The landing platform access ferries were relatively simple machines. They had little functionality beyond their main purpose, designed to travel only as far out as the Starwood’s orbiting landing platforms. Their range was limited, as was their utility. They were each powered by an electrical supply stored in a range of rechargeable batteries that were fitted below the main deck. Given the immensely high drain of the anti-gravity systems, these batteries would only fuel the ferries for perhaps four journeys at maximum before the vehicle needed to be recharged. Despite their simplicity, they were highly luxurious vehicles. The landing platforms and ferries had been built to service the Starwood’s wealthiest and most important clients, so no expense had been spared in ensuring a comfortable ride. They were closed-carriage vehicles, structured to protect their passengers from the stronger winds that blew around the tops of the skyscrapers. They were long and barge-like, with a wedge-shaped prow. Each one a slow, lumbering transport that aimed to offer a relaxed transition from the platforms to the tower, or vice versa.
When Sayne arrived at the door to the ferry that was moored at his terminal dock, it opened without complaint. He pushed Heather Scarman into the cabin and spun to face the power dock at the back of the vehicle. A handful of thick cable trunks were plugged into a port on the aft-starboard side, where they had been dutifully charging the craft’s reserves. However, since the building’s main power had been cut, it seemed the charging unit had ceased its flow of vital energy. Sayne cursed as he pulled the trunk from the socket. A small readout next to the port indicated that the vehicle was at thirty-seven percent charge. Low, but it should be enough.
The signature whip and crack of Robert Merlow’s rail pistol forced Sayne to instinctively flinch and drop to one knee. The highly energised projectile sliced the air overhead and punched into the thick plexiglass pane of one of the dock’s bay door windows. The glass popped with a crash and slumped as if it were a fluid suddenly released from its container. The external winds were already howling through the seventy-fifth floor from numerous destroyed windows, but a strong gust still hit Sayne in the face as the window shattered. He grimaced and clamped his eyes shut as tiny razor-sharp shards pelted his skin. Sayne’s reactions were fast, despite being temporarily blinded. He twisted and fired his blaster from the hip, following the general direction of his attacker. His reaction was effective enough to force Merlow into cover. As he opened his eyes, Sayne caught a glimpse of the Fleet Admiral’s trench coat as he ducked behind the security desk at the opening to the terminal.
Sayne took the opportunity to make a dash for the bay door controls. The computer terminal, usually crewed by a door control operator, sat to the side of the large set of double doors that swung outward whenever the ferry prepared to leave the tower. Sayne quickly took in the panel’s details; a simple code-locked electronic mechanism. He swiped the card he had taken from the security desk and thumbed the controls for the doors. With a heavy clank, they unlocked and began to swing outward. Sayne turned and scanned the terminal for Merlow. The Fleet Admiral was still by the security desk, and he was taking aim. Sayne ducked away just in time. Merlow’s round struck the bay door controls and they exploded in a violent shower of sparks and metal shards.
“Give it up Jadyn!” He heard Merlow call over the wailing winds, “It’s over!”
“Far from it,” Jadyn called back. Merlow gritted his teeth and loaded another clip of rail rounds into his pistol. Sayne was right, this was far from over. At different points along either side of the ferry terminal, LACPD units had broken in through the windows. They were still a reasonable distance away, but from a tactical standpoint, Merlow’s position was the closest point of interest to them. At best, Merlow had a handful of minutes. He gripped his pistol tightly. He didn’t want to fight the native law enforcement, but he couldn’t let Jadyn escape again. The whine and pop of Sayne’s laser pistol drew his attention. He braced himself, expecting his cover to take a beating, but no onslaught came his way. Puzzled, he leaned out to catch a brief glimpse. Fuck. Sayne had opened fire on the LACPD units. His shots were wide, likely intentionally, but they had succeeded in drawing the squad’s attention. The entire LACPD force to Merlow’s left had turned fully toward the ferry terminal and were rapidly approaching. Merlow counted eight SWAT officers.
He cursed under his breath, “You bastard Jadyn.”
“I’ve got you Robert,” Marcus Scarman skidded to a halt beside Merlow at the security desk. He was rough, beaten, and unarmed, but Merlow could see the fight had not yet left him.
“We’ve got to stop Jadyn.” Merlow said, once again peering around the edge of the desk. “You up to it?”
“I’ve felt worse,” Scarecrow’s jaw was locked in grim determination. “But it’s not me I’m worried about. Robert, we have casualties everywhere. We should-”
“He’s not getting away again,” Merlow cut him off. “This insane vendetta ends here. He’s made a mockery of us, and he has to pay.”
Marcus’ face was etched with sadness, “Fleet Admiral-”
“Here,” Merlow wasn’t prepared to listen. He pushed his second rail pistol into Scarecrow’s hands. “He’s responsible too- For Victoria- For Kurt- He’s just as culpable as the Tyrant was.”
“But Robert-”
“Think of the girl, Marcus. Heather- She’s in there. She’s scared, alone- She doesn’t even know what happened to her parents. She sees you and sees safety. You have to go get her.”
Marcus paused, looking down at the pistol. Merlow could clearly see the emotions that conflicted him. The situation was dire, but he had to face reality. After a brief pause, Marcus accepted the weapon.
“Good,” Merlow breathed a light sigh, “Get after him, I’ll keep the PD occupied.”
