Tasla looked up at the sound of the intercom. The link he shared with the rest of his Konsilia lighting up in the corner of his right eye lens.
"Did someone just try and hail them?" asked Ilias. His voice was deep and resonant, like a singer.
"Talk to me, Haris," said Sander. His voice was soft, but cold.
Haris's voice pounded through Tasla's headgear, the moron was still too cherry to control the volume on the control panel. "Enemy vessel closing in!" he boomed.
"Turn the volume down, stupid feka," growled Ilias.
"Sorry sir," said Haris, his voice normalized after a series of audible clicks.
"The enemy vessel?" said Sander.
"Class B Frigate," said Haris, "It's hailing me. I don't think they've figured out what we're doing yet."
"Good," said Sander, "Let's load up what we've got and get out of here. Spiro?"
"Sander?" came a gruff reply. Spiro always sounded like he had just woken up.
"Prep the goons for exit," said Sander
"Ready when you are," Spiro replied.
The link quieted as everyone went about his business. Tasla looked down at the kneeling hostages. The captain was staring at him. Her blue eyes glittered with anger. The targeting systems in his combat mask automatically marked angles of attack and scanned for weapons and threats. Lights flashed across his retinas. All the people kneeling on the floor tickled something inside him. He could feel it rising in his throat and tickling his fingertips.
Licking his lips behind his mask he drew his pistols. They slid out smooth and easy. Light glittered across them, every edge and rod on each weapon shone with oiled brilliance. An array of chants and symbols had been painstakingly carved across the handles and down the barrels then worked with brass. An indicator on the bottom right of his view screen flashed green. The ammo count flickered, begging to be used.
The hostages were all staring at him, eyes wide. This was the first time he had drawn his weapons since he and the others had boarded the ship. Sander and Ilias didn't like bloodshed if it could be avoided. The goons were intimidating enough to quash most thoughts of resistance. He glanced at Theta, it's chopper still frozen in the same position. Then he looked back at the captured crew.
"Captain Chara," he said, his mouth felt dry, "You and your crew will move up against that wall until my associates come through."
She obeyed, as did her crew, but slowly, so slowly. Tasla watched them move as every muscle begged for him to start pulling the triggers. He thought he could hear their heartbeats, blood pushing through their bodies with the rhythm of a beating drum. He both loved and loathed the sound. It echoed through his head and sent quivers of sensation down his nerve endings.
He leveled his pistols, the ammo count flickering for each one. The captives were all cowering against the wall, except the captain. She had too much pride to cower. She was afraid, but she hid it better. He looked from her beady eyes to her pale throat. He watched it move as she swallowed. Blood and fluids hid behind a thin layer of skin. The pumping hearts around him cascaded against his senses. He sucked in short breaths.
"Taking fire!" shouted Haris. His voice was accompanied by a shaking blast that crackled through the com link.
"Acknowledged," said Tasla, reluctantly lowering his pistols. He looked from the trembling crew to the hallway just in time to see Sander and Ilias round the corner. The Hoverlift they rode was carrying a massive flat of metal crates. It hummed as it moved forward slower than a man could walk.
"Haris!" Sander was shouting over the link. "Haris acknowledge! Is the bridge still open?"
Tasla slipped his guns back in their holsters. He took some deep breaths, allowing the rhythmic pumping in his hears to fade. Why had he drawn them? He hadn't needed to; the goons were all the intimidation he needed to get these chats to do what he wanted. One hand drifted to the amulet around his neck, a single metal bullet fastened to a collection of carved bones. He jerked his hand away.
"Thank you for your cooperation," he said to the lined up crew. "Theta is going to keep you company while I step away for a moment...I'll check the bridge, Sander," he said, turning. Without waiting for an affirmation, he ran to the edge of the ship to where they had cut an entry hole. The Tyrnium hull was blackened around the edges, parts of it were still glowing from the bridge torch. The sealed tube connecting the two ships was lit with flickering green lights.
Tasla stepped through. The bridge itself was relatively short and solid, built to withstand combat in deep space. It shook as he entered. Of course, nothing was really built to withstand deep space combat. He stepped from the bridge into the ship proper. The ship the Captain had renamed the Harlequin. Tasla walked through the one wide hallway, feeling the artificial gravity push against him. The Harlequin kept things heavier than other ships for some reason, one of the many idiosyncrasies Tasla and the crew had uncovered in time. A great web of lines and symbols and chants stretched across the floors and up the walls. Some of it was made with red and black paint; some was scratched with combat knives. Sounds vibrated against the solid walls and runic script. It was the noise of industry, grinding gears and shredding steel, spliced and mixed into a rhythm. It was almost enough to hide the beating hearts still pounding in his ears.
