Her name was Heather Pt.10
09 Jan 2018Gmanharmon
Part 9Heather and I managed to stop kissing long enough to catch our breaths, but my mind was running a mile a minute. I had so many things I wanted to ask her. My mouth moved, but I couldn’t speak. Thankfully, Holliday stepped in and did it for me.
“Well, now,” she said, with a smirk a mile wide, “since y’all lovebirds are finished playing catch-up...”
“Not quite,” Heather replied, “but we can wait. Right, Grayson?”
“Right,” I said. We stepped back from each other and faced Holliday, but Heather still held my hand. I squeezed her gently, and she reciprocated.
“Okay, down to business. The boss-man wants to know how y’all are gettin’ on with your reputations.”
“I’m doing great!” Heather replied instantly. She reached into the pocket of her blazer and produced some old-fashioned identity papers. “I’m working right under Shadow President Winters!” I looked at her with a raised eyebrow; half of me was impressed that she had gotten so far in such a short time, and the other half wondered how she had accomplished so much where I had barely moved the peg. I was starting to feel woefully inadequate. “All I have to do is wait until she wins the next term’s vote, then I can start the sickness program.”
“Very good, Heather.” Holliday beamed with delight. “Grayson? Where are you now in the Navy?”
“Well...” I started, looking in my jumper for my digital ID card. “I’m not royalty right now, but it’s not due to lack of effort.” Once I got out my ID, I saw the firmware required an update. I tapped the prompt, waited a few seconds, then the tiny screen updated with new information. The Marquise ended up coming through, after all. “I can tell you I’m a Lord now.” I held up my ID and showed them, as well as being counted as a crew gunner aboard a ship of the line in one of the Imperial Navy’s most prestigious fleets. “Pulled a few strings her and there.”
Holliday nodded, pursing her lips. “Not bad,” she replied, and Heather smiled at me. “I suppose snatchin’ up that Princess helped lube things up a bit with the brass?” Heather’s smile slowly faded.
“Finding Aisling in that outpost was unexpected,” I said, “and I wasn’t about to get in the middle of her little turf war with Arissa Lavigny. But leaving her there to die wasn’t going to happen, either.”
“What happened?” Heather asked, her tone growing harsh.
“Arissa’s boys had drugged her when they tried to kidnap her. It was Apophis.” The psychoactive drug was well-known within our circle, as well as with spies everywhere. I had a few doses of it myself, strapped to my ankle in a fabric holster called a crash kit, in powder or liquid form.
“When she fell asleep in the Python I commandeered, the drugs hit during her REM cycle and she wigged out.” I presented my dataslate and played back a little clip of Aisling thrashing about the crew quarters, captured from the Outrageous Fortune’s onboard surveillance. Heather and Holliday watched with morbid curiosity as I played a few more seconds of the footage, stopping just short of the Princess acting unladylike. “Once I see Denton Patreus at the opera, this will make the perfect blackmail. I already have a press junket ready to leak to GalNet just in case.”
“So,” Heather said after a pause, “you and her didn’t-”
“No!” I answered, firmly. “I’m better than bedding an air-headed socialite, either for love or money. I saw enough of her in the gossip rags and those stupid GalNet shows to know there’s nothing rattling around in that skull of hers. That’s not sexy to me.” I embraced Heather again. “I know I could do better than her. And I have.” I raised my left hand to show I still had my engagement ring, and she showed hers, the smile returning to her face.
“At the end of the day, Heather, I’m yours, for all time.” I kissed her forehead, and looked deep in her eyes. Her gaze, however, felt distant. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Um...” Heather took a step back and glanced toward the deck. I followed her gaze, but didn’t find anything. I looked to Holliday, and noticed a slight downturn in her lips, and a slight shift in her eyes back and forth. I turned back to Heather, and began to notice her figure wasn’t right. Her lines were as perfect as I remembered them, but I started to notice her belly wasn’t as taut as it used to be. She was a bit distended.
I stepped forward and touched her stomach. Heather trembled for a second, but fell still. I felt something push against my hand, and I recoiled back in horror. A tear fell from Heather’s eye and her lips quivered. I turned to Holliday; she had a fist raised to cover her mouth, pinching her nose. The bridge grew quiet.
“You’re...” My voice croaked out in utter shock. I couldn’t complete the sentence. Holliday began sobbing first, before Heather joined her.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. My wife was with child, and it wasn’t mine.
