THE MACHINES OF BELLATRIX: CHAPTER TWO



CHAPTER TWO
Merchantman
(this chapter was originally published as the short story, Merchantman)
copyright 2013 by Cary Caffrey



"Blast!" Sigrid said.
Twisting, turning, arms spread out or tucked in, nothing she did made any difference. With nothing to grab hold of, no resistance, nothing could stop her as she tumbled out of control, moving deeper and deeper into the blackness of space.
Stars spun by her fractured visor. Every point-four-six seconds she saw the blinding binary stars of Alpha Phoenicis flash past. It was only Sigrid's enhanced physiology, the nano-swarms that surged within her system, that halted the rise of bile in her throat and kept her from losing consciousness completely. But she had greater worries to consider.
Debris from the explosion had penetrated her suit and damaged her oxygen feed; the mixture was far too rich. Her bionic systems did their mechanical best to compensate, but they were taxed at their limits. Worse, a chunk of the Merchantmen's ship had struck her, nearly cracking open her helmet. A quick calculation determined that the weakened faceplate would soon succumb to the pressure and shatter in less than nine minutes.
Nine minutes to live.
This in itself did not depress Sigrid or bring on any sense of panic. She was too busy cursing, punishing herself. She'd missed all the signs, ignored the warnings of the captain, and allowed all four of their ships to walk willingly into the trap. The traders had never intended to deliver their supplies; Sigrid doubted they ever had them. They were liars. Thieves.
And yet she hadn't seen it.
Another wave of debris blew past her; twisted bits of metal mingled with body parts, all that was left of the Merchantman.
Small mercies, Sigrid thought.


July 21, 2348 (Forty-Eight Hours Earlier)
Alpha Phoenicis Space

White light gave way to the blackness of space; like snow melting away, large white droplets scattered, forming into billions of individual stars. Her warp jump complete, the Ōmi Maru swung around, blasting toward the heart of the Alpha Phoenicis system and her destination, the Konoe Transfer Station, still hundreds of thousands of kilometers away.
The captain of the tramp freighter leaned back in his chair, his fingers kneading the wiry mess of stubble he called a beard.
"Do you honestly think we'll find what we're looking for here," Captain Trybuszkiewicz said; it was more a statement than a question.
Honestly? Sigrid wondered. I have no idea.
All she knew was their new homeworld was in desperate need of supplies. Not just food and materiel for shelters, but machines and equipment, parts for vital defensives systems, everything they would need to make their new homeworld self-sufficient.
Frankly, Sigrid didn't have a clue what she was doing here or why the Lady Hitomi had assigned her this task. Sigrid could think of any number of people more qualified. Karen seemed the obvious choice. The ex-Kimuran orientations officer had a knack for understanding all the nuances of trade regulations; things that repeatedly escaped Sigrid. Of course, no one was more qualified to lead a trade mission than the Lady Hitomi herself, though it was far too dangerous to allow her to do so, for obvious reasons.
The Lady Hitomi was now an enemy combatant as far as the Council was concerned. Sigrid was no less a target. The authorities had not taken kindly to her actions at Scorpii or her destruction of the Warp Relay. For her actions, the Council had placed a bounty the size of a small planet on both of them.
They were wanted, barred from trading with anyone from the Merchants Guild. This left a very thin list of willing trading partners, with even fewer legitimate options open to them.
And so it had been decided. Sigrid would take their four lone transports—four stolen Kimuran freighters crewed by expats and defectors from Aquarii, men and women thoroughly loyal to the Lady Hitomi Kimura. Her destination: an outpost far outside of Council-controlled space, long abandoned by the Federation. Here, with luck, she could make contact with the only persons left willing to trade.
The Merchantmen.
These brokers of goods were not aligned with the Merchants Guild or with the Federation of Corporate Enterprises. They considered such stilted bureaucracies an annoyance, an impediment to true free trade.
"Black marketeers," Captain Trybuszkiewicz said. "You should not trust these men, Ms. Novak."
Sigrid agreed. "I'm not sure we have much choice, Captain."
"With all due respect, Ms. Novak, the smartest course of action is to go in, take what you need, and leave. If you happen to injure a few along the way, I'm sure no one will mind."
"Steal?" Sigrid asked. She found it hard to believe the captain would advocate such a plan.
The captain favored her with a knowing look. "Anything they have to sell is already stolen. Besides, when one considers the sums they will demand of us… Now that is thievery."
Sigrid wondered at the older man. She rather liked Captain Trybuszkiewicz, even if pronouncing his name left her tongue twisted and numb. He hadn't always been a freighter captain. In fact, he'd been a commodore in the Kimuran Naval Forces, commanded an entire cruiser division of his own. But all that had changed when the Council had orchestrated the coup against the Lady Hitomi. They had intervened in her affairs, taken her company, her world. Captain Trybuszkiewicz had been one of the first to defect and join with her. It had taken little effort to convince his own crews to follow. These same men and women now crewed the four aging transport ships in service to New Alcyone. Their devotion and dedication to the Lady Hitomi amazed Sigrid. Only their professionalism and attention to duty impressed her more.
"You don't like them," Sigrid said. "These Merchantmen."
"At my age there are few people I like. Fewer that I trust. I trust only that these people are not worth the spit I use to polish my boots. You must be mindful of them and always keep your hands on your purse."
"I don't have a purse." It was true. Sigrid had never carried a purse or a handbag.
The captain smiled.
"We're approaching the transfer station," the helmsman reported.
Captain Trybuszkiewicz nodded. "Slow to 42,000 kph. Signal the dock master. And don't let me hear any nonsense about traffic delays. I want priority docking."
"Aye, sir."
Sigrid moved toward the forward view port, eager to catch her first view of Konoe Station. It was much smaller than Vincenze, much simpler in its design. It didn't appear much larger than the orbital lift platforms in Panama. Few ships were in orbit; the small outpost appeared a cold and friendless place, a dull metallic disc drifting alone in the barren wastes of deep space.
"What on Earth are those?" Sigrid asked. She spied several vehicles moving quickly amongst the sparse traffic. Too small and too fast to be pilot ships or tugs, they danced in and around the waiting ships, the flares from their thrusters making them look like fireflies in the dark.
"Are they service vehicles?"
The captain laughed, his broad shoulders shaking, causing him to wheeze and then cough. "You'll find no service vehicles at Konoe Station, Ms. Novak. These things—they are the toys of children, boys."
"Joy riders," Andrzej Topa explained; he was the ship’s chief engineer. "Troublemakers and layabouts. They take old maneuvering thrusters—engines, anything—strap seats on them, blast themselves to oblivion… Menace to navigation, if you ask me."
Sigrid looked closer, her eyes wide in disbelief. "You have got to be kidding me."
But he wasn't. Sigrid zoomed in with her optical module and scanned the speeding vehicles more closely. The chief was correct. She couldn't believe it; she'd never seen anything like it. These joy riders were insane. The vehicles appeared as nothing more than acceleration couches strapped to rocket motors; the men piloting them wore only pressure suits with no other protection against the elements. They seemed to be racing, performing laps around the station, using ships as turning markers. It looked insanely dangerous.
Sigrid was desperate to give it a try. "They look marvelous."
"Death traps," the captain said.
"I don't know," Sigrid said wistfully, twirling a lock of hair about her fingers. "I think they look like fun. They remind me of those old rockets men would ride on back in the olden days. Those weren't much more involved than these."
Sigrid remembered reading about such things: huge, hulking rockets, packed with unstable propellant; engines welded together with bits of tubing and piping; the pilots riding on top with little more than a tin-plated fairing between them and the cold realities of space.
"Exactly," the captain reiterated. "Death traps."
The chief nudged Sigrid, directing her attention to another ship moving into a berth off their port beam. She was a freighter, but far grander than the likes of the Ōmi Maru or her sister ships. She looked close to one hundred and fifty meters long, roughly the same size and tonnage as their ship. But she had a stately flair to her, her thrusters painted in bright gold and red, her long hull featuring distinctive red piping. She sported several cannon mounts along her starboard side, but as Sigrid scanned them, she knew they would be of little use in a real firefight—probably more for show as a deterrent, never intended to be used in actual fighting. Sigrid scanned her markings; she registered as the Merchantman.
"Our contact," the chief engineer said. "Right on time."
"Dock master says we're cleared for approach."
The captain leaned back, pulling his cap down over his eyes. "Good. Wake me when we arrive."

