Carl walked into the house, threw his backpack on the couch, and headed upstairs. He’d had a long day, and was looking forwards to some games with his cronies. He stopped off at the top of the stairs for a drink in the bathroom, then went into his room. He turned to shut the door behind him and stopped. “Ka…Ka…Katherine? But…” She put a finger to his lips. “Shush. You’ve heard the phrase ‘A woman scorned’?” He nodded, not getting it. She grimaced and pulled out the knife. “You should never have dumped me.” She hefted the knife. He screamed.
I throw the knife aside, watch his face as it hurtles past his ear to bury itself in the wall beyond. I don't hate him now. I look at his face. Stark terror looks back at me. I droop a little inside when I see myself reflect in his wild eyes. How is he supposed to understand me? I can't relate to him, nor he to me. Carl is a human, I am more. Far more. I focus on him again. He sees in me a monster, something evil. But how can love be wrong? I want him to understand. I want him to know the love and peace I've found. I try to show him. I open my mind, call myself. It's like falling into a river of nothing, yet everything. What is "me" vanishes, replaced, renewed. I, me, you, we, they, all have no meaning. We are all. We are one. We speak to him, caress him with our words.
"We want to show you, Carl. See."
We touch Carl's mind, flow around him, through him. Carl resists, fights us. He does not want to be one with us. We try to tell him not to resist, to give in, to be free, but he will not listen. He will fight us. We will erode him, as water does rock. Such is his choice. We are patient. We are eternal.
I couldn't move. Katherine, my ex-girlfriend. In my room. With a knife stained black from blood. Scared? Me? Don't be absurd. I was terrified. She backed me into a corner, waving the knife like a demented butcher. I knew I was going to die. The only question was: How soon? She was frustrated, yelled at me, didn't seem to understand. I dumped her, yes, but that's no reason to go all Jill the Ripperette! I tried talking with her, tried explaining. She should know she was only arm candy! It's high school! Nobody goes serious there! But no, she's pissed, and I'm her target. Why me?
Holy Mother of...! That crazy girl just flung that knife! At me! Thank God, she missed, but that is way too close for...oh, ****! Virago with no knife. Crazy eyes. Staring at me. She's insane, gotta be insane.
***.."Name"..(?)..***
Carl...Wait...What the...Who's there? ***..'We'..know..'Carl-named'..***
You're in my head? Who are you? ***..*Merge*..***
NO! ***..*embrace* light..***
OUT! ***..'Carl-named'..*Merge*..***
GET OUT GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT! ***..*Join*..***
GET! OUT! OF! MY! HEAD! ***..Be "One"..with..'We'..***
I want to be ME! I'm an individual! ***..'We' are *all*..***
NOOOOOoooooooooooo......! ***..'Dirt-walkers'..*Darkness*..'We' are "Light"..***
I tasted the salty metallic sweetness of blood as darkness claimed me.
They watched as Carl crumpled to the floor. Why did he refuse? And what made him die? They did not know, but in time, with careful experiments, they would. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose, forming a rivulet down to the floor to pool. They watched, fascinated. So different from them. So...alien.