My father had told both of us that sexual favors for personal or professional gain was but one more tool in a saboteur’s arsenal, and in the event we needed to perform, as it were, in the course of our work, we were physically trained and mentally conditioned to suppress all emotion and feeling we had for each other while the deed was done. Our crash kits were also stocked with common prophylactics and anaphrodisiacs, stuff to lessen the sting of the physical part of the job.
There was no special pill or mantra for the emotional part. Heather is pregnant with some Federal politician’s baby.
“I’m so sorry,” Heather said, her voice quavering. “I’m so sorry.” Could I truly be mad at her, in light of what I’ve done to gain my Imperial rank? Would I be right to hold that pregnancy against her? When we finally rule the galaxy, will it be my child? Is it truly infidelity if it’s used to accomplish the mission? Do the ends justify the means, as Machiavelli wrote?
Shut the fuck up!
Someone screamed at me from within my own head. I released my aching fingers, noticing blood dripping from my palms; I had involuntarily balled up my fists. My mind was being torn apart. I needed to pull it back together. Heather is your wife, above all others! Forget who knocked her up, forget your existential crisis, forget everything about yesterday and tomorrow! Federal, Imperial, fuck ‘em! All that matters to you is the here and now, and right now, you need to be her fucking husband!
I took a deep breath and exhaled shakily. I blinked my eyes, then took Heather’s hands in mine, and looked her straight in the eye.
“Heather,” I told her softly, “I can’t be mad at you.” Both our eyes were damp as I addressed her, and tears stained her blouse. “I don’t care who it was, how it happened, or why. All I care about is you, and I want you to do what you feel is right.
“Go with Holliday, and take some time.” I beckoned her over, and she held on to Heather’s shoulder. “It should be your choice to decide what should happen to this child. I can’t justify making that decision for you.”
“What do you want?” she asked me. The truth is, I don’t know what I want. Could I possibly be ready to be a father to a child who’s not mine? Could I be ready to accept the chance that Heather would abort the baby? Could I accept there may be a third option, that doesn’t involve me? I don’t know. I can’t know.
“I want what you want, my love.” My words hung in the air for an eternity. Heather didn’t respond. She and Holliday turned and went to the crew quarters, and I felt it best not to follow them. I walked to the captain’s chair in the middle of the immense bridge of the Corvette, and looked out towards the surface of Zaonce 6c, finding nothing uplifting or revelatory in the mottled, yellow sulphur dioxide atmosphere. I clasped my hands behind my back, rested my chin against my chest, and exhaled heavily, when I felt a presence behind me. Judson Matthews, the resident clothier of our band, held aloft a black silk suit tailored just for me and a portfolio containing updated information.
“Holliday couldn’t be here to give you this, in case you’re wondering...”
“I know, Jud, thank you,” I replied, taking the suit and all its accessories. “Do I get a new identity, too? Maybe a King?”
“Not without finding one in the wild and kidnapping them,” he replied. “The Empire don’t exactly grow royalty on trees, y’know.”
“Don’t remind me.” I took the portfolio and made my way back to the cargo bay, sealing the uniform and papers in a vacuum bag before stepping into the air lock. My Remlok helmet snapped shut as the room depressurized, then the outer hatch undogged and swung out into open space. I held on to the bag as I pushed off towards the chromed Fer-de-Lance. It was only after I had taken my seat and started the preflight that I remembered the active kill warrant on me and my ship.
This was the point of no return as I disengaged from the Los Angeles and flew back out towards Industry, staying well clear of the shipping lanes and maxing out my scope’s range, resolving all targets in my line of sight and keeping an eye out for any hollow blips trying to get behind me. The ride down to Industry was uneventful, and I established comms with StarCon to land near the opera house.
“Industry StarCon, Zorgon Peterson Golf-Romeo-Alpha requesting permission to land.” I held my breath as the radio crackled for a few fateful seconds.
Zorgon Golf-Romeo-Alpha, you are cleared to land on pad zero-five, priority One. Be advised that enhanced security measures are in place for the duration of the event.Damn. I moved closer to the surface, seeing the lights of my pad a few kilometers below me. Enhanced security measures would most likely mean lots of Imp or Fed military patrols, or Zaonce’s private army men with itchy trigger fingers. I reached to the instrument cluster and flipped a few switches, cutting off the running lights and entering silent-running mode. With the heat vanes retracted, the cockpit was growing hotter by the second.