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" Sigrid said.
She was standing in the airlock with the captain, the chief and the ship's three crew—the entire crew complement of the Ōmi Maru. The Kimuran officers had changed from their usual uniforms and now wore the rough workmen's clothes familiar to tramp freighter crews. Sigrid had done likewise. She sported a heavy wool skirt and a sweater with a high collar rolled over and down. It was hot and itched, and the knitting was already unfurling in several spots.
"You look perfect, Ms. Novak," the captain said. "I fear our normal accoutrements might attract the wrong kind of attention, but you look like a true mariner."
"Don't worry," the chief said. "No one will look at you twice here."
The captain scratched his beard; Sigrid caught his eyes on her as he scrutinized her attire. They had taken great effort to dress her as them. Her long blond hair was braided and tucked beneath a too-large knitted cap. The bulky sweater did a reasonable job at disguising her small but powerful figure, making her appear shorter than her five foot one-point-five inches, if that were possible. But there was no getting around the fact that Sigrid would always stand out in a crowd. The exact nature of the alterations to her physiology was a closely guarded secret; her array of bionic enhancements even more of a mystery. Whether Sigrid would ever realize it or not, she was special and she would never pass as normal.
The chief lifted his cap and scratched his forehead. "Well, the other freighter crews might want to buy you a round, but I don't think you'll raise any suspicions. Maybe try not to stand so straight. Slouch your shoulders a bit. There that's it. Maybe if we take your hair…"
"Enough!" Captain Trybuszkiewicz shouted. "We go."
Without further discussion, the captain hit the switch opening the airlock.
Unlike Vincenze, there was no security on the docking platform waiting to greet them. In fact, there was no one in sight at all. Trash and debris littered the docking ring. Someone had left a series of incoherent scrawlings painted on the walls and ceiling, and the overhead lighting flickered in an annoying fashion, blinking out its need for repair.
"What happened here?" Sigrid asked.
"Independents," the captain said; it was clear he did not approve. "They wrested control of this station from the CTF years ago. Claimed the space for their own."
"They took over?"
The captain made a sniffing noise. "Before abandoning it. Revolutionaries seldom consider what will happen after their battles are over. They had no plan to govern this place. Don't misunderstand, I have no love of the Council, but at least they know how to change a light fixture. With the Independents…well, you can see the result."
Sigrid took care stepping over a collapsed support beam. "Who governs the station, then? Who's in charge?"
"In charge? If you mean the law…? Well, we must be cautious."
The docking ring led out into a holding area. This seemed to be a warehouse of some sort, the entire length filled with what appeared to be abandoned intermodal shipping containers, some stacked, some overturned, rusting and covered with even more of the graffiti. Several of the containers had been cut open, turned into makeshift residences and storefronts. Sigrid spied several vendors emerging from the shelters as they approached, eager to showcase their wares to the newcomers.
Captain Trybuszkiewicz waved them all away, his officers manhandling some of the more persistent peddlers.
"They don't get many customers on this level. Come. The place we want is just up ahead."
The lift was out, leaving their group to climb three stories up a winding staircase to the station's main level. Sigrid reasoned the station's environmental systems must have been malfunctioning here. The narrow stairwell was damp, puddled, and rank with mold. And worse. Sigrid was glad to have the ability to ramp down her olfactory sensors. She didn't envy the crew of the Ōmi Maru having to endure the stench.
When they emerged on the main concourse, it was to the relief of all. Much brighter and busier than the lower levels, the main concourse practically bustled with activity—if she could call the slow shuffling of Konoe's residents 'bustling.'
Passersby kept their faces lowered, heads down, too interested in staring at their own bootlaces to take notice of Sigrid or her companions. She saw the reason for this. Groups of armed youths occupied each of the corners; young men and younger boys brandished assault weapons and rifles, patrolled, and kept watch on the crowds. Sigrid scanned the weapons—mostly antiques and not well cared for. Criminal. One pedestrian who strayed too close to one of the groups got a boot to the backside and ordered to move along. The boys seemed disappointed when the man obeyed. She could see they were looking for an excuse, any reason to demonstrate their dominance, their power.
"Local militia," the captain explained.
"Gangs," Chief Topa elaborated. "After the CTF pushed the Independents out, they didn't think to leave anyone in charge here. Now these thugs control everything—if one can call it control."
A scattering of brightly lit signs added minimal color to the depressing surroundings. Electronic placards and storefronts announced a variety of services: asteroid prospecting, claims services, weaponsmiths, and of course, the flesh traders were everywhere. Their destination was up ahead. Neon flashed like a beacon in the gloom. Sigrid heard the low throb of music sounding from deep inside the structure.
"A gentleman's club?" Sigrid asked skeptically.
Captain Trybuszkiewicz held the door and ushered them inside. "The location is of our contact's choosing—though I'd hardly call these men gentlemen."
Sigrid had seen such places before and thought she was prepared, but this place was nothing like the Paradise on Gliese. It was neither raucous nor festive, and no host rushed to greet them. The girls and boys that worked the room were younger than she: weary, battered, drained of life and hope. It sickened her to think that men thought to profit from their misery. Perhaps she would have words with the management…
The captain must have sensed her anger and put a reassuring hand on her arm. "We're here for a purpose, Ms. Novak."
Sigrid forced herself to unclench her fists. "Of course, sir."
He was right. Their mission was of vital importance. Her friends were relying on her.
Sigrid scanned the room. The man they sought was here, this trader, leader of the Merchantmen. He occupied a table on a raised platform to the rear overlooking the club. He was fat; rolls of pudgy flesh billowed out between the folds of his trousers and his shirt. The vile cologne he wore threatened to overwhelm her sensors from across the room. Worse odors lingered. Two girls sat to either side of him, barely aware of their surroundings. Drugged, Sigrid knew. The morphgesic cocktail in their blood stream registered heavily in her PCM. It was a miracle the girls were conscious. Tired eyes looked up at her as she approached, suspicious, leery, their thin hands clinging to the fat man at their side and the coin he promised.
Sigrid was far more interested at the four men who stood close by. They wore their sidearms in full view, their fingers never far from the triggers.
"Corbin Price," the captain said, approaching the table.
The fat man gestured to the open seats and signaled for his men to stand down. "Captain Trybuszkiewicz, I presume. You're more punctual than most."
The captain spread his hands wide in greeting. "We are eager to conduct our business. Our client expects us to return without delay."
"Not in so much a hurry to share a drink, I trust."
Corbin Price snapped two pudgy fingers, signaling over a server; the rail-thin girl, no older than fifteen, leaned over, her flimsy garment giving the trader a generous view of her wan flesh, much to his delight. Sigrid felt her fists clenching, her nails digging into the palms of her hand.
Corbin Price retrieved one of the little glasses. "A little lubricant to smooth negotiations?"
"Negotiations?" Sigrid blurted. "We have already agreed to your fees, Mr. Price. Do you wish to sell to us or not?"
Corbin Price chuckled, raising his glass to her. "Of course. I did not mean to imply any retractions on my part. I simply thought I may have other things you might find of interest. We have both journeyed far to get here. Might as well make the most of our meeting."
Captain Trybuszkiewicz took one of the offered glasses from the tray, downing the amber liquid in one gulp. With all eyes on her, Sigrid realized she was to take one too, perhaps part of some social ritual. The contents registered as tequila; the black worm seemed an odd thing, but her database confirmed that this was done. After a cautious sniff, she downed the shot, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. Her eyes never wavered from the fat trader across the table.
"You'll have to forgive my grandniece, Mr. Price," the captain said with a firm look to Sigrid. "She is new to the life of a tramp trader. This is her first journey with us. I thought this meeting might prove educational."
"Of course. Then, Ms.…"
"Peters," Sigrid said.
