A man walked through the open space between the two sections of soldiers. He was tall, with a quick, purposeful, arrogant stride that indicated he was used to people getting out of his way in a hurry. He was wearing a short, fitted, long-sleeved jacket over a tight tactical shirt, cargo pants, and knee-high boots. At first glance, the garments seemed a dull, flat black, but then the light hit them, bringing out their true deep blue color. A silver bandolier studded with a variety of small objects sliced across his chest. A blaster was strapped to his right thigh, while a silver sword dangled from his belt. A dark helmet covered his head, hiding his features, but I didn’t need to see his face.
Even from this distance, I knew exactly what he was—an Arrow, one of the elite fighters who reported directly to Callus Holloway.
A soldier clutching a tablet scurried forward. She bowed to the Arrow, then showed him something on the screen. I couldn’t hear what, if anything, he said, but for some reason, I couldn’t stop staring at him.
For the third time, footsteps sounded, and two more Arrows appeared—another man and a woman. They were dressed the same way as the first Arrow, although they were wearing different colors, pale blue for the man and dark red for the woman.
That sense of dread swept over me, stronger than before, and my gaze darted from one thing to another. Miserable people on benches being watched by armed guards. A docking bay full of ships. A squad of soldiers. Three Arrows. Everyone readying for battle.
My initial assessment had been correct. I had been forcibly conscripted into the Imperium army, and I was most likely going to die within the hour.
Despite my best efforts to remain calm, a scream rose in my throat, but only a puff of air escaped my lips. No sound of any kind, not so much as a whimper. I frowned and tried again, but the result was the same puff of nothingness. Suddenly, I realized that I was scratching my left arm and that blood had soaked into the sleeve of my white lab coat. Suspicion filled me, and I yanked the fabric up.
A small round disk bulged up against the skin on the inside of my left wrist. Gingerly, I pressed down on the bulge, and a bit of blood welled up around the wound. No, not a wound, an injection.
Someone had injected me with a husher.
The round disks were yet another Kent Corp design and often used in prisons and labor camps when the guards got tired of listening to inmates yell, babble, and curse. I opened my mouth and tried to scream again, but I wasn’t any more successful than before.
I slumped back against the wall, the enormity of the situation pressing down on my chest like a spaceship about to land and crush my ribs to bits. Rowena Kent had handed me over to the Imperium and was going to let them kill me. Or rather, let them send me into a battle where I was almost certain to be killed.
Still, the longer I stared at the husher bulging up against my skin, the angrier I got. Rowena Kent didn’t care about anything but protecting her corporation, wealth, and Regal status. She wouldn’t lose any sleep over what she’d done to me, and she had probably already forgotten my name. But it wasn’t enough for her to just have me killed. Oh, no. The bitch had wanted me to suffer first. She’d wanted me to wake up, realize what was going on, and piss myself, like so many other people languishing on the benches had done.
My anger boiled up, blazing into full-on rage. I might have been conscripted into the Imperium army, but I would not die in silence.
That rage scorched through my dread, and I thought about how I could best improve my situation—or at least get the husher out of my arm.
I glanced toward the open end of the docking bay. Judging from the cruiser’s slight vibrations and the hot air wafting inside, we were in hover mode, probably several hundred feet off the ground. Too high to jump out without a parachute or glider, which, of course, I didn’t have. And given all the guards between here and there, I wouldn’t even make it to the opening to try to jump out into whatever landscape was waiting below.
I looked in the opposite direction. My gaze skimmed over the soldiers, maintenance workers, and hoverpallets. Finally, in the back corner, I spotted something useful: a workstation covered with tools.
I considered my choices. Sit still and stay alive until the battle began, or stand up and potentially get shot trying to help myself survive the coming conflict. Just like back at Kent Corp, I had only bad options. Either way, I was still probably going to die, so I might as well go out with a bang, so to speak.
I let out a silenced breath, then surged to my feet. I tensed and glanced around warily, but no one started shooting at me, so I headed toward the workstation.
One of the guards drifted this way, eyeing me with suspicion, but she didn’t try to stop me, probably because I wasn’t screaming and running away in an obvious escape attempt. The guards were most likely supposed to keep the conscripts in the docking bay, so I was betting they didn’t care where we went, so long as we stayed inside the massive space. Besides, from what I could see, there was only one opening on this side of the docking bay, and it was far too close to the squad of soldiers and the three Arrows for my liking. I might be desperate, but I wasn’t suicidal.
No one called out to me as I strode over to the workstation. Hammers, pliers, and other tools littered the surface, while several sets of light blue coveralls were hanging on hooks on a nearby wall. My white lab coat was streaked with black grease, probably from the bench I’d been slumped on, and the bloodstains on my left sleeve stood out like splotchy bull’s-eyes. Disgusted, I stripped off the coat and tossed it into a nearby recycler.
The guy in the teal loincloth let out a low, appreciative whistle, as though he had never seen a woman in a shirt, cargo pants, and boots before. I flipped him off, which made the female Imperium guard snicker.
I grabbed a set of coveralls, stepped into them, and pulled them up over my hips and shoulders. Maybe the thick fabric would offer some protection from the elements outside the ship if the worst happened and the weather was awful.
I snorted, although no sound came from my lips. Who was I kidding? The worst had already happened, and it was far more horrifying than I had ever imagined.
I zipped up the coveralls, then sorted through the tools on the workstation, but I didn’t see anything that would help me remove the husher. At least, not very easily. I was about to pick up a pair of pliers when a glint of metal caught my eye, and I pulled a dagger out from underneath a pile of melted wires.
A bit of hope rose inside me, and I held the dagger up to the light. The weapon was small, with a silver hilt, but the arrow-shaped blade gleamed with a sharp, opalescent edge, something I tested by deliberately pricking my thumb with it. I silently hissed as a drop of blood welled up and trickled down my skin, but I didn’t want to start sawing at my own flesh with a dull tool that wouldn’t get the job done.
I shoved up my left coverall sleeve, revealing the husher. I grimaced. Even with the dagger, this was still going to hurt—
A shadow fell over me, blocking the light. I shifted to my right, trying to escape the shadow, but it moved with me. I shifted to my left, and the shadow slid that way. Annoyed, I glanced up and opened my mouth, even though my words wouldn’t be heard.
An Arrow stood in front of me.
I froze. No one else had paid much attention to me, so why would this Arrow? I stared, but all I could really see was my own reflection in the smooth, shiny surface of the Arrow’s helmet. Tangled hair, wide eyes, pale face. I looked like a ghost who had somehow come back to life—or someone who knew she was about to die in a matter of minutes.