Syndicate's Pawns (8 page)

 

CHAPTER 10

DOMIANT

The Elvrids are the prime voices of the Living Green. They are the wisdom that guides and heals. It is not a duty to be taken lightly. The Elvrids are sages, medicine men and women with an uncanny connection to the worlds they visit. An Elvrid can easily recognize an edible plant from poison. They have been known to predict with almost remarkable precision the outcome of events, wars and even the coming of storms. Theirs is an incredibly secretive and sacred position of power. To this day, none know the exact nature of the trials undergone by Elvrid apprentices or what is done to those who fail.

—­From
Incredible Secrets of the Cosmos,
vol 213,
SSM 04 1439 A2E

20th of SSM–11 1445 A2E

D
omiant eagerly drummed his fingers on the clasp of his belt buckle. The fine polished stone rings on all fingers made a slight clinking sound as he did this, which he found relaxing. The deal was done and for all intents and purposes, the trap was set. Within a few hours Domiant would set foot on the
Jinxed Thirteenth
once more, only this time it would be HIS ship. He had not just planned it, but foreseen it as well.

“We are receiving a message, sir,” Jerkol Loc said, his voice dripping with a nervousness that was somehow matched by his smell.

“Well, respond to it.”

Loc flipped a switch by his armrest. When he did this his filthy sleeves pulled up and Domiant noticed that the pilot's wrists were bruised and rubbed raw beneath his shackles. Jerkol Loc would soon be due for a cleaning and a bit of treatment or else there was a good chance his “pet pilot,” as Domiant and Sopherim had come to call him, was going to lose a hand due to infection.

“This is Captain Morwyn Soltaine to the crew of the
Althena
. Niko has boarded the
Jinxed Thirteenth
and is delivering your cargo. You have the Covenant's deepest gratitude, safe journeys to you all.” The voice of that privileged Paxist pup of a captain could be heard.

It had taken all of Domiant's considerable training to mask the sheer contempt he felt toward Morwyn Soltaine. The man was sharp; hardly Domiant's equal, but not to be underestimated. Nepotism aside, no man that young became ship's captain without having some sort of natural aptitude for the task.

“You are more than welcome, Captain Morwyn Soltaine. May you forever evade the Huntress,” Domiant replied before nodding at Jerkol Loc to cut off communications.

There was a heavy silence in the cockpit of the
Althena
. Domiant pulled his wrist to his nose; he was wearing a plain brown beaded bracelet. Inside the hollowed-­out beads were micro doses of psilocybin powder. Taken in large amounts they produced a euphoric buzz; in small controlled doses, however, it would allow him to think more clearly. The powder stung at his nostrils as he snorted it. He lowered his wrist and intently observed his prey from the comfort of the
Althena
's cockpit. The snare had been set. Now came the crucial part—­would his prey step into it? And what a snare Domiant had set. Right now Niko was smuggling Mikali, Zanza and Sopherim onto the
Jinxed Thirteenth
inside the crates with their parts.

Mikali had assured him that no scanners would be able to detect them until it was far too late. Although Domiant was not too sure about how true that was. There was no way of really knowing what security countermeasures were in place on the
Jinxed Thirteenth
.

During their little guided tour, Niko, who had almost blown their cover, had been filming and transmitting everything he saw back to Mikali on the
Althena
. He had been essential in finding out how many active crew members they would have to deal with and from what the man had gathered, this task would be beyond simple. Other than the young Captain Morwyn and his cloner pilot, there was a young Wolver Woman, the Machina Chord, an elderly doctor, a sickly Thegran woman and the two machinists.

None of them seemed all that ready for combat, and if Domiant's pieces played their part, the
Jinxed Thirteenth
would be captured crew and ship intact, as per his mother's instructions. Although there was something that Domiant could not help but question.

He could feel the effects of the powder kicking in as he pondered, what had brought the
Jinxed Thirteenth
to this sector of End Space? It surely could not have been a rescue operation as there was no ship or station debris to be detected. Following that question was just who or what had damaged the
Jinxed Thirteenth
in the first place?

All of this was irrelevant when faced with the main query: what was stashed away on the ship that could warrant so brazen a job and such a huge payday? While his mother had little love for the Covenant, she was not one to openly engage with its agents.