"Ah, Ms. Peters," Corbin Price said graciously. "Your uncle must have informed you, trade is a fluid matter. Many new opportunities have arisen since our last communication. New items have come into my possession. One never knows what one might find unless one asks."
"I have been given certain leeway to negotiate any item of interest," Captain Trybuszkiewicz said. "Perhaps if you show me…"
Corbin Price reached down, retrieved a data-pad from the folds of his coat and tossed it across the table. Sigrid saw the screen and nearly gasped. The manifest advertised two industrial manufacturing platforms. These absolutely massive orbital facilities were self-contained factories on a grand scale. Capable of processing raw ore and minerals, they could be programmed to manufacture any number of things: building materials, engine parts, even ship components—parts enough to build an entire fleet. One of the platforms alone was worth twelve times the price of all the goods they were scheduled to pick up. Two would be worth more than Sigrid's life contract had been to Kimura Corp.
Machines like this were the heart of any terraforming effort. Acquiring even one of the platforms could mean all the difference for their struggling colony. Yet the captain seemed unimpressed by the offering.
Sigrid felt the elbow in her side and closed her mouth.
"I'm not sure what you think we can do with these…"
Corbin Price spread his fat hands wide. "Why, any number of things, I should imagine."
Any number of things, indeed, Sigrid thought.
"Even if my client was interested," the captain said. "I would have to contact them. This is well beyond my realm to negotiate."
Sigrid knew this was true. As vast as the Lady Hitomi's wealth had been, it had taken nearly all her holdings, all her favors and negotiating skills to get them this far. There was little left in her mistress's accounts for such extravagances.
Corbin Price bowed his head, conceding the expense. "Perhaps there are other things you can offer. We Merchantmen trade in all goods and services."
The captain helped himself to another of the offered tequilas. "Goods? Our holds are empty, Mr. Price, awaiting delivery from you. As for services, I'm not sure what you mean."
"There is no need to be coy, Captain. It serves neither of us. Not when I have something you so desperately need and you have something that would be of tremendous value to me. I see no reason why we cannot come to an arrangement."
The trader's demeanor changed in an instant. He sat up, the easy, jovial expression gone as his eyes fixed firmly on Sigrid.
"I did not get to this position by being ignorant, Captain. And I wouldn't be much of a trader if I did not anticipate my clients' needs. You are not simple merchant sailors. You are Kimura. Now—don't be alarmed—I am not here to make threats. I'm simply pointing out what needs to be said. You are Kimura—ex-Kimura. I know your client well, and I know your needs. And I know you could very much use these. Let’s not pretend otherwise. Instead, let us figure out how we both might prosper from this situation."
He was right, and Sigrid knew it. Their attempt at ruse had been foolish. The trader knew exactly who they were and what she was. Strangely, she felt relieved. And she desperately wanted those platforms.
"And what do we have to trade?" Sigrid asked.
"Your services, for one, Ms. Peters. Yes, I know what you are. It's quite all right. I am very familiar with Lady Hitomi's work in genetics. Although, I must admit I did assume you would be…well, taller." The trader shifted his bulk, sitting forward. "Now, you must tell me. Is it true? Everything they say about you and your kind—the things you can do?"
Sigrid crossed her arms over her chest. "I couldn't possibly answer since I have no idea what they might have said."
"They say you destroyed the Lift Complex at Panama."
"Independents did that, Mr. Price. Not me."
"What about what occurred on Scorpii? I hear you took out an entire company of CTF Marines."
"It was a battalion. But no, they were too busy fighting the Independents to worry about me."
Corbin Price laughed heartily, giving his knee a good slap. "Well said, Ms. Peters. But you were there, all the same. And you did blow up the Relay. They say you can't be killed."
"I'm afraid someone has been having fun at your expense, Mr. Price."
"Granted, these things are always exaggerated. But I've learned to trust in the kernels of truth buried inside. I suspect you are being modest, Ms. Peters. The truth probably lies somewhere in between."
Sigrid was eager to turn the conversation away from her, back to the industrial machines. "Exactly what services would you have me perform?"
The captain raised a hand in objection. "Let us not get ahead of ourselves. Ms. Peters' services are not negotiable."
"Wait," Sigrid said. "I would still like to know, Captain. Those manufacturing platforms would be invaluable to us."
"Invaluable!" Corbin Price said, steepling his fingers with interest. "Well, then…"
"Of value," Sigrid corrected, cursing herself; she knew little of negotiation tactics. "If it is something within my power, then perhaps we might have a deal."
"Sigrid…" the captain cautioned. "I do not think it wise—" But Sigrid nodded; it was all right.
Corbin Price bowed his head. "Very well. There is a man arriving at the station tomorrow. He has stolen from us. Services were rendered, but no payment received. His theft hurt our organization. We cannot allow his dishonesty to go unpunished—not good for business. I want to see that he is hurt in return."
Sigrid braced herself. All her life she had been trained as a mercenary, as a soldier, and yes, an assassin. Certainly, she had taken lives and done so without hesitation. But that had been her choice. Her duty. Until this moment she hadn't truly appreciated how it would feel to have someone ask her to kill another. What was it the mercenaries said? For coin and contract?
"He carries with him something we would find of value," Corbin Price said. "I wish you to retrieve it and return it to me."
"Retrieve? Then…then you don't want me to kill him?"
"Kill him? Heavens, no! We are Merchantmen, Ms. Peters, not mercenaries—apologies to present company. No, I don't require him harmed; although, should you leave him bruised, possibly maimed, no one will think worse of you. Retrieving the package will suffice."
Sigrid studied the fat merchant closely. The job seemed simple—too simple—but Corbin Price seemed quite earnest that she should perform this service for him. Her sensors revealed his heart rate was steady, his skin cool. If his blood pressure was elevated, it seemed more a cause of his diet, his immense bulk and the excitement he felt at the prospect of a deal. But she could sense no duplicity. Her scans registered no lies.
"That's all, then? Retrieve a package?" Sigrid asked.
"That is all."
True.
"And bring it to you?"
"Yes. And bring it to me."
True.
"And you'll give us what we want?" Sigrid asked.
"If you perform this task to my satisfaction, I will be happy to deliver all that you desire."
Something still didn't fit. The man appeared sincere—sincere for a thief, a con artist. But there was more. Sigrid could sense it, but could not put her finger on it.
"What does he carry? What is so important?"
Corbin Price raised a finger. "That, my dear, is on a need-to-know basis. And there are some things you don't need to know."
"Any information you have on a job is information I need, Mr. Price. Let's call it a deal breaker."
"A deal breaker? Ah. Well then, if I have no choice—"
"No. You don't," Sigrid said. "Not if you want me to do this for you."
"All right. It is information he carries, nothing more. A client list, if you will. Information that could prove of great value. Losing it to me will not be looked on kindly by his superiors; something I imagine they will make him suffer greatly for—also of great value to me."
"Why me?" Sigrid asked. "Why not one of your own men?"
Corbin Price looked to the beefy men to his sides and chuckled. "Them? They serve a purpose, but I'm afraid they lack the finesse required for a job like this. The man I seek works for powerful men, Ms. Peters. Dangerous men. The men they answer to more so."
"Incorporated?" Sigrid asked. "Federates?" She was well aware of the power and reach of the Federation of Corporate Enterprises, even in a place such as this.
"Let us just say, they will not part easily with this information. As for my men, we are simple merchants and not much good as spies. You, on the other hand…"
"We will have to inspect the platforms," the captain said. "Ensure they are in working order."
Corbin Price raised his shoulders. "That may prove problematic. The platforms are far too valuable to risk transporting to a place such as this. You understand."
The captain flashed a knowing smile. "Of course."
"They are safe, I assure you. And in good condition. Not new, but functional. Nothing your skilled technicians can't take care of."
The captain chuckled, shaking his head. "They’re wrecks, aren't they? Salvage."
"They are what they are. But if you are not interested…"
Sigrid leaned forward. "If I do this for you, get you this information, you will give us the platforms? Both of them?"
"Both?" Corbin Price's smile broadened. "Why, Ms. Peters, complete this task for me and I will give you one of the machines. But…should this go well, I would be happy to discuss terms for the second."

