Her Brother's Keeper - eARC (37 page)

“This is what I did for the Combine,” Piro said sadly, slowly moving a hand over his banks of screens. “I was the omnipresent eye of the state, always watching, always listening, always judging. One of thousands, tens of thousands.”

“That’s…unsettling,” Marcus said.

“You have no idea,” Piro replied, a hollow grin splitting his face. “It’s dehumanizing, even in a society that dehumanizes people as a matter of policy. But even the watchmen are watched in the Combine, and ultimately, all of us are guilty of crimes of thought in the eyes of the State. My new comrades here, they took me in, forgave my sins, gave me a home. So for them I do the only thing I know how to do. I watch over them, as I have been watching you.”

“Enough,” the woman said, slinging her weapon and stepping forward.

“This is Maggie,” Strelok said.

“Thank you for meeting with us,” Catherine said.

“We wouldn’t have,” Maggie admitted, “but you are not the only one to seek us out lately.”

“And it’s no coincidence,” Piro said. Video footage of Cecil’s assistant, Zak Mesa, appeared on one of his screens. “You are not the first to mention Cecil Blackwood.”

“He’s my brother,” Catherine said. “I came here to pay Lang’s ransom and take him home.”

“What do you want from us, then?” Maggie asked coldly.

Catherine studied the three Orlov refugees carefully before speaking. “Lang doesn’t want money,” she said. “He wants weapons. In order to get my brother back, I am to take trade goods to a designated meeting point and exchange them for heavy weaponry.”

“What kind of weaponry?” Maggie asked.

“Plasma weapons. Missiles. Powered armor.”

“I see,” she said.

“It is as we feared,” Piro said. “Mr. Mesa was correct.”

“Correct about what?” Catherine asked. “I don’t know this Zak Mesa, but Lang is releasing him to my custody as a sign of good faith.”

Strelok seemed pleased with that news, but didn’t elaborate. “He suggested that Lang would try to acquire weapons.”

“When was this Mesa fellow here?” Catherine asked. “And why?”

“That’s not important now,” Maggie said. “What is it that you want from us?”

“We need your help,” Catherine said. “I have no intention of arming a petty warlord like Aristotle Lang so he can take over this planet. That’s just what he means to do, too. He told me as much himself.”

“You mean to recover your brother by force,” Strelok said.

“I do,” Catherine said. “I don’t know where he’s being held. I was hoping that your organization would be able to help me locate him. I had my security officer put in a query with the Enforcers of Freeport, but they were of no help.”

“No, I do not expect they would be,” Maggie said thoughtfully. “This is all as we feared.”

“The weapons I’m to acquire are all coming from the Orlov Combine,” Catherine said. “There’s no one else in this sector of space to buy such weapons from.”

“It is as we predicted,” Piro said. “Mr. Mesa suggested as much himself. I know where your brother is being held, Captain. I must ask you, though…are you aware what these trade goods are?”

“No,” Catherine admitted. “The information I was sent was vague. Prewar materials, was how he described it. The containers are to be delivered to the buyer, sealed.”

“You need to watch this,” Piro said.

A video recording of Cecil’s assistant appeared on several of his screens at once. “My name is Zachary Dionysus Mesa,” he began.

Catherine’s eyes went wide as she listened to his message.

* * *

Zak Mesa nervously stuck his hands in his pockets as the elevator slowly climbed the skeletal docking tower. The huge cargo elevator had to be a hundred years old, and given that it was exposed to the elements, Zak was amazed it was still working. A cold, dry wind whipped fine dust through the safety cage as it slowly ascended, forcing the historian to tighten his goggles.

Zak and Anna looked up at the ship as the elevator slowly ascended the tower. It was big, probably seventy meters tall. Its fat, armored, gunmetal hull dully reflected the light of Danzig-5012 as the platform slowly lifted them above the city. It had a cluster of four engines at its tail, and four airfoils in between them. Each engine cowling had a radiator sticking out of it. As the elevator brought them level with the cargo bay doors, Zak caught a glimpse of nose art painted on the side of its hull; he recognized it as Princess Andromeda from Ancient Greek mythology.

