Bluebird, p.4
Bluebird, page 4
The Zazra wanders through the common area, her armored fingertips dragging softly across the backs of the bolted-down sofa. “What’s its name?”
“Bluebird. She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” the woman says, and to Rig’s surprise it isn’t the least sarcastic. Something in her eyes has softened at the name. Does she have a fondness for birds or something? “She is. I assume you’re Ascetic?”
The question physically pushes Rig away. She hardly fits the Ascetic stereotype. It’s not like she spends her days meditating and growing flowers and sticking her fingers in her ears to ignore all her problems. And if part of her does fit that stereotype, she wants to know what part, exactly, so she can kick it to the curb. “Excuse me?”
“This is a Verd-3000 twin engine schooner. Ascetic made. You’re heading to the Ascetic homeworld. Are you intending on contacting the Ascetic authorities? Pyrite doesn’t have authority on Red Dock and they certainly don’t have the authority to deal with Ascetic citizens.”
Contacting the authorities. Suuuuure.
“I have no intention of contacting any authorities. Now or ever. I don’t like them and they don’t like me; and I bet they wouldn’t like some random bounty hunter capable of killing four factioned soldiers without proper authorization just hanging around, now would they?”
The woman’s lips purse. “Perhaps not.”
“Figured you weren’t exactly on the lawful side.”
“I am.”
But the murder and the bounty hunting – and she’d just said that she wouldn’t get along with the Ascetic authorities. Maybe she’s a lot more devout than she appears. “Don’t tell me you’re some faction-loving goody-two-shoes?”
The sour expression on the woman’s face curdles. “I have proper reverence for my faction. As should you.”
“Well… fine. I mean it’s not fine, but… whatever, we’re going to be stuck together for hours and I don’t want to argue with someone who could probably kick my ass from one end of the fucking galaxy to the other. Space dust under the hull, bygones be bygones, all that.” She clears her throat and then awkwardly sticks out her hand. “I, uh… I don’t know your name, but, I’m Rig. Nice to meet you, I guess.”
Instead of shaking her hand like she’d been expecting, the woman gives her a small bow, inclining her head ever so slightly. Rig had meant the gesture to be one of transparency – if she wanted to take off her armor and shake Rig’s hand plainly, she could read Rig’s emotions. If Rig were a Zazra empath, she’d want to use every trick she had to make sure that the stranger she’d just hitched a ride with wasn’t harboring any ill will.
“Nice to make your acquaintance,” the woman says, all stiff politeness and formal courtesy. “I’m Ginka. You have an interesting name. Nouns are common enough names in Ossuary, but not in Pyrite or Ascetic.”
“I could say the same to you. At least I’m not named after a tree… I mean, well, not that the ginka tree is an ugly tree, it’s got all those pretty gold leaves, and aren’t they shaped like stars, or something…”
Ginka places her duffle bag down on the sofa. Rig knows an exit when she sees one, so she heads back to the bridge to figure out what the fuck she’s going to do next. The sudden appearance of Ginka is the easier problem to deal with. Passenger, short term, nothing Rig can’t handle. No, the real problem, as per fucking always, is Pyrite.
They’ve found her.
She supposes it was too foolish of her to hope that they wouldn’t catch up to her again. No one, not even her, can outrun one of the three factions forever. They’re simply too big, their reach too long, and the neutral zones between factioned space get smaller and smaller every year, warships pressing against the empty pockets in the galaxy as though trying to squeeze the life out of it, walls closing in, crushing her…
Her hand tightens around the throttle lever as she gets her rapid breathing back under control.