With a curt nod, Marcus ducked around the opposite side of the security desk. Merlow took a deep breath and turned his attention to the approaching police force.
As Marcus darted around the prow of the landing platform ferry, the large vehicle began to hum and whine with electrical energy. He caught a brief glimpse through the cockpit glass and saw that Sayne had dropped into the pilot’s seat. Marcus stood tall and aimed the rail pistol at the front of the ferry.
“Power it down Sayne!” He shouted over the howling wind.
Sayne locked eyes on him but didn’t stop his launch preparations. Marcus’ finger tightened on the trigger, but then he saw Heather Scarman, cowering in the back. She looked terrified and was in clear view. Whatever he did, she’d witness it in full. Her eyes were locked onto him with a mixture of fear and confusion, no doubt buoyed by the sight of her father but uncertain at the strange differences. What she didn’t know was that her true father, Marcus’ alternate self, the one native to this dimension, had been killed several hours earlier. Whatever happened as a result of this fight would change her life forever. Marcus hesitated and then lowered his weapon. He had to find another way to subdue Sayne.
The electronic whine of the ferry’s engines suddenly rose to a crescendo. Sayne had throttled up the anti-gravity motors. Marcus leaped forward and landed on the nose of the small transport as it began to reverse out of the small dock. He grabbed desperately for any useful surface, but the ferry’s hull was frustratingly smooth. Sayne instinctively brought up his blaster and fired two shots, shattering the windscreen glass and scoring deep marks in the metal hull of the bow section. Both shots were intentionally wide, but they were enough to dislodge Scarecrow and send him sprawling. He slipped off the nose of the ferry just as it left the tower. Marcus hit the ground and rolled, coming to a stop just before the open edge of the building. The wind buffeted his face as he gripped onto the heavy metal girder that served as the bottom edge of the ferry dock doors. He briefly caught Jadyn’s eyes as the transport left the relative safety of the tower before rapidly falling away.
Sayne allowed the ferry to tumble backwards before he kicked the levelling pedal and swung the control wheel hard to the right. The transport swiftly righted itself and began to bank sharply to starboard, its nose veering away from the hotel’s glittering surface. On the ledge, Scarecrow raised his pistol at the underside of the craft and fired once. With a violent snap, the powerful gun kicked in his hand. Almost instantaneously, one of the anti-gravity discs on the underside of the ferry shattered and exploded in a small shower of sparks and debris. The vehicle instantly dropped a couple of meters and began listing to one side. A thick trail of black smoke belched out from underneath the wounded vehicle as a fire instantly caught. It left a slick, black fog that hung in the air and followed the ferry as it limped away from the tower. Marcus’ vision was quickly obscured, and he lost his target.
Marcus jumped to his feet, careful not to get caught out by the battering wind. He glanced up and down the curve of the tower’s outer edge. To his right, Merlow had taken cover and was peering out at the advancing squad of native LACPD SWATs. To his left, much further along the inside of the seventy-fifth floor, a gunfight was taking place between two unseen factions. Likely some remaining Black Flag and another LACPD task force. Before them, much closer to him, sat another of the luxury transport ferries. Marcus holstered the rail pistol and broke into a sprint, heading for the next of the terminals.
He had just one objective remaining. Nothing else mattered. Save the girl.
“Drop your weapon and put your hands in the air!” The leader of the LACPD team was now close enough to make demands. Merlow kept his head down, thinking quickly. There was little he could do. He needed to keep the SWAT unit from catching Scarecrow, at least until Heather Scarman was safe, and Sayne Jadyn was either dead or subdued.
“I can’t do that,” Merlow called back, “But my fight isn’t with you.”
“This is your last warning,” The police captain shouted back, “Put the gun down, or we’ll use lethal force.”
Merlow sighed deeply. He didn’t need to hurt the LACPD units but injuring them certainly wouldn’t do him any favours. His arrest was drawing nearer, but he wasn’t ready to surrender. Not yet.
Merlow stole a quick glance around his cover, looking through the already splintered woodwork of the ruined ferry security desk. The LACPD team appeared far more fearsome than any standard police force. They were scattered throughout the ferry dock’s waiting areas, primarily using the rows of seating for cover. Clad in robust, flexible combat armour, they were heavily armed with a uniform set of fearsome laser carbines. Merlow couldn’t place the make or model of the weapons, perhaps a novelty to the native dimension. However, he knew the type; highly precise, and no doubt deadly. Faint red marking lasers were sweeping across the ferry dock, ready to paint him should he make himself visible. He turned around and pressed his back up against the security desk. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold them off for long. Their numbers were too great.
As Merlow racked his brains to come up with a plan, a chaotic roar sounded to his right from further within the terminal. The roar was powerful but cracked; human and desperate.
“Merlow!” It was a shockingly familiar voice.
It was immediately succeeded by the violent chatter of a heavy rotolaser. The terminal beyond Merlow’s cover suddenly erupted with the terrifying clatter of multiple energy weapons. The pumping howl of the rotolaser rose above all, carving a streaming path across the ferry terminal seating areas. Merlow could see the lashing red laser strokes melt everything in their path; tearing through metal and glazing the thick panes of the large windows that hadn’t yet been smashed. He twisted around into a kneeling position and peered out in the direction of the gunfire. To his horror, he saw the mad Tyrant, the alternate Marcus Scarman. His injuries were gruesomely severe, but he was alive, seemingly borne by an inhuman strength. The Tyrant was flanked by a handful of ragged, battle-weary Black Flag pirates. He had presumably pulled the rotolaser from one of them and was leading the charge with a stream of devastation.
