The Star Pirate's Folly (19 page)

Optima’s capitol city Understone sprawled across miles of
caverns, hollowed out over the years to excavate the valuable resources within
and create living space for new residents on the planetoid. A domed crater at
the city’s surface level housed those who could afford the rent—others, like
Fix, found cheaper space below.

The stocky mechanic slouched over his dwindling cup of lotus
wine, tracing in his mind the route home from the bar. His single-room
dwelling, little more than a pressurized cell, was one of hundreds that
branched off a section of an old ice tunnel. Another one or off to bed, the familiar
debate. His fingers found coin in his pocket. Fix downed the dregs and rose for
another cup.

As he stood a gravelly voice from a corner table called out
to him. “Hey, Fix! Didn’t see you there. You heard the news from up top? Snub
told me he passed the message along to all you scrappers.”

An involuntary wince flashed across Fix’s face. He removed
it before he turned to join the table. “Tjarko. Didn’t see you either. Yeah,
Snub told me. Ten thousand coin—pretty good for one job.”

“Great!” shouted Tjarko, raising his cup. “Looks like we got
another recruit!”

A cheer went up from his crewmates and Fix swallowed as he
shook his head.

“Sorry, Tjarko,” he said. “I’m staying put this time. Family
orders.”

The five men lowered their cups in unison.

Tjarko glared. “You heard what Snub said. This is straight
from Boss Hawk. You gone out with our crew before. We already got twenty grubs,
two more ships. We need every pair of hands we can get, Fix—especially
mechanics. Could be a long float going after Anson.”

“Whoa, Tjarko. You gotta see where we’re coming from here.
Anson don’t jack around and Starhawk, man—”

“What about Boss Starhawk?” Tjarko demanded, the question a
challenge.

Fix glanced around the bar, took stock of the occupants. A
handful of other Family members, none of them fellow Donovans, and Tjarko’s men
outnumbered them all. “Council ruled on it. Starhawk’s no Boss—ain’t even
Family anymore. No reason for me to stick my neck out for him. Especially not
going after Anson.”

“Coward.” Tjarko spat at Fix’s feet.

Fix took a step back, crossed his arms. A firm stand was
needed or Tjarko would walk all over him. He couldn’t let the insult go
unanswered, spoke loud and strong. “I’m not shipping out with a bunch of
leaky-brain shitheads flying scrapheap floating coffins. Not against Anson. Not
for Starhawk. Hump that, bud, I’ll keep breathing. You want to go against the
Council’s ruling there’ll be more than just Donovans after you—the Families are
together in this.”

“Fine,
coward
,” Tjarko said and spat again, this time
on Fix’s boot. “You want to bend a knee to the Core-dwelling scum that’s your
choice. Starhawk’s on his way out here, victorious after sieging Surface. After
my crew takes out Anson for him we’ll be rich, and after him we’ll move on to
the rest of the privateers. With the Core Fleet back home the whole outer
system will be ours. This is the beginning of a new age, Fix. You’re with us or
against us. Think hard one last time. Whose side you want to be on?”

Fix
thunked
his empty cup down on the table and met
Tjarko’s glare with unblinking hickory-brown eyes. “I’m a Donovan. Starhawk’s
not Family anymore and neither are you. Best of luck, though.”

He turned to leave with his heart exploding in his chest,
every muscle in his body goading him to run, but he kept his shoulders back and
his head held high. Fix felt the target on his back, the hairs on his neck
rigid in warning. Keep walking, he told himself, just get home. They see you
run with your tail curled under you’re a dead man anyway. After he entered the
tunnel and started moving—with more than a few sly backward glances along the
way—his heartbeat slowed and Fix relaxed.

The bag went over his head in an instant, darkness all
around. Burly hands took him by the arms and legs. He tried to shout but they
shoved a wad of the rough fabric into his mouth and the acrid taste of old
vomit made him retch. Fix sobbed into the suffocating material and went limp as
they picked him up and carried him away.

