The Fringe Wars

5.14

Loose Strings

On board the Littorio, near Myr

Critch woke up with a headache worse than any hangover had ever given him. He opened his eyes, only to snap them closed due to the bright lights. The brightness hit him from every direction: above, below, and even the walls. There was only one place Critch knew to have 360-lights in all-white rooms—a prison cell on a CUF ship. He knew because he'd been in ones exactly like this on more than one occasion.

"Well, shit," he muttered, and rubbed his forehead with his hand. When the assassin had caught him, he'd assumed he was going to die...though he guessed he probably still was, since he was in a cell.

His wrist comm had been removed, as was done for any prisoner. He felt for his weapons and found nothing, as expected. His captors had even found the blade in the sole of his boot, leaving Critch both impressed with their diligence and disappointed at losing some of his best tools.

At least they'd left him with his clothes and boots.

A window in the door opened, and Critch looked, wincing in the light, to see Corps General Barrett Anders. "Ah, so you're Mason now? Couldn't come up with your own secret name?"

Anders ignored the comment. "Drake Fender, you've topped the CUF's most-wanted list for twenty years. That's quite the record, by the way. You had to figure that you'd get caught sometime."

Critch shrugged. "Evading the CUF hasn't exactly been challenging."

"Yet here you are, in my cell."

"That's because you cheated and hired an assassin."

Anders laughed. "A pirate accusing me of cheating. That's rich."

"Why'd you pick me up, Anders? Things getting a little dull around the Collective without colonists to push around?"

"On the contrary, things are rather exciting lately. You've been a loose string I've been meaning to pull for a long while. I'm running a bit short on time, and you're one criminal I don't plan to leave behind."

"Aw, let me guess. You've got some nasty disease that even Collective medicine can't help with. You've got a few months left to live, so now you're getting all nostalgic? Damn, if I'm not getting a little weepy."

The officer's lips curled upward. "Get weepy for yourself. This time next week, you'll be publicly executed for war crimes and piracy, though I care little about the piracy."

"War crimes? You mean, like when you bombed Tulan Base, where all the refugees were, and killed Vym Patel in the process?" Critch countered.

Anders sobered. "We all make hard choices in war, but some choices cross a line. You're being executed specifically for committing bioterrorism against the Unity, killing all 466 crew members on board as well as eighteen crew members on board the patrol ships sent in to investigate."

Critch chortled. "You're executing me for using the blight? How about Gabriel Heid and Michel Ausyar dropping the blight on Sol Base? They killed over seventy thousand colonists, and it wasn't even in a time of war."

"They're both dead and cannot be tried for their crimes."

"Ah, so I'm your scapegoat. You really think killing me will help you sleep at night?"

Anders shook his head. "No. But when I look at all those who pose a risk to the Collective, you're always at the top of the list. Your death will help a lot of citizens sleep better, and that makes the hassle of dealing with you worth it to me."

Critch leaned back. "I'm not saying I don't deserve to die, but I warn you that I'm a loose string that will cause a hell of an unravel in relations between the Alliance and the Collective. What do you think the colonists will do when they see the Collective coming after the torrent leaders who fought for their independence? Things are fragile. Killing me will shatter relations."

Anders raised his brows. "I think you greatly overestimate your importance to the Alliance."

"It's not me, personally. Hell, I never wanted the attention. But they've built me up into something bigger than life—Drake Fender and Aramis Reyne embody the torrent spirit." Critch paused. "Don't tell me, you're going after Reyne, too."

"Worry about yourself. After all, you're the one dying soon."

The window closed, leaving Critch alone in the bright cell.

Anders was a purist—Critch hated that type of person because they were impossible to bribe or sway. He had no doubt he was scheduled to be publicly executed, and there was no way to get out of it.

That left escape as his only option, but the list of challenges was awfully long. He had no idea where the Honorless was. He had no crew to come for him; hell, no one even knew where he was.

He frowned and thought for a moment. He had an idea. It was a long shot, like hitting-a-target-in-another-galaxy long shot, but it was also his only shot. He felt around on his right forearm, searching for the rice-sized tracker Seda Faulk had implanted to track him when he infiltrated the Citadel prison.

When he found the bump, he squeezed it until he felt it pop. If the thing still worked, it should now be shooting off a signal to Seda's wrist comm. If—and that was an even bigger if—Seda still had Critch's tracker programmed into his comm, then Critch's future would be in Seda's hands.

If Critch were a religious man, he'd pray. Instead, he began to brainstorm ways to get out of the damned cell.