Romeo-Alpha, you’ve dropped off our scopes. Please respond if you’re experiencing malfunctions.A notice on the shipboard computer told me a patrol craft was scanning the vessel. I hit another switch and watched the heat signature drop to nothing as coolant began purging the excess heat into the heatsink, and ejected the superhot disc out to the surface. The purge did its job of breaking the patrol’s scan lock, allowing me to glide down to just a few dozen meters above the pad, where I returned to full power and dropped with a deft touch. For a medium-size ship, it was an absolute joy to fly, and landing was a dream.
I powered the ship down and sat for a while, watching as vessels of all types flew into the area, from the lowliest Imperial Eagle to a flotilla of eight mighty deLacy Anacondas bedecked in military dazzle paint and displaying enormous class-4 kinetic cannons on their bellies. I finally took my leave and entered the captain’s quarters, which was more of a spacious closet, put on my suit and accessories, and reviewed my portfolio. The list of attendees at this opera read like a who’s who of humanity’s best and brightest, with politicians, royalty, scholars, scientists, doctors, well-off private citizens, and captains of industry making up a majority of the list.
“Civilian,” said the first Imperial Outsider standing guard at the Fer-de-Lance’s gangway, getting soaked by the drizzle that started to form, “we are under orders to search your ship and belongings to ensure you are carrying no contraband into the theatre.”
“Contraband?” I asked, pretending to be bewildered. “Why would you presume a Lord of the Empire to carry contraband to an official function?” I thrust out my ID card and held it aloft in the Outsider’s face.
“I’m sorry, sir, but orders are orders.” It was obvious that it was his first day on the job. Imagine joining the Imperial Navy only to be shanghaied into performing coat checks and ship sweeps on some high-falutin’ planet that doesn’t care whether you live or die.
“It’s okay, Outsider, you have a very important job to do. However, let’s get out of this weather first.”
“Sounds good, my Lord,” he replied. “Please follow me.” He led me to a doorway that opened up into the atrium, where a receiving line had been established, packed to the gills with respectable people wearing their finest linen.
“Now then,” the Outsider continued, as I took off my top hat and cape, which I shook off. The Imp waved a small wand around me, which vibrated as it reached my hip. “Sir, may I ask you to move your coat?” I pushed back my tails and revealed the Anaconda in its leather holster.
“I-I’m sorry, my Lord,” the Outsider said, his Adam’s apple bobbing, “b-but personal weapons are s-strictly forbidden i-in the theatre. I’ll h-have to confiscate that—”
When his hand reached for my revolver, I grabbed his wrist firmly. Even though my kid gloves were dainty, the pressure I exerted got the point across. “If you touch my gun without my permission, Outsider,” I said in a low growl, “you will lose your hand. Do you understand?” He nodded frantically. “The list of banned weapons specifies energy-powered small arms only. This is an antique firearm, and is perfectly fine.”
That was a complete lie, but now I needed to sell it. I tucked my cane under my arm and reached into a pocket, then turned over the guard’s hand and pressed several credit chips into it, adding up to well over six months’ salary. “A good little sailor such as yourself is intimately familiar with the orders of his post, correct?” He nodded again. “Good. You will now forget you ever saw me, or that Fer-de-Lance, and request a new rotation. Preferably, somewhere close to the generator room. Are we in agreement, Outsider?” More frantic nodding.
“Excellent. We’re done here. Now shoo!” With a wave of my hand, the guard scurried off to parts unknown. I took off my cloak and gloves, and placed them in my hat, then handed them into the coat-check with my cane. The checkers looked at my vestments as if I came from another galaxy.
“Finest evening wear in the 20th Century!” I said, with a flourish.
“Yeah, whatever, grandpa,” the clerk replied, looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. They gave me a paper ticket and informed me with their eyes that I should get lost.
I made my way across the alabaster floor to the party proper, and got lost in the din of conversations and clumps of people, Federal and Imperial dress-mess uniforms aplenty in their own cliques.
And never the twain shall meet, I chuckled to myself. Off to my four o’clock, I spotted a tuft of blue hair, and saw Aisling Duval and Denton Patreus chatting with several other Imperial notaries as they were led into the performance hall. Patreus swirled a snifter of Lavian Brandy in his palm, while Aisling carried a tumbler of Azure Milk on the rocks. In a different corner, President Zachary Hudson and Shadow President Felicia Winters were talking to their own little group. Heather was among them, hanging on to the arm of a greasy Winters-affiliated bureaucrat, who was rubbing her belly and grinning from ear to ear.
