Fools Rush In (The Interstellar Rescue Series Book 3) Read online

  Books by Donna S. Frelick

  The Interstellar Rescue Series:

  Unchained Memory

  Trouble in Mind

  Fools Rush In

  Fools

  Rush In

  By

  Donna S. Frelick

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Donna S. Frelick

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address INK’d Press at [email protected].

  First INK’d Press edition.

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  The meek shall inherit the earth; the rest of us are going to the stars.

  --Old Earth Proverb

  To kick some alien butt!

  --Rayna Carver, Field Agent,

  Interstellar Council for Abolition and Rescue

  CHAPTER ONE

  The starship’s hold was as dark and humid as a womb, as hot as blood. But Rayna hated the crowding most of all, the slaves packed inside the space like multiple embryos, filling metal scaffolding three levels high. On the lowest level, shoulder to hip with the others, she had to grit her teeth to keep from lashing out at those around her.

  Rayna had lost track of how many in the hold had died, though it was one of her duties to estimate a number. She was too busy trying not to be one of them. Ten ship-days out from the processing center at Del Origa, judging from the tiny blisters that had been reabsorbed into the skin of her belly to help her keep track of time, and they’d been given no solid food and precious little water to cut down on waste. Still the squat toilets overflowed, and the air was a fetid swamp. Illness was common. Misery was universal. The strong preyed on the weak. The weakest died.

  She stood to allow the blood to flow into her cramped legs, careful of her head in the restricted space. Pins and needles greeted the arrival of renewed circulation to her limbs, and she stamped her numb feet on the slimy decking. Her neighbors growled in protest.

  “Yeah? And fuck you, too.” Without appearing to give a centimeter, she shifted to allow them more room. Territory was defended or lost in this place, but she wasn’t a complete asshole. At least one woman next to her was not long for this plane of existence.

  Rayna was in the middle of a much-needed stretch when she froze. She lifted her head, reaching for a fading fragment of sound. She turned to the people at her feet.

  “Did you hear that?”

  They stared at her, eyes dull.

  There it is again!

  “Red alert. We’re under attack.” She could just catch a whisper of the alarms behind the heavy plasteel of the hold, but there was no mistaking that sound. She’d dodged phased energy bursts on enough fighting ships to know.

  No one around her seemed to care. A more immediate threat loomed. Three meters away a girl no more than fourteen was being pinned against the bulkhead by a male twice her size. The girl fought him, but she had no skills, and he had all the advantages. He slapped her, snapping her head back against the unforgiving metal behind her, and ground into her, hip to hip. The girl sobbed.

  “Aw, hell, no.” Rayna ignored her own internal warnings that the man was too big for her—shit, they were all too big for her—and waded through the bodies to get to him. She didn’t bother with a sucker punch, though he was too distracted to see her coming. Instead, she put her boot in the side of the big man’s knee and crumpled his leg. He went down with a howl. Then she dropped her knee on his chest and punched him in the throat. His eyes went wide, realizing he would never draw another breath through that crushed trachea.

  Rayna lifted herself off him as he began to thrash, and started back toward her place against the bulkhead. People stepped all over each other to give her room to pass. She paused to see that the girl was okay. Someone had wrapped her in a hug, an older woman. Good. That’s good.

  Abruptly the ship lurched and slewed to starboard. A startled cry went up from the hold as people were knocked off their feet. Rayna barely managed to stay upright as the deck rolled and pitched beneath her. A series of concussions shook the air around them—deep, thudding, rhythmic. The ship was firing back—plasma cannon, it sounded like. Her briefing hadn’t included the weapons load of her transport.

  Another bone-crushing impact and the lights went out. People screamed, out of fear rather than injury—the bulkheads remained intact. Red emergency lights came on to light the doorways and the lines where the hull walls met the deck. Yet another blast and the artificial gravity faltered, lifting bodies off the deck, then slamming them back in place. People vomited.

  In any other circumstances, now would be a good time to get out of this hellhole. Even on a slave transport in the black of space there were places to conceal yourself if you were trained for it and didn’t have to hide too long. But Rayna Carver had worked her ass off to get inside this hold and, by God, she was going to stay.

  “We’ve got ’em on the run now, Cap.” The Pataran glanced up from the touchscreen set into the console under his hands. “Their shields are down to 30 percent aft.”

  The helm officer grinned. “Confirmed. Heading away from us at 148 mark 22. Full ion speed.”

  Sam Murphy, captain of the Shadowhawk, rolled his shoulders in anticipation. “Well, what are you waiting for, ladies and gentlemen? After them! Pursuit course, helm. Bring us alongside.”

  “Aye, Cap! Pursuit course and speed.”

  “Patel, hail that ship.”

  “Aye, Cap. Hailing . . . go ahead, sir.”

  Captain Murphy stood at his post and watched the visual come up on the main viewscreen. He composed his features, but he didn’t try to hide the hatred and disgust he felt for the captain of the defeated ship.

  The other man, a bloated Ninoctin well past his prime, leapt at the screen. “What is the meaning of this attack?”

