Late the following evening, he sat alone on the balcony over the large garden in back. Being the scourge of the galaxy was proving to be more work then he counted on as a young boy, but the pay was good and he was his own boss. Maria told him he could have all the rooms on the top floor as long as he wanted them and that it was an honor to have him there. It was certainly bringing in business. The crews of the Queen, Spartacus, and War Hammer practically lived here now and everyone came to have a look at the new heros of the Riftward Marches.
The Battle of Big Blue, as it had come to be known in these parts, was being recounted all over the Rift Worlds even as he sat there hung-over and spent. Likewise, the sorry tale of the “Darwin VIII Disaster” would be making the rounds of cooperate board rooms and Federation council chambers as well. The story had them wiping-out a fleet considerably larger then the FDF’s combined naval strength and making-off with hoards of ill-gotten booty. The sad truth was they were broke and had a great deal of work ahead of them. The medical cargo amounted to a small fortune and bought them a great deal of favor locally since they were desperately needed, and a buyer was found for the two captured freighters but it was far less then they had hoped for and was quickly consumed. The entire crew was living out of the coffers, having agreed in council to forgo shares due to circumstance, but that was going to dry up soon and they wouldn’t be able to put to space before it was gone. Pirates are a rowdy lot in the best of times and starving them is bad policy. Moreover, there was the matter of the War Hammer.
Uncle Jack had a much harder time convincing his people that patience was the virtue it was reputed to be. They had been instrumental in pulling-off one of the most spectacular raids in history and were being told there just wasn’t any money. They weren’t the ones with the big shiny new ship to their name so Julian couldn’t really blame them. They were appeased for the time being that when the new Iceni Queen was ready for action they would group for a high-profit shipping lane cruise of no less then five months, for which the War Hammer would receive an additional share for every two at the Bastards’ expense. It was a hard pill to force down his own people’s throat in turn, but he started out in high-praise of the War Hammer when broaching the subject and had his people whipped-up in good feeling by the time he sprang it on them, making it seem so obvious and aside from question. They ate it strait from my hand, he noted, feeling clever. He would need to be to get through this next year but it would pay fifty-fold in the end.
A good meeting, he decided, rubbing his swollen jaw and wincing slightly. Until today, Julian The Bastard could claim that no man had ever laid a hand on him and lived. No more.
“Where is your funny hat?” Julian seemed puzzled. Why would this man flaunt the rules so? Bad form. “Your funny pirate hat,” Julian explained, “It says in the charter that as captain I set the forms and it clearly states there, where I wrote it, that you will attend all staff meetings and councils ‘in formal.’”
“It does say that, Kyle,” Floyd reminded him.
Kyle Reese never wore indignities well and today was far from exceptional. He turned and strutted out with a huff. There was some laughing and there were some cold steel glances. Julian noted each of them.
Ursula and Kitty came in as he left. “He seems tense,” Kitty noted.
“Is that a stuffed parrot on your shoulder, sir?” Ursula inquired.
“No,” Julian explained, “he’s just pining for the fjords.”
“Beautiful plumage,” Kitty added.
“Please stop,” Deacon pleaded. And the room had lightened a little.
Scattered low level conversations went on, some gossiping and some griping but no one was going to introduce any business until the Reese issue was settled one way or another. By law, while in action the captain was god-fucking-emperor and you didn’t tell him no. Julian could have killed him on the spot but that wouldn’t have played well and he might have had a mutiny on his hands at a very inopportune moment. There was also the possibility that Kruger wouldn’t have done it. He was loyal to Julian but had his own take on things and didn’t budge an inch. Even if he had, there was a very real possibility someone would have stopped him.
Now, he could call him out and fight him, or order him expelled. A lengthy proceeding would follow, tying up all their time and energy, neither of which could be depleted. He would have to buy Reese off and it stuck in his craw but there were no two ways about it.
As many of Reese’s men wanted him dead themselves as not, but the rest were solid with him and provided the bulk of his power base. He had eighty-three men directly under his command which made him chief of the single largest section. A piece of gunnery would likely go with him as well but Floyd had been wanting to clean house on that score in any case.
Kyle Reese returned in a bandanna which was technically the least he could do to comply.