They left me for the time being, but I had other things to do. I had to leave, and soon. Carl's parents would be home soon. A thought struck me, and I went to the bathroom. There. A cabinet. A few moments of rummaging rewarded me with a bottle of pills, similar to what I'd held at home. I flushed a handful and took the bottle back to Carl's room. A few seconds of rearranging, and presto! Instant suicide attempt. The fact that he'd bitten clean through his tongue only made it more convincing. I slipped out the door and stopped. A towtruck was just pulling away with my ride. I cursed, quietly. Gotta find a new way out of here. Running. That always works. I took off down the street, mostly deserted at this time of night. How long was I there for? I didn't know. A few hours at the least. Thank God Carl's parents are powersuit executives with late meetings. It must have taken me eons to arrive at the bar on the far side of town. It was still open, and the universe hadn't ended yet, so perhaps it was a bit less time than that, but still. It felt like a long time to me. A seedy place, near the 'port. Paid their bribes, didn't check ID. Small favors, I suppose. I sort of slid my way in, hugged the walls. I was looking for a pilot. I needed a ride off this ball of rock. I ordered a drink. Nothing alcoholic, I do have standards. Just a cup of black tea. The bartender looked at me kind of funny, but he got it quick enough. I thanked him, paid and went to find a seat. No sooner had I found a seat then a man walked over. Fairly tall, but very thin. Walked stooped over, hands clasped behind his back, sort of like a bird. He looked like a pencil with hair. Not much, but hair. He was wearing a leather jacket, weather-beaten and looked to be old as dirt, as well as dirty, much-patched work pants, like he spent a lot of time on his hands and knees with tools. That might be where he got the scar too, if he banged his face on some sharp piping or something. Ran down from his left eyebrow to his cheekbone, looked like whatever caused it hurt like the dickens. His teeth were straight, if a bit orange. His eyes though, were what held me. Piercing, hawklike gray eyes that glared out from either side of an unfortunately large nose reminiscent of a beak. He slid into the booth opposite me.
"My my my. What is a lovely lady like yourself doing in a place like this?" Oh God...He even talked like a bird. His head bobbed up and down for emphasis, as if he expected to punctuate everything with that nose of his. I took a sip of tea before answering and grimaced. Bitter. I'd forgotten sugar.
"Drinking tea. What's it look like?" His stare was uncomfortable.
"Well," There goes the bobbing again. "It looks to me like you are seeking something." Can't this guy keep his head still for one second?
"Perhaps...But then, isn't everyone?" For some reason I felt like this guy was dangerous.
"True. True. But most people looking for something other than a ship go elsewhere." Damn, he's perceptive.
"What makes you think I'm looking for a ship?" I made a point of glaring at my tea.
"The way you keep looking around. You're looking for a captain. Or a pilot. Nobody else here of any use. And you're not out for a date either. Too demure." He's good.
"Maybe I am. Looking for a ship that is. What's it to you?" Damn, he's got me doing that head-bobbing thing too.
"I am the captain of the good ship Callista. If you're looking for passage, I may be able to convince the quartermaster to make room for another." I think there was a red flag in here somewhere, but I must have missed it.
"As it so happens, I do need a ride to the Omicrons." Amazing. His head stopped dancing like a marionette on crack. Might be hope for him yet. Another sip, another grimace.
"Splendid! Our next trip is out to Omicron Alpha. Oh, I noticed that your tea is not to your liking. Perhaps this might help?" He held up a packet of sugar. Unfamiliar brand, "Blue Lotus", but whatever. Sugar is sugar, right? I remember taking a sip after adding it, but not much past that.
The spook sat at his table for a few minutes past when the Junker and the girl left. He was the best in the business, was Kent Markey. He hadn't survived to become the chief homicide detective by making rookie mistakes like being noticed. So, he mused, the girl is now onboard a slaver headed for Omicron Alpha. Unless we can catch the ship before it leaves Texas, we've got nothing in this case. Kent hated putting cases in the "Unsolved" folder. It had gotten entirely too large over the past ten years or so. Kent stepped out into the warm Houston evening and left his unfinished mixer on a table by the door of the Hustlin' Marmot bar.
He walked quickly, following the slaver and his obviously drugged companion to a semi-concealed landing pad on the outskirts of town. It didn't hold any ship that was apparently a slaver, but Markey was no man's fool. CSV or not, it carried slaves. Most likely as a shuttle to a larger transport. CSVs aren't made to survive a trip out to the edge systems. He jotted down the transponder code, ship number, and landing permit, then headed for his apartment. Sure enough, the transponder and ship number didn't match. The permit was issued for another ship three weeks ago. That was enough. Kent placed a call to One Police Plaza.
Jim Markey, Deputy Chief of the LPI was having a bad day. It started bad and got worse. No sleep, his brother missing, and then to top it all off, he'd had a visit from this crazy ghost who'd died over one hundred years ago. The last thing he needed, he decided, was more bad news. Unfortunately, it appeared that someone upstairs had decreed that today was "Make-Jim-have-a-heart-attack-and-die-early-so-we-can-use-his-office-for-a-rec-room" day. This time it was a call from his cousin Kent, chief homicide detective currently on loan to the 73rd precinct out of Houston.