Something came over me, and the grandiose pep talk I had given in the Corvette just an hour ago was lost in the rage that was welling up within me. I balled my fists and began marching towards the politician, placing a hand on the Anaconda’s butt, when a hand gripped my arm.
“My Lord.” I stopped in my tracks and shot the interloper a death stare. It was one of the bridge officers of Patreus’s Interdictor. “As much as you’d like to fight with a member of the Federal Congress, and believe me, I share your exact same sentiments, I have to remind you that we are under a mutual cease-fire agreement here. Any hostilities will be met with a firing squad on Achenar. It’s not worth it, trust me.” He was right. I took a deep breath, suppressed the voices, and relaxed my grip on the revolver.
“And furthermore, how did you manage to sneak in that giant slug-thrower through the security check? I had to give quite a lot of credits just to keep my fare-well in my pocket.” He opened his mess blouse to reveal a snub-nose blaster pistol in a shoulder holster.
“Cost me, too.”
“Ah, another friend in bribery.” He grinned and clasped my shoulder. “Come, the Princess has been asking about you. And, my word, what are you wearing? You look like an extra in a history movie!”
“White tie and tails is a tradition where I come from,” I lied, trying to forget about Heather’s paramour. “Am I really so out of fashion?”
“Well, I’ll just say that specific attire is a bit… outmoded, so to speak. The cuts from today’s tailors are far more liberal in their design and fabric choices. I mean, really! Natural fibers? Ugh!” The officer visibly shuddered. “Humanity didn’t spend over a thousand years perfecting synthetic threads to imitate the real thing and clothe everyone in the galaxy practically for free, to have such regressive thought being bandied about, wearing these ancient relics and parading about, calling them ’high fashion’! I mean, really!”
I stopped the officer and backhanded him straight across the face, nearly sending him to the floor. Conversations stopped as space was given to us. The Imp put a delicate hand to his cheek, the skin underneath turning a sickly shade of purple. “Don’t you dare insult my people or my culture ever again,” I admonished. It wasn’t a suggestion. Fear rippled in his eyes.
“I-I’m sorry,” he replied sheepishly. “I had no idea what came over me. Please, come this way.”
We climbed the grand staircase into a private box, where Denton Patreus and Aisling Duval were seated, surrounded by their retinues. The Princess held a set of opera glasses, little more than cut crystal seated in palladium braces, held in place with gold filigree. They looked like industrial prototypes for laser focusing assemblies more than binoculars. She made a ritual of raising the glasses to her eyes, panning across the stage below, then lowering the glasses to her lap, then bringing them up again, repeating the physical mantra ad nauseam and giggling to herself.
“Denton, these are so much fun!” she said to the Senator, looking through the glasses again. “It’s almost like the people down there are right in front of me!” He looked sideways, then smiled and patted her knee.
“I am so happy for you, my dear.” Patreus stood when he saw me, and extended his paw. “Ah! Good to see you again. I trust the visit with the Marquise was fruitful?”
“It was… different,” I replied. “Senator, if I might have a word in private?”
“Of course. We can go just down the hall here.” We stepped out of the box and padded a few paces down the carpeted corridor, lit by bioluminescent phytoplankton ensconced in glass aquaria along the wall. The strains of the tenor echoed through the area, along with a smattering of applause, which further concealed our tête-à-tête.
“Reynaud has informed me that you’re now a Lord,” Patreus started off. “You’ve been given quite the opportunity to open your own doors. I’m quite sure you don’t need my help anymore.”
“On the contrary, Senator. You might be more useful than she was.”
“Explain.”
“Well, sir,” I said, “being a Lord is an honor, to be sure, but I’d much rather be a King.” He stared at me, while I shot him a wink. “And I think you could get me there.”
He snorted. “And why should I make you a King? Do you want to take my seat on Achenar?”
“The thought hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Nevertheless,” he continued, “I couldn’t legally or ethically do anything of the sort. Michelle would have told you about the meritorious battle commendation, among other things. I may be a Senator, Grayson, but I just can’t conjure up a King out of thin air.”