“This is it,” Zak said, as the elevator ground to a halt. The cage doors opened, allowing Zak and Anna to make their way across the bridge of the landing tower to the ship’s open cargo bay doors. Like the rest of the structure, the bridge was skeletal, exposed to the elements, and harsh winds buffeted the pair as they approached. At the end of the bridge, Zak could see into the cargo bay. It was well-lit, clean, and a group of people were waiting for him.

The first person to approach was a short, stout man in a sage green coverall. “Greetings, gentlefolk,” he said, crushing Zak’s hand as he shook it. “I am Cargomaster Kimball. Welcome aboard the Privateer Ship
Andromeda.”

“Thank you,” Zak replied nervously.

A tall woman in a leather flight jacket stepped forward. She had gold wings on her left breast, and four gold bars on each shoulder. “I am Catherine Blackwood. This is my ship.”

“I recognized you from the message you sent your brother,” Zak said. “I was there when he received it. I…I almost didn’t want to believe it.”

A tall, broad-shouldered man with dark skin and a cybernetic ocular implant scanned the two newcomers with a handheld device. “We’re secure, Captain. No transmitters detected.”

The captain nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Broadbent. Now,” she turned her attention to the two young researchers, “did you bring the landing coordinates from Lang?”

Zak retrieved his handheld from his pocket. “I did. Captain, I…thank you. I don’t know what else to say. Your brother is a good man. He secured our release, just like he said he would.”

The spacer seemed pleased with Zak’s praise of her brother. “Yes, well, we’re not done yet,” she said. She looked over Zak’s shoulder. “Ah, there you are.”

Zak turned and found his contact with the Orlov refugees standing behind him. “Strelok!” he said. “What are you doing here?”

He had removed his goggles and hood, but left his respirator on. “Zanzibar is a small world after all,” he said. “The captain and her companions sought us out, just as you did. It seems that our Sanctuary isn’t a secret any longer.”

“But how…?”

“There’ll be time to catch up later, Mr. Mesa,” the captain said. She put her hand on the shoulder of a young girl, a teenager, who was wearing the green jumpsuit that her crew all wore. “Crewman Winchester here will take you and…Miss Kay, was it? Yes. She will take you up to the personnel deck and get you assigned berths. You will remain with us from now on, no matter what happens.”

“What
is
happening, Captain?” Zak asked. “Lang gave me coordinates for a meeting point. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m assuming he’s using you to go buy his weapons for him. But why is Strelok here? Did he tell you what it is Lang has in his possession?”

“He did,” the captain said. “And if Lang thinks I’m going to fly halfway back to Combine space, meet up with some unscrupulous arms dealer, and secure weapons for his army he’s delusional. Trust me, Mr. Mesa, that son of a whore picked the wrong woman to try and strongarm.”

“There’s more than just Zanzibari artifacts,” Zak said. On his handheld, he pulled up a picture of one of the mysterious aliens that had ruled over the Zanzibari natives eons before. “We found artifacts from an unknown Antecessor species.”

Captain Blackwood turned and faced Zak again. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

* * *

Marcus Winchester and his Cowboys stood around the holotank on the
Andromeda
’s Astrogation deck. Instead of 3D star charts, they had displayed before them a representation of the surface of Zanzibar.

“…so that’s the long and short of it so far,” Marcus said, having briefed the team on everything that had transpired. “The captain made it pretty clear she isn’t going to go fetch weapons for Lang. Tomorrow morning, the ship is going to lift off from Freeport and land here,” he said, pointing to the holographic map, “in order to take on the first batch of artifacts Lang intends to sell. He managed to set up a deal with a buyer, we don’t know who, but that guy either can’t or won’t come to Zanzibar. So supposedly the captain is going to take the
Andromeda
through three systems, weeks of travel time, to meet with the buyer and secure the weapons. Then it’s weeks of travel time back, hand over the weapons to Lang, and supposedly Cecil gets to come home.”

“Bull-
shit,”
Wade snorted.

“That’s more or less what Captain Blackwood said. Lang seems overconfident, like letting the bald guy and his girlfriend come aboard as a sign of good faith.”