“Kill one bee and deal with the hive later” was a saying Ynarra Kuaro had commonly used about disposing of nagging lawmen. And while Domiant felt no great love for his mother, this did not prevent him from recognizing the wisdom in her words.

If there was one concern he had, it was sending Niko onto the
Jinxed Thirteenth
unsupervised and trusting he would not break cover until the time was right. Niko had been none too pleased at being forced to do the heavy lifting portion of this job rather than what he anticipated would be a violent takeover of the ship. But Domiant saw little wisdom in using a tool of destruction when the surgeon's knife would do just as well.

Domiant secretly hoped that a member of Captain Soltaine's crew would get lucky and put Niko down like the rabid dog on a chain that he was. There was something about him that Domiant found positively repulsive. This, and the term was loosely used when applied to Niko, man was an abomination with skills and abilities that stemmed from having sacrificed his natural body for unnatural mechanized gifts. There was nothing true or earned about Niko's confidence.

Augments or no, Domiant knew for a fact that the lowest Blade Dancer apprentice on Uldur would make short work of the likes of Niko Taem in a one-­on-­one fight. The Living Green willing, perhaps Ynarra Kuaro would order Sopherim to dispose of him.

The thought must have brought a smile to Domiant's face, because Jerkol Loc gave him a quizzing look. “What has got you so happy, boss?”

“The thought of us never having to deal with Niko again once this job is done, mister Loc.” Domiant took in a deep breath and turned his attention back to the view screen. Both he and Jerkol observed the Gas Giant they had been orbiting in sweet silence.

It took but three breaths for Domiant to grow restless. He needed data, information, anything to occupy his mind whilst he waited. “Mister Loc, bring up the footage that Niko sent us.”

Loc did as he was ordered and semitranslucent holographic still pictures of the current crew on the
Jinxed Thirteenth
appeared above the control board. Among the footage were shots of the corridors and cargo bay. “Mister Loc, what are those?” Domiant pointed to a floating image of the storage bay. There were two cylindrical tubes, ancient looking and lettered in an alphabet that Domiant did not recognize.

Loc licked his dry lips. “I can't be too certain, boss, but those look to me to be . . . sleeper tubes. And if I'm not mistaken the alphabet is . . . Late Modern.”

“Now that IS interesting.” Late Modern was the language of Ancient Humanity, a tongue that had died along with the ancestors of the Humanis. Domiant tapped an ivory-­white ring on his left pinkie finger; the silver plane fox was etched into it to invoke wisdom and cunning.

“You have been most helpful, mister Loc.” That was a significant piece of the puzzle, as the relics of Ancient Humanity would indeed be worth quite a bit to an avid collector. Still not enough to warrant the mission, but Domiant felt like these old sleeper tubes were important parts of the puzzle.

“Do they still work?”

Loc looked at the tubes for a long moment then scratched his head. “I don't know, boss. From the looks of it, yeah. I mean, Ancient Human tech was built to last.”

“That is most helpful. Thank you, mister Loc.”

Jerkol Loc was taken aback by the simple polite recognition of his efforts. He gave Domiant a confused look. “I was just glad I could help.”

“Loc, I need to see the images of the active crew.” Loc did as he was ordered and semitranslucent holographic still pictures of the current crew on the
Jinxed Thirteenth
appeared before him, like the faces of that many ghosts.

Jerkol Loc looked to the images then back to Domiant. “What is this all about?”

Domiant ignored Loc completely as he closely examined the pictures projected before him. It would be a few hours before he could safely board the
Jinxed Thirteenth
once more. Normally he would never have given the sleeper tubes a second thought; any other vessel would have collected these relics as salvage. But the Covenant's patrol ships were law enforcement and rescue. A man like Morwyn Soltain would never have found himself here in the depths of End Space on something so vulgar as a salvage operation. No, the only thing that might have brought him here was a search and rescue.

Domiant lit up as a thought dawned on him. Something ludicrous and perhaps even impossible, but which offered him a plausible reason as to both the
Jinxed Thirteenth
's reason for being here and the incredible payday for this operation: one of the waking members of the crew was the valuable cargo. An old sleeper tube was worthless, but a preserved and possibly living Ancient Human? Well, that was something different altogether.