"Hey, Jim? Got a question for you." Jim didn't like that tone. It meant Trouble with a capital T. He decided to play it gruff and get it over with as soon as possible.
"Spit it out."
"Well, okay, make that two. But one can wait a bit. First question. What do we know about a CSV currently named the Fiddler's Roof?" Jim called up the name in the database.
"Precious little, save that it exists. This something to do with the Sawyer case?" Kent took the moment to transmit the ship ID and landing permit.
"Yes it is. Would you have someone look those two things up and cross-check them against the 'Roof?" Jim grunted assent and cut the connection.
Jim printed out a hard copy of Kent's data and handed it off to a go-fer to take it to the geeks in Evidence Analysis. He needed sleep, and bad. He said goodnight to his daughter Alexandra and tottered off towards the door. He opened it and was promptly whacked on the head by a mop. "Um, Dad...Other door." Sleep. Sleep was good.
Kent was dozing in his cockpit when the Arrow's computer burbled at him. He woke with a start, thinking the ship he'd been tailing for the past six hours was getting away. No, just a call from Analysis.
"Kent here."
"We've finally gotten a name for that CSV." Kent glared at the computer. Not its fault, but still.
"Let me guess, its standard procedure upon taking off is to fly out about fourteen klicks, take its transponder offline, and restart it with a new ID code. In this case, it's now Li'l Scrapper."
"Well, actually, we didn't know that. Thanks though. No, what we found was that the ship that was calling itself Fiddler's Roof is a lander used by a slave transport called the Callista. Normally puts into either Los Angeles, Denver, or Houston to look for targets."
"Callista...That's a Syndicate vessel, isn't it? Who's the skipper?" Not good. Syndicate rarely traveled without escort. Kent knew he'd probably have to deal with two Sabres. In an Arrow. Not good odds.
"Yeah. Captain's name is R. D. "Red" McCochran. I take it you don't like the idea of holding off a few escorts until we can get backup out there?"
"Got it in one. I'm gonna take a sweep of the asteroid field, see if I can locate Callista. How soon can I get a few ships out here?" Kent tugged at his watch.
"Hour, two at the most. I'm placing the call through to Fort Bush now." A new voice came on the line.
"Fort Bush Central."
"Bush, this is Kent Markey. I've got possible two Sabres and a Pilgrim. How soon can I get a few birds and a Roc pair out here?"
"Depends. We've got the Rocs, but we're reloading the birds. Where you at?" Kent just sighed. Reloading Kingfishers took some time. Despite their advanced systems, the missile racks were still in possibly the most inaccessible parts of the hull. He hit the send button to reply to Central.
"Back of Houston, shadowing a CSV. No idea where the bogeys are yet, but I'm going to guess over by Beaumont somewhere." Kent waited for it. There. The CSV executed a turn that brought it into a position to both head for Beaumont and fly high, out of scanner range of any ships in the Houston area. "There we go. The worm has turned, heading somewhere in sector 4C flying high. I'm going to guess he's aiming for about twenty klicks, then leveling out. Cruise engines active, see you on the other end of this mess."
"10-4, Kent. We'll have your Rocs and birds ASAP. Good luck." Kent allowed himself a small grin and shut down the comms. Time to shut down a slaver.
An alarm sounded throughout the ship. All hands, duty stations! Incoming hostile vessel! "Red" McCochran grabbed the comm. He was of average height, not terribly interesting to look at, but it was his hair that set him apart. He had fiery red hair, courtesy of his Irish heritage. Thus the name "Red". He proceeded to shout something that might have been orders, but were unintelligible due to his Irish accent and excitement. He gesticulated angrily and the communications officer steps forwards to take the mike. "Right. All hands, Scrapper is coming in hot. He picked up a spook somewhere back of Houston. Man the guns!" He depressed a series of buttons on the console and gave weapons-free to the two escorts. The Sabres peeled off and headed for the CSV and Arrow.