“It is said that dealing with Antecessor species in any fashion drives men mad,” Ken observed.

“I think Lang was a little crazy to begin with,” Devree said.

“Oh he’s crazy, all right. He straight up told the captain that he intends the use the weapons to overrun Freeport, become the dictator of this whole planet, and use the money from the sale of the artifacts to rebuild the colony the way he sees fit.”

“A regular Napoleon,” Randy said derisively.

“Who?” asked Wade. “Never mind. Where do we come in?”

“The Orlov refugees gave us good intel on Lang’s operation, including where Cecil Blackwood is being held. This was confirmed by the two prisoners we took aboard. He’s being held here,” Marcus said, pointing to the holographic map, “in a town called Lang’s Burg. It’s got about five thousand residents and is the center of Lang’s power base. It’s walled off, nestled against these rocky hills, and is pretty well defended.”

“And we’re going to hit that with seven guys?” Wade asked.

“That’s where our friends from Orlov come in. They’ve got a vested interest in seeing that Lang doesn’t take over this whole planet, especially with Lang buying weapons from the Combine. When the ship lands here, at the pickup site, they’re going to stage a diversionary attack on Lang’s Burg. Most of Lang’s army is spread out throughout all the towns in the wasteland. This will draw them in and give us the cover we need to get in and out.”

“It’s going to draw them right on top of us!”

“I didn’t say it was going to be
easy.
This is our best bet of getting in there and getting Cecil out alive. If we try a diversionary attack someplace else, Lang will suspect he’s being double-crossed, and will likely move or kill Cecil Blackwood. This way, we have the initiative, we catch Lang’s army off guard, and we get in and out. Once we report that we’ve got our guy, we’ll head back to here, Rally Point Alpha, or here, Rally Point Bravo, regroup, and head back to the ship at the best possible speed. The Orlov refugees have helped us acquire some ground vehicles to get us there, and have offered up some long-range fire support. We’ll be leaving tonight, before the ship lifts off, to give us a good head start. Any questions?”

Wade shook his head. “Yeah, how the hell did I let you talk me into this again?”

Marcus laughed. “Listen, guys, joking aside, this is dangerous as hell. I want your input.”

“I don’t like it,” Randy said, “but it’s probably our best bet. You’re right, I don’t think a diversion anywhere else will work. Lang will know what we’re doing as soon as we fire the first shot.”

“Aye,” Halifax agreed. “We’re very lucky to have the Orlov people helping us. Lang is a lot better equipped than we thought.”

Randy nodded. “Strelok gave me a ton of useful intel on Lang’s overall operation. They’ve been worrying about his plans for a while now, and I guess recent events just confirmed their fears. Word is, he’s trying to cobble together some attack aircraft and some artillery. Freeport is protected by walls and armed guards. If Lang can bring support weapons to bear, he’ll have a huge advantage.”

“I don’t like trying to assault that town, Marcus,” said Devree. “An Espatier Corps special ops team would have a hard time sneaking in there and getting him out without getting cut off.”

“Our only other option would be to use the ship’s weapons as fire support while we assaulted the town, and that puts the ship at risk. Captain Blackwood isn’t willing to risk the lives of her crew for the sake of one man, not even her brother.”

“I trust your judgment, Marcus,” Hondo said. “We won’t let you down.”

Marcus nodded. “Very well then, people. We’ll have to be fluid once we get on the ground, as the situation will change. Here’s how I’m thinking we actually stage the assault…”

Chapter 27

Lang’s Burg

Cecil Blackwood let his empty flask fall to the floor. He was sitting in the common room of the old building he’d shared with Zak and Anna for so long, and without them it felt very empty. Slumped down in a low, cushy chair, he watched the screen on his handheld and wished he had more to drink.

This was supposed to be his moment of liberation. He’d done it, he thought. He’d
endured.
Now, his salvation was at hand! His sister Catherine, the great and mighty privateer, had arrived to rescue him from Aristotle Lang! It was the moment he’d dreamed of since the original ransom demand was sent more than local year before, even though he’d tried very hard not to cloud his mind with hope. Now, as he watched a video feed of the
Andromeda
conducting a short-hop atmospheric flight, he despaired. It would take his sister weeks to deliver the alien artifacts to Lang’s buyer, and weeks more to return to Zanzibar. What then? Would he let Cecil go then, or would he have more demands? What would happen when Catherine became fed up with the Lang?