“Then maybe this will ease your conscience.” I reached behind my tails and produced the polaroids of Aisling, holding them in front of Patreus like a deck of playing cards. His eyes grew wide as he held the photographs, as I produced a mini-dataslate and showed him the video of the Princess tripping on Apophis. He watched as his precious little girlfriend threw herself against bulkheads and screamed at nothing. I arrived in frame, trying to calm her, before she kicked me in the groin and I stumbled out of the room and locked the door. It got worse; she could be seen chugging and then defiling herself with a bottle of Old Sol, and mainlining saline from the desk safe. “Your ditzy little blue-haired plaything is a junkie, Denton, and into some very freaky shit. When this hits GalNet, you’ll be the laughingstock of the universe. She’ll probably have to kill herself. Millions of adulating followers with stained bedsheets will cry a river of tears from here to Andromeda. The Emperor will march you down a rogue’s gallery and cut off that ridiculous hair of yours—”
Patreus threw down the polaroids and the dataslate, baring his teeth like a wild beast and throwing out his chest. “I should kill you where you stand, you, you...”
I pulled the Anaconda from its holster, twirled it around my finger for a few seconds, then spun it to the side and presented it to the Senator, butt-first. “Then stop talking like a coward and do it!”
Patreus stuck out his hand and reached for the revolver, when the sound of jackboots crashing through the hallway stopped him. He pulled his hand back, and I holstered the Anaconda, and we stepped to the wall as a troop of Imperials marched down the corridor. Arissa Lavigny was in the middle of the parade, flanked by several agents wearing the garb and colors of Inquisitors. I only recognized their clothing from the men I killed in Gorramacor. The train stopped in front of us, and the soldiers parted so Lavigny could step forward and greet Patreus.
“Denton,” she said, shaking his hand. “Good to see you.”
“Arissa,” he replied. “Congratulations on your coronation. I do apologize for not making the ceremony.”
“Think nothing of it. You practically live on that ship as it is,” she said with a giggle. The Emperor turned to me. “And whom are you talking to?”
“Grayson Harmann, Lord of the Empire, Your Majesty.” I took a small bow in front of her, pretending to dust off my patent-leather dancing pumps and simultaneously hiding the scattered polaroids behind me.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord.” She shook my hand, having a firm grip for a woman in her middle age. “I feel like I should know you from somewhere… No matter. Carry on.” The Emperor returned to the middle of her train, then marched off to her own opera box. I picked up the polaroids and the dataslate and returned them to the small of my back. Denton tried to stop me.
“You’re not leaving this building with those pictures, you son of a bitch!”
“Patreus!” called out a voice from down the hall. The Senator turned to look at who it was, but couldn’t see anyone.
I ran down the stairs and through the lobby. I threw my voice down the hallway to distract him, which worked better than I had hoped, and gave me a precious few seconds to escape. I stormed through the massive double doors at the front of the theatre, just in time to see Heather in a heated argument with the fat tub of lard who impregnated her.
“You what?!” he bellowed. “That was my child! My lineage! My successor to the Federal Congress! You can’t have an abortion!”
“I can, and I did, Thurston!” she shouted in response. “My heart has been spoken for, and it doesn’t belong to you!”
“Then who does it belong to, you whore?” She turned and spotted me, her eyes grew wide, then ran to me and wrapped an arm around me.
“This is my husband,” she said, “and I will bear his child when we are ready!”
Tubby’s ham-sized fists trembled in rage. “You… you’re married to an Imperial? Felicia will have you shot for such treachery! I can’t believe it myself! You, Imperial Lord! How much did you pay this woman to speak such slander? I’m calling Hudson right now!” He shoved a giant paw under his dinner jacket and retrieved a dataslate, while I drew the Anaconda and shoved against his forehead. I thumbed the hammer back with authority, making sure he saw the soft-point rounds in the cylinder.
“Put that phone down right now, you greasy fat fuck,” I growled, “or I turn your head into a canoe.” He did as I requested, and I crushed it underfoot. “Leave the galaxy, and never come back!” I took the revolver off his forehead and pressed it to the hideous mound of flesh hanging over his groin, and fired. As the Federal Congressman clutched his belly, I saw that his pubis was saved by his anatomy; the bullet had pierced clean through his adipose tissue and, as such, passed several inches below his hips. Heather and I sprinted to the landing zone, an immense field of manicured grass where vessels of all sizes and shapes were still arriving and departing. I decided to heed my own threat and disappear. The Extinction Event was a lost cause at this point; despite her obvious combat pedigree, I could be confident in the fact that I could destroy any ship the Empire and Federation could throw at us, but once the ammo is gone, I’ll be dead.
Several squads of Imperial and Federal Navy units were storming out of the theatre, blaster rifles at the ready. We had to get as far away as possible, and we needed a ship with range. I looked down the dizzying length of the parking lot and spotted an unremarkable Lakon Diamondback. I led Heather towards the ship and started up the gangway, when its owner tugged on my pants leg.
