The Planet Thieves (8 page)

Now their pact was vivid, burning like a star in his mind. Merrin was a prisoner of war now, no question. Mason had a mind to reverse that.

The tunnel led to a small door that Mason opened from the inside. He cracked it slightly, then peered through the gap. He could see a sliver of the engineering deck, probably level five. The tunnel would dump them onto one of the platforms that ringed the deck, all of them looking down on the ten levels of vertical pipes used to pump coolant and water through the ship. Railings stopped someone from accidentally falling over, but nothing kept someone from jumping on their own. Mason didn't know where it ended; he'd never been to the bottom.

Mason cracked the door wider and the hinge began to squeal. It probably hadn't been oiled since the Egypt joined the fleet however many years ago.

It was loud enough to make the Tremist standing guard on the platform turn around.

 

Chapter Nine

Mason didn't hesitate. His training was far from complete, but one of the first things Academy I does is scrub the instinct to freeze out of a cadet. He burst from the tunnel while the Tremist was still turning around. Mason wasn't small for his age, but the Tremist was somewhere around six feet.

Which meant his center of gravity was higher than Mason's.

Mason hit the Tremist in the legs, running at a full charge. He didn't know if he was trying to throw the Tremist over the railing or not; all he knew was that giving the Tremist time to point his talon would end things quickly. The Tremist stumbled away, arms flailing, but couldn't catch his balance. He fell backward and his head cracked on the railing, hard enough to make the metal tubing hum. Then he collapsed in a heap and didn't move.

“Did you kill him?” Tom said, wide-eyed. It wasn't clear if he was happy about it or horrified. Mason felt the same way: the rush of victory and the clench of regret, after doing an action that could never be reversed.

Mason scanned the area quickly; they were alone. The level was lit with orangish light that reflected off the forest of tubing in front of them. He knelt next to the Tremist and felt his neck for a pulse, wondering if he'd find it in the same place as a human. He felt nothing through the suit, so he grabbed the bottom of the Tremist's mask.

“Wait!” Tom said.

“What?”

“I don't know. You're really going to pull his mask off?”

“Should I not?”

“What if it's booby-trapped? What if it electrocutes you or releases poisonous gas or something?”

Mason did his best to ignore the images those words provided. “Only one way to find out.”

“That's stupid reasoning, even for you.”

“Maybe.” Mason didn't let the comment bother him; he counted himself lucky Tom hadn't left him at the crossbar. “But we need to know if he's alive. Do you have a better way to find out?”

Tom didn't say anything. Mason's heart pounded. Sure, there were stories that the Tremist were lizards underneath, or pale-skinned space ghosts that filled the suits with their ectoplasmic energy, or even cyborg descendants from a long-dead alien race. A shivering cadet once told him the ESC's scientists had discovered that Tremist teeth were as long as an index finger, and hollow, containing venom that made you pee before filling your lungs with blood. It was hard to know which of those would be worse: lizards, ghosts, or cyborgs. Space vampyres, some of the soldiers called them, but it was never clear if the name was just to frighten new cadets, or because the Tremist actually drank blood.

Only one way to find out,
Mason told himself again.

He peeled the mask off.

Mason's breath caught in his throat.
I don't believe it
.

Next to him, Tom gasped and said, “How…?”

The Tremist weren't so different from humans. In fact, the face Mason saw was familiar. He didn't dare let himself feel relief: it could be some kind of trick, some outer layer of skin that hid a monster underneath.

The Tremist was gaunt, with hollow cheeks, almost like the skin was pasted onto the skull. But it was still a human face. Eyes, a nose, a mouth. Violet, flowing hair was tucked under the suit. And the skin, so pale. Eyes the same color as the hair, Mason saw when he pushed a lid up with his thumb. Purplish, violet, whatever you wanted to call it.

Mason put his hand to the Tremist's mouth and felt moist breaths against his palm. He touched the skin gingerly, feeling bones in the shape of a skull underneath, a solid forehead, cheekbones. He held his breath and pinched the Tremist's lower lip. Peeled it down a little. Saw a normal-sized tooth underneath. Just a tooth. Not even that sharp.

