The Chase (Huntress of the Star Empire Episodes 1-3) Read online

  His eyesight had healed, thanks to cybernetic implants and many surgeries, but his ability to see the patterns—a minor gift he had attributed to an analytical mind, had remained enhanced. That ability led him to where he was today.

  He rose from the desk and moved to the center of the room. The pattern he saw now told him there was a weakness. A divergence point in the pattern of order spreading out from the Capitol to the outer orbits of the star system. The data streaming past him on the wall—news, security briefings, reports from economic markets, his own pre-recorded Morning Address to the adherents of what they called the “New Morality” but what he simply referred to as common sense—nothing specific jumped out at him, but he would not dismiss the nagging feeling that the pattern was about to shift.

  Administrative duties momentarily distracted him, as his android concierge chimed. “Prime Minister, the Parliamentary committee session has concluded. Inter-Orbital Transportation has voted two hundred forty-seven to thirty-two in favor of Jumpgate interdiction for the Amalian orbit, and has authorized funding for the evacuation of the lunar settlements that exist on the second moon of Ursis Amalia.”

  Vakess felt a tremor go through him. Ursis Amalia was the psypath “homeworld.” Although its residents had come from all the Civilized Worlds at one time, the monastic order’s ancestral home was on the lush and humid main continent banding the world’s equatorial region. When the Marauders had come, they’d firebombed the Capitol. Their dreadnaughts had emerged like ghosts through the Jumpgates of a dozen different Civilized Worlds and attacked. But at Ursis Amalia, the Marauder dreadnaught did nothing. The behavior was puzzling and soon enough, suspicious. It wasn’t too great a leap to believe that the psypaths were somehow communicating with the Marauders, and from there, the rumors grew more persistent.

  “Excellent. Have we heard word back from Riktor regarding our efforts to get them to police their own damn criminal element?”

  “No, Prime Minister. The Riktorian ambassador has repeated her assurances that steps are being taken.”

  “Right.” Steps were being taken in a dance that circled them around each other. The Riktor orbit possessed a hub Jumpgate, capable of reaching many points in the solar system, and stubbornly refused additional security measures for transits to Union space. “Cut back exports of Guerran power crystals to Riktor. Replace them with chemical engines. If our talks stall, let their starships stall as well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Even blinded, Vakess wielded influence from the early days of rebuilding. As one of the surviving members of Parliament, he’d been sought out for procedural purposes, but it was his ability to make those critical decisions quickly that enabled people to begin rebuilding.

  In those chaotic days after the attack, when reports of attacks on orbits further out had begun trickling in, the people clamored for someone to be in charge. Vakess didn’t need to see to make decisions, and in the midst of shell-shock and bewildered grief, his voice had emerged, clear and strong. He knew there was a connection between Marauders and psypaths, and the targets of the Marauders hadn’t been random. He also knew that the Civilized Worlds did not have the might or the technology to strike back at the Marauders, so he set out to make his system safe from them.

  Sometimes, he doubted his own direction. Late at night, in the quiet of his own mind, the words of his mother before he banished her haunted him. This security you seek is unattainable, my son. It asks too much.

  In his waking hours, he dismissed the doubts. The clear focus of the unordered mind, untainted by corruptive influences of vice and selfish pursuit, was a surprisingly popular philosophy before the smoke cleared, and with the help of new organizations like Special Affairs, and the New Morality, gained a foothold after the smoke had cleared, too.

  The concierge chimed again. “Sir, Vox Unificus is here to see you.”

  Vakess rose. “Send him in.”

  A seam in the wall opened into a doorway, through which Vox Unificus, also known as the Director of Special Affairs, entered. “Good morning, Prime Minister. Today’s address inspired many.”