  “Well, Captain, I would have thought that was clear enough when we hailed you the first time.” Murphy scratched at his jaw. “We asked you nicely to prepare to be boarded, but you fired on us and look what it got you. My sensors tell me you’ve got no shields. The next time we fire on you, you’ll lose your engines.”

  “Who are you that you dare to interfere with legitimate trade on a protected route in Minertsan space? I’ll have your hide tacked to the bar in the nearest spacers’ hole before this circuit is out!”

  Murphy met the threat with a sly grin. “Well, shall I take each of those issues in order, Captain? You are a slave ship. I hate slavers beyond all reason. I don’t consider slaving legitimate trade—not like hauling malerium crystals or slipping stolen artwork from Ztera Prime. As for this being a protected route in Gray space, I guess not. I’m Captain Solomon Armstrong Murphy of the Shadowhawk, and I don’t think you’ll be in position to tack my hide up anytime soon.”

  The Ninoctin’s neck flanges abruptly tightened, and he slumped back in his seat. “The Shadowhawk. We, uh, we seem to have misidentified you.”

  Murphy shrugged. “We are pirates, after all. False ID beam.”

  The Ninoctin seemed to recover himself with a little smile. “Now, Captain Murphy, perhaps you’ll forgive my . . . belligerence. After all, you have done considerable damage to my ship. I’m not even certain I can make it to my destination now. I suppose I’ll just have to limp back to my home base with my cargo and forego my entire profit from this i
ll-considered voyage.”

  Murphy exchanged glances with his crew and erupted into laughter. “Well, Captain, I have to give it to you, you are the best groveler I’ve had in a while! Go back to home base—no, no, limp back to home base. That’s a good one! With your cargo!” He slapped his helm officer on the back so hard she pitched forward. She was laughing so hard she didn’t seem to notice.

  “No, but you’re right about one thing.” He swiped at his eyes. “You will be foregoing your profit. I’m confiscating your ship and cargo—profits of war. You’ll be glad to know I’m sparing your miserable life for the time being. That could change. You may want to consider a new career.”

  He signaled to Patel to cut the connection and left the Ninoctin gaping at the screen. His Pataran Executive Officer glided to his side. Murphy stood head and shoulders over most of his crew, but he had to look up to see the scowl on Mo Maatik’s dark face.

  “You’re going to remind me the nearest Rescue relocation center is ten ship-days from here in the opposite direction from our planned itinerary,” Murphy said.

  Maatik stared down at him without a word.

  “Then you’re going to say towing that hulk will put undue strain on my engines. And that there’s not enough room between the two ships to house the slaves comfortably. My own crew will be put out. They’ll be unhappy.”

  Mo stared some more. He crossed his arms over a chest the size of a water storage canister.

  Murphy glanced at him. “You’re already unhappy.”

  “Where is the profit in this, Sam?” The Pataran’s voice was pitched for his captain’s ears alone. “Drew Vort is waiting for us in the Norian Sector.”

  Old anger flared in Murphy’s chest. “Vort will still be there when we’re done.”

  “If we don’t make that rendezvous, he’ll come after us. And this time he’ll be out for blood.”

  “Vort owes me blood.” Murphy clenched a hand at his side. “It’s the only reason I agreed to the meet.”

  “That and the credits. Our reserves are low. We can’t afford to do this.”

  Murphy emitted a low growl meant only for the two of them. A quick check of the members of his bridge crew confirmed they were playing deaf and blind.

  “We can’t afford not to do this. Ever. Have you forgotten what it was like in the hold of one of those ships? I haven’t.” He turned toward his helm officer. “Put a tractor on them, Dartha. Patel, get me a boarding party. Full security team.” He glanced back at his XO, who stood without emotion in the center of the bridge. “I think I’ll go with them. Mo, you’ve got the conn.”

  As his data stream collected into flesh and blood in the landing bay of the slave ship, Sam Murphy asked himself what the hell he was doing here. He had crew chiefs fully capable of leading the boarding party. Even now they were doing their jobs just fine without him, spreading the teams out to disarm the ship’s security in the bay and secure the passageways into the interior of the slaver. He strode through the efficient operation, grim and silent, intent on getting to the bridge and the Ninoctin bloatfish who ran this ship.

  He and his crew passed unopposed through the corridors of the massive transport on their way to the ship’s nerve centers—engineering, communications, security, bridge. A large team took the lift down into the belly of the ship, to the hold where Sam knew the slaves would be packed as thick as rock in a fragment swarm. He didn’t go with them. He could imagine well enough what they’d find.

  The ship stank. All slavers had the same stink, a stench their owners couldn’t scrub away no matter how many filters or circulation vents they used. Sam knew if they were to tear this ship apart and rebuild her in spacedock from hull to bridge they could never get rid of that reek.

  They reached the bridge and discovered the captain of the slaver had decided to make a stand after all. The hatch was dogged and sensors showed the Ninoctin holed up with an armed security team and his bridge crew on the other side.

  Sam hit the emergency comm on the bulkhead outside the hatch. “Open up, you shalssiti coward! If I have to blast this hatch, I’ll be beating your fat ass next!”

  “I have several items I wish to negotiate first.” The captain’s voice seemed calm enough.