“Not even an earring?” Julian asked disappointed. He shrugged and continued. “Let’s get this unpleasant business aside then shall we?”
“Indeed,” Reese growled.
“This is what is going to happen,” Julian qualified, coming to his feet and approaching Reese. “You and whoever decides to go with you here and now . . . ” and Julian paused, giving direct looks at some of the faces he had noted earlier, “Will take the old Queen in her present condition, minus her two fighters and all but essential supplies and materials, and be on your fucking way.”
Julian turned and began making for his seat. Just as the first utterance of defiance arose from Reese’s throat he turned and added, “After, we have properly decommissioned her and renamed her the ‘HMS Bitch Wagon’. In your honor,” he said with a bow and flurry, and before he straitened his back he had set down on the table before him two beautifully balanced, identical knives, wrapped loosely in an old black and red bandanna. By the time he reached his chair and turned to sit, Reese had stormed out and six others were filing-in behind him with insulted looks on their faces. He and Deacon figured a little less than a hundred would go all told. There was no getting around another issue now. The Spartacus would have to go. Billy was going to love that. A matter which would have to be addressed later in private.
“Now let’s all get drunk and play ping pong!” Julian exclaimed. The room burst out, everyone very, very relieved that had gone without bloodshed. Notepads and tiny computers began appearing in a bustle of post-nervous chatter.
Deacon was way ahead of them as usual, his portable and four neat stacks of papers positioned strategically around him. If anyone entered the work zone, they were quickly reminded that the quiet man was a skilled and practiced killer of men. He gathered up Julian’s dueling knives, wrapped then a little better and tossed them back unceremoniously.
“Before we begin may I take a moment to acknowledge our friends from the War Hammer,” Julian said rising again to his feet and hoisting a glass.
“Fuckin’ Hazza!” came the call and a standing ovation. Mad Jack was in attendance with his department chiefs and senior officers. Jack waved-off the attention embarrassed.
“Settle down, scum!” Julian bellowed and laughed. “Now as we all know this venture, for all its great opportunities, has left us resource poor. None more so then our brothers on the War Hammer and so it is only fair I think, we all agree now to commit to a five-month cruise in trade lanes to be determined later by Navigation, at a three to two ratio in favor of the War Hammer . . . ” and with that Julian spread his arms and looked to those in attendance and all soon chimed-in in affirmation. That went well, Julian thought.
“Time for a new face!” he then said with a clap. “Guy Blackthorne,” he said with a point, “he’ll be serving directly under Angus in Engineering and will be putting together a repair and upgrade itinerary. Mr. Blackthorne is a very accomplished naval architect and systems engineer who had a hand in designing the very ship we now call home. Now Guy isn’t accustomed to such unseemly company as we so I expect you all to savage him without mercy until he becomes a proper brute.”
Guy Blackthorne sat nervously, taking in the savage glee that the prospect of beating him to a pulp inspired. Julian noted his discomfort and smiled. He was right to be nervous. They were going to make his life a living hell for the next few days but that would be the end of it. He’d be accepted, plus he needed a rude awakening or two before he gets one wearing FDF blues. He comes off a bit prissy, Julian thought, but he’s got that English stoicism about him. Should be interesting if nothing else.
“Speaking of young Mr. Blackthorne,” Angus began when things had settled down. “A reasonably clever lad, ‘ee an’ I have found a situation that requires a fair amount of work and coin. This ion drive is remarkable but it has the flaw of being about as quick to get goin’ as a lame cow.”
“It was a point of great contention during the design phase,” Guy interjected, glad to have something useful to say. “The decision was made that it would fight more like a mobile mini base with its escort corvettes doing the nimble work, or working in tightly formed wings of four. I take it acceleration is of some value in this business so I suggested to Angus what had been shot down in early production. A tandem system; add a second set of main drives, compact high-yield thruster-based engines in pods close to the tail fin I’m thinking.”
“Would we still be able to go atmospheric?” Floyd asked.
“Oh yes,” Guy said enthusiastically. “The great virtue of the Ion drive is that it fills the roles of both the navigational and stardrives, freeing up lots of space and weight.”