  Vakess inhaled deeply. It was always something of a shock to see the Director at first. Vakess had met him in the hospitals right after the attack. His ID said he’d been a bio-engineer visiting from one of the frontier orbits in a minor political capacity. But like so many wounded in the attacks, his injuries had been extensive. So extensive that he was almost three-quarters cyborg. Half his skull had needed replacing, along with part of his spine and two limbs. But the man refused to have synthaskin grafted over the cybernetics, and the result sometimes terrified people not expecting it. Vakess expected it, but it still gave him the occasional shock.

  And the electronic reverberation in Vox’s voice made his back teeth itch, though he would never admit it. “Good morning, Director. I trust your department’s forces are performing at peak efficiency?”

  The Director nodded. “Just so. I have welcome news. You have seen the morning intelligence briefings?”

  “Yes, they were in the porridge.” The Director’s single biological eye met his with more blankness than the cybernetic one. “Nevermind.” Vakess’ occasional attempts at levity were something he needed to work on, he knew. Obstacles to true enlightenment the same way the flashes of anger, desire, or sadness were.

  “I’ve recalled the remaining Vice Hunters. All four should be in the Capitol in three system standard days.”

  He knew it was a mistake to ask, but did so anyway. “Treska?”

  This time, even the Director’s ‘borg eye was expressive. “The Huntress is en route with her quarry secured. The Needle’s Eye transmitted paperwork a few hours ago.”

  “Where did she finally run him down?”

  “Tenraye, Prime Minister. It will take her a few Jumps to get back.”

  Something ticked at the back of his mind. “Tenraye? Isn’t that—”

  “An insignificant agricultural world in the mid orbits, not far from the frontier, with a declining population and a dying economy, thanks to their refusal to alter their export goods to suit the New Union’s needs. The orbit is a security risk. You authorized a garrison there several standard months back.”

  Vakess frowned. “Tenraye grew grapes. For wine.” He shook his head. “No wonder. Their entire economy is based around a vice that weakens people’s minds.”

  The Director nodded. “Making them susceptible to abuse from psypaths.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we’ve detained the last one. Maybe the Tenrayans can start up their wine production again with the threat gone.”

  Tiny hydraulic servos whirred as the Director turned his head sharply to catch Vakess in his laser-eyed gaze. “I do not think that would be wise, Prime Minister. Mind-altering substances interfere with the unified sense of purpose the people need to defend ourselves against another Marauder attack.”

  The empathy for the people on the struggling world subsided. “Of course,” he said. “Sacrifices must be made. We must adapt to our new environments, or risk annihilation once more.” A twinge twisted his gut in anticipation—or trepidation. “Is she protected? Is Treska safe from her prisoner?” The sense of shift in patterns refused to be quelled, even with the assurance that the plan to neutralize the psypaths was coming to fruition. After all, there were a lot of Jumps between Tenraye and the Capitol.

  “The Huntress is well-trained. Her devotion is unquestionable.” The Director’s voice, in spite of the electronic burr, turned soothing. “Remember. She is our greatest triumph.”

  Subconscious Entanglements

  Treska didn’t remember leaving the piloting couch, but she stood in the main hold. The lights were dimmed for Jumpspace, yet she could see Micah perfectly. He hung motionless in his repulsor cuffs, looking innocent and as oblivious as any other bit of cargo in the hold. Yet she knew he was anything but. Her eyes wanted to slide to his pants, to see if—she jerked her gaze away and looked at his hands instead. The repulsor cuffs
held them suspended above his head in a most uncomfortable position for a reason.

  The sleeves of his tunic had fallen back, exposing his bare arms. His forearms were dusted with golden-brown hair, and the muscles on his upper arms stood out in contrast thanks to the awkward position.

  There’s a certain beauty in a man’s body, she thought. His clothes were loose—native pants and a wide-sleeved tunic cut for movement rather than form-fitting. She’d taken his weatherall cloak off when she first hauled him aboard. Altogether, his clothing had hidden his form well—when tracking him, she would have had little idea as to how built he was underneath all those layers. She could easily have underestimated him or passed over him entirely if her hunting senses hadn’t gone off.