 

CHAPTER 11

PHAËL

The Living Green is a spiritual practice that worships the entire cosmos as a living breathing being. Thus one would think that there is little deity worship. The Living Green, however, is an old path, reaching back to the days when the Humanis were all enslaved on Earth by the Pontifex. Over the course of several millennia not only have several deities been raised into the pantheon of the Living Green, but also they are commonly invoked by both Elvrids and practitioners alike. The most popular of these death deities is Sanio-­Lo-­Ha, the Great Huntress or “she who comes for all.” Many Wolvers believe that the Huntress brings all spirits to the Great Beyond. None may escape her, and those who do will often be considered to have a greater purpose. Her name is also invoked for good luck. “May the huntress always miss you” is a common saying amongst Wolvers of Uldur.

—­From
Spirit Paths of the Infinite
by Thalus Dru,
12th of SSM–10 1415A2E

20th of SSM–11 1445 A2E

“W
olvers are all really flex. Are you a flex girl?” The man named Niko gave Phaël a disgusting look. And had she not been explicitly ordered by Captain Morwyn to be polite, she would doubtless have made it a point to break all the teeth in his mouth.

“This unit thanks you for the company.” Despite Chord's best attempts there was no livening Phaël's spirits. She could not shake the feeling that something was off. The hair on the back of her neck had been up from the moment she had met Niko. This feeling was one that had saved her life on several occasions.

Captain Morwyn and the Captain of the
Althena
, a pampered Uldur cubling if Phaël had ever laid eyes on one, had come to a trade agreement. Chord had examined the crates and their cloner pilot had scanned them. All the crates had come out clean. Phaël had read the lowering of everyone's guard when machinists Oran and Kolto had seen their spare parts and immediately set about going back to repairing the ship. Even Morwyn had visibly relaxed.

Fools who never had to hunt for their own food or build their own shelter in the wilds of the cosmos were often blinded by what appeared to be good fortune. Phaël knew countless tricks in the wild to lure in one's prey. One such trick, like the many carnivorous plants Phaël had seen throughout her life, was to present the prey with exactly what it wanted. All sense of preservation often vanished when given what one needed most.

“It would have been wiser to wait for our own to aid us.” Phaël eyed the metallic gray crates Chord was pushing on a lift toward the storage bay.

“Sure thing, flex girl. And you could all just die here,” Niko interjected.

Chord did not pause and carried on with its present task. “What would you have proposed as an alternative, Private Phaël?”

“Living Green give me patience to deal with your metal kind, Machina Chord.” Phaël threw her hands up in frustration. “We wait patiently and silently for our fellow Covenant Agents to come to us.”

“The merchant vessel
Althena
had all of its papers in order.” Chord was clearly trying not to offend Niko as they all stopped in front of the cargo hold's door.

How I hate that Machina's damned protocols.

“I've seen many a lizard look the part of the bird before snatching eggs from the nest,” she told Chord in Wolven.

“Hey, you two, stick to PaxCom!” As to be expected, Niko did not speak Wolven.

Thankfully Chord replied to her in Wolven as well. “This unit does not grasp your meaning.”

“It means that this whole affair smells far too good for my comfort,” Phaël snarled over the sound of the storage bay doors sliding open. The Green be blessed she would give anything to be back in the familiar surrounding of a forest with a sky above her rather than being encased in this soulless metal box adrift in the endless cosmos.

“Seft Sister Phaël has been right before.” Phaël had noticed the Machina always did this whenever it seemed to think that clear communication was needed. Like a living child, Chord was capable of absorbing information and learning. The thought was difficult for Phaël to swallow. The teachings of the Living Green were quite adamant and had maintained since their beginnings that the Machina were in no way alive.

“I fucking told you both to stick with PaxCom!”

“Good to see you've realized that much, Machina Chord.” She flashed a sharp-­toothed grin, ignoring Niko's outburst altogether.

“You two done accusing me of being a criminal?” Niko's nostrils were flaring, enraged.

Chord wheeled the crates into the middle of the storage bay and methodically started to unload them onto the floor. “Would it offer you comfort if this unit reexamined the crates before securing them?”

Phaël looked off to the side, took a deep breath and rubbed down the hairs on the back of her neck. “Yes, yes it would.” She walked over to Chord's side as the Machina prepared to open the first of the three crates.

Before either of them could do anything, there was a compartmentalized hiss, and Phaël looked to Niko as two blaster pistols popped out of his wrists and into his hands. He raised his blasters and opened fire on them both. Phaël was quick to roll onto the floor, avoiding the blaster fire, and looked to the ceiling. The black orbs that were the ship's inteli-­cams were now motionless. Phaël cursed; no one on the main bridge was witnessing any of this.

