by Rachel Aukes
“I suppose so.” Reyne remained dubious.
They strolled past the Myrad ships without any outward signs of stress. Inside, Reyne’s every muscle was taut as he constantly scanned for dromadiers.
Since Reyne’s old, black mug topped every CUF’s most-wanted list, he was thankful the breather mask hid his face. Boden was unknown to the CUF, but being an Alluvian, he tended to stick out in the colonies, so the breather masks benefited both men.
Once they were safely clear of the docks, the tension eased slightly from Reyne’s shoulders. They could blend into the multitudes of people in Devil Town, Spate’s largest colony and the only one with a fringe station. They stood on a corner while Boden tapped his wrist comm to hail a cab.
Something nudged the back of Reyne’s leg. He spun around to find a scrawny vig trying to eat through his boot. He kicked it, and it went flying for several feet with a squeal.
“Damn rodents,” Reyne muttered. Vigs were everywhere on Spate, and would eat anything. They looked like a cross between a rat and a small pig, minus the hair. And they tasted awful. For being carbon-based life-forms, one would think they’d taste better. Vigs were originally created to be food for colonists, but instead, they were the ultimate example of how biome kits didn’t always establish biological colonies as expected.
A cab pulled up and an older woman stepped out. She tugged on a leash, and a wombie stumbled out, carrying her luggage. Reyne cringed at seeing a human treated in such a fashion, but the wombie—a Spaten mutant—didn’t seem the least bothered.
Spate was the Collective’s largest producer of blue tea, a drink that enabled humans to survive on far less water than normal. It had enabled colonies on desolate rocks to thrive, and it reduced the water cargo weight in space travel, making room for more food, which meant much greater distances.
Blue tea didn’t come without costs. The second-generation humans whose parents survived only on blue tea were born with reduced intelligence. After several generations, those who subsisted off blue tea developed physical mutations as well. Small bumps for storing water appeared on their bodies, similar to the humps camels on Earth developed. These colonists’ intelligence had degraded enough that they were no longer referred to as colonists. Instead, they’d become water-deficient zombies, or wombies, good for manual labor and not much else.
Every planet had changed its colonists in unique ways. On Reyne’s home planet of Playa, those who embraced the planet’s low gravity for generations produced stretches. Myrads all had bluish skin from severe argyria due to the massive amounts of silver found everywhere on the planet.
Reyne leaned back in his seat while Boden entered their destination in the automated cab system. The cab had breathable air, but the pair left their masks on to avoid being scanned by the facial recognition system Reyne knew was installed in every cab in the Collective.
Neither spoke due to the likelihood the cab was also running a voice recognition program. Spate had remained relatively free of CUF oversight until the past year. Reyne had been one of the masterminds behind the Fringe Liberation Campaign—a rebellion against the oppressive control and taxation by the Collective that was run by the system’s two founding planets, Myr and Alluvia.
Reyne had expected the CUF to come down hard on the torrents on Terra, where the Campaign was taking place. He hadn’t expected colonists to rise up across the fringe and join the cause. Protests had erupted in every large colony, and one-off attacks against dromadiers became daily news. In response, the CUF initiated martial law across all colonies in the Collective, attempting to quell the rebellion by putting the colonists in a stranglehold.
The CUF had never understood the colonies’ power, and they were about to find out just how strong the colonies had become.
He gazed out the window as the cab drove them to the grittier downtown area of Devil Town, where the red-light district stood. Built to replicate an old Earth scene, strippers danced in windows, and prostitutes stood outside trying to woo passersby into their brothel.
At the end of the district, a three-story mansion stood over the red-light district like a stern father watching over his unruly children. Reyne found humor in the thought, as the comparison wasn’t far from the truth. Gin James was Devil Town’s wealthiest pimp now that Lincoln Finn was out of the picture. Everyone assumed he’d become Devil Town’s next stationmaster, but he had yet to publicly side with the CUF or the torrents. Reyne had traveled to Spate to gain Gin’s support through money. And lots of it.
