By Other Means Page 19

  Kat cast a questioning sideways glance toward Scotch as he entered his security code. She remained silent, though, and ready to follow his lead. It wasn’t worth setting him off. He was pissed and clearly ready for a fight. She could see it in the glimmer that darkened his hazel eyes to hardened bronze. That was the only thing that gave any hint to his current disposition. Didn’t matter, though…. Any adversary close enough to tell was already shit out of luck.

  The two of them boarded the shuttle as if this were a standard pre-mission inspection. Scotch went in first. Ducking through the airlock portion of the vessel, Kat nearly ran up his ass. She could feel the tension pulsing off of him. “Hey, what gives?” she asked as she stepped around him and into the crew compartment of the shuttle. She thought she heard a sound from the cargo bay. She started to move in that direction when Scotch snapped out a sharp “no!” His hand came down on her arm. He was drawing her back, but suddenly the pull eased, though his grip did not. Kat glanced over her shoulder at him. The edge of her lip curled instantly, and she scowled. Her hand brushed the cube in her pocket. It was looking more likely that poor Dalton wasn’t unaccounted for after all. Disturbing to think that the medbay staff had been infiltrated.

  Very deliberately Kat reached up and lifted Scotch’s hand from her so she could pivot full around. The entire time she was careful to move very slowly.

  “Welcome back, Campbell,” she spoke in tones of silken steel to the man standing behind and to the left of Scotch. “What happened? Did Hell throw you out for giving Devils a bad name?”

  Scotch’s eyes narrowed. Message received. Not that he could do much with it. Turned out he had a pistol to his head. If Campbell hadn’t been a dead man before, he certainly was now.

  “You know, Alexander, that mouth of yours is about the only smart thing about you.” Campbell responded. “You have two choices,” the traitor told her, “Secure Corporal Daniels, or I’ll take him out.”

  Like the latter wasn’t going to happen at some point anyway. Kat looked down at the zip restraints Campbell held out but she didn’t move to take them.

  Scotch snarled and made as if to turn.

  …Until the gun slammed upside his head. At the same time Campbell used his free hand to jerk Scotch off balance. “Don’t even try it, Daniels…I need her; you’re just insurance.”

  “Just to be clear: you play nice, Alexander, and Scotch here doesn’t bleed,” Campbell said. Kat suspected there was an unspoken ‘yet’ in there somewhere. “We want the data, all of it, and the encryption codes. Now get him zipped before I make it a non-issue.”

  Snatching the zip-ties she started to circle around the two of them. Campbell’s gun clicked as he thumbed the hammer back.

  “Like I didn’t get the same training you did…do it from there. Just reach your arms around him, and make it good and secure.”

  Kat’s mind scrambled to identify her options. Her only weapons were her combat knife and the borrowed pistol, but drawing either would be too visible. Campbell would have time to fire before she even got it unsheathed. Her hand-to-hand training wasn’t much good at the moment either given that Scotch stood between her and the enemy. She had to hope an opportunity would come clear. Or at least that they could stall Campbell long enough for the Devils to close in…which meant she had no choice but to comply.

  It was like hugging a statue. Even with Scotch cooperating—abet unwillingly—Kat had to press herself obscenely close before she could secure his wrists behind him. While she was doing that something hard shoved into her gut. She let her eyes drift up slow, as if she was trying not to focus on this forced intimacy, and met Scotch’s eye. His gaze was hooded and every muscle clearly taut, but he remained absolutely still.

  Except for his hips. He deliberately shifted them forward, his eyes never leaving hers. She gasped. A second ago she would have thought it was impossible for the two of them to get any closer—short of stripping off their clothes and making a concerted effort to occupy the same space—but just that subtle press was enough for Kat to realize that wasn’t his anatomy poking her, it was the hilt of a combat knife. Then, not so subtle, Scotch deliberately teetered, as if off balance, like when Campbell had jerked him back earlier.

  Kat kept her eyes on Scotch, catching the minute shift of his gaze toward the traitor. She drew a deep breath and let her eyes drift closed, then slowly brought them open again, in silent acknowledgement.

