by Rachel Aukes
He found his target. His finger moved to the trigger. A drom to the right of his target fell, and the others looked around, confused. The gunshot had come from Critch’s side. Birk. Critch didn’t fire yet. Instead, he waited until he slowly exhaled before he pulled the trigger. His target went down immediately.
He moved to his next target. By now, the remaining droms realized their shields and body armor weren’t protecting them, and they ran for cover. Critch kept his breath steady and smoothly tracked his running target. He fired, and another drom fell.
By the time he’d made his third kill, there were no more easy marks. The remaining soldiers had found cover and were now returning fire. Critch reloaded. Unable to find a target, he ran through the warehouse to get a better angle. He saw Birk was taking fire, and so he rushed up to a window to find the source.
There.
Two droms were firing nonstop photon blasts from the warehouse across the street. Critch squinted and then lined up his sight on a drom’s shoulder. The round would likely result in a wound rather than a kill, but if he didn’t take the shot, the droms would hit Birk out of sheer quantity of blasts, rather than by skill.
He fired. The drom disappeared behind the wall. Then a barrage of return fire came in Critch’s direction. He dropped to the floor, grunting when he landed hard on his rifle.
The sounds of engines drowned out the gunfire, and Critch scowled. He’d planned to have the three squads taken care of before more ships arrived. Their odds had suddenly dropped. He heard the gunships fire, and he wondered if the pilots knew if they were firing at torrents or at their own droms.
Critch was safe from heat-sensors as long the photon blasts cooked up the area around him enough to make sweat run down his face and back.
He tapped his wrist comm to make the call for backup.
Hari’s visage appeared. “You ready for me?”
“It’s getting hot down here,” he yelled.
“On my way. I’ll be there to cool things down in thirty seconds.”
He disconnected, and crawled across the floor to get away from the gunfire. The droms kept firing nonstop at any target they could zero in on. The thing about photon fire was, they could fire at a building long enough to burn a hole through a wall to get to the target on the other side. He was lucky the warehouse was built with stone blocks, which meant the wall would hold longer than most.
Critch had chosen sniper rifles for this battle rather than photon guns to penetrate CUF shielding. The downside of using rifles was, they had a limited supply of ammunition on hand, which meant they had to take their time to aim. He patted his photon gun, ready to pull it out. But it was only a handgun, with a fraction of a photon rifle’s energy that the droms outside were using.
Birk’s cannon fired to his right, and the barrage that had been raining in Critch’s direction was suddenly gone. He took a risk and looked out to see that where the two droms had been under cover was now a large hole in the warehouse wall. He stood and ran over to Birk’s location.
“Thanks for drawing their fire,” Birk said.
“Anytime,” Critch muttered before patting the younger man on the back. His comm chimed, and he read the message. “Seda’s through.”
Birk nodded.
A high-pitched engine screamed as Razor’s Edge dived at the CUF gunships.
“Hari’s crashed the party,” Critch said.
Birk blew out a breath. “About time.”
Critch looked out the window as the gunships broke off from their strafing runs to go after the new threat. Razor’s Edge dwarfed the two gunships, which were more agile but had far less speed and firepower.
He turned his attention back to the ground. The battle had calmed down, with only one source of active photon fire remaining.
“I want that drom alive,” Critch announced through his comm.
Critch, Birk, and the two teams converged on the remaining dromadier. An explosion from behind them shook the ground. The men ducked for cover while Critch pivoted to locate the source of the blast. Billowing black smoke drew his vision upward. It appeared that Hari had taken out one gunship. The second had chosen discretion over honor and was hightailing it out of the area.
Hari wagged her wings as she flew over the warehouse district before disappearing into the distance.
The rest of Critch’s first team caught up with him and Birk on the ground floor. They crossed the street as a single unit, moving quickly yet warily toward the second team, who had their rifles leveled on a drom kneeling before them.
