Ann Aguirre

Nicu Tertius, late summer
The air was thick with clotting blood, the ground a morass of churned mud. Blueflies droned in the distance, laying eggs in the corpses of men he’d called comrade. This plan had been doomed from the beginning, and if he owned anything like a conscience, he’d have told the soft little Nicuan nobleman where he could stuff his credits because clearly he already had his head wedged up there.

Instead he’d checked his accounts to make sure he received his money and then obeyed orders, no matter how stupid they were. That was why he and a handful of his men lay pinned atop this hill, having failed to take the property their employer wanted sacked. Success or failure; it was all the same to March. He got paid regardless, as he never took a job without money up front.

The only time he worked on down payment was if his employers gave him complete latitude. If they didn’t care how he got the job done, then he could give them a little financial leeway. On Nicu Tertius, that didn’t happen much. These empire-bred pussies were all convinced they were the next great military genius, and only needed one good battle to prove it. They didn’t care they were sacrificing real soldiers to test their half-assed theories.

Of the forty men he’d led to the Ja-Win estate, only five remained: Buzzkill, Ringo, Surge, Vikram, and Franken. Faces smeared with blood and Thermud, they looked to him for guidance, so March took stock of their situation. The mission could only be deemed a complete failure. Ja-Win defenses had proved much more robust than the idiot who hired him had believed. At this point, they could only hope for a successful retreat.

His men’s thoughts whirled nearby, shrieked and prodded in his head until he was bombarded with a white-hot noise that crossed the threshold into pain.

Oh, Mary, I may never see Kora again. Should’ve woken her before I left.

When I get back to town, I’m shoving a shiv through his eye.

If I live through this, it’s time to retire.

Fucking March, I’ll kill him nice and slow.

He’d lost the ability to tell who was thinking what. It had all blurred together in a nauseating ball of fear, pain and anger. At least he could use the latter.

To the east, they had Ja-Win gunmen. To the north, the compound defense grid. To the west, fuck if he knew what. To the south, jungle. After no more than a few seconds’ consideration, he rotated his fingers, giving them the silent order to move out. He’d take the dangers of the jungle any day; the terrain would make tracking them a bitch, and it would give them the guerrilla advantage when it came to taking out greater numbers.

They slithered down the hill on their bellies, staying to the tall grass that yielded to swampy ground heralding thicker undergrowth. Tangled greenery provided much needed cover as the Ja-Win gunman charged the hill, only to find their quarry gone. March heard their shouts in the distance. They had to get into the trees before the enemy tracker took a good hard look at all that churned earth. He’d figure it out sooner rather than later, and they needed a head start to survive this brutal game of hide and seek.

Still silent, he motioned to Surge, a tough soldier with wiry curls, to take the lead. He fell behind the last man, Franken, and aimed toward a distant hill. He only used this as a last resort, but they needed the time. While his men disappeared into the trees, he fired in the opposite direction. When the holo shell hit, it broke wide open and showed the streaky movement of men running covertly. As he’d hoped, it drew the attention of the Ja-Win gunmen. This thing wasn’t widely available yet; he’d bought his on Gehenna, and he would be pleased to report its success to the inventor, who’d give him a discount for proving its combat viability.

As he ran, the heat hit him like a closed fist. Nicu Tertius had only two seasons, hot and wet, which made fighting on the ground a bitch. He tried to avoid it whenever possible, but the pay for this job had been too good to pass up. That should’ve tipped me off.

March swallowed a curse as he heard the sounds of pursuit, booted feet splashing through the wetlands behind them. The enemy’s thoughts assaulted him as well. Outrage, indignation, bloodlust. Gonna slice up the leader, make him bleed out…

More and more lately, he felt like he was losing his mind. It got harder and harder to push everything back, focus on what came from his own head instead of what he got from everywhere else. Pure will let him do it this time, but he didn’t know how much longer that would hold.

