Battletech Death of the Author (SI)

[Rukkileib]

on the one hand FASAnomics. on the other that is offensive both morally and economically. you should at least be able to get a medium lasers worth of taxes out of one of those kids over the course of a life time. hell if that is how it works trading a pair of medium lasers and some armor should be easy enough to manage if you want to barter instead of going the cash route.

Yeah, but that’s a bit harder to justify, on a semi-regular basis. And a handful of people like that wouldn’t really make any difference, in the short term on a planetary scale.
The losses prevented by buying off the pirates more than make up for the cost. Except morally, of course, but an argument could be made, if it weren’t for the fact that he can just go down to his cells and produce a bunch of slaves at will.

 

[Blasterbot]

Yeah, but that’s a bit harder to justify, on a semi-regular basis. And a handful of people like that wouldn’t really make any difference, in the short term on a planetary scale.
The losses prevented by buying off the pirates more than make up for the cost. Except morally, of course, but an argument could be made, if it weren’t for the fact that he can just go down to his cells and produce a bunch of slaves at will.

even if it was a regular thing. making a similar tribute every year or heck every month. the slaves should be able to produce more value than that otherwise they are not even paying for themselves. it is terrible long term planning.

 

[Rukkileib]

even if it was a regular thing. making a similar tribute every year or heck every month. the slaves should be able to produce more value than that otherwise they are not even paying for themselves. it is terrible long term planning.

Infrastructural, collateral, and combat damage from actually being raided would likely outweigh the loss prevented. More than 30 people would probably die even if they won. And none of these people are creating anysignificant value anyway, because they are selected from a pre-existing and substantial prison population.

The most likely frequency for these raids is probably biannual, or possibly even less often. Travel times preclude monthly visits, and the more often the ‘raids’ occur, the more worthwhile resistance would be.

 

[Deleted member]

@prinCZess You are doing brilliantly with the combination of cynicism and humour, don't doubt it. Sorry for not replying in a while. Black humour is exactly how to write this.

 

[prinCZess]

And makes a 'Prentice free in spight of his Indentures.

-The Power (or Dominion) of the Sword, ballad from the English Civil War ​

I swallow and hesitate before the door. There’s still time to back off! If I about-face and walk away, it’d be like nothing happened and I can get on with the original plan of bouncing off to the next world, turning everyone in there, and then making my way to the other side of the Inner Sphere to meet-up with my sister. One family screwed with really isn’t that bad in comparison to the massive good I could do later if I can just survive!

My stomach twists. My knees shake. My courage, if the combination of shame and horror that had brought me here after Sarah had explained the situation even deserves to be called that, fails. I make an about-face and start to move away from the door into Arthur’s quarters, happy that I’d at least had the presence of mind to send Sarah down to mollify the boy’s parents so there’s nobody present to witness the retreat—no, the reconsideration! It’s not my job, and it’s Arthur’s and Baron Tsanma’s fault, not mine! I only have the power and capacity to look out for myself right now. Arthur will be on the swinging end of justice’s rope soon enough—and I’d be the one who puts him there, so it was alright!

I’ll be the one who put him there…for the money. For how much it benefits me. Because stopping evil was only worthwhile when I could safely benefit from it. I could keep walking, and soon enough it wouldn’t bother me.

I stop, twist around, and almost sprint back to the door and slam my hand onto the entry-button when I get there.

Dear God, don’t let me be too late!

“The hell do you wa—“ Arthur begins, standing up and turning towards me from his spot kneeling over a kid he has strapped into his bunk.

I mentally ignore that entire block of my vision and the bone-deep disgust it inspires as best I can, instead tearing my eyes across more important things in the cabin. Arthur’s still dressed, but his belt is off. The scabbard that holds his sword is on the other end of the room from him, lying over a fold-down seat outside of easy reach even if he made a run for it. His actual belt, and a holster that’s attached, is closer. It’s maybe three or four steps from him, lying atop a table that folds-out from the bulkhead he’s closest to.

Maybe I can still talk this down. If I’d been thinking, I’d have drawn my sword and my pistol before coming through the door. But I’d been…distracted. By cowardice. Or it could have been pragmatism!

“I thought we had an understanding, Arthur. Your habits come after your hard work. There’s a lot of work yet to be done, and you don’t look like you’re hard at work.” I say.

Actually the bastard probably is hard…Nope. Don’t want to think about that. Ick.

Arthur doesn’t react, staring at me silently as if I’m some apparition from beyond the grave. My heart is pounding in my ears, slamming against my chest hard enough that he can probably hear it. What’s he going to do? I’m waiting for him to so much as look for his own holster, but if I draw either of my own weapons he’ll undoubtedly make a break for it and then everything I’ve grit my teeth and born so far will have been for nothing.

But what am I supposed to do? Just let him get away with it? Like I’ve let Gastocoui and Lord Bar-Dyness and Baron Tsanma and everyone else!? I just let them get away with everything they like because stopping them would be too dangerous for me? Because it wouldn’t be profitable enough?

I shudder the same way I had in the dropship’s loading-bay earlier. Why am I even hesitating? It’d be fun to kill him and with this I have the perfect excuse!

No. Not excuse. That made it sound bad. Made me sound bad. It’d be justice! That made it much better! Phrasing it like that made me sound much better!

I don’t know who moves first. One moment, we’re staring each other down. The next, he’s twitched into motion and I’m drawing my pistol in response. But he doesn’t go for either of his weapons, instead charging in straight towards me and bowling into me at a half-run while my pistol has just started to clear the holster.

