction vehicle hugging its underbelly, squeezing between crane arms and worker pylons. He chuckled, “This is easy. Okay, show me navigations.” A panel lit up. “Station schematics.” A screen displayed the Menuit-B map with each sector labeled and highlighted. “Bring up the contractor bay.”
A computer voice: “This is a
non-applicable command.”
He scrunched his face. “Okay. Show me privateer docking.”
A section of the map zoomed in showing more detail. That’s it. It was a live stream. A row of vessels hung from a long docking frame. That’s where they stored the privateer ships. It didn’t take two seconds to identify REX tucked in between them with his long mag-spires jutting below. He was on the other side of the operation center. A long way away.
“I see you, buddy,” he said.
Now, it was time to locate his wife.
A proximity alarm screamed at him, diverted his attention. Vehicles were moving in. He’d drawn some unwanted attention. Ben fired a glance through the port vacuum screen. There were three of them. Security bikes matching his flight. Long, sleek, fast-looking machines with pilot carapaces extended over the rider seats like tortoise shells.
A voice over the comm panel said, “This is an unauthorized flight zone. Identify.”
He growled dipping the skiff into a nosedive. The security bikes pursued. They were lightning fast; faster than his vehicle. Ben jerked the thing back up and toward a long scaffolding tower hanging a thousand feet long from its upper lunar foundation, studded with exterior worker levels. He spiraled around it in a tight pattern trying to lose them. They accelerated, keeping pace.
“Okay…”
He shot away and back toward the personnel facility where passageways and hubs sprawled along the underside of the moon. He darted toward a pressurized tunnel hanging on steel brackets from the moon belly. He squinted hard. There was clearance. Twenty feet. Ten feet? Maybe eight.
Bi-gods, he hoped it was enough!
Clenching his face, he steamed between the tunnel and its rock bed scraping chunks from the moon and banging around in his tiny cockpit. His skiff shot through.
Phew! That was close!
He looked back.
All three bikes tried to make it. They bumped each other, bifurcated, slammed into the tunnel in a mutual ball of flame.
Ben zinged away toward the far end of the personnel facility until he braked to a stop. He sighed in relief, shook his head. This was getting dangerous. Had to find Tawny. His eyes scanned the map screen frantically.
Another proximity buzzer. He looked up fraught with anxiety. Here they came. Gods, it looked like a dozen of them. The lead bike peeled around and through the superstructure of the facility, the others following suit, each moving with perfect simulacrum.