At least while she’s traveling in a luminalspace tunnel Pyrite can’t track her. Not even their advanced technology has managed to lock onto one ship out of billions, traveling through one tunnel out of quadrillions. Hopefully, heading straight to the Ascetic homeworld will be enough of a surprising destination to shake them off her trail for a little bit and give her a break to plan her next move. It’s stupid to imagine it could work out, given who she is, but part of her wishes she could stay on the Ascetic homeworld forever, stay with the one person she loves unconditionally…
It is a stupid thought. Eventually Ascetic would catch on to her presence there and then they’d toss her out – no one likes a thief and no faction wants a Nightbird in their midst. While in the neutral zones the Nightbirds have some respect for standing up to the factions, among faction spaces they’re only known for being Trouble. Not to mention the fact that even if Ascetic would be fine with her sticking around, she doesn’t want to live under another faction ever again. She wouldn’t be able to handle it. The confinement, the rules, the similarities to Pyrite. The fact that, inevitably, she’d be found out and forced back into her old job, this time with different trappings for a different master.
She’s done making weapons.
Under Pyrite, she had grown up in poverty. Once they’d found out she was smart, they’d brought her in to work in one of their prized spires of industry, and forced her to turn her research into weapons of war. Then they had turned around to smile at her and tell her that they were going to use those weapons against the Kashrini – wouldn’t that be wonderful? Wouldn’t it be fine for her, because she was so different from the rest of her species, so special, so smart, and they’d just be getting rid of those other Kashrini that didn’t have use.
Three things made her of use in Pyrite’s eyes. Three things that made her better than. Firstly, that she was clever in the specific, technologically inclined way that fits in neatly with Pyrite’s values. Secondly, that she could be manipulated through threat of poverty and promise of reward into doing whatever they asked of her, no matter how morally repugnant. And thirdly, that she had no important family to back her up or strong ties to powerful people, and could be, if necessary, disposed of with little fuss.
For a faction that prides itself in being logical and smart and advanced, their measures of worth are subjective, arbitrary bullshit.
She can feel invisible hands scratching at her brain again, reaching through her skull to clutch at her mind, clawing down to grab at her guns.
“I’m safe in Bluebird,” she mutters, too quietly for Ginka to hear. “I’m safe.”
For now.
She pulls up the call screen and plugs in Mohsin’s number. It takes a moment to connect as the signal bounces between dozens of communications satellites floating through various luminalspace tunnels between her and him, and then a somewhat fuzzy image of his face fills the screen.
“Heya,” she says, waving to cover that she’s shaking from nerves. “I got out.”
He sighs in relief. “Thank fucking – after the alarms started going off, I thought for sure you were gonna… well. You’re alive.”
“Takes more than a couple Pyrite goons to send me to the afterlife.”
“I’ll drink to that.” He gives a tense laugh. “You dropped their tail okay? They’re not still hanging off you?”
Paranoia makes her do a quick double check. Nothing is showing up on her scanners. Of course she’s in the clear, it’s not like they’d be able to track her in luminalspace. Not unless they’ve bugged her ship – and nobody bugs her ship without her noticing. Communications satellites work in the mess of luminalspace tunnels because they’re constantly sending out a signal yelling ‘Hey, we’re here! Use us!’, but her ship doesn’t do anything like that. Just to make sure, she runs a sweep of her system, turning to the side for a moment to tap out a command for a full ship scan. Nothing pops up. She’s still safe.
“Not as far as I can tell,” she reports. “They’ll try, but unless you told them anything, they’ll have no idea where I’m headed. Besides, they’ll probably waste a whole bunch of time regrouping and re-strategizing before trying anything else.”
“Not to point out the obvious, but they must have found you on Red Dock somehow. There’s no way they’ll have a hunch about where you’re headed, is there?”
“I didn’t leave a trail, and Pyrite doesn’t do ‘gut feelings’ or anything.”
“For a tech-loving society, they’re a pretty dumb bunch, huh? Figure out how they tracked you to Red Dock? I put the metaphorical screws to a couple of my people and no one said anything to anyone about you coming to meet me.”
“No.” Which does worry her. She has guesses, not answers, and she likes being sure about things. “They could have caught me on camera while I there, maybe, sent a message out – Nearest Pyrite patrol ship could probably have gotten to Red Dock in the short time I was there. Red Dock isn’t a small spaceport. Plenty of snitches, I’m sure.”
