Outriders Read online

  Clara stared in desperation at the one remaining squadron silhouette still listed on her control panel, the only one whose color had not faded to lifeless gray. The schematic displayed yellow in all locations, rapidly shifting to orange as the threat to her starfighter became dire. “Ten, listen—”

  Akira’s painful, responding shout was almost muted, its tone the dull whimper of a person facing her final moments yet still clinging to life, knowing the end was inevitable even while continuing to struggle.

  “A plasma shot tore through thrust chambers one and three. I’m drifting and decelerating…losing altitude, f-f-feeling pressure increasing…”

  “Don’t…” Clara whispered. “Don’t leave me.”

  Plasma converged on Akira’s slanting, damaged starfighter, shredding through the fuselage and melting the vessel into white-hot globules before its propulsion core ignited and ripped apart her Marauder. Splintered fragments impacted the moon like glowing meteorites.

  Clara opened her mouth and screamed, a wailing and tormented sound that burned her throat and sent agonizing ripples lancing through her chest. Moisture beaded from her eyes and she coughed violently from shivers racking her body. Despair flashed in her mind, numbing the anguish like the embrace of an old friend and beckoning her closer. Death was a release from suffering, a choice that would absolve her of all failures and leave mourning to those living light-years in the distance.

  No, that would not be her end. She banished the thought behind a wall of hatred. Clara clenched her gloved fingers and felt the control stick rattle in her palms. She would not die here today. Eleven families deserved to learn the fate of their loved ones. Eleven families deserved more than her surrender to grief.

  Clara ascended in an erratic spin while hostile targeting locks howled on her panels. With no one else’s safety to consider beyond her own, she hoped an unexpected and reckless gamble might succeed, and nothing was more careless than a straight path farther into orbit. As she hoped, the targeting locks disappeared for a brief moment as she plunged headlong toward deep space. Clara prepped her Marauder for interstellar travel and inputted the coordinates for Elatha while sweat dripped down her spine.

  One white indicator emitted a soft warble, signaling she had escaped Orna’s gravitational well. Every planetary mass produced a gravity field powerful enough to prevent starships from reaching faster-than-light travel, with the largest planets generating much stronger ones. No vessel could accelerate past realspace velocities until beyond this field.

  Clara triggered her journey to the Tuatha system and her home planet, knowing she left an aching part of her heart behind. A piece of her would forever remain in Tethra alongside wreckage. She primed the final astronavigational data, braced herself for acceleration—

  An orange warning light blared and flooded her cockpit as the starfighter shuddered with a whining reverberation. Clara pitched forward and felt her skull throbbing inside the cushioned flight helmet.

  “What the hell is wrong?” she hissed.

  Words scrawled across one screen from her shipboard computer:

  INDUCING ACTUATOR HAS GONE OFFLINE DUE TO A MALFUNCTION. FASTER-THAN-LIGHT TRAVEL IMPOSSIBLE.

  “Shit.”

  She gritted her teeth until an aching spasm seized her jaw and again dived toward the barren moon’s surface while a streak of plasma bathed her consoles in blue. Flicking her index finger, Clara switched primary armaments from plasma cannons to torpedoes and skimmed craters. She tapped a console to her left and accessed the cartography of Orna, veering on a northern route toward the Arid Headlands and its labyrinthine canyons. Errant shots from her pursuers tore past on either side and one stray burst nicked her port wing, though did little more than cosmetic damage.

  Clara flew straight toward a towering natural formation known as Buarainech Watch and touched her finger to the weapons trigger. A narrow opening was passable halfway to the structure’s summit, which was said to resemble a giant from ancient mythology. Her breathing stopped and Clara squeezed the trigger, unleashing her final three ionic torpedoes in a blur of shimmering efflux trails. Warheads detonated against the colossal figure and illuminated the blackness of deep space beyond. Boulders and atomized particles alike exploded with an intensity to rival minor meteor showers and Clara punched her acceleration to its maximum without altering course.