* * *

Work loading the first of the supplies began first thing in the morning. Sigrid stood with Captain Trybuszkiewicz and the chief engineer overseeing the loading, all done by hand since the station's automated systems had long since failed. The supplies were trickling in, brought in in dribs and drabs by hired laborers; their slow shuffling serving to raise the captain's ire. It would take days to complete loading at this rate.
"I don't like this," the captain said. "I don't trust these Merchantmen. The supplies should be here, waiting. And this business with this man—what he carries. This is all too convenient."
Sigrid set the ninety-kilo cargo container onto the floating handcart to her side. "He's telling the truth, Captain. I know it. My scans—I can tell when a man is lying."
"But you can't rule it out either," the captain said.
"It is not a precise science—it's not mind-reading, if that's what you mean."
"I might not have your abilities, Ms. Novak," the chief said. "But this business has a smell. It reeks. And we still haven't seen these platforms. Do we know if they even exist?"
That was something not even Sigrid could answer. She was certain Corbin Price was telling the truth. But truth about what? The existence of the industrial platforms, or the fact that they weren't here. There were too many variables. But if there was a chance—having even one of the machines could mean the difference of life and death for her friends, the survival of their colony. Was it not her duty to take that risk?
The captain dismissed the idea.
"It's too dangerous. I don't like it. We will have the supplies we came for…" He looked at the few scant sundries they'd loaded so far. "Soon, I hope. When we are done here, we will return to New Alcyone."
Sigrid grabbed hold of the captain's sleeve, tugging. "Captain, please…" The thought of losing the valuable machines was too much. "I know the risk."
"That is what I'm afraid of. The risk. This man—this Merchantman—I don't trust him."
"I don't trust him either. But Captain, this is what I've been trained for. If there's even a chance…"
Captain Trybuszkiewicz looked into her wide eyes, sighed heavily, as one does when faced with an unwinnable battle. "The Lady Hitomi warned me this might happen."
"Warned you!"
"She tasked me with watching over you, Ms. Novak. I am to keep you out of trouble. Should something happen to you… Well, a court martial may be the least of my concerns."
Sigrid squeezed his arm, a very unmilitarylike gesture. "I'll be careful, sir. I promise."
"We'll monitor your progress from the bridge. If you sense any trouble, anything, you are to abort, return here immediately. We will lend what aid we can."
Sigrid was already running for her quarters, already playing the mission over in her mind.
"I'll call. I promise."
The captain watched her scurry off.
"She's very skilled," Chief Topa said. "She can take care of herself."
"But she's young, Andrzej. She doesn't yet know the lengths men will go to get what they want. This man, Corbin Price…" The captain's voice trailed off. He reached for his weapons belt, strapped his sidearm back on, and walked quickly from the docking platform.
"Keep watch of her progress from the bridge, my friend."
"Me? Where are you going?"
The captain called back over his shoulder. "I'm going to pay a visit to Mr. Price. I have more questions for him. We will have…a conversation."