“Robert Merlow, show yourself!”
Scarman and his Black Flag pushed the LACPD unit in a fast and ruthless onslaught. The high-pitched screeches of energy weapon fire eclipsed the howling winds. Merlow watched as the police rallied against their new foe, readjusting their positions, and firing back in return. Three of them instantly fell to the rotolaser, their collapsing bodies sporting white hot cavities and deep burning lacerations. The others took up defensive positions and discharged their own high-energy laser fire back toward the pirates. One of the Black Flag corsairs twisted in a writhing dance of anguish before dropping to the ground, dead and smoldering. The rest dove for cover, taking up positions behind the various scattered objects of the terminal. Merlow counted a minimum of seven pirates, likely more. It seemed that the last of the loyal Black Flag had rallied and come to their Tyrant’s aid. Their goal may have been extraction, but the Tyrant clearly had only one objective remaining: revenge.
The skirmish was bitter and swift. The two sides, largely caught out in the open, depleted each other’s number in rapid succession. Tyrant Scarman stood, brazen against the attacks of his enemy. He held the rotolaser at waist height and mercilessly emptied the weapon’s charge packs. His face was contorted into an expression of pure, vengeful fury, and his bellows could be heard over the weapon’s heavy electric crackle. The Black Flag had spread out wide and picked their shots carefully before rotating to gain new positions. The police force had largely been caught out, but despite their disadvantage, they were able to quickly decimate the attacking force. With superior targeting equipment and visuals, they picked out the pirates as they relocated and gunned them down in the open. Likewise, the sheer brute force of the pirate’s attack quickly eroded what cover the ferry terminal had to offer, and even the tough LACPD SWAT armour was no match for their concentrated laser fire.
Without thinking, Merlow sided with the police, picking his shots carefully and downing a handful of the pirates as they attempted to reposition. His rail pistol simmered with the heat of combat as he adapted and moved across to aid the pinned police force. Much of the ferry seating area had been reduced to liquid pools of metal and superheated dust. Bodies littered the floor where the LACPD team had fallen. The police captain, the man who had shouted for him to down arms, trained his rifle as Merlow approached.
Merlow raised his arms, “Friendly!”
Robert ducked into cover beside the beleaguered captain, quickly noting a deep burn injury in the man’s side. The captain was still holding himself upright, but Merlow could tell his energy was fading.
“You have more teams throughout the building, bring them here.” Merlow grabbed the man’s shoulder.
“They- are- coming-” The man wheezed as he tried to turn his rifle back toward the Tyrant.
Before he could properly take aim, a stabbing beam of red light punched cleanly through his helmet, killing him instantly. He slumped backwards, out of Merlow’s grasp. Robert boiled over. This had gone on long enough. He stood up and aimed his rail pistol squarely at the Tyrant’s head.
Tyrant Scarman still had his finger pressed down on the rotolaser’s trigger when the charge pack finally depleted. The song of the weapon’s rotating quad-barrel suddenly ended, the riotous, dominating noise cutting out in an instant. The barrels still spun, illuminated by a deep, internal orange glow. He released his grip, and the mechanical spin of the heavy firearm began to slow. He saw Merlow stand and level his rail pistol. With reflexes that defied the extent of his injuries, he quickly dropped the rotolaser and dove for cover as Merlow fired repeatedly at him. The rail pistol whined and cracked with every shot, the high velocity projectiles whipping past just a hair’s length from where the Tyrant had been standing. The rounds decimated whatever they touched; chairs, tables, partition walls, billboards; each erupting in a cloud of plastic fragments, wooden shards, or sparking metal wreckage. Merlow walked purposefully toward his enemy, firing with almost every step. His anger began to dissipate as the pistol’s cracking came to a sudden stop. The gun clicked in his hand; the magazine spent. The barrel smoked gently as he lowered it. Tyrant Scarman arose from behind an overturned table, slowly drawing his bloodied combat knife.
Merlow quickly glanced around the shattered terminal. The Black Flag had lost, Scarman’s contingent had been the last. More LACPD units were approaching, their red tracer beams cutting through the air as they sought targets. Merlow stowed his rail pistol and placed a hand on the hilt of his sheathed katana. The Tyrant’s breathing was erratic, on the verge of hyperventilation. His injuries were catching up with him, it was only a matter of time.
“You’re going to lose,” Merlow’s statement was simple, truthful.
Through his heavy, broken breathing, the Tyrant uttered his own simple truth. “I don’t care any more.”
With an inhuman roar, he flicked the knife around in his hand and broke into a sprint, his injuries forgotten for one final push. He charged at Merlow, brandishing the blade with purpose. Merlow closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and drew his katana. The steel sang as it tasted the air.
Starwood Hotel, Airspace en route to Landing Platform 17
The bulky, glass-paned doors swung erratically from the additional aerial shock as the transport ferry erupted from the terminal’s outer cowling. Marcus gunned the throttle, shunting all the energy he could into the engine coils. The electric motors whined against the strain, not used to the sudden demand. A string of temperature warnings flashed across the dashboard, but Marcus ignored them, his focus instead fixed to the view out of the windshield. To his left, the long, thick plume of black smoke left by Sayne’s transport had already reached one of the orbiting anti-gravity landing platforms. He swore as he saw the ferry hit the landing platform’s deck with a shower of sparks. Two tiny figures jumped from the careening transport as soon as it ground to a halt and rapidly moved clear of it.