Dammit, he’d hoped to buy more time. With no hesitation, he gave another silent signal, telling his men to scatter. Four of them vanished immediately. Only Surge hesitated, and then he too melted into the thick tangle of undergrowth. They had a greater chance of reaching civilization separately.

Some people might say he was abandoning them, sending them off as bait to better his own chances. Well, that would be true too. Like a stalking cat, he crept through the trees, pausing here and there to listen. Distant laser fire and screams of pain came to him on the wind. He recognized the voice. Franken, down, but it sounded like he’d taken a few Ja-Win with him.

In a way, he wished he hadn’t taken money from Pilatu. The mercenary code prevented him from killing the guy simply for being an idiot; otherwise, he’d never get work again.

Shit, movement nearby. He dropped to his belly and stilled. The thoughts that filled his head could scarcely be called that, more impulses, urges. Hunger. Food. Not food. For interminable moments, he lay there, hardly daring to breathe. A marsh cat. That thing would rake out his intestines and eat them without a second thought. He avoided it narrowly, sensing the animal’s fierce hunger moving off, becoming distant and then vanishing as it moved outside his range.

He only encountered one enemy on his way out of Ja-Win territory. Bad luck for him, the merc was facing the other way. He could have shot him in the back, but he didn’t want the noise. A mental lance through the guy’s frontal lobe solved the problem. The man’s expression went slack as he dropped face first into the mud. Most likely he’d drown before his unit found him. Doubtless it would be kinder to snap his neck, but he wasn’t feeling kind. March stepped over the body and onto the road.

Hours later, he finally reached the place where he’d hidden a rover in case things went bad. On Nicu Tertius, you had to have a backup plan.

Empty.

“Son of a bitch,” he bit out, staring down the muddy track. In some ways, he preferred being out in the middle of nowhere. It left his mind quiet at least, devoid of the pain that had become a constant companion.

Well, there was no help for it. He’d have to walk.

He stayed to the trees, dodging Ja-Win patrols looking for survivors making their way on foot. More than once, they forced him to his belly, and left him wishing he had the mental power to blast them all at once. Their thoughts bombarded him: some banal, some vengeful, some so vapid he was amazed the man could hold a weapon.

Damn, but he’d love to see them drop at the same time, drooling and brain damaged. But if he attacked one, they’d snap alert and start looking for their attacker, even if they didn’t understand how he’d killed. With a soft sigh, he let them pass unmolested and then resumed his journey.

It took him all night to reach a village, where he could hire an autocab to take him to the city. By the time he got to his flat, he was ready to blow the shit out of the entire planet. His head felt like molten metal, searing with the effort of trying to block when he was so tired. He wasn’t very good at it at the best of times. March didn’t think he’d ever hated anything the way he hated Nicu Tertius.

With shaking hands, he shot himself full of painkiller. This chemical cocktail could balance the crazy in his head, keep things quiet. The bad news? It was hellishly addictive, and the more he used, the more he wanted. Chem would kill him, if his lifestyle didn’t. But he couldn’t shoot up when he worked. It slowed his reflexes too much, and that would end him.

March leaned his head against the wall, no windows in here where people could get to him. His place was functional, nothing more, a one room convenience in a high rise. With a job like his, he needed the security. It would take a small army to get up here.

His limbs trembled as the drug kicked in, dropping the blessed veil of silence over the incessant clamor of other people’s wants and needs. Exhausted, he took a san-shower and then found a packet of paste. He didn’t keep his kitchen-mate stocked, no point, no more than he stayed here.

A quick stop at the comm terminal informed him that everyone but Franken had made it back. Fucking pitiful. Though he’d known these spoiled Imperial types had dead meat between their ears, he’d never before lived through anything as egregious and wasteful as the run on the Ja-Win compound. Good men had died out there, soldiers with families, not that Pilatu gave a shit. He’d pay the death benefits, shrug, and then come up with some other asinine strategy in the never-ending war games.

