Schism of Blood and Stone (The Starfield Theory Book 1) (11 page)

Nickalaus

First Officer of the
MacCleod

Garda Station, Goteborg, Magdeborg Commonwealth

______________

Nick stirred his drink slowly, only half listening to Claire as she explained how the death ring had worked on the Starfield prisoner last week. As Claire detailed some complex neurological reaction he didn't understand, his thoughts turned to the agreement Chris made with Drayton. The meeting had played over and over in his mind as he watched his best friend throw away his allegiance to his state. They hadn't spoken much since then, but Chris' angry call demanding his presence at the bar concerned him.

He found the twins here nursing Chris' bruised face. Claire recounted his run in with the knights and showed him his bleeding face. If Chris was harboring any second thoughts about Pershing and turning his back on the Commonwealth, he certainly wasn't any more.

He didn't know Chris to be cruel. Ambitious, yes, even pushing himself to the limits and beyond, but this was outright treasonous. He'd been avoiding addressing it directly with his captain, afraid that Chris might block him out of his inner circle. They'd been friends for over a decade, having met in primary school and remaining close all the way through their collegiate studies. As they debated more and more throughout their intensive education, Nick had become an ardent nationalist. He had reasons for his stances, but none he could actually reveal to Chris. They were too deeply personal, too much a part of who he was that he could use them as any sort of logical argument.

Chris relied far less on emotion to make his decisions. He seemed much more in tune with the study of power and logic in general.
He had been trained as an interstellar relations political scientist and it showed in his beliefs. His assessments were about numbers, favors and potential earnings, real measures of power. Realpolitik. Perhaps his studies had numbed him to the cold reality of interstate politics.
Life out here is brutal, nasty and often short. Didn't Chris say that once? Wasn't he quoting someone?

Merging that philosophy with the self-aggrandizing economic system that governed human space resulted in what should have been a ruthless entrepreneur. Why Chris chose to remain loyal with the bumbling Drayton continued to confuse him to this day. It was like he was afraid of his own potential, as if he were making up for past failures by taking the safe path.

When Chris excused himself to get another round Claire smiled at him, bringing him back to the conversation. “What's wrong with you, Nick? You've been weird all evening. Is it what happened to Chris?”

He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Must be the drink.”

Claire snorted. “Please. You've hardly had any since you got here.”

Here happened to be a bar somewhere in Garda's lower levels. Chris selected it despite Nick's protests claiming that it suited his mood. It advertised itself as a sort of business bar, but the mega corporations never came here. This was the territory of the small firms and contract pilots looking for work. Most of the people here weren't exactly on the right side of the law either and it showed. They wore dark clothes, spacer gear, and talked quietly in booths, constantly glancing over the clientele of the establishment just in case a rival happened to walk in with his buddies looking for trouble. In fact, there were so many spacers with SESE tattoos here that the dark room glowed a strange green-blue that made Nick's muscles tense in unease.

In the booth next to them, a knight of House Evers and a few sergeants were murmuring quietly. Across from them were a drunk spacer and a female who seemed to be trying to get him back to her bunk for an exchange of services. At the bar itself, two men argued loudly, hands on their weapons, drawing looks from the Evers soldiers. Station bars were the graveyards of many spacers and this one was no exception.

“Maybe it's just the execution. It's not every day you see that,” he said, finding an excuse not to talk politics with Claire. He picked at the chipped wood table as thousands of others before him had done. It was pock marked by fingernails and gashed here and there by a bored spacer's knife.

“You're also a horrible liar. I found that out pretty quickly when we were dating,” Claire said, the smile vanishing then reappearing.

Owch,
he thought.
Not that mess again.

He lowered his voice appropriately and steered clear of that subject. Politics was looking like a better subject than that fiasco. He came clean. “The contract then. Transporting Dominion prisoners of war is not only against Commonwealth law, but the Azuren won't appreciate it either.”

“Why are you so worried about what the Commonwealth thinks?”

“Because we are subjects of House Evers and we owe them everything we have. It's a minor miracle that Lord Damien has kept the Dominion at bay for as long as he has. I don't think releasing his most dangerous enemy is really how one repays a war hero.”

Nick stopped talking as two spacers walked by him and took a seat at a booth a few feet away. One wore some sort of combat vest over his flight suit and was obviously armed. The other was smaller, dark haired and full bearded and wore a flight mechanic's garb. They both kept a clear eye out in the crowd and a hand near their weapons. Their tattoos glowed in swirls and circles like some sort of bizarre maze.

“We need the money, Nick. Whatever happens afterward won't be our problem. Let Lord Damien handle it. Maybe he should have killed Pershing in the field rather than allow him to surrender?”

“That's not really a fair question. You've never been in combat,” Nick grunted. “You sound just like your brother. You sure you didn't take any of those economics classes of his while in school?”

“I don't know about war, but I do know about survival,” she said tapping her finger on the table. Her blue eyes sparked with intensity.

“I don't see how this is survival. We're not that desperate,” Nick finally said.

“The Dominion is getting closer and closer to Goteborg, which means the business is going elsewhere. The only contracts left will be those related to the war. It means we have to play this game or else we're going to be out of a job,” she said.

“But transporting Pershing? He's a murderer! He slaughtered House Mercer and thousands of other Commonwealth warriors. It isn't right,” he snapped.

“It doesn't matter what he's done. The nobles play their war games and we just have to try to avoid the gunfire and falling bodies.”

“That's cold.”

“It's reality. I don't like it either, but I'm starting to understand how things work around here.”

“Is it because of what happened to you today?”

She took a breath, thinking that one over. “It just encapsulates the bigger problem. The nobility doesn't care.”