As near as he’d been able to discern, the old warlord hadn’t had much luck finding ships willing to haul his goods. Shooting down a damaged and off-course transport ship and picking the crash site for scrap is not a good way to endear yourself to spacers, and Lang’s men had done just that several months before. Making matters worse for Lang was the fact that the board that ran Freeport had forbidden any ships using their services from doing business with him. Given that it was the only place in a very long way to buy reaction mass or resupply, there hadn’t been any crews willing to risk defying Frank DeWitt’s edict.

A ship conducting a surface-to-surface short hop is an odd thing to watch, Cecil thought drunkenly. A ship like the
Andromeda
probably had a maximum thrust-to-mass ratio of eight or ten to one, more than enough to allow it to hover over the surface with ease. It was still an odd thing to watch, this big, gray, ballistic shape, seventy meters tall, launching a few thousand meters into the air, tilting slightly and slewing sideways, then coming back down at the designated landing site. The ship disappeared in a massive cloud of dust and smoke as it neared the surface. The particulate cloud was all that could be seen when it touched down, and even with the Zanzibaran wind it took several minutes to clear up.

The video feed was coming from one of Lang’s vehicles. Lang was letting Cecil watch as a courtesy, he said, to show him that he wasn’t going to betray his sister. He didn’t know where the landing site was, exactly, but he thought he recognized a terrain feature in the background. He hadn’t heard the rumbling of the ship’s engine, so it had to be far away. Too far away, at least, for Cecil to make a run for it, which is what he really wanted to do. He contemplated it briefly, his courage as enhanced by alcohol as his reflexes were inhibited by it. But what would it accomplish? Lang’s Burg was on lockdown. His building was being watched, and there were guards at the door. He’d convinced the warlord to let Zak and Anna go, but the Avalonian aristocrat was worth a great deal more to Lang.

Despairing, Cecil briefly thought of just slitting his wrists and having done with it.
To hell with Lang, and to hell with this miserable, Godforsaken rock!
The thought of suicide was brief and unserious, though, and Cecil knew it. He didn’t have the will to go through with it. He didn’t want his sister to have come all this way, only for him to end his own life. He wasn’t going to take the coward’s way out, especially not as she was securing his release. As he observed the
Andromeda
, now barely visible through the cloud of dust, slowly open its cargo bay hatch, Cecil clung desperately to the hope that this would all work out somehow in the end. That hope was all he had.

“Whatsa matta, Mista Cecil?” Bianca said sweetly as she sauntered into the room. The dusky Zanzibaran woman was clothed only in a pair of very short shorts and a cropped, low-cut top that showed off a lot of cleavage and her midriff. She lowered herself to her knees behind the chair, wrapping her arms around Cecil and resting her chin on his shoulder. “Why so sad? You sista come to get you, neh? You leave soon. You leave poor Bianca behind forever.” Her thick, guttural Zanzibaran accent made her sound unintelligent, but Bianca was anything but dumb. She played the fool, Cecil suspected, but she was a survivor.

As he studied her smooth brown skin, pouty lips, and dark eyes like deep pools of water, something stirred within Cecil, and it wasn’t just in his pants. This woman’s affection and companionship had carried him through the worst experiences of his life, through his seemingly endless captivity, and now? Was he really going to just leave her behind?

“Lang said that if we did all he asked, he’d let you come with me,” he said slowly, trying not to slur his speech. Cecil was no stranger to alcohol, and even the thick local hooch would wear off before too long. He just needed to rest until then, and having Bianca’s soft, warm body pressed against his was certainly relaxing. “Would you like that?”

“I neva been offa Zanzibar before,” Bianca said. “I born here, I live here, I think I die here.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Cecil said, squeezing her hand. “I want you to come with me.”

“You take cara me, Mista Cecil?”

