Penny

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

Jocasta trotted back ten minutes later with both men in tow. Jocasta waved enthusiastically at the spot where Markus was hidden. Her whole demeanor thrummed with excitement.

“Oh Darling, they’ve agreed to help us!” she called. Markus stepped out of cover, his weapon lowered but not pointed.

“Geesh he got worked over worse than you said,” the nearest of the workers declared. Jocasta threw her arms around Markus’ neck and kissed him enthusiastically. One of the men audibly snickered.

“We can get you on the transport princess but it wont be too comfortable,” the second worker declared.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Jocasta effused, “my fiancée and I shall be forever in your debt!”

“Fiancée?” Markus whispered as the workers turned to head for a utility hatch into the star port proper.

“I’m Gallanis’ daughter and I’m eloping with you, my father sent thugs to rough you up,” Jocasta whispered, condensing as much information as she could into the few private seconds before they stepped through the door.

“You’re claiming to be who?!” Markus demanded but there was no more time to talk. They were ushered into a break room permeated with the smell of catalytic cooking and old coffee. Several rather pornographic images were hung on the walls, though they were cracked and faded with age. They were offered coffee and food, simple ration bars and made comfortable for the half hour before the orbital transport rattled down.

“Best of luck,” the worker called as he ushered them up the ramp and into the cramped hold that was normally used for technicians and stand by pilots.

“This thing is flown by a computer so no one will know you are here, you will have to handle getting off yourself,” he cautioned.

“I’ve never had a problem getting myself off,” Jocasta assured him with blithe innocence. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t and I’d kind of like to keep it that way,” the worker replied, “happy to help out, but I don’t need angry daddies coming after me.”

____

“Ok what in the name of the Red God was that?!” Markus demanded as the ship rocked skywards on its antiquated thrusters. The air was thin and flavored with diesel but breathable enough.

“I told I was running off with you because my father just couldn’t understand my love,” she announced, throwing a hand to her forehead dramatically.

“And that worked?” he demanded. Jocasta chuckled.

“Of course, there isn’t a workman in the world that wouldn’t be pleased to fuck over his land lord if he thought he could get away with it,” she explained. “It’s even a good cover for the shuttle crash, obviously my previous plan to escape my father’s evil clutches didn’t work.” Markus stared at her in amazement and then shook his head.

“Do you have a plan for once we get back to God’s Eye?” he asked. Jocasta nodded.

“Rest assured, your quest to recover the Sword-that-is-emblematic-of-your-penis is in good hands. Though you know, my vote is for doing something insane like leaving and then buying a new one some other place without getting killed.”

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Eleanor coughed and spluttered for a moment in an unladylike fashion. The sugar that had gone down her windpipe burned most unpleasantly, and it took her a few moments to compose herself. There was no wine to hand, but there was a barrico of ale, so she dipped a mug and drank deeply. It was the first time she had drunk ale since assuming her pose as Eleanor de Aberville, and she had to admit that it tasted good. Eleanor finished the mug, then wrinkled her nose performatively, as though objecting to the flavor. She looked over at the remaining bon-bons with some distaste.

“Ai 'ave decidéd to share mon bon-bons wiv evairyon,” she declared magnanimously.

The melee was held in a section of the palace gardens which had been cleared for the purpose. A square had been set up, its borders marked with rope and a layer of sand spread within its confines. Seating had been erected around it to allow the great and the good to watch the entertainment. One side was reserved for commoners; by tradition, these were supposed to be the apprentices of smiths, fletchers, armorers, and other martial trades. Over the years, most of these folk had found it more profitable to ‘enroll’ burgers and other merchants as apprentices for a few days and, for an exorbitant fee, allow the merchants to hobnob with the nobility for a few hours.

"Zat must be lé fattest blaksmiv ai 'ave evair seen,” Emmaline remarked as she took her seat. Kasimir was seated beside her, much to the annoyance of a minor aristocrat whose seat he had taken. News of her meeting with the Count had obviously raised her status, however, because the young man wasn’t making an issue of it beyond a sulk.

“He does look like he could use a little time pounding iron,” Kasimir agreed. Part of the pantomime was that the merchants had to dress as the apprentices they pretended to be. To a master of disguise like Emmaline, their attempts were pitiful, as even the most authentic of them was in cloth that would cost a month's wages for a tradesman, intentionally distressed to look work-worn and shabby. She suspected part of the reason the nobles tolerated it was to laugh at their grasping inferiors.