***

“We’re being followed,” Myra said into Captain Anson’s ear.
“Four junker attack craft. The recon drone we left behind picked them up a few
seconds ago.”

“Tail them.” Anson turned his helmet to look behind
Wanderlust
from his perch on the outside of her hull
.
He couldn’t see anything
through the purple-black material of the radiation umbrella, but he stared all
the same back in the direction of Optima for a moment. “Almost finished out
here.”

The ideal scenario would involve a pressurized docking bay,
but he didn’t want to spend a moment longer on Optima than he had to. Now he
knew he’d made the right choice.

“You want to see them?” Myra asked. “They could actually
catch up.”

“When I get inside.”

“See you soon.”

Grunting an affirmative, Victor resumed the repairs. His
sources on Optima told him Starhawk put out a bounty of ten thousand coin for
him—luckily after
Wanderlust
left port and not before. Victor doubted
Starhawk could actually pay that much but some were obviously tempted out of
greed or desperation. The power-hungry pirate probably expected they’d all get
killed and only hoped to use the attempt as a last ditch effort against the
privateers.

Victor finished fixing the weakened repulsor unit and sealed
its thick panel back in place, the midnight-purple nullsteel coat melding
together with the rest of the hull until the panel’s seam disappeared, leaving
the surface a seamless shell. Myra had noticed some abnormal vibrations after
leaving Optima and recommended the tweak before they got any further. Thanks to
the recon drone he’d dropped in
Wanderlust
’s wake they had plenty of
time to keep out of their pursuers’ combat range.

They’d get closer than he was comfortable with, though.
Victor stood and grabbed the handle of the oversized foil umbrella, the bottom
edge extending to the hull all around him. The multi-layered material shaded
him from the ravages of open space as he walked back to the airlock, a lustrous
wart scooting along the ship’s smooth hull. His suit would have provided
sufficient protection for such a short period but as a lifelong space pilot
Victor knew better than to take unnecessary risks in zee.

“Ferro, change of plans. I want you to resume course as soon
as possible.” Anson said. They’d have to get moving—
Wanderlust
took time
to get up to full speed without a launching pod.

“Yes sir,” she said with a note of hesitation.

“We got dogs on our trail,” Victor said. “Four attack ships
from Optima. I’m coming inside so Myra will fill you in on the rest. Just want
to get a head start.”

“Moving out, Captain,” Ferro said. “Come back safe.”

“There’s something else too, Victor,” Myra’s voice said in
his ear again. “It’s about Starhawk.”

“Ugh,” Victor groaned. “Spare me.”

“No, you’ll want to hear this. They’ve escaped Surface.”

“Escaped! Don’t any of those Core-suckling piglets know how
to take down a pirate? Where’s the damn Core Fleet?”

“Too far out to help. Pirates inside the city kidnapped a
high-value hostage and bargained their way off planet. You’re not going to
believe this, but the hostage is Bee’s boss from the hotel. The one who killed
Jensen Lee.”

“Useless! How did they manage to—” he began but stopped
himself. “Never mind, just let me get inside. And
don’t
tell the girl
yet, for stars’ sake. That’s a direct order, Myra. Let me handle this.”

***

Bee busied herself with cooking breakfast for her crewmates
to avoid thinking about the fear which had once again become her constant
companion. She thought she’d conquered fear a long time ago on Surface, before
she ever set foot in the sanctuary of Midtown Hotel. She learned to kill it
before it could sink its teeth in and bleed her dry—back then it was learn or
die.

But once again Bee felt its talons inside her gut, cold
slashing terror striking fresh wounds every time she thought about facing
Starhawk. She wasn’t ready. She’d never been ready. Whatever naive confidence
of success she had before was gone. The reality of Starhawk’s attack against
the Core set in, the futility of her mission to kill a man who commanded an
army of cutthroats.

Kill him, Mother echoed.

