Schism of Blood and Stone (The Starfield Theory Book 1) (14 page)

“My lord,” Magnus said. “This can end here. There need not be any more bloodshed.”

Thaddeus spat blood and made Magnus wonder if he nicked the man's lung. “I'll do nothing of the sort. You'll have to kill me.”

“I don't kill defenseless, wounded men,” Magnus said lowering his weapon.

“Defenseless?” Thaddeus spat. “You'll learn, boy.” Thaddeus struck so quickly that Magnus barely had an opportunity to deflect the poorly aimed swing. Rather than step back to take a swing himself, he charged, using his weight to push Thaddeus back, but he wouldn't yield. He pushed off Magnus and tried to swing, but the motion was hampered by his wound and ended up being only a weak halfhearted attempt to slice off Magnus' kneecaps.

Magnus thrust viciously and caught the Sørensen in the kidney. Magnus called on every inch of strength to shove the ferro-steel as deep as possible, feeling muscle and organ collapse beneath the blow. It felt strange to plunge a sword into human meat. The practice dummies at the academy did not sigh in pain and look into your eyes as the life left them.

Thaddeus Sørensen dropped to his knees, coughing and wheezing. Blood poured from the wound, splashing onto the ground. Magnus yanked the sword free, covered in blood and gore, and held it at the ready, but the dying lord posed no further threat.

Thaddeus blinked once and looked up at the young noble in shock and disbelief. He offered no last words, not one last breath of wisdom. He collapsed onto his face and died as his lifeblood pooled around his body. In the movies, the dying always had one last thing to say, some legacy they wanted to pass along. Every dead hero had some great final phrase often engraved on tombs and immortalized in the histories. But Thaddeus Sørensen had only died. Something felt strangely amiss to Magnus. Unfinished.

He breathed heavily, exhausted from the brief, but bloody fight, then wiped his sword on Sørensen's uniform. Once clean, he sheathed it and sat heavily on the ground. Slowly the sounds of the forest returned as the crashes and booms of the fighting died. Some wildlife dashed about while birds chirped at him, wondering at the violence that lay before them. Magnus couldn't explain it to himself, probably would never be able to do so. But it was an honorable kill. Thaddeus had given him no other option.

“Walk with Amrah, my lord,” Magnus whispered and closed the dead Sørensen's eyes.

Once he'd regained his breath he climbed back into the
Axen
and led his section back to the road to Magdeborg City, finding little resistance along the way.

Kristoffer

Captain of the MacCleod

Garda Station, Goteborg, Magdeborg Commonwealth

______________

Drayton's corporation managed a dozen ships, though only a handful occupied the private hangar at any given time. The hangar itself was small, just a thousand cubic meters. Along each wall were the ship berths, massive superstructures that kept the ships in place as Garda slowly orbited Goteborg. The
MacCleod
had been there for over a month, undergoing repairs and generally collecting dust. Chris could almost hear the ship sighing at its disuse. She wanted to be in space as did her crew.

Chris stood on the gangway that led to the ship's main loading bay reading over the diagnostics. He flipped through the pages, duly noting the changes done to her over the past few hours. Kerali was somewhere inside the engine housing, making the final adjustments to the jump drive and mask. There had been some trouble configuring the Cassian built devices for use on the Commonwealth ship, but Kerali was very good at her job. She and her two assistants worked around the clock to install them properly. There could be no failures in unforgiving space.

Chris rubbed the hull of the ship as if stroking a beloved pet. He hoped the modifications would improve their odds at surviving their contract, but couldn't help harboring some concerns. Drives could fail, masks could fail, people could fail. It could be the last voyage of the
MacCleod
.

The
MacCleod
had been a gift upon his graduation from Goteborg University from Sir Ian Evers, the scion to Goteborg's ruling family. Most of the nobility were tutored privately since attending a university with commoners was beneath them, though House Evers tended to be one of the more progressive houses. They met in a class where Ian was struggling considerably. The young knight was so involved in his military training and combat simulators he claimed he couldn't keep up with the material. Chris suspected he was busier chasing college girls and didn't care much for Modern Human Core Economics, but he endeavored to help him figuring a knight who owed him a favor would come in handy some day.

It did.

Nick did some research on the ship's history, just in case. She had been built at the shipyards at Remmington two years prior to his graduation. She stood at one hundred meters in length, but had available modular capability to expand as needed. Searches for the ship's ID in police and government databases yielded no anomalies. When Chris proposed using the vessel as a means of income, Claire balked. Either she didn't have the heart of a spacer or she was jealous that Ian would bequeath his friend a generous gift, but give nothing to an ex-girlfriend. Chris suspected the latter which probably was why she vanished for so many years.

