Dark Tempest. Manda Benson
She pushed back on the piece of glass, and felt the hot-cold touch of the blade against the skin on the inside of her thumb. Blood trickled into her palm.
A twist down, a squirm of her wrists, and a snap under the pressure of the glass blade, the cords fell slack. Jed leant forward to sever the bonds on her ankles with one deft movement. Eyes fixed on her enemies, she reached for upper half of the bottle, its flared neck shattered into a jagged flower
Mustering all her concentration and energy, she stood and kicked out in one concerted movement, her foot striking Wolff’s hand and sending the neutron pistol spinning across the floor. The man let out a stifled sound, clutching his fingers in his other hand, his face contorting in agony. Jed’s next kick landed squarely in his groin and sent him staggering back into the wall.
Taggart lunged for the gun as he gathered his legs beneath him, but he missed it, and Jed dived under a badly aimed punch. She attacked him from behind as he had her, this beast who had tried to kill her and take her ship, this loathsome man who had dared to challenge her and steal her property and subject her to this indignity. The fragment in her hand bit as it pressed into his throat, and she relished his pain and fear. A violent jet of blood geysered from the point of incision and his struggles ceased abruptly. He fell to the ground with a thick gurgle.
Wolff was halfway across the bridge, bent in grim, suffering determination, but the anger in Jed’s eyes seemed to dissuade him, and he fled into the corridor like a shadow.
Jed looked at Taggart’s corpse, dark blood ebbing in thick, slow gouts from the neck and onto the floor. On the table, her pouch supply of conurin had been arranged in a neat stack, each cube still wrapped in its paper.
The Shamrock’s consoles flickered with unfamiliar patterns. A schematic diagram of the vessel, bright yellow delineating its dart-shaped form, showed no suggestion of vector or surroundings. She could still pick up the bearings from the ship’s octahedral compass and feel its sensory input, but the navigation systems were a blank. Offline. Something in the ship’s workings had locked, and now it was accelerating back toward the galactic center.
Jed knelt on the floor beside the body. She wiped the blood from her hands on his clothes, revolted by the stench and filth. She searched the disgusting body with only precursory thoroughness, feeling the pockets of his tunic and trousers. She found a handful of credits with some identifying paraphernalia and the remainder of the rope they’d tied her with, as well as a flat electronic device. She cast them on the console and stepped back. The robots operated on a different circuit to the ship, and metallic shapes scuttled across the deck to clear away the mess that had been Taggart.
She washed her hands as best as she could with a cloth wet from a drinking flask. There was not time to clean herself properly. She placed the cubes of conurin back into her pouch. She would have to deal with the Shamrock later, when there were fewer distractions.
Jed breathed fast and deep. Wolff must be somewhere in the aft main section. Precisely where, she could not be sure, but she could get rid of him. She could kill him by opening the main airlock. He could suffocate down there with his blood fizzing in his veins, and the ship’s robots could deal with the mess. It was an impersonal execution and she need have no active part in it.
She issued the command for the Shamrock to seal off the bridge door, but it wouldn’t close. Jed didn’t know whether the ship’s paralysis extended to the airlocks, but she wasn’t risking trying to find out without a solid door between her and them.
She chewed on a piece of conurin, welcoming its bitter euphoria as she picked up the gun. She’d dropped her weapon near the equipment store, which meant Wolff was potentially armed. This time she would be methodical and thorough. This time there would be no failure.
Back into the corridor, this time less hesitant, she approached the equipment store where Taggart must have hidden before he’d seized her, and plunged a scaffolding pole into the cavity, beating it against the walls so to be sure the room concealed no one. The escape pod remained closed.
She arrived at the place she’d been ambushed to discover the main airlock wide open. Scanning the floor, she couldn’t see the gun. Jed hung back from the doorway and flipped down the IR-UV eyepiece attached to the left side of her skullcap. Leaning through the door, she saw into the dark interior of a small ship. A shuttle, presumably the intruders’ means onto the Shamrock, illuminated by its infra red emissions. There was only the one room, and Wolff wasn’t in it.
Jed stepped back out and looked through the small window beside the airlock door. The shuttle’s shadow blocked out the stars. Its slim hull lay close to her ship’s flank, terminating in a short propulsion tail and framed by four slender vanes ninety degrees apart. It had been docked here, all this time, and she hadn’t been able to feel it. Jed shuddered.
She looked back through the docking connection, and lifted up the eyepiece for a moment. Some lights glowed on the console, and Jed felt an odd affinity for them. Somehow, this computer was a distant part of her, part of the Shamrock. Jed put down the eyepiece again, and looked at the shuttle’s computer. Would it need disconnecting? No, it was a simple one-way interface, Jed was sure of it.
She set the gun she was carrying to a short-range, high-force blast, and fired it into the panelling below the consoles. The computer casing blew apart, scattering components that flared briefly in the air. Jed’s full senses flooded back. The fuel levels were at seventy-six percent and stable. The docked shuttle was there—here. The navigational systems—Taggart’s device on the bridge! She couldn’t access the course data. But Wolff... Wolff was in the cargo bay.
Jed activated the command to close the airlock doors, isolating the little ship. She would not have it offer an escape for its surviving passenger. The starboard corridor lay still in ghostly starlight. The aft terminus behind the armoury was empty, the lower levels sealed off for the return journey. He had nowhere to run.
Jed slid through the archway and immediately stooped behind a heap of canisters secured to the wall with cargo netting. She could smell him. She stalked to the end of the pile, straining her senses for confirmation. She rounded the corner to encounter him with her finger on the trigger and her arm outstretched.
She came up with a start, his gun inches from her nose, he with a startled expression, and each holding their respective weapons in their right hands, neatly interlocked.
Consternation overcame her as her opponent steadied his breathing. Some of the tension eased from his face as it assumed a humourless smile. “Ah, stalemate, methinks. Or should we draw?”
She had fouled again. She’d been so eager to dispose of Wolff she hadn’t paused to consider the best method of going about it. She should have gone back to the bridge and evacuated the aft corridors as soon as she’d regained control, like an Archer with presence of mind, not run down here eager for bloodshed like an impetuous apprentice. She could hardly ask Wolff to drop his guard and stand back so she could shoot him now. She could not be sure that if she pulled the trigger now, his retort shot would not fell her with him. Angry compunctions flitted through her mind. Mathicur, and the Code.
Jed fixed him with a cold, unflinching stare. “You will leave this ship.”
“So you speak. I did wonder.”
Jed did not see why she should waste her breath talking to this man who was so very beneath her, both in caste and genetics, but something about his sardonic parlance compelled her to argue with him. “Facetious trespassing fool.”
“Then shoot, Archer, and shoot true, lest I gun you down first.”
“My reaction speed is a hundredfold that of any common man of this galaxy.”
“Ah, but in the act of pulling a trigger such an advantage would be slim.”
Jed stood facing him for a moment, neither prepared to capitulate, both with guns held out on decided arms with their weight distributed over both feet.
“Whatever our personal convictions of each other, I cannot make you hand over control, and you cannot make me leave this ship. Henceforth we stand unwavering