  Resting her left hand on Scotch’s chest as she drew her right back around to his side, Kat allowed a look of calculated vulnerability to flit across her features. Seemingly in response, Scotch dropped his chin, as if in defeat, but more importantly taking his head out of alignment with the barrel of Campbell’s gun.

  It was risky, but it wasn’t like they had a lot of options. And still, for a fraction of a moment, she hesitated as visions of Scotch with the top of his head blown out short-circuited her nerves. And then his jaw flexed, sending static-like tingles along her bonejack, but no words. He didn’t need them, she understood completely.

  Then there was no time to wonder. A crash came from the cargo bay, as if something heavy fell to the deck. Kat couldn’t have arranged a better distraction if she’d tried. For just a second Campbell’s attention veered. Not knowing if either of them would see the outside of the shuttle ever again, Kat shoved Scotch into him with her left hand even as she drew the combat knife with the other. Bodies tumbled to the deck. The gun fired once. A scream ricocheted through the shuttle as Kat came down hard on top of the others. Something soft gave beneath her knee. Then someone screamed again.

  Kat couldn’t worry about any of that now. She was already lunging, her left hand locked on Campbell’s gun, shoving it down and away before he could fire again. Her right hand brought the combat knife to bear letting momentum carry the blade down through Campbell’s eye and into his brain. The body spasmed, jerking and thudding against the deck until everyone and everything was coated with the traitor’s blood.

  Scrambling back into a crouch, with the knife still in hand, Kat screamed and lunged again as someone came at her from the shadows of the cargo bay. A solid kick from that direction numbed her wrist and hand.

  “Stand down, Alexander,” the approaching figure ordered, stumbling from the cargo bay into the crew compartment.

  Kat swore, and her legs buckled as the adrenaline ran out.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Scotch said, as she landed atop him. Over the squad band Kat heard him give the Devils the order to abort their missions.

  Sarge stood over them, swaying slightly. The right side of his face was a mass of bruises, and his left arm was wrapped in a field dressing from wrist to elbow. His hands were bound in front of him, though Kat suspected they hadn’t started out that way. There was fresh blood on the gauze and what looked like a smudge of bootblack on his sleeve. There were pronounced lines around his mouth, and his eyes were glazed with pain. Beneath that Kat recognized the deep, sharp pinch of recent betrayal.

  He toed Campbell’s body. “Thanks for taking out the trash.”

  Devil Dancers

  Robert E. Waters

  Victorio Nantan, Captain Victory, Squadron Leader of the Devil Dancers, looked over the smoke-filled room. Somewhere within its cavernous swill of booze, laughter, music, and celebration, were his men. They were the Devil Dancers. Aces everyone; the finest fighter squadron in the fleet. They deserved their seventy-two hours of R&R. Their record kills at the Battle of Pallid Musings had earned them their playtime. But the war continued, and Captain “Victory” had just received secret intelligence about enemy fleet movements near Castor V. It was out of his squadron’s specific deployment zone, but an opportunity that could not be ignored. The finest pilots in the Federated Union had to keep pushing themselves, and at such a critical moment in the war, time was imperative. The enemy was on the verge of collapse.

  That enemy was the Gulo, a wolverine-like race that had nearly cut the Union in two. Feral, savage fighters, their tech
nology was on par with humans. They were a formidable foe. Deep in his heart, Victorio could not help but admire their prowess in battle. But the war had waged for over thirty stellar years, and even personal admiration grows pale over time. He and his men were working hard to defeat the Gulo. A turning-point was at hand. Victorio could feel it. He had seen it in his dreams. One more push, one more decisive rout, and the scales could be tipped.

  The Devil Dancers were not going to be left out.

  He crossed the room, pushing through the partiers, responding in kind to the salutes of junior officers from the 3rd Sol Fighter Wing. He even recognized some crew members of the Star Chariot, an old carrier that had been refitted to accommodate a full battalion of troopers and their drop pods. Among these men, he and the Devil Dancers were legend, and whenever they were present, they received much respect. Victorio passed through them politely, but kept his eyes set on one of his pilots who sat on a plush red sofa near the bar, surrounded by adoring women and sycophants.