  He wasn’t bulky. Not thick, like high-gravity Treemians naturally were, or built through bio-enhancements and training. He was more like the Mauw, the felinoids who called faraway Xanadu their home. It wasn’t, really, any more than Treemia was the home of the Treemians, or any of the inner orbits were home to the humans or the human-variant races like the Hathori. Everyone’s legends held similar threads—they’d all come to the orbits of the Jewel from faraway worlds whose names no one could remember. Primitive legends like the Vultrons’ ancestors in the skies and the Hathori goddess, who exiled herself with her people, threaded the lore of the worlds in the star system. Along with more logical ones, like the Union’s accepted origin of humans—their ancestors came from the skies as well, and must have been primitive versions of the modern colonists spreading out into the frontier orbits. Like the Mauw, whose stories spoke of a bright star that swallowed the world, but spat out the Mauw for being indigestible. Much like the Mauw coughed up the indigestibles in their native diet.

  Mauw didn’t favor the inner orbits, though. She’d only ever encountered half a dozen in her journeys, but they were all tall and sinewy and sleek, and their fur looked so very touchable that she risked a visit from the Voice every time she’d been in the presence of one. Now she risked another visit from the Voice, looking at Micah’s body.

  He ought not to have a tunic on at all, she thought. There should be nothing to hide the way those muscles would stretch taut under the stress of the cuffs. If she closed her eyes, she could see so clearly—right down to the shadows between his shoulder blades.

  When the body is under exertion, even the lightest touches are experienced with great sensitivity. A tenet from her interrogation training. But...I don’t remember a female instructor for that...

  She opened her eyes in surprise at the familiar weight of a laserblade in her hand. The small utility tool hummed quietly and she stared down in astonishment.

  “Mindsnake!” she hissed aloud, and powered down the tool, clipping it back on her belt where it belonged. But the steady green of the LED on the neuro-collar belied her accusation. She had no memory of taking the laserblade, or of even coming into the main hold. That’s it. I’m having a vision.

  She thought she’d return to the place with the pretty fabrics and the plush pillows and the breeze that tickled her skin. She glanced down to find herself dressed in her usual uniform of comfortably form-fitting reinforced trousers, therma-skin shirt, and her hide jacket that was as much of an indulgence as she allowed herself, besides her boots, which were the most valuable equipment she owned—since technically, the Needle’s Eye belonged to Special Affairs. Good boots didn’t come through every Jumpgate.

  At least in this hallucination, she still had her clothes.

  His shoulders tightened with a deep breath and she tensed, thinking he’d woken up. And caught her looking. But his head simply lolled to one side and his eyes stayed closed, fluttering behind his eyelids.

  Tentatively, she reached up and brushed her fingertip against the hollow where his bicep flexed. Warm, and hard, yet flexible. Alive. He jumped in my hand when I touched him. She shook her head. Fevered imaginings. Space-sickness. Inhib-resistance. All viable explanations for her crazy behavior. The sooner she cashed in his bounty at the Capitol, the better.

  He drew in another unconscious breath when her finger stroked the line of his muscle. Fascinating, the response.

  The laserblade was in her hand again before she knew it. Don’t think. Thinking would bring the Voice. She touched the blade to the fabric of his tunic. One long swipe from his throat and down. The laser split his tunic with a quiet hiss.

  Under the arms next. The cutter’s light beam sizzled through the folds of fabric with a bit more difficulty on the first arm. It was on his right arm where she made her mistake. The tunic slid, having lost purchase by virtue of its seams, and at the last inch or so of his sleeve, the blade grazed his flesh, just underneath his armpit.

  His body went as taut as a spacedock tether. A low cry escaped his lips and his head went from resting on his shoulder to flung straight back. Shock and horror at her misstep warred with odd, detached fascination for the line of his body under duress.

  His eyes opened and a pale blue glow sparked in them—psypath!—before his body jerked again, this time from the high-pitched whine of the neuro-collar.

  The cutter dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers as he groaned in pain. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to her lips as if she could suck back the careless slip.

