Fenris Unchained

by Kal Spriggs

  Fenris Unchained

  Kal Spriggs

  Acknowledgments

  I want to express my thanks first and foremost to the men and women I served with in Operation Iraqi Freedom from 2008-2009, over a sixteen month deployment during the tail end of the surge. We deployed on an accelerated time schedule, with very little resources for training, and even less

  support from our unit than we could have ever expected.

  In my time as a platoon leader I learned more about people and leadership than I have at any other time in my life. I'm thankful for the opportunity and the trust that you placed in me... and for your patience when the LT was typing away at his computer again.

  CHAPTER I

  Time: 0815 Local, 01 June 291 G.D.

  Location: Dakota, Dakota System

  A yellow light began to flash on the control board.

  That was nothing new, not aboard the Kip Thorne. Warning lights lit up half the panel. It was a Christmas display of yellow caution lights, flashing priority lights, and red danger lights that gave the board an aspect of impending doom.

  The pilot didn’t look over to the panel to see what was wrong. One of the red lights indicated a malfunction in the auto-pilot system. That meant that the tall, blond woman had to bring the Kip Thorne down by hand.

  Not a difficult a task for an experienced pilot. She enjoyed flying, enjoyed it more than anything else, really. She didn't enjoy thirty six hours of flight time spent awake on stimulants while flying a ship that needed far too many repairs.

  She shot a glance at the panel, and then flipped on the intercom. “Rawn, take a look at the starboard thruster.” She shook her head. Tried to push thoughts through a mind that seemed turned to mud.

  The intercom crackled and hissed, his voice difficult to make out. “Uh, Mel, we might have a problem.”

  The light ceased flashing. She sighed in relief, “No, it cleared up here, good job whatever you did.”

  The ship bucked. The alarm light flashed red. A moment later, so did six or seven other warning lights. “What the hell did you just do, Rawn?!”

  Mel fought the control yoke, eyes wide, as she swore to herself:

  “Rawn, was that the starboard pod going out?”

  The ship yawed over as she overcompensated and she fought it back under control.

  “Rawn, you’d better get that thruster back online.”

  She heard a squeal from the hatch as it opened. It had always reminded her of a ground vehicle's brakes screeching just before an accident.

  She tried not to apply that metaphor as some sort of warning to her current flight. Her brother spoke from behind her: "I’m going to pack the escape pod. Anything you want me to throw in?” he asked.

  “What?” Mel craned her neck to look at him.

  The ship spun sharply and threw her against her straps and tossed her brother into the wall hard. She bit off a curse and struggled with the controls for a moment. It seemed to take an eternity to fight the ship back under control.

  The radio crackled, “Freighter Kip Thorne, this is Dakota Landing Control, you broke out of your landing queue, return immediately, over.”

  “We’re going to lose the other thruster. The port thruster is in worse shape. What do you want me to put in the pod?” her brother asked.

  His calm voice made her clench her teeth.

  “We’re not abandoning ship,” she told him sharply. “I can land this thing.” It would be hard, though, with just one thruster. They couldn't engage their warp drive in atmosphere, not without disengaging safeties that were there to prevent that. Even if we had time, she thought, it would be a stupid thing to do. The warp drive field would tear the atmosphere around them and if they hit anything in warp, the difference in relative velocity would not only kill them but quite possibly wipe out Dakota's biosphere.

  She forced her mind to focus. When she spoke, her voice had the calm tone that she emulated from her father: “Dakota Landing Control this is Freighter Kip Thorne, we just lost our starboard thruster and are requesting immediate assistance, over.”

  “Freighter Kip Thorne, is this some kind of joke?” The speaker’s nasal, officious tone suggested she wasn't amused.

  Rawn snorted. “I know the safe combo, I’ll grab our cash and some keepsakes. I’ll clear out your desk too.” He pushed his way back off the bridge.