The cab’s whirring engine slowed as the vehicle pulled to a stop outside Gin’s estate.
Reyne looked at the front yard and grimaced.
Boden broke the silence. “Is that…”
“Yeah,” Reyne said. “Ah, hell.”
Gin was in his front yard. He hung from a noose a few feet above the ground. By the looks of his purple, puffy face and bulging eyes, he’d hung there for at least a day. Since Spate’s air had negligible levels of oxygen and carbon, the easiest way to kill someone was to lock them outside without a breather mask. Someone was clearly making a statement in Gin’s case.
Reyne noticed the execution order posted near the body:
This colonist has been found guilty of disobedience and has been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. Sentence to be carried out immediately upon the order of Stationmaster Axos Wintsel.
His body went cold. Wintsel.
“Wintsel? Hey, isn’t that—”
“Get us back to the docks now,” Reyne said. There was no way the name was a coincidence.
An alarm in the cab sounded. Both tried to open the doors to no avail.
“The vehicle is under lockdown. Remain calm until the lockdown has concluded,” the cab’s voice system announced.
“We’ve got droms,” Boden said.
Reyne looked in the direction of Boden’s focus and saw a squad headed toward them. He pulled out his gun and blasted the door several times before it fell outward. Reyne jumped outside, quickly followed by Boden.
Reyne pointed. “Alley!”
They took off running. The door they’d escaped through was on the opposite side of the cab to the incoming dromadiers, so the soldiers didn’t notice anything until Reyne and Boden sprinted out beyond the cab.
“Stop!” someone yelled, though the command was somewhat muffled through his mask.
Neither man slowed down. Photon blasts pounded the ground around them. Reyne shielded his face from debris kicking up from the street.
Boden reached the alley first and was opening a door by the time Reyne caught up. They ran inside and locked the door behind them. They turned to find a woman wearing nothing but a bustier and thong, and incredibly high heels. She gave Boden an appraising look. Her sultry smile hinted her approval of what she saw.
“Is there another exit?” Boden asked.
Her brows rose. “Why would you want to leave? We haven’t even met yet.”
Reyne fished out a hundred-credit and tossed it to her.
She caught it with a deft hand. Her expression turned all business, and she nodded to the hallway behind her. “Turn right at the end of the hall. Through the kitchen.”
They took off down the hallway when a pounding on the back door ensued.
“CUF. Let us in!”
Reyne glanced back briefly to see the woman saunter ever so slowly toward the back door. She looked over her shoulder long enough to give Reyne a wink, and he gave her a small nod. Her delay would buy them a few seconds, though he suspected it wouldn’t be enough.
The other door was exactly where she’d said it would be, and they barreled through the doorway and found themselves in another alley. They ran onto a side street and down the sidewalk, which was nearly empty of pedestrians, making it impossible for them to blend into a crowd.
Boden was faster, and began to put distance between them. Reyne bit through the pain in his joints and pushed himself to keep up with the Alluvian one-third his age. Boden continued leading
them down streets and through alleys as though winding them through a maze. He ran into a diminutive grocery store, and Reyne followed, panting.
Boden put both hands on the counter and spoke quietly to the clerk. “I’m looking for a 2720-year Terran whiskey.”
The clerk nodded. His hand slipped under the counter, and the back door of the small store opened.
Boden motioned for Reyne to follow, and the mechanic headed through the back doorway, which led them to a dark stairway.
As they descended, Reyne said, “I’m curious. The Terrans didn’t start making whiskey until 2725.”
“This place isn’t technically legal,” Boden replied. “Which means we should be safe here until the droms quit looking for us.”
Reyne frowned. If Boden was familiar with this place, then it wasn’t much safer than being on the streets.
He really could’ve used Sixx on this mission. His friend knew every brothel around Devil Town. Where Boden turned to drugs to escape his problems, Sixx turned to companionship.
