MAIDEN, page 14
He gasped and lifted his arm from the plating. It didn’t help.
He’d fractured an arm when he was eight or nine. That pain had been something, a real wringer. But it paled compared to the current fire.
“I may have been asleep sixty-three years, but it seems nothing’s changed,” his attacker mumbled from somewhere forward. The pilot’s deck. She sighed. “Let’s see. Disengage auto-retreat. Activate audio alerts. Re-engage autodock.” Beeps from the ops console sounded with each. “There.”
Menker’s thrusters fired, and the yacht rotated.
Nausea rolled through Yrten’s stomach. Opening his eyes, holding still, he looked around. He discovered he had fallen beneath the worktable positioned in the center of the half-circle-shaped couch filling most of the cabin. Just… a few steps… to the pilot’s deck. Find my blade, sneak up on her… Where’s my blade? He searched his immediate surroundings. Where is it?
He tried to recall the fight. I was standing… there. Then my wrist—
He glanced at his wrist.
Blood trickled from a small puncture wound just below his palm. Around it, charred flesh marked where she’d struck—precisely where his wrist met his palm. His swollen fingers and thumb were a ghastly white.
He clenched his jaw to avoid making a sound.
Despair washed over him. Without his hands, he couldn’t fix things. Him being unable to fix things doomed their efforts to escape—assuming the chance came. Something was bound to break in the remaining days, something only he could fix, if the past few months were any sign. Like the spray assembly—without it, the Besk wouldn’t receive her complete coating of slipdust, wouldn’t be able to pass through the slipring while riding the freighter.
Unless I can… get back to the station. Prame can repair the damage. Sure! He managed with Grem’s finger. Medical equipment is crude but still works.
Find my blade! Got to find my blade.
Determination pushed despair aside. Find my blade. And… jack the bitch.
Bracing himself, he worked his knees forward. Using the couch for support, he struggled to a kneeling position, rising until his head lightly tapped the worktable’s underside. Dizziness struck, bringing another wave of nausea, but he remained focused. His training and experience with previous injuries helped. Find my blade.
A quick glance around revealed no errant weapon.
The deck shifted again.
“Attention. Autodock engaged. Docking procedures will begin in three minutes,” Menker’s core reported as the yacht completed its turn.
Remaining low, Yrten turned his attention to the pilot’s deck. His attacker sat in the lone chair, focused on the ops consoles. She had unceremoniously shoved Gance aside. Through the viewplates, the builder’s freighter swung closer.
There! Yrten’s blade lay beside the young pilot. He breathed deep, exhaled slowly. No way I’ll be able to reach it without her knowing. Hopefully, she thinks I’m unarmed.
Her electroprod leaned against the ops station, well within her reach.
If I attack from the other side…
“Three minutes,” she murmured. “Hope you remembered our lessons, my dear builder.”
Bitch! Only thing she’ll learn is that you’re dead! Gritting his teeth, Yrten struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the worktable for support. His balance shifted again, then settled. Beside him, still on, the spray assembly hissed. Cradling his injured arm against his chest, he reached with his free hand for the small electroprod in its holster on the side of his belt. Primarily a ceremonial piece, the jeweled weapon still delivered a potent little zap. Hit the back of her neck, stun her long enough to get my blade. Finish her. Then back to the station. Yes. I can do this.
But with stealth. Need absolute stealth.
“Attention. Autodock engaged. Docking procedures will begin in two minutes.”
Yrten crept forward, cautiously, quietly. His ankle protested each step. The sight of his young attacker, her black hair, pale skin, and glossy red armor, triggered a distant warning in his mind. Green-gold irises. Why does that bother me?
She kept her attention on the console before her, glancing up occasionally. The builder’s freighter slid close, then spun from view as Menker positioned herself again for the autodocking. Feet wide apart, Yrten braced himself for the maneuver.
“Attention. Autodock engaged. Docking procedures will begin in one minute.”
“I’m coming, Scrounger. I hope you remembered not to touch the bright end of your prod.” She chuckled.