“I take care of you,” he assured her. “I’m a nobody here, a prisoner, but back home, I’m well off. You’ll never want for anything again. You’ll never have to be afraid, or go hungry, or any of it, ever again.”

“You…you promise?” she asked.

“Of course I promise, Bianca! Don’t talk like that. You’ve been here—” before Cecil could finish, Bianca was kissing him passionately, hands running through his hair and unbuttoning his shirt from behind. She paused only to stand up, strip her insubstantial clothes off, straddle him, and lower herself back down. Her perfect breasts and shapely legs rubbed against him as she kissed him, filled with more passion and lust than she’d shown in a long time. It was as if she was freshly reunited with her lover after a long absence. Cecil had had
sex
with Bianca countless times, but as she arched her back in pleasure, hands on his shoulders, moaning his name, the Avalonian realized something: this was the first time she’d ever
made love
to him. It was different, she was different, and he found himself hoping, praying to the God he didn’t really believe in that he’d find a way to take her with him like he promised. At that moment, all they had was each other, and he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her behind.

A few hours later, Cecil found himself sitting up in bed, lost in thought. According to his video feed, the
Andromeda
was finishing up loading Lang’s cargo. It was slow going because they’d had to raise the containers one at a time via crane, but the ship would be lifting off again before first light. His passionate sex romp with Bianca had moved from the chair, to Zak and Anna’s work table, to the kitchen counter, to finally the bedroom. He was tired, but the good kind of tired, and the physical effort had sobered him up some.

Bianca was asleep, naked, her black hair splashed over her pillow. She snored occasionally as she slept, which Cecil though was adorable, and seemed to be completely at peace. He gently ran his hand across her back, feeling the smooth skin and noting the scars; he’d never asked where she’d gotten them, but her back and arms had several ugly scars that she was self-conscious about. He wondered if Lang would let her go with him. He wondered if she really
wanted
to. After all, she was a concubine, a
whore.
Would she not tell him anything he wanted to hear? Wasn’t that her job? He knew damned well that she’d been spying on him for Lang the entire time, too.

The remarkable thing was that Cecil didn’t care about any of that. He knew he was being a fool, but he didn’t care. He’d bedded hundreds of women in his life, from bar girls to lofty aristocrats, but Bianca was the first woman he’d ever loved. He
had
to find a way to get her off of this rock, he just had to! Even if…even if she didn’t really love him. Even if it was all an act. She deserved a better life than what fate had given her.

There was no way Cecil was going to be able to sneak her out, but maybe if he talked to Lang, pleaded with him, humbled himself and appealed to the old warlord’s enormous ego, maybe then he’d really let her go. Cecil hated the thought of groveling in front of that son of a bitch. He hadn’t lived the life of adventure his sister had, but he liked to think he wasn’t a coward, and he certainly had his pride. Even still, for his sweet Bianca, he’d do whatever was necessary.

Quietly slipping out of bed, Cecil pulled on his pants and went to get cleaned up. He’d contact Lang tonight, as soon as he was finished. The bastard ought to be in a good mood, he reasoned, now that his first shipment of arms was going out.

He didn’t get two steps before Lang’s Burg was rocked by a huge explosion.

* * *

Concealed under a cloak of active thermoptic camouflage, some six-hundred and seventy-five meters away, Devree Starlighter watched the fireball erupt through the high-powered smart scope mounted atop her rifle. From her position on one of the rocky outcroppings overlooking Lang’s Burg, she was able to see everything with little risk of being spotted.

“Holy shit,” Randy Markgraf whispered. He lay next to her, also cloaked, once again serving as her spotter. He watched the fireworks through a pair of electronic binoculars. “Direct hit to their hydrogen tanks.”

The Orlov refugees of Sanctuary had long been training a militia to defend their new home, and over the years had quietly amassed an impressive, if patchwork, arsenal of weaponry. A guided missile, launched from a truck kilometers away, had shrieked in from above, slamming into the hydrogen tank farm. Swiveling her rifle on its bipod, Devree found another target, and used the laser of her scope’s rangefinder to designate it. She keyed her microphone. “This is Overwatch. Impact confirmed, target destroyed. Requesting fire for effect, three rounds, air burst, twenty meter spread. Area target, vehicle motorpool, designated now, how copy?”

