NR Ch 7: Sneak

1900 hours on the dot, the sergeant said. Patrick Bradshaw was in the hangar at 1850 just to be sure, explaining that his presence was allowed to all of the security guards and their shock batons. Players were never allowed out of their prescribed areas in this hellhole. The first time one of Patrick's teammates tried to slip out of their barracks and explore, the poor bastard got fried by one of those shock batons. They were allegedly stun weapons, but everybody here knew that those damn rent-a-cops tuned them high enough to kill.

It figured that the security officers would miss the scheduled launch. They maintained control over the Crown League through brute force, not some kind of tactical genius. The players mastered operating on a rigid schedule years ago, their very existence regimented under threat of death. Surely the security team were just as replaceable as the players were.

Patrick leaned against a sleek black transport ship, the dim lights in the hangar vanishing into its hull. It looked more expensive than everything else on this base put together. It made sense that they had the cash to invest in fancy-pants interstellar travel now that they didn't have to pay the athletes anymore. Slave labor was quite the money-saver, turns out.

Finally at 1935, the sergeant and his five cohorts stumbled into the hangar. Had they beendrinking?Patrick wanted to scream. He would kill for a good buzz right now. Of course such things were denied to the players. Management claimed it would "negatively impact their performance," but Patrick figured that murdering his teammates and enslaving him affected his performance a great deal more.

He fought not to give the sergeant the stink eye. This was a good thing, Patrick reasoned. If these pricks were drunk and distracted, it would be much easier for him to find a way to contact the Affini. It wouldn't be much longer. Either this would work, and he would escape into the blissful confines of life as an owned pet, or they would catch him and throw him into space. One way or another, he would never come back to this godforsaken rock.

"Good evening, Sergeant," Patrick said, standing bolt upright and saluting. He felt ridiculous, but kowtowing to this blowhard seemed a promising route. "Are we ready to depart? Are there any tasks you need me to perform before takeoff?"

"Calm the fuck down, Bradshaw," the sergeant slurred. "Get on the damn ship, Cutler will give you your responsibilities there."

"I will?" Another one of the armored officers said, his voice even more thick with alcohol than the sergeant. "The fuck even are his responsibilities."

The sergeant's nametag fell off of his vest and he swore as he bent down to pick it up. Patrick looked down at him with disdain. This was the force that had evaded the Affini Compact for three years? Maybe the administrators were smarter than their grunts, these fools could barely outsmart the door to the ship.

The sergeant stood, securing the placard back on his chest with his chewing gum. Patrick squinted, reading the name "Kiper" on the cheap, flaking piece of golden plastic. He'd been too disgusted to read it earlier after the bastard's squad threw Jordan out of an airlock. He smiled when he watched, too. Maybe he'd get lucky and Kiper would die in the crossfire when the Affini came to take the ship.

"Whatever Bosa's responsibilities were, just pass 'em along," Kiper grumbled. "It's a fuckin' kill mission, he shouldn't have to do too much but point and shoot."

Sergeant Kiper stumbled onto the ship, mumbling about a headache. Patrick wondered if these men were reckless or just fools. They were going into Affini space on a kill mission like this? To take down citizens of the empire that crushed the Terran military like bugs? He followed along behind them, hoping that at least the pilot was sober.

He glanced into the cockpit to see that the man flying the ship was mercifully not one of the uniformed rent-a-cops. He did shoot Patrick a scowl, and he wondered what he had ever done to invite the scorn of all of these people. Scorn was part of the job of a professional athlete; back on Terra he couldn't stop himself from wasting nights scrolling through hateful online posts directed at him. But that was quite different to dealing with the hatred of a person who could kill him and face no consequences.

"Bradshaw! Get your pansy ass over here," Cutler barked. Patrick ground his teeth, he wanted nothing more than to show this jackass who the real pansy was here. "Gotta show you the comms panel, it's your station."

All of the distaste was instantly forgotten. Communications panel? Was he lucky enough that they were going to sit him in the exact spot he needed to escape the last of the Accord forever?

Apparently so. Cutler didn't seem to have the first clue how it worked, but he had his deceased comrade's credentials to log into the terminal. He slurred his way through a half-hearted explanation of Patrick's duties on the mission.