Mother whispered in her ear all the time since Optima. New
things—more than her usual singsong phrases. Lately she’d been giving specific
orders. Sometimes Mother stopped Bee from revealing certain things to the crew
about her past or told her to lie. She always felt bad about lying but they
just slipped out. Even Hargrove never got the truth from her. She’d gotten so
used to listening to Mother it was second nature doing as she said. It had
saved her skin more than once over the years.

And then there were the nightmares.

Thankfully Mother wasn’t in those but they terrified Bee all
the same. She could never remember anything but the falling. Every time she
woke up in a cold sweat, sometimes screaming. Myra told her it was normal, just
her body getting used to spending so much time in zero gravity. Bee read some
articles Myra provided on the subject which made her feel better—but the shock
of waking in what felt like free fall never faded.

Afraid of moving forward, incapable of going back, and
horrified at the thought of failing Mother, Bee didn’t realize she was serving
breakfast to an empty table until she’d filled three plates. Even Silver, who
usually led the cooking, had been absent the whole time. She’d been so buried
in thought she didn’t notice. Captain Anson kept a strict schedule and the crew
missing a meal was a red flag. Bee left everything on the table and dashed from
the dining room to the bridge.

“Myra, what’s going on?” Bee called as she hurried to the
bridge, darting through an open bulkhead door.

“Nothing to worry about, kiddo,” came Myra’s chipper ambient
voice. “I would have sounded the alarm. Why don’t you just go eat your
breakfast? All that food’s gonna go to waste!”

Bee slowed to a confused walk. “But where is everyone?”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Bee. Go on and eat, the
others will join you shortly.”

“Why won’t you answer me?”

Myra said nothing.

Bee’s heartbeat picked up. The computer wouldn’t answer a
direct question—she was hiding something. Dread grasped her by the throat and
squeezed. Talking to Myra felt different ever since the Captain took her
offline and tweaked her. Bee couldn’t trust her the same anymore. No more
favors.

“Where’s the rest of the crew?” Bee asked.

“Please return to the dining room,” the AI said in timid
reply.

Defiant, Bee continued on her way until she found that one
of the other doors between her and the bridge was shut. She grasped the wheel
and tried to open it. Locked. Bee pounded on the dark metal. “Let me through!”

No response. She pressed her ear to the door but heard
nothing. Desperate, Bee stepped back and kicked her heel against the door,
shouting for someone to let her in. As she stepped back to prepare another kick
the door swung open and Truly slipped through the gap as someone else sealed
the door again behind him.

“Out of the way!” he said, shoving past her.

“What’s happening!” she cried, chasing after the long-legged
privateer as he sprinted headlong toward the nullroom.

Truly ignored her, rounded a corner, and the heavy clang of
another bulkhead door slamming closed rang through the halls. It locked with a
solid
click.
Near hysterics, Bee screamed with frustration and spun on
her heel to return to the bridge.

***

“They’re giving us video,” Myra said.

“Put it in a window,” ordered Captain Anson.

Myra opened a large window in front of the Captain, Silver,
and Ferro. A video stream of Starhawk and his crew on the bridge of his warship
played inside the borderless frame.

“I know you’ve got the map, Anson,” Starhawk proclaimed with
a grating laugh. “I’m sure you’ve already seen my boys behind you there. Here’s
my offer: stop now and give it to a grub named Tjarko when he catches up to
you. Long as you give up that map we can part ways, but until I get it I won’t
stop coming for you. I know what you’re looking for, Anson. You won’t find it.
But I’ll find you.”

The golden-armored pirate brought another man onscreen as
Captain Anson and the others on
Wanderlust’s
bridge watched in silence.
The heavyset man was held up by two guards, his face bloodied and bloated. His
head sagged to his chest, rolling off to one side as the guards adjusted their
grip.