It could be a trick!
his training screamed.
Don't let your guard down.
But with each passing second, Mason believed more and more that the biology of this alien wasn't so different. If it had bones and skin and blood, it could be killed.

“Still alive,” Mason said, slightly relieved. Killing the Tremist was one thing when he imagined them as monsters beneath their suits, but to find they had eyes and ears and noses … they looked too human.

“Are you seeing what I'm seeing?” Tom asked.

Mason knew exactly what Tom was talking about, had noticed the same thing right from the start, but wanted to ignore it. The idea made his stomach churn.

It was the violet hair and eyes, the semitranslucent skin.

“Merrin,” Mason said shakily.

“It can't be possible,” Tom said. “The Solace family is well known. Her mother is an ESC commander and her father is in charge of the Disease Control Agency on Earth
and
Mars. He stopped the plague on Mars and saved millions of lives.”

“I'm not saying I believe it. It could be a coincidence.” Mason could hear the hollowness of his words. He had a funny taste in the back of his throat, and the urge to seek cover.

Tom pointed at the Tremist's face. “But look.”

The pale skin was like Merrin's too, laced with purplish veins. Mason had wondered about her skin for years, but Merrin never offered an explanation. Many cadets were extremely pale from the lack of sun. And he'd always assumed she dyed her hair—many people did back on Earth, and the ESC allowed it, believing individuality was an asset to a soldier.

What would it mean, if Merrin really was a Tremist? Would it matter?

No. You know her,
Mason thought.

Tom kicked at the deck, making it ring softly. Mason didn't yell at him for making noise because he was too busy thinking of alternatives. “Could be a Tremist trick. I've heard they're shapeshifters.”

“And I've heard they do magic,” Tom mumbled. “You can't trust rumors.”

Mason said nothing. The king had recognized Merrin, that had been plain. But perhaps he didn't recognize
her,
but rather what she
was
. The color of her hair and eyes was too much of a coincidence. It's not like she had dyed her hair and changed her eye pigmentation to mimic a Tremist—there wasn't an ESC member who knew what they looked like.

“I don't know if we should be doing this,” Tom said, like he was talking to himself. “I think the most logical course would be to find an escape shuttle and cross to Olympus. We could try to get the fleet to cross back here.”

“What happened to going back to the cadets?”

Tom sneered. “Be smart. What chance would a lone Hawk have against our might? As long as Elizabeth keeps them out of her core, the Egypt is staying in one place. I can even get the coordinates before we go.”

He was right: they should try to escape. But Mason wasn't leaving. Not because he didn't want to, but because once they left it was possible the Egypt and her crew would never be heard from again.

Mason stood up straight. “That's not an option for me. By the time we tell someone and a rescue mission is approved, it'll be too late. The fleet will still have to assemble. You know that. There might not even
be
any ships at Olympus. We can't risk losing the Egypt in the meantime. You can go, but I'm staying.”

“I'm not a coward,” Tom said. “And there are always ships at Olympus. Always at least two.”

Mason just nodded. The ESC could be overcareful. If there weren't enough ships they might decide not to send any at all.

“What do we do with this one?” Tom asked, pointing at the Tremist with his foot.

Mason studied the Tremist's armored suit, taking in its size and shape, and an idea came to him.

“We use him,” Mason said.

*   *   *

Tom didn't have a problem with using the Tremist until Mason told him what he meant.

“No, no no. No. You're crazy. What if he wakes up?”

The Tremist was still knocked out, breathing steadily.

“Aim your cannon at him,” Mason said, then muttered, “and don't shoot me on accident.”

“What? I don't
have
my cannon. They took it.”

Mason forced himself to keep his voice low. “Then use the talon!”

Tom picked up the talon and inspected it.

Mason began to remove the Tremist's suit. It felt like trying to remove an injured tiger from a trap: at any second, the Tremist could wake up, grab Mason, and heave him over the railing.