* * *

The transport began offloading its passengers to the ventral docking platform a little after midday. Sigrid waited amongst the crowd of onlookers, mostly vendors and flesh traders who crowded forward, shouting offers to the passengers as they disembarked.
Sigrid remained to the rear, watching. She had the identity of the man she sought uploaded to her PCM. His name was Bernat Wereme, a retired financier and banker with a criminal record nearly as impressive as hers. Guilty of numerous accounts of fraud, he had been stripped of his licenses and banned from work within the Federation of Corporate Enterprises. It explained how he had ended up out here dealing with the likes of the Merchantmen.
Sigrid spotted him in the crowd. He was tall and thin, an elderly gentleman well past his prime. A simple briefcase was the only luggage he carried tucked under a frail arm. And he was not alone. Sigrid spotted his escorts: three men, professionals by the looks of them. Mercenaries. They were armed, but that was to be expected. If her information was accurate, they would have to make their way across the station to the portside docking ring where the connecting transport to Vega IV awaited. Sigrid would need to relieve Mr. Wereme of the package he carried before that time.
It was all too easy. And that bothered Sigrid.
Keeping her distance, she followed the men as they made their way through the maze of intermodal containers that littered the lower levels. Sigrid wasn't the only one monitoring their progress. The armed gangs who roamed the station took note of all newcomers. They stopped many of the travelers, questioning, interrogating, but more often than not simply shaking them down for money.
The gangs kept their distance from her target; Bernat Wereme's mercenary escort made certain of that. There was easier prey to be had.
The thugs proved more of an obstacle than Wereme's armed guard, Sigrid realized. Tangling with one of the groups would surely bring others running. Whatever she did, it would have to be off the streets and out of sight.
Not for the first time, she found herself wishing Suko was there. It would make things much easier—if not more pleasant. But of course, Suko wasn't. She had remained on New Alcyone, her duties training the new girls of far more importance than a simple trade mission. Sigrid was on her own. She would have to make do.
And time was running out. Konoe was not so large; they would reach the transfer point soon. Whatever she did, she would have to act soon. The opportunity presented itself when Wereme pointed to one of the eating establishments on the main concourse. There was some discussion, but his escort relented, and the men went inside. Sigrid waited what she thought an appropriate amount of time and entered behind them.
Bernat Wereme sat at the counter, one of the cooks already doling out something that looked like soup and doing a fine job of spilling a generous amount onto the counter. The elderly financier seemed oblivious, digging greedily into the meal, lifting the spoon to his mouth in a trembling hand.
One of the mercenaries had already noticed her. She saw his hand fingering the handle of his sidearm; she logged the threat, continued her scan. The eatery was quite spacious, but she counted only fourteen patrons, six staff in attendance, all well dispersed—minimal risk of collateral damage.
Three shuriken dropped from her sleeve into the palms of her hands. She had already calculated the trajectory needed to take out each of the mercenaries quickly and silently when a completely different idea occurred to her. One that would solve two nagging problems.
Sigrid approached the banker, prepared for all hell to break loose. "Mr. Wereme?"
She was, however, not prepared for what happened next.
The elderly man looked up, more soup spilling from the shaking spoon. Bright, interested eyes greeted her. "Why, yes, my dear," he said, blinking at her in a friendly fashion. "What can I do for you?"
The tallest of the mercenaries stepped forward and placed a meaty hand on her chest, pushing her back. "All right, all right… Whatever your sellin', Mr. Wereme ain't buying."
"Selling?" Did they actually think she was one of the flesh traders, and dressed like this? It was obvious the mercenaries didn't think much of this 'little girl' or suspect she might carry the arsenal of destruction she did beneath the bulky sweater.
"Actually, I rather thought I might have something Mr. Wereme might be interested in," Sigrid said hopefully. "Some information."
The mercenary, still with his hand on her chest—somewhat liberally, Sigrid thought—pushed her back again, ushering her along. "That's enough, young lady. Mr. Wereme don't need no information. Now bugger off before I—"
He never finished the sentence. Sigrid had his arm by the wrist, twisting it up and around, bringing the much larger man crumpling to his knees. Too stunned to cry out, he stared up at her, eyes filled with bewilderment. He reached for his gun—gasped as he found only an empty holster. Sigrid flipped the gun over, grasped it by the barrel and used it as a bludgeon to bring down the second of the mercenaries as he charged in. The first man struggled in her grasp; a quick jerk broke his arm; neatly, it would heal without difficulty.
The elderly Mr. Bernat Wereme seemed to find this of great amusement and put his spoon down, clattering on the counter, and clapped his hands in appreciation.
"Bravo! Oh, well done. Well done, I say."
The other mercenary wasn't amused by Sigrid's antics. He leaned toward her, but Sigrid held up a cautioning finger and wagged it back and forth before his face. Wisely, he placed his gun back in its holster, taking his seat at the counter, hands raised.
"Hey, I'm not even on salary."
"Good man."
Sigrid took the empty seat next to Bernat Wereme.
"Marvelous, dear," the banker said. "Well done. You must be here to rescue me. Did my sister send you?"
"Your sister?"
Sigrid studied the strange, thin man; he smiled, beaming at her.
"Carol said she'd send for me. She's such a dear. You know Carol, of course. She said I could ride on the ship. I do so love ships. They're marvelous, don't you think?"
"Uh-huh…" Sigrid nodded, words failing her. She scanned the older man; a look to the third mercenary confirmed what she was thinking, confirmed her scans—not that she needed the technology to tell her the obvious; Bernat Wereme suffered from dementia.
"Excuse me," Sigrid said to the mercenary. "I think there's been some kind of mistake. Where is it you're escorting Mr. Wereme?"
The mercenary lifted his shoulders. "It's not a secret. The retirement community on Vega IV. Assisted living."
Assisted…?
"If you don't mind me asking," Sigrid said. "Why the escort?"
Before the man responded, Sigrid knew the answer.
"He won't go on his own," the mercenary said. "He has a habit of running off. Isn't that right, Mr. Wereme?"
"What's that? Hmm…yes?"
Sigrid shook her head. "I'm sorry. I think there's been a terrible misunderstanding."
And then the realization hit Sigrid like a brick. There was a misunderstanding, and it was hers. "Shit."
Turning, running, Sigrid bolted for the door.
"Hey! Wait!" the mercenary called after her. "What's this all about?"
Sigrid almost forgot, turned, and grabbed the old man's briefcase. "Sorry—I'll be needing this. And sorry about your friends!"
In a flash she was gone, heading quickly back toward the gentlemen's club, leaving the startled mercenary to tend to his friends and the babbling Mr. Wereme to enjoy his soup.
She needed to have words with Corbin Price. Whoever Bernat Wereme was, he was harmless. His days of defrauding companies were long in the past. Was it possible he actually had something on his person worth all this trouble? Had he really cheated the Merchantmen? Wereme was hardly a threat, hardly worth sending someone of Sigrid's skill and training for. Why was this worth so much? She had to inform the captain.
"Captain Trybuszkiewicz," Sigrid signaled through her comlink. "Come in. Captain."
Nothing. Static.
"Ōmi Maru, this is Sigrid Novak. Are you there? Andrzej?"
Again, nothing. Sigrid felt the panic well within her and quickened her pace. Her search through Bernat's bag revealed little. Notebooks filled with illegible scribblings, empty meal wrappers, old tissues, a scarf. There was nothing here. Had she missed something? Perhaps on his person—perhaps him?
No. There was no package. The entire operation had been a ruse. But for what?
Sigrid stopped in her tracks. There was indeed something of value on the station? The bounty on her head was no secret, but Corbin Price had expressed little interest. If he was really after her, why not set a trap? Why send her on this goose chase—what purpose would it serve?
Sigrid felt the cold realization creep along her spine.
It was the ship. It was the Ōmi Maru, or rather, what it held. The freighter's navigation computer held one thing of tremendous value: the location of New Alcyone.
Sigrid turned back the other way, ran for the docking platform as fast as she could. If only there was time.

* * *

The docking platform lay abandoned, the laborers gone. And the Kimuran crews were missing. Unstowed cargo lay strewn about, dropped and forgotten. Sigrid called with her comlink again, but still there was no answer. Her heart sank as she entered the hold. Blast marks scorched the walls, evidence of the recent skirmish—a skirmish that Sigrid knew she was responsible for.
Sigrid leapt up the ladder and ran down the narrow corridor, her boots clanking on the metal deck plates.
"No…"
Andrzej Topa, the ship's chief engineer, lay slumped against the helm. Sigrid ran to him, sensed his pulse, the shallow breathing.
Alive. He was still alive. Sigrid lifted the man in her arms. His face was bruised, his shirt torn and bloodied where a shot had grazed him. But he was alive. Sigrid popped a stimtab beneath his nose and gently rubbed his cheeks. The chief stirred in her arms and stared up at her, eyes struggling for focus.
"The captain," Sigrid said. "Where is he?"
Andrzej looked about, blinking, trying to remember. "Left. Told me to stay…to watch over you."
She could see the stimtab taking hold, the chief regaining his faculties. He saw Wereme's case by her side. "Is that…?"
"It's garbage," Sigrid said, kicking it aside. "Worthless. It was just an excuse to get me away."
Sigrid took him by the shoulders, holding him firmly. "Andrzej—the captain. Where did he go?"
The chief struggled to stand; Sigrid helped him. "He went…he went to see the trader. Price. But then, his men…came. There were too many. We tried to defend… They took the crew."
"Took them? You mean alive?"
"I don't know—I think. I'm not sure." More alert now, remembering, the chief's eyes shot to the navigations console. "Sigrid, they got the—"
"I know!" Sigrid had already checked the navigations computer log, verified the breach and confirmed her fears. They had stolen the data—downloaded the location of New Alcyone. Corbin Price had exactly what he'd come for. And Sigrid had delivered it to him, boxed and wrapped.
"We have to stop him," Sigrid said.
"Stop him? We don't know where he's going."
Sigrid rose, walked to the helm, and punched up the forward navigational monitor. "Yes, we do."
There was little traffic in the space surrounding Konoe Station, fewer places to hide. There was no missing the single lumbering freighter, her bright colors garish against the black backdrop. Large and slow, she turned, her course taking her straight to the Warp Relay. Even without its transponder blinking out her identification code, Sigrid would know this ship; she was the Merchantman.
"We have to go after her," Sigrid said. "We can't let her escape through the Relay. If she does…" Sigrid didn't want to think about it.
The chief leaned heavily on the console beside her, verifying the information. The Merchantman was already 1,500 kilometers out, every second increasing that distance as she accelerated away, blasting toward the Warp Relay and escape.
Andrzej reached for the com. "I'll signal the other transports—get them to ward her off."
Sigrid moved to the helm and initiated the startup sequence for the engines, clearing their moorings. The chief stopped her, his hand on her shoulder. He checked the monitor and shook his head. "She's too far out. We'll never catch her. Even if we could, we have nothing to stop her with. We have no weapons."
"Sorry, Chief. That's where you're wrong."