  Soaring through the storm of dust and stone debris beyond the ruined giant, Clara plummeted into a welcoming canyon beneath the surface and disappeared among its jagged teeth. She navigated razor turns at a reckless velocity and made decisions on instinct before her mind even registered danger, utilizing every trick and skill learned during her fourteen years of service. Steep walls carved from the moon raced beyond her vision at breathtaking speeds with scarcely meters to spare beyond her wingtips.

  Finally she decelerated and maneuvered using her thrusters, guiding the starfighter into a crevice that narrowed higher above. Clara wanted to scream again, to bash her hands against the console and cry until her throat was raw and numb. But she refused to give herself an opportunity to mourn, not while her mission remained unfulfilled. Not while she alone knew about this threat lurking in the Tethra system. Her friends, government and home required one more act of service from her.

  Clara needed to survive the coming hours.

  Chapter 2

  Taylor MacDowell wiggled fingers wrapped around the grip of his handgun and felt muscles tighten. Some days it seemed like the entire universe enjoyed screwing with him, and he woke earlier today hoping this would not be one. How he longed for the bliss of misguided optimism at the moment. Six gun barrels were aimed in his direction, each wielded by a goon accustomed to the aggressive side of conflict resolution. Six against two were not favorable odds, even for a man who defied fate with dumbfounding regularity.

  Though maddening, in hindsight this regrettable turn of events toward violence was terribly unsurprising. Especially considering the man he was dealing with; budding sociopaths were hardly known for their patience and reliability. The cost of doing business and making a crooked living, as Taylor admitted.

  “Is this all really necessary?” Taylor questioned. “We’ve done business with you and your boss in the past. Lucrative for all parties involved, if memory serves.”

  He casually flicked his gaze from one threat to the next, cursing the fact they had enough wits to spread outward in a half circle. Two chaps were scarcely visible in Taylor’s peripheral vision, and he refused to actually turn his head to scope them out. Perception and poise were everything, after all. Instead he kept his weapon pointed at their shifty, greasy, mole-encrusted boss, who was imaginatively known as Mole. Low-life enforcers were an inventive lot.

  “You tell me if it’s necessary,” answered Mole. “Been hearing chatter about you lately that one might call distressing. Cargo shipments that were lighter than promised, or even missing a couple crates. Makes me wonder if you’re hoping to swindle us, too.”

  “You need to conduct better reference checks when you go searching for information. We’ve never short-changed on a deal.”

  “And I should trust the word of a smuggler?”

  “More reliable than the word of a gangster,” Taylor quipped.

  Mole narrowed his eyes, causing the blemishes on his forehead to contract into a pattern almost resembling a lopsided smiley face. Taylor willed himself not to smirk at the sight.

  “Maybe we should just shoot you both and have a peek at the goods,” Mole announced. “If you’ve brought the right quantities, we’ll consider dumping you at the nearest hospital.”

  “Not a bad strategy,” Taylor conceded. “If you knew where we deposited your product.”

  “Then I’ll put a bullet in you and call your crew, wherever they’re cowering. Your life for the crates’ location.”

  “You think it’s wise to make enemies of us? We’ve cultivated a reputation over the years. Most clients know better than to threaten us.”

  “Cap
tain MacDowell isn’t half as dangerous as he’s keen to believe,” Mole said to his posse. “But if shit goes sideways, don’t screw around. Kill Moyaert first.”

  Taylor glanced at his first mate and staunchest comrade, Kyla Moyaert. Her itchy forefinger caressed a worn handgun trigger at the end of one outstretched arm. Scowling green eyes glared at their adversaries, with strands of auburn hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. These goons might be halfwits, though Taylor had to admit they understood she was the true threat. Kyla wore an expression suggesting an eagerness to end lives. And not only today either; that was just her regular face.

  “Can’t say I’m surprised about this little betrayal,” she remarked. “Never did trust the look of that beady-eyed jackass. Winfred was a wee bit too accommodating for such a large scale transaction, if you ask me. Folks with bootlicking tendencies always have other motives, ready to squeeze a knife between a friend’s ribs.”

  “Not terribly helpful at the moment, Kyla,” Taylor uttered. “Might be prudent for us to ingratiate and coerce rather than fling abuse at their honcho.”

