The Fringe Series Omnibus

by Rachel Aukes

  “He’s sleeping,” Kassel said.

  “Sure, he is.” She slapped the windshield. “Wakey, wakey.”

  Critch slowly opened his eyes all the way.

  Both women watched him, even though the one seemed far more interested in her new bottle of whiskey.

  “Come on, May. Dad’s had a long day. He’s beat.”

  “He can speak for himself,” May said. “How about it, Daddy? You got an extra bottle of Double-Moon for me?”

  “Sorry, pal,” Critch said, keeping the hidden blaster leveled on her. “Whiskey’s getting hard to come by.”

  She squinted. “Wait. Let me see your face.”

  Critch watched her for a long moment. When she didn’t break eye contact, he took his free hand and tugged down his shemagh. At the same time, he raised the blaster to a better position to make a clear shot.

  Recognition filled May’s features.

  Ah, hell, Critch thought as he got ready to pull the trigger.

  “You’re him,” she said. Her compatriot took a step forward as well, lowering the bottle, as she stared.

  Neither woman seemed to notice or care that Critch held the blaster at them. He said nothing. If they’d been citizens, he would’ve killed them already. Conscripts were another story. Parliament had instituted a required two-year service for all able-bodied and able-minded colonists upon reaching the age of eighteen. It was Parliament’s attempt at indoctrinating colonists into the Collective’s ideals, but since many conscripts were treated like indentured servants, required service instead wedged a wider divide between citizens and the fringe; especially since citizens had no service requirement.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Kassel said. “We just want to be on our way.”

  “My dad fought under you in the Uprising,” Leony said.

  “What’s his name?” Critch asked.

  “Leon Brahams,” she replied.

  Critch thought for a moment. “I remember Leon. He was one of the best roosters around. He carried the heavy stuff and could open hell on the blue bastards.” He paused. “Leon was Terran. Aren’t you Spaten?”

  A prideful smile grew on Leony’s face as Critch spoke of her father. “He came to Spate after the Uprising. That’s where he met my mom. She convinced him to stay, and the rest is history.”

  “Until you were conscripted at eighteen and ended up on your father’s homeland,” Critch said.

  Leony sobered. “Yeah, well there’s nothing I can do about it. They kill deserters.”

  “There’s always something someone can do if it’s important enough,” he countered. “Conscripts outnumber citizens in the dromadier squads. Imagine what could change if the conscripts all rose up as one force. Or, imagine what each conscript could do if she put her mind to it. Just letting torrents and refugees through your checkpoint can save many lives.”

  “Helping colonists is one thing, but we’d be killed if they found out we knowingly helped torrents,” May countered.

  “True. It all comes down to if the something that needs done is important enough,” Critch said. “What do you think?”

  May and Leony looked at each other and then at Critch.

  May spoke. “You can go. We won’t tell anyone.”

  Leony tried to hand the bottle of whiskey back to Kassel.

  “Keep it,” Critch said. “You’re doing a good thing here.”

  Critch nodded at Kassel, and they drove through the checkpoint and left Rebus Station. With dusk came the reddish glow of the two moons that illuminated Terra’s nights. They drove for miles without speaking. Kassel was the first to break the silence.

  “How many more torrents do you think are still stuck in Rebus Station?” the boy asked.

  “Too many,” Critch said. “Several hundred, at least.”

  More silence.

  Several miles farther, they reached the edge of Broken Mountain—what remained of it. What had once been the largest mountain in the area, one with two jagged peaks, was now a massive hill of boulders.

  “Keep driving. I’ll tell you when to pull off,” Critch said.

  Kassel weaved around large rocks, having to veer off the road to avoid rock piles. They continued through intersections and past turnoffs.

  Critch opened his wrist comm to find a single message from Birk:

  Pickup 05-0500 at your ping.

  He let his arm rest on his thigh and leaned his head back. Critch had a ride coming for him. Day 05 was tomorrow, at five in the morning. Whoever was coming for him must already be in the sector to arrive so quickly. He needed his wrist comm on and broadcasting his signal for their sensors, but he didn’t worry about CUF drones this far from Rebus Station. He found he breathed easier for the first time in weeks.