“Aye,” Angus said with an authoritative nod, “The only problem is parts. We’d ‘ave to build them ourselves. Young Mr. Blackthorne has a good solid design in mind but the only way to get what we need and start work in the immediate future would be to cannibalize the Spartacus. I know this is a touchy subject but it’s the only way and we wouldn’t have the crew available for both ships in any case.”
There were some objections raised at once when that came out. Not a word from Billy, Julian noted, though sure he had an opinion. He was annoyed greatly that it should be brought up in this manor but it also partially took him off the hook when it came time to sell the idea to Billy who did have the authority to say no, despite Julian’s overall command.
“I would be willing,” Billy said unexpectedly, “providing the section chiefs have no major objections?” He looked about and saw some hesitant faces but none spoke out.
“A ship this size I’ll need to put down one of my hats,” Deacon offered, “Have Billy be first mate, I’ll stick to the QM job and we’ll keep all the department chiefs as section officers, we’ll need more anyway, and they can compete for the top slots as decided by the three of us.”
Billy nodded and Julian agreed then put it to the floor where it was carried along with an agreement to give priority to the completion of the additional drives.
“We also need to address the matter of cargo space,” Deacon then addressed. “She has five-hundred tons of it, which ain’t much. Plus we need a lot more room for proper EVA lockers, more berthing for boarding crew . . . ”
“I think there’s an easy solution to that,” Guy spoke. “It hadn’t been built yet but there was supposed to be a troop carrying module that would be attached just along the bottom of the boom and latching into the secondary hull at its back end for access. We could build something like that as a cargo container with the hull of the Spartacus.”
“Can you guys make it work so we’re still atmospheric and it be detachable?” Julian asked.
“No problem at all,” Angus said with a nod. “If you get me a berthing in space dock for a month, I’ll put say twenty good people on it and they’ll ‘ave it done before the engines which’ll give us time to tinker ‘round wit it and get ‘er fitted proper.”
“We could add some external wing tanks for another shunt’s worth of fuel while we’re at it,” Guy interjected to Angus’s approval.
“Not a problem,” Julian informed him and made some notes in the small notepad always on his person. He refused to carry a computer on him as a rule. Writing in long hand provided a mnemonic component for him that more efficient technology lacked.
“Floyd,” Julian then called upon. “What’s the story with the things that go boom in the night?”
“Defensive weaponry is lacking,” Floyd answered while still looking over the screen of his portable. “Some point defense lasers spread around the outer hull but not able to deal with a volume of missile fire, especially up front. I’d like to add the phalanx guns we have plus maybe another half dozen. I’ve looked into adding that missile bay you want to the nose of the bow. Should be difficult. There’s a lounge and some ridiculously big senior officer’s quarters up there now. We’ll have to lower the main sensor port and that means a fair amount of structural modification.”
Floyd took a swig of coffee and continued to the offensive systems. “The spinal mount is a monster of a weapon though it requires an absurd amount of power to operate and intensive maintenance. It’s going to be a bit before we have the time to start training on it and I’m going to need my own dedicated repair people to keep all this gear functioning if you wanna keep it.”
“Oh I do,” Julian assured him. “It’s a ship-killer, we can take-on some sizable prey with that little number.”
Floyd nodded, “I’m thinking of at least eight people in addition to about twenty gunners and another four once the missile bay is ready.”
“You’ll have them,” Julian assured him again.
“Six turretted hard-points each with three mated pulse lasers, a hundred-thousand kilowatts apiece,” and here Floyd paused for the assorted whistles and affirmations of approval which came on cue. “If we add three more good weapons along each wing edge, we’ll have a proper killing machine on our hands.”
“What about the fighter bay?” Ursula spoke-up.
Guy interjected here, “Designed to hold four Rapier supremacy fighters though they hadn’t been delivered yet. We can modify them to accommodate the Cheetahs fairly easily.”
“I’d much rather have the Rapiers,” Kitty said and Ursula nodded.
“I think we can spend ourselves completely bankrupt without resorting to that,” Deacon said.
“I’m just saying . . . ” she told him with a laugh. “But that aside, what’s up with this I hear about a corvette bay?”