“Get off of my ship!” he screamed, dressed in a snazzy double-breasted silk suit with an ascot. Without a word, I presented my revolver and shot him between the eyes, then made my way up into the Lakon. Heather wasted no time powering up the ship while I plotted a course for somewhere extremely far away.
There. The Pleiades Nebula, home to the Seven Sisters. Rumors of Imperial and Federal fleet buildups were coming out of that place, and conspiracy theories about aliens were without end. We’re going to Maia. Nobody would be crazy enough to follow us out there. I plugged the coordinates into the navicomputer and took the pilot’s seat. Heather was still dazed from the chemical abortion, so she was in no shape to fly. I put full power to the engines and lurched off the ground, retracting the landing gear and pushing the throttle to its stops. The powerful thrusters screeched in the atmosphere of Industry as we broke through the cloud layer, jumping to supercruise and flying out into space.
What awaited us past the exosphere were two Farragut-Class Battlecruisers, two Majestic-Class Interdictors, including the Imperial Freedom, a wall of Federal Corvettes and Imperial Cutters, and hundreds of smaller fighters and frigates, loaded for bear and waiting just for us. I gave the Diamondback full throttle and spooled up the frame-shift drive, boosting through the flotilla and flying so close to the bridge of one Farragut that I could see the figures running about inside. Once I was clear of the blockade, time and space stretched around us and we jumped into witch-space, disappearing in a blue flash.
Several of the larger frigates in the blockade were equipped with wake scanners, and thus relayed our relative positions to scouts so they could follow us. We were nearly interdicted a few times, the poor Lakon’s hull creaking under the tension caused by the FSD tether, but each time we escaped successfully. The sixth jump was a place called Jackson’s Lighthouse. Once the Diamondback popped back into realspace, I slammed the throttle to zero immediately and beheld an amazing sight before me.
Jackson’s Lighthouse was a neutron star, a white-hot superdense mass of whatever was here before it collapsed on itself. The information panel showed we were less than two light-seconds away, and cruising forward at thirty kilometers a second. The last four stars were small, cold brown dwarves, and we needed to refuel badly, or else we were stranded out here, with the Federation and Empire hot on our tails. I forgot all about that and marveled at the pulsar before me, oscillating on its axis, spewing out gamma radiation from its poles. I watched the blue-white trails curl in on themselves as they reached the edge of the ejecta cone, looping into concentric circles and dissipating into deep space. I woke up Heather and she resisted, but then she looked out at Jackson’s Lighthouse and sat there in awe with me. We were bathed in the otherworldly light and watched it spin.
Zip. Zip. Zip. Zip.
The Feds and Imps had caught up to us. I had less than ten tons of fuel in the tank, enough for one jump, but they would follow us eventually. The Anaconda that led the scouting party, FNS Dauntless, had its wake scanner fully functional and bathed in the protection of its class-7 shields. Our single large burst laser would never be able to chip away that kind of protection in time to stop them tracking us. Our backs were against the wall. I looked at Heather and held her hand, until something Holliday told us in our first trip to the bubble rang out on my head.
You can supercharge your frame-shift drive in the jet cone of a white dwarf or a neutron star, if you’re brave enough! Just ease in to the cone from the center out, do your best to fight the gravity pushin’ you around, then throttle out once you get charged up!“It has to work!”
“What does?” Heather asked.
“Hang on to something, baby.” I eased the throttle to ten percent thrust, and we started inching forward towards the Lighthouse. The exclusion zone loomed large in front of us, and I angled the Diamondback towards the jet cone at about two-tenths of a light-second from the mass. Two Vultures streaked past like little comets and disappeared into the exclusion zone, falling off the scopes, but the Anaconda and several Clippers kept pace with me. Once I hit the jet cone, the Diamondback started shaking and shuddering, as if I was being tossed around a washbasin. I held the control yoke in a death-grip as the shipboard AI displayed errors and warnings aplenty. A wing of three Eagles followed us into the cone, but they were quickly overcome by the violent gravitational forces and were thrown out and back in, each time facing a different direction.
WARNING: FSD Supercharged.I throttled up and shot out of the jet cone at flank speed, watching the accelerometer climb to 25c and keep going.
“Heather, hit the navicomputer and plot a course to a scoopable star at our maximum range!” She nodded and tapped at the panel, then gasped at how far we could go.