He slowly nods along. “Possible, very possible. Some good news though. No one snitched on that refugee ship you helped with. I got confirmation that three minutes ago they landed on Pahena – that tiny little moon just outside the Dead Zone.”
She breathes a sigh of relief. Figuring out how to steal the ship had taken a solid month of planning, and it had been difficult to make sure the refugees all managed to pile onboard without drawing attention from the authorities. “Glad to hear it. Should I call you when I get to Ascetic?”
“Best not. Listen, if you’re still alive, that’s probably all I should know. It doesn’t matter that Pyrite was after you, not me. They still had the guts to come to my spacedock, and we’ve gotta play it safe for a bit. The less I know about what you’re doing, the better. Make sure you’re real careful the next time you call – I don’t want them tracking the signal.”
Justified offense rears its ugly head. “I’ve scrambled this call under twelve different codes and routed it through another three different planetary spacedocks to make sure it can’t be traced. I have been doing this for a while, thank you very much.”
“Fine, fine. My bad.”
There’s a slight rustle of movement as Ginka comes to stand behind the co-pilot’s seat, lingering just close enough to let Rig see her. Rig gets the distinct impression that Ginka is a ghost – silent, creepy, and vaguely ominous. All she needs is to be transparent.
He raises an eyebrow at Ginka. “Who’s your friend?”
“Uh.” Rig pauses as she tries to figure out something to say that doesn’t make her sound like an idiot who got suckered into letting a bounty hunter onboard her ship.
Ginka helpfully steps in. “I assisted Rig in deterring the Pyrite forces.”
“Gotcha. Thanks for taking care of this idiot,” Mohsin says.
“How sweet. I’m blushing,” Rig flatly replies. “Thanks for letting me know you’re still alive and all, and take care of yourself, okay?”
He signs off with a parting, “Stars’ favor to you, too.”
As soon as the call drops, Ginka asks, “Who is he?”
“Friend of mine. He’s a…”
“A criminal, I’m assuming.”
Yes, but she didn’t need to say it so derisively. Mohsin is one of the best sorts Rig knows. “He’s a good man. And there’s nothing wrong with being a criminal.”
Ginka frowns in clear confusion. “Yes, there is.”
She gives the Zazra a smile. What a cute, naive little statement. “You’ll learn.”
“Hm.”
“You’re a prickly one, aren’t you?” she says with a snicker. Ginka turns on her heels and walks out. Rig can’t help but laugh outright at the stiff petulance of it. “Alright, Cactus.”
“Excuse me?”
“Cactus. Cause you’re prickly.”
“What?” Ginka deflates, shoulders and mouth drooping ever so slightly as she blinks at Rig in surprise. “You’re… naming me?”
“It’s a nickname. Do you not have nicknames in bounty hunter school?”
“I, that is–”
“While I stand by my creative genius, if you’ve got a better idea, I’m always open to suggestions–”
“No.” She folds her gauntleted hands stiffly behind her back. “Cactus is much better than what they called me there. And I’m perfectly happy saving the name Ginka for special occasions.”
Special occasions?
What a strange woman.
INTERLUDE
The Shard of God
A young woman stands in front of a shard of crystal. It stands tall, looming over her, almost as high as the ceiling. It’s a jagged thing, made of sharp edges, and it shines with a ghostly light, catching a rainbow of colors inside it. Beneath it is its reflection, sitting on a glassy pool, undisturbed in the dark chamber.
She is Ghoul X-74. Ghoul, to denote her rank as the lowest level of Operative in Windshadow Secret Police. The rest is to specify her. In theory she has a name, although she doesn’t know what it is, and even if she did it is irrelevant by comparison.
This is the first time she has had enough security clearance to see the shard herself.
A whisper of fabric over stone.
She is no longer alone.
A man comes to stand next to her.
She gasps and drops to one knee, keeping her head bowed and focused on the floor, not daring to look her organization’s leader in the eye. “Lord Umbra! Forgive me, I did not notice your approach. My eyes were not sharp enough. I shall do better next time.”
“Had to see it for yourself?” he asks, his cool voice whispering over the ground like a fog.
