Codename: Night Witch (2 page)

Yet his lieutenant was shifting uneasily at his side.

"Spit it out, Lieutenant."

"Sir, with respect, one fighter? Isn't this exactly what happened on Procyon?"

Not quite. Procyon was a major naval facility, the largest in the CTF, with tens of thousands of ships coming and going at any time. Here, the skies were clear, and that fighter was a sitting duck.

Still, perhaps there was a danger. "Tell the men and women to prep for atomic protocols. Just in case."

Madison let out a long breath. "Aye, sir."

And there was something else nagging at him. "Any word from our overwatch? That fighter can't have got here on its own."

The immense sonic boom caused Tomanek to jerk his head up.

His jaw went slack; he didn't need the macro-binoculars to see what was looming above him. Giant, black as night, and filling the entire sky above them was a ship.

Captain Tomanek understood too late what was happening. The aging Junco
was a feint, a distraction from the real attack. As mad and desperate as the fighter's attack was, it was nothing compared to what he was witnessing now. The fools had dropped their carrier from orbit using the same insane tactics. Unpowered and flying dark, the small escort carrier had slipped past all their defenses. It had probably been going ballistic for days, sailing unnoticed through Cor Caroli space.

It was also completely suicidal. The six-hundred-meter vessel was on course to crush anything in its path.

The captain reached for the comm unit, but it was already too late. Less than a thousand meters overhead, the escort carrier came alive. Its engines roared to life in an explosion of smoke and flame that threatened to burn everything and anyone alive beneath it. Weapons ports shot open, revealing row after row of heavy guns, each of them belching out tens of thousands of rounds per second, tearing apart what wasn't already set afire. The few Ravens that made it into the air were ripped to shreds by the wall of ordnance filling the sky.

The fate of Tomanek and his command was sealed. But so was the fate of the carrier. Braking at maximum overboost, decelerating at what had to be at least twenty-five Gs, the six-hundred-meter vessel fought valiantly, desperately trying to halt its descent.

For the briefest of moments it looked like the carrier might actually save itself. But it wasn't to be. This was a one-way mission. Unable to halt its suicidal descent, the ship pancaked into the garrison. The resulting explosion, fueled by the kinetic energy and its overtaxed reactors, sent a pillar of flame mushrooming into the night sky so high that it could be seen for more than twenty-five kilometers. It flared brilliantly, scorching the clouds around it.

But there was no one alive to see it.

~ - ~

The engines of the aging Junco fighter sputtered to life only to die again. Five more alarms sounded in the small cockpit. Amber and red lights blazed across the pilot's heads-up display, nearly blinding her. The ground was rushing up quickly, all too eager to greet the free-falling fighter craft.

"Blast," the pilot said.

With a flick of her gloved hand, she did the only thing she could. She opened the fuel intake to maximum and set the reactor to overboost. Her finger hovered over the master switch. If she was hesitating, it was for good reason. This action could just as easily blow her to bits as it might save her. There was nothing for it. Holding her breath, she lit the candle.

The resulting explosion nearly tore the
Junco apart. The engines roared to life, crushing her back in her seat. The prolonged blast of 17.6 Gs was enough to kill most normal humans. But then, she wasn't exactly normal, was she? And perhaps by some accounts, she wasn't strictly human either.

She fought the G-lock as long as she could, but even for her this was too much. She blacked out. When she came to moments later, the Junco's automated systems had her back in straight and level flight, albeit inverted and staring up, or was it down, at the ground below.

Tearing the helmet from her head, she took in huge gulps of air. Her blond hair was matted and wet from sweat from the exertion of her abrupt reentry, and she pulled it away from her eyes. Grabbing hold of the stick, she righted the craft and began a slow circle, dropping down low over the devastation. She scanned the area for any sign of resistance, but there was nothing. The company of soldiers, the support personnel, everyone, they were all gone. Wiped out.

Thumbing the comm switch, the girl pressed the tiny microphone to her lips. "You're clear. It's all clear. There's nothing left."

She didn't wait for a reply, as none would be coming.