At the bottom of the stairs, a short woman stood in the dim light. She was nearly as round as she was tall. A dozen chaises lined the walls. Several beds had occupants lounging as though boneless. The sweetness to the air left no doubt in Reyne’s mind they’d entered a sweet soy lounge. The last place Boden should be.
The woman scowled. “There’s a hefty surcharge for bringing droms to my store.”
“We lost them a couple blocks back,” Boden said.
She guffawed. “There’s a camera on every corner of every street. They’ll see you entered my store but never left. There will be a squad here in under five minutes.” She walked over to a comm panel on the wall. “Luis, you’re about to have company looking for our customers. Take care of it.”
“You got it, Mother.”
The woman turned back to Reyne and Boden. “Off with your masks. Let me get a good look at my customers.”
They complied.
Boden spoke first. “I’m not here to buy.”
Her lips pursed. “Tsk, tsk. Only customers are allowed in my den.”
Reyne stepped in, and the woman narrowed her gaze upon him. “We just need somewhere to burn a few minutes,” he said. “We’re happy to compensate you for the inconvenience.”
“Oh, you’ll do that,” she replied and cocked her head. “It’s not every day a leader of the torrent rebellion ends up in my quaint store.”
She turned to Boden. “And I remember you. It’s been a while. But I never forget a customer, especially when that customer is a citizen. We don’t get many citizens in Devil Town. And you’ve been here more than once, because I have the best sweet soy around. If you’re not here for it now, then there’s no reason for you to stay.”
Reyne reached into his pocket and fished out several large credits. He dropped them into her open palm. When she kept it open, he gave her several more. She hefted the weight in her hand as though she were considering if it was enough.
“I’m Madame Grecklin. Welcome to my shop,” she said with a broad smile. “By now, my son will have fed images of you running from my shop and into my competitor’s shop down the block. Now, of course, if they know they’re looking for Aramis Reyne, then they won’t give up the search.”
“They don’t know my identity,” Reyne corrected. “We never took off our masks, and didn’t speak enough for voice patterns to be analyzed.”
“Then, the streets should be clear for you within three hours. There are plenty of other criminals for the droms to chase around here,” she said. “Until then, sit back, relax, and enjoy yourselves. Feel free to partake in my special treats. Guaranteed to quench even the sweetest sweet tooth.”
On her way out, she brushed against Boden and conspicuously slipped a bag of sweet soy in his pocket. He visibly tensed. She patted his thigh. “For later,” she said and left through a side door.
Boden scowled. He pulled out the bag, emotion flashed through his eyes as he eyed it for a second, and then he tossed it onto the chest of a man currently entranced in a soy haze. Without a word, he strode to a chaise in the farthest corner from the addicts in the lounge, plopped down, and laid an arm over his eyes.
Reyne knew his mechanic was waging a battle to not give in to his addiction. He took the seat nearest Boden so he could keep watch over his crewmember. When Boden didn’t stir, Reyne turned his focus to his wrist comm. He called Throttle, but there was no answer. He tried again. After the third unanswered call, he left a message. “Throttle, there’s a new stationmaster who’s not friendly. Chances are, the CUF are on their way to the docks, so take off. Do not wait for us. We’ll catch another lift and will rendezvous with you at Alpha.”
He hung up and sighed, hoping she’d get the message in time. By now, the CUF would have pulled the cab’s records and know that the two men had entered the cab at the docks. He wanted to kick himself for not walking several blocks to cover their trail. He’d assumed Devil Town was still a free town, and that assumption had just put his daughter’s life in danger.
He lay back on the chaise and gave Boden a quick look to see he hadn’t moved. Reyne sighed. They were stuck in a basement in Devil Town where everyone—legal and illegal alike—had worked for the previous stationmaster. He suspected the same held true for the new stationmaster. For all he knew, Madame Grecklin was leading CUF to the basement at that exact moment.