Finally within lunging distance, Yrten thumbed his electroprod’s power stud. The device vibrated in his grip. Its tip crackled. He aimed for a spot just above the upper lip of her backplate and steeled himself.
“Attention. Autodock procedures engaged. Stand by.” With another loud clunk that shook the yacht, Menker docked with the freighter.
“You worked hard to get into position,” his attacker said. “I’m tense from all the anticipation.”
Yrten froze. He realized in that frightening moment, the look on his face and hers visible in the forward viewplates as faint reflections, she’d seen him all along.
The pain in his wrist fueled his lunge. “Bitch!” He drove his electroprod at her neck.
But she ducked beneath his lunge and rolled from the seat with impossible speed.
Fingers wrapped around his wrist. She moved behind him then, pushing him forward while bending his arm back—By gods she’s strong! She forced him over the chair’s back, re-igniting the pain in his gut. His forehead smacked the ops consoles. Smears of light flashed across his vision. The pressure on his wrist increased sharply, and his electroprod slipped from his grasp. She released his wrist, grabbed his cloak at the back of his neck, and flung him to the side.
Ignoring the pain flaring through his entire body, he straightened and spun around, cocking his good arm back to deliver a blow that might give him time to reach his blade. But just as quickly she was upon him, his electroprod in her hand, its tip bright and stabbing at his injured wrist.
Yrten screamed at the blinding pain. His entire body went numb. Menker’s lightpads spun. His temple smacked hard against something as he toppled to the deck.
Voices and sobs drew him back.
“…leave me alone? It scared me to death!” The builder.
“But you handled him, my dear Scrounger, as I knew you would,” his attacker replied. “And I stopped these pups from escaping. Which, you’ll agree, I think, carries some importance.”
Scrounger—Scrounger? Her name’s Scrounger?—stopped sobbing. But her sniffling and hitched breaths continued. “Yes, yes, all right. You saved us both.” She sounded less hysterical.
“You fought and won. Enjoy your accomplishment.” His attacker sounded inordinately pleased.
Scrounger sniffled again and brought her breathing under control. “I was so scared. I hit him with the electroprod over and over, but he kept coming at me and coming at me.” She laughed. “Just like you.”
“Ah. Their clothing. I did not expect that. But you got him, aye?”
“Yes.” After a moment, she added in a low voice. “And it felt good. Watching him writhe like that.” She giggled. “I stung him a few more times. Until he stopped moving. Probably shouldn’t have done that, but…”
“I understand. Did you fasten the restraints like I showed?”
“As tight as I could. On Nate, too. Two sets on the wrists and ankles. Just to be sure.” She sniffled. “Lossom! My hands are still shaking.”
His attacker laughed. “Relax. We’ve still a lot of work to do, but for now, we can relax. Their yacht is ours.”
Scrounger asked, “What’s that?”
“Royal electroprod. Took it from our prince there. Cute, aye?”
“Does it work? Can I try it? On him?”
Yrten groaned. He struggled to roll off his stomach. From the throb in his head and ankle to the burning in his wrist and the relentless ache in his gut, he swam in pain. Menker’s plating was cold beneath him.
But he couldn’t move. Restraints held him tight in place.
“Nay, my dear Scrounger. Twice was enough for him, I think.” She laughed.
He cracked open his eyes, realized the large gray blur a short distance away was Gance, ankles bound with black restraints. His arms as well, most likely, though behind his back. At least someone had propped him to a sitting position against the bulkhead. The shockdisc remained stuck to his worksuit—which wasn’t one with material that dispersed shocks. An amber light showed a complete power drain. Yrten’s blade lay on the plating beside Gance’s leg.
Scrounger snorted. “Once will never be enough for the likes of him.” Bootsteps announced their approach. “Lossom, Crystal! You nearly burned off his hand!”
“It looks worse than it is, really. I may have kept my sting on him a bit long. But he’s in the right mood for questioning now,” Crystal replied. “Still considering your blade? I admire that.”