“I realize you’re probably not convinced yet, but my friend
here might be able to change your mind. You know who this is if you’ve been
watching the news. That Surface girl you’ve got working with you—she knows this
porker too, from the hotel. So unless you want to see how he holds up in zero
pressure—or maybe something more creative, don’t hold me to that—you’ll do as I
say. Isn’t that right, my friend? Tell them.”

Hargrove groaned and raised his head with some difficulty. “Bee,”
he slurred almost incoherently, “do as he says. Please save me, Bee. Give them
what they want.”

“See, this guy understands.” Starhawk tousled the big man’s
hair. “He gets it. We’ve had
such
enlightening conversations.”

“Hargrove’s dusted,” Myra said quickly. “His mind is not his
own.”

The Captain had become familiar with the practice during his
many journeys between planets. Officially, the pirates’ Council of Families
banned the devotion-inducing substance, fearing their own members being dosed
and divulging sensitive information, but its use quickly became widespread
among the Families. He’d heard speculation that the pirates’ recent fracturing
was driven in part by the Council’s opposition to the stuff.

“He told me all about your copy of the map,” Starhawk
continued. “And about the girl. You know, I might just want to take her too as
part of the deal. Sweet young thing. I can see how she got Jensen all riled up.”

Victor narrowed his eyes. He replied through a jawline mic,
opening the channel only for a brief message. “I don’t make deals with
pirates.”

Starhawk couldn’t resist putting himself on camera, but the
Captain thought it foolish to give the enemy eyes inside his ship. Victor turned
to stand with his back to the screen, facing his crew and spreading his hands
in request of counsel as Starhawk spewed insults and profanities in the
background. “Thoughts?”

“We can’t save him,” Silver growled. “If we let them in
range they’ll board us. No matter what he says, if they get the chance to take
a warship like
Wanderlust
as a prize they certainly will. Not to mention
your bounty, sir.”

“No way they catch up if we maintain course.” Ferro shook
her head emphatically. “And even then, four junkers are no threat to us. Truly
could probably take them with just the Hornets, I bet.”

“Bee knows we’re all in here, Captain,” Myra said. “Orders?”

“Keep her out, I don’t want her to see this.” Anson turned
back to the screen.

Myra spoke privately, whispering into the earbud attached to
his jawline mic. “Is that really your choice to make?”

The Captain ignored her while Starhawk spoke again. He
couldn’t have Bee on the bridge with them, she was too unpredictable. With
Hargrove in the state he was, Victor couldn’t let her see him. Starhawk was
only using the man to manipulate Victor through Bee.

“Fine, fine, fine,” the pirate said as he paced back and
forth. “Saves me the trouble of thinking up another execution. Haven’t seen a
suitless spacewalk in a while, actually.” With an armored gauntlet he patted
Hargrove on the cheek. “You hear that, Core-dweller? They don’t want you. We
brought you all this way for nothing. You’re junk now. Garbage. Trash. Time to
vent you with the rest of the waste.”

“They’re gonna kill him,” Ferro said. “Bee—”

Silver crossed his arms and shook his head. “Nothing we can
do. We can’t risk even a single hit on
Wanderlust
this far out. We’ve
barely gotten on our way.”

It pained Anson to consider the girl’s fortune. She left
Surface chasing Starhawk, seeking revenge for the death of her only parent—just
in time for him to return to the planet after years of absence. Then the
psychopath bombed her home, forced her off planet, kidnapped her mentor,
somehow escaped, and seemed poised to murder the only other parental figure the
girl had ever known. It stung even a leathery old heart like Victor’s, dredging
up miseries of his own he thought he’d buried deep enough to disappear.

Yielding to Starhawk’s demands meant certain death. If the
pirates were allowed to move in close enough to take the map they would surely
attempt to board
Wanderlust
. His skeleton crew stood little chance
against superior numbers. As long as he kept moving they were safe and the pack
of wolves at their heels could do nothing more than chase the scent of its prey
through the stellar winds.