  “Our ride will be here in the morning,” Critch said. “So, we won’t have long to wait.”

  “Cool.” Kassel frowned. “But the docks are under CUF control. How can they pick us up without using the docks?”

  “My guess? There are no safe docks for launch, so they’re sending a ship equipped with drop tanks. It burns a ton of juice to make a cold launch, so you won’t see many use them, especially now that all the juice plants are shut down.” He kept drop tanks on the Honorless for a last resort scenario and had only had to use them a handful of times. He wondered if Gabe had already burned all the juice in them.

  Critch squinted as he looked for the turn. “Slow down. We’re getting close.” Each turnoff had a sign to indicate the location. He pointed. “There it is. Take a right at A-187.”

  Kassel turned and immediately swerved off the road to avoid a pile of rocks, only to drive over an even larger pile of rocks. Critch grimaced against the scraping sounds of stone against metal.

  Kassel brought the truck to an abrupt stop. “Looks like this is as far as I can go.”

  Critch looked at the pile of rocks and brown dirt in front of them. “We’re close enough. There’s an entrance not too far from here.”

  Critch opened the door and grabbed his pack. When Kassel’s door didn’t open, he turned to find the boy clutching the wheel.

  “Let’s go,” Critch said.

  When Kassel turned, his expression was tight with dread. “I’m staying,” he said quietly, then echoed louder, “I’m staying.”

  Critch raised a brow. “Oh, yeah? Want to tell me why?”

  Kassel seemed to gulp down his fear. “It was what you said to May and Leony back there… about how anyone can help out, and I realized I could do more good here, finding torrents and getting them through the checkpoint, than I could up there.” His eyes glanced skyward.

  “You could, could you?” Critch asked.

  Kassel took a deep breath. “Yeah. I could.”

  “It’s going to be dangerous.”

  “I know.”

  Critch gave him a lengthy moment of silence before he spoke. “Well, if that’s what you want—”

  “It’s what’s right,” Kassel cut in.

  Critch gave him a small nod, one he hoped conveyed the pride he had in the young man and not the worry he felt about Kassel’s future. He then dug into his pack and pulled out all the food and left it on the seat. “Now, don’t go looking for trouble. Keep yourself safe first. You can’t help anyone else if you’re dead. If you do come across any torrents, there’s a small tunnel right around this rock pile that didn’t collapse in the explosion. It smells bad and looks even worse, but the droms don’t come around here. The code is 8-4-2, the year of the Uprising. Oh, and you’ll need this.” He reached around his neck and pulled the chain he wore above his head. He handed it to Kassel.

  Kassel stared at the pendant, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. “You’re giving me a teardrop? You mean, I’m a real torrent now?”

  “You became a torrent as soon as you helped save me from the droms,” Critch said. “Being a torrent is about what’s in your heart. I knew you’d make a fine torrent as soon as I met you.”

  Kassel beamed as he slid the chain around h
is neck. He looked at the pendant for a moment, sniffled, and then sprang across the seat and hugged Critch.

  Critch held him until Kassel’s embrace relaxed.

  “Don’t go home tonight,” Critch said, “in case one of your neighbors called the droms. Do you have somewhere you can stay for a couple days?”

  “Sure, I guess I can crash at Arick’s.”

  Critch squeezed Kassel’s shoulder. “Until we meet again.”

  Kassel sat straighter, even though his eyes were filling with tears. “Until we meet again,” he repeated the fringe farewell.

  Critch grabbed his pack, now much lighter without the food, and left the truck without looking back. He heard the truck lurch backward as Kassel stepped on the pedal too hard, and he smiled. That kid would make a lousy pilot, but he was one hell of a torrent.

  He climbed onto the massive pile of rocks created when the bombs had shattered the mountain and started avalanches with the debris. He was careful; a twisted ankle out here could be a death sentence if his ride couldn’t make it. It was a clear night, so the two moons lit up Terra as much as a Playan day.