* * *

"Has anyone ever told you you may be clinically insane?" the chief asked, helping Sigrid fasten the faceplate to her pressure suit.
Sigrid considered the question and was surprised at the answer. "I suppose I'd be lying if I said the subject never came up."
Sigrid zipped up the pressure suit. This was only her second time in space. She was grateful to have a suit that fit her this time, unlike the bulky, clumsy thing she'd worn during the action with the Agatsuma. Made to measure, her new suit permitted much greater mobility and featured harnesses and clips to accommodate her weapons and equipment.
Every light in the suit blinked green. She had pressure; she had air. She also had a plan.
"Help me with this."
Together, they slid the freshly stolen joy-rocket on a skid toward the cargo airlock. This one seemed a particular nasty piece of engineering. The hybrid rocket motor had clearly been salvaged from a thruster pylon from a much larger vessel. Two meters wide and five long, it took up much of the space in the hold. A simple acceleration couch had been laser welded onto its fairing; her only controls were a throttle lever and a kill switch. Pitch and attack angles were handled by four maneuvering jets taken from an old EVA unit. Once launched, she knew it would have one basic maneuver—straight ahead.
"You don't have to do this," the chief said as Sigrid climbed into the chair.
"This is my fault, Chief. I've endangered the crew. I've put us all at risk."
"You're being a fool!"
"And you're wasting time," Sigrid argued back, angry at herself, at Corbin Price—at anyone she could think of.
"You don't even know if this contraption will work. Is it even fueled?"
Sigrid's sensors could scan on a number of levels. Chemical composition was one of them. The rocket motor was fueled and ready; although she didn't want to think too long as to its construction or its integrity. It could very easily explode when she ignited the mixture—her along with it.
"Only one way to find out. Now, unless you want to come with me, I suggest you go back to the bridge."
The chief frowned in a pronounced fashion, as if struggling but unable to come up with a decent retort. "Bring them back alive, Ms. Novak."


Sigrid felt the Ōmi Maru's engine's cut out as the freighter rotated 180º. Interfacing directly with the ship's computer, Sigrid began the depressurizing sequence. Lights flashed green in her HUD; Sigrid opened the outer door to the cargo hold.
The Merchantman was there, visible now, but so was the Warp Relay behind her. There might still be time. With the doors cleared, she switched off the ship’s artificial gravity, allowing the missile on which she sat to float free.
"Here goes nothing."
Sigrid ignited the fuel and squealed despite herself. The joy-rocket shot out of the hold, streaking toward her target, the Merchantman, accelerating to a nerve-rattling eight-point-two-six Gs. She looked at the throttle control in her hand; it was only at halfway.
Sigrid slowly pressed her thumb down, increasing the flow of the oxidizer. The leap in acceleration ripped the wind from her chest. Twelve-point-eight-six Gs, still accelerating. She squeezed her abdominal muscles tight, kept her breathing short. The acceleration registered, pressing her deeper into the couch, threatening to push her out the other side—the vibrations threatening to rip the entire chair off its frame. Worse, the heavy throttling seemed to initiate a starboard roll she couldn't bring under control.
Leta has got to try this, Sigrid thought, watching the stars whirling around her, then cursed herself. This was hardly the time for such thoughts.
With her focus squarely on the gleaming hull of the Merchantman, Sigrid did her best to ignore the spinning, whirling star field. She could see the three other Kimuran freighters in pursuit. They were closing on the larger freighter, veering to cut her off, but the transports did not have the weapons to dissuade her from her flight. Sigrid would have to make their case.
She was slowly narrowing the distance, gaining ground, but not fast enough. Already at the limit of her endurance, Sigrid pressed the throttle switch all the way home, braced for the crush of the extra Gs. Nothing happened. Sigrid pressed it again, but the only response was the sudden sputtering of the rocket motor, its fuel exhausted.
"Shit."
The maneuvering jets still had power, and she used them now to adjust her angle of attack, aiming for the top of the lumbering freighter. Eleven hundred meters—her trajectory was ballistic now, floating free, closing fast, but the Merchantman still blasted its way under full power, inching toward the Relay and escape. If her calculations were correct, she could still intercept the freighter; if she were wrong, she would float off into deep space.
There was nothing left for it. Sigrid braced and pushed, launching herself from the seat of her spent missile. She saw the flare of the Merchantman's turrets firing; her PCM picked up the ordnance aimed at her, too small and moving too fast for her optical module to pick up. The joy-rocket tore apart under the barrage of flechettes, but Sigrid kept on her ballistic path. The freighter was coming up fast now. Four hundred meters. Too fast. Red numerals flashed in her HUD, the distance counting down at an alarming rate. At her current velocity, impact would be fatal.
Arms spread wide, Sigrid fired her suit's maneuvering jets, expending her entire reserve of fuel in one desperate burst. Braking hard, she aimed as best she could for a 'glancing blow' across the Merchantman's hull. The sudden deceleration knocked the wind from her lungs. The jets sputtered, their fuel spent. It wasn't enough. She was almost on the ship now, braced for the impact. This would hurt.
Sigrid remembered little of the impact. Only the pain. Her right shoulder took the brunt of it and was completely numb. Her head had taken a good smacking against the hull, and she'd blacked out. Nano swarms surged to the injured areas, effecting repairs to the damaged tissues. Her PCM prepared and released concentrated doses of stimulants. Sigrid was instantly awake and alert. She'd pay for it later, but that mattered little now.
She was spinning now, tumbling head over heels, skidding down the length of the freighter's hull. She scanned frantically for handholds, reached out, arms outstretched desperately, missed, only to tumble helplessly back into space.
A grappling claw was clipped to the belt at her waist. Breathing hard, trying not to think about the freighter falling further and further away, Sigrid unslung the thin cord and attached the claw to the launcher. She aimed and fired. Using her PCM, Sigrid guided the claw's trajectory toward a beveled edge in the ship's hull. It hit, grabbing hold. Sensors embedded in the claw's teeth instantly analyzed the surface composition, creating and injecting a bonding agent strong enough to hold better than a metric ton, more than adequate for Sigrid's fifty-four kilo frame.
The tether whirred, played out, first slowing her velocity then gently reeling her in. Steadily, it dragged her back toward the hull of the great freighter. Several indicators flashed yellow and red in her HUD. She'd sustained a concussion; her suit had been breached and was slowly leaking vital oxygen. But she was alive.
Now all she needed was to find a way in.