He could see through the non-polarized windows along the ship's flanks and bridge at the crew moving about inside. The whole vessel was controlled in the confines of the bridge, where barely enough chairs and webbing existed for half a dozen people crammed together. A narrow band connected the bridge to the ship's first cargo bay, a squat thick boxy module, where they kept spare parts, salvaged goods and personal belongings. Another narrow band connected the ship with the living quarters. The module was hexagonal in shape with a narrow walkway running down its center. Though the unit could house a dozen people, their crew stood at six. Chris took over a second space to use as an office that somehow managed to be even more cramped than the one on Garda, but it served his purposes just fine. Beyond the living quarters were the gun batteries. Four autocannon turrets were concealed behind thick blast doors, giving the impression that the unit was another cargo hold. The last two modules on the ship were additional cargo space; one was a converted hangar bay that still could serve that purpose, though they possessed no small craft. The last was used strictly for hauling. Six large Hadron engines running on an internal fusion reactor powered the ship and its weapons. Over the years, Kerali had managed to coax even more power from the reactor which increased their sub-light speed and systems power which gave them a slight boost over ships in a similar class.

Chris looked down the hull at the cargo bays and turrets. The ship was pockmarked by micrometeorite hits over the years. Though simple enough to fix, Chris insisted on leaving them to give the ship a bit of character. He ordered the weapons installed after a frightening run-in with mercenaries while on contract in the Agalfar. They were making a nice profit smuggling weapons for both sides involved in the civil war there and were looking to make the
Cleod
a part of their fleet. Some quick thinking and a risky promise of a hefty bribe earned them their freedom and their lives.

The Azuren understood that piracy was always an issue. Space was simply too large for them to be able to govern every square kilometer of it. Rather than take the extreme expense to patrol every star system in human space, they allowed the humans to police themselves to some degree. In the interest of protecting themselves, Chris and even Drayton insisted upon some sort of defense, even if it was only to scare off would be attackers. He wondered if the guns were even loaded. There was ammunition aboard somewhere, but he'd never actually inspected it. Today might be a good day to do so.

Chen Guanxin stepped out of the ship and rubbed his eyes. His tattoos glowed brightly despite the grime on his face. He'd obviously been linked into the ship's networks via the control webbing, checking and rechecking every system, making sure the ship was ready to go.

“Morning, Captain,” he said amicably.

Chris smiled and nodded. Chen had come to them from another ship after a mutiny on board nearly resulted in his death after he stubbornly refused to pick sides. He came from a monk society on Cherbrighton wedged between the Human Core and the Fringe. He had a strict, regimented personality that abhorred violence of any sort, but had plenty of room for drink. He was probably the only spacer Chris knew who carried no personal weapons.

“She's as ready as she'll ever be. We won't know for sure until we have her in space,” Chen reported.

“Thanks, Chen. Have you been in there long?”

He made a show of checking his watch and frowning, “Longer than I thought it would take. Dry dock has done a number on her, despite the repairs we've made.”

Chris nodded. “You guys have done a great job keeping her operational.” The compliment rang hollow. The crew didn't want compliments, they wanted to be flying between the stars.

“We're really undocking soon then?” Chen asked, with a twinge of hope and anxiety.

Chris nodded. “As soon as we get our cargo.”

“What exactly are we carrying?”

“Classified,” Chris responded with a smile.

Chen's brow twitched.

“I can tell you, and, in fact, I will have to tell you, that we'll be going into Dominion space.”

“Dominion space? There's a war on,” Chen sad, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning deeply. Chris hated trampling the pilot's peaceful disposition.

“Just a few quick jumps then we'll be back,” Chris lied. He was afraid it would be anything, but quick as the jump drive needed to recharge between uses.

Chen sighed heavily, but nodded in acceptance. “I guess I'll finish up then. I still need to integrate the new drive with the webbing control systems,” he said, yawning again and heading back into the ship.

The sound of echoing voices reached his ears and he turned to see Drayton leading several individuals dressed in a mix of civilian garb. Claire walked by his side and seemed to be leading them. Drayton babbled endlessly, but they didn't seem to be paying attention. Chris was no expert, but those guys were way too orderly to be civilians. There were nine of them, walking nearly in step two abreast except for the lead individual. They were soldiers, he realized. His cargo.

The troupe came to a stop on the semi-circle gangway and Drayton gestured at Chris.