Kent swore under his breath. Sure enough, two Sabres. Neither looked like they were members of the local Police Support chapter. Kent thumbed the music player to "Ride of the Valkyries", then watched as they split apart, took care to not hit the CSV, and launched cruise disruptors. He opened a channel to Fort Bush just before they hit.
"Bush, where are my birds? I need them now! Two Sabres. No Pilgrim yet. Dodging best I can, going to try and take at least one down with mines. No promises."
"Copy that, Kent. Birds are up, coming your way. Rocs are heading for Beaumont, with any luck, they'll find the Pilgrim and this will all be over."
Kent just grunted and tried to make his Arrow smaller.
Line him up. Drop down, avoid those guns. Keep the Debilitators firing. Zip past, turn faster than him, get on his tail. What the! Guns, behind. Dammit, there's two. Mine! Mine! Nuke dropper fires twice. First one slams into the shields. Second misses and comes around for another try. Turn, dive, avoid guns! Get behind the second. Debilitators! Slam shields, take them down. Dropped! Zip past, drop a mine. Spin around, disruptor! The mine explodes, he's lost a gun! Incoming missile! Countermeasure!
The CSV's pilot was only too glad to leave the fight behind. That Arrow was giving the Sabres the fight of their lives. Muffled curses filtered through the comm channels as they tried again and again to pin the little ship long enough to tag it with guns. The thin man initiated the docking procedure and waited the long agonizing seconds as the little ship was pulled into Callista's hangar. Finally! He set down on the deck, waited for the bay doors to seal, and cracked the canopy. Two burly crewmen already had the cargo bay open and were unloading the new slaves. He told them to take the girl to a solitary cell. Something about her interested him.
Once all the slaves were stowed, Red ordered time to move out. The Sabres would have to fend for themselves. Callista wasn't hanging around long enough to be spotted by any patrols. They had just about reached the California jumphole when the cry came: "Vessels off the port stern!" After asking what they were, Red wished he hadn't. Rocs were about the worst trouble to run into. He grimaced and initiated the jump. He prayed they weren't going to follow.
"Did you see that, McTavish?" SWAT pilot Jack Kurios in the lead Roc was talking about the Callista's jump signature.
"See what? A ship just jumped." Amy McTavish had.
"Exactly. I'm guessing that's the Callista that Captain Markey was talking about." Jack opened a channel to Bush and reported the finding.
"The other thing I noticed was weapons fire over about five klicks. Think that's Kent?" Amy looked over at her wingmate but his face was obscured by his flight helmet.
"Probably. Mark this location as a known slaver-slash-smuggler hideout and let's see if there's anything we can do to help." He didn't entertain any thoughts of being able to shoot down a Sabre, but perhaps the arrival of two new LPI craft would force the enemy into retreat. Amy clicked her comms twice to confirm, and they headed towards the fight.
The Rocs arrived about the same time as the Kingfishers did. Three of them, piloted by J.D. Masket, Karl Agathon, and Oliver Shaw. The Sabres, noting these new arrivals, fled in short order, leaving a number of spent missile casings, leaked fluids, shards of a gun, and one virtually undamaged Arrow.
"You're still in one piece, I see." Jack also had to admit that the Callista had gotten away.
"I could have beat them, you know." Kent wasn't terribly pleased with being interrupted, less so that they hadn't gotten the slaver.
"That's not the point though. The Sabres got severely munched, you're alive, and we know where that ship likes to hide. I'd say that's a pretty good result." Karl, ever the diplomat.
"Yes, but the slaver got away. With the suspect." Kent's face looked like it had run into a lemon transport.
"Suspect?" This question came from Masket.
"Patricide, matricide, and second-degree murder, two counts. The Sawyer case." That shut him up.
"Kent, you know she's as good as dead. The Outcasts work them to death in the fields. I'd say to consider her sentence given and done. You also know how much I hate saying that." It was true, and Kent knew it. Agathon paused a moment, then continued. "Let's get back to base, LPI."
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