The Gilded Cage (10 page)

And I’m wrapped around her like a lasso
.

Oh.

Right.

Maybe he
has
done this before.

I’m going to sit here very quietly and pretend like I planned it that way.

Perfect.

Ξ

The airlock door slid open with a minimum of noise. Javier preferred it that way.

In dock, he knew engineering would generally be on minimum shifts with everything powered down. Unless they were rebuilding something big, in which case it would be wall to wall people and noise and he’d be caught in about two minutes.

Darkness.

Well, dimness.

Engines shut down. Jump drives off. Auxiliary power reactors on baseline. Life support dialed down as the ship drew fresh air off the station. At least, fresher air.

Stinky with a different set of trace volatile organics, at a minimum.

Salekhard
was a freighter. She wasn’t flashy. She certainly wasn’t fast. Victims came to her.

From the drunken conversation with Tamaz, the ship had lost a pair of cargo holds during the massive up–gunning refit that turned her into a Q–ship. Space lost had been turned into banks of generators and batteries. The center of gravity of the engineering crew had shifted well forward when that happened.

Engineering was a ghost town.

Javier grinned.

Starships in space were never shut down, but humans were humans. You set your bio–rhythms a particular way and left them there. Eight hours of duty in a twenty–four hour shift. Couple three hours for food. Couple hours personal recreation. Time for training and school recerts. Eight hours down to sleep.

Even in station, you’ll keep to that pattern, with time thrown in for parties and business.

For
Salekhard
, it was the middle of the night.

The perfect time to break in.

She wasn’t a navy ship, with snappy, matching uniforms for everyone, color–coded by department and rank. Tamaz might be a sociopath, but he wasn’t ex–fleet.

Crew tended to either wear what they came with, or what they picked up at stations like this. In between, they would have the sorts of pants and tunic the quartermaster could sell you cheap. At that point, the only real difference between ships in space was color, because a cheap acquisitions officer was going to buy a block of sizes of everything in a single color.

On
Salekhard
, that was brown. Boring, mud–colored brown.

Fortunately, this was
Meehu Platform
. Everything was available for a price, including boring, mud–brown disguises.

Suvi went into the vast space first, quietly pinging all of engineering to map it.

Nothing.

Lights dialed down to reduce power load and save money in dock. Critical systems well lit, but the rest shadowed. Standard operating procedure.

Javier followed, mud–brown with a gym bag in one hand. Wilhelmina came last, still wearing those damned high–heeled purple combat boots under her pants.

For a moment, the evil conscience on his left shoulder suggested she should wear them to bed sometime. Nothing else, just the boots. Even the good conscience got a goofy smile on his face at that image.

Javier had Suvi’s flight controller remote, hanging like a satchel to one side, just in case, but she was flying the remote. Some of his buttons apparently made happy sounds play in her cockpit, or little unicorns and toy dinosaurs race across the console. He certainly wasn’t flying the craft.

“Suvi,” he whispered, just loud enough for her to pick up. “Find me the entry hatch off the top–most catwalk gangway.”

Instead of answering, she bounced straight up, almost silently.

Javier was reduced to sneaking over to a set of stairs and mounting them. He wasn’t as quiet, but he didn’t need silence. Around him,
Salekhard
groaned and creaked as systems came on and off, generators, air, and cooling systems answering the call for power or going back to sleep.

Space was only silent on the outside. On the inside, it never shut up.

Engineering had three decks of verticality. Mostly, that was the thrusters.
Salekhard
could hold a lot of mass, so the ship needed a tremendous amount of initial thrust to push it along. Doubly so when climbing out of the local gravity well to reach a safe jump range.

That just meant the rear third of the ship bulged strangely. And you were a ways off the deck plates when looking down from that second catwalk.

Javier looked at the hatch Suvi’d found.

At least freighters followed a simple naval architecture. Either you had one main arterial corridor down the spine, with the cargo holds hanging to either side off that like ribs, or two corridors down the outsides, with individual cargo holds on the centerline.