  Naiche looked up from his drink and recognized his brother. “Ah, Captain Victory!” He stumbled to his feet, the beautiful ladies surrounding him shifting their bare legs to let him pass. “You’ve decided to crawl out of your wickiup and join us.”

  Victorio grabbed his brother before the younger man embarrassed himself by hitting the floor. Naiche’s face was flush red, his breath rancid with drink, his eyes dilated and distant. “You’re drunk.”

  “You’re goddamned right I’m drunk!” Naiche said, receiving cheers and laughter from his friends. “And I intend on staying that way for another forty-eight hours.”

  “We need to talk, brother,” Victorio said, pushing Naiche away. “Now.”

  “Nonsense,” Naiche said. “We need to drink. Pull up a chair and join us.” Before Victorio had a chance to respond, Naiche said, “Ladies, let me introduce you to our na-tio-tish, our war leader, Captain Victorio “Tomorrow’s Wind” Nantan, the second finest pilot in the galaxy.” He tapped his brother’s chest with a blunt, lazy finger. “This man single-handedly wiped out an entire Gulo squadron at the Battle of Two Dwarves. He’s received six commendations for bravery, and a score of Silver Wings. And ladies,” he put his hand to his mouth and lowered his voice, “he’s got the cutest little tattoo on his—”

  “Enough!” Victorio grabbed Naiche’s shoulders and shook. The drink in his brother’s hand toppled to the floor, spreading red liquid across the plush white carpet. The internal lattice-mesh of the floor began sucking the fibers dry. “We will talk, now.” He turned and looked at the women, whose expressions had become quite still. “Will you excuse us, please?”

  Naiche wrestled himself free and stumbled to the sofa, apologizing profusely to his fans. He gave each lady a small kiss and promised to call on them. They shuffled past Victorio without a word and disappeared into the throng of dancers.

  “You waste yourself away with all this,” Victorio said, finding a seat near his brother. “Father would not be pleased.”

  Naiche rubbed his forehead and chuckled. “Father is just as boring as you, big brother. You are the worst kill-joy I’ve ever met. If you had played your cards right, one of those ladies would have given you a—”

  “Everything comes so easy for you, Naiche. Not so for me. I’ve had to bust my ass for everything. When you were off carousing with your friends at Boot, I had to double down, pull second shifts, commit overtime. And you’d waltz right in the next morning and ace your—”

  “And yet here you are,” Naiche interrupted, “Captain of the Devil Dancers.”

  He’d gotten the promotion in the field during an engagement in the Kuiper Belt eight stellar years ago. His calm, serious demeanor had impressed Star Marshall Kinski Shu, who said, ‘You’re not like others of your kind, are you, boy?’ Images of his father’s hostilities toward the White Eyes came to mind, but Victorio kept his mouth shut like a good soldier. He always kept his mouth shut. ‘No, I guess not, sir.” And so it was that he took command, and the rest was in the common record.

  “There are reports of heavy Gulo activity near Castor V.”

  Naiche perked an ear. “And?”

  “And I’ve asked Star Marshall Shu to give us a temporary transfer to Peregrine Task Force.”

  Naiche sat straight in his seat, the effects of the alcohol washed from his face. “Are you nuts? That racist is going to get us killed!”

  Victorio shot glances around the room. Luckily, the music was too loud and the patrons too drunk to notice his brother’s insubordination. “Keep your opinions to yourself, pilot.”

  Naiche lowered his voice and leaned in. “The men need rest, sir. We won at Pallid Musings, but it was a near-run thing, and you know it. Blue Bird just had her foot reattached. Shines Like the Sun has a new heart, and—”

  “They can rest and recover en route. The Exodus does not depart until eighteen hundred hours.”

  Naiche’s expression grew still, his eyes silent. “We’re leaving that soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shouldn’t I have been consulted on this, sir? I am second in command.”

  “Second being the operative word.”

  Naiche shot out of his seat. They stood there, faces close. Victorio was taller and so he towered over his brother like a bitter tree. Naiche was shorter, indeed, but very fit and muscular, and if he wanted to, he could bring Victorio down and make small order of him. Around them, patrons began to take notice, pretending to party, but with a curious eye turned toward the disruption. Word of two Devil Dancers fighting would spread throughout the fleet; questions would be asked, demands would be made. It was an untenable situation. Hitting a superior officer, even if he was your brother, would be tantamount to suicide. Naiche blinked, and stepped back. “And so that’s how it’s going to be, huh? Captain Victory has made his decision, and all shall bow to him.”