Marcus had little time. He twisted his ferries’ control column to the left and the lumbering craft began to yaw in the direction of the platform. The turn was slow and tedious, the ship not designed for high maneuverability.
“Come on,” Marcus hissed as he drummed his fingers along the machined plastics.
He could see the dark, boxy outline of a starship parked on the pad. A freighter. He didn’t recognise it. It looked like some variant on the Rhino class transport, or perhaps a Rheinland design. The small forms of Sayne and Heather made directly for it and disappeared underneath.
“There’s no way you’re getting that in the air without any codes…” Marcus grumbled, finally taking note of the pinging temperature warnings on his display. He placed Merlow’s rail pistol on the dash and shifted his attention to the power distributor, dialing back on the engine input.
A sudden blast rocked the ferry, sending the pistol clattering to the decking and forcing Marcus to grip the screen to steady himself. Two more twin columns of spearing red energy cut across the bow of the transport, causing it to jolt once again.
“Starwood ferry, cut your velocity and return to the terminal.” The sharp, rasping communication cut through the tense air, wrenching Marcus from his task.
“Fuck,” He cursed as he saw two Patriot class light fighters descend on either side of him. The blues and reds of their lights flooded his cockpit with dazzling strobes of dancing light.
Thinking quickly, he thumbed his communicator, “Liberty police, I have taken damage. My vehicle is going down. I have no choice but to make for the nearest landing platform.”
By now, Sayne’s platform was the nearest, and Scarecrow’s ferry was still hurtling toward it at maximum speed.
“Make your descent and then surrender yourself.” There was acceptance, but the reply was curt and clear.
Marcus had to sell it. He braced himself and came down hard, as Sayne had, his ferry striking the deck in a clattering shower of sparks and rending metal. It barreled into the side of Jadyn’s discarded transport, tearing it in two with a small eruption of flames and smoke. The intentional crash landing brought Scarecrow close to the parked freighter. Marcus braced himself at the impact and rode the chaos as the ferry screeched to a halt. He could see now that the freighter was indeed some kind of Liberty design, albeit one unknown to him. It sat squat on four chunky landing legs. To his horror, he saw that the belly cargo hatch was open. Sayne and Heather were nowhere to be seen.
“How did you…” Marcus quickly scanned the interior of the ferry for the fallen pistol, grabbed it, and then shot out the windscreen. With a pained leap, he scaled the forward portion of the body and dropped to the scarred decking of the landing platform.
Behind him, the two Patriot fighters were slowly descending, their chin-mounted cannons pointed directly at him. Marcus pushed for the freighter’s open cargo bay, but a steady beam of white light punched out from one of the fighters, highlighting him on the deck with a powerful spot.
“Stop,” The inevitable command came in a baleful tone. “Turn around. Drop your weapon.”
Marcus turned slowly; his arms raised in the air. For a long few seconds stared up at the blank canopies of the fighters as they hovered over his crashed ferry. Pain racked his body from the numerous wounds he had sustained, and a cough welled up from within at the thick ichor spilling from his trashed ferry. He spat out the acrid taste of melting plastics and closed his eyes in defeat. There was nothing more he could do. Merlow’s pistol fell from his grasp.
Slowly, one of the Patriots began to descend, unfolding its landing legs and retro-vectoring. As the fighter’s engines roared, another crushing sound abruptly boomed from behind Scarecrow. The freighter’s vertical ascent engines howled to life, sending powerful waves of thundering energy pounding into Scarecrow’s back. He fell forwards, pinned to the deck by the force of it. He turned just in time to see the cargo hatch close, and the bulky freighter lift unceremoniously from the platform.
“Sayne! Heather! NO!” Marcus fought to stand, but the burning power from the engines kept him pinned.
“STOP THEM!” He shouted at the top of his lungs, but his call was drowned out by the rending sounds of mixed starship engines.
The freighter climbed and was soon clear, freeing Marcus from its vice. He rolled over, smoke billowing from his singed clothing. His face was blackened and burned, his skin reddened and peeling. The still airborne Patriot broke away and ascended into a steep pursuit of the freighter, but the other craft had by now touched down. Its engines still tilled as its canopy opened and its pilot jumped out. Weakly, Marcus looked up at him. The young man was barely in his twenties. He brought an energy rifle up to meet Scarecrow and held it steady. Slowly and painfully, Marcus stood to meet his captor.
“Put your hands on your head.” The officer spoke plainly and without compassion, “You’re under arrest.”
Despite the chaos of the fight, the world drew to a calm around Robert Merlow. Time slowed, and with every breath, Merlow’s perception expanded. The red sighting lasers of the approaching LACPD lit up dust motes and fragmented particles as they swept through the air, but they were too far away. The battleground now consisted of only two. The Fleet Admiral and the mad Tyrant.