Next guy I kill? I’m doing it from the safety of my Banshee’s cockpit. And I’m shooting before he has the chance to do anything to me. This is bullshit.

 

[Laskar]

I groaned when I understood the chapter title, so you won a point there.

And really, this is the best possible outcome for you. You caught him with his pants down around his ankles, and he's the one who attacked first. You can now blast his head off his shoulders with absolutely zero remorse!

Just don't hit the kid. Know what's behind your target and all that.

 

[Ganurath]

Good to see him getting a lethal dose of justice, but that (pt. 1) in the chapter title, coupled with the actual chapter title, tells me that the fallout of Arthur's demise won't be as straightforward as the kill itself.

 

[Ridli Scott]

It's nice to see this story more developed here, I was afraid taht you wasn't going to continued it.


Welp, the good thing is that she already started to clean the ship.

 

[prinCZess]

I’m brought off my feet and Arthur heaves me backwards. Instincts from taking falls kick in and I twist as much as I can so my butt, right shoulder, and the rest of my arm can slap against the wall behind me before the back of my head does the same. It helps, some. I still whack against the metal hard enough for spots to appear in my vision. Somehow, the worst pain is the dull, annoying throb of pain in my knuckles as the pistol-grip grinds them against the bulkhead, Arthur cementing my wrist there with one hand while he holds his other against my shoulder.

I panic, remembering Gronley doing the same thing, and only barely contain the desire to flail away as much as I can. To do anything and everything. I’ve tried that before. It didn’t work. If I properly aim and direct something, it might do more than a dozen stillborn hits against the man! And it might be the only chance I have.

But, then again, it might be better if I—

No time!

I cock my right heel up and use its new position against the bulkhead to push. It’s an awkward position, my knee having to force its way up into the negligible amount of space between me and my second-in-command and robbing a lot of the force. But it still moves. My foot travels upwards on the slightly-angled path I’d set it on. It navigates between Arthur’s knees, past his inner thighs, and to its target: the point where his two legs meet.

I feel the impact reverberate through my knee, my thigh, and into my abdomen. Judging by his grip on me, which loosens, and his eyes, which go from fear-stoked rage to a dull, wide-eyed shock, Arthur feels it even worse. I smirk.

It’s premature. Arthur’s eyes come back to their senses and his grip reasserts itself a moment later with a grunting, groaning noise. Ripping me forward from the wall, the grizzly-bear of a man whips me around in front of him with ease and plants his feet between mine. Curling one hand in front of me, he twists me into a bizarre contortion where he’s holding my pistol-hand in the same arm he’s choking me with while his other arm secures my left behind my back.

I can’t angle the pistol enough to hit him! I can’t get at him with my nails! I try kicking backwards, to no avail.

In movies, this was where the hero always knocked the person behind them into the wall by pushing them backwards. When I push back, it’s already like pushing into a wall. Arthur doesn’t move an inch, and it’s all just wasted effort. Just like against Gronley.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!

“I…thought we…had an understanding as well, boss-lady.” Arthur hisses into my ear, his hold slowly tightening and words growing more steady as he recomposes himself. “It’s why I liked working with you so much. And we never had any problems, did we? You know I’m good to pay for it, and there’s nothing to be done until after our burn out of atmosphere at least. You know, I didn’t want to even think it, but you’ve not been like yourself lately. I think you’ve gone soft.”

Somehow, that actually manages to infuriate me even more. I growl and, twisting my wrist as much as I can in his grip, squeeze the trigger on my pistol despite knowing it won’t hit. Off-red coherent light bursts from the muzzle, brilliantly lighting the room in its hue for a moment before dying-out as it impacts against the overhead and forms a wide, black scorch-mark on top of the metal. Screaming, I try again and again, to the same result.

I can feel Arthur’s smirk as he tightens his arms until my screams cut-off by my choking. “Goodbye, boss-lady.“

Oh hell no. I’m done. I’m not putting up with this. I am the only one that should be telling me what to do! I’m not going to let another asshole force me to do one more damn thing! Certainly not something like dying. I’M THE ASSHOLE, DAMMIT! It's time I started acting like it!

Or…Something like that.

Inspiration strikes, and I twist my wrist again, angling the muzzle away from both myself and Arthur. I won’t be able to beat him in a contest of strength to actually get the barrel pointed at him. But there’s one thing I can do. Eyeballing the angle and hoping it will have enough heat accumulated from the handful of shots, I thumb the laser-pistol’s power-pack release.

The power-connection on the pistol slides back and locks open. Thin, spring-loaded metal outlets follow a moment later as the pack slides free out the bottom. With a soft hiss, the pistol cools itself by venting air through the super-heated core of its internals. The jet of hot exhaust sprays out, almost directly into the face of my second-in-command.

Arthur screams in delightful agony, and automatically pulls away from the pistol. He tries to drag me with him, to keep his hold. But he’s shocked, surprised, and in roaring pain for the second time in a few seconds. Rotating around his leg, I limbo my way through the crook of his shoulder—almost choking myself and smashing my face into his armpit in the process. It’s awkward and inelegant, but it gets me out of his hold.

I have no time to revel the victory or Arthur’s pain. He half-blindly flails at me with his left hand while the other clutches at his face and eye. I manage to duck away from the first two swings, but the third catches me square on the jaw and sends me reeling to the side, slapping into the nearby bulkhead with the front of my head instead of the back of it this time. The spots this time are spinning stars that linger longer than they probably should. But he’s still coming, and now his other hand has moved from holding his face to forming a fist at his side.

I drop the pistol. There’s no time to find the pack on the floor for it, and I’m pretty sure threatening him with it isn’t going to work anyways. It’s only in the way of the only option I can think of.