Further discussion was interrupted as horns sounded and two men rode into the square from opposite ends. One wore the regalia of a White Wolf, while the other wore mail in the Reikland style. The latter’s armor was battered and battle-worn, and his shield, quartered with the arms of Reikland and one of the southern lords (Denbirch, or Vassalheim maybe; the numerous scuffs in the paint made it hard to tell). Each knight had a herald who announced them. The White Wolf was named Ulf Hammersmit, while the southerner was revealed to be Sir Jonas Krieger.

“Ai thought zis was supposed to bé a mel,” Emmaline whispered.

“There are several single combats first; we don’t joust like your people, not in Middenheim anyway,” Kasimir replied, a slightly skeptical emphasis on ‘your people’. The crowd cheered as a bell was struck and the two combatants charged in. Krieger held a long sword and shield, while Ulf brandished a great two-handed hammer. The two combatants thundered together, horses kicking up sand as they spurred forward. Ulf stood in his stirrups and swung an overhand blow, but Krieger raised his shield at an angle and shed the blow. The crowd were, naturally enough, partisans of the White Wolf and booed vociferously as the steeds passed one another and wheeled around. This time the horses crashed together, their momentum arrested as they reared. Blows flicked back and forth as the horses stamped and circled, Ulf using the haft as well as the head of his hammer to defend himself.

Krieger drove the lip of his shield down hard on Ulf’s thigh. The Ulrican roared and jabbed his hammer at his opponent's visor; Krieger parried, his sword flying free from his hand. He ducked down beneath a stroke aimed at his head and then shoved at Ulf with his gauntlet. The Ulrican seemed to wobble, then crashed to the dirt as his saddle slid off the back of his mount, its straps neatly severed by a small knife that glittered in the Reiklander’s hand. A roar of disapproval went up from the crowd, nobles and merchants alike. Eleanor distinguished herself by cheering and clapping with delight.

“So much for the Land of Chivalry,” Kasimir griped.

“A jen-tellman can be clevair as wéll as bravé; eet doés 'im non 'arm. Maibe you should try?” Eleanor retorted.

"You said before you wanted to ask me a question?" Kasimir asked, changing the subject abruptly. Eleanor didn’t answer for a moment, her eyes twinkling as the furious White Wolf shook his fist at the retreating Reiklander.

“Ai was goeng to ask you if you waire 'appy hair.”

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

Many people would have been overwhelmed by the sudden barrage of questions, but Jocasta nodded her head enthusiastically. For someone who spent so much time with the dead, Jocasta was annoyingly gregarious with the living. That was perhaps a little unfair, as she talked incessantly to the corpses in the morgue as well, though with somewhat fewer responses.

“The cut was deep, through my man’s abs and through the liver.” She made a pantomime stab with a pen in an underhand grip, coming upwards at a slight angle.

“Probably not aiming for it specifically, just a happy accident,” she burbled, putting her hands beneath her shirt and wiggling them to mimic her stomach bloating with an internal hemorrhage. She toppled backwards theatrically, only to be caught by a pair of her skeletal hands that slowed her fall while she waved her arms, as though plunging off a rooftop. For a moment she lay still, playing dead, then bounded back to her feet. Her head swiveled like a gun turret to fix on Adri.

“I didn’t know you were an Ink Skink!” she all but squealed, pronouncing the words more like ‘ank’ and ‘skank’.
“What forum are you on? Wait, are you Calligrafitti289? She does have a boring cop voice. What have you got: lamp black or carbon black? Are you a salt or a vinegar?” Jocasta demanded.

“How does it feel to have put Alcander back in his ‘most boring investigator’ slot?” she asked, hooking a thumb over her shoulder to indicate a specimen fridge covered in magnetic words. Centermost was a list of all the names of the Sunday Group, starting with Emmaline and ending with Ardi. As they watched, one of the hands scuttled over and moved Alcander’s name down to the bottom, pushing Ardi up into second last.

“If we can focus…” Eleanor cut in, clearly working to hold onto her patience.

“Oh… right, what was the question?” Jocasta asked, completely unabashed.

“Carbon or iron, I believe,” Eleanor responded dryly.