“It’s not a landing bay in the traditional sense,” Guy answered, “It’s more like a semi-internal docking port that clamps down to integrate the smaller ship into the hull of the mother vessel. About half the ship would be inside the main craft and be accessible through special hatchways and an airlock.
It’s designed to be used with a modified Broadsword EL-22. Also wasn’t delivered by launch date. We’d be well-advised to capture a new one at first opportunity. It will take some work in a dockyard to get it compatible but combined with the fighters it makes a formidable screening vessel.”
“We’ll keep a sharp eye for one,” Julian said and turned to Angus, “and don’t throw away or sell anything we’ll need to upgrade the fighters to Rapiers either.”
By the time the meeting wound-down everyone was starting to get tipsy, and so prepared they set-out to begin their carousing proper. Captain and Quartermaster left last and together, as was customary. They strode down the ally a few meters when Julian turned to ask Deacon what the angry mug was about when he was punched brutally in the face. Julian lay on his back for a moment then decided it best to lean over to spit out some blood. He then sat upright and gave Deacon a bemused look.
“You were after that ship from the start,” he said pointing angrily. “The whole damned thing . . . ” He shook his head as he trailed off then walked away.
“I deserved that,” Julian said after a moment.
The next morning Julian awoke to a murderous noon sun in his eyes. He was sore and hung-over and the daylight was wholly unacceptable. Natasha was a contemptible sort of beast called a “Morning Person,” a creature that should have been exterminated before they could breed off-world and spread their vial genes across the galaxy. He pulled the sheets over his head but it was pointless. He had been disturbed.
He rose to a sitting position and searched for a bottle that wasn’t empty. Little chance of that with Natasha up first, he thought yawning. He stood and assembled a makeshift toga out of the sheet and walked to the mini bar, suddenly feeling adventurous. The crazy Russian vodka monster was off being sunny somewhere so he had the place to himself. He broached the shacking-up question with Natasha when they arrived in New Antigua and she agreed far more readily then he expected or cared for. He was beginning to suspect he was duped.
He sat down in a big wicker chair with the sun to his back after finding the whisky and putting a pot of coffee on. There was a stack of letters and a small package that Maria must have brought up, another morning person. He picked-up the padded envelope and saw Deacon’s handwriting on it: “Just in from the Core, you’re fucking famous.” He poured out the small cased data disk and popped it into the console by the wall monitor. A live view of the beach south of the city was replaced briefly by static, then appeared an FNS upload.
“An update to our story reported earlier in the week, a small fleet of pirate corsairs attacked and destroyed a twelve-ship convoy of food and medical supplies destined for low income families in the New London system. Reports have come-in that the authorities have suspended all medical and food distribution there indefinitely, siting increased acts of piracy and local criminal activity as the major factors in that decision.
The FDF has acknowledged that several warships were damaged or destroyed but denies widespread reports that a major ship of the line was captured and spirited away by a rogue mercenary and pirate organization calling themselves ‘The Bastards’. The group is believed to be lead by one, Julian ‘The Bastard’ McAllister, son of domestic turned prostitute and serial killer, ‘Bloody Boo’ Boadicea McAllister, who some of you may remember for the infamous Double Socialite Murders of thirty-five years ago.
The incident has fueled rhetoric in the Federation Council, and several of its constituent corporate boards, that the pirate threat to Federation shipping calls for decisive military action, amid rumors that powerful weaponry and vessels are finding their way into criminal hands and that these terrorist ministates are becoming more organized and united by the day.”
Julian turned it off. Well, at least Deacon was still speaking to him. More or less. The whole thing was full of disturbing possibilities but his thoughts turned now to a story his mother once told him, after having a little too much to drink.
* * *
Boadicea McAllister was the daughter of Conner and Elan McAllister, independent asteroid prospectors with their own ship and a reasonable, if hard-won, living in the Rift and Fringe Worlds where water and various other mineral resources from asteroid fields provided it. Their two children, she and her twin brother Jacobite, who preferred just plain “Jack” if you please, were still in their early teens but already skilled in the trade. She was named for the great warrior queen, Boadicea of the Iceni Celts, who lead a desperate rebellion against the Roman oppressors of her native Britain. Her father always insisted they were descendants of the illustrious ruler, siting only “family tradition,” as clearly, no other prof was needed.