“So you're with Chris on this one?”

She nodded firmly. “Now can we talk about something that isn't work?”

Chris arrived back at the table carrying three bright pink drinks. He handed them out and slid in next to his sister.

“What in Ixith are these?” Nick asked grumpily.

“Arsyth Fusionaires. Apparently,” Chris said, sipping one and cringing. “Barkeep said they were made from ship grease and I'm not so sure he was joking.”

“So you instantly thought the rest of us would want one?” Claire asked, poking his ribs.

Chris shrugged and took a few more gulps.

Nick leaned back in his chair abruptly, trying to swallow his frustration and the vile liquid. The movement caught the attention of the two spacers nearby who both looked in his direction sharply. Nick realized he violated an unspoken rule in these types of places – no sudden moves.

Slowly, he returned to hunch over the table to address Claire. “So then what do you
want
to talk about?”

“Like when are we going to find you a girl, Nick? You can't babysit us forever,” she said slyly and took another drink.

Back to this then?

Nick cracked a smile at the unexpected turn. “Not here, that's for sure. In any case, I'm sure I'll manage just fine thank you.”

Claire laughed, a sweet sound that seemed completely out of place among the trash that found it's way here. It reminded him of better times between them years ago.

He was confused and more than apprehensive to see her return. With her grades she could have gone on to more education or gotten a job wherever she wanted. Maybe even with Harding or Biometrics or somewhere doing government research. She vanished for five years and suddenly reappeared with no explanation and no desire to discuss her activities.
She accuses me of babysitting, but I wonder why she came back. Her attachment to her twin? Me? I wonder what she thinks she'll get out of staying with the
MacCleod.
She deserves better than a spacer's life.

“A brief liaison with a college girl like me is hardly what I'd call managing, sir,” she said, half mocking him, perhaps a bit drunkenly.

Chris rolled his eyes. “Speaking of awkward, we ran into Sir Ian just now.”

Claire visibly soured and gave her brother a look that could melt destrier armor.

“I'm sure that was fun,” he said. “I wouldn't have expected to see Sir Ian here.”

“He was with Sir Aaron Mercer-Sten and Sir Slader Sten talking to Ojressi for some reason. Looking for someone, I think,” Chris said. “Probably more Starfield Theorists.”

“Maybe,” Nick said scratching at his face. “How was it to see him again?”

“He's doing well,” Chris said. “They're gearing up for the fight.”

Claire ignored him and focused on her drink.

“He's going to be in danger, you know,” Nick said. “With Pershing back-”

Chris waved his hand. “He'll be fine. He's a good fighter, remember? That's how we met.”

Claire had heard enough. “Come on, Chris. I have to fix your broken teeth.” She left her empty glass on the table and stood, pulling at Chris' jacket.

“Haven't you been drinking?” He asked, his face melting in concern.

“Not enough to deal with you as a patient,” she snapped as she pushed him towards the exit. “Aren't you coming?” She asked Nick.

“In a minute.”

As they turned to leave, he noticed the two spacers nearby watch them go. It wasn't unusual for Claire to turn heads, he remembered, but these guys weren't interested in her in that manner. They wanted something else. Instantly, Nick's head cleared of the alcohol and he focused more on the spacers. He didn't remember seeing them around here before and there was something with their tattoos. They didn't quite hit all the spots best suited for muscle and brain pads. Nick also couldn't remember any mechanics who wore the tattoos. After a lapse of piloting, spacers' tattoos had a tendency to fade, but the mechanics were just as bright as any others indicating they were active and frequent pilots. They didn't fit the role.

Nick got up and left the bar. The halls were fairly empty. It would be easy to follow someone. He did not follow the twins back to the
MacCleod.
Instead, he made a different turn that would take him in a roundabout course back to the bar. His suspicions were rarely wrong and these spacers seemed out of place. They were wary and on edge like any other of the bottom feeders in Garda, but they were trained. It was obvious in the way they looked at people. Their eyes didn't linger on Claire as a male's normally did – although Nick would once have angrily intervened if they had – but they searched in the way you were checking for threats: hips and thighs for weapons, shoes and sleeves for hidden blades. Eyes revealed intent, Nick had been taught.

Nick watched the crowds walk by, more spacers, mercenaries and even a few likely drug dealers and arms smugglers. Even the occasional Evers soldier walked by, trying not to look out of place. They ignored him for the most part, only a few cursory glances went his way to make sure he wasn't a threat to them. On Garda, debts and grudges weren't settled like they were by knights on the battlefield. Rarely, in fact, did debtors even know the debt was being settled until they were already on death's doorstep.

He didn't have to wait long for the two spacers to appear. The first went by and Nick let him go. His buddy came thirty seconds later.
Clearly a rearguard. He dies first.

Nick followed the second, the one dressed as a flight mechanic. He was not aware of his surroundings, focusing more intently on watching the first guy's back rather than his own.
Classic mistake. The rearguard isn't doing his job: watching his own ass!

Nick followed him through the bars then out into a series of storage lockers.
The fastest route back to the '
Cleod, Nick realized. There was no question where these two were headed, they already knew the route.

The crowds thinned even more as they neared the private hangars and Nick slid a pistol from his jacket. He screwed in a silencer he'd bought from a Cassian – maybe even Drayton's friend – and made his move.

A few people saw him with the weapon. They seemed concerned and gave him a wide berth, but none intervened. As long as they weren't the target they wouldn't interfere. In just a few seconds, he closed the distance and grabbed the faux mechanic by the collar and hurled him into an empty hangar bay. He lost his footing, crumbling into a heap. Nick tracked him easily by his glowing tattoos. It didn't require much skill to put a bullet in his head, even in the darkness.