"Bridge is intact," he said making his way to the cockpit. The sounds, Spiro called it "music," followed him as he stepped across painted protection circles and dream wards.
"Where is Haris?" asked Sander.
"Finding out," said Tasla. He climbed up a set of stairs and walked down a narrow hallway. Panels of painted gray metal adorned every wall, floor and ceiling. He touched his hand to a rewired entry pad and watched one wall slide open. A sound like electrical feedback cut through the artificial atmosphere. For a moment he thought the com link was down, then it blended with a sound like a steel pipe being sawed in half, more music.
The ship shook from an impact as he walked inside, throwing him forward. He grabbed the pilot chair to break his fall and just barely kept his feet. The ship shook shortly thereafter from another blast. He gripped the control panel and the pilot chair to keep his balance. Haris was on the floor, blood pooling from his forehead. The scarlet puddle slowly spread across a collection of hexagonal protection chants scratched into the floor.
Tasla pressed a command into his combat suit and touched the collapsed pilot with a gloved hand. A readout of Haris's vitals scrolled across his vision.
"Bloody rucha," he muttered.
"Repeat," said Sander.
"Are you boarding yet?" asked Tasla.
"Boarding now."
"Come up to the cockpit," said Tasla scanning the control panel. It appeared that Haris had at least plugged in a defense algorithm before his demise. Tasla felt the softer shudders of Harlequin's cannons and laser arrays firing in a desperate rhythm. Then he was pitched forward again from a massive torpedo barrage as the primary shields flickered across the screen and died. Red lights began flashing across the ship as the secondary shields flared to life, but Tasla knew they wouldn't last long.
A transmission cut through the intercom and blared across the ship, granting a temporary release from Spiro's music.
"To the criminal element operating this stolen Syndicate vessel, in the interest of preserving a valuable piece of government property, we will give you one last chance to surrender and save your miserable lives. If your shields are not dropped in preparation for boarding in one standard minute, you will be annihilated. Countdown begins now."
"Thanks for the warning, bunch of scragging gadges" he muttered as his eyes scanned the control panel He pressed a couple of buttons to disengage Haris's defense algorithm. The ship was barely damaging their attacker anyway, it made no sense to him to lose a sixty second reprieve for another glancing shot. He looked up from the buttons and switches. Two screens with scrolling symbols and numbers blinked at him on either side of the control panel. He frowned at the seemingly random collection of data and turned as Sander rushed into the room.
"Why did you—?" Sander began, then he stopped. Looking down at Haris's limp body, he muttered, "Bloody rucha."
"Space is thin enough here for a jump," said Tasla, "The ship's already picking up code from the nearest hyperspace lane."
Sander pressed a release to pull off his black combat mask and helmet. His own amulet, so similar to Tasla's, shook back and forth under his neck, the silver bullet at the end glittered like a hateful eye. "The ship needs time to crunch the numbers."
"We're already on secondary shields," said Tasla, "and we have about twenty more seconds before they shred us."
"I suppose it's time for unthinkable options then," said Sander hitting the ship com link. "Spiro," he said.
"Sander?" Came the reply, also through the ship's com link.
"Could you be a gent and turn hyperspace navigation over to the Brain?" said Sander punching numbers into the main vid screen.
"That is a terrible idea," replied Spiro.
"I am asking nicely Spiro," said Sander, his hand hovered over the automated jump sequence.
"And turn down your scragging music," grunted Tasla. Sounds like splitting wires burned through his head. He thought it was his own heartbeat he was hearing now, loud and steady. He could almost feel the blood moving through his chest and forcing itself down the ends of his veins.
"Sander..." began Spiro, but he was cut off by a sudden impact. The ship shook violently, almost knocking Tasla and Sander to the floor. Haris's body slid to one side spreading more blood across the metal.
"Now Spiro!" shouted Sander.
A ringing blared through the com link and the slightly garbled voice of their tormentor blasted into the room: "This is Captain Alikan of the S.V. Tempest. Our scanners have informed me that several of you are, unfortunately, wanted alive..."