Torn apart by flak and the sudden restart, the Junco's engines were still misbehaving and the fighter bucked with each wheezing cough of the thrusters. She had to land, and the sooner the better. Spying a reasonably flat stretch of sand, she nosed the craft down, bringing it in for a skidding, bouncing landing. She brought it to a stop not far from the smoldering crater.

Nothing remained of the carrier or the garrison. Only a burning pit. Smoke roiled upwards, trailing away in the stiff wind. The fire would burn for weeks, months even, continuing until the last of the carrier's fuel reserves were gone.

The Junco's
thrusters whined loudly as she popped the canopy. She ran quickly through the shutdown sequence, then wondered why bother? The fighter was finished. The aging relic would never fly again.

The charred earth crunched beneath her boots as she dropped from the cockpit. It was hard to believe that there was ever a CTF encampment here. The entire company of men and women were disintegrated, snuffed out in a flash. But they weren't the only ones to die here, were they. Before the marines came, before the CTF, a settlement had stood in this very spot.

Farmers, workers, mothers, daughters.
Families.
They were here first. This was their home, and this was their land. But that hadn't stopped the CTF from moving in. That hadn't stopped the CTF from killing them all.

Eviction. That was what the Council for Trade and Finance called it. The pilot knew otherwise. This was genocide. The marines didn't deserve her sympathy, and her mistress was right to order their destruction.

Not far away, a small ship came in for a landing. With her flight helmet tucked under her arm, she strode toward it.

The girl waited, watching as the ship settled on its struts. The hatch's seal opened with a hiss and the door swung up. The ship's single occupant emerged. She was tall, quite a bit taller than the pilot, who was, in fact, remarkably short. The woman's shoulder-length brown hair featured a brilliant streak of silver that curved about a face that was as commanding as it was handsome.

When the woman saw the girl, she smiled, a familiar gesture the girl didn't return.

"Glad to see you're in one piece," the woman said. "I have to admit I was skeptical of your plan. Remind me not to doubt you again. Now come. We don't have much time. I don't wish to be here when their compatriots show up."

"Compatriots?" the girl said. "You mean reinforcements. Already?"

"It seems a fleet of Earth ships has arrived in system. I don't think it would do for us to be here when they arrive. I can't imagine they'll be all too happy with us. And they're not alone. They brought mercenaries this time."

"Mercenaries, mistress?" the girl asked, for she had been a mercenary herself once, though that had been another life and a long time ago. It was a life she desperately wanted to remember. Of course, those memories were gone, and to remember was forbidden by her mistress. The past was the past, and her duties didn't permit indulgences like nostalgia. Still, she couldn't help but wonder.

"Do you think they're the same mercenaries who made me?"

"No. I told you. Those people are dead. All of them. They perished long ago."

"But even if they're not the same, perhaps they know. They might be able to tell me—"

"They won't."

There was a sharpness to the woman's voice, and the girl stepped back as if slapped. Her mistress was losing patience again, which could mean only one thing: she would be returned to the dark and to her treatments.

The thought of her treatments left her trembling. She knew they were necessary—she knew because her mistress said so. But they terrified her, and there was always the pain.

The woman reached out and held the girl's chin in her hand. The action was gentle, but firm. She had to force the girl to meet her eyes. "Your friends are dead, dear. All of them. And if you ever do meet any of the old clans, you must not reveal your true nature. Not to anyone. Remember what I told you. We are free women and men. We are Independent. Mercenaries kill our kind. They can't be trusted. If they discover what you are, they will kill you. Do you understand?"

"But, mistress—"

"Not another word. Do you understand?"

"Yes, mistress."

"Good. Now come along."

The girl moved to follow her up the ramp into the ship and then nearly bumped into her as the woman remained standing in place. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

The girl paused, wondering. Then she remembered. "Yes, mistress. Of course."

Tilting her head, she pulled her blond hair back to reveal the small metallic slot no more than two millimeters wide just behind her ear. It was the access port to her Primary Control Module, and it was the only evidence that she was anything but a normal human girl.

The woman pulled a small cube-shaped object from her belt and held it before her.