The katana scythed out of its sheath, flicking up and down in a fluid motion that exposed Robert’s expertise. He stepped slowly backward, towards the shattered windows. Behind him, the shrieking winds of the high skyscrapers buffeted his hair and coat. But he remained solid; an unmoving pillar of strength and determination against the forces of nature. The mad Tyrant’s charge was a mass of strained and tangled muscle. The weight and power of the man rippled beneath his torn and blood-soaked clothing, but Merlow could see he only had enough energy left for one strike. Deep red ochre flowed freely from the Tyrant’s open wounds as his lifeblood left him. He had devoted everything to this final push; to finally destroy his sworn enemy. The look in his eyes gave it all away; there was hardly anything left of the man, only a wild monster, incandescent with rage and torment. Merlow placed his free hand on the hilt of the katana, swung the blade of the weapon downward, and gently bent his knees into a semi-crouch.
He timed his strike to perfection.
Reaching the end of his sprint, Tyrant Scarman launched himself forward, arching his arm up and stabbing down with the knife. Merlow sidestepped and brought the blade up in one motion. The strike was neat and swift. Tyrant Scarman’s weight and speed carried him forward into the upturned edge, and the final blow landed with deadly precision. The katana sunk into the mad Tyrant at the groin and cut upward into his torso. Merlow twisted backwards and whipped the blade free. A river of blood flicked from the edge of the deadly weapon, spattering the floor with globes of deep crimson.
Tyrant Scarman’s powerful sprint turned into a weakened stagger as he toppled past the Fleet Admiral. He turned as he stumbled, his eyes meeting Merlows. He knew he was beaten. The last of his strength faded, and Merlow saw fear take hold. The Tyrant twisted around, blood pouring from the fatal wound that had been carved up the length of his body. He dropped his combat knife, the weapon clattering to the floor. The blood flowed free from his grievous injury, flicking and coiling as the howling winds from the open window tore at the mad Tyrant’s body. With one last desperate look at the Fleet Admiral, Tyrant Marcus Scarman toppled backward and out of sight. He plunged from the seventy-fifth floor, a streaking comet of anger and confusion. His final thoughts were of his beloved Victoria as the ground rushed up to meet him.
Merlow produced an oiled cloth and wiped his blade clean. He turned around just in time to see the LACPD squad draw up, their weapons trained on him. He had nowhere to run. He sheathed his katana and unbuckled his belt, slowly kneeling to lay his weapons on the floor.
“No sudden movements, you’re under arrest.” One of the men stepped forwards, producing a pair of electronic binders from his waist.
“You have my unconditional surrender,” Merlow spoke evenly as he looked past them.
Behind the squad of armed police, further back into the terminal, Merlow could see Thomas Serov knelt beside the prone forms of Victoria Wade and Kurt Manning.
“But please, my friends need urgent medical attention.”
“Put your hands on your head. You’re under arrest.” The young officer approached slowly, his energy rifle notched beneath the pit of his arm. With his free hand, he had produced a set of binders and was in the process of priming them. Untethered energy crackled around the exposed ends of each chain-linked cuff, eager to take Marcus into custody. He closed his eyes and complied, placing his palms on his scalp. Fatigue was close to setting in. It felt like hours since he had dropped out of the Danaan Thunderhawk onto the Starwood’s rooftop, but in reality it had been less than one. His entire body ached, and the nauseating smell of his own roasted skin was gently rising throughout his consciousness. It was only a matter of time before his nerves began to report the intense pain of burning. He dreaded to think about the extent of the damage done to his body by the searing engines of Sayne’s stolen transport.
His mind raced. Every second lost was another for Sayne to make good his escape. He had to do something. His lip curled downward as he sifted through his options. None of them were good. The young pilot stepped closer, keeping his gun level. Marcus opened his eyes and took in the youthful face before him. The man was clearly terrified.
“You look in over your head my friend,” Marcus tried a friendly, even tone.
The officer shook his head and brandished the binders, “No talking, put these on.”
“You look fresh from the academy.” Marcus narrowed his eyes, “Is this your first op?”
“I said no talking,” The officer stepped in to slap the cuffs over Marcus’ wrists.
“Please, listen to me, you don’t know what’s going on here.” Marcus knew the plea would have little chance of succeeding, but he had to try. “A child’s life is at stake! I don’t have time to explain it to you, but I need to follow that transport. I need your help!”
“Quiet!” Anger flashed across the man’s face as he repeated his commands. “You’re done! Do as I say!”
Marcus had no choice, “Then- I’m sorry.”
The pilot narrowed his eyes and tensed his body, but it was too late. By now, he had drawn too close to Scarecrow to be able to react. Marcus made his move. With an almost unreal speed, he struck out, grabbing the officer’s wrist. He twisted hard and rotated his body away. The pilot let out a yelp of pain and the rifle cracked with a stab of energy. As expected, the shot went wide as Marcus turned. Freeing his other hand, Marcus quickly disarmed the pilot with an open-palm strike, sending the rifle skittering across the deck. The officer grunted as he unsuccessfully tried to catch and parry Marcus’ attack. He was quickly silenced as Marcus shifted his weight and struck out with another rotating punch from the hip. The strike caught the pilot squarely on the cheek, and he collapsed backward with a look of surprise.
Glancing around nervously, Marcus stepped over the groggy pilot and rolled him over. He quickly bound the man with his own cuffs.
“Sorry mate,” He muttered as he engaged the binders, “I know you’re just doing your duty, but I have to do mine.”
He quickly checked the pilot’s belt and rifled through his pockets, taking his police issue laser pistol and a small computer-slate. Perhaps the slate’s ident would release control of the fighter to him. He pressed the still faint pilot’s thumb to the pad and opened it, flicking swiftly through its internal structure. It was a database of information, and a direct link to the LACPD infosphere. But it wasn’t what he was looking for.