The McAllisters had done well for themselves the previous three years spent on New Antigua and they were all sad to go, but the couple had purchased a new ship with their earnings so they could take-on a more lucrative, if strenuous stay in Hades Rising, hunting for platinum. Hades Rising was as remote an outpost as they came, at the very fringes of the colonized galaxy, and a rough place on a good day.
There were only three planets in the system, two airless rocks and a huge ball of hydrogen twice as massive as Jupiter. The only settlements were a handful of mining rigs on the moons of the giant planet and the colony known as “Acheron’s Rock,” cut from a great asteroid more than eighty kilometers across at its widest point, rough and oblong in shape. Over ten thousand people resided within cramped, dirty conditions, breathing poorly recycled air and deepening in debt to their absent employers.
Hardly a place you want to take your family but it was a golden opportunity for a well equipped and experienced independent that owned their own ship. Vast wealth was here in Hades Rising and it would allow them to send their children to a decent planet-side university and hire new hands to help with the expanding business. They had talked and settled that the kids should spend a little time in one place as well as round-out their educations. Both were bright and learned fast but there was only so much time and professional teachers, though expensive, could do more. And in any event they should at least have a taste of life on solid ground. They had the right to an informed choice after all.
Still, the more Conner McAllister saw of life on Acheron’s Rock the more he missed the pirates, smugglers, and mercenaries of New Antigua. There was a place you could walk down the street after dark. He was right to be concerned of course, but not of the street element hazards he had in mind. It would be the forces of law and order that would shatter his family. The ConCo Company had recently set-up shop in Acheron’s Rock. Just an office, a lab and a survey craft at first. A few months later they had begun construction of their own base and had bought-up some twenty percent of the space in Acheron’s Rock. With the arrival of this cooperate member of the Free Trade Federation came all the miracles of civilization. A court and FDF police presence, the odd visit by naval patrol craft, and a hell storm of paperwork and bureaucracy for anyone wishing to do business in the system.
The first month was hard but they were picking-up on the peculiarities of working in the vast asteroid fields of this ancient giant and Conner and Elan could smell prosperity in the air. Then came the “Impact Fees.” Twenty percent off the top paid as a penalty to ConCo to redress the terrible wrong they did the conglomerate by competing in their chartered system, as sanctioned by the Federation Council on Fair Trade, after the huge fee they had to pay for it. Then there was the extortion, back on New Antigua you paid whom you liked of several local services and you were honestly protected at a reasonable price. Here on “The Rock,” as everyone eventually took to calling it, it was nothing but naked thuggery. Some unlucky souls had the misfortune of becoming “disputed” clients between rival gangs. Flee or die were the specials of the day when such luck found you.
After much discussion they approached the con in charge at ConCo’s new local offices and proposed a mutually beneficial solution. They would continue prospecting as a subcontractor for ConCo, who were in need of more ships in any case, at half the rate set by the exchange that day. Working for the megacorp in some capacity might also have the added benefit of shielding their family from some of the rampant gang activity on the station. Corporate employees were never molested in any way, however bad things got.
His name was Tilbert and it seemed to suit him. A hawk-nosed little man that insisted on showing you his cavernous nostrils when he spoke. He was dismissive and rude at first but just as the McAllisters were about to get up his demeanor shifted to something almost pleasant if oily. Not only did he agree, but saw to all the necessary paperwork being taken care of or bypassed and they walked out the door with a signed contract in hand. A remarkable feat, it made them both highly suspicious but they used the exact language requested by the couple who had done their homework so there seemed little to fret over. Still . . .
“I swear,” Said Elan, hugging herself for warmth though it was rather hot, “if that effete little prick had a mustache he would have been twirling it at the end.”
“A very creepy man going about his creepy ways,” responded Conner. He then added with an air of urgency, “Let us never speak of him again.”
“Agreed,” Elan said without argument. “Hey, let’s take the kids to dinner at that fancy place where no one’s been killed,” she suggested and the two laughed their way home in the best mood they’d ever be in again.