  “I think it’s important these imbeciles understand the kind of man they work for. Winfred is prone to abrupt changes of heart. He is a businessman, after all.” She smirked and cast her gaze toward Mole. “Might even be you on the losing end the next time your boss throws a tantrum.”

  “He knows my value,” responded Mole. “Winfred’s generous toward the right people. You keep him happy, he keeps you around.”

  “Right. Because the man whose job you took must’ve earned a sunny retirement. Don’t forget we were dealing with Winnie long before he ever brought you into his crew. You know much about the chap whose shoes you filled, or do you prefer wilful ignorance?”

  “Shut it, Moyaert. I haven’t the patience for your little mind games. And don’t bother wasting breath toying with my crew. They aren’t susceptible to those tricks you love pulling.”

  “You feeling confident on that notion?” Kyla inquired. She faced a bruiser cradling his shotgun like an eager lover. “Hey big fella. You heard what special treatment Winnie gave one of his enforcers who made a mistake last year? Ever learn the word bifurcate?”

  “Enough!” howled Mole, stepping closer and shaking his handgun. “You focus on me.”

  Kyla returned an expression of exaggerated boredom toward him. “Fine. Be a gracious host and holster your guns so we can chat about the money you owe us.”

  “I got too many concerns about your dependability, given rumors we’ve been hearing.”

  “Oh, now you’re just being insulting,” responded Taylor. “You know we’re good for a promise.”

  “Times change. Might make a crew believe they’re untouchable, lead them to make unwise choices.”

  “We’re the only ones who held to our side of the bargain. Brought an illegal shipment past Confederacy patrols out in the Nekhen system and then local spaceport customs here, all at great risk to ourselves I might add. Then Kyla and me sauntered over on our lonesome, as agreed. I seem to recall we were supposed to meet with you and one associate. I didn’t reckon on the number multiplying by a factor of three.” Taylor felt his outstretched arm tiring, though fought to keep discomfort from showing on his face. “Tell me, Mole. Are you following orders from the big man, or doing this shakedown on your own initiative? Because Winnie doesn’t take kindly to losing good business partners, and that’s the role we’ve filled for longer than you’ve been around.”

  A subtle twitch crawled over Mole’s jaw, enough to make Taylor believe he touched a nerve. Mole banished the tremble and adjusted the fingers holding his gun. For the first time since Mole leveled six guns in their faces, Taylor feared sweet talk and a dash of cheerful reassurance might not work. Maybe he should have tried sycophantic obeisance, even though kowtowing was definitely not his style.

  Regardless, these negotiations were over. Mole might prattle on for longer until deciding to squeeze his trigger, but this encounter could no longer end without violence. Damn these unthinking brutes for forcing Taylor’s hand and potentially souring a long-term business relationship with Winfred. There may be no coming back from this, unless Winfred showed a greater aptitude for pragmatism than in his hiring policies.

  “I misjudged you, Mole,” Taylor remarked.

  “That a fact?”

  “I foolishly mistook you for a sensible businessman. My mistake, and not one I’ll repeat. But now I hear the weather’s quarrelsome on Taranis this time of year.”

  “Come again?”

  “Don’t concern yourself. The words weren’t meant for your ears.”

  Mole’s eyes widened as something resembling deep thought crossed his scabrous face. “Oh, shit. Weapons hot, get ready for—”

  An explosive concussion hammered the warehouse, shattering windowpanes and reverberating across the floor. One vintage airspeeder sporting mismatched paint on a sullied, scratched frame hurtled through the nearest wall with a spray of debris and a grinning idiot at the wheel. Reyes rammed into industrial storage shelves lining the floor and his swerving vehicle pitched sideward with a squealing shriek. Brackets buckled and snapped under pressure as the structure wobbled to one side and collapsed in a chorus of grinding metal. Struts crashed into the nearest gangster and buried his body below the chest as he uttered hoarse cries.

  Reyes shoved his shotgun through the windowless door and unloaded a blistering volley that burst against fallen shelves and maimed one thug’s shoulder. Kyla leveled her handgun and squeezed off a round, striking the woman as she toppled backward. Taylor whipped his firearm around and finished the man trapped beneath warped struts with a single shot. A blazing bullet sliced through Taylor’s sleeve and lacerated his skin, knocking him on his backside.

