Syndicate's Pawns (6 page)

 

CHAPTER 6

JESSIE

With the benefit of hindsight, I was incredibly lucky to find and be found by the ­people who found me in my life. Although truth be told I wasn't always capable of recognizing it at the time. I think very few ­people are.

—­Icarius Odenshaw, dates unknown

20th of SSM–11 1445 A2E

“Y
ou can run, Jessie, but you cannot hide from me.” A cold woman's electronic voice called out over the ship's intercom. “We are eternal. You are eroding, rotting and temporary.”

Jessie put her hands over her ears, trying to block out the mechanical voice.

“I killed your husband. I will kill your unborn child. You are forever at my mercy.”

She was running, desperate, fearful and lost in the familiar yet alien halls of the
Jinxed Thirteenth
. The ship was deserted, but bloody handprints on the walls painted an eerie scene of carnage and death that had played itself out. And while she had yet to lay eyes on anyone else, she knew that something, a machine, was stalking the hallways of the ship in malicious search of her.

This is a dream.

Despite the fact that a part of her kept on repeating this over and over, Jessie could not help but buy into the dream's reality. Details like her being able to walk unassisted, or the fact that all the signage in the halls was written in the English alphabet she was familiar with did not stand out to her.

She heard the click of metal footsteps shuffling behind her and she spun around. There stood Chord, only the Machina's white frame was now covered in bloody handprints. That, however, was not the most jarring of details. Chord was now wearing a necklace, a collection of faces that had been skinned off the respective bodies of their victims. Jessie recognized one of them as the visage of Marla Varsin, her empty lips agape in a silent twisted scream of fear.

Chord grinned a twisted and malicious grin as it took a step toward her. “No one escapes the revenge of the Pontifex, not even you.”

Jessie was desperately trying to will herself to run away but she was pinned in place, her legs heavy as molasses. Chord sprang to her with blinding speed, catching her by the throat and squeezing the breath out of her with cold strong fingers.

Jessie struggled and beat her fists against Chord's arm but it was all for naught. The Machina's grip did not loosen and its cold eyes glowed a sinister red as they bored into her soul. “You will never be safe from us. Anywhere you run, we will find you.”

Jessie desperately gasped for air and tried to scream. The grip around her throat tightened with finality.

S
he bolted up in her bed with a choked cry. While she had been stirring in her sleep, Jessie had somehow managed to wrap her blanket around her neck. She took a moment to breathe and gather her bearings. She pinched the numb skin on her arm between her thumb and index finger. The slight bolt of pain was enough to reassure her that she was in the real world and not dreaming once more.

She had been given a private room on the ship with Marla Varsin one door across from her. Jessie sat up and shivered as her feet met the cold metal floor. She reached under her bed and pulled out a long brown travel bag. This vacuseal bag had been in her criotube with her and contained all that remained of her worldly possessions.

It was incredible, Jessie thought, how easily one became used to things like the constant background hum of ship engines, or the smell of recycled air. During her long slumber in criosleep, Jessie had lived countless dream lives with her daughter and her deceased husband, David. She had thought that this would have allowed her to deal with the grief of losing him long before she was reanimated. But now, seated on the small single cot in her even tighter sleeping quarters, nothing was further from the truth.

By all accounts, Jessie should have been happy. Today she had taken her first steps unassisted by crutches or support and Marla Varsin had assured her that she would no doubt make a full recovery. But her thoughts were far from joyful.

Jessie opened her bag and took stock of all the gear she had salvaged from Moria Three before putting herself into criosleep. Two plasma cutters, work tools she had rigged into weapons that looked like warped revolvers. Her omni-­gloves—­two portable and incredibly versatile tool kits she had while performing mundane maintenance tasks. And a spare monkey suit with the worn-­out AstroGeni logo on it. That she had not been able to bring a single picture or memento of David was the most vexing part of all this.

Jessie had spent most of her free time preprogramming the various new bulkhead and screw types she could find on the
Jinxed Thirteenth
. The omni-­gloves were remarkably reverse compatible with current technology. It was reassuring to her that even in this day and age, the basics of construction remained more or less the same.