Five months of toil yielded prosperity. They had done exceptionally well for themselves, despite that they were making even more for ConCo . . . “That’s life in the big city,” Conner would always say when complaint would arise that life was unfair. At the rate they were going, they would have to delay their plans no more then a year at most. They had even rented a second apartment down the corridor for the kids to share. There they could drown themselves in dirty dishes and laundry to their heart’s content, provided they endured a lengthy decontamination procedure when they showed-up looking to be fed.
It happened the morning Boadicea was to take her exams. Elan had arranged for the husband of a friend, who was the local assessor, to monitor the test which would go out on the next shuttle. She had never set foot on Earth in her life but scarcely a night passed she did not dream of it. She would know in three months she reckoned, if she had been accepted at Emily Dickinson. A very old school, predating The Long Night, and one of the very few independent universities left.
She would be gone all morning, her parents scheduled to be home by dinner if possible, Jack off with his insipid friends . . . Her mind was a flurry of things that needing doing and seeing to. She was, admittedly, far too serious for her fifteen years but she knew she would be a great artist since she was eight and was determined to be ready to play the part. As to what she would do for money . . . Making a living in the fine arts was not an option in the Core Worlds for someone born a prol. Such pursuits were the pastimes of lesser sons and daughters of the cooperate aristocracy, but she had already decided to return back to The Rift after she graduated. She loved the time her family spent on New Antigua. The tropical jungles, great rivers, and mammoth waterfalls were the most beautiful things she had ever seen. Acheron’s Rock only served to cement this opinion.
She was coming out of an extended shower, vigorously drying her hair with a towel and trying to calculate if she still had time to eat when her body seized-up in pain. She knew at once it was her old friend electricity, she felt that wonderful sensation before, helping her father repair a faulty mineral scanner on the family’s prospector.
She blacked-out. She eventually realized she was awake though could not guess as to how long she’d been that way. She was lying naked in a pool of her own urine on the simulation hard wood floor of the kitchen. There was talking, laughing. Things breaking. Only her eyes remained sharp, taking-in the scene. Boots. Men in big black boots. Police. Someone grabbed her firmly by the hair and pulled her up. She blacked-out again before the first one was finished with her in the bed room she’d been dragged to.
From what she eventually gathered, an official at the ConCo offices by the name of Tilbert was arrested for his arithmetic involving unreported outside contractors which included her parents. Though no one ever accused them of doing anything wrong, or even knowing about a crime, they were party to a criminal act and held each responsible to the full amount plus a variety of additional charges for legal expenses, administrative costs, it went on.
In one thing Boadicea McAllister was successful. She arrived on earth after a six-month stay at a corrective vocational-rehab where she was drilled in the arts of serving diner and being invisible. By terms of her contract with the “domestic academy” she was a bonded servant until she was twenty years old, at which time she would begin receiving pay and could purchase her freedom for the cost of her education and upkeep. “A prudent girl can buy her contract in ten years if she is prepared to be spartan.” the head mistress often said.
She contemplated suicide periodically but would not end her days anyone’s property, however long it took. She would endure out of spite for now, and it was in no short supply where she ended-up. She had been picked to be a hand maid to a very important woman. Exactly why she was important was something of a mystery. She possessed no great intellect or talent. She possessed no moderate intellect or talent. She was one of the richest, and therefore the one of the most famous people in the known galaxy. Just ask her. Elizabeth “Lizzy” Hilton was three years older then Boadicea and of a whole other species as far as she was concerned. Had she bothered to inquire, Boadicea would have agreed on that point.
Her first encounter with her mistress was at the Hilton family residence, high in the upper levels of the New York Archology which rose from the Atlantic more then twenty kilometers offshore where its namesake city once stood. A kilometer across at its base it rose twelve-hundred levels, a great disk twice its with at the base crowned the structure, capped with a clear dome.
“It looks like a giant evil mushroom,” she spoke aloud to herself, as was her custom, receiving a sharp slap from the tiny woman the school had sent to supervise the delivery of eight girls here today. Her refusal to hold her tongue bought her many beatings. And worse. Mistress Kelp laughed when she looked at Boadicea’s tag as their shuttle was cleared to land, saying something about it being “too perfect.”