Salekhard
had central holds. That also served to mentally divide the ship into thirds. Either you were forward, with the important people close to the bridge, or aft with the engineers. Stevedores got stuck in the middle. And ignored.

It was the dead of night. In a hallway as far from the important parts of the freighter as they could get. Javier didn’t really feel safe, but he figured the odds were in his favor.

“I lead,” he said quietly before opening the hatch. “’Mina second. Suvi, try to stay back a little farther as an ace in the hole.”

Wilhelmina nodded. Suvi flashed her running lights on and off. Javier took a deep breath and palmed the button.

The hatch opened slowly.

Nobody.

He blew out the breath and started walking. Behind him, utter silence so intense he had to turn and look back to make sure both women were still behind him.

Okay, good.

He didn’t bother with a weapon. He wasn’t that good to begin with, and a firefight here would screw everything quickly. Plus, both girls could take care of themselves. And hopefully him.

Instead, he was the pathfinder today. He might have had a lot to drink, but seriously, that was nothing.

Hell, the other two men might still be in bed for a number of hours, trying to recover.

Amateurs.

Javier counted his steps. Internal passageways on a ship like this didn’t have happy little colored lines for tourists to follow. But there were only so many ways to build a vessel.

He turned to port and went down a side hall that wrapped around the front of engineering’s bulge.

No fancy castings or curves. Just basic cubes welded together at a mostly–automated ship yard, knocking out parts twenty–four–seven and then assembling them like three dimensional jigsaw puzzles later. Corridor, cargo hold, cabin, suite. Weld A to B. Repeat with C.

Javier let his monkey brain drive. Overthinking was bad here.

If he was right, the correct hatch was about here.

Javier looked around.

Yup. That stain on the wall. The one shaped like the Blessed Madonna. The one that looked like a pulse–pistol burn scar. This was the place
.

He signaled to the girls to get close, unsure if opening this hatch would trigger an alarm somewhere other than in his head.

Certainly, the clock would start running.

He reached out and pushed the button.

Part Two

The pain ebbed.

Djamila felt the barriers around her soul coming down. The physical world grew close.

Tamaz must want to torture her again.

Certainly, the last time had been the most intense. Djamila was beginning to wonder if her sanity was finally breaking. She had actually imagined Aritza here, helping Tamaz break her.

If she was going insane, that would be the shape hell took when she got there.

That smell brought her back the rest of the way. By now, it was beginning to be impressed on her nervous system as
home
. Djamila wondered if she would carry that association to her grave.

Her eyes opened to painfully bright light. She could focus. Something was wrong.

She could move.

Tamaz was standing over her, leering at her, lusting after her, even after all these years. The first mate was with him, standing back and to one side.

She would have only one chance at this.

Djamila exploded off the gurney in a flash of movement, trusting her instincts to guide her.

She grabbed Tamaz by the front of his shirt and slammed him backwards into the bulkhead hard.

Djamila had no expectation she would get out of this room alive. She just wanted company on the trip to hell.

Abraam Tamaz would be a fine companion.

He didn’t struggle as much as she expected him to. He barely resisted as she got her hands around his throat, lifted him bodily, and began to crush.

It would be good to kill this man.

Why wasn’t he fighting? Had she knocked him out against the bulkhead?

No, his eyes were open, boring into hers from so close.

And why wasn’t the first mate trying to stop her? All she really wanted right now was to die in battle.

Was that too much to ask?

Pain. There. Yes. Good. I’m alive enough to feel pain. This isn’t a torture–induced fantasy overtaking my sanity. This is someone pinching my earlobe hard enough to hurt. Not pulling, just pinching.

What?

“Djamila,” Wilhelmina Teague’s voice penetrated her haze. “I need you to listen to me. Please come back to me.”

Come back? Where else would I be?

No, better. Why would Wilhelmina Teague be here in my illusion? She doesn’t deserve to die with me. Perhaps to have vengeance, though. That would make sense.