I open my hands up, keeping my palm flat and fingers held-together in something vaguely-similar to what I’d seen in Jackie Chan and Jet Li movies a millennium earlier in a different life. I have no idea if ‘karate chops’ are actually a thing. But the position gives me the chance to use my nails, and I know from real experience in previous years of this life that they work.

 

[Ridli Scott]

If people start to think she is turning soft she is more done than if Arthur was still strangling her.

She isn't in the best position even if she wins.

 

[prinCZess]

I dive at the man arms-first, trying to close the distance and get some use from the only weapons I’ve got left before he manages to hit me again.

My left hand gets redirected by his right, but my nails shave a brilliant-red slice into the skin of his forearm in the process. My right hand fares better, getting past his hurried block. As the carbon-reinforced nails catch his cheek, I curl my fingers in and jerk them downward. It’s both sick and exciting how much Arthur’s cheek being sliced open sounds like a piece of paper being cut. The first real resistance I encounter comes only when my nails start bumping across regular, jagged bulges that might actually be teeth.

I collide with the man’s chest. He barely flinches from the impact. But curling my left-arm back around, I dig into his back as I drop to the deck. It doesn’t slow me down at all, but I can feel the warm, wonderful sensation following behind my nails that tells me I’d penetrated skin. It almost makes me giddy enough to not care when I slap against the deck like a wet sack of rice.

I’m definitely not giddy enough to overlook the foot that slams into my stomach. I roll over, trying to protect it as I retch something out of my mouth. The next hit slams into my back, and hurts worse. But I only have to hold out a little while!

A third kick comes. Then a fourth and a fifth. But there’s not another, and after a few seconds I work up the courage to open my eyes. Arthur is only a few steps away, reaching out towards his pistol. Gasping for breath and trying to convince myself I can hurt later, when I’m actually sure I’ll live, I fight myself onto my knees.

I’m just starting to stagger onto my feet when Arthur’s drop out from underneath him. He twitches, though whether from trying to move or just from the effects I can’t say. Pretty soon he shoul—yep, foaming from the mouth. Usually the scorpion venom took a little longer to work. But usually I don’t manage to get it into someone’s arm, face, and back at the same time.

I stand and watch the man twitch, the pain from a dozen different places somehow muted. I’d won. Again! Despite everything, I’d won. I am alive and he is dead. Or, at least, he’s dying. So he will be dead soon enough. That makes me right. It makes me the better person. It makes me nearly-euphoric and it means I don’t have to feel bad about being so thrilled! Now I understand why someone might want to smoke after—

“Ten minutes to liftoff. All personnel, there are ten minutes…”

The announcement jerks me out of whatever trance I’d been falling into. Swallowing, I shakily walk about the cabin and rejoin my pistol with its power-pack. I can’t let the man just lay there and die like that. I’m enjoying it too much, and I’d look back on it fondly if I let him suffer. Whatever he’d done, that wasn’t right. Not even for his sake, but for my own.

I’m sane enough to recognize that still. I think. Or do I just want the satisfaction myself?

Arthur’s still twisting and flexing on the ground, occasionally managing a gasp through a constricting throat and everything else the venom did. His eyes are dark, panicked, and full of hate when they turn on me. I limit myself to a single shot. It’s enough to finish him.

The pistol returns to its holster as I briefly wonder if there’s anything I should say. It’s not like Arthur had been religious and the only respectful words or rituals I can think of are ones I learned centuries before for deer or elk I want to rest easy. I can’t find enough compassion in my entire body to give a shit if Arthur’s spirit rests or not.

“God, this sucks.” I finally grumble after I decide that what I say will be for me not him.

I’m going to have to come up with a way to deal with everything this is going to cause. Why couldn’t the universe have just let me be a coward and run off somewhere comfortable? Being a coward would have been so much easier!

I look to the kid still strapped onto Arthur’s bunk and feel myself flush with shame at the thought. I’d deal with the shitshow. At least that wouldn’t be on my conscience as part of it.

Just everything else. Dammit.

 

[Ridli Scott]

Go in close quarters with someone with poisoned nails wasn't the smartest idea.

My right hand fares better, getting past his hurried block. As the carbon-reinforced nails catch his cheek, I curl my fingers in and jerk them downward. It’s both sick and exciting how much Arthur’s cheek being sliced open sounds like a piece of paper being cut. The first real resistance I encounter comes only when my nails start bumping across regular, jagged bulges that might actually be teeth.

Oh my God! I'm massaging my cheeks right now. Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!

 

[prinCZess]

I cross the room and remove the blindfold from the kid strapped onto Arthur’s bunk. He’s not as young as I’d figured at first. Despite lingering baby-fat in his cheeks, his eyes and bridge of his nose make him look closer to being in his early-teens than anything else. Arthur had probably gone for his hair. The man was partial to blondes…and I really wish I didn’t know that.

Of course, the kid twists away from me as best he can the moment he sees my face, terror and horror mixing on his own. I’ve been surprised it’s not a more common reaction to the scorpion-tattooed mess. But, then, I have been running with a bunch of pirates who are used to it.

“I’m going to take you back to your parents, but I’m going to need you to stay quiet for me. Deal?” I ask, bringing one finger to my lips in a shushing motion.

Somehow, the blood-soaked digit doesn’t make him any calmer. He pulls further away and once again tries to pull free of the straps holding him down until his eyes finally scan the room and spy Arthur’s body. That actually calms him down. After a very long and incredibly awkward silence, he gives me a nod.