Only the wealthiest of the wealthy had quarters in the outer ring of the park and the Hilton family had them all lined up at their door. Mistress Lizzy looked her over like an animal far more removed from herself then the yapping little rat-dog nested ever in the crook of her arm. Anything that required the use of the hands could be tasked-out to her pet remora, cousin Paris. Paris Grubman was a foot shorter then Lizzy and emulated her in all things, especially when it came to dialog. Boadicea and some of the other girls in the house took to calling her “Echo” behind her back.
“Cut its hair, Lizzy” pleaded little Paris with disgust. “It looks like a wild beast. What’s its name?”
Lizzy looked over the paper delivered with her. “Boadicea . . . What a bizarre name,” she mused. “We shall call her ‘Boo’,” she added tapping her on the nose. “This Boadicea nonsense makes her sound like one of those feral blacks in the sprawls, imagine, this pasty thing!” and the pair had a raucous laugh until Boadicea opened her mouth.
“Black Irish,” she said defiantly.
“Oh, dear,” Lizzy said, “It speaks.”
“Yes, it speaks indeed,” Echo prattled. More of that night, Boadicea wouldn’t recount.
The Pit Fiend closed on the slaver craft belonging to the Mototone corporation. At least five-hundred bonded servants were held captive aboard and Captain Reaumur was determined to free them. This raid would cost them money but he was willing to cover it, an escaped ethnic slave himself. There would likely be little resistance in any event, these ships weren’t typically targeted by pirates and traveled without escort. Corsairs from the Rift, where the trade in slaves was strictly forbidden, had no interest and few independent pirates would risk trying to sell back captives to Federation worlds.
The captain of the slaver showed some spirit, however. They spun on the Pit Fiend and launched a spray of rockets. Only a few penetrated the corsair’s defensive fire but they gave her a good thump. Still, unimpressed, the raider pressed-on. She blasted the slaver’s drive compartment to bits with four volleys of Talons, then she pounced. They bored into her hull near the bridge and began boarding her. To their surprise, the bridge had been abandoned. Only three bodies were found there, severely bludgeoned. The raiders reported their findings and were told to secure and hold their positions. Captain Reaumur was on his way.
Once aboard the captured vessel he led his people off the bridge. The rest of the ship was still pressurized so they made use of the bridge’s internal airlock. They made their way through the crew compartments that were located at the ship’s fore section. They were emptied, save for a few bodies, again badly beaten. As they passed into the long main corridor that ran along the pens. As they emerged they were faced with a mob of slaves who had captured the ship after the drives had been destroyed, attacking the crew as they rushed aftward to help in the engineering section with repairs. A brief moment of tense silence was followed by a shot, no one knew who fired but it was quickly becoming fashionable, everyone wanting in on it. The pirates retreated back into the forward section of the ship and bracing for an assault. It did not come.
“Is anyone hit?” Reaumur demanded. Everyone looked around and shook their heads. “We were in a corridor, how did no one get shot?”
A few moments later a lone boy, not fifteen by the look of him, entered the airlock with a LAM carbine held over his head in both hands. He got down on his knees after triggering the forward door.
“What the hell is he doing?” the rookie Bourassa asked.
“Looks like he wants to talk,” Captain Reaumur said, “and we’ll let him.”
“Put the weapon down, boy,” a pirate told him as the door opened. Jack did as he was ordered, slowly and with great care.
“Relax Marty,” Reaumur told the raider with a slap to the shoulder. “Is anyone hurt in there?” the captain asked the youngster.
“Nope,” the boy said with a modest shrug. Reaumur looked at his men annoyed. “We didn’t know who you were,” he then volunteered. “People are scared.”
“They elected you as spokesman?”
“No, not as such,” the boy confessed, taking his feet with a gesture from the captain. “I organized to rebellion against the crew. We were just getting ready to head out of the system when you arrived.” Several of the pirates laughed at that but their captain barked at them to be silent.
“Wait,” Reaumur said, holding out his hand. “Who fired the rockets?”
“I did,” the boy said, “a bit . . .”
“A bit?” the captain asked for confirmation.