Critch stepped up to the soldier. He was young, likely on his first tour. He bore normal white skin, meaning he could’ve been from Alluvia or any colony.
“Where are you from?” Critch demanded.
The man pursed his lips and didn’t speak.
“Alluvian. I thought so. Well, it’s your lucky day, citizen. You get to live.”
The man’s eyes darted to Critch in surprise.
Critch nodded. “You are to report to your superiors that the warehouse district has been reclaimed by Terrans. Only colonists are free to pass through here.”
“Is—is that all?” the man asked.
“You want more?” Critch countered. “Okay. Tell them that for every colonist they kill on Terra, we’ll kill two citizens.”
The drom’s eyes grew wide.
Critch motioned for the man to stand. “You’d better get up and hustle back to your commander before I change my mind.”
The drom came shakily to his feet. He kept his hands behind his head and his eyes focused on Critch as he backed away slowly. After he’d gone several feet, he turned and started running down the street.
Birk chuckled. “I never get tired of seeing a citizen piss his pants.”
Critch continued to watch the soldier until he disappeared around the corner.
“This was a big day. We’re one neighborhood closer to the docks,” Nat said off to Critch’s right.
“We could lose it tomorrow if we’re not careful.” Critch looked to the sky. “Let’s get under cover. I don’t trust the CUF to be smart enough to know when they’ve sent in enough young folks to die for one day.”
He knew the CUF could bomb these buildings, but they were still trying to portray themselves as the defenders rather than the aggressors. Bombed-out buildings tended to look bad on the news. The Collective still controlled the media, but more and more reporters were reporting the truth, causing contradictory stories and confusion as to what was accurate.
Thanks to conflicting news stories and Seda’s proclamations, the CUF was losing face in the public eye, which meant they may be forced to go further to regain control. He suspected the CUF was only weeks, if not days, away from starting bombing runs.
Critch left one team at the warehouse district to collect weapons and set up a lookout station. He took his second team back to their headquarters at Seda Faulk’s hidden retreat.
Seda stood by the hangar door when they arrived. The stationmaster grinned. “Now, that was some diversion. I could see the battle from orbit. Needless to say, we broke orbit and made it here without a single eye on us.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t later. The party was almost over before you arrived.”
“But, it wasn’t.” Seda nodded in the direction of where the battle had taken place. “How’d it go?”
“We have the warehouse district,” Critch said.
“Casualties?”
Critch shook his head. “None. First time for that. I think they’re running low on experienced droms on Terra.”
Seda sobered. “They’ll send down more. They aren’t willing to give up Rebus Station, not with the juice plants here. Speaking of which, did you know Parliament is trying to push through an act to claim all Faulk Industries holdings? They said that since I’m an enemy of the state, all my business holdings should become property of the Collective.”
Critch narrowed his gaze. “If they go after your businesses, they’d have every
juice plant on Terra.”
Seda chuckled. “Oh, they can try.”
Critch then noticed Jeyde Sixx in the hangar, looking the worse for wear. He frowned when the usually social thief kept walking without acknowledging the group. “I take it the trip wasn’t a total success.”
“No. Every trail Sixx followed led to a contradictory trail. As for what I learned…” He got a faraway look before turning a hard gaze upon Critch. “Mason killed Mariner. He has full control of the Founders, at least what’s left of them.”
Critch’s lips parted. Mason—the alias Gabriel Heid used within the secret organization—killed as smoothly as a glass of Terran whiskey. Mason had played a hand in the creation of the blight, which had killed thousands, though the death Critch took most personally was that of Demes, the youngest member of Critch’s crew.
“I’m sorry,” Critch said. “I know she was your wife.”
Seda seemed surprised Critch knew, but he shook it off. “That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that I learned Mason didn’t just execute her; he tortured her for information, no doubt, information specifically about me.”
“How much do you think she told him?”
Seda grimaced. “Everything.”