“Are you sure we can go all the way there on what’s left?”
“Just trust me!” She keyed in the coordinates and I spooled up the FSD, with the Anaconda right behind us. The crew of the big ship were smart enough not to mess with the neutron star, and they kept their distance from me as I made ready to jump. They could scan our wake all they want, but they would never be able to catch up now. We jumped into witch-space in the familiar blue flash, leaving them in the dust.
The Diamondback dropped out of witch-space at a G-class main sequence star in the Hyades Sector, 140 light-years away. The Anaconda could make the distance in about six jumps on its own, but the combat-rigged fighters in tow were not so well-equipped. It would take hours for them to find a route here, and by the time they caught up, our wake would have decayed long before they could scan it.
“We lost them,” I told Heather. “That neutron star let us jump a hundred light-years. No way they could catch up.”
“So we’re safe?”
“For now, Heather, yes.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“I’m taking us to Maia, in the Pleiades. They’d be crazy to come after us way out there.”
Heather looked at me incredulously. “You’re crazy to even think about going out there! They’ve been talking about alien structures, and these things called barnacles, and who knows what else. Jasmina Halsey got lost somewhere out there, in the Pleiades, or Col 70, or somewhere, and the Pilots Federation forbids anyone from going that way!”
“Well, we’re not just anyone,” I said, “and we’re not beholden to the Pilots Federation, either. Pop will get us the help we need out there.” I began plotting a course for Maia as the tank filled with hydrogen. “We’re both wanted in our respective superpowers, and we’re most likely facing death sentences if we go back to the core systems. Right now, we have to abort mission and regroup.
“We’ll probably need new identities, too,” I thought aloud. After the super-jump, the FSD returned to normal function, so we were back to 35 light-year stretches. It took less than an hour to make our way through the Hyades Sector and the Aries Dark Region, arriving in Pleiades Sector IR-W d1-55 and stopping for fuel before continuing on to Maia. A Sanchez-class science vessel was berthed above one of the nearby planets in this system, but I felt it best to avoid contact and pressed on.
Our last jump dropped us in front of Maia, a brilliant B-class giant star, one of the Seven Sisters and barely visible from Sol. I hit the discovery scanner and a myriad of stellar objects were made known to us. Three hundred thousand light-seconds away was a black hole, with nothing else in sight. I plotted a course for Maia B, which was labeled Unexplored on the ship’s star charts, and launched forward.
Twenty-five minutes of supercruise drew us close to Maia B, and I saw the first effects of a black hole’s indomitable grip on space-time. Space began to lens around us, making it look like I was flying backwards through a cut-crystal sphere. I reduced throttle and watched the distance tick down, not knowing when I should make the drop to realspace to avoid shooting through the primal portal and spaghettifying out of existence. With a slow count in my head, I hit the switch, and the Diamondback returned to realspace, less than seven kilometers from the event horizon.
Space was compressed so much around us that the starlight appeared a ruddy brown, and in the distance, visible only by the stretched and spun universe around it, the black hole loomed large in front of us. There is no word in the human language I know of which can adequately describe what I was seeing.
“Heather,” I breathed. My voice was gone. I swallowed, cleared my throat, and tried again. “Heather, you have to see this.” I looked around, but she wasn’t in the cockpit. I got out of the captain’s chair and stepped into the ship, finding the cargo bay door open. She was inside, running her hands over the cylindrical containers that each contained a ton of whatever commodity was being ferried around the galaxy.
“What is it, darling?” I asked. I hadn’t read the manifest in the struggle to flee Zaonce, but we had the time now. She keyed the hatch and it popped open, causing several thick green bricks to fall to the deck. I took one and looked it over as she went to another container and opened it. That one was filled with white bricks of a similar size. I took the razor-thin survival knife off of my Remlok and cut through the plastic wrapping, and the room filled with the pungent smell of rope.
“Onionhead.” We were in a smuggler’s vessel. Heather had opened a container filled with narcotics, and another container carried low-temperature diamonds. Each kilogram of diamonds were encased in a thick cylinder lined with urethane rubber, with the exteriors painted to look like food cartridges.
I stared at the green biomass in my hand, flaky and fragrant, then had a thought.
Hey,” I said. Heather stopped, holding a blaster rifle taken from yet another container. I held up the brick of onionhead. “Wanna party?”
“Are you serious?” she replied, putting the rifle back. I smiled in reply. She shook her head in amazement, then I walked back to the door.