  “Don’t be dramatic, brother. You have a taste for Gulo blood as strong as any pilot.”

  “Yes, but why now? And why this particular action? Enemy fleet movements have been reported all over the Caustic Drift. What interests you so much about this particular report? You hate Captain Shriver of PTF. Why would you—”

  “Gingu-sha has been spotted with that fleet.”

  Naiche’s mouth dropped open.

  The greatest Gulo fighter pilot was Gingu-sha. His kills alone matched those of the entire Devil Dancer unit. His name drew fear even from the crews of capital ships. One story told of how Gingu-sha single-handedly dispatched a Union destroyer, crashing into its hull with a burrowing torpedo and then fighting his way to the bridge, where he massacred the crew and drove the ship into Starbase Calvin, only to escape unscathed on a shuttle. A destroyer did indeed strike the starbase, but whether or not Gingu-sha was responsible was unclear. Since everyone on the ship died on impact, there were no eye-witnesses to confirm the event. But that hardly mattered. The stories were out there, and his reputation and skills were undeniable.

  Over the years, the Devil Dancers had had opportunities to take the Gulo ace down. The Battle of Two Dwarves, Cassini Station, the Emerald Rim, Ambush at Three Moons. Battle after battle, and yet the na-de-gah-ah had always slipped the net. On one particular occasion, Gingu-sha had turned his fighter upside down and aligned his cockpit with Victorio’s, after he had shot a hole through Victorio’s engine and left him for dead. They drifted there for a long while, and the beast could have, at any time, looped around and fired his guns. But he didn’t. They just drifted, both of them looking at each other through the cockpit glass, an arrogant smile spread across the creature’s black lips. Perfect black teeth with a darting pale tongue. His pure-white fur was as beautiful as the first snow of winter, his eyes blazing red hot like fire. And then he gunned his engines and was gone in a flash of blue energy.

  From that moment on, Victorio vowed to find and kill Gingu-sha and put his pelt on the wall of the Devil Dancers’ headquarters on the light carrier Justice.

  “Gingu-sha is your albatross, broth
er,” Naiche said, “not mine.”

  Victorio ignored his brother’s insult. “And I’ve decided that you will be the clown.”

  Naiche’s expression turned from anger to surprise. “Me? But what about Music-Maker?”

  “He’s down with fever. He’ll not be ready when we depart.”

  “But you have never allowed me to play the clown. Why now?”

  “The opportunity is here, Naiche. Do you accept this honor, or no?”

  Naiche stood there rubbing his face. Victorio could see the passion behind his brother’s dark eyes.

  Naiche nodded. “Yes, I will accept the honor. I will be the clown.”

  Victorio breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Now gather the men. We leave immediately.”

  Naiche stiffened and saluted. He was back to his old self. “Don’t worry your fat, arrogant head, brother. I’m the best goddamned pilot you have. I won’t let the Devil Dancers down.”

  Yes, you are the best, brother, Victorio said to himself as he watched Naiche leave the room. But let’s see just how good you really are.

  Victorio moved his head and eased his fighter up and down the spread of jagged rocks along the crest of the mountain. He could have easily steered the craft above the bright, white spires and let it whisk unimpeded through the low clouds. But no. He would not do that. He would not shame himself by taking the easy path. He would neither shame himself nor his brother who lay wrapped in a blanket behind him on the cockpit floor.

  He blinked thrice to disengage his head from steerage and peered out the cockpit window. His eyes widened. The blur of rock, sand, and arrowweed below jogged memories. Memories of boys with brown, ratty hair, sun-browned skin, and dirty buckskin leggings. Memories of breathless runs up mountain paths with mouthfuls of water. Memories of wrestling matches and bareback races. Good memories. Bad memories. Memories even the dark, cold vacuum of space could not erase. But as he eased over the last crest and focused the landing reticule on a black concrete pad in the distance, his heart raced.