One of the Sanctuary Militiamen responded in a thick, almost mechanical accent. “Roger. Firing now.” Far to the south, a heavy-duty off-road truck with an improvised launcher sent three more missiles roaring into the night sky, in the direction of Lang’s Burg. The truck immediately moved, tearing across the flat, rocky desert at high speed, staying mobile in case Lang’s forces were able to get off counterbattery fire.

The missiles had no target, but were searching for the reflected laser that would tell them where they were needed. Devree watched a video feed from one of the weapons on her eyepiece, appearing black-and-white as its sensor scanned in the near-infrared. There was little to see until the glowing fires of the Lang’s Burg tank farm appeared, as did her laser in the town’s motorpool. A bracket appeared around the laser dot, and the missiles dove, screaming in from above, toward their designated target. They detonated in the air, sending lethal fragmentation tearing through the mostly unarmored vehicles and the men who had been running for them after the first explosion. At least a half-dozen of Lang’s men died immediately, and several others were down and wounded.

“Good hit,” Devree transmitted. “No sign of return fire. We caught ’em with their pants down.” She adjusted her grip on the powerful, semiautomatic, 14.5mm heavy rifle in front of her, switched her smart scope to thermal, and scanned for targets. The particular barrel the weapon was presently using was wrapped with an integral sound suppressor. While it hardly made the powerful weapon silent, it was enough to hide her position from a distance, especially with the racket of explosions, alarms and the shouts of men in Lang’s Burg.

“Cowboy-Six copies,” Marcus Winchester said. “Fire Support,” he said, addressing the missile truck, “hold fire for now. Overwatch, we’re almost in position and will be entering the town soon. Stand by.”

“Overwatch copies,” Devree said, a predatory grin splitting her face beneath her respirator mask. “Gotcha covered, Boss.”

* * *

Beneath the town of Lang’s Burg was a network of access and service tunnels, meant to allow maintenance of the settlement’s infrastructure and allow for disposal of its waste. Dating back to before the war, much of it had fallen into disrepair over the years, and aside from some easily disarmed alarm systems had been left unguarded.

It was through these tunnels that Marcus Winchester led his four-man team. The roar of the fires above could be heard even down there, in the darkness beneath the settlement. The mercenaries navigated via night vision googles, weapons at the ready. The only other thing moving down there was the occasional giant, mutated rat. Some of them were as big as dogs, and they were quite aggressive, but the heat and noise from the chaos above was driving them in fear from the tunnels. They ran past the team’s feet, paying the human interlopers no mind.

Marcus paused, flipped up his goggles, and studied the tactical map on his handheld. His face was dimly illuminated by the screen. “This is it,” he said, indicating a nearby ladder. “We’ll surface in the southwest corner of the town, here,” he indicated, pointing at the small screen. “The building Cecil Blackwood is staying in is here, not far away. Four stories, hard to miss. Tanaka, take point.” Marcus flipped his goggles back down and pocketed his handheld.

Ken Tanaka nodded once and proceeded up the ladder, his short 5.8mm carbine slung behind his back. He disappeared up the manhole and his teammates moved in closer to keep eyes on him while maintaining security in the tunnels. At the top of the ladder, Ken tried, as quietly as he could, to undog the hatch. “It opens,” he said quietly. He lifted the hatch only slightly, scanning the surface with a fiber-optic camera. “It comes out in an alley by the wall. It looks dark, no sign of movement. I’m going up.”

“Be careful,” Marcus warned. “Stack up on the ladder,” he told his team. Ken quietly opened the hatch, the orange light of the fires burning in Lang’s Burg pouring into the manhole, and disappeared from view. Marcus was next up the ladder. He peeked over the top of the hatch; Ken was crouched a few meters from the manhole, carbine shouldered, covering the alleyway. He lifted himself up onto the dusty street of Lang’s Burg and took a knee beside Ken. Next was Hondo with his machine gun, and finally Wade, who had covered his teammates in the tunnels until they were all clear of the manhole.