I wipe my hands against my pants and do my best to clean the blood off them. There’s still some left when I rip the tape free of his mouth. I worry he’s going to scream anyways, which would attract all kinds of immediate attention I really don’t need. But other than a swallowed grunt of pain, he’s quiet until I’ve started undoing the straps on the bunk.

“You killed him?” The boy asks, sounding far, far too old for his age. There’s no real inflection. Just a question that might as well be a statement of fact.

“Yes.” I answer, not sure how else to respond.

“But aren’t you…” He begins, only to trail off—probably coming to the conclusion that reminding me I’m on the same side as Arthur isn’t the smartest.

I actually manage something that approaches a snort of humor as I undo the final latch, “It’s complicated. Come on. There’s not much time.”

He flinches a bit at that, and I feel bad. But I don’t know if I’m up to answering any further questions from the kid right now. I’m having a hard enough time dealing with the fact that he’s even here because of me in the first place.

The kid gets up slowly. In a burst of energy right afterwards, he takes a few run-up steps in the right direction and slams a foot into Arthur’s body and seals the deal by spitting.

I kind of like him already.

After situating him behind me, I peek out of the room. Nobody else seems to be in the hallway, so I lead the kid out towards the lifts. I’m not really sure what I’m going to say if we run into anyone. I can’t think of any excuse that doesn’t sound like exactly that. But this close to liftoff, most everyone should be strapped-in and waiting instead of wandering about. Should.

I have a miniature panic-attack when the doors to the lift open. But there’s nobody else inside. I wave the kid inside, and slam on the panel to take me down to the bay that’s been repurposed into slave-quarters. I was going to have to think of something to say when I got there, too.

I distract myself from dealing with that by trying to problem-solve another issue entirely. The beginnings of a plan for how to deal with the crew are occurring to me as the lift hums, but it was going to take some…finesse. My initial half-crazed impulse to start systematically going through the dropship and shooting up the joint Terminator-style wasn’t really workable. It also probably shouldn’t be as enticing a fantasy as it is, but…they were pirates? Hostis humani generis.

It was the only defense I could come up with.

“Brevers, this is Death.” I say into the lift’s comm after making another shush motion to the boy at my side.

“Yes ma’am? How may your illustrious dropship-crew serve you on this wonderful day? We’re only about eight relaxing minutes out from liftoff! If you like, there’s an open seat here for you to command and control from!” Brevers came back quickly. The man was entirely too peppy and upbeat. Probably had something to do with serving under DuPont for so long. You got soft like that when you didn’t actually maim, murder or rape for a living.

“I can explain the details later, but Baron Tsanma tried to screw us. When we launch, put us into a temporary orbit rather than breaking for the jumpship immediately. I want to put a retaliatory raid up for a vote.” I say with a snarl, playing up my own feigned outrage as best I can.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Having to contend with the flat stare from the boy beside me, it feels like it takes forever for the man to respond. I wish people would quit looking at me like that. As if they’re confused about who I am. It hits too close to home.

“Will-do.” Brevers finally says with simple finality. I hang the comm up on the wall of the lift and slump against the wall.

With some cooperation from the slaves, the impromptu plan I was mentally putting together to clear the dropship might just work. And hey! Wouldn’t you know it, I have a wonderful character witness right here that should help convince them that I’m on the up-and-up and they should help me! I could use that! Present the boy as what he was: someone who I had saved from an unspeakable horror at great cost to myself simply out of moral duty! It was a great story. I was the hero! The valiant rescuer! The pirate with a heart of gold.

…The one who had just blabbed about my supposed plan to raid the planet in front of my character witness!

I bring my head forward and then knock it back into the metal plating of the lift behind me. I am an educated woman. I read books. I went to college. I have a vociferously loquacious vocabulary and all that horseshit. I am also a worldly woman. I know how to handle myself. Pilot a BattleMech. Shoot with deadly accuracy—or scratch with it, if need be.
But I am clearly not a smart woman.

 

[Ridli Scott]

Ok, I'm looking forward to seeing how she solves this now.

But I am clearly not a smart woman.

Don't be sad Death, we love you anyway.

 

[Laskar]

I wipe my hands against my pants and do my best to clean the blood off them. There’s still some left when I rip the tape free of his mouth.

Every time I read a sentence like this, I wonder at the skill it takes to pull off with poison-coated nail extensions.

Anyway, I've just re-read this story from the beginning, and this story definitely benefits from being read in a single sitting. The pacing is much more natural as a full story than a serial, and certain scenes like training with Timothy, investigating the mine, and blowing off steam incandescent rage at the range feel much less like filler, and more like a proper part of the story. If you're wondering how to improve how it reads in serial installments, don't ask me. I'm guilty of that a hundred times over.

One thing I noticed is that for a spare moment in one of the early chapters, the main character wasn't "CZena with the memories and instincts of Lady Death." Instead, she was "Lady Death with the memories of CZena," and was actively musing about how weird it was that she had these memories from a thousand years ago. That was brilliantly executed, and it made me admire how... fluid the tension between the two personalities are.

I've read some pretty edgelord stuff over the years. Some of it was written for shock value, other stories were just an excuse for the writer avatar to get away with shit. Very few cases were the main character's urges and their remorse over those urges so well integrated. That's why I don't really call this story 'edgelordy' or grimdark, because the urges are directly linked to a moral failing like cowardice. Even the bloodlust is innately linked to how Paula Trevaline grew up. She was the lowest of the low in a crapsack outlaw society, and murder is the only way she's gotten anything for herself. Power is all that separates her from the slaves. The main character realizes that and recoils from it... but violence and cowardice and staying in character are also the path of least resistance for getting out of the impossible situation that she's been dropped into.