  “Get back here—” Mel clamped her jaws shut. One thing at a time. “Negative Dakota Landing, this is no joke, our starboard thruster— ”

  Her voice broke off as another yellow light began to flash, the warning light for load limit on the other thruster. “Our starboard thruster is out and we’re about to lose our port thruster, requesting assistance, over.”

  “Negative, Kip Thorne, you’ll have to break off your descent and return to orbit,” the nasal voice answered. “A repair craft can be sent to you there.”

  “Dakota Landing, this is an emergency. We lose our port thruster, there won’t be anything keeping us up here.” Mel snapped. “We don’t have enough thrust to get back into orbit, and you don’t have time to—”

  “Kip Thorne, break off your descent or you will be intercepted by our customs cutter. Over.”

  “Dakota, I hope they got a tractor,” answered. “Because—” The ship shuddered and the other thruster went dead. “We just lost our other thruster. Kip Thorne, out.”

  She turned off the radio and sat in the chair for a long moment as the small freighter bounced. Soon it would begin to tumble, she knew, without the guidance from the thrusters.

  “Six years, six years I kept her goin’. Dad, I did my best.”

  She wiped her eyes; now was not the time to cry.

  The ship fell now, without anything to slow its descent besides atmospheric friction. Superheated air flashed across the hull and cast glowing flames across the cockpit glass.

  Mel sighed. She kissed her finger tips and touched the control yoke one last time, then unbuckled and left the bridge. She didn’t look back.

  * * *

  Time: 1720 Local, 1 June 291 G.D.

  Location: Dakota City Detention Center, Dakota System

  Marcus looked over at his companions.

  “Don’t be so gloomy. They’re not nearly so angry with us as they are with whoever crashed that freighter.” He ran a hand through his brown hair and gave them a shaky smile.

  Brian didn’t lift his head out of his hands. “You were carrying ten kilos of rex. Do you know how illegal that is? We’ll be lucky if they only confiscate our ship and give us a few years in jail.”

  Strak spoke from where he sat, cross-legged on the floor. “That’s overly optimistic really; rex dealers don’t get good treatment in jail. Most of the inmates know someone who’s OD’d on it.”

  Marcus winced, looked away.

  “Look, I’m sure I can get us out of this.”

  Rex was a performance drug, and it was the most illegal and the most common illegal drug in known space. Rex’s addiction was both chemical and psychological because it gave a person something that was priceless.

  A rex junkie didn’t act like any other druggie, because rex didn’t distort your senses or give you a euphoric feeling. People on rex were confident, their thoughts were clear, they were able to make quick, well thought-out decisions. The most shy, nervous youth could become the self-assured center of activity with a single dose of rex.

  Tertius was the third level, the cheapest. It only affected brain activity. Secundus and Primus Rex chemically modified the body.

  Primus was the highest level, the most addicting. Secundus heightened the senses and stimulated the central nervous system, giving a person greater control over their body. Primus did all that and also lent strength, streamlined metabolism, and h
eightened reaction speeds.

  Of course, if Rex’s benefits were heaven, its side effects were hell.

  They sat in silence for a while and Marcus studied his two companions. He’d signed on as crew aboard their ship, the Varqua, six months ago. A crew of five, including these two. The Varqua was a tramp freighter, a Stout-class, one of thousands that plied the edges of Guard Space, serving the smaller colonies.

  Brian Liu was the owner of the ship. Apparently he had a good head for business or good contacts. The Varqua had been a profitable ship, unlike most that plied their runs. A short, stocky man, clearly of Asiatic origins, Brian was a decent enough boss, if overly picky about the law most of the time. Marcus couldn’t fault him that, though the man’s arrogance grated at times.

  Strak was something of an enigma. Calm and collected where Brian was loud and arrogant, overweight and slow where Brian was muscular and bird-quick. He had held a sort of general maintenance job aboard the Varqua. In reality, he served as an adviser for Brian, and a watchdog over the rest of the crew. Getting anything past the old man was more than difficult, it was damn near impossible. He seemed remarkably loyal to Brian, and Marcus got the feeling that they shared some kind of history.

