Destiny Abounds (Starlight Saga Book 1) (16 page)

“Pleasenodon’t!” he blurted out, turning the leader’s probably crazy gaze back fully on him. “If you want… money stuff,” It was a strain to talk slowly enough that they could understand. “It’ll be up top. Medical. Bridge. Up there.” His mind was racing as he pointed tremulously toward the stairway leading up into the rest of the
Destiny
. Something in him quailed at the expression that came over Zimi’s face, shock seeming to peer through the pain as he gave in so easily. But what else could he
do
?

He really,
really
hoped the Captain was still secure in her quarters at the moment.

7.1
- Branwen

The solid, locked door in front of Branwen’s face clicked a few times, as someone outside tried repeatedly to open it. It didn’t startle her; it would take someone with one of those laser-flame torch things to cut through these doors, and she was sure she’d notice that in time to get ready. So she just left her ear pressed securely to the cold steel of the door, and continued listening.

“No, um, that’s the… that’s the Captain’s door.” She could just barely make out Mr. Leonard’s shaky, nervous voice from the other side, out in the hallway. “She always, um, locks it when she leaves.” Branwen gritted her teeth, grinding them together as she settled once more into her warrior’s mentality.

She didn't really appreciate people preying on the weak or defenseless, even less her friends. Even less when it was someone like gentle Mr. Leonard. She desperately hoped everyone else was okay, but there was little to do about it at the moment. So she waited, with patience born of long practice, for the chance to act, and had to trust in her friends to take care of themselves for the moment.

Listening carefully, Branwen could hear the thumping steps of heavy boots in the general area; she could only assume they were checking the other rooms, though the personnel doors typically opened pretty quietly. “
Hea
, all these rooms’re empty. Thought you said there were stuff up here for takin,’ boy?”

Mr. Leonard’s reply was a little more difficult to understand. “Well, yes, but I didn’t s-say that—”

“Shut up, little man,” one of the voices on the other side of Branwen’s door growled. Something thumped up against the door, separated by an inch or so of metal from Branwen’s ear. She started to burst out of the door then, catch them by surprise in a flurry of strikes, and drop them. But there was too much at stake. At least one of them would probably call out before she finished it; how many more were there? Where was Zimi or Merlo? What weapons did they have? She couldn’t risk it, not yet.

“You say pilot’s area? Show me. And you, keep looking.” She heard the footfalls echo in the halls as the intruders separated. She heard one set across from her, the shuffle of boots and heavy feet on carpeting.

Weak foes will defeat themselves. Allow them.
She silently pressed the manual override, and slid the door open, ever so carefully, just a tiny crack. Just enough to see. She used it to confirm her suspicions, as a strange man with broad shoulders stood across from her, his back turned as he noisily managed the door to Merlo’s quarters open. Branwen smiled, the thin, grim expression spreading across her face. It was not the expression of mirth it might once have been.

All conflicts are won in the will. Neither doubt, nor hesitate.
Branwen, sword already long drawn from its protective sheath, released her door, allowing the alloy panel to slide open of its own accord. The bare whisper of its opening came in the same moment in which she stepped across the hall, entering the room behind the raider with a couple of fluid steps. For once, she appreciated a lack of boots as she slid her bare feet across the floor with nary an appreciable sound.

In a true battle, there is no mercy, only victory.
As if consciously lending its aid to her stealth, the door to Merlo’s room slid itself helpfully closed behind both of them, buffering any sound that might momentarily arise. Branwen raised her arms, readying and extending her blade with one hand, while putting the other firmly on the intruder’s near shoulder. As expected, he spun towards her, jerking away from the sudden contact, but it was far too late.

As he spun around, Branwen placed the crackling plasma edge of her war sabre against his throat, and stepped ahead, leaning her weight into him as she put her center of gravity forward. The intruder couldn’t even cry out as he helped cut his own throat, the radiant edge of Branwen’s blade hungrily parting flesh, muscle and bone with barely a sizzle of complaint.

He was already off balance, and dead, but he didn’t necessarily know it yet; Branwen put her weight into his chest and shoved, throwing him heavily to the ground in the middle of the barren expanse of Merlo’s quarters. He thumped to the floor on his back, flailing and grasping, his dark face and eyes a portrait of panic and fear. Branwen just turned away, content to let him breathe his last right there.

His death throes did not interest her; she had other concerns, such as listening to see if she’d alerted anyone, though she didn’t hear anything, not yet.

A sudden, muted chime from a nearby table caught her attention, an unexpected noise that would have made a less aware warrior jump. One of her datapads, lent to Merlo a few days back. It chimed quietly again, blinking an alert to get her attention, pulsing through soft hues of blue, pink and yellow on its surface. After a moment’s indecision, she snatched it up, stepping over the final, weakened gestures of the dying man in the floor to do so.

Looking down and surveying it quickly, she saw a black and white minimalistic layout of the
Destiny
, with four pulsing red dots and two blue ones. One red and one blue were indicated on the bridge, while two other reds cornered a solitary blue in the cargo hold. Another, final crimson spot indicated the room she was in.
Captain
, it read,
We have an emergency. Please help.

Branwen had no idea how he’d managed it while under scrutiny, but right now she felt like could kiss Mr. Leonard for his efforts. The best thing you could have in a skirmish was information; where your foe was and whether or not they were aware of you. She moved to the door, dropping the datapad as she went, and quietly opened the door again. In a moment, she had shifted down the side of the long hallway to the stairs descending from its midpoint. She crouched at the very top for but a moment, minimizing her visible profile and surveying the open area of the cargo bay.

Luck was with her, as the pair of rough-looking intruders weren’t even looking in her direction. Instead, she saw two men in plain traveler’s clothing; one was much larger and holding a savage-edged knife close to where they had Zimi pressed up against the side of their little ground based cargo transport. If Branwen’s teeth could have ground more firmly, they would have, but the assessment was over in a moment; she was ready.