"I did not have the courage to do what I knew to be right, and I did not have the courage to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong." -Charles Dickens, probably.

Anyway, the big Juju who dropped you into Paula Trevalyne's head probably knew what was up. You aren't the same people, but there's enough that rhymes that the two of you are Drift-compatible. And that is why her neurohelmet still works.

Anyway, I'm not sure how you're going to get out of this current predicament. Arthur is dead, as is right and just, but that cost you his bounty. The pirates are going to be harder to incarcerate and/or kill them once they're holed up in their mechs, tanks, and technicals. So that leaves calling a vote, and then rolling a pair of grenades into the conference room. That would work, but it will cost a lot of bounty money that's needed to cross the Inner Sphere.

 

[prinCZess]

“Are you all right?” I very belatedly ask. Half because I really am concerned, and half out of some futile effort to make him put what he’d overheard out of his mind. Maybe I didn’t just screw myself. If I had and got torn apart by the slaves or something…Well, maybe it was worth it?

When the kid doesn’t offer a verbal response I cease my brief pity-party and bring my head forward again. He’s moved so he’s in front of the lift’s controls. Any attention he might have paid to me has been absorbed by the control-panel for the lift and the way buttons light up, change color, or fade back to dull, gunmetal gray as he taps on them.

It…actually looks fun. I’m jealous. I kind of want to join in. Were I in his position, though, this would be about the time I went into a crying fit.

I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that 31st-century children are more mentally resilient than me.

“I’m going to get you and your parents back to your planet. It’s just going to be a bit of a mess.” I say with more emphasis, hoping he doesn’t put too much value on my slip but unwilling to explain any more to him. I…Didn’t really want to tell a kid I intended on killing a bunch of people in the immediate future, even if they were pirates. He might take it wrong, and I would probably sound far too excited over the prospect.

The boy looks back at me with a flat stare and a hard set to his chin. When he speaks, it’s with a finality and hardness I could never muster. “Will you kill Baron Tsanma, too? Or will we have to try to do it?”

Okay. Revise that to ‘31st-century children are more badass than me’.

I don’t want to admit that the thought had already passed my mind as a bit of a fantasy. From anyone else, the question would have just given me something to look forward to even more because I had even more justification. But something about the way he says it makes my chest squeeze down on my organs the same way it had when I’d seen Gastocoui whipping Sarah on Tortuga. He’s, like, twelve. It’s not fair. Somebody should do something.

Craaaaaap.

“He’ll be dealt with.” I say, compulsively speaking with enough vagueness I don’t make any actual promise. I correct myself when I notice, “The Baron will face justice, one way or another.”

It was still vague, but a little better. But if I talk about killing the man, I won’t be able to hide how much I look forward to that chance. Vague is better in that respect when I’m dealing with a kid who, however-much braver he might be, definitely wasn’t as fucked-up in the head.

The blue-eyed stare he fixes on me would do credit to a man sixty years his senior. After a few seconds and no further response, he goes back to playing with the control-panel. Maybe the kid really doesn’t have any idea I’m using him. But it’s a use of him that’s beneficial to him! So, like…I’m still the hero here?

The rest of the lift-ride passes with nothing but the hum of decks passing-by. I tense when the doors open, but again there’s nobody wandering the ship so close to liftoff. Almost without a sound, the boy hares off underneath the hand I was trying to hold him back with, running into the hall and then taking a bare second to look both ways before running left.

“Slow down…boy!” I yell as I stumble forward, kicking myself for not asking the kid’s name like a normal person would have.

I don’t want to yell too loud, so the words are more of a hissed, insistent growl than anything. If he even hears me he certainly doesn’t bother to listen, and I have to run after him as he reaches the end of the hall and then immediately turns and continues on. He only stops when he reaches the locked blast-door into the slave-quarters.

Would it look better to take his hand as I go in? I want to make a suitably dramatic entrance. But, then…I wipe my fingers against my pants again in futile effort to get rid of the bloodstains. He didn’t seem like the type for that sort of thing and I’d feel strange holding his hand like we’d been out for a stroll after using them to kill a person moments before. I’ll just have to make the best of the situation.

But I’m getting really tired of doing that. I had a plan! And it had been a good one! High on profit, low on personal risk. As any good plan should be! The fact it hadn’t been a morally good plan shouldn’t matter at all.

But it did. More’s the pity. And because of that I am probably going to die in some godforsaken backwater in the 31st century trying to pretend I’m heroic without ever getting to bathe in C-bills or see my sister again.

Arriving with the boy at my side would make for quite an entrance itself. Hopefully I can leverage it into some continued obedience to help me take out the crew. If I handle one of my problems at a time, eventually I’d run out of problems. Or one of the problems would prove too much and I’d run out of li—

I quiet my mental complaints. Rolling back my shoulders and straightening, I open the door and march into the slave-quarters waving the boy along behind me.

The first thing to strike me is the smell. The wash of human body odor and other stenches is almost physical in its authority, and its telling me to leave. I’ve smelled worse slave-pens in my lifetime here, but only after multiple days underway when the mass of bodies overwhelmed the equipment filtering and recycling their air. Little of that has been set up yet in this case. Orbital reentry and exit were too rough for any of the haphazard ductwork to hold-up.