“No,” He hissed. He glanced around and fidgeted with impatience but forced himself to focus. The slate might still be useful. With his temporary access, he quickly reset the tablet’s security functions before attaching it to his own belt. Then, he returned his attention to the downed pilot and scanned the man again. Marcus quickly spotted a wearable device on the pilot’s wrist. That had to be it. He quickly undid the strap and grabbed the device before running over to the landed Patriot fighter.
He was right. The handheld computer-slate was some kind of police issue multitool, but it did not govern the fighter’s command network. It was the wearable that held the pilot’s identification and security codes. With it now on his own wrist, Marcus was able to power up the Patriot and prime the engines. Once the batteries were primed and there was heat in the coils, Marcus put his hands on the throttle-and-stick and gently pushed forward. With a howl, the vertically twinned impulsor engines sprung to life, whipping strong gusts around the landing platform. The blast from the engines temporarily lifted the gathering smoke from the two crashed hotel ferries and revealed a scene of absolute carnage. Amongst the wreckage, the decking was burned and broken. Behind the platform, the beleaguered Starwood Hotel stood against a gloomy sky, several columns of smoke pouring from its upper levels. Down below, the pilot looked on helplessly as his fighter slowly rose into the air. Marcus gave the hotel one last look, his thoughts with Victoria.
“Please be safe,” He whispered, before pitching the fighter’s nose upward, and beginning to climb.
As soon as he was clear of the city heights, Marcus stepped on the thruster pedal and gripped the throttle-and-stick as the Patriot jumped forward with a rush of added energy. The power from the thruster ignition pushed him back into the seat, fixing him in place with the high gee load. As he focused on the sky ahead of him, a comm chimed from the console.
“Hawthorne twenty-one-oh-three, this is operation command, report your intent.”
Marcus eyed the console warily, his foot still firmly planted on the thruster pedal.
The communication repeated, “Hawthorne twenty-one-oh-three, we have you on an unscheduled climb that will attain orbital velocity in just over two minutes, please respond.”
With some difficultly, Marcus fought the onslaught of gee-force and reached out toward the console. Before he could shut off the receiver, another call came over the speaker.
“Twenty-one-oh-three, be advised, interception in progress.”
Scowling, Marcus cut the thruster and levelled off. By now, he was well up into the cloud cover and clear of the city. On its less favourable days, the lowland region around LAC was known for its ability to form dense and complex cloud formations, and its production of violent electrical storms. With the encroaching rainstorms and high winds, all signifiers of an incoming squall, a darkening sky had encroached over the capital city. Marcus had climbed into the midst of a thick mixture of nimbostratus and altostratus cloud. Droplets of rain lashed against the Patriot’s canopy and streamed off in all directions, and the faint delicate shapes of ice crystals had begun to spread outward from the metal framework that surrounded the glass paneling. After several seconds of searching through the console commands, Marcus shut off the fighter’s communications, transponder, and external lights. However, there was little he could do about his heat signature, and any further use of the thruster package would light him up like a beacon. He cursed as he looked skyward. By now, Sayne would be in orbit.
Marcus nervously scanned the murky scene before him. He could see nothing but varied striations of grey-on-grey, and the increasing lashings of rain against the glass. The changing intensity of rainwash all around the ship was almost soothing. For what felt like several long minutes, Marcus cruised evenly at high altitude, blind to everything around him. Then, rapidly alternating beams of blue and red light cut through the fog, and three dark shapes whipped up past him at lightning speed. He grasped the stick as his ship was buffeted by the blowback. The pass had been close.
“Fuck-” Marcus gritted his teeth. He couldn’t have another fight, not with Sayne inching away from his grasp. Not that he would have wanted to go toe-to-toe with the native police in starfighter combat. The result for either party was likely fatal at this altitude, in-atmosphere, and Marcus didn’t like the odds.
Marcus looked directly up, through the cockpit’s ceiling glass. Through brief pauses in the higher cloud cover, he could just make out a smattering of stars in the hazy blue of the thinning high atmosphere. He muttered bitterly. “This isn’t over Sayne.”
He then turned his attention back to the controls before him and pushed his stolen Patriot into a steep dive.
It was too late for further discretion. The cat was out of the bag. Before being cuffed, Merlow had quietly ordered Captain Hao to take the Tuatha de Danaan and the rest of the fleet back into the boundaries of the nearby Sierra ice field. The Black Flag sabotage had badly damaged the flagship and rendered her stealth systems inoperable, but she would still be able to hold her own in a fight. Merlow needed to preserve his assets, and quickly. The last thing he wanted was open conflict with the native Liberty forces, but the freedom they had enjoyed until recently was now at an end. Repercussions lay just around the corner, and Merlow knew he needed those under his command to be ready for anything. The rest of the ragtag 1st Fleet was en route from various locations throughout Liberty to reinforce the Danaan, and would take just a handful of days to arrive. There would be a standoff, Robert was certain. He wanted the entirety of his command to come together and take a defensive stance until there was some kind of resolution. He had been quietly discussing the situation with Thomas Serov when the LACPD Captain arrived.
“An entire fleet of stealthed ships mooring secretively within the boundaries of a sovereign nation was going to boil over at some point Rob, not to mention capture the attention of the press-” Serov was mid-flow when the Captain interjected. He was a gruff, older man, possibly in his early sixties. His barrel chest and thick arms betrayed a life of physicality, likely having risen through the ranks of the Los Angeles Police Force. His insignia read ‘R.C.P. Marjerison’.