Another shot made the ship tremble, an icon on the main vid screen flashed red.
"He's disabled our targeting systems," said Tasla through clenched teeth. He glanced at a read-out of his own vitals flashing across his combat mask's vision screen.
"I see it," said Sander.
"Prepare for boarding action, but make no mistake. If you continue to resist, I will report your deaths as the unavoidable result of your own stupidity."
Tasla glanced at the other vid screens in the cockpit. Several boarding vessels were already being launched from the larger ship.
"That's fifty-sixty assault troopers at least," said Tasla. He felt a tickle run down his spine. His pistols were drawn before he had consciously made the decision. "They'll probably cut through over at the portside." Excitement glittered in the air like electricity.
His heartbeat was steadier and the pounding faded in his ears. He took a quivering breath.
"How long before they make contact?" asked Sander, still holding his hand over the buttons that initiated the jump sequence.
"Less than a minute," said Tasla, licking his lips. His body was aching to walk out the door, to be ready for the boarding action, but his training kept him still. Hairs prickled across his body. Nobody was walking away this time. He could feel energy and assurance slip through his veins like raw power. He smiled, almost unconsciously, behind his mask.
Sander lifted the end of his amulet to his lips and kissed it. "Better have done your job Spiro, you crippled chat," he said pressing six buttons in quick succession.
Instantly, all vid screens suddenly went black, leaving the passengers blind to everything outside their vessel. The two screens with scrolling data flashed blue and the ship's interior lights glowed bright white with the sudden influx of energy. A screech of mechanical and digital sounds split through the oxygen rich air.
"Inferopachina," said Tasla. He slipped his pistols back in their holsters as the whole ship started vibrating. The excitement, the vitality, flooding his system faded with each pump of his heart. A cold hollowness opened inside his chest. A lump rose in his throat as he reacted to the loss.
"Disappointed we didn't get our blaze of glory?" asked Sander, scanning the data screens where streams of numbers and symbols still scrolled, in contrast to the blackened vid screens behind them. The control panel flashed and lit read with the sudden autopilot takeover.
Tasla reached up and opened his mask and helmet with a hiss of pressure. He could feel the ship's vibrations rattling up through his bones. His heavy brow furrowed into a glare.
"We're trusting the Brain to bring us through hyperspace?" he asked, consciously avoiding Sander's question.
"I inserted our coordinates for the last time we jumped from Black Mary's. The Brain just has to get us there in one piece. We'll be fine," said Sander.
The ship shuddered at a sudden impact, and they both grabbed the walls as the ship veered wildly to one side.
"Unless the Brain decides to suicide the ship," said Tasla. He turned his green eyes to the flashing autopilot sign.
"I know the risks, and I didn't hear you raising any objections before," said Sander. The lights dimmed as the vibrations faded and the ship eased itself into hyperspace. More information scrolled across the screen approximating their time of arrival. The ship twisted again.
"I didn't think Spiro would agree to hooking up our half mad autopilot so fast," said Tasla. He clenched the handles of his holstered weapons to keep his hands from shaking, and to brace against another impact. "Supposed to be the voice of reason, the scrag," he muttered.
"It's done," said Sander, "We deal with the next problem, not the previous one."
Tasla worked his dry mouth to get some saliva back. His eyes slid to the data sliding across the vid screen. All the moving numbers and symbols were soothing in a way, like water trickling down a wall. He had some vague clarity as the pounding blood echoed against his head.
"Haven't been in a real fight for an age now, Sander," he said, "my fingers are itching, itching bad."
"That was sixty assault troopers coming after us, gent," said Sander, "and a whole Frigate full of more hell to rain down on us. We're not all dying so you can get a little blood on your hands, cuviche?"
Tasla nodded, his skin felt cold, as if all of the warmth in his veins had just been sucked out. "Yes sir," he said.
"Sir?" said Sander with a grin. "Are you drunk?"
"I wish," muttered Tasla. "What do you want to do with Haris?" he asked after a moment.
Sander glanced down at the dead pilot. A red pool had spread across most of the floor. Haris's beard was matted and dark with coagulating lifeblood.
"We'll intern him in one of the crypts at Black Mary's. Until then, let's take him down to cold storage."
He bent down and lifted the dead man over one shoulder. Arms and legs hung a couple feet from the floor against Sander's tall frame. Tasla backed out of the room as Sander carried the body out. More blood leaked onto the floor in steady stream of dark droplets.
