Reavers (Book 3) (5 page)

Rosalyn settled into her chair.  Breaking in new crewmembers was amusing, but it also had a high cost.  Until the new people were completely integrated with the old crew, combat was out of the question.  Only a fool ran into battle without a good crew.  Her father had stressed that repeatedly.  She felt the show more than made up for the lost time, and Andreas was certainly putting on a show with this batch.

She couldn’t help but laugh to herself at the idea of one of the newcomers wearing something so erotic - on the first day no less.  Apparently, Revel wasn’t the only one hung up on decorum.  Andreas frequently requested that she instate some kind of uniform.  That was out of the question.  Long rows of neat troopers in uniform were the mainstay of the military.  The idea of having her crew resemble that in any way repulsed Rosalyn.  Something exotic or in poor taste was a small price to pay.  That never stopped Andreas from complaining about it.

Shifting uneasily in her chair, she realized Andreas hadn’t actually complained about Kevin.  Naturally, after her run in with Duda, she expected Tardos to be trouble.  Kevin, on the other hand, was a complete surprise.  More surprising was how gingerly Andreas was handling him.  He had never been exactly subtle.  If
anyone
jeopardized the efficient operation of her ship, he made sure the wrinkle was smoothed out - forcefully if need be.

Then again, he had to deal with two of his greatest irritants at the same time.  In the choice between a scantily clad female and a troublemaker, Andreas had chosen the female.  Rosalyn smiled in delight.  Now she knew his weakness, a way she could taunt him that he wouldn’t be able to brush aside.  She’d have to start wearing skimpier outfits.

Life on a ship wasn’t as glamorous as Tardos had remembered.  Then again, he was just glad to be on one again.  Truth be told, there wasn’t a great deal of difference between a ship and a station.  However, the main difference was a big one.  Movement. 

He had never really liked staying in one place for too long.  In that way a station was a death sentence.  A massive tomb that silently waited for him to breathe his last.  Tardos was lucky the Freeport had even let him dock in the first place.  Turned out his old business partner Duda had pulled some strings to get him on board.  Duda even helped him get a job in maintenance.  It was a dirty job, but it paid well enough and kept him away from anyone who might know him.

After a couple of months, everyone had completely forgotten his arrival.  To those who lived on the Freeport, he was just another nameless maintenance worker.  It was a miserable existence compared to the one he had once known, but it was better than nothing.  His luck started to change for the better when Kevin showed up.

At first he hadn’t liked him.  Kevin was overly private and never spoke.  However, he was still better than nothing.  Being an unassuming maintenance worker was a dreadfully lonely existence for someone like Tardos.  Silent pipes and conduits made poor substitutes for the brave and spirited crews he had served with in his past. 

Naturally, he had taken advantage of having someone to talk to.  After a week of one-sided conversations, Kevin had spoken up, only to silence Tardos’ ramblings.  Despite the rocky start, the two of them eventually grew to be friends.  As they worked they would pass the time with idle chat.  Well, Tardos would chat idly and Kevin would throw in comment or two.

His new friend’s full name was Kevin L. Catron.  He had run away from home at an early age and promptly fallen in with a dangerous crowd.  One seemingly meaningless mistake led to another, until his new friend had joined the ranks of those lowlifes collectively known as pirates.  It was a tale Tardos had heard over and over.

If Duda hadn’t gone out of his way to inform him of the periodical recruitment drives, the pair would most likely still be in the access tunnels of the Freeport.  He couldn’t be sure if Duda was doing him a favor or simply attempting to rid himself of an irritant.  Whatever the case, Kevin and Tardos would attend the various recruitments like clockwork.  Each and every time they were turned down. 

A doddering old man and a quiet young man who never answered strangers were never the most promising candidates.  After each failure it was harder and harder to convince Kevin to try again.  When captain Dubois docked at the Freeport, Duda had practically demanded Tardos attend her recruitment.  It was a good thing they were both accepted; he had
barely
managed to convince Kevin to come with.  If they had been turned down again, Tardos doubted he’d ever be able to convince the young man to try again.

“Keep your mind on the job at hand,” a soft whisper pulled him from his idle thoughts.

He instantly recognized Kevin’s voice.  Silently cursing himself, he got back to work.  It seemed the older he got, the more his mind roamed.  In his defense, it wasn’t entirely his fault.  Andreas had assigned them the most mind-numbing job possible - scrubbing the ship
by hand
.

There was no doubt an automated system for that.  If the captain had gone to such lengths to customize her ship, she would want it spotless at all times.  Doing the work of an automated process was practically begging Tardos’ mind to wander freely as his hands went about the dull routine.  It had been a shock to him that the ship even had such arcane things as mops and buckets.  In fact, the mops even had
wooden
handles, of all things.  Apparently, when Andreas wasn’t humiliating young girls he was inflicting medieval torture on the crew.