The hardest war to win is the one you did not know you were fighting.
Before her first step had thumped heavily onto the metal staircase, her first axe was already sailing end over end across the cargo bay. Spinning in from out of nowhere, it split one man’s head in a manner reminiscent of chopping open a melon; a mild spray of juice accompanied the visceral crack of parting bone as it stuck firmly, just like it should. Zimi’s face dropped open in shock as the stricken man turned, and Branwen could see the empty husk she’d made of his now-lifeless eyes as he toppled to the ground, a marionette with axe-severed strings.

To destroy your foe, simply move to where they are, and strike them dead.
Branwen bounded down the stairs four at a time, planning to rush the last man as quickly as possible and do exactly that before he could prepare himself. But, as she well knew, even the best-laid plans rarely survive contact with reality. As her bare feet slapped down onto the cargo bay floor, she pushed off heavily with her back leg, and felt the stinging warmth and burn of weakness as something tore in the middle of her back. Somewhere around the still-healing gunshot wound, a damaged muscle betrayed her, slowing her lightning rush.

With a grimace, Branwen ignored it, but it was too late; the precious moments it had cost her, it gave instead to the larger ruffian, who accepted them gladly as he readied himself to receive her charge. A thick-fingered hand reached out for Zimi; exactly the worst situation Branwen could hope for was a hostage standoff with another living enemy still upstairs, behind her. But Zimi, as Branwen made the mental note to appreciate her alacrity of thought later, was already dropping to the ground with surprising litheness, rolling partly under the transport as she made an all-out escape. With a growl, the man drew the second of a pair of large, wickedly curved daggers, and stepped forward. Then Branwen was upon him.

In her experience, people that struck first and decisively often won battles, so she came in as hard and fast as she could push herself to manage. With the advantage of longer reach and a far more lethal weapon, she knew this should be an easy victory, at least compared to some she had fought in the past. Her enemy leaned away, barely dodging back far enough at the waist to evade the blade that came arcing down for his head. Instead of taking his life, it took some dark hair and left a shallow, instantly cauterized gash carved deep into the flesh of his cheek.

He leapt backward as she followed up with a broad, horizontal slash, and Branwen realized he was more experienced than she’d first supposed, though not exactly highly trained or skilled. Somewhere inside, out of the way of her conscious thoughts, a part of her suddenly realized that it had been almost three years now since she’d wielded a blade and waded into her last, ferocious melee, other than the disastrous fight on Pireida, that was.

She swung again and again, alternating practiced cuts and stabs that kept him backing away, off balance and evading for his life. An instant’s worth of flame spurted from his jacket as the plasma edge sliced into it and lightly scored him along his ribcage. Branwen seized her blade in both hands and brought it down, severing a hastily raised dagger that provided next to no resistance against the cutting edge of her sword. A quick follow up jab caught the side of his face, turning the vertical scar from her earlier strike into a painful cross made of split and charred flesh. Then his back met the wall of the cargo bay, leaving him with no further room to evade her assault.

But she couldn’t keep up the intensity of the onslaught. She could feel the spiteful wetness trickling down her back as her reopened wound sapped her strength, stealing from her the easy victory. She stepped in, shifting her weight onto her leading foot to deliver a powerful downward, diagonal strike that he couldn’t block and had no way to evade. But it was too slow, and she knew it was too slow.

Obviously sensing her weakness, her opponent raised his now-empty off hand and seized the opportunity, along with her weapon-bearing arm. Gripping her wrist painfully tightly, he brought the cruel dagger in toward Branwen’s gut, but she managed to hook it with her left hand and parry it sharply aside. Another burning sensation traced a line along her left side as the knife scraped across and delivered a minor hit, but no matter how it tried, it couldn’t long draw attention from the searing pain in her back. Branwen locked her grasp around his wrist, holding his arm out wide and trying to apply enough pressure to make him to drop the weapon, but couldn’t manage the strength to force it free of his grip.

Her assailant made an angry noise from somewhere deep in his chest, snarling and settling into a clinch with her. He wasn’t really any stronger than her, and they were roughly the same size; in better times, she could have matched his strength, or twisted and stomped hard on his instep to destroy the arch of his foot, or even simply thrown him to the ground. But Branwen knew that right now was clearly not one of those better times.

Branwen’s aggressor pushed against her forcefully, and she began to bend backward until something in her wounded back decided that it had simply given all it could and stopped supporting her as she desired. Unable to stop her assailant, she gave ground as he gained momentum and advanced, barely keeping her feet for the few moments it took for him to move her partway across the cargo bay. They stopped with another blazing jolt as her back impacted the little transport, a surge of pain that honestly just blended in with the constant, searing injury and the riotous pumping of adrenaline.

It wasn’t hard for him to use his leverage to push her arm down against the cold metal front of the transport, pinning that limb securely as he forced her agonizingly backward over the short vehicle. A few spots danced in front of her eyes, and she lost track of her surroundings for an instant, but Branwen doggedly shook it all away and held on to his weapon arm, breathing defiance. She knew that if he managed to free his blade at this point, she was dead. She also knew that if the other villain came down and joined the fight, she was dead.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt like this would be a rather ignoble end, after all the more spectacular circumstances she’d been through and survived.

He forced his weight between her legs, pushing her footing outward so that she couldn’t support herself as well, and looming over her. His angry, aggressive sneer had transformed at some point into a vile, lecherous leer, and suddenly, Branwen realized that he wasn’t pressing her legs apart for the tactical advantage she’d thought. Branwen was disgusted, and enraged; such unwelcome advances were
not tolerated
on Fade.