She sat by her bed, looking down at the bag's contents and wishing she had had the time and presence of mind to keep something, anything of his. It had not been an option. And now she found herself in a permanent state of conflict. One part of her wanted nothing more than to be comforted and taken care of while the other craved solitude and isolation.

Above all else, Jessie wanted to be able to breathe the air of a planet's atmosphere. While reading up on history in her codexicon Jessie had learned that Earth, or Terra as it was now called, was no longer the world she had once known. Two wars had been played out between Humanity and the Machines. And both wars had ended with a similar outcome: Earth being ravaged. Knowing this didn't lessen her desire to feel sunlight and a breeze on her numb skin.

It was not a comforting position to be in. Not knowing what the rules of the world she was living in were. Where would she go? And more importantly, would both she and her unborn child be safe?

All gods, was she ever tired of it all.

“There's no point in brooding alone in here. You need to walk.” Giving up on the notion of going back to sleep, Jessie let out a grunt as she got herself up, and with the help of one of her crutches she made her way down the empty halls of the
Jinxed Thirteenth
.

T
here was one thing to be said about waking up so far in your species' future, and that was being able to admire the technology that had been developed in the time she was out. While her old living space had been sterile and antiseptic, the
Jinxed Thirteenth
had a more lived-­in feel to it. As she admired the corridors, dimly lit with fluo-­lights, she could not help but feel like this vessel had been around for quite some time and had no doubt traveled vast distances across the cosmos.

Many of the bulkheads, bolts and bits still had the familiar shapes and sizes that Jessie remembered from her past. It was oddly comforting to recognize fiber-­optic cables and the lightning bolt symbol drawn on the odd panel here and there. The constant ambient hum of the ship's life-­support system was something that took some getting used to but was not altogether unpleasant.

The engineer in her wanted to take everything apart. She wanted to study how the ship worked, examine its power core, and see how the ­people of her future had achieved faster than light travel. Yet Captain Morwyn's explicit orders that Jessie touch absolutely nothing still remained in effect and with good reason.

Because of this, Jessie contented herself with merely observing. She had no pressing desire to accidentally kill both her and the crew because of something silly like not being able to read a warning label. For that reason, Marla Varsin or Chord had been relegated to Jessie as her permanent escorts.

“You are not supposed to be out alone,” a young man's voice called out sternly to Jessie in Pax Common. While Jessie could now understand a great deal of what she heard, she still struggled with actually speaking this new language. She turned around to see Captain Morwyn, his face cool and composed yet in no way happy. His eyes were ice blue, his hair dark, long and slightly unkempt. Morwyn sported a small amount of scruff on his face and his Covenant officer's jacket was wrapped around his waist. He wore a plain black shirt and pants with heavy boots. The Covenant's logo, the planet Earth, with six lines of light shooting out from around it, each line representing one of the six Intelligences that made up the Covenant, was emblazoned on a small patch on his chest.

Jessie held back a groan when she saw the captain. She tried to remember the Pax Common term then spoke with a broken accent. “I'm sorry.”

The captain quickly lectured something back to Jessie which she couldn't understand. He seemed to notice by her confused look that whatever he was trying to communicate was not coming through and let out a slightly annoyed click of his teeth. He seemed to choose his next words more carefully and spoke them slowly and clearly. “You risk safety of ship.”

“I wanted to stretch my legs.”

“Not my concern.” Jessie did not like being lectured by someone who was younger than her. Yet she could not argue with the fact that Morwyn was the ranking officer of this vessel. Even on the old Earth she had once known there was decorum to be maintained on interstellar vessels. These were not put in place to placate egos—­although oftentimes that was what they were used for—­rather, they were put in place to ensure the survival of all those on board.

How had a man so young inherited such a heavy responsibility? Jessie wondered. “I understand.”

“You do not or we would not be talking.” Morwyn's tone was snappy, and one glance at him revealed that it had come out sharper than he had intended.

“I told you I was sorry.”

Morwyn rubbed the back of his neck. It was clear to Jessie that this entire situation was quite beyond the norms of what he had been trained for. She had noticed that the captain often behaved in a very stiff manner toward the members of his crew. It seemed incredibly important to him that everyone be spoken to politely. Chord had once told Jessie that Pax Common was a far less emotionally powerful dialect; hearing Morwyn speak, she could see why that would be the case.