“Interesting uniform you’re wearing sir.” Margerison looked Merlow up and down, eyeing his Fleet Admiral’s colours. “Care to explain yourself?”
Behind the Captain, two bodies glided out on anti-gravity gurneys. One was only just identifiable as Victoria Wade, covered as she was in breathing aids and other medical apparatus. The other was wreathed in a blood-stained sheet. Merlow could see the tails of Kurt Manning’s coat drifting beneath the gravity nullifiers under the medical sled. He sighed deeply. The day had been a bad one. Their worst in some time.
“That’s a long story,” Merlow looked up and met the Captain’s gaze, “But I suppose we’ve got the time.”
* * *
Forested Area, ninety miles south of Los Angeles Capital
The storm was huge, covering more than a hundred square miles. With it came both asylum and internment. Marcus had managed to lose his pursuers in the broiling chaos, but the powerful arc lightning had forced him down in the middle of a vast forested area. His Patriot light fighter, or Hawthorne twenty-one-oh-three, as was apparently her callsign, had been struck several times by lashing bolts of electrical energy. It had taken a great deal of skill to bring her down without incident. The descent had been bumpy, but Marcus had eventually managed to coax the fighter down into the treetops. Now, she sat on her landing legs, partially sunken into the swampy mud of the forest floor. Heavy rain hammered on the canopy, and Marcus had nothing to do but watch upward as the lightning flashes lit up the thunderous sky above the treetops.
The LACPD wing on his tail had likely called off their hunt. The sky had become far too dangerous for continued flight. However, Marcus had no doubt that they would resume their search as soon as the storm lifted. He would only have a narrow window to be able to make it to orbit, and even then, his ship would act like a homing beacon. For the time being, it was all he had, so he would need to change the ident codes, and potentially the external markings. He begrudgingly leaned forward and unbuckled his belt, rummaging around in the spaces beside him for any indication of a set of engineer’s tools. If the layout of the Patriot was anything like it had been in his home dimension, access to the transponder box would be through one of the rear hatches. That meant going outside. And getting wet.
Marcus sighed and popped the canopy release. He immediately shivered as the dampness of the world outside penetrated the warmth of the cockpit. He swung his legs over the edge and dropped down into the mud, making his way toward the aft section of the starship. Considering everything, his flight off-world would now only be a bid for freedom. He knew he had lost Sayne to the stars. Sayne and the girl. The pirate had successfully made his escape with Heather Scarman. There was no longer hope of immediate pursuit, although Marcus suspected it all to be far from over. For Sayne to run away with a hostage meant that he still wanted something. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to achieve the goal he had set through his alliance with the mad Tyrant of the Black Flag. His goal of revenge, Marcus knew. Revenge for a slight that had been committed years ago, on the battlefields of New London during the Imperial Conflict in their home dimension. Sayne wanted Marcus dead and would apparently stop at nothing until he achieved his bitter aim. At least Sayne and the Black Flag had been beaten back, Marcus thought, although at what cost?
Finding the correct hatch for the transponder unit, Marcus removed the panel and set to work on disabling the fighter’s electronic signalling. As he worked, his thoughts travelled back to the fight in the tower, and Victoria… The fighting had been bitter and intense, on both sides. From what he had seen, Victoria had been savagely beaten to within an inch of her life. But crucially, she had still been breathing when he had left her with Merlow. The pit in Marcus’ stomach seemed to yawn wider. He had let her go, back in that moment on the hotel’s terminal floor, he had let her go. To save Heather, he’d had no choice. And for what? He was standing in a remote forest in the middle of a rainstorm, empty handed. One of Liberty’s most wanted, and without a trace of Sayne Jadyn and the young girl he swore to save. Robert will take care of Victoria, he reasoned with himself. She can’t die. We’ve been through too much.
Once again, guilt bubbled to the surface, and Marcus’ thoughts turned to visions of his wife Tomoko. How long has it been? He grunted as the transponder box came free with a clunk. How long since I left you, to follow this madness? Years? How many years?
He let go of the box and watched it fall into the mire beneath the ship. Parallel dimensions, trans-dimensional alien races, vengeful pirates prepared to move heaven and earth to see me dead- Why did I jump? Why did I chase that damned rift-manipulator? I should have stayed with you, Tomoko. I miss you...
Without warning or control, his thoughts turned back to Victoria, and the image of her lying broken on the ground, her body covered in blood and bruises. The pit yawned wider, and the notion of Tomoko faded until she was barely tangible.
“What am I going to do?” It was all too much. The rain soaked his back and neck and ran around the sides of his face. The droplets formed small streams that flooded his brow and cheeks, dripping from his nose and chin in tiny waterfalls. It was more than enough to conceal the tears that welled in the corners of his eyes.
Sayne Jadyn nodded at the Junker scrapper and handed over the modified computer slate containing the transport’s falsified command codes. The man before him clearly knew the deal. It was highly likely that he handled several stolen ships under these conditions on a weekly basis. Jadyn was sure he’d have no trouble rewriting the codes. He looked around shiftily before initiating the final sign off to the scrapper. The man flicked through the dataslate, nodded contentedly, and turned on his heel.