  Gunshots echoed in the cavernous facility and Taylor dived into an undignified roll, scrambling to haul his body behind a giant spool of carbon nanotube wires. Bullets pinged off as he dragged his leg into cover and cast a nervous glance toward Kyla.

  Wearing a burning scowl that could melt steel, she popped out from behind a shipping container and fired several rounds. Taylor climbed into a hunched crouch, waited for Kyla to unleash another hail of gunfire and sprinted toward containers while blindly firing on the run. He glimpsed Reyes from the corner of one eye, camped astride shelves and exchanging shots with another thug. Taylor thumped against a corrugated wall and rounded the corner, raising his handgun as he blundered into a gangster charging from the other direction.

  Both men crashed in a tangle of entwined limbs, scattering their guns in opposite directions across the floor and whacking Taylor’s forehead into the man’s kneecap. He disentangled one arm and smashed his elbow against the ugly asswipe’s jaw, only to earn knuckles to his cheek in exchange. Taylor slapped a hand over the man’s face, felt teeth sink into his finger, and heaved until each combatant fell backward. Whirling onto hands and knees, Taylor scrabbled toward his thrown handgun and exhaled a harsh grunt when his adversary leapt atop him.

  The man dug his forearm into Taylor’s neck and reached for the gun, wrapping his twitching fingers around the handle. Taylor seized the man’s wrist, jerked his limb sideward and staggered into an unbalanced crouch. The gun drew nearer and each man clutched it with both hands, clawing, shoving and jostling for position. Breath hissed from Taylor’s mouth as the barrel wavered closer to his face and the other man succeeded in slipping his finger around the trigger.

  Clenching his jaw and bracing for a splitting spasm of pain, Taylor lunged upright and lashed his head against the man’s nose, eliciting a satisfying crack. The jackass stumbled with blood streaming from his nostrils and howls from his mouth, giving Taylor a moment to wrench the firearm loose and press its muzzle against the man’s chest. Two flashes erupted from the barrel as Taylor squeezed the trigger and his foe slumped in a heap.

  Taylor clambered upright panting and rolled his stiff shoulders, knowing damn well he would be dealing with a headache in the coming hours. “Kyla?”


  “Clear,” she announced. “Two dipshits still alive, including mole-face.”

  “Splendid.” Taylor strolled between bent shelves and spat blood from his mouth. “I’m keen on conducting a chat.”

  Mole crawled backward like a crippled crab until Taylor strode closer and whacked his handgun across the man’s forehead. Skin parted with a trickle of red, though his dense skull remained unyielding, and Mole flopped onto the floor blinking confusion from his eyes.

  “Actually, I didn’t want to say anything,” Taylor admitted.

  He crouched and yanked his own UpLink from a jacket pocket. Modified and disconnected from any planetary surveillance networks, a felony on most civilized worlds, Taylor’s User-defined personal linguistic and networking device was an essential tool in his arsenal. Taylor leaned over Mole and patted the dazed man’s duster coat until he found a similar tablet nestled in one fold. He plugged a cord from his UpLink into Mole’s and connected the networks.

  Taylor tapped his interface/receiver earpiece. “Rinko?”

  “I’m here,” she answered, safely stationed far across the city of Formorii in their docked freighter the Solar Flare. “Connection coming online. Since you’re calling for my expertise, am I wrong to assume your civilized chat descended into yet another shootout? The one you swore would stay polite and respectful?”

  “I’m not the one who starts them.”

  “If you say so. I’m actually pleased it worked out this way. Evan owes me a drink on the next planet we visit, assuming we do end up getting paid today. He had more faith in you than I did as it turns out.”

  Taylor sighed and watched indecipherable computer language scroll across his screen. “Are you actually helping?”

  “I’m rerouting their anti-hacker software to consider a subroutine program as priority malware requiring countermeasures, so it’ll ignore my intrusion and I can bypass the firewall. And since you don’t know squat about this, you’ll have to believe me.” The line remained silent for several seconds until she returned. “We’re in.”