Three
Dromadier Dilemma
Devil Town space docks, Spate
Throttle
Throttle saw the squad of dromadiers the moment they entered the dock. Even though there were nearly a dozen other ships ahead of the Gryphon in line, she knew which ship they were headed for. She wheeled back to stay out of their view. She was only about halfway finished refueling, but she shut down the system without hesitation. The cables detached and retracted into the dock’s fueling system.
She tapped a sequence of codes on her wrist comm, and a green light indicated she’d connected to the ship. Seconds later, two thin metal plates slid down the hull. The smaller one covered the ship’s real registration number with a dummy number Demes had set up for her last year. She prayed the number still worked. The second, larger plate covered the teardrop painted on the hull. Since droms leaned toward a “shoot on sight” approach to any torrent they came across, she chose caution over chance.
After both panels clicked in place, she glanced under the ship to see the soldiers’ legs. The squad was almost to the ship. Her breath caught. She sped up the ramp, placing herself in partial view, and boarded the Gryphon. The sound of running boot steps followed her until the door closed with its usual resounding boom of metal connecting with metal. She locked the hatch. Heart racing, she hurried to the bridge.
Behind her, a pounding on the door ensued. She could hear shouting, but the rilon hull muffled the voices too much to make out any words. Even so, she had no doubt they were ordering her to open up.
“No viggin’ way I’m letting you onto my ship,” she yelled back.
She didn’t slow down as she reached the bridge, and plowed into her instrument panel hard enough to smash a kneecap. Good thing she couldn’t feel anything from the waist down. She started to enter additional lockdown commands. Now that she was back on board, her mask fogged up, and she tore it off so she could see what she was doing.
A warning sounded, and the panel displayed the notification Throttle most certainly did not want to see:
Spate Dock Control initiating override control of your vessel per Collective Authority Code 468294. Prepare to be boarded.
Throttle flinched. “No.”
She thought she’d have hours before the CUF initiated an override code, giving her time to come up with a plan. That they were already initiating the code meant they’d been onto the Gryphon the moment it hit orbit. No one had ever blocked the CUF override hack, not even Demes, which meant the Gryphon was about to be boarded and there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop it. She entered a code on the panel and sh
oved away. Behind her, the wall opened to reveal a closet space barely wide enough for her wheelchair. She backed into the space and hit the only button on the wall. The door closed, leaving her in darkness.
Another warning sounded on the bridge, followed by the metallic sound of the ship’s large door opening. The noise was soon followed by a stern male voice. “Your ship has been randomly selected for a dock check. Come out immediately, or you will be arrested.”
Randomly selected, my ass. As the footsteps drew closer, she tried to calm her breathing. Light crept through around the edges, reminding her that even the smallest sound could be heard on the other side of the wall.
Reyne had built the space for her when she was seven years old. Back then, Reyne—her father not by blood but in all the ways that really mattered—drew plenty of attention of the unwanted kind from his involvement in the Fringe Uprising. His protectiveness drove her crazy, but she’d be damned if she didn’t appreciate this tiny hideaway right now.
The sound of boot steps reached the bridge. Throttle’s breath hitched, and she became a statue, even though every cell in her body thrummed with adrenaline. If they found her, they’d run her fake ID. Chances were, they’d also run a DNA scan, something far too expensive to fake. One scan, and she’d spend the rest of her life in a work camp, if she were lucky.
She’d had a few close calls with the CUF, but she’d never had to face them alone before. Adrenaline gave way to insecurity when she realized that, for the first time, there was no one there to help her. She was completely and utterly on her own.
She pursed her lips and girded her confidence. The hell she’d let insecurity get in her way.
The light around the door broke as someone walked far too close for her comfort. She held her breath until after the light returned, and until she heard the intruder tap on the ship’s instrument panel. She cringed. No one had ever touched her panel before, and the action felt like a violation of her privacy.