The suit came off in pieces. The arms and legs connected to the main torso piece. The metal felt cool and sturdy under his fingertips, not oily. The surfaces shifted under the lights, purple to black. Tom was pointing the talon at the Tremist's face, shaking, lips pressed into a thin white line.

“Hurry,” Tom whispered. The arms and one leg were off. The Tremist wore a thinner suit of stretchy fabric underneath.

Mason worked on the last leg, keeping an eye on the Tremist's face for movement.

“You think this is the right thing to do?” Tom asked as Mason rolled the Tremist onto his stomach to work on the torso section. He was surprised Tom was asking him instead of just flat out disagreeing.

“I think someone has to figure out what's going on.” He said it with more confidence than he felt.

“And it's going to be a last year cadet…” Tom said.

“Not too late to find a shuttle.” That shut him up.

Once the Tremist was stripped of his outer suit, Mason grabbed his legs and pulled him into the access tunnel they had come through. Tom kept the talon on him the whole time, until Mason finished stuffing him inside. Then Tom locked the door using the small screen built into the wall, and enabled the locks on the first port they'd come through. When he woke up, the Tremist would be trapped in the dark tunnel.

“Can he damage the ship in there?” Mason asked while he tried putting the leg parts of the suit on. He knew the suit would be too large, but now he was worried it would be completely obvious.

Tom pulled up a schematic for the tunnel. “He can, but nothing that would really hurt us. There's no direct computer access in there. And no access to life support, I think.”

“You
think
?”

“I think,” Tom repeated.

Tom kept watch while Mason finished dressing. The torso piece was too big and hung on him funny. Mason was about to yank it all off and give up when the suit began to contract around him. He gasped, worried it was a defense mechanism designed to crush an unauthorized user. But then it stopped shrinking. Now it hugged him gently, the perfect size to fit his smaller frame. So that was how each Tremist's suit looked like it was tailored for them especially. He was still small for a Tremist, but he remembered seeing one on the bridge that was around his height. As long as he didn't draw attention to himself, it could work. He hoped.

Mason put the helmet on last, smelling some faint perfume left over from the Tremist's hair. It adjusted in the back, the material—which was clearly not metal, despite all appearances—tightening until it fit snugly.

He opened his eyes and peered through the mirror-mask …

… And watched a heads-up display flicker to life, the same way the Egypt's bridge painted information on the clear dome's surface. Strange symbols scrolled in the lower right of his vision, a few of them flickering between two or three of the same symbol. Mason's vitals, perhaps. Tom appeared highlighted, with a little window next to him listing more symbols Mason had never seen before. The ESC had rough translations for a few inscriptions found inside the captured Hawk, but most of the Tremist language was not translated.

“What do you see?” Tom asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It has a heads-up display.” In the top right corner of his vision, a circle pulsed once every second, showing the location of multiple white dots. Some of them were purple. He guessed the purple dots were other Tremist wearing armor, and the white ones were humans, but couldn't be sure. And straight ahead, a little window with an arrow pointed to the far right side of the ship, where Mason knew the Hawk was connected to the Egypt. It was like someone had dropped a flare he could see through the walls, the arrow appearing in three dimensions. Perfect.

When he looked down at his belt, his HUD showed grenades attached there, two separate kinds. He had three of each. That would come in handy, once he figured out what they were. They were definitely not fragmentation grenades: no one used those in an enclosed, pressurized space.

“I can't come with you,” Tom said. “Obviously.”

Mason nodded. “I know that. Thanks for your help. I know we don't always agree on stuff.”

Tom shook his head. “I don't agree with this.”

Mason stuck out his hand. Tom shook it briskly, though he didn't look directly at the mirror over Mason's face.

“I hope you…” Tom began.

“I hope so too,” Mason said, his brief smile hidden by the mask.

“Just don't get killed,” Tom added.

“Any other valuable advice?”

Tom actually laughed, and Mason did too, which was nice. Neither had laughed in a long time, and Mason figured it might be a while before they laughed again.