"Maybe we should wrap him in something," said Tasla. He was cold enough now to almost shudder. He felt slower too, sluggish. His body had anticipated a rush of the combat cocktail built into his genetically altered body. Now he was paying the price.
"Like what?" asked Sander. "We used the last of the plastic a month ago on that smuggling job." He was almost to the stairs now. Tasla followed behind watching Haris's blood trail grow.
"What about his blankets?" asked Tasla.
Sander shook his head. "I want to save those for the next pilot."
The ship shook again.
"Bloody rucha!" hissed Tasla, "is the scragging Brain going to run into every rough patch in this scragging Hyperspace lane?"
"Still better than facing off against a Syndicate Frigate," said Sander.
Ilias stepped out from the room where he had stowed their swag, and watched them descend the stairs. "What's the chat you got there?" he asked moving for a better look. "Wait, is that Haris?"
"Yes," said Sander.
"What happened?" asked Ilias, stepping forward to take a closer look as they made their way across the largest room in the ship.
"Hit his head on the control panel," said Tasla.
Ilias barked a laugh. "That would be his way to go! Stupid crank," he said.
"Shouldn't make fun," said Sander. "He was part of our Konsilia."
"Eh. Speaking of the Konsilia," said Ilias stepping just ahead of them, "what's this I heard about having Spiro cut the Brain into navigating us through hyperspace?"
"As I already explained to Tasla," said Sander stepping up to the door to the cold storage room. "We were facing certain death...or capture followed by torture and certain death." He pressed his hand against the door and it slid open. "I took the third option."
"And if a bit of debris materializes in the stardrive when we phase back into realspace? Or into one of us?" asked Ilias.
Sander dropped Haris's body on the frost-covered floor. "Well Ilias, if it gets in the stardrive, it will probably go critical, killing us all. If it gets into one of us, then the unlucky scrag will get to come down here and keep Haris company." He stepped out of the room and the door sealed itself behind him.
"What are you planning on doing with him?" asked Ilias.
"We'll intern him at Black Mary's. We owe him that much," said Sander.
Tasla watched him head back to the stairs. He shuddered involuntarily and folded his arms.
"What's the matter with you?" asked Ilias.
"Craving some action," said Tasla, "was all ready for a ride when the assault troopers were coming. Now it's turning me cold."
Ilias nodded. His dark face set in a grim kind of fraternal concern. "You want to go a few rounds in the cage?" he asked.
Tasla shook his head. "I've some bliss left. It should take the edge off." He turned away as Ilias patted him on the back. His stomach felt twisted. He walked towards the door to his quarters. The lights flickered around him, making everything go dark for a few seconds.
"Scragging Hyperspace," he grumbled, pressing his hand against the door. His voice felt dry and cracked, like peeled skin left in the sun. He stepped over to his repurposed medical robot arm. Gnawing on his tongue, he pulled a syringe from a canister at its base and slipped it into the mechanical hand. Metal digits closed gently against the plastic base of the syringe. The clear liquid glittered.
Tasla took a seat on his cot and waited as the robot arm scanned his body. This took several agonizing seconds. He had tried to get Spiro to bypass this particular protocol but the cripple claimed he had better things to do. Tasla tore off the upper pieces of his combat suit and waited. He had programmed this next part of the process himself, to perfection.
The thin needle slid into his arm. His heightened physiology struggled unsuccessfully to seal the tiny wound. A thin spurt of dark blood clouded the clear fluid in the syringe. Tasla watched it, licking his lips. Mechanical digits pressed down on the plunger, slowly sending his last score of Bliss into his body. First, his vein turned ice cold, and that ice spread up his arm. Pain and numbness warred in his bloodstream. He shivered, and waited. The ice stabbed into his heart and then...
Pain and numbness disappeared and ecstatic euphoria exploded through his body. He shook as sensation danced across his skin. Colors flashed across his vision. The world, the universe, fell beneath him. He rose up and up. Lights sparkled around him showering him with sensation. Gone were notions of pain and joy, there was only intensity. He was at the edge of death, and peace, and power. Strength shivered through him.
Colors blended and he fell from warped reality into the past. He fell into a jungle teeming with killers and death. Totems made from skinned skulls hung from burnt trees. Genetically engineered warriors with red paint on their faces hunted an inhuman species through the curling tree shadows. They looked at him with haunted eyes and teeth dripping with saliva.