“Oh, iron gall obviously. I did say it was 16th century Turkish; carbon ink went out of common usage in the early Byzantine period, although some monasteries…”

“Iron gall?” Eleanor interrupted, knowing that if she were left to her own devices, the necromancer would run on for hours once her enthusiasm was engaged. Jocasta blinked as though suddenly exposed to bright light.
“Iron sulphate and nut gall, from oak trees, duh,” Jocasta said as though exasperated that she needed to clarify such an arcane point. She gave a dramatic wink to Adri in quest of solidarity.

“Alright,” Eleanor replied.

“Let’s run down what we can, then start paying a visit to local associates. Fasel didn’t steal for himself, which means someone hired him.”

“Hey this isn’t a hentai thing is it?” Jocasta asked, “you know squids and ink and everything?”

“Is that a positive or a negative in your book?” Alcander needled. Both necromantic hands presented their middle fingers in response.

“Moving on,” Eleanor interjected hastily.

“Ardi, shake the tree and see what you can find on the local contact angle. Blythe see what you can find on occult uses of ink. Alcander, you are on weapons and counter measures. If this thing has taken multiple victims we should be ready for anything.”

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

Zoya came on deck into the scene of increasing agitation. Behind them the storm clouds were thickening, beginning to pile up on the horizon. The sea was beginning to roll beneath their feet with the promise of the squall to come. The captain was on the quarter deck, staring back at the approaching weather with a frown on his face. Gil didn't want to fight, but neither was he willing to allow himself to be embarrassed in font of his mates.

"I aint afraid of no fancy pants thief fondler," he blustered, "you wanna fight we will fight." The sailors cheered and they began to form a ring on the foredeck. The bosun tried to break it up but quickly gave it up as the excited sailors crowded him out. Coins clattered to the deck as bets were placed.

"No blades!" one of the older sailors shouted, then pulled to yard long belaying pins from the bulwark and tossed them to the deck between the putative combatants. Gil snatched up one of the belaying pins and slapped it into his palm.

"Going to back off if you cant use your fancy knives?" Gil taunted.

"Gentlemen!" Zoya tried to call, but the sailors shouted her down, keeping a tight shoulder to shoulder ring around the fighters.

"Best let it go," the Captain, suddenly at her shoulder advised her. "We need this over and done with fast so we can get men aloft to reef sail."

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

The maid proved somewhat shaky, a fact that was unsurprising considering her first introduction to her mistress was to wash the sprayed arterial blood off her mistress. Her hands trembled so violently that she pulled Emmaline’s hair several times until Emmaline was forced to take over, relegating the woman to fetching things and holding the hand mirror. Emmaline herself was no better off but had the benefit of long practice of pretending everything was fine. When she was finally presentable she changed into a gown of green silk with brocade of gold thread. Her jewels, largely gifts from Oderick and other suitors had been brought to the room. Amazingly nothing was missing and Emmaline selected a gold ring with a large emerald as her only adornment.

Once she had been made presentable Kasimir and the Captain of the guard tramped in looking puzzled and troubled. Both men were scanning the area and had hands on swords, as though expecting another assassin to leap from the shadows at any moment. Emmaline gave a brief account of events, admitting only to a struggle with the killer.

“What I don’t understand is, what happened to the man’s hand?” the Captain, a rugged handsome man by the name of Kilbrook, puzzled.

“I zink ee cuts it of vith is own digger nes pa? Ven ee feel on moi?” Eleanor suggested. Both Kasimir and Kilbrook looked momentarily taken aback by such a monumentally stupid suggestion.

“Ma’dam,” Kilbrook began awkwardly, clearly embarrassed by her apparent ignorance “such a blade could never…”

“Perheeps ze bleed was inchanteeed vith vicked mageeks,” Eleanor continued, both men looked dubious but thoughtful. Magic blades were something with which they were familiar with, at least in theory. An improbable explanation was always preferable to the inexplicable.

“Oz more concseerned vith vou ee eez and vi ee tri to keel moi,” Eleanor said. Kilbrook looked blank but Kasimir, with more exposure to Eleanor’s erzat accent, leaned over and whispered a translation. Kilbrook’s eyes cleared though were no less troubled.

“He was dressed as a servant but none of the others knew him. I suspect he stole the livery,” Kilbrook said.

