The Gilded Cage (8 page)

She popped up off the bench, oriented herself with one last hard ping of the little runabout’s interior, and flew her nose carefully into the airlock control button.

She needed a bugle. Well, an external sound system so she could play the bugle.

Cavalry needed to cavalry
.

She added it to the list.

He’s gonna owe me big after this, anyway
.

Part Two

Hadiiye was astounded at the amount of alcohol the three man had put away while she and the accountant had watched. It was staggering. Seven empty bottles of the hard stuff were lined up carefully along the edge of the table. Dead soldiers awaiting proper interment.

About midway through that performance, someone had decided to send a goon over to protect Captain Tamaz while he got really, really drunk with his new friend, Navarre. Hadiiye kept one eye on the newcomer, just as he watched her.

Insurance policy, really.

The new guy, the body guard/bouncer, was one of the biggest humans Wilhelmina had ever laid eyes on. Dark brown hair, nut brown skin, nearly black eyes. He would have been half a head taller than Sykora, were she here, and massed her by at least four stone, maybe five. Wilhelmina was even more amazed when the man moved.

It was obvious that the man had studied ballet at some point. He was too big to be any good, but she couldn’t think of a single martial art she had studied, on any of the worlds she had ever visited, that would teach you how to keep yourself so perfectly poised and centered as you moved. Plus, she recognized the way his hands and feet moved.

Those skills had been pounded into an eight–year–old version of her, once upon centuries ago.

So, trained as a dancer, moves like a jaguar. Callouses on his hands from striking things repeatedly. Close in, he would be murder. Stay far away and shoot at him instead.

He looked like a breaking–boards–and–heads kind of guy.

Hadiiye wondered if he had ever studied one of the descendants of Aikido or Judo. She smiled to herself.

There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

Externally, she and the new guy kept a polite façade. She was here to protect Navarre. He was doing the same for Tamaz and Erckens. All three were oblivious, drinking, toasting each other, laughing, and carrying on.

Oh, the terrible lies and stories men will tell when they’re drunk.

In vino, veritas
.
So they say
.

Only the accountant, Almássy, was relatively sober, matching the rest of the men roughly sip to bottle as they went.

“No,” Captain Tamaz slurred out loudly. “I insist. You will believe me after that.”

Hadiiye had no idea what the men were on about. She’d been mostly filtering out their words and watching the room. Navarre was too canny to start anything here. But suddenly everybody was in motion, sliding out of the booth towards her and standing up all wobbly.

“Come, my friend,” Tamaz continued. “You will see the truth of it. They are all doomed. DOOMED!”

The drunks erupted in a symphony of cheers and giggles. It was weird, even by normal standards, if there was such a thing on a pirate space station.

You could tell a pirate by how well he walked, blind–stinking–drunk. Tamaz had the look of a man who could walk across a high–wire between buildings in a cross wind, right now. Everything seemed to be battened down perfectly water–tight as he strode down the stairs, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of the group as he went.

Javier was much more fluid and relaxed as he moved. Hadiiye chalked that up to all the food they had eaten earlier. She wondered if the others would realize how sober he was.

Hadiiye made eye contact with the burly bouncer and indicated silently that he should be up front and she would be at the back. He thought about it for a moment, shrugged, and got moving. There wasn’t really a good choice at this point. She was obviously a stranger, so would encounter friction at every waypoint, while he could ease them through. She was just along for the ride.

Now she just needed to figure out where they were going to take her.

Part Three

Deep inside, where nobody could see, Javier smiled.

Captain Navarre was a happy, cheerful drunk, making toasts, telling jokes, and egging the other men on, like any best buds freshly–met in a bar. Life was always a party.

But let’s face it. Until you wake up three days later, in different county, wearing someone else’s pants, you’re bush league. Bonus points if you have a Shore Patrol hat on at the time
.

It was a shame he never got to keep those hats. It would have been an awesome collection, all things considered.

