Less than three minutes later, Megan trudged onto the bridge, her hair and shipsuit dirty and disheveled. Her right eye was puffy and red, and a trickle of blood dripped from the corner of her mouth. As he gazed at her from where he stood at his own station, Robert noticed that her pinkie and third finger on her right hand were black and twisted at a crazy angle.
It was no worse than she’d looked in the past when her “suitors” had gotten a bit rough in their fun. Her face was a blank, almost lifeless mask, just as always. The fight in her was gone; she was just a husk now that was used for her flying skills and her body.
She stepped onto the bridge and started for her station, but something stopped her, piercing the mental walls around her soul. Her eyes surveyed the carnage on the bridge, the blood, the bodies and finally on her comrade wielding a powerful weapon. It took a few seconds for her to register what it was she was seeing, and then Robert saw it. A fire ignited in her eyes, which rapidly blazed into a conflagration.
Megan rushed to the arms locker and helped herself to another shotgun. She thumbed off the safety and then, after a second’s consideration, grabbed a large combat knife from the rack. Without a look back at Robert, she raced off the bridge, the knife tucked into the back of her belt and her shotgun held to the ready. Seconds later, there was the roar of the powerful weapon and screams of some of the other crewmen.
Robert watched for a moment, the empty bridge hatch, then turned back to the communications console. He pressed a control. “This is TrinaMarie to transport vessel. Surrender or die. With the foolishness of the maneuver you used, we are both in jeopardy. We will need to work together to survive.”
There was a crackle of static, and then a male voice responded. “Don’t be a fool. I won’t surrender to you. You’ll murder us.”
Robert sighed. “Both of our ships have suffered damage, and we both have lost crew. We’re too far out for the space defense forces to come to our rescue, at least not before all of you die over there. Surrender.”
“Why should I believe you?” the voice replied suspiciously. “You’re just another bloodthirsty pirate.”
At exactly that moment, a blood-curdling scream erupted from the corridor, coming from further down in the ship, but perfectly clear over the comms, based on the gasp the man let out. But Robert went on. “Because I just killed my captain and took over the ship.” Another binary decision made. “He would have enslaved or gutted you all. I am offering you a chance. Surrender to me, join my crew, and we all live.” He had to shake his head in irritation as his eye twitched again.
“I will have to discuss this with my crew.”
“Discuss quickly,” Robert told the man. “I cannot wait long.” He cut the connection. They would not take long, he mused. Though it was unreasonable that they blew their own fuel cells as a defensive measure as well.
Megan trotted onto the bridge a moment later; the shotgun slung over her back and a naked blade in her fist. The blade was smeared with gore, gumming her hand to the hilt. Blood was splattered all up her arm, and over her shipsuit, with even a few droplets on her cheek. She reached up a hand and rubbed her chin, doing little more than smearing it over her brown skin.
Robert looked up as she entered, taking in the sight. That same fire blazed in her eyes, hot and bright. No longer was her gaze focused on nothing or the deck. Now, she was looking all around, a confident, dangerous look on her face. She stepped up to him, then reached down, grabbed the back of Truelove’s shipsuit and wiped her blade clean. She slid it into the sheath in her belt, then gripping the corpse’s wrists, she wordlessly dragged the body out into the corridor. It took her several minutes, as she could only move him a few meters at a time. Once the body was off the bridge and jammed against the far bulkhead out in the corridor, she came back in and stood before Robert, her eyes daring him to speak.
He met her gaze, his own unflinching. There was no battle of wills, though it was clear Megan was ready for one. Her fire reached him and was simply halted. He wasn’t fire or water; he was stone. He could fight her, Robert knew, but there was no point. Megan was not his enemy, she never was. He had no desires on her body, lovely as it was, even bathed in blood as she was, even with her visage twisted with raw hate as it was. After a long moment, the fire slackened, going from a blazing inferno to a smoldering ember. She’d found whatever it was she was looking for.