March felt empty in a way that nothing could assuage. Apart from that icy numbness, he mostly felt rage, a growing and nearly ungovernable need to lash out. Svetlana’s message made him smile, though. He couldn’t wait to see her.

His sister didn’t approve of how he made his living, but she also understood why he chased the credits. When he bought his own ship, it would change everything. He could finally achieve his dream of being out there, far beyond the thoughts baying in his head. Blessed quiet.

He’d hire Svet on as crew and she could stop working in that crappy secondhand shop on Gehenna. They’d get together next month, like they always did, and argue over his choices and her stubbornness. Nobody meant as much to him as Svet; nobody could get away with saying the things she did, either. He’d killed for less.

Out of habit, he sat down at the comm terminal to check his bank account, as he always did after a job. He compared the tally against what his dream ship cost, and then took a look at the Imperial postings to see what his next mission would be—and how much closer that would bring him to buying his freedom from this hellhole.

Sure, he could afford passage off Nicuan, but to what end? He wasn’t a farmer. He didn’t want to go to work programming or overseeing somebody else’s bots. All he knew how to do was kill—and fly. So he’d do the former until he could do the latter. He’d be damned if he piloted to put money in the Corp’s pocket.

“What the…” That couldn’t be right. A few taps on the interface and then March spat a curse so foul it practically melted the display. The amount he’d received prior to the Ja-Win job had been transferred out again. Unless he thought March had died in the Ja-Win compound, Pilatu was dumber than he looked.

Killing rage boiled up inside him, tinting everything red. He could do this, even under the influence. This job didn’t call for speed, just stealth. After tucking a pistol in his belt and knife in his boot, he went to pay his respects.

Security on Pilatu’s city estate was laughable. It was a lush, lavish place full of expensive statuary, gushing fountains, and well-manicured gardens, all hidden away behind heavy, ornate metal gates. Using a grappler, March went over the wall silent as death, dropped behind the hedge and waited.

He had all night.

The droids came first.

After disabling the patrolling bots, March made his way to the guard outpost. Busy watching the innocuous vid feeds he’d provided, they died without making a sound.

Then the place was his. A heady surge of power lashed through him, akin to lust. March strolled up to the suite where the noble sat pondering his next move. The man didn’t know it yet, but he didn’t have one.

He took him from behind, closing his hands around Pilatu’s throat. If he squeezed hard enough, he’d crush the man’s windpipe. A twist would snap his neck. March savored each possibility while Pilatu struggled against his grip, trying vainly to see who had him.

“You cheated me,” he whispered into the other man’s ear. “I don’t work for free. Ever. And my payment isn’t contingent on the success of your plan.”

“Let me go,” the noble tried to demand. “Crazy bastard. If they…” Pilatu gasped, struggling to get the words out. “Catch you… you’ll be… executed.”

He smiled. “Weighed against the pleasure of killing you, I’m finding I don’t care.”

“I have money.” Face purple now, the other man wheezed. “I can—”

“No,” March said with finality. “You can’t.”

A little shiver of pleasure went through him as he wrenched Pilatu’s neck sideways, and then let the body drop. About Mary-sucking time—he was so tired of taking orders from these officious little pricks. Now he needed to get off world fast.

He still didn’t have enough cred for his own ship, but what the fuck. There were other worlds, other wars. People always needed killing.

March left the estate quietly and walked good distance before signaling an autocab. Expedience sent him straight for the spaceport. Maybe he could buy passage on a vessel departing tonight. It didn’t matter where, although Gehenna would be best. Svet would take him in, no questions asked.

But when he got there, the place was very nearly deserted. No surprise, considering it was so late. Droids went about their work in mechanized silence. There was a skeleton crew working the docks and only two ships, neither of which looked ready to go. March stood, hands bunched into fists, considering his options. He really couldn’t stay on Nicu now, but if he didn’t have a choice—

“Well, well, if it isn’t my least favorite person,” came a deep voice behind him.