“Vy mee ou as nee-ver seed boo to ze gos?” she demanded. Both men exchanged puzzled looks at this but eventually grasped her meaning.

“We ahh… assume it has something to do with Sir Oderick,” Kilbrook said, as though this were not the most obvious thing in the world.

“Whoever killed him must think you know something, or saw something,” Kilbrook expanded. Eleanor nodded her head.

“Ai cannot imaginé what,” she told him, to the Captain’s obvious disappointment. After a few more desultory questions the interview wound to a close and the Captain departed, leaving Eleanor and Kasimir alone. She wrestled with her conscience. The assassin had said that he needed to kill both of them. Should she warn the man? She hadn’t mentioned it to Kilbrook because she was fast coming to the conclusion that there was no one she could trust. No one except Kasimir it seemed.

“Shall we go and get those bon-bons?” Kasimir asked.

“Oui,” Eleanor replied, brightening considerably.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

"What should I egg-spect from a bistard," Emmaline returned spitefully, though in truth she had spent worse nights. More than once she had slept in haylofts or stables and once she had been forced to sleep in a bracken thicket to escape a vengeful mark whom had taken being left at the altar with an unreasonable irritation. Idly, she wondered if she could find the time to brew the itching powder that Kasimir most richly deserved. She narrowed her eyes and resolved to make the time.

The bath and the change of clothes was revivifying, though it did little to cool her irritation with Kasimir. Ranald's two gifts, the desire to flee and the desire to profit warred within her as she brushed her hair.

"Kissymere!" she barked, "Ai need a ladees maid to 'élp wiv mon 'air!" There came an inarticulate growl from the parlor which Kasimir was converting to a bedroom/guardroom by dragging a bed in from some adjoining chambers.

"Eet would be inconseestent wiv yur fathair's 'onair if ai wasn't presentabluh," she added for good measure. There came a much put upon sigh and the sound of tramping feet. The problem was that her brush with the Count had made her a figure of far greater interest at court which meant she could extract much more gold from her noble marks. On the other hand, all the gold in the world didn't do you any good if some insane cultist decided to cut your throat. Why had the wanted Oderick dead? He was a Knight and a great warrior yes, but you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting some swaggering idiot who fit that description, the proof of which was currently defiling her parlor. It had to be the note but who had the note been from, and what did it reveal?

Emmaline cocked her head to make sure that Kasimir had gone, then waved her hand and muttered a few arcane syllables. The mirrored glass in front of her clouded, then resolved to the grisly scene of the murder. She swallowed back bile and forced herself to examine the scene. This was from her memory rather than a true depiction of the scene, but the human eye caught more than its conscious mind realized. There was the note. The paper was fine, well milled, not the cheap pulp on which novels were printed. She peered at it and made a gesture with her hand. The note rotated an floated upwards. Most of the writing was blurred save for one word. Selsmark.

"That is more than enough," a voice said from behind her. The mirror collapsed to reveal a pimply young man in palace livery. He lunged for her but she twisted aside, avoiding the thrust of a long straight poniard. He rushed her anyway pinning her against the mirror as she gripped at his arm, trying to keep the knife from her throat. She tried to scream but he grabbed her mouth with his hand, muffling her shriek.

"Sorry, but we got to kill you and the Count's bastard, Magister's orders," the youth grated as he inexorably pushed the tip of the poniard towards her throat. She could smell his fear, fear and perfume, an odd spiced scent that made her slightly nauseous. Emmaline bit into his hand, tasting blood. He cursed and yanked his hand way then swung a round house punch at her head. Rather than screaming Emmaline yelled another arcane word and ducked. The youth let out a startled cry as his hand vanished into the mirror. Emmaline snapped another word and ended the spell. The youth screamed like a gelded hog and fell backward, his left arm now ending mid wrist, the hand trapped inside the mirror. For a moment it was as neat as an anatomy cross section, the blood began to spurt from the neatly severed artery. He started at the amputated stump in horror for a moment, then screamed in rage and drove the dagger at her desperately. Emmaline fell from the chair, landing on her well padded rump and kicked the stool into her attacker. He half leaped half fell atop her and she managed to avoid being stabbed only by virtue of turning the blow with a high heeled shoe that she had been about to put on.