  He never understood why people—like his friend, Reyne—chose to live on the ice world. Playa was cold, dark, and grim. Even its low gravity seemed to deter colonists from moving there. It was the opposite of warm, heavy Terra which allowed darkness only in her shadows. Yet, despite the environmental extremes, colonists from the two vastly different fringe worlds were so much alike.

  Critch knew the similarities were from a hard work ethic and a need for a fair and equitable return for that work more so than where someone was born. Many citizens had forgotten what it was like to work. That was just one of the reasons he saw them as lesser humans.

  As his thoughts turned darker and deadlier, Critch found himself climbing more swiftly over the rocks. He soon reached the crest. There, he scanned the collapsed mountain before him. The access point was hidden by rocks; no one would know it’d survived the blast unless they examined it up close. The rescue teams sent to dig out survivors in the hours following the bombing had found only a few accessible tunnel entrances in the rubble, and only one tunnel beyond those that had not yet collapsed. Of all the hundreds of refugees hiding in Broken Mountain the day of the attack, the rescue teams only brought home seven survivors.

  After several minutes of searching, he found the entrance less than a hundred feet from where he stood. He was careful to watch his step as he made his way along the top of the rock pile toward it. When he was near, he climbed down the other side, letting gravity assist as he slid. When he reached solid ground, the entrance stood ten feet before him. The black metal door was new, having been replaced by Seda’s tunnel crews following the rescue. Critch eyed the keypad on the door for only a moment before entering the three-digit code. The door opened with some scraping, and Critch wondered if the bones of the mountain weren’t still settling.

  The stench hit him from the darkness. He’d known the tunnels would smell from the hundreds of bodies decomposing throughout the mountain, but he’d hoped it wouldn’t be so bad this far from the main tunnel network. The crews had left all the dead inside the mountain due to the instability of the collapsed tunnels and the lack of resources Terra faced after Parliament had begun to play rough with the colonies. Those victims who weren’t killed instantly died trapped under and behind walls of debris.

  Critch pulled up his shemagh to cover his mouth and nose, then clicked on his wrist comm’s flashlight. Cranking his head around, he took one last lungful of fresh air, and then he entered the tunnel. As soon as he stepped inside, dim lights on the walls illuminated, and he realized the tunnel crews must’ve reestablished power to this tunnel. He clicked off his light.

  Stacked near the door were boxes of water, food, and blankets, left for torrents who made it to this secret refuge. It’d be the perfect hideout, the last place the CUF would look, if not for the stench that made it a shelter of last resort.

  Critch hoped he’d grow accustomed to the vile odor, but he’d been around death before and knew his olfactory response would never tame while inside. There was something about the smell of rotting flesh that turned the air to a soup that seeped into everything. The cloth covering his nose and mouth did little good. He’d be smelling death for days after he left this dank mausoleum.

  A slight vibration rumbled under his feet, and he pulled out his blaster. A second later, the distant sound of rocks falling caused him to pause. He’d been right about the mountain still settling. Even though it’d been months since it was razed, he suspected small rockfalls and avalanches would continue for many more months, if not years, as sections of tunnels collapsed. The thought haunted him: he was in one of those tunnels.

  Slowly, cautiously, he walked down the tunnel until it forked, with one path blocked by stone and the other, narrower path going deeper into the darkness. This part of the tunnel had been cleared, though he knew there were corpses nearby, likely just on the other side of the fallen stones.

  Using his wrist comm light, he ventured down the dark tunnel long enough to see it ended with a blockage a hundred or so feet in. The narrow edge that encircled his wrist sent out light in the direction his hand pointed, causing shadows from uneven stone and pebbles to dance upon the walls as he walked.

  The tunnels had first been built under Seda’s grandfather’s direction to mine the components needed to produce the juice that fueled all ships. Faulk Industries had been the first juice company and had thrived for three generations, though Critch suspected Seda might be its final owner.