“Take your station,” Robert told her simply. Megan nodded, turned, and stepped over to the helm, standing behind her chair, checking the feeds, but not sitting. He made a mental note to do a proper census of the ship’s population. He had a feeling that Megan had reduced the number of the crew by at least five. He approved, but they were getting critically low on trained crewmen. He shifted his feet, the chain scraping on the deck as he moved to the right side of his console to pull up a display showing the operations feed.
Megan whirled, her eyes searching. Pulling the shotgun off her shoulder, she jacked a round and walked back to the navigation station. Robert watched her come at him, his own hand moving to his shoulder to take up his own weapon. But Megan was faster. Her dark hand flashed out, clapping down upon his very pale one, holding it in place. She caught his gaze, her lips pressed firmly together, and she shook her head. Confused, he didn’t move.
She shoved him back against the right side of the U-shaped navigation console, and he allowed himself to be moved. Then, the woman rotated pointed her weapon and fired, blasting apart the chain that secured him to the console and confined him to the bridge. Megan checked her handiwork, seeing that a meter or so of the chain was still shackled to Robert’s ankle, and a fist-sized hole now existed on the deck. No smoke or sparks came from the hole, so she hadn’t shot anything important under the deck plate. She nodded, pressed the safety on her weapon and slung it back over her shoulder. She moved back to the helm, slipping into her comfortable chair.
Robert, meanwhile, was finding it hard to breathe. Oh, he wasn’t afraid of Megan, despite that last action. No, it was the chain. For nineteen years, it had connected him to this ship, to this compartment. He had been a prisoner of this room for all that time, and that had been comfortable and safe. Mentally, anyway. Now he was free, and it was a feeling he didn’t recognize. He’d been a prisoner only a year less than he’d ever been free. It was all he remembered. It was all he knew how to be. Navigator of this ship, perhaps its new commander. But free? Free to wander the ship, or leave it should he choose? The possibility was terrifying.
He shook his head, to chase away the fear for now. Later. Survive now… that… later. He pressed the comm control. “What is your answer?” he demanded of the man on the other, nearby ship.
The male voice came back, sounding defeated. “We agree to your terms. Do not fire. We will surrender and… join… your crew. I pray that the stars will forgive me for this.”
Robert nodded in satisfaction, one item to be checked off the list. There were so much more to do if they were to survive. “Very well. We will be alongside shortly. Out.” He needed to speak with the rest of the crew, inform them of the new reality. He pressed another control, calling to Zezisz down in environmental.
Get the zheen in environmental on board with me; things will transition smoother.
That had been eight months ago. When that crew came over and became his crew. Do-gooders and faint-hearts all, but they followed orders and helped fill out the missing crew slots. And the reactor kept churning out juice, the enviro plant kept scrubbing the air, and occasionally they managed to find a prize ship that they could use for spares or necessities. Robert, who now everyone called “Shotgun Bob,” refused to simply attack people and ships for plunder. Two deaths occurred among the crew from challengers by Bob’s trademark shotgun, and for the moment, they all fell into line. They only took what they needed. And perhaps a little more.
But after all that time, and a few bits of plunder, they were almost to their destination. Amethyst. Trade in some goods, perhaps get some repairs and then perhaps recalibrat
e their moral compass and find a new course to steer.
((--[][]--))
Six boxy shuttles roared through atmosphere, shields, and hulls glowing with the heat of the atmospheric friction as they dove toward the surface. The habitable moon of the gas giant was large by comparison to the other forty-nine satellites surrounding the Jovian, a good enough size to be considered a planet in its own right, had it not been captured by the gas giant’s gravity several hundred million years ago.
The area they approached was an artificial construct floating on one of the oceans, several hundred meters in size, crammed with buildings. It was more than large enough to land these shuttles with enough room for twice as many more on the landing pad. Numerous buildings, warehouses, laboratories and many others rose up from the platform’s surface. Workers ran from the rain-driven surface of the platform, rushing inside as the shuttles moved to touch down.