"My hand!" the assassin howled, still spurting blood all over the chamber. He stabbed downward viciously, but Emmaline managed to roll away, kneeing him hard in the groin and doubling the man over. Desperately she sprang to her feet and ran for the door. The assassin followed, half stumbling half leaping but he loss of blood was overtopping his adrenaline. He fell to his knees, trembling and pale, and glared at her with an implacable hate.

"You will not..." he collapsed onto the floor with a clatter, the dagger rolling free of his fingers. Kasimir burst through the door, sword in hand, a frightened looking maid in the doorway behind him.

"What in Holy Ulric's name... Guards! Assassin's in the palace!" he roared, fairly shaking the timbers. The hue and cry was taken up by others and for the second time in a day the halls were filled with thundering feet and clanking mail. Emmaline sat on the floor, stunned for a moment and then began to cry.

"Are you hurt?" Kasimir demanded.

"Non Non but mon mak up eez ruined," she wailed.

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

Zoya would have very much liked to brush her hair, but her brush, her clothing and all the possessions she had traveled with were back in her lodgings in Tear. Doubtless the Highlords would seize them. Ultimately that was a cheap price to pay. She was the first Aes Sedai to set foot in the Great Holding of Tear in hundreds of years and the first on to recover anything from it in history. The other Browns were going to be so jealous.

"We of the Tower are invariably honest," Zoya replied.

"As for my name it is Zoya Sakura and I am a sister of the Brown Ajah," she replied haughtily. "As for my purpose..." She unwrapped the colorful cloth which served as her disguise to reveal the original garments beneath. She began to pull the small objects she had looted from the stone free from the various pockets and pouches, setting them on the desk, forming a pile of strange objects. Finally she retrieved the puzzle box she had come to Tear for. It was a cube with rounded edges, its face covered with cunningly set stones that rotated around each other to form stylized maps.

"I learned that this object may allow me to find an artifact which has been lost since the Age of Legends. If I do not recover it, then the Dark One's armies may march across the world when the time comes for the Last Battle." The words hung heavy in the air for a moment.

"What object?" Davian asked warily.

"The Horn of Valere," Zoya told him simply.

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

Jocasta wiped the blood from the baton on some nearby foliage, then her face screwed up with consternation.

"What?" Markus demanded, bringing his weapon up in case it was needed.

"I just realized I missed a perfectly good 'is that a baton in your pocket' line," she lamented.

"I'm regretting this already.."

__________________________

It took two hours to reach the starport they had overflown during the crash. They briefly took cover as a pair of orbital landers flew overhead, angling towards the crash site. Jocasta doubted they would do more than verify the crash. Two dead scapegoats were as effective as two live ones for Gallanis's purposes. Maybe better because they couldn't contradict his story. So long as they didn't make themselves obvious, they might hope to escape detection for some time.

The starport was a private one, attached to a series of agricultural properties which stretched around it like spokes on a great wheel. Every few hours a light transport would touch down and carts of wheat and barely would be loaded on for transshipment to jump capable craft in orbit.

"Well, it isn't going to be a Nevian Luxury Line," Jocasta observed as she watched the loading from the top of a small hill a half kilometer from the port.

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

Pedestrians scattered in all directions as Zoya and Davian charged across the quay, iron shod hooves striking sparks from the flagstones. The crowd at the waterfront dissolved into screams of confusion made all the worse as baskets of live poultry were upended in a storm of feathers, squawking, and showers of dung from the panicked birds. The two sailors at the gangplank stood slack mouthed as the two fugitives came on at a gallop. Davian’s steed, the stronger of the two pushed forward and pounded up the gangway, screaming as he made the deck and sawed at the reins to halt the beast before it took him over the far side. The sailors made a half hearted grab for the gang plank as the ship continued to pull away, succeeding in dislodging one end from the pier side. The plank promptly upended and plunged into the widening gap between the ship and the quay. Zoya’s horse screamed and tried to turn, but she grimly yanked the reigns this way and that to keep it on course. The horse leaped into the air, vaulting the gap with the grace of a born steeple chaser and landing on the deck with a hollow boom. A hanging rope caught Zoya across the shoulders and pitched her from the saddle onto the deck. She landed on her back with an impact that drove the wind from her lungs and started spots across her vision. Her horse reared and came close to trampling her but one of the sailors, possessed of quicker wits than the others, snatched the beasts bridle. Screams and curses rang out deafeningly as sailors, spectators, and the soldiers trying to force their way to the ship bawled themselves hoarse trying to be heard.