“I was… curious,” X-74 says.
“Were you now?”
“I apologize for doubting.” She chances a glance up at him. “I simply…”
He gives her a knowing look and gestures for her to stand. “I give you this story so that you may have the truth and see with eyes unclouded. Ten thousand years ago,” he begins, his words echoing through the chamber, a familiar story that has been written into X-74’s bones. Into the bones of every member of their faction. “A star fell into the galaxy. It was a dying world, burning out its life as a comet, destined to die, shattered into a thousand pieces throughout the cosmos. Three great deities had guided it safely through the stars for an untold age, but their strength waned. The end was coming for them. However, they were powerful and wise, and not all of them willing to die.”
X-74 nods. She knows this. She is not ignorant, and she was raised properly. “Pyrite, Ascetic, and Ossuary. The old ones.”
“Of those three mighty gods, only one survived the star’s fall. They went on to have children who contain the true blood of the gods in their veins. The just rulers of this galaxy, descended from immortals. It is this line of children who will eventually rise up to secure their destiny, throw off the shackles of false pretenders and take their place on the throne of the gods.” He gestures to the shard in front of them. “The question of which one survived has torn the galaxy apart.”
“But we know the truth, don’t we? This shard of the star – it’s proof, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It is not wrong to seek reassurance of our superiority. We of Ossuary know the truth. It was Ossuary who survived, and it was Ossuary who propagated the line of lords and gifted their descendants with long life. And we know this because our mighty lord, our king, our Tenus, is their direct descendant. He will rule for one thousand years before passing into the next world.”
And as Windshadow, they defend and protect that superiority, their greatness, everything the shard in front of her represents.
Umbra turns, the white fur of his cloak dragging over the marble floor. “I hope you truly understand the significance of what it is we do. We do not falter. We do not bend. We serve Ossuary to the death. Never forget that.”
With a final flash of white fur, he vanishes.
X-74 looks up at the shard.
All her life, she has known that she is not one of the blessed lines, the families that are lucky enough to have Ossuary’s blood running in their veins. She is only barely Ossuary, and she knows that when their hour of glory arrives, she will benefit little from it. That’s alright. It is enough to know that she is on the right side of this war, and she is honored to fight and die for the glory of Ossuary.
The shard is proof. They’re right. She fists her hands into the fabric of her pants, digging in to ground herself as she tries to comprehend what their faction’s inevitable victory over Pyrite and Ascetic will look like.
CHAPTER THREE
Ascetic Homeworld
Rig sits plopped down in the cargo hold with the doors wide open so that she can keep a close eye on the main room, choosing a spot in the corner so Ginka would have a hard time seeing her. She doesn’t much like being spied on.
Her experience with taking on passengers is, admittedly, limited. Mostly she only transports refugees, cramming as many people as possible into her ship and running as fast as possible to the nearest safe planet or moon or spacedock. Sometimes there’s a bit of a kerfuffle about food or room, but usually it’s pleasant and she gets to have a wide variety of interesting conversations about planets that she’s never set foot on.
Ginka’s different.
The Zazra had spent the first ten hours of the eleven-hour trip dead asleep. So dead asleep that Rig did, at one point, check to make sure she was still breathing. Which, yeah okay, it’s nice that she kept out of Rig’s hair. Not that Rig has any hair, but she digresses. The silence was weird, but welcome. Now Ginka is still silent, but up and about and really, really distracting.
She’s not even doing anything in particular. She’s just… wandering around the ship.
Right now, Rig can see her through the open doors as she ambles through the small circle of common space. She picks up a box of instant coffee and examines it, giving it a sniff before putting it back down in exactly the same place she found it. A piece of paper pinned to the galley hull is given close examination, as though the doodle is of some great significance. She looks over the boxes of protein packs and vacuum-sealed food only briefly. There’s a loose couple of nuts and bolts lying about the counter and she paws through them, her fingers surprisingly elegant despite the heavy-looking armor she’s still wearing. Which… seriously, is she incapable of relaxing?