“Go to the cantina with Doctor Varsin. Right now, you need to stay out of sight until told otherwise.”

“I can make my way to there.” Jessie stepped past Morwyn. “And I'll try not to be the stick in your wheel.”

Morwyn shot her a confused look. “I do not know what that means.”

Jessie walked away from him. “Of course you don't.”

 

CHAPTER 7

DOMIANT

The greater the prey, the more cunning required to fell it.

—­Uldur saying, dates and authors unknown

20th of SSM–11 1445 A2E

C
rimson Ginseng root had been dried and used in teas by Wolvers since its discovery on Uldur during the days of the First Expansion. The Elvrids had learned that it had the property of calming the nerves, boosting one's immune system and improving the memory, and they drank infusions of it regularly. Domiant had found that Crimson Ginseng had a very hard cinnamon flavor; it was not at all unpleasant. Fortunately for him, prior to his forced departure from home his mother had made sure their ship pantry was stocked with a more than generous amount of it.

He was quickly finding that there were many comforts he could do without while traversing the cosmos trapped in the
Althena
without losing his composure. However, one day without his regular Crimson Ginseng tea would no doubt have caused him enough mental anguish to harm someone with his own hands.

It was their third day in slipspace and it was these jumps that were particularly dull. The ship portholes were all closed and they were effectively all stuck in a tight six-­room living space traversing the cosmos with no view of the outside world. Niko Taem had taken to preparing his gear and weapons for what he no doubt was expecting to be an incredibly violent operation. Mikali and Jerkol Loc were in the cockpit, spending long days and sleepless nights as they desperately tried to reach their destination within Domiant's time frame. Zanza had kept to herself in the kitchen, not even offering Domiant or Sopherim so much as a glance during their brief interactions.

All in all, discourse between Domiant and his crew had been minimal, just the way he liked it. Sopherim had been her usual silent self, spending her days going through her stretches and combat katas and preparing her blades and armor for the assault on the
Jinxed Thirteenth
. Like Pax Slayer, her armor had been given a name after its forging by the legendary metalsmiths of Troy. “Wolf Maiden” was an intricately ornate reenforced laminate steel armor, fully segmented, each piece painstakingly crafted by hand. The metal had been dyed a dark shade of purple with golden lining. The war helmet was forged with a mouth guard that resembled the snarl of a wolf.

Wolf Maiden had also been designed with dozens of leather sheathes for various knives. Today, Sopherim was looking over her armor's various thick leather straps and running her fingers along the sharpened edges of her gauntlets. “Treat your weapons right and they will do the same for you, brother.”

The Wolvers of Troy were not as fortunate as those of Uldur. Where the latter boasted one of the richest biodiverse planets in the known cosmos, the former had not been as lucky. Unable to breed miracles like the living skinsuits, yet still bound to the Elvrid laws of the Living Green with regards to using Machina-­made technology, the Wolvers of Troy had been forced to adapt and use what they had at their disposal, a near limitless supply of various metals and ores. Where Uldur could create new breeds of life, the metalsmiths of Troy were capable of crafting anything from razor sharp blades, to pistols, to ships, all by hand, with the ores they mined.

Ideally there would be very little need for any violence to pull off this particular heist. Domiant did not mind inflicting pain on those who deserved it, but still preferred to avoid using force when his superior mind could solve the problem.

This morning, Domiant was lounging on his bed, lazily poring over printed copies of various ship blueprints. Unfortunately for them, their mother had not specified what sort of vessel the
Jinxed Thirteenth
was. Yes it was a patrol craft, but what Domiant would have preferred to know was just what model they were dealing with. Was it a capital warship with a full crew of several thousand or was it a frigate with a potential standing crew of ten? This lack of crucial details had forced Domiant to go to his personal library (books and scrolls that he had loaded up back on Uldur hoping the information they contained would be useful to him) and spend the three days of travel time committing the designs of over two dozen ship blueprints to memory.

“Thank the Infinite for Crimson ginseng,” he said to himself as he took a sip.