“Those soldiers will be aboard in a moment!” Davian shouted into her ear, still barely audible over the din. Zoya gasped for air and sat up, tasting blood, she reached down and grasped at a stabbing pain in her bosom, her hand emerging with a sculpted statueete she had taken from the Holding. It was in the shape of an anthropoid snail atop which a naked woman rode, the sword she held aloft red where it had driven into Zoya’s flesh. She stuffed the thing to her pocket and struggled to her feet.

“Take me to the side,” she gasped, too low to possibly be audible, but Davian grasped her intention and dragged her to the side. One of the sailors, confusion on his face, reached out to grab her, but a sharp punch with a beaked fist from Davian dropped the man retching to the deck. Zoya reached the side as the soldiers reached they quay, separated by no more than ten feet. Embracing Saidar she wove wrist thick flows of water and the river surged upwards between the hull and the quay so violently that a spray of dank river water rained down on the deck. The out thrust of the water shoved the ship away from the quay, opening the gap by more than forty feet in a matter of a few seconds. One of the soldiers raised something and Zoya heard Davian curse. He grabbed a wooden belaying pin and swung it. There was a crack and the pin spun from his hand, the quarrel of a crossbow bolt splitting the timber almost in two. It would have pierced her heart if he hadn’t acted her Saidar enhanced perceptions informed her. Several other crossbows raised by she dropped below the bulwark a moment before the series of musical thunks impacted the hull. A few seconds later and the strong current of the Erinn had pulled them out into the channel and the sails, ignored in the confusion by their tenders, billowed and filled. The ship began to pick up speed and with Zoya’s encouragement, the current quickened. Before the crossbowmen could reload the ship was well down river, a white bow wake foaming around her forepost.

“Who in the name of the black depths are you, and what in the name of the Light are you doing on my ship!?” a white bearded man with piercing blue eyes demanded. It took no great leap of logic to deduce he was the captain.

“You may call me Zea,” Zoya said, her voice strong despite her exhaustion and the adrenaline burning through her. “The name of my clan and my salt name are unimportant.” The Captain’s eyes bugged as if he were about to suffer a fit of apoplexy. Then his eyes took in her Sea Folk garb and he settled slightly.

“And why shouldn’t I turn this ship around and take you back right this moment?”

“Because you have incurred the wrath of the Highlords of Tear, but you have not yet incurred the anger of the Athan’miere,” she explained, her tone sharp but controlled.

“Which do you imagine is a greater peril to a sailor?” she underscored. The Captain blanched slightly. Not being able to make port in Tear for a time was an inconvenience, the hostility of the sharp prowed Sea Folk rakers which might fall upon him in anywhere from Shara to the Sea of Storms would certainly prove lethal.

“I will of course bestow a suitable Gift of Passage, assuming this scow doesn’t take us to the Father of Storms,” she added with a twist of her lip. The Captain vacillated a moment, looked back at the furious confusion on the now distant waterfront and sighed. Then he turned to his men.

“What’a’ya starin’ at,” he bawled at his crew, “wanna’be holdin’yer tackle when the mustachios get organized?!”

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

“I notice,” Jocasta observed, “that you are a lot less talkative when you are in chains.” Markus turned to eye her, his pose making him look particularly hang dog. There were two guards outside, face plates polarized to anonymity. They stood well beyond arms reach and their shotguns were loaded and unslung.

“Being chained up usually has that effect on people,” Markus growled.

“Not if you do it right,” Jocasta countered, earning a grunt of laughter from her partner. One of the goons shook slightly as though chuckling before stilling at a stern glance from his partner.

“Any non bondage related plans for getting us out of here?” he muttered under his breath.

“Not until they move us,” she responded.


By the time the authorities arrived to collect them, a six man team in riot gear, both mercenaries were pretty miserable. These men were bare headed and clearly surprised to find one of the ‘extremely dangerous’ prisoners they had been task to transport was a woman who looked like she should be making holos rather than running around the tag end of a nowhere sector. Nevertheless, they took no chances. First Markus was herded across the hall to use the bathroom, a collar slipped around his neck and attached to two guide poles held by the guards. He was then given a liter of water and a handful of hard protein ration. The process was repeated with Jocasta. One man took position in front and one at the rear with two on either side of their prisoners as they began to transport from the holding facility to the shuttle.