“Maybe it’s his pilot he’s looking at,” Scrounger said, then laughed. “He can’t help you either.”
Crystal walked around him and lifted his blade. Craning his neck, he glanced up as she crouched beside him. “Mine now.” She chuckled.
“Piss on you,” he mumbled before closing his eyes and lowering his head.
“Here. Store these with the others,” Crystal said. “Then bring back with you the big blue-and-white kit in the medical crate. We should tend to your wounds.”
“I’m fine, I told you. I hardly feel them.”
“Aye, you feel fine now. But they’ll roll over you later, though. Trust me.”
“Right, right. You’re the maiden.”
Yrten jerked. Maiden? The word drew him back to full awareness. He remembered those green-gold eyes. That’s why they bothered me! And the red armor! Maiden! Wait. The builder found a… maiden?
The maiden said, “And I should at least ease some of his suffering if I expect him to stay awake.”
Scrounger snorted. She nudged his ankle with her boot, provoking a gasp. “Why waste anything on him?”
“We need answers, aye? His friends back at the station expect him home soon enough.”
“Poor little prince.” Her voice resonated with hate. “Stop the bleeding. Just don’t give him anything for the pain. I want him to suffer. You hear me, scum? I want you to suffer.”
Yrten breathed deep. “I’ll… tell you… nothing.” But I will. I… will. Anything she wants. My training… never prepared me for this.
Fingers fisted in his hair and jerked his head from the deck plating. Groaning, Yrten opened his eyes again and tried to focus on the red, white, and black blur before him.
“Oh, talk you will, my dandy prince. I assure you.” She lightly slapped his cheek. “You think you hurt now? Refuse to answer my questions. You’ll beg for your aches and pains to stay as they are.”
He groaned again at the certainty in her voice. Maiden…
Somewhere out of view, Scrounger growled. “I can’t wait.”
CHAPTER 6
YMPRESS deTHAU
22
LADY YMPRESS deThau positioned her goggles over her eyes, made certain no strands of her hair escaped the clip holding back her mane, then bent toward the green-gray hull of the alien craft—well, a chunk, anyway—held secure by clamps and straps. She grabbed the grinder that scraped the slipdust from the hull and the palm-sized, flexible collection bin.
Others complained how the slipdust made their hands and wrists ache. Though she had scraped as much of the nasty stuff as her fellow exiles, hers didn’t ache. Instead, they felt like she held them in bone-chilling water to halfway up her forearms. She wasn’t sure if that strange numbness was good—no one else said they felt anything similar, and the way they complained made it sound like their aches hurt—but she kept how she felt from her steward, Prame. Lord knew what he’d think of her revelation. Probably advise her to stop scraping for a bit, to see if that helped.
Yeah, like I’d rather go from numbness to the aches everyone whines about.
Plus, it wouldn’t help for everyone to think she was shirking her duty to lead their escape effort. She sensed enough contempt and derision from them already. Some even blamed her for their exile. Ridiculous! She’d only fought to secure what was hers by family right. An inheritance was an inheritance. Her brother did not deserve more than his share. Clearly, the Idrosi side of the family had brought this upon them, with their schemes and talk of conspiracies and especially Sydren’s deep involvement with all things maiden.
Ugh. He couldn’t have picked a worse hobby to obsess over.
She placed the flat grinder head against the smooth section of hull, then pressed the bin against the cool green alloy a finger’s width below. The button that activated the grinder was near her thumb tip. Her early fumbles moving the grinder and the bin together had taught her to check everything, then check again. They could no longer afford any spilled slipdust. She glanced at the grinder head, her collection bin, then the patch of slipdust she intended to remove from the alien alloy. The metal was smooth. The grinder head shouldn’t bump away.
Murmurs from her fellow exiles gathered nearby threatened her concentration. She forced them from her awareness. Like clucking hens! We’ve been stuck here ten months. Nothing new left to say. Can’t they all just shut up?
She breathed deep, held it, then thumbed the grinder’s activator.