  “I’d heard—” he gasped between heavy breaths, “—that Vice Hunters did not—ahh!” He sucked in a hard breath through his teeth. “—torture—their bounties.”

  What had she done? This was a dream, wasn’t it? A Jumpspace hallucination, and she was safely in the piloting couch. “No! I wasn’t torturing you, I swear it!” Not even a mindsnake would deserve that kind of brutality. She made herself look at the way his body shook with fine tremors. “It was an accident. I—” But sympathy for the prey was a weakness. A lesson she’d learned well and thoroughly. “You tried to use your mindsnake powers on me! You would have attacked me with your mind!” The refuge she found in anger felt a bit too thin.

  “I would have defended myself against someone I believed was attempting to eviscerate me.” He drew himself up as best as he could within the confines of the manacles. “There’s a slight but significant difference of perspective, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I was just—” Cutting your clothes off to see what you look like underneath them. “I thought this was a Jump-dream.” She was interrupted from further conversation—argument—by a loud growl coming from his midsection.

  A slight flush stained his cheeks. He raised an eyebrow at her scrutiny. “Even a mindsnake has to eat,” he said, with as much of a shrug as the cuffs would allow. “You insist you don’t torture. Do you starve?”

  “No,” she said curtly, crossing to the galley cabinets. As a multi-purpose area, the cargo hold also functioned as a galley, complete with a small cryo-unit, reconstitutor, and heating unit, all hidden within access panels along the short wall which folded out to create a worktable. “At least, not technically.”

  She pulled nutrient cubes from the cryo and popped them into the reconstitutor. For all the good that did. They emerged looking much as they did before, only slightly larger. Heating didn’t help, either. Now they simply sat in the heater slot, steaming slightly. “It’s food.”

  “The very fact that you have to identify it as such doesn’t bespeak much to its value.” His tone was as flat as the cubes were sure to taste, even reconstituted and hot.

  “They have all the nutrients required for a human or near-human body to survive a full diurnal cycle.”

  “So does the swamp sludge on Ligelis Six, but they’re not exporting it on purpose.”

  It was a little unsettling to think of him as having a sense of humor. It made it a lot more difficult to reconcile the cuffed man before her—whose slender build, she realized, likely came just as much from malnourishment as it did genetics—with the nightmare bogeymen his kind were known to be.

  Psypaths made slaves of ordinary folk. Their telepathic traits allowed them unfettered access to your mind.
They could steal your innermost thoughts, your will, and even the control over your body if they so desired. Unless you had a neuro-collar and heavy-duty tranks.

  “These won’t gum up your ship’s hydraulics.” She peered down at the quivering cubes. “At least, I don’t think so. And they smell better than Ligellian swamp sludge.” She looked up, reminding herself that he was her prisoner, but she didn’t have to feed him. All she had to do was deliver him, alive, to the government center on Capitol. They never specified what condition he had to be in. “They have all that’s required to keep you alive,” she said. “Which is all I care about.”

  “They may have all that’s required…unless one requires taste and texture,” he said. “Did you know that the planet we just left used to be known for its dining?”

  She hadn’t, and she didn’t care. “A planet of chefs. Big whoop.”

  “Vintners, actually. Tenrayan wines were known throughout the galaxy as the finest and most flavorful. There are thousand year-old grapevines on some of the older estates.”

  “Liquor’s illegal,” she said automatically. “It’s in the list of prohibited vices. Vices compromise the safety of the Union.” She stopped herself before she listed the New Morality’s whole litany. Sometimes that was hard to do. When the Voice took over, uttering the lessons she’d learned in the past decade, she wanted to let the words wash over her and wash away all her doubts. But it made for lousy conversation, and sometimes people looked at her funny.

  “Yes,” he said. “I know. That’s why Tenraye is a ghost planet. The wine production stopped, leaving the estates unable to support themselves. Most are abandoned now, and the workers have become vagrants or junk dealers.”