But he was here to do a job. An ugly, ill–conceived thing, but one he was perfectly suited for. After all, it just might involve that crazy Amazon bitch ending up dead, and not be his fault.

How much better could it get?

“But how did you manage to keep her quiet?” Navarre asked. Well, slurred. It was a wet, messy sound, but all drunks have that same sloppy accent when two and a half sheets to the wind. It might be Shakespeare to them.

“Bah, she is pussycat,” Tamaz roared back, slamming back another shot of something pink and then hammering down his shatter–proof shot glass. “And I use her to kill rest of them.”

“Really, Abraam,” Navarre replied with the utter seriousness only a drunk can manage. “A pussycat?”

“Come, my friend,” Tamaz continued. “You will see truth of it. They are all doomed. DOOMED!”

Navarre nodded. As Tamaz started to move.

It made perfect sense. Tamaz wanted to go walksies. We shall go walksies
.

All three drunks made it vertical. The accountant was there. Killer–babe was there.

And who are you?

Navarre was looking at someone new, from about the center of the other guy’s chest. Definitely a him. Pecs but no boobs.

He leaned back, craning to see the man’s face, all the way up there, and nearly toppled over backwards. A hand, a gigantic paw really, slashed out and caught him easily by the front of his doublet, held him effortlessly, tugged him carefully upright.

Navarre stepped back and executed a perfect Court bow. Deportment classes had not been a waste. He could do this even dead drunk.

Or faking dead drunk, as he was now.

In the middle of his motion, obscured by moving parts and backs of heads, Navarre clicked a small button hidden inside his belt buckle. Javier smiled.

One silent Ping for mankind.

“Thank you, good sir,” he slurred, rather louder than required, and then staggered after Tamaz and Erckens.

Damn. That guy was big. And fast. And looked smart, too. Good thing this was only the scouting portion of the trip. Probably need some heavy artillery to take him down. Or just blow the whole damned section open to vacuum. Make the dude a space dragon or something
.

Right now, Navarre and Javier were both just looking forward to seeing Sykora again.

Ξ

The feet knew the way, having navigated it enough times that the mind could focus elsewhere. Abraam Tamaz felt the joy of absolute power wash over him as he went to visit his love, waiting for him like a songbird in a gilded cage.

And traps, traps within traps. Doom within spirals of destruction.

Tamaz did not trust this Captain Navarre fellow. The timing was too close. A helpful stranger arrives just as his grand trap for Sokolov was about to slam shut?

What were the odds that the fates were conspiring so brightly on his side? They had never loved him so much before today.

Thus, traps within traps.

Tamaz smiled up at Morghan, his own personal Kodiak bear, as they passed through another set of hatches, closing on the edge of the station. He could be as drunk and relaxed as he wanted with that man about. Utter loyalty. Unbelievable ferocity. Absolute sobriety. Navarre might have brought along a killer, the woman had that look about her, but nothing could stand against Morghan.

Around a long hallway, ever–so–slightly curved, the ship’s main personnel hatch came into view, carefully guarded by two of his crew. Tamaz smiled to himself.

That was power. Right there. Crew on duty instead of drunk off their asses like their captain.

Tamaz stepped to one side and gestured his new friend to precede him.

“I give you, the starship
Salekhard
,” he said grandly, knowing the title would be lost on them.

After all, how many people would recognize the name of an Imperial Russian prison camp for exiles in the far wilds of Homeworld Siberia? Or guess how appropriate it might be…

In through the double airlocks and onto his ship. Tamaz found himself jostling up against the woman Navarre had brought, as they waited for the airlock doors to cycle. He resisted the urge to reach out and caress one of her breasts.

They were quite lovely.

He was the captain, it was his ship. But it would be rude. Especially if Navarre might truly be a possible ally against Sokolov, and not a plant or a spy. He could always kill the man and have the woman later, if that was the necessity of things.

He settled for a deep draft of her perfume. Sykora never wore perfume. The old Sykora. Who knew what he might convince her to do, once he owned her body and soul.

Once she existed only to please him.