Five of the shuttles touched lightly to the deck; the sixth moved to orbit the platform, shields, and weapons active and ready in case fire support was needed. Landing ramps hissed down, clanging on the metal platform and armed soldiers stormed out of the shuttles. They raced off the landing pad and into the closest building, ready for a fight. All of these soldiers were armed with a variety of weapons, stunners, guns, blades and other instruments of violence. They were a mix of creatures: humans and zheen, mostly, with a few hak’ruk and a trio of rocky-skinned Secaarans. Everyone was outfitted with various types of body armor, proportionate to their need. The Secaarans wore only their shipsuits and other bits of clothing, while the humans wore nearly full suits of unpowered armor. Curiously, each of them wore a dark metal bracer on their left forearms, which clashed with the other armor that they wore. The soldiers trooped into one of the warehouses, and a few minutes later the barking of gunfire, shouts and the crack of energy stun weapons could be heard, even over the crash of the waves against the edges of the platform.
The invaders were led by an interesting pair. One was clearly a human male dressed in body armor and a long hunter green coat. In his left hand was a stunner pistol, but his right hand was a mechanical prosthesis. Instead of a hand, he spouted a thirty-centimeter wide drill head that was half as long as his forearm. The skin on his head was horribly scarred, melted from the scorching heat. Also, a section of his skull in the back was missing, replaced with a durable, transparent hard plastic shell, which both covered and revealed the gray matter beneath. The other individual was not human at all. In fact, that one was a much smaller figure, one of the feline Severites, with black fur and blazing green eyes. The cat was wearing diminutive chest and body armor, with an odd tiara-shaped headpiece. In addition to the dark metal cuff on her wrist, the cat was also wielding a stun pistol and in the other hand, a meter long blade.
“Forward!” the man barked, his voice sounding almost Secaaran with its gravelly-like growl. He waved a hand and ran forward, the others moving just behind him. The Severite yowled and fell into step just behind the leader.
Getting inside the warehouse proved ludicrously simple. The main doors were made out of treated aluminum which parted easily to a few chops from boarding axes. The lock parted, and the Secaarans shoved the large doors open. Inside, the invaders saw rows and stacks of the somewhat slender 100-liter metal drums. Labels on the drums indicated that the nearest ones were filled with heavy water, and the drill-handed man tapped one of the drums, causing a heavy gong like a bell. “This is what we came here for!” he rasped. He directed some of the soldiers to a trio of hover pallets parked at the edge of the warehouse, near to the now open door. “Grab those loaders and pile in as many of the barrels as you can.”
“We have five armed zheen coming up the main isle,” the Severite warned. Her voice was breathy and harsh.
“We’ll handle them; you watch our backs,” the man replied. Using his fleshy hand holding the stunner, he scratched his chin with his thumb. By doing so, he drew attention to the horrible scars on his face and hand, the melted skin the result of the flames he’d been subjected to so very long ago. He flicked his chin at the men getting the hover pallets. “Make sure they continue loading.”
She hissed at him. “Trust, you do your job, I’ll do mine.”
The man chuckled, turned and waved a good number of his men forward. The charged headlong down the main aisle but the invaders quickly peeled to the sides, finding cover behind stacks of barrels. The barrels themselves wouldn’t provide much in the way of cover from bullets, being only thin shells of metal holding heavy water. But it provided more than what the incoming security guards had, which was nothing.
Five zheen wearing uniform tunics and carrying handguns ran right down the middle of the aisle and with a shout from the leader, the invaders opened up with their own weapons. The security guards had no chance and were cut down in seconds. The troopers rushed out and stripped the corpses of any interesting or valuable items.
The leader’s communicator let out a burst of static. “Trust, we have defense vessels scrambling from the airbase on the continent.”
He nodded to himself and replied. “As expected. ETA?”
“Less than thirty minutes, present speed, Trust,” the shuttle pilot answered tersely.