“Lord Morlan, may I introduce Captain Kristoffer. He will be your transport to Letterkenny,” Drayton said placing a fatherly hand on Chris' shoulder.

The figure at the head of the column towered over the others. His auburn hair, flecked with gray, was cropped close to his head and his face was chiseled and marked with scars just like the
Cleod.
He stood a good ten centimeters taller than Chris; his robes hid his militant build, but his stance and hard gaze betrayed his true nature. He wore an unkempt beard, as did those of his companions capable of growing one either in an attempt to blend with the disgruntled spacer appearance or the natural result of being on the run.

Lord Morlan took a step forward and extended a hand. “Captain, thank you for your service.”

Chris blinked in surprise, remembering the beating he received after his last run-in with nobility. His face where Slader hit him had turned a fresh shade of purple and black, though his SESE tattoos lessened the effect. He shook the extended hand firmly.

“My pleasure, my lord,” he said, unsure whether he should add in a formal bow, but Pershing held up a hand before he could decide.

“None of that here, Captain. We're trying to be inconspicuous, remember? And no more titles.”

Chris nodded in agreement. “Welcome aboard the
MacCleod
. We're not accustomed to handling human cargo, but you'll have access to the same facilities as my crew-”

“Which will have a few more members,” Drayton said, butting in and making space for himself between Chris and Lord Morlan. “The Hronguards have increased their security detail. They will be sending twenty guards for your protection, my lord.”

Pershing regarded Drayton with a certain disdain, annoyed he continued to use his noble title. “Mercenaries, Mr. Drayton?”

“Only the best. They come highly recommended,” Drayton said with a smile.

“Yes, I recall fighting them on several occasions,” Pershing frowned at Drayton's faux pax. “They were very good and killed many of my men.”

Drayton went pale suddenly as the blood drained from his face. Chris' breath caught in his throat and he looked away. Drayton's lack of political finesse was once again rearing its ugly head. Obviously most Commonwealth-based private security firms had seen combat against the Dominion. Even Chris knew that much.
A competent leader would have checked on that.

“Ah, yes. I should, uh, look to their arrival, then. I leave you in capable hands.” Drayton stumbled away quickly after delivering a stern look to Chris.

Lord Morlan waited until Drayton was out of earshot and grinned. “Then we swept them from the field and crushed them nearly out of existence,” he added. “That probably explains why they're running security for civilian vessels rather than fighting on a battlefield. I suspect they're here as much to protect us as they are to make sure we don't commandeer your ship. I don't much like business people, Captain,” Pershing said with a look back at Drayton.

“Neither do I,” Chris responded quietly with a hint of irony.

“They make all the money off the hard work of people like you. I always liked spacers and flying of course. Unfortunately, my family had other plans for me. Sometimes I am jealous of the freedom you have,” Pershing said.

He looked back at the
MacCleod
, suddenly seeing her more of a prison than an instrument of liberty. He nearly commented on his observation, but decided against becoming too familiar with the foreign nobleman. Especially enemy noblemen, even if this one was decidedly more pleasant than the local nobles.

Chris decided to steer the conversation onto more familiar ground. “My sister will show you around the ship and to your quarters. Have you any bags?”

Pershing shook his head and several of his men sniggered. “We have only the clothes on our backs. We travel light,” he said with some amusement and chuckles from his subordinates. Apparently, this had become some sort of inside joke.

Chris smiled awkwardly and indicated Claire should take the Dominion warriors aboard. After a quick nod from Pershing, he watched them file into the ship, duly impressed with their military bearing despite their circumstances. For a moment he felt a flash of jealousy.
Joining the Goteborg militia was always a possibility, but I'm hardly fit for any sort of fighting. That's best left for the brave and the foolish.

At the end of the line was Nick, who had somehow managed to slip in unnoticed. His face was bloodied and his tattoos seemed agitated.

“What in Amrah's name happened to you?” Chris asked arcing an eyebrow.

Nick coughed. “Got caught in a bit of a bar fight yesterday after you left.”

With some concern Chris said, “That why we haven't seen you since?”

He shrugged. “Some ruffians tried to mug me. On the other hand, I'm never drinking again,” Nick said somberly.

“Probably a good idea,” Chris said, rolling his eyes. “Our cargo arrived. I want to get going as soon as possible.”

“They're here?” He asked incredulously, his head suddenly seeming to clear.

Chris hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Who do you think that was? You're more messed up than I thought. Yeah, Claire's showing them around so maybe you can sneak in without having to deal with them.”

“So that's why Drayton was looking so nervous back there,” Nick grunted.