He spun, ready to fight, and then relaxed a little when he recognized Hon, a tall, dark-skinned pirate from the Outskirts. They’d tussled more than once, but in a friendly way most times. The other man still nursed a slight over some slut that had gone with March instead, but nothing like a blood grudge lay between them. Hon was just used to getting his way with the ladies; he couldn’t know March skimmed a woman’s dirtiest fantasy from her mind and then whispered it in her ear, if he wanted in her pants. That always worked like a charm. A woman liked feeling she had some soul-deep connection with the man who took her home, even if it was bullshit that ended in a fast, hard fuck.

March grinned. “I’d say likewise, but I despise these Nicuan nobles more than you.”

The pirate laughed, showing bone white teeth. “You make a good point.”

They talked a little while longer before he asked, “So what brings you out so late?”

“Just checking over my new ship.” With a lazy gesture, the other man pointed toward a vessel at the far corner of the docking bay.

Envy panged through him. Piracy paid better than killing, obviously, but you had to have a ship to start with in order to make money that way. For a moment, he considered smashing his fist into Hon’s face. The urge boiled up in him, but he checked it with real effort. Better not to make a scene.

“It’s nice,” he said easily, though it cost him. “You heading out soon?”

Hon shook his head. “Need to do a full diagnostic. You know how used ships can be.”

Prick. Hon knew perfectly well he didn’t. Now he was just taunting him, but surely not over that whore whose name he’d forgotten. March had never owned a vessel in his life, just flown simulators to train for his pilot certification, and then gone up once in a real ship at the starport on Gehenna to take the test. Best day of his life.

March made himself smile, though it was getting harder not to lash out. “I don’t, but good luck with it.”

He started to turn, but Hon’s voice stopped him. “What brings you out so late anyway?”

His nerves prickled to life. “Why?”

Hon’s smile became predatory. “You have the look of a hunted man, March. Maybe you’re worth something to me now? Your whereabouts, anyway.”

Before he knew he meant to act, he slammed his fist into the pirate’s face, hard enough that he heard cartilage crunch. Blood spewed from Hon’s broken nose, and while he swayed, March slammed his head against the pylon behind him. He wanted to stay and finish the job, but people would come soon. He couldn’t be here when they arrived.

Instead, he bent and pocketed the remote to Hon’s ship. If it had a jumper on board, they were going to Gehenna. Casually, he made his way across the bay and keyed the boarding ramp down. He strolled on board like he owned it.

Luck spun his way. There was a Rodeisian on board, the foremost source of jumpers outside Farwan. Large and furry with powerful haunches, they didn’t like to work with humans—said they were pink and stinky. This one had apparently made an exception for Hon.

The alien froze when it saw the pistol in March’s hand. He could kill it as easily without moving a muscle, but there was no reason to brag. March kept his gaze steady.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” he told it. “We’re going to Gehenna. I pilot, you navigate. You get me there safely, you walk away. If anything happens to me, I guarantee you go with me. You can keep this ship for your trouble.” The Rodeisian’s ears perked at that. “Or bounce a message to Hon telling him where you are. Once I walk away, I don’t care what you do. Are we clear?”

“Indeed.” For such a big creature, the Rodeisian had a surprisingly light, sweet voice. This one might be female, which explained a lot. Hon always had a way with the ladies. “You want a ride to Gehenna. So let’s go.”

He had to smile. “As easy as that?”

“I make it a policy never to argue with armed, desperate men.”

The Rodeisan led the way to the cockpit. She took her seat in the nav chair while he contacted ground control and relayed their plan to depart. Without her full cooperation, it wouldn’t have worked. She showed him where Hon kept the registration numbers so he could file the flight plan officially. In fact, she guided him through the process, as if she knew he’d never done this for real before.

She confirmed that with a glance from dark, long-lashed eyes that he might almost call flirtatious. “I can tell this is your first time. I’ll be gentle.”