As Tardos shook his head disapprovingly at the task, he realized his hands had come to a stop again.  Hopefully, Kevin hadn’t noticed yet.  Oddly, pushing on the mop didn’t accomplish anything.  Shaking his mind from its idle rambling, he studied the stick in his hands.  Following its length with his eyes, he found the squid-like end was tangled up in another mop.  In his reverie, Tardos had run into another of the new crewmembers assigned to this meaningless task.  As he was about to apologize, he realized the other mop wasn’t moving or struggling to free itself. 

A glance at its operator explained why.  Sasha was leaning on the handle completely lost in thought.  Tardos noticed she was still wearing Kevin’s clothes.  The pants were too long for her, and they bunched around her knees and ankles.  From Tardos’ point of view she was tall, but then again
everyone
was to him.

In actuality, she was just under a head’s length shorter than Kevin.  The shirt was a bit of a tight fit around her chest.  Sasha wasn’t as well endowed as captain Dubois, but she wasn’t lacking either.  From the dour look on her face it was obvious she was thinking about that morning.  Her eyes seemed a bit puffy and her cheeks seemed a shade redder than Tardos had remembered them being.

“Excuse me,” he said gently.  “I believe we’ve tangled these silly things.”

Startled from her thoughts, Sasha lost her grip on the wooden handle.  Slipping on the slick floor, the girl gracelessly fell back.  At the last moment, a pair of arms reached out and caught her.  Both Tardos and the girl were astonished when they realized it was Kevin who was now cradling her.  As the girl’s face settled into a deep blush, Tardos heard a hollow rattling sound.

Turning his head, he found Kevin’s mop resting on the floor - clear on the other side of the room.  Mentally measuring the distance, a smile formed on his mouth.  The only way Kevin could have made it to the girl’s side in time, from that distance, is if he had been watching her the whole time.  Maybe his young friend wasn’t as dense as he had thought.  Turning his attention back to the young pair, he watched as Kevin gently set the girl on her feet and helped her get her balance back.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” Sasha said in a low voice.  “I’ll make sure I wash your clothes before returning them.  I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve . . .”

“Keep them,” Kevin said interrupting.

Tardos was shocked.  It had taken the boy an entire week before he spoke in the cramped access tunnels of the Freeport.  In under a day’s time, he had gotten comfortable enough with the girl to speak to her.

“What?” Sasha asked, obviously stunned.

“The clothes,” he said.  “Keep them.”

“I . . . I can’t . . . They’re yours,” she said, stammering.

“I can get more.  You look good in them.  Keep them.”

As his words sunk in, the girl’s face seemed to glow.  A single compliment and the entire morning’s embarrassment vanished from her mind.  As a warm smile filled her face, she pulled her mop free from Tardos’.  It was all he could do not to chuckle as the girl returned to her job, humming contentedly as she went.  Without another word, Kevin returned to his mop and got back to work.  He worked his way toward Kevin.  With a smile and a nudge, he winked at his young friend.  Kevin raised an eyebrow, seeming not to understand.

“That was nice of you,” Tardos said.  “Plus, I see you’re a bit more free with your words around the ladies.”

“She doesn’t belong here,” Kevin said in a thoughtful voice.

“What?” he asked, stunned.

“A girl like that has no business being on this ship,” he said in a cold voice.

A soft repeating sound wafted past the man’s ears.  Straining to lift his head, he glanced around him.  His eyes were horribly unfocused, blurring the surroundings to the point he couldn’t make out a single detail.  All he could make out was the dull gray of the walls.  A single shaft of light poured out from a round orifice overhead.  Focusing on the sound, he slowly recognized it as the movements of a large fan circulating the air in the room.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t focus clearly.  His mind racing, he couldn’t find any trace of how he arrived in the room or for that matter who he was.  Attempting to stand, he found his arms restrained behind his back and locked onto the back of the chair.  For the first time he realized he was sitting.  The chair was cold and uncomfortable.  Suddenly, the light doubled in intensity.  The brightness drowned out all details from the room.

“I see you are awake.”  An oddly familiar voice seemed to come from all around him.  “I was worried my operatives had given you too much.”

“Too much?”  The man instantly paused.  The sound he made was unfamiliar.  If it was his voice, he didn’t recognize it.

“Oh dear, memory loss?”  The voice was insincere.  “An unfortunate side effect.  Don’t worry, it will pass shortly I’m told.”

“Where am I?” the man asked in his unfamiliar voice.  “What’s going on?”

“So many questions.  All of them pointless.  In no time you’ll have your memory, and I have no desire to baby-sit you until then.  Now focus.  I have a job for you.”

“A job?”

“It has taken me a great deal of effort to acquire you.  I do hope you will be useful.”