“I’ll be in the cockpit if you change your mind.”
Eventually, she did, and arrived in the canopy several minutes later holding a bundle of brown plants wrapped in burlap. They were less fragrant than the onionhead, and looked like fungi.
“Psychedelics,” she replied, and showed me they were tiny mushrooms. “I looked at myself in the mirror, and figured, what the hell.” I had rolled some onionhead into two healthy joints and handed one to Heather, then took a butane lighter and ignited the tips. Three deep draws from the joint, several seconds of holding the smoke in, and then a blustering exhale later, and I was in another world. Heather joined me shortly after, and I smiled as I watched space and time shift around the black hole in a dazzling display of color and sound.
Heather stood in front of me and placed her joint on the sensor cluster, then stepped out of her Remlok suit and helped me out of mine. She pushed me back in the captain’s chair, reclaimed her joint, then sat astride me while we finished off the onionhead and mushrooms. My hands found their way to Heather’s body and traced their way along every inch of her familiar curves, while she adjusted herself and took me, her hands gripping my shoulders firmly and gyrating her hips against mine in just the way she knew I liked. We heaved and panted, locked in for what seemed like years, before I pulled her close and kissed her deeply while I planted the seed. Heather shook in complete bliss and squeezed me tightly with her arms and legs, as I thrust every last drop within.
We stayed locked together, our bodies a single sweaty, quivering mass, finally making up for our lost time apart. With one more deep, passionate kiss, Heather began lifting off and then stood in front of me, showing everything. My motions were slowed in my psychedelic state, but my vision was dazzled with displays of color and sound and light, the likes of which I had never seen before and wouldn’t see again. Heather smiled and got down, her knees on the deck and back arched, then placed her hands on my thighs and took me once again. The feeling caused my eyes to roll my head back and caused my eyes to flutter.
When I brought my head forward and opened my eyes, Heather wasn’t there at my feet. In fact, standing in front of me were six people: Denton Patreus, Aisling Duval, the Emperor Arissa Lavigny-Duval, Federation President Zachary Hudson, Felicia Winters, and Heather, standing at Winters’ side. I got out of the chair shakily, still under the effects of the onionhead, and watched as Heather calmly walked over to Hudson and cut his throat. Neiter Winters nor the Imperials offered any resistance, or even moved to help, as the octogenarian President gurgled and writhed on the deck, life’s liquor draining from the ragged gash in his neck. I was horrified at the sight before me.
I looked back up to ask Heather what she had done, but then saw her not nude, as she was, instead dressed in a Federal uniform of her own, with presidential insignia displayed proudly on her epaulets.
“What’s happening?” I asked. My voice was an odd baritone, detached from my body. I didn’t so much move more than sway as I battled the onionhead for control. My arms drifted lazily about, legs moving like mush across the deck as I stood to confront Heather. She smiled and handed me my revolver. Everything had a shimmer about it, as if we were all made of gold.
“It’s time to rule the universe, my love,” Heather replied. She looked over at Arissa Lavigny, who stood firm, with her head held high. “Become Emperor and rule at my side. Dad would be proud.”
My head swayed over to Arissa, then slowly panned back to Heather, my eyes falling on the stainless steel firearm. I reached to take it involuntarily, but stopped myself. It took an eternity for my arm to stop moving.
“How did you get on my ship...” I said to no-one in particular. My words slurred out of my mouth and stretched a mile long. My hand gripped the Anaconda and I checked the chamber, finding a single .44 Magnum cartridge in the cylinder. I closed the cylinder, then leveled the revolver to the Emperor’s head. A motion of my thumb brought the hammer back with four audible clicks, advancing the cylinder and bringing the bullet in line with the barrel and forcing cone. My finger slithered from the frame down into the trigger guard, and coiled lightly around the hooked metal of the trigger. A stiff breeze would set the gun off at this point.
Pull the trigger. That’s all you have to do. The galaxy is yours.
“Well?” Arissa asked. “What are you waiting for, Grayson?” Denton Patreus and Aisling Duval had disappeared, instead replaced by my father and Heather’s mother.
Pop?
Pull the trigger
My finger tightened against the trigger. My finger didn’t move. I was paralyzed. Lights shimmered all around me.
Pull the trigger. pull the trigger. pull the
“Grayson, what’spull wrong?” Heather asked. pull the trig “Do you need help?”
pull the trigger
my will is not my own“Grayson.”
PULL THE FUCKING TRIGGER—