The thought was more intoxicating than any narcotic might dream of being.

He turned to lead them deeper into the ship, accidentally brushing against a warm, full breast as he went, supreme in all things.

Ξ

Hadiiye was slightly bemused at the situation. Wilhelmina wanted to gouge his eyes out. But then, Hadiiye hadn’t been touched by this man or his first mate.

Rape existed on a spectrum, not a point. They had stayed generally at the emotional end, with enough groping to make their point, without ever getting truly physical.

Wilhelmina the psychologist wondered if either Tamaz or Erckens even really liked women, or needed frightened little girls or boys to get excited. Certainly, they hadn’t gotten aroused by the situation, but rape was a crime of power, not passion.

Wilhelmina had simply not let them have power over her.

Hadiiye was willing to geld them with a dull spoon for her anyway. It would be an improvement to the species, to keep them from propagating.

Especially when Tamaz got that look in his eye.

One of his hands twitched, like it was going to go up her skirt. Hadiiye might even let it be, considering the situation, the location, the company.

Or she might pull a shiv and touch his cheek, right below the eyeball, just to get his attention. She didn’t owe any man anything. Except pain and a slow, lingering death.

She smiled at Tamaz as he changed his mind. She even suffered the space violation with a light smile as he leaned forward and inhaled her scent. The way his eyes rolled back, half–closed, was fascinating.

He certainly wasn’t thinking about her.

Food for thought.

Salekhard
proved to be a medium freighter as they tromped her decks. It was built more durable than hulls from her time, but five centuries of technology and metallurgy will do that.

There was far more crew than a freighter this size would normally carry, but she was expecting that. This was a pirate, after all. Play possum until someone got close, and then turn into wolf in sheep’s clothing.

From her recent studies, improvements in jump drives and life support systems meant that a crew of twenty to thirty would be normal on a vessel of this scale. She had probably already seen twice that count, just crossing half the linear distance and going up three decks.

They certainly weren’t going to shoot their way in, if they wanted to rescue Djamila. Hadiiye was patient. Navarre would have a plan.

The party came to rest at a closed hatch. It was like that moment when the tide turned, pooling all the water to stillness in a bay, just before it started to run back out. She missed the smell of Dundee.

Tamaz gifted them with his warm, drunk smile, a canary in his mouth, at least metaphorically.

“And now, my friends,” he said, summoning his best diction from the depths of his drunkenness. “Now, you will see the power that I wield. The glory. I give you, the dragoon, Sykora.”

He turned and theatrically pushed the button to slide the hatch into the wall.

Hadiiye was last into the small room, crowded with five other bodies around the table.

No, six. Strange little man tucked into a corner, crowded back from the killers around him as if they had a sour smell. She sniffed. Nothing but the musk of big men and her perfume.

Probably not something that turned the little man on, either way.

They jostled around, finding a calm point. Again, tides swirling, eddying.

In her heels, Hadiiye was taller than anyone in the room but the big guy, so she could see over shoulders and didn’t need to press forward.

Hadiiye suppressed any gasp, any emotional response, any clue that might suggest she was more or less than she seemed. They had arrived at a moment of life or death.

Djamila
.

The dragoon was tied naked to a modified hospital gurney. Trussed, really. Immobilized by someone who was extremely serious about his business and not just exploring his kinbaku kinks on a long woman.

And wires everywhere. Every good nerve cluster appeared to be getting a jolt of electricity, except the one between her legs.

So, pain, but at no point pleasure. About what she expected from these men. Brutality, with no understanding of what made a woman tick. Especially not one like Djamila.

Morons
.

Not that she would help correct their misunderstandings, but it was certainly ammunition for what she had planned for them.

Lit cigarettes and bolt cutters came to mind.

Hadiiye stepped back. She had seen what she needed. Her job was to bodyguard Navarre and keep him safe, especially here in the pits of hell.

Navarre stepped close to Djamila, leaned over, got very, very still. He could probably smell her sweat from there.