Two
The Devil in the Details
Devil Town, Spate
Reyne
“All systems green. Let’s hope your intel is still good,” Throttle said from the Gryphon’s pilot seat. Her hands tapped across the instrument panel as the ship broke Spate’s atmosphere and made its descent to Devil Town’s space dock.
“It’d better be, or this trip will be very short,” Captain Aramis Reyne said as he scanned the brown sky for any signs of patrol ships planetside. That the CUF patrols in orbit were light was reassuring—so far, everything was exactly as the latest intel provided on CUF operations in the Spate sector. The CUF had focused its armada around Terra, where the Fringe Liberation Campaign was in full swing, but with martial law deployed across the fringe, traveling from planet to planet without drawing unwanted attention had become complicated. He thought for a moment, then tacked on, “Better be ready for a hasty retreat, just in case.”
“Just in case,” she echoed.
Turbulence bumped the ship around as it descended through the planet’s thin atmosphere, and the gravity pulled at the Gryphon like it’d been weighted down with lead. The young pilot handled the controls deftly, entering minute directional changes to minimize atmo burn.
“Here comes the moment of truth. Let’s see if Devil Town is still an equal opportunity colony,” she said before transmitting. “Dock Control, this is Phantom Cruiser Specter-Seven-Five-Five-One-Bravo. Request approval for docking sequence.”
“Phantom Five-One-Bravo, docking approved. Proceed to Dock Hilo-Two. Notice to airmen, Docks Alpha through Charlie are in use by the Collective Unified Forces.”
Throttle exhaled. “Sweet Sabra, the docks are still under Spaten control.”
Reyne could see the tension relax from Throttle’s shoulders, but he didn’t share her relief. The CUF was using three docks, each with twenty slips, which meant there could be up to sixty ships docked at Devil Town. He may have drastically underestimated how many dromadiers were patrolling the fringe station. Too many.
Throttle replied to the dock control operator. “Phantom Five-One-Bravo acknowledged. Thanks for the notice. Proceeding to Dock Hilo-Two.”
The Gryphon broke through the cloud layer, and the space dock came into view.
Reyne tapped the ship’s comm. “Boden, prepare for docking.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” came the mechanic’s reply.
As Throttle ran the ship through its docking procedures, Reyne found his attention drawn to the larger docks, where the CUF ships sat, and he had to remind himself that no one on the ground could see the torrent symbol—the outline of a teardrop—painted on the side of his ship.
Dock Hilo was the smallest of the docks, and set apart from the other docks for privacy. Hilo was generally reserved for private ships and the colony’s elite customers—the wealthy or famous who didn’t want to be seen or have to walk through the crowds on the main docks. Recently, thanks to a generously large contribution to the dock control station operators, Hilo had been set aside for use by torrent ships. The CUF had no idea enemy ships were docking mere kilometers away from their own ships.
Throttle settled the Gryphon into its landing bay as gently as a mother placing her baby in a crib. Next to them sat the Nighthawk, a pirate ship with the torrent teardrop emblazoned across its side.
Throttle’s brow rose. “If Five B’s wanted to make a statement, I think he did. The CUF could’ve seen that paint job from a hundred miles away.”
Humor tugged at Reyne’s lip as he remembered the last time he drank with the Nighthawk’s captain—he’d yet to drink with Five B’s and not end up in the middle of a brawl. “It’s Five B’s. For some reason, I’m not surprised.” He thought for a moment. “It’s good news for us. No CUF patrols have come through this dock, or else the Nighthawk would have been publicly demolished by now.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Throttle said.
The constant thrum of the Gryphon fell silent as Throttle shut down the ship’s systems. Reyne unbuckled from his seat and pushed to his feet. His arthritic joints protested the quick movement after sitting for several hours. He clenched his jaw to hide any outward sign of pain.
“Did you take a pill today?” Throttle asked.
Reyne grimaced. His daughter knew him too well. “I’ll pick up more on the way back from Gin’s.”