Phaël's ears twitched as she heard the lid to the crate behind her pop open, accompanied by soft stalking steps quickly coming toward her. Phaël glanced over her shoulder and barely had time to roll away as a sharpened blade narrowly whizzed past her shortened ear.

Chord was looking to their two attackers. “Phaël, you must flee at—­” A blue beam fired from beneath the second crate struck Chord in the chest, cutting off its next word abruptly as the Machina went stiff and dropped to the floor with a loud thud.

Phaël had very little time to react as a shape, clearly a Wolver woman, lunged at her. Her new attacker was wearing hand-­crafted laminate armor in lacquered purple with gold leaves traced along its edges. The woman slashed at Phaël with a long two-­handed sword. The air hissed where Phaël had once been as she rolled away and back onto her feet.

Huntress hump her silly, like a little cubling she had left her knives in her quarters. And here she was now facing off against two foes. The armored Wolver paused for a moment and from beneath the ornate face guard of her helmet, fashioned in the likeness of a snarling wolf, a pair of golden eyes coldly sized her up.

From the corner of her eye, Phaël could see Niko lowering his two blaster pistols at her. “Time to end you, flex girl.”

The Blade Dancer raised her hand and Niko paused. “You are trained,” the woman said, her voice cold and void of emotion.

“As are you.” Phaël took a step, trying to prevent herself from being surrounded. As she did, another one of the crates opened up, revealing another woman, this one stout, and wearing a patchwork of what appeared to be various different scavenged pieces of plastic armor. She was holding a short black machine pistol in her hand. Her face was covered by a helmet with an array of various eyepieces and antennae, which made her look like a humanoid insect. A heavy satchel hung at her side.

“I've never faced the Blade Dancer who needed a lackey to do their fighting before,” Phaël quipped at the swordswoman, hoping to get under her foe's skin. If she lost her temper, maybe she would rush her, which would give Phaël a chance to best and disarm her.

Phaël had no such luck as the Blade Dancer sheathed her blade. “I recognize your inbred accent, Adoran-­born. Your blood is unworthy of staining my blade.”

The stout woman pointed the barrel of her machine pistol at Phaël. “A pity for both of you then that you won't be testing your skills today.” The woman looked past Phaël, who realized now that there was a fourth person moving in behind her.

Before she could turn and react, there was a burning sting in Phaël's lower back. Her limbs went limp as she fell to the ground, unable to move. She turned her head to the side only to see the fourth and final attacker, this one covered in a long black robe. Gecko-­like eyes with serrated pupils looked her over. The robed woman held an obsidian stick with a silver ring at its tip. The woman with the reptilian eyes tied Phaël's hands together and her world became a mix of blurs and echoes.

Phaël could dimly make out Niko pulling out bits and pieces of crimson battle armor from the crates and donning it piece by piece until he finally encased his head and face behind a faceless crimson helmet with a grinning skull painted on it. He pointed to Phaël with one of his heavy gauntleted fists.

“I'm gonna come back for you, flex girl. Promise you that.” He quickly and deftly assembled a heavy-­looking Thegran-­built auto-­carbine. Phaël had seen many Thegran Adoran-­born mercenaries favor it for its heavy munitions capacity and stopping power.

“Quickly, Mikali,” the sword woman said impatiently.

“Patience, Sopherim, you hateful dog, I'll have control over the Machina shortly,” came the grating reply of the gun woman.

“Before we secure the ship, do we get to know what the precious cargo is?” Niko looked to Sopherim, who merely returned his stare in silence. “Bah, to the cold void with you, mutt.”

Mikali suddenly let out a whoop accompanied by a hateful cackle as Chord twitched and slowly got back up. Both she and Niko exchanged a fist bump. “I'm now the proud new owner of a Machina puppet.”

“We have little time to waste. All four of us have a goal. I shall see to mine.” The reptilian woman's voice was barely a hissed whisper. Phaël saw the three women, accompanied by Niko and Chord, stepping away from her, past the cargo bay doors and into the ship's hall. But not before the reptile woman gave her another burning shock of the stunstick for good measure. The Huntress had proven Phaël right again. If the circumstances had been different, she might have even been thankful for it. Darkness was soon welcomed.