Wanderlust
was no defenseless fawn. Between the
cluster of seven Hornet fighters tucked underneath her belly, the close-range
lasers studding her hull, and her ten mass-driving gravity cannons, they could
hold their own against four attack ships. But as far out as they were the last
thing Anson wanted was risking damage to the ship. They’d traveled well beyond
the reach of emergency assistance. Even a small wound could lead to crippling
complications, which the veteran privateer was sure Starhawk knew well.

The danger was too great.

***

The bulkhead door Bee railed against swung inward at last.
Captain Anson stood on the other side, his shoulders hunched and eyes cast to
the ground.

“Captain?” she asked. “What’s—”

He stepped forward and held his arms out, wrapped her in a
tight embrace with her head against his chest. Confused, alarmed, she pulled
back and looked up at the Captain’s face. The normally stone-faced old man had
pain and sadness painted across his features.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s your friend Hargrove.”

“No,” Bee said. A chill swept across her whole body. “No,
he’s safe in the shelters.”

“He went looking for you in the city.”

“What?” she cried.

“Some of Starhawk’s men under the dome found him and
kidnapped him. They’ve used him as a hostage to escape the planet. They’re
after our map.”

Bee reeled back, stunned, and held her hand against the wall
to keep steady. The map—Hargrove—it was all her fault. The Captain reached out
to take her arm but she recoiled from him.

“No—Hargrove!” she screamed. “Where is he?”

“We got a message. Some of his men from Optima have followed
us. If we don’t stop and give up the map they’re going to…” He trailed off, unable
to say the words. “They’re going to kill him.”

“Then we have to give them the map. Please, I never would
have taken it if I knew—just give it to them, you can’t let him die.”

“We can’t stop. It’s a trick. If we do they could damage the
ship, maybe even board it.”

“Coward!” she shouted, and struck him on the chest.

The Captain didn’t flinch, but restrained her arms at her
sides and held her still. “If we stopped they’d just kill us all.”

She struggled ineffectually in his grip. “This can’t be
happening—how could the Fleet just
let them
go
?”

“They had no choice.” The excuse sounded false, hollow.

“We have to save him,” she begged.

“We can’t,” Captain Anson said softly, shaking his head.

“
I
have to save him.” Her voice trembled as she
looked up into the Captain’s eyes.

“We still have some time before I give them my answer. If
you want to see him there’s video. I have to warn you he’s not in a good way,
Bee. You might not want to remember him how he is now.”

“What do you mean? What did they do to him?”

Captain Anson looked away. “It might be better if I don’t
tell you.”

Bee straightened. “I want to know.”

“They dusted him.”

Dusted—like Mother. The edges of her vision started going
black. Hargrove. Mother. All her fault. Bee writhed free of Anson’s hold, panic
whipping her breathing into a frenzy. The Captain spoke but only distant echoes
reached her ears as she sobbed, straining for air, wracked with guilt and
disbelief. A horrified, mournful shriek tore its way from her throat as she
thrashed against the floor, heedless of her fists beating themselves bloody
against metal grates.

Captain Anson scooped her up and yelled for Myra to get him
some help. Willis came running soon enough and took her to the infirmary, her
banshee wails lacerating their eardrums the whole time. With an aching heart
the Captain returned to the bridge to deliver his reply to Starhawk.

***

The external cameras of the warship
Deep Fog
absorbed
every detail before them, their many unblinking eyes staring into blackness.

Naked, the body cleared the outer airlock and drifted,
cartwheeling with wriggling limbs, farther and farther from the battle-scarred
ship. Ten seconds passed. Vacuum-exposed skin stretched tight against the
body’s expanding tissue. Fifteen. All struggling ceased as the oxygen-starved
brain faded away and the body swelled from lack of atmospheric pressure. Twenty
seconds. Misshapen, grotesque, the body twitched and stiffened as the void
smothered it.

The lens tracked the body until it could no longer be
observed.