March didn’t know if he wanted to hit her or touch her fur to see if it was as soft as it looked. A confusing knot of unfamiliar emotions stirred within him. It had been a long time since anybody but Svet was nice to him—most people feared him—and this Rodeisian had more reason than most. He’d all but taken her hostage, for Mary’s sake.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Waiting seemed interminable. If Hon regained consciousness before they got out, it would ruin everything. Maybe he should have just killed him. The bastard had been talking about turning him in, after all.

“You have clearance,” came the response from the tower and the hangar above them began to open.

March fingered the shunt in his wrist, knowing he’d have to jack in once they were clear of the planet’s gravitational pull. That’s how a jump worked, but damn, he was nervous. His hands trembled as he set them on the control panels. The ship twitched in response.

Taking a few deep breaths, he centered himself and tried to remember his lessons. Like that. Yeah. An unsteady thrust got them out of the hangar and then he felt like he’d been doing this all his life. What a fucking rush.

“You’re doing great,” she told him gently.

They pushed upward through the atmosphere, safe at last. His smile felt queer and tremulous as he glanced away from the sensors briefly. The night sky bloomed, stars sparking all around them with a cold, fierce light that made him feel clean in ways he’d almost forgotten—or never known.

“I could die up here,” he breathed, hardly remembering she was there.

He could, too. Happily, even.

“People have,” she murmured. “People do.”

The silent accord between them felt perfect; he ached with the beauty of flying. And he thought the Rodeisian female felt it too—that quiet shiver of light refracted from the sensor screens, interpreted by his nervous system as pure pleasure. He’d never known anything like it. The ship felt natural in his hands, an appendage he should have been born with.

“Ready for jump?” he asked eventually.

Her reply sounded suggestive, somehow. “Since the moment you came aboard.”

When they jacked in, the wet-ware amplified his power, laying the navigator open to him. He could sift through her memories as if they were jewels in a treasure box. She knew—and she didn’t seem to mind. More startling, the female wanted him. She liked his anger and his brutality, the scent of blood that lingered about him.

Well, if she wanted rage and savagery, she’d come to the right man. That much, he could offer. It was, in fact, all he had left.

The ship shivered as the phase drive hummed. March knew how it worked, opening a small wormhole through which they would access grimspace. He’d seen the charts and numbers. And he wasn’t remotely prepared for that first jump.

He flew with her, became part of her. But their link exposed him too, showing more of him than he’d ever wanted anyone to see. He sensed no judgment in her, but it was enough that she’d seen the darkness roiling in him. Nausea rose up in his throat even as his hands responded to her silent directives.

“Here,” she said. “Jump here.”

And he had to trust her. He hit the panel, signaling the ship they were ready to return to straight space. Shaky and queasy from the after effects, it took him three tries to unplug. By that time, the Rodeisian was already out of her seat.

He glanced at the star charts, trying to place where they’d come out. Jumps had to take place well away from planetary pull, sometimes a matter of hours before they reached their destination. But what he saw on the screen didn’t match.

“This isn’t the way to Gehenna.”

“It isn’t,” she agreed. Her huge fist slammed into his temple before he could even brace himself for impact.

The lights went out.

***

Distant voices reached him before his brain came fully back online. His head throbbed with a low, dull pain, reminding him of the score he had to settle. Right then, he made up his mind—he’d kill that treacherous jumper if it was the last thing he did.

He should have known her sexual impulses didn’t necessarily predicate her true thoughts. Should have realized she had been too helpful, agreed too easily. Desperation had made him stupid, careless, and now he’d pay the price. If they knew how much people on Nicuan would pay to get him just like this… Mary, it didn’t bear thinking about.

He’d always thought he would die on his feet. March lay with his eyes closed, trying to make sense of what he was hearing, but his heart thudded in his ears, making that difficult.

Two females, nearby. He couldn’t pick anything up from either of them, so they’d either sedated him or a Rodeisian fist worked wonders at shutting down his ability.