“Well . . .” The kid hesitated, “quite a lot really. “Like I was saying, we didn’t know who you were. I thought you were a patrol craft. I’m new at this.”
“Why did they trust a child to lead an uprising?” Reaumur asked with some doubt.
“I’m the only pilot aboard,” the boy explained, “and the only one with a plan.”
“A pilot?” the pirate captain asked.
“My parents are prospectors,” he said. “I grew-up a spacer.”
“Where are they?” the captain inquired.
“I don’t know,” the boy said with anger in his voice. “They were arrested at Acheron’s Rock in Hades Rising almost a year ago. I haven’t seen them or my sister since.”
In the end, the captives were brought to New Antigua where they were released to do as they wished. Jack McAllister was invited to join Pit Fiend as a member of her crew, Captain Reaumur being terribly impressed with the fifteen year-old pasty boy who overpowered his captors and seized their ship.
Jack became the youngest Master Helmsman in The Marches by eighteen. He spent much of his earnings trying to locate his family over those first years, learning that his parents had both been sent to the mines on Hades Rising II where they were killed in an accident only a few months later. The mines were dangerous places and Conco saw little reason to waste money on extraneous safety measures with the glut of bonded labor available. His sister had been sent to a vocational rehab for domestics, then sold to a wealthy family on Earth. He managed to find a smuggler that Captain Reaumur said could be trusted to deliver her a message, telling her to hold tight while he tried to find a way to free her.
Boadicea’s final night in Mistress Lizzy’s service came three years later. Mistress and Paris had just returned from a snow boarding trip to Enceladus and were indulging in one of the latest crazes of the elite civilized world. They were taking a blood bath. Recycled from medically screened, condemned prisoners, and treated with secret patented technology by your friends at Phellzor. It was said to wash away age and sun damage “The Natural Way.”
She shuttered at the thought of it and the giddy glee on their faces. She was just thanking her good luck to not be present for it when her mistress called for her over the small transmitter implanted behind her ear. “Boo, dear, come down here at once, we need our backs scrubbed. Bring a good stiff brush and more wine.”
Boadicea stood motionless for a long moment. It was two days too early. Jack wouldn’t be ready but . . . She made up her mind and fetched the good stiff brush, the bottle of wine, and stopped-off at the kitchen on her way.
When she arrived, the pair were side-by-side in two ornate alabaster tubs, stroking themselves with the gory contents. They laughed and splashed at each other, Lizzy becoming quite cross when some got her in the eye.
“You saucy, cunt!” she yelled at Paris whose whole body tensed at the derision. “Boo, kill this bitch at once,” she said with a laugh, regaining her composure. “Betters should never berate one-another in front of the prols” her mother was constantly nagging. Boadicea smiled, she couldn’t have asked for a better omen. She walked behind Paris with the brush and a rolled-up towel. Once there she produced the large cleaver and opened her throat. Lizzy sprang to her feet, still in the tub. Her hands gesticulated wildly and she wanted to scream but only a choked gasp arose from her mouth. Boadicea strode over, and with a powerful up-stroke buried the knife in mistresses’ crotch.
She put her knee in Hilton’s chest and hand on her mouth. It took some time for her to bleed out, tiny nanobots in her bloodstream, common to the wealthy, were capable of stopping blood-loss from fairly grave wounds. No matter, it would just take a little work, and she was no stranger to hard work. She gave the knife one last twist for good measure and smiled as her mistress’s eyes went glassy. Satisfied, she located the transponder in her neck with two fingers and set to removing it. Dangerous, but she couldn’t have cared less just then.
“Fuck it,” she said aloud.
* * *
Julian heard Natasha throwing-up in the bathroom, apparently she overfilled a bit last night. He set down his pad and went to keep his mate from drowning in the toilet.
We all are born of the far-flung debris
Of ancient lights that have gone from the night.
We and the trees, the rocks and the soil
All brothers brewed in a cosmic cauldron.
Sewn wide like seeds through the boundless reaches
And reunited by gravity’s hand,
We race our way along the expanse in
A seething tempest, too huge to be seen,
Until we tire and make our way home;
And then it is time to set out again. |
Submission Name: Iceni Queen 3--Homcomming