There was no 'quiet' way of gaining entrance to the freighter. Sigrid located a service hatch on the dorsal hull; it was a simple thing to interface with the crude lock, override its securities, and sever the safeties. The alarms made a terrible racket and brought crew running from all sections. But these men were not prepared for combat.
Shots from her high-caliber rounds echoed soundly in the narrow corridor; smoke wisped from the smoldering barrels of her twin 18 mm recoilless sidearms. Sigrid holstered the weapons, setting them back in their clips, and stepped carefully over the bodies of the merchant crewmen as she made her way deeper inside.
The designers of the Merchantman had kindly provided numerous signs to mark her way. Computer terminals were all too happy to dispense vital information—once she'd sliced the securities. The Kimuran crew was being held in a makeshift brig on C Deck, but she could find no sign of the captain or of Corbin Price. If they were even here.
There was no time to wonder. She had to disable the ship, and quickly. More bootsteps thundered toward her. These Merchantmen were not professional soldiers; a simple gas grenade plucked from her belt made quick work of the lumbering men.
A junction in the corridor held a ladder leading up and down extending to all decks. Bridge or engineering? Sigrid wondered. She might take control of the ship from the bridge, but there seemed little time for finesse in her operation. It was time for blunt action. Disable the engines; stop the Merchantman dead in her tracks.
Sigrid slid down the ladder two decks, landing softly on the floor below. The engineering section was visible ahead. She had but minutes to spare.
The corridor remained empty, the crew having learned to keep clear of her. But up ahead Sigrid's optical implant revealed a number of thermal signatures—men, waiting for her. Her electrical scans told of the heavy weapons they employed. It was a textbook defensive position, and they seemed perfectly prepared to wait for her to walk into their trap. Unlike the crew that had rushed to meet her in the airlock, Sigrid knew these men to be professionals. So the Merchantmen were employing mercenaries after all.
Her pressure suit did not permit the use of her cloak. She could not rely on stealth here. Sigrid thought to discard the suit, but she suspected she would need its protection before this scenario played out.
The ship's PA crackled. Sigrid heard the unmistakable voice of Corbin Price echoing in the corridor.
"Ms. Peters. There is no need for further violence. I have your captain, your crew. We will be through the Relay in moments. I have all that I came for. The information we carry will pay us handsomely. But I am quickly learning that you and your kind may well be worth more. It would be my pleasure to discuss this with you further. Perhaps we can still arrange a deal. Come to the bridge, and let's discuss this in a civilized fashion."
Sigrid cursed. She had learned her lesson; there could be no bargaining with the trader. She stepped toward the entrance of the engineering section—halted.
"I warn you, Ms. Peters. If you attempt to damage my ship further, you will only serve to kill your captain. Would you really allow that to happen? Is that something you could live with? Especially when there is no need? I still have something you want. You clearly have something to offer me. I see no reason why we cannot emerge from this alive and profitable. Those machines? They're nothing compared to what I have to offer. I have information—information you might find of immense interest. Names, Ms. Peters. I can give you names. Names of the men who would do you harm. I would even give you the names of the men who I was to sell the location of your home to. Isn't that of value to you, Ms. Peters?"
Sigrid listened to the fat man prattling on. Despite his offer, Sigrid had little intention of dealing with the man again. She'd learned her lesson. But all the while he talked, pontificated, reveled in the sound of his own voice, Sigrid was busy tracking his signal, routing it through the ship's communications. Despite what he had said, Corbin Price was not on the bridge; another lie she had failed to detect. He was here, in engineering, cowering behind the remnants of his mercenary guard.
"Very well, Mr. Price," Sigrid said, standing, walking slowly forward. "Perhaps we do have something to discuss. But let us do so face to face."
Sigrid emerged into the engineering section. With her arms raised, she tossed her sidearms to the side, hands held above her head in surrender and submission. The lights in the section had been disabled, but it mattered not; Sigrid could see as easily in pitch black as she could in the light of day, albeit in a hazy monochrome grey.
"I know you're here, Mr. Price. The captain, too."
Banks of floodlights flashed on—aimed at her; Sigrid lifted a hand to shield her eyes while her optics made their adjustment. She stood in the middle of the wide room in plain view. Armed men watched her from fortified positions on the raised catwalks above. A turret had been set up near the main reactor, manned by a fire team of mercenary soldiers. They tracked her movements, the muzzle of the great gun swiveling, whirring to follow her. Sigrid logged each of the targets in her PCM, marked them in order of priority. She smiled inwardly as Corbin Price emerged from his position of hiding.
He pushed Captain Trybuszkiewicz in front of him, a gun pressed to his back, careful to keep the Kimuran officer between Sigrid and his fat figure.
"I am very impressed, Ms. Peters. The rumors of your skill pale in comparison to the reality. If I had known, I never would have attempted this ruse. We might have saved each other a lot of trouble. That is my failing, and for that, I apologize."
"Agreed. Now, what are we going to do about it?"
The fat Merchantman furrowed his brow in concentration. "I would offer you a new proposal, if you will."
"I'm listening."
"I propose a service contract. Not binding. Terms would be negotiable. You would work for me and no one else for, say, a period of three years, with an option for two more. For that, I will return the stolen information and release your captain."
"A generous offer. And during that time I would, what, gather your cleaning, or perhaps act as escort to private functions?"
Corbin Price found this of great amusement and laughed jovially. "I'm sure I can find something more worthy of your talents. But do not mistake me, Ms. Peters. This offer will expire shortly, and its terms are non-negotiable."
"No," Sigrid said, surprising the trader. "It is negotiable. Here are my terms. Halt your vessel here. Captain Trybuszkiewicz and the crew go free; the location of New Alcyone must be cleared from your computer banks. Do this and I will perform one task for you."
"One task? Only one? I'm not sure if…"
"One, Mr. Price." Recalling the trader's own words, Sigrid added, "Should this go well—we can discuss terms for a second."
Corbin Price laughed, his hand holding his immense belly. "Very well, Ms. Peters. I think your proposal sounds like a bargain."
Sigrid could sense the man's confidence. He'd relaxed his stance and allowed more of his frame to be exposed as he talked. The mercenaries picked up on this change of events, as well, and relaxed their guard, their focus more on the conversation than on her. Even now, the soldiers were looking to Corbin Price for direction rather than taking notice of Sigrid and what she held in the palms of her hands.
She opened her hands now, held above her head. The action was one of submission; the reality quite different. Eight tiny pinhead grenades sprung forth from her outstretched palms—Sigrid's preferred mix of flashbang, concussion and fragmentation. The tiny explosives arched up and away, scattering to the sides of the engineering section, up onto the catwalks above. The three-second delay was all she needed; the eight explosions shattered the brief calm of the negotiation.
Men, parts of men, bits of shrapnel flew in all directions. Captain Trybuszkiewicz, seasoned soldier that he was, seized the moment of distraction and elbowed Corbin Price hard in the sternum, relieving him of his pistol and diving for cover.
The men manning the turret were left unharmed—too close to the captain for Sigrid to risk a grenade. They opened fire now, the fifty-caliber slugs piercing the air, ripping into the rear bulkheads.
But their target was long gone. The heavy turret could not track nearly fast enough. Sigrid was a blur, leaping, diving under its firing line, charging straight for the startled mercenaries. Three shuriken sprang forth from her fingers and sliced the air between them. One of the men screamed, a shrill, startled shout of pure fear. He ducked, too late; the star-shaped throwing knife caught him squarely in the throat. Sigrid was on the survivors, directly in their midst. Her own weapons discarded, she leapt on the first of the soldiers, her booted heel on his neck, strangling him, pinning him back. She ripped the pistol from his grasp, firing into his chest, turning quickly, firing and dispatching the last.
Sigrid scanned the room quickly, infrared then thermal; eight mercenaries lay dead; four wounded, incapacitated. She sensed movement on the catwalk overhead—an injured mercenary reaching for a dropped weapon. Sigrid fired. All was quiet.
The entire fracas had taken but seconds.
Black smoke filled the room, alarms bleated, licks of flame marred the floor and walls. Captain Trybuszkiewicz knelt squarely on the back of Corbin Price. The fat merchant coughed, choking, wheezing for air. Sigrid retrieved her discarded pistols before making her way to him, staring down at his prostrate form.
"We—we had a deal!"
Sigrid pulled a set of plastic binders from her belt, fastened them to his wrists. "I learned from you, Mr. Price. I lied."
Roughly, she hauled the fat man toward the reactor chamber and fastened him securely to its shielded outer wall. "What—what are you doing? Wait!"
Sigrid gave a quick look to the captain. "Are you injured, sir?"
He shook his head, squinting, coughing, waving to clear the smoke. "Quite all right."
"Wait!" Corbin Price protested. "You—you can't leave me here. The machines—the industrial platforms. I can still get you those. Names. I can get those, too. I'm not lying. You must believe me. Please, Ms. Peters, we can make a deal!"
Sigrid retrieved another frag grenade from her belt, twisted the top, and reset the delay for five minutes before slapping it onto the reactor's outer wall.
"My name is Sigrid Novak."