“Understood. Keep me informed. Out.” He ended the call and turned to his shoulders, who had completed their looting. “All right. We’ve got twenty minutes to be airborne before the wasps arrive. Move.” At the run, the group headed back to the front of the warehouse. Using the hover pallets, they got four of the five shuttles loaded before the cat-woman called in. They all piled aboard the shuttles, and with a whine of repulsors, the five ships lifted off the platform. Joined by their sixth, the ships accelerated away from the incoming defense vessels and started to rise out of atmo.
“Trust,” the shuttle pilot called to the leader, who made his way past soldiers and barrels to the cockpit. “I’m showing those defense vessels coming at us. They’re bigger than I would have expected for security interceptors.”
The leader shook his head. “That’s because they are not interceptors. They are troop carriers. And they are designed for low-level atmospheric flights. Get us into space; they won’t be able to pursue.”
The pilot glanced over at him, at the man’s horrifying scars. “You sure, Trust?”
He nodded, frowning slightly. “I’m sure. There’s a reason we stayed in high orbit for a day doing scans.”
The pilot shrugged, turning back to his instruments. “You’re the boss, Boss.”
The man grunted. “Don’t you forget that. Now, take us up.” All six shuttles angled upward and within minutes all were back in the comforting blackness.
The scarred leader moved back into the aft compartment which was uncomfortably full of metal barrels and armed troops. “How many did we get?” he asked.
One of the Secaarans, Rexor, smiled at him. “Not a bad haul, Trust. We got thirty-two drums on this shuttle. I think we got just as many on the others.”
The man everyone was calling Trust nodded in approval. “If those numbers hold up, that will be over twelve thousand liters. Closer to thirteen, actually. Not a bad haul for a day of planning and less than an hour of work.”
“Why we want seawater anyway, Trust?” one of the human males asked, his voice a bit petulant. “Seems like a waste of time to grab.”
Trust glared at him. “There is a reason, Grummen, why I am the Brain Trust, and you are just a grunt. You work for me. If I tell you to get seawater, you get seawater. But we don’t want just seawater. This stuff is enriched with deuterium, which we can use for fuel. Or we can sell it to someone willing to pay.”
Grummen nodded, smiling. “I like money.” The others near to him chuckled.
“Yes, we all do,” Brain Trust replied, amused. “If the other shuttles managed to get the rare-earth minerals at the mountain facility, we should be in excellent shape.”
He leaned back against the bulkhead, trying to find a comfortable position and failing. It didn’t ma
tter; they’d be back to the ship momentarily. The imposing bulk of the ship, his ship, the Empress Rose, was growing ever larger through the pilot’s forward viewport. Brain Trust couldn’t help but watch and ogle his prized possession as it grew ever closer.
Empress Rose was an old Imperial-class luxury cruise liner, built in the Volarus Shipyards nineteen years ago. Brain Trust and his cronies (far fewer in number at the time) had slipped into the yards and appropriated the ship right out from under the noses of Security and the government without hardly a fuss. Since then, Brain Trust and his crew had made a living plundering star systems and ships across Argos, upgrading the Rose and their own arsenals, recruiting (or pressing) new crew into service. All the while, they managed to build up a reputation as well as a hefty series of treasure troves on several different depositories on several different worlds. But there was always more to be had. More to accumulate. Even after the decent haul they’d made bringing in those warships for the Kingslayers a couple months back, there was always more.
He activated his communicator again, as the range was now much closer.
“Leader to Rose, come back.”
A few seconds later, a voice answered, distorted by static. Purposefully distorted. “Copy, Leader. This is Rose.”
“Status of Teams Two and Three?”
A pause for a moment. “Mission successful. Team 3 is boarding the Rose as we speak. Team 2 is leaving the facility now. They’ll be in the air momentarily.”
“Very well. Once all shuttles are docked, break orbit and head for the hyper limit.”
“Understood.” Another pause. “What course shall we set?”
Brain Trust chuckled. With a load of deuterium, rare-earth minerals and refined fissionables aboard the Rose, they now had quite a large stockpile of goods to trade. “Set a course for Amethyst. We’ve got some swag to sell.”
The crew in the shuttle cheered.
((--[][]--))
The Warlord's Path: Samair in Argos: Book 6 Page 2