The voice spoke with scorn.  The owner of the voice obviously detested the man.  A strange sensation filled him as the voice continued to speak.  An odd taste filled his mouth.  He couldn’t remember any food that matched the taste.

“Excellent,” the voice said.  “I see your abilities are returning.”

“Abilities?”

“This grows tiresome.  You are a Weaver.  Does that mean anything to you?”

The man thought as hard as he could, but nothing came to mind.  The man shook his head.  The voice grunted in obvious annoyance.  The taste in the man’s mouth grew more pronounced.

“Very well,” the voice said with a sigh.  “I guess I have to explain it to you.  Giving you your task will be pointless until you remember what you are.  A Weaver can control emotions.”

“Emotions?”

“Don’t interrupt!” the voice shouted angrily.  “Hate, sadness, love, and the rest are all under your command.  You can make a man brave or timid on a whim.  As a Weaver you can sense what those around you are feeling and manipulate those very emotions.  Does any of that sound familiar?”

“Not really.”

“Fine.”  The voice sighed deeply.  “How about the word “Hellacus?”  Does that bring back any memories?”

As the man was about to answer, a massive headache rampaged through his mind.  Like a fire sweeping over a dry forest, the pain surged and consumed his entire brain.  Images of a sandy world flashed before his eyes.  Sandstorms, shabby houses, and people wearing shiny black uniforms flooded his memory.

The man remembered being taken from his home and dumped on a desert world with a great many other Weavers.  They were outcasts, rounded up and put into exile for their unnatural abilities.  Suddenly, the man remembered his name and the identity of the voice speaking to him.

“What could make
you
free me from that prison world?” the man asked his captor angrily.

“Ah, your memories are back I see.  Splendid.  I have an assignment for you.  One I trust . . .”

“Do you honestly think I’d ever work for the likes of you?”  The man nearly spat his words as he violently interrupted.  “An insect doesn’t order a
god
to act.”

“Fine.  Then think of it as a request, if that placates your ego.  Trust me when I say you’ll be interested in this task.”

“Before I strike you down for your insolence, what is this task you’d
request
of me?”

“I simply wish to settle a score.  Make a man pay for what he took from me.”

“That’s it?  I was merely going to make you suffer for this.  Now I’m going to make you
beg
for your own death.”

“Aren’t you the tiniest bit interested in
who
I was going to send you after?”

The man paused.  The emotion he sensed from the voice was one of complete self-assurance.  There wasn’t even a hint of fear or trepidation.

“Who is it?”

“Dante Benedict.”

A sinister grin expanded over the man’s face.  He’d endure this fool for a time longer.

With a sigh, Brent rubbed at the bridge of his nose.  He’d read through at least twenty papers and had at least that many more to go before he could call it a night.  Who knew being a history teacher would make him long for his days at the academy.  Multiple threats to his life were nothing compared to dredging through the endless paperwork the university imposed on him.

Turned out he couldn’t just
teach
history, he had to make up pointless exams and demand dozens of equally pointless essays.  While Brent knew if his students were catching on or not, the university required some kind of physical proof they were learning the material.  It was ironic that those requiring proof of comprehension had no understanding of what he was teaching themselves - or any interest in learning for that matter.  It always pulled a smile out of him when he thought about the fact the educated masters teaching the next generation had no desire to learn anything new themselves.

“Brent,” a gentle voice called out his name.

“I’m in here,” he called back.

“Sometimes I think this place is too big,” Cassandra said as she entered the room.

“Would you prefer we lived on one of those corporation trade ships?” he asked with a playful grin.  “I’m sure Core Industries would be willing to give us one.”

“And sleep in one of those filing cabinets they call bunks?  No thanks.  Plus, I’ve grown accustomed to having a bed with room for two.”

Cassandra crossed the room and looked over his shoulder.

“More of those silly written reports?” she asked.  “I hated those as a kid.”

“Blame the university.  I’d rather not have to read them myself.”

After a slight giggle, she started to rub his shoulders.  Brent could sense a slight tinge of apprehension in her.  He paused from his work and gently caressed one of her hands.

“What’s wrong?” he asked gently.

“Do you know how hard it is to keep secrets around you?”

“I’d imagine difficult.  But for the record you gave yourself away.  You always rub my shoulders when something is bothering you.”

Cassandra looked at him and then her hands for a moment.

“An observant Weaver.”  A warm smile filled her face as she leaned over and kissed him.  “I’ve married a monster.”

“You’ve only just realized that?”  Brent chuckled as he leaned back in his chair.

“Oh, I knew.  There always has been something
seriously
wrong with you.  But I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

“Good to hear,” he said with a grin, “because I’m perfectly happy with my
blushing
bride.”

“Always trying to taunt me.  I think you spent too much time around Cain.”

“Or maybe I just like seeing you turn red.”

“Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about that here.  Not that it’s stopped you from your nonsense.”

“Speaking of nonsense, what has you so worried?”

“We are having some dinner guests tonight,” she said slowly.

The way she anxiously fidgeted could only mean one thing.  Her parents were coming to dinner.  He should have known.  Cassandra had been busy rearranging everything in the house since dawn.  As if having a perfectly arranged house would make things any easier.

“Should I fetch my noose,” Brent asked playfully, “or is Rupert going to bring his own?”

“Be serious!  You know how important this is to me . . .”

Standing from his chair, he took her into an embrace and kissed her tenderly.

“I’m only kidding,” he said warmly.  “I’ll get ready.”

With a smile on her face, Cassandra left the room, no doubt off to give the house one more check over.  Technically speaking, the two of them had been married for a little under three years.  As far as her father was concerned, they were still dating.  Naturally, the man had seen the certificate and the 3P of the wedding several times.  The truth of the matter was he didn’t approve of Brent.  As Rupert put it, his daughter was too good for a “norm.”

Naturally, he could understand Rupert’s position.  The Foster family was born and raised on a heavy gravity world.  That meant that they were, on average, shorter and
much
stronger than the rest of the Commonwealth.  The inherent differences between the two groups created a fair bit of friction.  Those born under standard gravity liked to insult heavy-worlders on either their shortness or the fact that they would turn a bright-apple red when they blushed under standard gravity.

It wasn’t long until the heavy-worlders created their own insults.  Anyone not born on a heavy gravity world was instantly labeled a norm.  The exact meaning of the insult varied with the person using it.  In Rupert’s case, norm meant a lazy weakling who couldn’t even take care of himself.  Brent had to admit he did meet the weakling aspect.  Even after three years, he was no stronger than the average ten year old.

That was a vast improvement over his condition when he first arrived.  At first, a toddler would have been fair match for him.  As far as heavy worlds went, Jeirude was one of the worst.  He had seen visitors from other heavy gravity worlds sweat and strain.  For him it had been nearly impossible at first.  He had earned his small improvement with blood, sweat, tears, and a fair number of injections.  Being born under standard gravity, his body wasn’t designed to work under such strain.  Without the regular treatments and injections, Brent wouldn’t have survived past the first month.

Realizing it was time for one of those injections, he put his pad away and headed toward the bathroom.  The house had eight bathrooms.  Of all of them, one was his alone.  Cassandra understood the nature of the treatments and had made sure everything was as easy as possible for him.  After two months of coddling, Brent had finally learned to administer the treatments himself.  It wasn’t a pleasant affair, and he didn’t want an audience.

Chuckling to himself, he wondered which would be more painful - the syringe or his in-laws.  After making sure the door was closed and he was ready, he took the needle and thrust it into his left arm.  The contents of the syringe quickly circulated through his system.  It felt like someone had set his blood on fire.  As he had been instructed, Brent concentrated on keeping his breathing regular.  As the searing pain engulfed every fiber of his being, he focused his mind on the simple process of drawing in air and then releasing it.

After a seeming eternity of endless pain, he could feel the effects starting to fade.  Brent shook his head, forcing his mind to clear.  With Cassandra’s parents on their way, he didn’t have the luxury of wasting time.  He quickly put the bathroom back in order and headed to their room.  As he reviewed his wardrobe, he wondered what to wear.

He had tried everything several times, and it never improved his standing with Rupert.  Dress in the formal uniform of the university and Rupert would mock him as a
boy
playing grownup, one who didn’t know the value of an honest day’s work.  Dress as a Weaver and Rupert would squirm a bit before he started open mockery.  Dress as a trooper and Rupert would mock him as a gun-carrying idiot who would follow any command the military gave him.

Naturally, that would embarrass Cassandra the most as she was proud of her accomplishments as a trooper.  With a sigh, Brent picked out a nondescript outfit.  It was the typical affair of a civilian.  If it were purely up to him, he would simply accept Rupert’s disapproval and move on with his life.  However, it was not purely up to him.  Cassandra desperately wanted her father’s approval and so he did his best.  After all, he’d do anything for her.

“Sir, Mr. and Mrs. Foster have arrived,” a maid said in a sweet voice.

“I see,” Brent said as he fussed with the buttons on his shirt.  “I don’t suppose I could ask you to tell them I died in a freak accident, could I?  Something involving choking on a shirt button.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the maid said, restraining the urge to laugh.

“For the last time, it’s Brent.  You don’t have to call me sir.  I promise not to tell the university.”

The girl merely bowed and quickly left the room.  It was an elaborate bow that involved swinging her arms into an X position and then leaning forward.  It was one she, and several others, had patterned after watching Brent perform the bow to his friends.  In truth, the servants were really students who were working in exchange for free room, board, and tuition.