"You're gonna watch the monitor and keep an eye out for location pings," Cutler said, reaching into his hip pack and pulling out a flask. "The ship's gotta stay cloaked, so you're also gonna send out dummy signals to bounce off anything you see. Planets, moons, other ships, it throws 'em off our scent. Think you can manage that, jock?"

"I'll do my best, Sir," Patrick said in his best impression of an earnest tone. Cutler nodded, grunted, and took another slug of liquor from his flask.

"Good," he said. "We should be getting in without detection from the weeds, but we'll be in real-speed flight for a while so they can't see us on scans. Once we're on the planet, all we gotta do is open fire on the thieves and then we'll head on back."

"Sounds simple enough," Patrick said. "What's this big red button do?"

Cutler laughed. "Distress signal," he said. "Don't hit that shit. Not unless you wanna end up with a fuckin' worm growing on your spine!"

He slapped Patrick on the back, and the green-eyed boy realized he should be laughing too. His blood froze for a moment there. But Cutler didn't suspect him of anything, he was too drunk and likely too dim. He walked off, telling his squadmates about the "great fuckin' joke!" he just told.

Patrick looked at the red button. Clearly, that would be the most obvious way out. It would also probably light up every monitor on the ship with the fact that he hit it, which would get a pulse rifle fired into his temple. That wouldn't do at all. He'd have to be more subtle about it.

"Strap in for takeoff," the pliot's voice said over the intercom. Patrick complied, while also unhooking the pulse rifle strapped to the wall and inspecting it. He'd never seen one capable of live fire. All of the Crown League academy students learned how to handle guns in case of emergency, but this one was different. It was much heavier, and it hummed with a dangerous energy. The power cells in these things were notoriously unstable at high settings, but no portable weapon could kill quite like one of these.

Jordan Cato flashed across Patrick's mind again, and his face fell. He was the best shot on the team, always had been. They maybe could've helped the Accord with the war if the damn league had just released them from their contracts. But no, apparently the quadrillionaires who owned the teams cared more about adding a few more credits to their hoards than preserving the society they lived in.

He was happy he didn't watch Jordan die. He made that mistake once, the first time a teammate got spaced. Bo Adams didn't make it a month in their new home before he did something to piss off Cashman, Patrick couldn't even remember what it was. Defending Bo got him a brutal shock from his cage and a reminder that stepping a toe out of line was enough to get him spaced. He watched as Bo drifted through space, clutching at his throat and pleading for mercy to an uncaring god.

Maybe Jordan was right, and there was another side humans went to when they died. That was certainly a more comforting prospect than dying in a freezing vacuum and entering a void for the rest of time. If Patrick didn't play this right, he'd find out before the end of the night what happens to a human soul when its body loses its spark.

"Brace for jump," the pilot said. The whole ship hummed, and Patrick gritted his teeth. Jump drives were an adventure at the best of times. They allowed Terrans to cross into the age of spacefaring, certainly, but they also killed a good percentage of the people they tried to transport. Plus, he half-remembered an article saying something about jump drives driving up cancer rates.

Whatever. If this worked, he'd find his way to an Affini who could cure any disease in the universe. From what he heard, they could even do something about the niggling sense of wrongness that pervaded his entire body.

"Initializing," a computerized voice said on the intercom. Patrick squeezed his eyes shut, sending a silent prayer to the stars that the ship would survive the jump. He felt a percussive thump against his chest that forced the air from his lungs, and when he opened his eyes, the display on his screen looked completely different.

"Jump completed, t-minus two hours and five minutes until landing," the pilot said. "Commence usual duties."

Patrick cast a glance over to the main passenger area. The whole squad of pricks was there without a care in the world, passing three flasks around and getting even more drunk. He fought down his instinct to be annoyed, choosing to view this as a blessing. At this rate, he wouldn't have to worry about dealing with them at all. He would only have to tangle with the pilot and presumably an engineer. Jump drives were complex enough that every ship with one needed a dedicated crew member to operate them, as a pilot had enough to worry about without managing that.