  Another vibration signaled a rockfall somewhere in the mountain, and Critch hurried back toward the entrance, where he figured was the least likely place to suffer a cave-in while he was there. He grabbed a blanket and set down his pack. He settled onto the cold, damp stone, using his pack as a pillow, and let himself fall asleep in the haunted crypt.

  Critch shot awake at every vibration and sound—he seldom slept longer than an hour at a time. Growing up playing in the tunnels, he’d never had a fear of them. But, now his dreams haunted him with tight, lightless places that smothered his lungs.

  An hour before his scheduled pickup time, he pushed himself to his feet. His right leg had gone numb, and his foot tingled. Every muscle was tight, and his back ached. He gave himself extra time to stretch out before grabbing his pack. He folded the blanket for the next person who needed it—he prayed someone else would make it here to use it—and opened the door.

  It was still nighttime, and he deeply inhaled the fresh air that smelled of evergreens. He double-checked the door to make sure it locked behind him before he began climbing the hill of fallen rock once more.

  When he reached the top, he scanned for friend or foe. Seeing neither, he took a seat and let himself enjoy watching night give way to dawn.

  His ride arrived thirty minutes late. He frowned when he saw the Scorpia set down on the flat ground a safe distance from possible avalanches. Large drop tanks weighed it down even more on the dusty ground.

  Critch slid down the rocks and ran toward the ship with both relief and trepidation: relief at being saved; trepidation at why it was the Scorpia that had come for him and not a different specter.

  A ramp extended, and a cargo door opened. Birk emerged.

  Critch hit the ramp at a jog. “You’re late. Lose track of time in bed with your partner?”

  “Maybe,” Birk said, a wide grin climbing his face as he held out his hand to help Critch on board. He scowled. “Aw, dang, Critch, you smell awful.”

  “It’s damned good to see you.” He grabbed Birk’s forearm. “But aren’t you supposed to be wreaking hell on the CUF at Devil Town right now?”

  Birk sobered and shook his head. “The CUF had already taken Spate.”

  Six

  Haunted Dreams

  Broken Mountain, Terra

  “So, Heid and his lackeys are probably getting plenty cocky right about now,” Critch said with a sense of dread as he climbed
the Scorpia’s ramp. If the CUF had control of all the fringe stations, it’d believe the rebellion was finished. He added, as much to build his confidence as Birk’s, “Perfect time for us to put them in their place.”

  “Perfect time for one of your Coastal Run-style plans,” Birk said before stepping in behind Critch and climbing the ramp.

  “I’m working on one,” Critch said.

  Birk closed the door and tapped the intercom on the wall. “Throttle, I’ve got Critch and we’re inside.”

  “Good. Now, get your butts to the bridge and strap in.”

  “It’s good to see Throttle hasn’t gone all soft on you,” Critch said.

  Birk chuckled. “I don’t think I ever have to worry about that.”

  Critch headed down the kinked, narrow hallway to the bridge. He knew the Scorpia well. He’d bought and customized the ship as part of his fleet. Once a civilian security ship, she was midsized and lacked the cargo space his larger ships had, but she more than compensated for that lack through speed and other features, making her the perfect scouting ship. Like all of Critch’s specters, the Scorpia had been upgraded with stealth capabilities and drop tanks.

  The lightning bolt-shaped hallway was difficult to maneuver at a walking pace, and Critch had to move slowly to make the sharp turns. He’d just turned sideways to move around a support beam that took up half the hallway when another man nearly plowed into him.

  Critch took a step back as the man squeezed through. Critch, still wearing his pack, found himself pressed against the wall. “Whoa there, buddy. Buy me a drink first,” Critch muttered as the man pushed through him and then Birk.

  “Dang it, Eddy,” Birk said. “Why’d you leave the engine compartment?”

  “I had to pee,” Eddy said and kept walking in the opposite direction of the pair without looking back.

  “Your new engineer has an interesting personality,” Critch said before continuing on his way.

  “He was Throttle’s pick,” Birk said, then added, “he knows his engine stuff. Now, if only we could leave him back there all the time, then he’d make a perfect crew member.”