That ductwork is ready for when we need it. Strapped and secured to the walls of the cargo-bay, it takes up a good deal of the floorspace, forcing many of the slaves to perch hammocks between units or at uncomfortable-looking angles on top of them because the floor itself isn’t large enough to hold enough of the tied-together loops of refuse-material that serves as cots for some of them. A wide, black curtain hangs from the rafters of the bay, blocking some of the light to about half of the floor and giving somewhere they can sleep without being in the direct glare.

The slaves arrayed around the compartment turn towards me in a disturbing, almost-silent near-unison that makes the gibbering part of my mind remember the stereotypical Old West saloons that a stranger walks into. But this is my responsibility. There was no more running away. I had to make a choice. And I had to make a good one, not a profitable or safe one.

It hurts. It’s not supposed to hurt!

“Behold! I come bearing gifts!” I call out, casting my arms wide and taking some comfort in the play-act of confidence.

 

[prinCZess]

The play-act is the only thing that spares me from wilting under the small sea of faces that glare at me in open hatred before moving to the boy at my side. They move back. Somewhere along the journey, most of them grow into confused hatred. After another moment, there’s a palpable shift between the recent slaves that have come aboard—who are concentrated at the bottom of the hold on the floor—and those that accompanied me from Tortuga. The new ones are still staring with eyebrows-raised and eyes hard. The ones from Tortuga are different.

Trying to pin it down more than that takes a backseat to my concerns as one of the women in the collection of new slaves springs to her feet and runs towards me. I brace, right hand immediately opening and beginning to come down towards my side so I can grab my pistol. I hurriedly try to recall how many steps backwards I’d have to take to reach the door. I won’t be able to shoot them all if they rush me!

Only the half-caught sight of Sarah mouthing something at me as she also jumps-up from where the slave had been stops me. The boy running from my side to meet her only reinforces the hesitation as correct. A few thunderous steps that almost echo in the hold later, the woman scoops him up without a word, but the sound she produces from deep in the back of her throat as she buries her face into the side of his head says more than anything more eloquent could have.

The rush I was worried about occurs a second later. Instead of being aimed at me though, every slave on the floor of the hold crowds around the woman and her son. Those that can’t fit around them on the bottom climb onto the ducting and scrubbers nearby, erupting into a small thunderclap of excited words and noises. Only Sarah, standing out in her much cleaner clothing as she picks her way around the edge of the crowd, and one elderly gentleman with an unkempt salt-and-pepper beard who follows her break the pattern by approaching me instead.

“You convinced him?” Sarah asks, in the tone someone would use to ask about magical powers or something else equally ridiculous.

“I told you that if anyone caused you a problem I’d troubleshoot them. Arthur caused you, and by extension wondrous-me, a problem. Do I look like the kind of woman who wouldn’t keep her word?” I quip, grinning widely.

She blinks, apparently not quick-witted enough or too scared to respond back with the flat ‘yes’ the question clearly called for in answer. My grin only gets wider at my own mental completion of the joke anyways. I am going to miss the abject terror and fear that my current status affords me, along with the easy laziness. But being able to have someone play off my bad jokes instead of just passively receive them might alone be worth it to some degree. Also the whole ‘not being the leader of murderers, rapists, and creeps’ thing. That would be nice too, I guess.

The older man interrupts my attempt at coming up with another good line. He strides forward to the side of me and Sarah, back straight, head high, and his hands held flat at his side—seemingly less out of trying not to prevent a threat and more from…habit? His stare is certainly something else.

“Why?”

My first impulse is to laugh at such a silly question. Before I remember it’s a perfectly reasonable one for him to ask and before I realize that, while I had thought about how to answer it because I needed something that would convince him and the other slaves to help me, I never really came up with anything.

Because it’s the right thing to do and I’m not a bad person?

I almost laugh at myself instead for the mere thought. If I can’t believe the lies, how am I supposed to make him? I’m Lady Death! Pirate-Lord of Tortuga, Scourge of the Successor States and Dame Murderess Extraordinare! Arthur and Gronley are just adding two to a small pile of people I’ve killed that’s big enough I don’t actually know exactly how big it is!

And I am clearly not a smart woman. He’s still staring at me, waiting for an answer. I need to say something! Come up with something! Something that I could use to convince—

That’s it! And I was thinking I wasn’t smart?! Pah. I am a genius!

Or, at the very least, it’ll work on some yokel from the Outback of the Federated Suns long enough that I won’t get ripped-apart by dozens of slaves pissed-off at their captor and I will instead get their help. It should even hold up for the slaves from Tortuga. None of them really knew me that well. Hell, even the boy might buy it, and it would give me an explanation for my slip in the elevator! J-E-A-N-Y-U-S.

“Because now that I’ve the hard evidence that Baron Tsanma is dealing with pirates, there was no need for me to maintain my cover or allow such harm to the people of the Federation.” I say, reveling in the shock the words clearly cause to the older gentleman.

I extend a hand to the man, and try not to drop into a schlocky impression of a 20th-century actor. I probably fail. “Bond. Jane Bond. On His Majesty’s Secret Service. And I am in desperate need of your assistance.”

He looks at me as if he can’t believe what I’ve just said. But then he starts crying and I have to force myself not to glance away or try to give him some level of pretend-privacy. Even knowing he’s been in prison or held as some slave I feel like I’m intruding on something very personal.
Especially when it’s coming because I’m lying my ass off to him.

“We knew the Federation wouldn’t abandon us! Even out here on the border. We knew it.” He wipes at his eyes and takes a few moments to compose himself. When he does he straightens and holds back his shoulders, coming to something very much like a military attention posture before he seems to reconsider and finally takes my hand. He’s a lot stronger than the beard and wrinkles on his face suggest. I wince.