He returned his gaze to the screen, taking stock of what he saw. As he understood it, his job now would mostly be confusing enemy scanners. He started with Cutler's suggestion and typed out a dummy signal to send to a nearby planet. The ship's array beamed out <Hi hello, I'm over here/> in binary code, zipping through space and reflecting off of a planet to beam through the cosmos. It was simple process, select a destination, construct a message, hit send. He had two hours to kill before they landed, so he might as well try to fill the time.

"Bradshaw!" Kiper called out after ninety minutes, rising to his feet. "Try not to get us killed on something this fuckin' simple. You ever see a weed die?"

"No sir," Patrick replied, typing out another message to bounce it off of a satellite orbiting the planet they were passing by. "I've never even seed an Aff- um, a weed in person before. Just vid files."

"I have," Kiper said gruffly. "They die loud. All screams and thorns and whipping vines."

"Bullshit you have, sarge," Cutler shot back. "You've never even been to the front lines!"

Kiper whirled on his underling with fury in his eyes, smacking the flask out of his hand. "You callin' me a goddamn liar, boy?!"

Cutler stood, only coming up to his sergeant's chin. "Well I sure ain't calling you to dinner!"

Kiper's nostrils flared, and Patrick looked away as he punched the smaller man square in the face. The men broke out in a fight, all six of them pulled into a scrum. Patrick sighed. Hopefully men weren't likethisin the Affini Compact. All violence and threats and bravado, it made that pervasive wrongness all the stronger.

"Meatheads," a soft voice said behind Patrick. "I don't understand why somebody would ever voluntarily associate with them."

Patrick whirled in his chair to see a sickly thin young man standing behind him, with big brown doe eyes and close-cropped black hair. His stick-thin body didn't fill out his uniform, which hung off of him like old curtains. He surveyed Patrick with a spark of intelligence and suspicion in his eyes.

"Um, you must be the jump engineer," Patrick said, offering up his hand. The young man took it, his spindly fingers half the size of Patrick's own.

"Indeed," he said, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the ongoing fight. "Colin Gore. I barely escaped a Rebellion ship as the Affini ensnared it. The Crown League was the only place left that I could go free of the weeds' influence, so here I am."

"That had to be pretty scary," Patrick said, turning back around to send another signal. This one seemed a good deal sharper than the rest. He could present a problem."

"Quite so, yes," Colin said. His gentle, low tone was far more unsettling than Kiper's yelling and Cutler's slurring disdain. "I was pricked by one of their injectors as I fled, it took a full day in my escape pod before the arousal subsided."

"Sounds awful," Patrick lied.

"Hmm," Colin responded. "You perplex me, Patrick Bradshaw. Why would somebody in your position volunteer for a mission like this? As you can tell, it's not difficult for another one of those disorderly louts to learn to operate this console. I assumed they forced you into it, but Sergeant Kiper informed me that you volunteered."

Patrick's mouth went dry as a bone. He could only hope Colin didn't notice the sweat beading on his brow. He wracked his brains, trying to remember his rationale when he signed up in the first place.

"I wanted to help," he said, feigning comfort. "Sergeant Kiper said they were down a man, and I was in a position to lend my assistance. I couldn't just stand by and let them conduct a mission in enemy territory without a full complement. They've trained me for shit like this since I was a kid anyway."

He risked a glance at Colin, who looked unconvinced. "Is that the case?" The engineer asked. "I suspect you're not telling me the truth, Patrick Bradshaw. Would you like to know why?"

"I bet you're going to tell me no matter what I say," Patrick said, chancing some sarcasm. He saw the ghost of a smile on Colin's face.

"Quite so," he said with a mirthless chuckle. "My father was a high-ranking officer for the lead Terran intelligence agency, Patrick Bradshaw. It was his sworn duty to extract any and all actionable information from malcontents brought before him. I trust I needn't go into detail on his methods when I say that he was an effective interrogator."

Patrick gulped. Colin continued.

"My father's position appointed us an enviable life on Terra, Patrick Bradshaw," he said. "A penthouse apartment in a building that touched the clouds in Shanghai, servants to attend our every need, private tutors to keep my sisters and I out of the filthy public schools. And then the weeds arrived to ruin everything."

His tone didn't change and his voice stayed quiet, but Patrick saw his hands clenched into shaking fists. He sent another signal out from the array, this time bouncing off of the nearby planet's moon. Maybe if he stopped listening, this weird little rich kid would go away.