“What in Mary’s name have you done, Tanze?” A woman with a low, rasping voice sounded exasperated. “I wanted Hon, along with his ship. Half those diggers he delivered for the mine don’t work!”

He opened his eyes a slit, risking a look to assess how much trouble he was in. They’d bound his hands and feet, with a filament that would slice into his skin if he struggled. They weren’t screwing around, then.

Two females stood nearby, one human, and one Rodeisian, the same one who’d tricked him and then knocked him out. Rage almost overwhelmed him, but it wouldn’t do any good to struggle when they had him tied. No, he had to figure out what was going on here—and what they intended to do with him. Maybe he could play along, offer whatever they wanted. They probably wouldn’t be fool enough to trust him, though.

Tanze didn’t appear overly concerned. “Plans change. This guy came on board instead of Hon, and I figured you’d take what you could get. We can keep the ship in recompense for the busted units. You don’t need trouble with offworlders, Mair. Bringing Hon to Lachion would complicate the whole plan.”

What plan? Where was Lachion anyway? He fumbled through his galactic geography and came up blank. It couldn’t be an important tier world; he’d killed on most of those. That would limit his escape options.

But Mair must be the old woman. He stole another glance. She was small, but wiry, still strong looking despite her age. He didn’t make the mistake of counting her out. Her white hair stood up around her face like a cloudy nimbus, as if she hadn’t combed it in weeks, and she’d caked altogether too many cosmetics on her wrinkled face.

“That’s true enough,” she agreed with a sigh.

“And this one needs you,” Tanze went on. “He’ll die if you don’t help him. I don’t know how he’s made it this long without going mad or being scooped up by the Corp, but he’s on the brink, now.”

March felt every muscle stiffen. What the fuck was the Rodeisian on about? Did she know? How could she? Being discovered was his worst nightmare, and here he lay tied, listening to it happen.

He’d wake up soon. He had to.

Willing himself to wake in a cold sweat with some whore he’d taken for the night, March tried with all his might to make it happen. No luck. This was real—and it’d been bad enough when he thought they just might sell him back to the Nicuan nobles.

If Farwan found out he’d made it through adolescence without being chipped, it would be exponentially worse. He knew all about what they did to people who violated their rules. After all, they’d done it to his father first, leaving him with a stepmother who hated him and a half-sister who needed him to provide for her.

Crazed with the voices in his head, he’d started fighting in the streets, and then unscrupulous people noticed his way with knives. They hired him to do what they didn’t want to. Quiet jobs, dirty ones. He didn’t care as long as it paid.

Mary, would he ever see Svet again? Would she think he’d run off without a word, like he promised he would never do, no matter how many times he shipped out? When she was a kid, he’d done it time and again, joining whatever private war paid best to keep her in school.

He’d taken to buying her a little gift from wherever he traveled, something she could look forward to, and hold in her hands when he went away again. She liked shiny things, rings and necklaces that sparkled, no matter how cheap. If he hadn’t long ago lost the ability to weep, he would have. But he had no tears.

“Brain scrambled, is he?” Somehow, the hag made the cold words seem almost kind.

“Not quite.” He heard a shrug in Tanze’s voice. “I’m not even sure he’s salvageable. But you might have a go before we put him down.”

They would, too. And maybe they’d be right. A hard shudder rolled through him. It was no use pretending he wasn’t awake, listening. The old woman knelt beside him, peering into his face. He couldn’t move.

“What do you say?” she asked, running her fingernail down his jaw. “Shall we try to make something out of you, you pretty doomed thing?”

He’d never been called pretty before. Somehow, that only added to his silent horror. He knew he wasn’t. He had a strong, ugly face, and a strong, scarred body. Sometimes women wanted both…usually, just the latter. It had never bothered him.

Finally, he managed to rasp out a question. “What are you going to do with me?”

“I’m going to break you into tiny pieces,” the old woman said with an awful smile. “And then put you back together again.”

When her mind touched his, March screamed.