“Leftenant-Colonel Charles Gerard of the Gronholt Planetary Guard—at least, I was. Before the maniac. How can I be of assistance?”

The wince turns into a scowl I immediately hide. I’m not actually sure if I should be excited about how much easier that could make things or just worried about the fact he's official enough he might just spot an imposter.

Oh well. At least he’s buying my bullshit for now.

 

[Ridli Scott]

Wow! That's a hell of a way to sell grade S bullshit to someone. She doesn't make things halfway.
Even if they are that desperate.

 

[prinCZess]

'Tis not in season, to talk of Reason
Or call it Legal, when the Sword will have it Treason

-The Power (or Dominion) of the Sword, ballad from the English Civil War ​

Speaking with the Leftenant-Colonel through a final warning of impending liftoff and a countdown convinced me that his presence is definitely ‘exciting’. According to him, good portions of the militia that he’d been leading only months before have no idea whatsoever that the Baron is selling-out the planet to pirates or running what amounts to a gulag for any opposition to him—A gulag he’d been dropped into after looking too deep into the Baron’s personal failures. I try not to salivate too much at the prospect that dangles of other people who can be drafted into the matter of bringing Tsanma to justice. Maybe I can come out of this with all the credit for axing a piece-of-shit Feddie nobleman without having to put my ass in danger to do it.

It’s not that I’m a cowa—Alright, no, scratch that. It’s definitely from being a coward. But it’s also just smart! I’m about to inflict my surname on all the pirates who would crew the weapons of war that might force the man out of his position. So I’m going to need other people like the Lieutenant-Colonel to do the heavy lifting on that! An attempt to kil—bring to justice Baron Tsanma would be just plain dumb if it didn’t actually work.

I manage not to let my rushed plotting interfere with the conversation with Gerard. Most of the other slaves seem to be too intimidated by me to do much more than observe from a distance, but there’s still entirely too many that approach over the few minutes and do everything from briefly engage in the conversation I’m having with the man by offering suggestions or ideas for what to do all the way to a few who hug me and cry into my blouse.

Even after I manage to suppress the expectation of something sharp penetrating into my side during one of the hugs it’s still…Inappropriate and undeserved. But I can’t tell them that. Not if I want to get any use out of them. So I don’t. I bask in it instead. Gently returning the occasional embrace and fixing others with what I try to make a reassuring look. Their gratitude and warped, misplaced respect are no replacement for all the money in bounties I’m giving up, but it’s almost as good as fear.

Almost.

The loud, bone-shaking thrust of the dropship up and out of the atmosphere comes at the middle of the discussion. I do learn a good bit and get him and a few other slaves to understand my plan for the rest of the crew even with the weight of g-forces bearing down and slowing down the talk considerably. It’s not helped at all by the fact I have to bear the acceleration inside the slave hold where a comfortable seat is nothing but a pipe dream. The mother of the boy I’d saved had quietly offered me a wad of scrap-fabric she was using as a cushion. But I’d forced myself to refuse. It wouldn’t have given the right impression.

As the dropship’s acceleration begins to trail off and the lift brings me up towards the bridge a short while later, I’m starting to regret that decision. The gradual loss of any weight on it as we transition to zero-gravity helps a little, but my butt hurts from spending minutes of high-g rattlecan-shaking on nothing but a makeshift seat atop a hard, metal deck. The worst part is I don’t even have the release of being able to complain about it to anybody! I’d sent Sarah to make sure Arthur’s room was sealed-off and nobody would bumble into my second-in-command’s dead body, and the good Leftenant-Colonel was subtly organizing the slaves into something that might be able to secure the ship after my dramatic assistance.

“My butt hurts.” I complain to the empty lift, rubbing the offending section of fa—muscle. Definitely muscle. No one shall dare even think differently including myself!

The lift only hums. But I pretend it’s a sympathetic rather than mechanical hum and it makes me feel a little better anyway. That wasn’t crazy, was it?

I sigh, trying not to quiver in fear or anticipation of what’s coming even if everything goes right. Especially if everything goes right. “It’ll be fine. One problem at a time.”

I blink, “And now I’m talking to myself. Not healthy, Lady. That’s what crazy people do. Get your head on right before you make some stupid, naïve decision again and land yourself in prison. Or worse. If they catch-on, you just know ‘Lady Death sentenced to surname’ is the kind of stupid, wonderful pun they’re gonna run on the headlines. Can’t give them that satisfaction.”

Deal with my crew. Deal with Baron Tsanma. Get my pardon. Do whatever I needed to bounce my way to the other side of the Inner Sphere and team-up with my sister with what I had. The original plan still holds together. This is just a sidetrack where I’ll be putting an entire planet’s worth of do-goodery to my moral scorecard. That has to count for something!

Of course what it doesn’t count for is ‘C-Bills’. Gonna cost me a good number of them. So, really, how much it counted was kind of debatable? I’m putting myself in danger for a political ‘attagirl’ and warm fuzzies?

But I still get to kill people so maybe it balances out? Pressing a button might not be as satisfying as something more personal, but it was the results that count! The simple fact at the end that I’m alive and making decisions while they’re not.

I clench my teeth and focus on the lift’s indicator as it crawls back towards the bridge. After too long, it finally opens. I grab hold of the doors so I have something to pull against to send me forward through the hall in zero-gee.

The real problem with losing the ‘captured alive’ bounties on my men is that it’s going to be even harder to afford the experienced, professional shrinkery some of my screwiest thoughts call for.

I pause, holding myself up before I float down the hall. Using one hand, I leverage my way partially back into the lift. With my free arm, I scrape across the controls of the lift, watching the buttons light-up in a golden display of color that brings a smile to my face and delights my inner child.