“That’s good enough,” He spoke over his shoulder as he departed, waving dismissively.
Jadyn mirrored him quickly, turning away without a word and heading briskly in the opposite direction. He didn’t need to linger. In fact, he wanted to make his way out of the California system as quickly as possible. Alcatraz was a good place to lay low, but he couldn’t be certain of whether he had been followed. The credits from the transport would see to his safe passage, but he still had a few things to do before he could leave.
As he walked through the asteroid station’s long, twisting corridors, Jadyn wrapped his long, dark cloak tightly about him and pulled the hood low over his eyes. He had taken the cloak from the transport pilot’s personal quarters. It wasn’t exactly his style, but it served a purpose, enabling him to move cautiously around the station. He doubted there were any allies of the Black Flag aboard Alcatraz, but he wasn’t prepared to take any chances. The last thing he needed right now was to be recognised. He swept back through the base like a gliding phantom, rapidly making for the budget-bunks on the far side of the public concourse. The bunks were in a large hollowed out cavern toward the starboard side of the asteroid and provided a cheap and discreet resting place. Comprised of long rows of metal resembling an oversized server room, the bunks were essentially large, human-sized drawers that could be pulled out on runners and climbed into. Inside, they were incredibly basic, offering only light bed furnishings, a heater, a small vid-screen, and industrial grade soundproofing. It was the soundproofing that Jadyn had been the most grateful for.
Finally arriving at his rented bunks, Sayne pulled out the first of the two trays and instantly clamped his hand down over Heather Scarman’s mouth. The girl had been screaming at the top of her lungs to be set free, but thankfully, no one had heard her. By now, her voice was hoarse, but it still threatened to carry. Sayne glanced nervously up and down the aisle. Fortunately, they seemed to be the only two present.
“Enough,” Jadyn snapped, “Be quiet.”
He kept his hand over her mouth as he reached inside, feeling around for his duffel bag. His fingers finally found purchase, and he pulled the bag forcefully from the back of the bunk. He quickly slammed the tray back into its berth, silencing Heather before she could utter another sound. A faint scratching and muted wailing came from within, as if he had trapped some feral beast. He watched the smooth steel cowling silently until the sounds died down. A pang of regret simmered from somewhere down in his core. Heather had been locked in the bunk for several hours; ensuring her containment whilst Jadyn conducted his business on Alcatraz. Now, he was consigning her to even more claustrophobic darkness. He hadn’t even spared the credits to power the single, meagre interior light. She would once again been shrouded in total darkness. There was no telling the degree of trauma she was suffering. At her young age, Jadyn was certain the experience was likely to leave a significant imprint. His regret bubbled up into remorse, but he quickly shook it off. She was a victim of what was necessary, collateral. She may yet survive, and if she did, hopefully she would move past all this. It was Scarecrow Jadyn wanted. Only Scarecrow.
Turning away from the bunk, Sayne dipped a hand into the duffel bag and produced a palm computer. Another item pilfered from the stolen transport; this palm computer would serve a small but highly significant purpose. Jadyn powered it up and activated its external light. The dimly lit corridor of bunks was suddenly illuminated by its gloomy blue glow, casting long shadows around the narrow passageway. He quickly ducked down toward the second bunk, beside the one that encased Heather Scarman, and thumbed the lock. The catch came undone with a clunk, and he leaped inside. Once safely within, Jadyn cranked the tray back into the wall, and flicked his way through the computer’s menus to the recording mode. Composing himself, he looked squarely into the computer’s eyelet and took a deep breath.
“Scarecrow,” he began, keeping his voice low. “I have Heather here with me. She is safe, for now, but her life depends on what you do next. It’s only us now Scarecrow. No more Black Flag, no more Freedom Fighters, just me and you. Meet me on Rochester Base, and we can end this rhythm of violence. Come quickly. Find me there. Don’t leave me waiting.”
Jadyn shut off the recorder. It was a simple but effective message. He didn’t need to further outline the danger to Heather, it was clearly implied. Still, he looked to the bunk wall, to the side facing Heather’s tray, once again feeling a twinge of guilt. Could he bring harm to her? Could he step over that line? She had already been through so much. His thoughts drifted back to the darkness of his own childhood. To the hellish abuse he had suffered at the hands of his tyrannical Uncle. No, he shivered and turned away. Scarecrow would come, Sayne was sure of it. He had to, for Heather’s sake.
Sayne rolled over onto his side and hunkered down. The next transport off-station wasn’t for a few hours, and he hadn’t rested at all since the descent of the Black Flag over Los Angeles Capital. He still had one or two loose ends to tie up. There was no way the small palm computer would be able to ping Scarecrow from so far away. Jadyn would need to pay for a wider broadcast, but he could dispatch it in a few hours. He needed to preserve all his strength for the fight to come. For now, he needed to sleep. Sayne pulled the cloak around him and closed his eyes. What lay ahead was the culmination of years of vengeful plotting. It wasn’t how he’d imagined it would be, but fate had led him to this conclusion, and he still had the upper hand. He would have his revenge. Marcus “Scarecrow” Scarman would finally pay for the death of his beloved Julianne.
* * *
Thank you for reading. It's been a long road, but I'm proud to have finally finished this, some fifteen years after it was started.
Hope you enjoyed!
~SC
![[Image: Scarecrow-Jupiter.png]](https://i.ibb.co/6FqxTqG/Scarecrow-Jupiter.png)