The girl stared at it and felt her stomach churn. It was a data-uplink module, the same one her mistress used on her after all such missions. Data from the previous mission would be downloaded, and her matrix wiped clean—all to make way for the new mission profiles.

The woman thumbed a switch in the middle of the box. Instantly, a razor-thin spike snapped out with an audible
snick.
It gleamed brilliant silver, thin and delicate. It was hard to believe something so small and fragile could strike such terror into her.

The girl knew it was her duty to submit. She knew what her mistress demanded of her, yet she stepped back.

"Really, dear. Do we have to go through this every time?"

The girl hesitated. "Please, mistress. It…it hurts."

"Your treatments are necessary, dear. You
know
how you get."

The woman thrust the spike toward her again. But this time, the girl slapped her hand away. The woman gave a startled gasp and clasped her hand in pain. The girl raised her hand, preparing to strike her again. Rage filled her eyes. No more treatments!

"Sigrid! Stop!"

The use of her name caused the girl's head to snap up. Her mistress rarely called her by her name. In that moment she realized in horror what she'd done. She'd actually
hit
her mistress, and that was something she'd never done. More than hit her, she'd wanted to kill her—anything to stop the pain.

"Sigrid, you have never struck me before."

"I'm sorry, mistress! Please, I didn't mean to."

"Promise me you won't do it again."

"I promise. Of course I promise."

The girl sank to her knees and threw her arms around the woman's legs. "Please, mistress, you must forgive me."

The woman stared down at her. She looked nearly as shocked by the girl hugging her legs as she had been when struck. Slowly, cautiously, she put her hand on the girl's head and stroked her hair. "Hush now. There'll be no more of that. I know you didn't mean to."

"I didn't. I wouldn't."

"Of course you wouldn't. We have much work to do, you and I. Cor Caroli was not the first colony to fall. We have many more deaths to avenge."

"I know, mistress."

"And these treatments," the woman said, holding up the data module, "they are a part of it. They are necessary. You know that, Sigrid. Without your treatments you can't do the things you do. You will die, Sigrid."

"I know, mistress."

"Good. Then no more pouting. I'm sorry this hurts you, Sigrid. If there were any other way…"

"It's all right, mistress. I'm ready."

The girl tilted her head to the side, exposing the metallic slot. The woman brought the module up. The silver spike flashed briefly in the moonlight as the woman thrust it in.

The uplink was instantaneous. The surge of data was unstoppable. The girl's eyes rolled back. Her body heaved and she spasmed once before falling limp into the woman's arms. It was the quiet sleep of submission.

Emily Gillings-Jones cradled Sigrid in her arms, rocking her gently.

"There now. All better. Sleep. Sleep, my dear girl."

The girl couldn't hear her, of course. The treatments left her completely catatonic. But even if she could hear, it wouldn't matter. Once the new mission profile was uploaded, the girl would remember nothing. She never did. Not Cor Caroli. Not Procyon. Not the endless strings of assassinations.

Not even what she'd done to her own friends.

The treatments ensured complete submission. For a time, at least. Though for how much longer, Emily couldn't know. The warning signs were there already. In time, no single treatment would be enough to control her.

Emily Gillings-Jones looked at her hand. Sigrid's slap had shattered two of her metacarpals. It wasn't the pain that bothered her. Pain could be ignored. Pain was irrelevant. But the girl had never hit her before. She'd seen the look in Sigrid's eyes! She'd
wanted
to kill her. Soon, nothing was going to stop her from doing just that. The next slap might prove to be fatal.

Emily stared down at the sleeping girl in her arms as she stroked her hair gently. Yes, the day would come when this girl would kill her. She couldn't blame her either. Not after everything she'd done to her.

Dr. Farrington had warned her. His advice was most specific: "Terminate her. Kill her while you can." Even her husband was growing cautious, and he rarely came around anymore. But they didn't understand. Not like she did. Emily Gillings-Jones owed this girl everything. Sigrid Novak had saved her life. If it wasn't for her, she'd still be lying invalid in some hospital bed, a living vegetable hooked up to banks of cold machines.