Mercenaries (2 page)

A movement drew Trin's attention: Elder Jones stepping to the edge of the wooden platform. The wind plucked at the black robes draping his narrow body, sending them fluttering like wings.

“Two hundred years ago the Prophet Orville led our ancestors to this world to live as the Maker intended.” Though his face was pale and pinched, the elder's voice was beautiful, deep and mellow and hypnotic. Sometimes even Trin found herself falling under his spell. “Chief among the Prophet's teachings was that woman should submit to the dictates of her husband, for the Maker gave men superior judgment, just as he gave them superior strength.” He paused to let the message sink in, scanning the crowd for any show of disbelief.

On cue the sheriff pulled the whip from his belt and shook it out, letting the long lash writhe on the scaffold floor. A faint smile of anticipation curved his mouth. Mary stared over her shoulder at him, her face ghastly white beneath the bruise that rode one cheekbone.

No doubt about it,
Trin thought.
I definitely need to get off this planet.

“But Mary Stevens has disobeyed the Prophet's teachings. Her husband tells us that she has neglected her household duties. She burned his dinner three times in the last month alone.” The elder lifted his calfskin-bound book and shook it with theatrical outrage. “Three times!”

“Oh, yeah,” a dry female voice drawled at Trinity's elbow. “There's a whipping offense right there.”

Startled, Trin jerked around to see one of the mercenaries standing behind her. She relaxed. She'd thought for a moment one of the female colonists was trying to tempt her into heresy, a trap Trin had no intention of falling into again.

But this woman was obviously not local. Almost as tall as the sheriff himself, she was dressed in black half-armor that sheathed her shoulders, chest and upper thighs in plates of beamer-resistant Cylar. Twin beamer pistols rode her slim hips, and there was a dirk thrust in the sheath around one arm. Her blond hair was woven into a set of tight, intricate braids probably designed to accommodate a helmet. She looked tough, capable, and exotic, and Trin felt a twinge of bitter envy at her freedom.

It was said the mercs had nanotech implants that gave them inhuman strength. Elder Jones had preached a sermon on that topic just last Friday, ranting that female mercenaries were an offense against the Maker's Order.

Trin permitted herself a brief, pleasant fantasy of what she'd do with a set of implants. Giving the elder a punch in the nose sounded like a good place to start.

For somebody headed for hell, the merc looked pleasant enough. Her gaze was good natured rather than grim, and there was nothing at all masculine in her delicately angular face. She lifted a brow, her expression appraising and amused. “You don't seem to be buying into all this kak-shit.”

“Not particularly,” Trin murmured, careful to keep her voice low. “But since I'm stuck here, I don't exactly advertise my opinions.”

A woman turned to glare at them. Evidently they hadn't spoken softly enough after all. Trin sighed, knowing their eavesdropper would run to some elder the first chance she got.

At that realization, a daring thought sent her heartbeat leaping. If she was headed for trouble anyway, why not go all the way? It wasn't as if she had anything to lose.

Trin tilted her head at the merc in a
follow me
gesture and slipped away from the crowd. The mercenary sauntered after her, curiosity evident on her pretty face.

Up on the scaffold the whip landed with a loud slap. Mary yelped. Trin winced.

“I'd be a lot more impressed by everybody's piety,” the merc muttered, looking toward the scaffold, “if half the men here didn't have hard-ons. Including the sheriff and the guy with the book.”

Despite herself, Trin smiled. “You're not supposed to notice.”

“Well, as hard-ons go, these
would
be easy to overlook.” The merc grinned wickedly as Trin choked on a scandalized snicker. When she got her breath back, the woman stuck out a hand. “Lieutenant Cassidy Vika,
Starrunner
. You're not from around here, are you?”

“Trinity Yeager. And no, we immigrated when I was fourteen.”

“Figured. You're not nearly tight-assed enough to be a native.” Vika gave her an appraising look. “Mind if I ask why you moved to this world to start with? It sure wouldn't be at the top of
my
list.”

Trin laughed shortly. “I doubt Dad was thinking all that clearly when he made the decision.” An old, familiar pain stabbed her heart with such force, she had to look away. “He and my mother were mercenaries. Mom was killed in battle out around NeoGenesis, and he decided it was time to get out of the business before I ended up an orphan. He evidently felt Orville's Paradise would be a good place to raise a kid.” The sherif landed a particularly hard blow, and Mary screamed. “Maker knows why.”

Cassidy rested a hand on one of her beamers and frowned, looking toward the scaffold. “How long is he going to do that? Because if he keeps it up much longer, he's going to start inflicting real damage, and I'm going to have to kick his ass.”

“Actually, that's . . .”

“Fifteen!” the sheriff shouted.

“. . . all,” Trinity finished as the woman slumped, panting, against the post. Her satisfied husband swaggered over to untie her and lead her off.

“Good thing,” Cassidy grunted. “My patience was wearing thin.”

“Mine ran out a long time ago.” This was her chance. Her stomach coiled into a sick knot of hope and fear. “I figure it'll be about a week and a half, tops, before it's my turn for the strap.”

The mercenary frowned. “You? Why?”