"They took everything from me," Colin said. "My home, my family, the position my father set aside for me at the agency. And then they have the audacity to turn around and inform us that our system was at fault, and they've constructed something better where up-jumped peasants walk as though they're my equal? I think not."

Patrick fought to keep from shaking. Was he scared or angry? He couldn't tell. The cops may have been brutes, but people as rich as Colin's family were far worse. They were the kind of people who employed these copyright death squads in the first place. Overpowering drunk men was one thing. Talking his way around somebody intelligent and fanatical was quite another.

"I fled to the Rebellion, as it was the one place I could find with any sense left that could manage talents such as mine," he said, reaching into his pocked and pulling out a small remote. "Of course, as the Affini whittled down our fighting force, I had to diversify my skill set. In addition to everything my father taught me, I learned to operate a jump drive as well as anybody in the Accord. I also acquired a great deal of responsibility. Do you know what this is?"

"N-no," Patrick stammered, licking his lips in an attempt to restore moisture to his mouth.

"I thought not," Colin said. "Near-animals like yourself wouldn't have the authority to handle a device such as this. Though I'm confident you're aware of what it controls. Here's a hint, Patrick Bradshaw: you and every one of your teammates have one implanted in the base of your skull."

Patrick's breath caught in his throat. "It's the trigger for the incinerator units," he said.

"Quite right," Colin replied. "If I hold this button for three seconds, every incinerator unit on the ship detonates. It is bio-coded to me, nobody else on the ship is trusted to activate it. I will not hesitate to use this remote if an extreme situation calls for it."

He leaned in, redirecting Patrick's gaze from the monitor to his face with one slim finger. "So I will ask you again, Patrick Bradshaw," Colin said, his finger resting on the button. "Why are you here?"

Patrick froze. Did those rich fucks back on Terra implant their kids with lie deterctors or something? Probably not, but what if he lied again and Colin didn't buy it? Not only would he die horribly, but so would six other men. But if he did tell the truth, he'd probably get spaced! His heart raced as he tried to think of a way out, when the universe was kind enough to provide him with one.

"Affini ship detected," the pilot said. "All crew return to stations immediately, brace in anticipation of possible jump."

Colin scowled and slipped the remote back into his pocket. "We are not finished here, Patrick Bradshaw," he said, his big brown eyes looking more intimidating than should've been possible. "If you do anything to bring about this ship's capture, you will not live long enough to regret it."

The slim young man skulked away, slipping through a tangle of pipes and wires at the back of the ship and down a ladder. Patrick shuddered. That... certainly complicated matters. He hadn't considered the incinerator units in the four microseconds he spent formulating this plan. Would Colin really kill himself and eight other men just for the sake of getting one over on the Affini? It felt irrational, but the Terran upper class wasn't known for their rationality.

The rent-a-cops finally disentangled from their fight, Cutler and Kiper both sporting broken visors and black eyes. The sergeant had several finger-shaped bruises around his neck. If the situation weren't so dire, Patrick would've laughed. That idiot managed to lose a fight to somebody a head shorter than him? It was preposterous.

"Deactivating non-essential systems," the pilot said. "Communications, cloaking, and life support remain functional. Bradshaw, continue with distribution of dummy signals. Danger of capture is too great for the mission to procede as scheduled, once the threat is passed we will jump back to base."

"Bullshit!" Kiper exclaimed. "You're not the one calling the shots here, Pollyanna, we will go on with the fuckin' mission as planned!"

"Negative," the pilot said. "If they've already dispatched a search craft, they are too aware of our presence to proceed with a kill mission. Engineering, prepare for an emergency jump."

"Copy," came Colin's soft voice over the intercom. "Emergency measures are at the ready in the event of the ship's capture."

"Um, the fuck does that mean?" One of the cops interjected.

"It means that the weeds will never get their vines on proprietary Crown League information, regardless of the personal cost, Andrew Colston," Colin replied. "But that should not be necessary unless the unforeseen should come to pass."

"Agreed," the pilot said. "This craft comes equipped with the finest cloaking technology money can buy. It has avoided Compact detection before, it will do so again."