  Ice replaced the heat under Sam’s skin. “Negotiation is not my strongpoint.” He waved at the men beside him. Laser rifles were brought to bear on the hinges of the plasteel hatch. Blue-white light arced; the area of contact glowed red. Within seconds, the hatch groaned and fell askew with a clang.

  His men stood off to the sides, wary of fire from the bridge, but none came. Sam could see the men on the other side of the hatch were positioned likewise.

  “Throw your weapons out the hatch or we burn you out. You have nowhere to go.”

  “I just want to talk, Captain.”

  “Weapons. Now.”

  The defeated captain gave his orders, and an irregular collection of laser rifles, stunners, electric prods, whipsticks, even a knife or two clattered and slid along the deck through the hatch. Sam raised an eyebrow at the crew chief at his side. The man searched his scanner for any additional powered weapons that might be inside, then gave a nod. Finally, Sam waved his people through. They wasted no time patting down the bridge crew and putting them in restraints.

  Sam inclined his head toward the hatch. “Take them below.” He stopped them before they could leave with the Ninoctin. “Except for him.”

  Like all the males of his race, the captain of the slaver was tall—over seven feet in height—with the elongated skull that gave the Ninoctins an almost comical hangdog look. In this man’s case, the expression was accentuated by the fear that his life was about to end in the most gruesome manner—gutted by a pirate with a known reputation for brutality when it came to certain tradesmen.

  It was a reputation that Sam Murphy cultivated with fervor. And the look he was seeing in the Ninoctin’s yellow eyes was one he lived for.

  “I ought to shoot you out the nearest airlock.”

  The captain’s neck flanges quivered. “But you promised you would spare my life!”

  “That was before you tried your little Xandoran standoff. Now I’m unhappy. People could’ve been killed.”

  “But Captain Murphy,”—the Ninoctin spread his hands in supplication—“no one was hurt. I had no intention of letting things go that far. I simply wanted to make certain my crew was taken care of.”

  “Your crew.” Sam made no secret of his skepticism.

  “Of course. I need to know your intentions for us—uh, them.”

  Sam barked out a laugh. “My intentions? Captain, believe me, I have the worst of intentions. I intend to dry-fuck you all and never call you again.”

  Since the Ninoctin looked thoroughly confused, Sam elaborated in clear Galactic Standard. “I am towing your ship to the Fontax spaceport on Madras III, a journey of ten ship-days. There you and your crew will be delivered to local authorities for prosecution under sector penalties against trafficking in sentient species. The people aboard your ship—those you refer to as your cargo—will be placed in the care of representatives of the Interstellar Council for Abolition and Rescue to be repatriated or resettled. Oh, and your ship will be sold on the open market for my trouble. Should be worth a good deal of trouble—she looks like a trim ship, even if she is a stinking slaver.”

  The Ninoctin’s normally pasty skin went even paler under this assault. Sam understood. Death was one thing. The end of one’s livelihood was something else, especially to a Ninoctin of a certain age. Throw imprisonment into the mix and things could get volatile. Sam watched as the captain of the slave ship began to fall apart.

  “You . . . you—” He fell into a string of unintelligible Ninoctin curses. “It’s true what they say about you. Son of a whore-mongering ptark! I’ll cut your balls off and have them for dinner!”

  The Ninoctin rushed him then, something glinting in his right hand. Sam dodged to the left, placing his body on the outside of the man’s thrus
t just in time. He grabbed the wrist with both hands and twisted, but his opponent was meaty and had a firm grip on the slim knife. Sam pivoted before the bigger man could use his other hand to brain him and drove a knee into the side of the Ninoctin’s leg, hoping to hit the joint, a release point, anything, though gods knew where those things were on a mulaak Ninoctin.

  The captain began to buckle. Sam came over the top of his arm with his elbow, cranked some more on the wrist and sat down, forcing the Ninoctin to the deck. There was an audible crack, something giving way on the man, and his grip on the knife slipped at last. Sam slammed his elbow up and back into the captain’s chin. He spun and straddled the man, the knife in his own hand now and at the Ninoctin’s throat.

  He wanted to kill the sonofabitch. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t, you fucking bastard.”

  “Captain?”

  The word sifted past the red haze in his mind. The urge to drive the knife in his hand into the pulsing flesh of the Ninoctin’s throat was a compulsion as fundamental as his heartbeat. Blood welled around the blade.

  “Captain Murphy! Sir!”

  He held. Focus returned, and he saw the terror in the captain’s eyes below him, the gritty gray deck, the lights of the bridge. He looked up to see his crew chief—Blindar—watching him. Waiting.

  He took a breath. Backed off and stood up. Gave Blindar the knife.

  “Get this slave-trading piece of shit out of my sight. And the crewman who missed that knife in the body search is confined to quarters for the night.”

  Blindar motioned to the two crew members standing closest to him. “Take him down to the hold with the others.” As they scraped the blubbering slaver off the deck and hauled him away, Blindar turned to his captain. “Sir, we have an unusual problem belowdecks.”

  Sam pushed a shaky hand through his hair. He hadn’t lost control like that since . . . not for a while. Fucking slavers. He looked at his crew chief.