BRZZT! The sound and vibration rattled her teeth.
She drove the grinder and her collection bin down the hull. Both arms moved with precision earned through months of numbing repetition. The green-gray slipdust spilled like a rain of dirty pepper into the bin. After roughly a quarter-kenner—as far as the steady aches in her shoulders allowed—she thumbed the grinder off. And exhaled.
The slipdust in her bin barely covered the bottom.
She repositioned her equipment, double-checked herself, then ground off another quarter-kenner long, half-finger-wide section of slipdust. And another. And another.
The numbness in her hands deepened.
Why couldn’t anyone widen the grind head? We’d coat the Besk and be on our way! She pursed her lips in frustration. Her jaw ached.
BRZZT!
At least they’d been able to position the chunk of debris with the slipdust at a comfortable height. She so hated scraping bent at the waist or hunched over on a stool. As if her shoulders weren’t aching bad enough. Then her back and hips had joined the fun.
BRZZT!
She moved the grinder’s head and steadied herself for another run.
“Granna!”
Her granddaughter called just as she was about to press the grinder activation button again. Her arms jerked. Fortunately, she kept hold of her collection bin.
Rysha stood a few paces away. Someone had cut her hair to shoulder-length again. Ympress raised her goggles and frowned. “What is it, my little monkey?”
“Granda says you should come to the Ops Deck.”
“Did he say why?”
Rysha shook her head. “Uncle Yrten’s almost back, but he ain’t answering any comm-calls.”
Ympress placed the grinder and her bin on the nearby workbench. A glance at the chronometer embedded in the ops panel told her Yrten had been gone about thirty hours now. What? Why’d he stay so long at the freighter? He should’ve returned nine, ten hours ago. She vaguely remembered the Menker setting out with its usual complement of crew. They’d taken the clogged spray assembly with them, hoping to clean and repair it. Was it really that long ago?
She wished again they’d moved the builder’s strange freighter closer. But her husband kept refusing.
“Why do you want her so far out?” she’d demanded. “Flying there and back takes nearly a day. For what? A fifteen-minute visit?”
“There’s something odd about that vessel,” he’d replied. “I don’t want it so close. It’s fine where it’s at.”
“At least move it halfway here.”
“Yrten inspected the debris field. There aren’t any chunks of debris with slipdust between us and her. If we want her help, she’s better off where she’s at.”
Ympress scoffed. “We should just kill her and be done with it.”
“We can’t just kill them both, my dear. Someone might come looking. The male we can make look like an accident. Not both. Anyway, she’s shown us she’s good for a vial every five days. Wants to survive. We need to take advantage of that.”
“Whatever.”
So the builder’s freighter had remained ten hours down the arc of debris.
Ympress did rough calculations in her head. Did Yrten spend over nine hours on the freighter during this visit? Why on earth? “How close is the Menker?”
“Granda says it’s twenty minutes out still. But it’s moving in kinda fast. More than normal.”
“Who said that?”
“Uncle Sydren.”
“Hmph. Well, whatever. Lead the way.”
Rysha skipped-scampered ahead. Her movements reminded Ympress of the monkeys she’d seen once. That and the way Rysha loved to climb over everything. And she had a knack for tools. Her Uncle Yrten loved having her around.
“Can you stop calling her your little monkey?” he’d said once, his tone scolding.
“Why? She reminds me of a monkey. I mean no harm in it.”
“It’s demeaning. She’s not a monkey.”
“Have you even seen a monkey?”
“Only the videos. She’s not a monkey.”
“You don’t think she moves and climbs over everything like a monkey?”
“It doesn’t matter, Mom. She’s not a monkey.”
“Whatever.”
Rysha’s parents hadn’t seemed to mind. And since they were no longer around… Monkey!
Ympress smiled.
Rysha skipped to the decklift doors and pressed the summons. In the dimmed lightpads, slipdust glinted on her skin.
The elevator descended with a grinding noise that suggested it needed maintenance. Just like everything else on this damn station lately.