  Marcus hadn’t ever felt unwelcome... just the outsider.

  “Everything would have been fine except for those damned pirates,” he muttered.

  The door at the end of the cell block clanged and then groaned open. Two prisoners led the way, followed by two guards. The first prisoner was in his late teens and he wore a ragged set of coveralls. An unruly mop of blond hair hung above a face covered in dirt and oil.

  The other prisoner was a tall, statuesque blonde, with dark brown eyes. She wore an equally ragged cut of clothing. As they came past, Marcus blinked in surprise. “Mel?” He asked as he moved close to the bars.

  She turned, hearing his voice. Her eyes went wide in recognition.

  Then her fist snapped out, slipping between the bars to strike him full in the face.

  Marcus dropped like a stone. She kicked through the bars, hitting what she could, punctuating each word with a kick, “You owe me ten thousand dollars, you free-booting piece of—”

  One of the guards cuffed her to the ground and then drew her to her feet and pushed her into the cell opposite the other three prisoners.

  Both the guards and the other prisoners laughed.

  Marcus sat up, touching his nose and wincing, “You bwoke my mose!”

  Mel shook her head, jaw clenched in rage, “Too bad I didn’t break your neck.”

  Strak laughed, “Sounds like she knows you fairly well, Marcus.”

  Marcus sat on his bunk, holding his nose with one hand. “Well, mow that ‘ou’ve gob ib’ ou’ of yo’, you want to talk?” he asked in a calm tone. He felt hot blood run down his face and the salty copper of it in the back of his throat. Well, he’d tasted worse things before.

  Mel shook her hand, flexing it a bit. “Sure. You still owe me ten thousand dollars. You’re still a piece of shit.” She took a seat on one of the bunks in her cell. “So what more do we have to talk about?”

  Marcus stared at her for a long moment. There was something more here besides his theft. Granted, Mel had a tendency to overreact at times. “Five years ain’t been enough to cool your anger?” He asked. She didn’t answer.

  Brian looked up, “This bastard screwed you lot over as well?”

  The boy spoke, his voice was calm, but his eyes were cold. “Marcus Keller is not a man to be trusted.”

  “A little late to tell us that.” Brian’s voice filled with bitterness. “He had ten kilos of rex stashed in his room.”

  “Wow, I knew you were a bastard,” Mel said, “but dealing rex? That’s sick, that’s really sick.” She smiled sweetly. “I hate to think what they’ll do to you in a prison.”

  Marcus held his nose, feeling the blood run down his face. He didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything he could say. He looked away from her angry dark eyes and met those of her brother Rawn. She has every reason to hate me, Marcus thought grimly, and her brother, too.

  ***

  “Hey, boss, got a couple possible recruits.”

  Agent Mueller looked up from his paperwork, “Not interested. I wouldn’t even want to pick up the other two to get our man if it weren’t for the package deal.”

  “One of them is a pilot. Her brother is certified engine crew.”

  “Oh?” Mueller raised an eyebrow, “that could be useful, but this is a recruitment mission—”

  “Both of them lost their parents to a GFN terrorist attack.”

  The Agent picked up the file, he browsed both folders quickly. He began to smile slightly, especially as he read the note from the investigating officer. “Interesting... All right, you’ve convinced me. Tell the magistrate I want them.”

  ***

  “The accused will step forward.”

  Mel stepped forward into the courtroom. The only occupants were a pair of guards and a man in Guard Fleet uniform. “Sir, I want to—”

  “You will be silent or you will be held in contempt of this tribunal,” the uniformed man cut her off. “The tribunal is now in session.”

  There was a faint hum as recording equipment turned on.

  “Certified Pilot and Ship’s Owner Melanie Armstrong of the Century System is charged with Criminal Negligence, Reckless Endangerment, and Willful Disobedience of Traffic Control Commands.” The tribunal officer sounded bored. “How do you plead?”