The scratch-marks my nails leave-behind in the metal between the buttons delights another part of me still flush with the memory of what they’d done to Arthur.

I push myself out of the lift. No time for looking back, and maybe I shouldn't. But whatever. It’s showtime.

I somehow contain my urge to make jazz-hands as I float towards the bridge.

 

[prinCZess]

“Ah, m’lady! I burned us into a stable orbit. The Captain’s Chair awaits your posterior and we await your orders!” Brevers greets when I pass-through the door into the bridge itself. His sheer perkiness and energy are a bit annoying, but they fade a bit as he continues, “If I can ask, what happened to change the plan? I thought the Baron cooperated.”

I swing myself into the Captain’s Chair that, contrary to its name and status, looks very similar to all the others stationed at regular intervals around the bridge. The only real thing separating it from the other stations on the Union dropship’s bridge is being stationed far enough back that it gives a good view of everyone in the bridge.

“He pretended to. Prick actually had a bunch of bombs rigged around the internals of the machines he gave us that took a while to find.” I explain, manipulating a few switches around my station and withdrawing the voice-pickup for my upcoming announcement, “I think it’s only fair that we impose a penalty on the good Baron and his planet for that mistake. A nice’n’bloody one if I have my way...”

Brevers, who’d been all cheer and pep with my first words, fades into a quiet discomfort as I speak. By the time I finish, he visibly gulps down a large breath and is very quick to find something to distract him on one of the computer screens around the bridge. The dropper-crewmen really are the milk-drinking pansies of my bunch of rascals. I’d not even gotten into any of the more poetic turns of phrase about the sadistic potential of our vengeance and he was already paling!

It’s cute. But that works. He’s cute too so it fits, and it makes me feel better about the fact he won’t be attending the upcoming meeting with the rest of the crew.

“Of course, we’ll have to see whether our coworkers see things my way or not. What sort of lawless hooligans would we be if we just did everything I wanted to?” I continue with a twist of humor.

We’d be the RIGHT kind is what we’d be! They SHOULD obey me if they want to keep their place on MY crew aboard MY ships! Especially when I’m the only one in this bunch who isn’t a maniac who gets their thrills from sadism and stealing!

I overlook the tingle of guilt the thought produces and depress a switch that feeds my voice into the dropship. “Brethren of the Black Fifteen! Lend me your ears. This is your Captain, Lady Death, Dame Murderess Extraordinaire, speaking. We are currently orbiting Gronholt at some eighteen-hundred kilometers, and you are now free to move about the dropship. Before you become too involved in any relaxation, though, I would ask you meet in Cargo Hold C—there is a Matter of Business to be attended to!”

I have to stop and remind myself that I am lying as I feel the same buzz of excitement and anticipation those words no doubt inspire in my crew. There’s only ever one ‘Matter of Business’ to be attended at a meeting like I’m proposing: Raids.

It’s the perfect excuse to get virtually all of them into one spot.

“Baron Tsanma has attempted to pass us booby-trapped goods as payment! He has violated the terms of his contract with the Tortuga Dominion and therefore owes us restitution. Per your own contracts with me, however, what form that restitution will be requested by us is in your hands, my comrades. I will make my way to the hold in, oh, thirty minutes to take an official vote for our course of action. To find out whether to leave Gronholt’s account in arrears from punitive fees for someone else to collect, or if the local forecast should be warning the good citizens about the Death that is on its way from above!”

I set the voice-pickup back onto its holder and settle into the Captain’s Chair as best I can without gravity. Through a few halfhearted attempts at conversation by the bridge-crew, I wonder if any one of the men onboard or even back on Tortuga actually believes the threadbare justifications presented for piracy. They’d never hold up in a real courtroom. I’d certainly always known they were bullshit. But maybe some space-cherry from the sticks on his first cruise might actually think it wasn’t all just an excuse for fun?

Good thing my crew’s more experienced than that or I might actually feel bad. I’d shuffled through every single ‘file’ Arthur had collected in order to divvy up shares and contracts so I could note the bounties, and we’d never had to take on anyone even approaching ‘innocent’ besides the jumpship and dropper crews that came attached to their commands. There are nothing but the finest reprobates in my crew! None of them would be dumb enough to buy the official BS, and they were all thoroughly deserving of everything that I was about to do to them. Of anything I decided to do with them! It is justice and even my moral duty since I have the power to do it.

That I’ll enjoy it doesn’t matter one bit! It doesn’t make it less right! What kind of sick person wouldn’t enjoy the intersection of secular justice, divine retribution, and karmic comeuppance that I’m going to be the agent of?

What kind of sick person would wish she didn’t have to resort to this trickery and could just execute the bastards one-by-one herself?

I shiver a little. Knowing what’s coming is so hard. At least fighting Gronley and Arthur were more immediate affairs with easier excuses to silence the traitorous part of my mind. Now my life is on the line just the same but that damned corner of me has the gall to be guilty about it and question how necessary the killing is! It’d be easier if I didn’t have to think about it and could just kill and kill and kill and kill and—

“Lady? Would you like me to send word to the other dropper that we’ll be returning to Gronholt?”

I tilt my head towards the radioman and pin him with my eyes. He flinches and averts his eyes.

“That would be quite presumptuous of me until a vote is taken, wouldn’t you think?”

It wouldn’t be. At all. And we both know it. The crew isn’t actually going to vote to forego a raid. No crew ever would unless they were outmatched. But it’s a convenient excuse for me to stop him from throwing a wrench in things.