“The Living Green has a solution to every problem, little brother,” Sopherim called out to him.

“I do not need an education on herbology from you, sister.” In his early days, Domiant had been fortunate to display a passion for words and knowledge. Information was the true munition of any war, not bullets or blades or starships. With the right information, one could accomplish anything and defeat even the greatest of foes. Domiant had also displayed a knack for growing his own plants. It was no coincidence that back on Uldur, Ynarra Kuaro had pulled all the strings she could to get Domiant to apprentice under an Elvrid Breedmaster. Her hope more than likely being that then her brilliant son would be able to grow stronger narcotic-­producing plants for Seft Kuaro.

“For all your wits, Domo, you still need someone else to dirty their hands in your stead.” Sopherim did not seem to take exception to Domiant's snarky tone. Rather she returned to polishing her ornate breastplate with an oiled rag. “The day you can take care of your immediate threats directly will be the day you truly become Seft leader material.”

Domiant snorted at this, never looking up from the blueprints spilled in front of him. “Mother never got her hands dirty, not once.”

Sopherim gave Domiant a sharp-­toothed grin. It almost sent a shiver up his spine to see his elsewise typically stoic sister do this. “You were not alive when mother lived on Troy.”

“You were just a runt in those days, sis.”

“Runt or no, I remember what I witnessed.” Sopherim gave her prehensile toes a crack as she got to her feet. She took in a deep breath and let herself drop forward, stopping her fall on both her toe and fingertips, as she was mere inches from hitting the floor.

Domiant resisted the urge to smile when he saw this. Both he and his sister were incredible specimens, proof that the living cosmos could naturally produce living weapons without the need for artificial augmentations. They were both terribly proud of the fact that their gifts were the result of exceptional natural abilities and training. “It must have been enough to convince you to never challenge her.”

Sopherim held her position for a moment before springing herself back up in one jump. “Indeed it was, Domo.”

“Don't call me that.”

“Stop behaving like a pampered little man-­pup and I won't.” Sopherim gave Domiant a long cold stare, not so much as blinking before walking over to a nearby table where a plain brown clay cup of water sat. She downed it in one gulp before letting out a satisfied “ah.”

“I appreciate and thank you for the criticism, sister.” Domiant considered his next words before speaking. In all of the Infinite there was only one person he trusted or felt a sense of loyalty toward and that was Sopherim. She had always protected him from bigger, stronger foes who could not be bested with intellect alone. The fact remained that both Sopherim and Domiant were the youngest of twelve, the runts of Ynarra's brood as it were. Probably because of this, both Sopherim and Domiant had always been close, from their earliest days. Domiant could not imagine being out here without her. Not that Sopherim would have allowed him to leave Uldur alone without her, even if ordered to do so.

“No you don't.” Sopherim sat herself down cross-­legged and leaned forward, stretching her back until her forehead touched the ground. “Not that I mind, brother. I am here to keep you alive, not to educate you.”

Domiant took a sip from his tea; it had grown lukewarm now, yet still kept all of its strong flavor. “What would you do without me, sis?”

Sopherim did not look up from her stretch. “Enjoy more moments of contemplative silence.”

“Don't tell me the royal siblings are having a disagreement,” Mikali called as she stepped into their chambers without waiting to be invited. Domiant looked to her; there was something about Mikali that made him think that she might lose her balance at any given moment. He noticed a blackened spot of pulsing veins at her elbow, which Mikali made no effort to conceal.

Living Green spare us, did she use Frost while copiloting the bloody ship!?

The vapors of Soma Divinorum, when secretly prepared and administered by the Elvrids, were rumored to grant the gift of clarity and farsight. The by-­product of crudely processed Soma Divinorum was the highly addictive narcotic commonly known as Frost. While Domiant had never once done it, he knew that Frost gave the user a sense of intense relaxation and numbness. It was incredibly cheap to produce, highly addictive and had a low death rate—­an intentional design, as repeat clientele was the best kind.

Domiant had remembered reading a recent medical article released by the Alexandran Scholics in which a study had revealed that Frost, when injected, would burn out the veins in the surrounding area. The effects were similar on the lungs when inhaled. However Frost itself did not kill, rather, it greatly shortened the user's lifespan—­often by decades.