The Mazda transport craft wasn’t far. It was an ancient workhorse of a cargo shuttle, long used to transport prisoners and indentured labor, or slaves depending, and was well set up to contain prisoners. Markus and Jocasta were ushered aboard and moments later they were void borne and on their way.

“Hey!” Jocasta shouted as the engine thrust died away, “hey!”

“Shut up!” one of the guards called back in an irritated tone.

“Hey! I’m Terran, that means I can’t be tried by Colonial courts, you have to extradite me back to the sector capital!” she called. One of the guards laughed.

“Bull shit, even being from Earth dosen’t make you a Terran, you have to be a fucking fancy pants to get citizenship, or be born with a silver spoon or billion shoved up your ass!”

“Check it! I’ve got an ident, it will clear the local database even in this shithole,” she challenged. The guards looked at each other. This was clearly well beyond their experience and while someone claiming to be Terran was a mainstay of holo entertainment few people had ever met one in the flesh.

“Might be worth something in ransom if its true,” one of the guards cautiously observed.

“Worth getting your throat cut if the boss finds out you mean,” another one snapped.

“Hey who is to know if both of them are killed ‘trying to escape’ but we only recover one body?” the first guard replied.

“Alright honey, give us your ident and we will check it out.” Jocasta ignored the hard look from Markus and rattled off a long string of letters and numbers which the guard dutifully punched into his computer.

“Check is running now,” the guard replied, “Going to be pretty upset if this turns out to be a waste of our time girl.”

“It is legit, you’ll see,” Jocasta replied, her voice sounding far away. Markus gave her another look and reached out a hand to steady her. Minutes dragged by as the message was beamed to the systems beacon and then routed through the QEF. A few minutes later there was a beep and the guards gathered around the console.

“Holy shit she was telling the truth,” the lead guard gasped. There was another beep, then another.

“That isn’t the comms…”

“It’s a proximity alarm!”

There was a mad scramble for the controls but the mournful dirge of the proximity alarm grew louder and more instant.

“I’d hold onto something,” Jocasta advised and wrapped herself around the bars a moment before the whole world lurched sideways in a colossal scream of rending ceramsteel and screaming decompression. Escaping atmosphere blasted in all directions, carrying with it a storm of dust, trash, and detritus. Blue white sparks crackled down the bulkheads as electrical systems shorted and suppressant cylinders dumped their payloads. Jocasta managed to hold on as they were flung violent backwards. Two of the guards crashed into the bars, one went head first his neck snapping audibly and his head twisting off at a wrong angle. The other hit back first and bounced, Jocasta let go of the bars and grabbed him by the webbing belt, dragging him back against the bars. He kicked and struggled against her until Markus hand grabbed the shock rod from the mans belt and jabbed it into his kidney with an arching discharge that sent the man into spastic twitches. There was a second enormous crash and the man flew loose of Jocasta’s grip. She snatched key from his belt as he went and thrust it against the door plate. Internal partitions were snapping down, sealing sections of the ship to stop the atmospheric leakage. One of the unfortunate guards was sprawled across the divider between two sections. Two thousand pounds of piston pressure cut him in half diagonally from hip to shoulder with a sound like breaking into a lobster. Artificial gravity failed and blood, dirt, and bone fragments all lifted off like a suspended rainstorm. Jocasta kicked her way out of the cell to retrieve the guards side army. The others were alive, mostly, but on the other side of a hull partion. One of them was screaming and waving his own weapon in front of the plexisteel view port though his shouts didn’t carry through an inch of steel and the ongoing scream of the crippled ship and wailing alarm claxons.

“What in the name of the Red God was that?” Markus demanded, jamming the shockrod against the partition and pulling the trigger. The guard on the other side flew backwards from the suddenly electrified surface. Non lethal, but certainly painful.

“I crashed the Shark’s shuttle into us,” Jocasta explained, peering through a port out into space. Red heat shimmer was already beginning to limb the aperture.

“You… how?” Markus demanded. Jocata floated like a drowned thing, her hair out of control in zero-g.

“Not important, what is important is that we going through atmospheric re-entry now. We are going to crash somewhere down there. With a little luck, we might even survive the impact,” she added cheerily.