She unlocked her wheelchair and pushed back from the instrument panel. “You’d better. I’ll have the Gryph refueled and ready to go by the time you get back.” She tacked on, “I don’t like hanging around this close to the CUF, so try not to window-shop, okay?”
“Trust me, I don’t plan to hang out in Devil Town any longer than I have to.”
Throttle chuckled. “That’d be a different story if Sixx were along. He’d have us on the ground for half a day while he caught up with all his old girlfriends.”
Reyne’s grin faded when he thought of his friend. The handsome kleptomaniac was a personal favorite of Devil Town’s red-light district. But Sixx had changed when he’d learned his wife could still be alive. He’d become obsessed with finding her to the point of leaving Reyne’s crew to join Seda on a trip to Myr to find her.
He clasped Throttle’s shoulder. “Keep an eye out for trouble. At the first sign of dromadiers, head to Gin’s. With the new order to destroy every torrent ship on sight, the last place you’ll want to be is on board this ship if it falls into CUF hands.”
“Aye, aye Captain Obvious,” she said wryly, and then wheeled off the bridge.
Reyne sighed and headed to his bunk to grab the satchel he needed to deliver, and to load up on extra weapons and credits. Devil Town had a knack for offering surprises, and Reyne couldn’t be too prepared. When he stepped into the hallway, Boden was already there, armed comparably to Reyne, with two photon guns in a chest holster and two knives strapped to his belt.
Reyne patted the bag he’d slung across his shoulders. “It’ll be a quick in-and-out. Just a drop-off and then back to Playa.” He paused to give his mechanic a once-over. “You ready for this?”
Boden’s lips thinned. “I’m good.”
They both knew Reyne’s question had nothing to do with Boden being prepared for their mission, and everything to do with Boden being a recovering sweet soy addict about to step foot into the galaxy’s sweet soy capital.
“You’d better be. Without Sixx, I’m counting on you.”
“I won’t let you down,” he said quickly.
The older man wanted to believe Boden. “Okay. Let’s head out. Throttle gave us strict orders to get back fast, and I don’t want to be on her bad side.”
Boden chuckled. “Me neither. I’d better say goodbye.” He started to head to her bunk.
“
She’s already outside with dock control to refuel the ship.”
“Oh,” Boden stopped, a tinge of disappointment in his voice.
Boden had saved Reyne’s life more than once, but the mechanic also had more than one personality flaw. One of them was his warm-and-cold treatment of Throttle. She had feelings for the handsome Alluvian, and he had feelings for her…sometimes. Other times, when he was deep into the sweet soy, he barely acknowledged her existence. For the past few months, he’d been openly flirting with her. Reyne suspected the display of affection had something to do with Birk, a member of Critch’s crew, who spent every planetside leave—and even the occasional spaceside rendezvous—with her.
The only thing Reyne cared about was that lately, she’d been the happiest he remembered.
Reyne grabbed two breather masks and handed one to Boden. They headed off the ship, down the ramp, and onto the dock’s composite walkways.
As they traversed the ramp, Reyne noticed several cargo ships brandishing the blue crest of Myr. The colony, currently absent a stationmaster, was a wildcard. While the CUF had established martial law on Spate, the Collective had not yet assigned a new stationmaster. He suspected the delay came from the Fringe Liberation Campaign distracting Parliament. Regardless of the reason, no stationmaster was good news for Reyne. The colony would be too volatile for any Myrad or Alluvian businessmen to be approved to come here on their own. At least, that’s what Reyne figured. These ships posed a quandary. “Maybe the economy’s worse than I thought,” he said to himself.
“What’s that?” Boden asked.
“Nothing really,” he replied. “I’m surprised at seeing Myrad haulers here. There’s no way insurance would cover their ships and cargo on Spate right now. Not without a stationmaster in place.”
“I guess the Myrad recession is bad enough for some citizens to buck the odds in coming here for trade,” Boden said.