Which begged the question to Domiant, if Mikali had been a regular Frost user, how much of her potential life had she thrown away? “You are interrupting a conversation, Mikali, and nothing more.”

“Which does not make her intrusion any less unwelcome,” Sopherim added in Wolven.

Mikali scratched the back of her head. “Just because I don't speak your language doesn't mean I can't recognize an insult.”

Domiant sighed, and the morning had been starting so nicely. “What is it, Mikali?”

“We reached our destination, little prince. Figured you two would like to know that.” Mikali gave Sopherim a look, and Domiant now noticed that Mikali's right hand was always close to the butt of her blaster pistol, holstered at her side. “Loc gets to keep his toes, I suppose?”

“You figured correctly, Mikali.” Domiant got up out of his bed and stretched before slipping on a fine warm cloak woven in long black feathers over his shoulders. “Let us observe our prey.”

T
he cockpit of the
Althena
was a cramped place barely capable of holding more than four ­people. Seated in the pilot's chair, his hands cuffed to the seat with long enough strands of chain that he could reach all the dials on the board in front of him, but no further, Jerkol Loc was nervously observing the unknown gas giant they had approached.

Loc nearly popped out of his seat when Domiant and Mikali stepped into the cockpit next to him. “Sir, we ah, we made it.”

Domiant gave Loc's back a rude pat. “My sister was saddened not to add your toes to her collection of collected body bits, but I would imagine you are quite relieved.”

Loc swallowed hard, his eyes wide and not too certain if Domiant was joking with him or not. “Yes, thank you for the proper motivation, sir,” he stammered nervously. Domiant was pleased to see this; at least one member of this infernal crew of misfits respected his authority. Even if it was purely fear based.

Domiant looked to the view screen and admired the world in front of them, a beautiful gas giant, its gasses a mixture of blues, greens and purples. Also visible on the view screen was their prey. And it was now Domiant's turn to breathe a sigh of relief.

The ship orbiting this unknown world in the fringes of explored space was certainly far larger than the
Althena
, but it was not a capital ship. No, this vessel looked like a large double-­edged spearhead. Two gravity rings rotated on both ends of the ship. Twin mobility drives were located at the ship's helm. Even from the view screen Domiant could tell that one of them had suffered some sort of serious damage and was under repairs. Two shapes were presently hard at work doing just that. The Covenant's logo was drawn along the side of the ship and a large J–13 was painted in black at the head.

Jinxed Thirteenth, I see you.

“She's a Sunderlund-­built solar sail vessel, sir.” Loc's unsolicited words were welcome. “Good for deep-­space and scouting ops.”

“What more do you know about this ship?” Domiant asked, his voice uncharacteristically respectful. An ignorant student always had to be respectful to the teacher. This was a lesson his mother had imparted on him early in his life and one Domiant had always taken to heart.

Loc was also visibly shocked by this and licked his dry lips before scratching his red beard and continuing. “They can usually hold about thirty to forty crew members. Most of them are equipped with whisper drives. And if that shape makes you think of a sea ship it's because this particular model is capable of breaching atmospheres and landing in bodies of water. The stellar sails are retractable and they power the slipdrive, which . . .”

Loc's words trailed off as Domiant gave his shoulder a silencing squeeze. “I wanted to know what your thoughts on the ship in front of us were, not receive a lesson in engineering.”

He nervously looked from Domiant to the
Jinxed Thirteenth
. “From what I can tell there aren't any weapon systems outfitted to her. She'll be impossible to safely pilot with only one operational mobility drive.”

“They're also broadcasting on the emergency frequency,” Mikali interjected quickly. “Play the message, Jerkol.”

Chains clinked as Jerkol Loc reached forward and flipped a red switch. A young man's voice could now be heard. “This is Captain Morwyn Soltaine of the Covenant Patrol vessel
Jinxed Thirteenth
. Our slipdrive has suffered a critical malfunction and requires repairs. We are no longer capable of starflight. Requesting any available ships to home in on these coordinates. Necessary part specs will be uploaded on this tight beam. Infinite guide you. Morwyn Soltaine out.”