The pain became a pull. Djamila felt her head turn, being turned, being drug around to one side. Someone was there.

It wasn’t Aaron Erckens, after all. It was a woman. A very tall woman. A familiar looking woman.

“Djamila Sykora,” the stranger said. “Please listen to me. Please hear me. Please come back to the present.”

The present? The present was a torture chamber on Abraam Tamaz’s ship, slowing losing her sanity rather than finally give her soul to that man. It was impending death, perhaps taking Zakhar down with her, because she was too stubborn to simply allow herself to die on this table.

She would make them kill her. Right here. Right now. It would be a good death.

But that face looked familiar.

I’ve seen you somewhere before
.

And then the woman leaned close and kissed her lightly on the lips.

What?

The shock broke through the final haze around Djamila’s brain.

“Wilhelmina?” she asked, slamming suddenly back into the present.

But if that’s Wilhelmina, then who am I choking?

Djamila turned her head back as the pull on her earlobe lessened.

Aritza.

Briefly, she considered finishing the job. It wouldn’t take much. A little twist, some lateral torque. A quick and painless death.

Aritza deserved it.

And yet, he had saved her life. More than once.

And he wouldn’t be here without Sokolov’s permission. That mean was Zakhar coming soon.

The Captain should have been the one to awaken her, if he was here. Aritza was standing in.

Djamila let Aritza’s feet touch the deck again.

“Hello, Princess,” he said again. “Maybe I should have wakened you with a kiss?”

Djamila nearly killed him anyway for that. Wilhelmina pulled her ear sideways as she started to.

Djamila let her head come around. Aritza could always suffer a tragic accident later.

Wilhelmina handed her a bundle of clothes and a black wig.

“Put this on,” she said.

Djamila let the moment direct her. She wasn’t up for more than pure reaction at this point. Obviously, they had a plan.

Djamila realized she was still nude. There was a towel in the bundle. She used it briefly to dry herself.

Aritza was busy ogling her as she did.

You’re just as bad as they are, bastard
.

She dressed quickly. Brown pants. White t–shirt. Brown tunic. Her own ship slippers from
Storm Gauntlet
, the ones custom made for her long skinny feet.

“Are you you yet?” Aritza asked simply.

Djamila considered the answer. She had been in another world for some time. Days, possibly weeks if he was here now. Her survival had required retreating into the unpassable mountains in her mind and waiting out the winter.

Her rescue force had arrived with spring. They wanted to know if she could handle herself.

If she could fight.

Djamila felt a snarl take hold of her face.

She wasn’t dead yet. Of course she could still fight
.

She nodded at him professionally, unwilling to trust her tongue just yet.

He smiled. And surprised the hell out of her.

“Here,” he said.

Djamila was suddenly holding a late–model pulse pistol in one hand.

Automatically, she confirmed the safety, the power pack, the grip, the sights.

“Now what?” she asked him.

Aritza had obviously planned this. Let his plan run forward until she understood it enough to improve it. He was a science officer, not a killer.

Not like her.

“Now we escape,” Wilhelmina answered.

“Not quite yet,” Aritza said.

Djamila watched him walk to a small refrigerator unit in a corner and squat down. She did not understand the vial of greenish liquid he pulled out, but Wilhelmina’s gasp of shock told her many things.

“First, I owe that man something.”

The harsh look on Aritza’s face matched the feral anger burning deep in her soul. Perhaps he was a killer, after all.

Part Three

Hadiiye had to explain it to Wilhelmina. Hadiiye already grasped the fundamental point Navarre was making. Wilhelmina was aghast at the possibilities.

Navarre was a hard man. She knew that. She had seen it first hand, along the way here.

This was something else entirely. This was verging on evil itself. This wasn’t fighting fire with fire. This was burning the whole damned world down and starting over.

This was Ragnarok. Twilight of the Gods. This was Navarre as Surtur.