Captain Trybuszkiewicz led Sigrid quickly back through the ship to the holding cell where the three captured crew of the Ōmi Maru were held. There was little resistance left. The surviving Merchantman crew hurriedly abandoned the doomed ship, wisely preferring escape to combat—something Sigrid knew she had to do, and quickly.
There were weapons enough lying about, and Sigrid made certain the Kimurans were armed before heading for the lifeboats. Her PCM fed her a persistent, if somewhat annoying reminder as to the time left before detonation. Sigrid went from berth to berth, desperately searching for one of the remaining lifeboats. She had to haul a frightened merchant crewman out of the only remaining pod before pushing the captain and Kimuran officers inside.
The captain held fast, his arm braced against the door frame. He saw what Sigrid saw. The lifeboat only held room for four.
"Get in," Captain Trybuszkiewicz commanded.
"Captain—"
"I'm an old man, Ms. Novak. Your time is not yet—"
There wasn't time. Sigrid grabbed the captain by his belt and collar, lifting the older man off his feet, ankles kicking in protest, and thrust him bodily into the pod. "I'm sorry, sir. But there's no time to discuss this."
"Ms. Novak! Sigrid—"
Sigrid slammed the release. The lifeboat's door crashed shut. She heard the series of thumps—pins holding the pod in place exploding free—then a pronounced bang as the lifeboat was ejected from the ship.
The numerals displayed in her HUD changed from amber to red. Ten seconds.
Shit.
Sprinting, Sigrid ran for the nearest airlock one deck down. She wasn't going to make it.
She heard the first explosion, felt the deck plates buckle under her, then a surge sent her tumbling upward. The ship's gravity failed then, and she floated free, tumbling down the lengths of the corridor, banging her head solidly on a collapsed beam. She had just enough of a mind to close the visor on her helmet. The second explosion was far greater—the reactor breaching. She heard the thunderous roar beneath her, a rolling boil growing ever louder, then the shuddering surge of release. Metal groaned and tore like paper, shredding about her. The bulkhead and deck plates behind her broke apart, blowing anything not nailed down out into space, Sigrid along with it.
"Blast!" Sigrid said.
She was tumbling free at an incredible rate, end over end, twisting and turning, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. With nothing to grab hold of, no resistance, nothing could stop her as she tumbled out of control, moving deeper and deeper into the blackness of space. Stars spun by her fractured visor. Debris from the explosion had penetrated her suit, venting more oxygen, losing pressure. The splintered faceplate would not hold for long. Her PCM flashed the expected time of her suit failure in bright bold colors: eight minutes, fifty-eight-point-three seconds.
Nine minutes to live.
It was a fitting end to a failed mission. How was it possible she'd misread Corbin Price so badly? The captain had sensed his duplicity. The chief, too. Only Sigrid had missed it. Had she allowed the prospect of the industrial machines to cloud her mind, or had she simply grown so overconfident in her abilities that she thought it didn't matter?
She had nine minutes to think about it.
Seven minutes, eight-point-nine seconds, her PCM corrected.
Sigrid cursed.
Another wave of debris blew past her; twisted bits of metal mingled with body parts. At least she had stopped the Merchantman. The ship would not reach her next port, would not report the location of their hidden home. Her friends were safe. The captain and crew were safe.
Or were they?
Sigrid pondered that question. They were safe from the Merchantmen. She'd seen to that. But how many times had they been attacked now? How much energy, time and resources had their enemies expended, all for the chance to control them? How many more attempts would they be forced to endure?
No. Her friends were not safe. Her friends would never be safe. Men would always come for them.
Because they were not afraid of them.
It was then that Sigrid realized the simple truth and her greatest failure. Her enemies were not afraid of her. They did not fear her.
They would.
She made a promise then, to herself and to her sisters. No one would ever harm them again. For the simple fear of their own lives. This she would make certain of. This was her promise. And she would keep it.
If she could survive past the next…
Two minutes, six-point-nine seconds.
"Blast…"
Sigrid felt a lifeline snaking around her waist, coiling, tightening. Her forward trajectory changed as the line went taut, and she found herself rotating end over end in a gentle twenty-five-meter circle. She craned her neck, looking up. On the other end of the line was a figure in a stark, white EVA suit. Behind him floated the welcoming bulk of the Ōmi Maru.
The tether on which she'd been snared was hooked to a winch. The figure waved as he began to reel her in, their orbit around each other ever tightening.
She closed with the figure. A hand reached out and grabbed her arm, his faceplate pressed against hers. It was the chief—Chief Engineer Andrzej Topa.
"Your comlink seems to be malfunctioning, Ms. Novak."
Sigrid checked the system; she hadn't noticed during all her tumbling. Too out of breath, too dazed, too numb to respond, Sigrid nodded and gave the standard thumbs-up signal. This satisfied the chief, who smiled back at her.
"Good girl. Now let's get you home."

6 comments:

  1. I'm so excited that the next installment is nearly ready for publication. If it is anything like the first book or the short story here I know it will be brilliant.

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    1. I'm so glad you stopped by - and even more glad to hear you're excited!

      More coming soon.

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  2. Ooooooooo boy this looks to be a fascinating story as it continues on. Very excited!!

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  3. Ooo! Thanks so much for reading and stoping by to comment. :)

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