  “Uh, sir, that is—”

  “Accused pleads guilty to all charges. Evidence is amended to tribunal recordings.”

  “Hey, I didn’t say—”

  “The tribunal finds the accused guilty of above crimes and also for contempt of the tribunal. Sentence for conviction is fifteen years hard labor. Convicted is remanded to Guard Custody for duration of the sentence.”

  The officer flipped a switch. The hum cut off.

  “Hey, wait, you can’t do this!” Mel shouted. “That wasn’t even a trial! I demand to see a lawyer—”

  One of the guards grabbed her by her collar and dragged her out.

  ***

  Time: 1100 Zulu, 11 June 291 G.D.

  Location: Female Block, Justicar Prisoner Transport

  The cold, dark ship’s sole purpose and design came from the need to transport the maximum number of prisoners with minimal difficulties. Cells were just that, cells of solid steel that ran down the length of the ship, each door secured by a digital lock whose combination changed every time the guards opened it.

  They separated Mel from her brother and put her in the female block. There were only three other women in the block. Apparently the Guard didn’t get many prisoners on this run.

  She didn’t talk to them. They didn’t talk to her. The silence was almost companionable. Her food arrived via a tray slid under her door, twice a day, delivered by a female guard who never spoke.

  On the third day, her door opened.

  There were two female guards. One of them gestured. “Come on out.”

  They took her out of the cells, past the security checkpoint and into a clean, sterile room. “Shower’s there,” one gestured to a door.

  “Clothing’s there.” She gestured to a neatly folded pile of clothing on a table.

  “When you’re clean and dressed go through that door.” She pointed at a second door.

  Then they left.

  It was the first moment of privacy Mel had had in days. She wanted to cry. Instead, she went to the shower. It was an experience she wanted to savor, but she also didn’t want to be dragged out of it. She suspected that or worse would happen if she lingered too long.

  She hurried and then got dressed quickly. It was normal, comfortable civilian clothing; it even fit her fairly well, though it was bland and unremarkable. It felt alien after the prison smock she’d worn for what seemed forever. A part of her mind whispered that it had only been a week. She didn’t want to imagine the longer
period of imprisonment ahead of her.

  The second door opened into another sterile room.

  A long mirror covered one wall. A man sat behind a table with a slim folder on it.

  “Have a seat,” he said without rising.

  Mel sat. She knew this was some kind of game, knew she was being manipulated. It should have made her angry, but somehow it only made her feel more helpless. Over his shoulder she saw her reflection. Her face looked pale, blond hair lank, eyes shadowed.

  The man opened up his folder. “Melanie Armstrong, born 266 to Anne Marie and Hans Armstrong on the planet Century, of the same system.”

  His voice was empty and cold, “Your aunt and uncle were archeologists on Century, they and their youngest child were killed in a pirate attack on Century, leaving only your cousin Jiden Armstrong alive. Your grandmother, Admiral Victoria Armstrong of Century's Planetary Militia is something of a local war hero. You got your pilot’s license at fifteen, qualified for entry into the Harlequin Sector Fleet Academy at seventeen, rather than joining Century's Military Academy. You were in the top five percent of your class for three years. Then your parents died in a Guard Free Now terrorist attack two months before graduation. You resigned and took guardianship of your younger brother. In the six years since, you managed the Kip Thorne as captain and owner until a week ago when it broke up above Dakota.”

  “I suppose you even know my calculus test grades from my plebe year,” Mel joked weakly, “So what is this about?”

  The man smiled thinly, “You got excellent marks, your teacher put in a recommendation that you be sent to further schooling in higher level mathematics.” The man stood “Do you know what your sentence is?”

  “Penal colony I’d guess.” Mel answered.

  “Fifteen years on Thornhell.” He stood up and looked down at her. He wasn't tall, probably ten centimeters or more shorter than Mel, but he seemed to loom over her.

  Mel gulped, “I heard there was a war on there.” What she'd heard of the planet left her feeling faintly sick.