She hesitated. If the Temple elders got wind of what she was attempting . . . But the risk was worth it, and she was already in trouble just for talking to the merc. “The elders are holding a bride auction for me next week on my twenty-fifth birthday. I figure my new husband will invent an excuse to send me to the Sinner's Post as soon as he possibly can, just to prove he's in charge.”

Cassidy's blond brows flew upward. “They're auctioning you off? Like a slave?”

“Afraid so.” It felt good to talk about it. Trin had learned years ago that complaining about Orvillian dogma to anybody else only bought her a session at the Sinner's Post. “All the bachelors of Rectitude are expected to turn out for the bid. I'm supposed to marry the winner.”

“Why the hell doesn't one of them just propose?”

“They have. I keep saying no.” Remembering her parade of suitors, Trin grimaced. “None of them is anybody's idea of Prince Charming.”

The mercenary shook her head. “Hell of a birthday present.”

“You're not kidding.” Trin glanced around for more eaves-droppers. The square was emptying out, colonists heading back to work in the surrounding shops and businesses. Some of them gave Trinity disapproving looks as they passed. She lowered her voice. “I've got to get off this planet. Is there any way I can talk to your captain, arrange for passage? I don't have many credchits, but I'm more than willing to join the crew and work.”

Cassidy frowned, her expression doubtful. “Well, we did loose a couple of guys at Dyson's Hole, but . . . I don't know, Trin. My sensors tell me you don't have any nanotech implants. We're a merc company—we fight people that eat unenhanced humans for lunch. Sometimes literally.”

“I could get the implants.” In fact, she'd like nothing better. It would feel good to finally have the muscle to defend herself against people like the sheriff and his son. “Look, yours is the first ship we've seen in Rectitude in three years. The Maker only knows how long it'll be before we get another one, and by then I'll be married. The elders won't be happy about my trying to leave now, but once I've got a husband, he's not going to let me anywhere near another ship.” In her desperation she grabbed the other woman's forearm. “I've got to get out of here
now,
Cassidy.”

The mercenary glanced down at her hand, stiffening. Embarrassed, Trin hastily released her. Cassidy sighed. “I don't blame you. I've visited my share of nutball colonies, but Orville's Paradise seems even nuttier than most.” She hesitated a moment. “You'll find the captain in the Spacer's Tavern by that pitiful excuse for a shuttleport. His name is Nathan August. But I'll tell you right now, you're going to have to talk fast. He's not going to want to take an unenhanced human on, no matter how short-handed we are.”

Trin set her jaw. “I'll convince him.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that. You're going to need it.”

TRIN headed for the shuttleport at a pace just short of a run. The port was located on the outskirts of town, and she had to move fast if she was going to make it before the captain left.

Moving in long strides, she ducked between two shops, her boot heels clicking fast on the pavement. But as she reached the end of the alley, a tall male figure suddenly stepped out in front of her. “Hello, Trinity.”

“Andy.” Trin drew up in dismay.

Andrew Makerson wore the uniform of a sheriff's enforcer, its brown fabric snug across his bull shoulders, black boots gleaming. His white-blond hair was cut in a tight pelt. Like his father, the sheriff, he had a broad, beefy face that would have been handsome if not for the malice in his pale eyes. “Where you headed, Trin?”

Of all her suitors, she feared Andy the most. Still, she was damned if she'd cower. “No place illegal, so I don't see that it's any concern of yours.”

Andy's eyes narrowed. “Since we'll be getting married next week, I think it is. What were you doing talking to that infidel trash?”

Trin bit back her instinctive protest—
We're not getting married, Andrew
—and shrugged. “She said hello, so I spoke.”

“You don't talk to mongrels, Trinity. She didn't look genetically pure to me. Not with those eyes.”

Trin had no idea what it was about Cassidy's eyes that had struck Andrew as nonwhite. Probably some tiny detail only an Orvillian would have noticed. “Next time I'll ask for a DNA scan before I say hello.”

Andrew drew himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders to emphasize their width. “I don't like your tone, Trinity Yeager.” He took a menacing step closer. “You really need to learn your place. And I'm looking forward to teaching it to you.”

Anger made her reckless. “ 'Fraid the lesson'll have to wait, Andy. You're not my husband yet, and I'm not breaking the law.” Lifting her chin, Trin stalked past him. From the corner of one eye, she saw him lift a fist. She tensed, but he didn't hit her.

If he won the auction next week, that would change.

F
IVE minutes later Trin reached the Outworld Quarter. It was like stepping back into the space-faring life she'd known as a child. Unlike the nineteenth-century-style town square, the buildings of the OQ were prefabricated, with curving lines that had probably looked racy and sensual when the structures were new.

Unfortunately, it had been too long since anyone had landed at Rectitude. The cluster of warehouses, restaurants, and hostels were in dire need of a fresh coat of mag paint. Even the computer-run shuttle-control center was starting to look distinctly run-down.

The Spacer's Tavern stood off to one side of the others, as if ostracized by its more respectable peers. Its lines were dumpy rather than sleek, and the air of seediness around it was even thicker.

Trin didn't care. She'd have walked into hell for a chance to get off Orville's Paradise.

“Trinity!” A damp, pudgy hand clamped around her wrist and dragged her to a stop before she could step through the tavern's bat doors. “You're not going into that infidel den of depravity dressed like that! I forbid it!”

God, not another one. Trin shot a cold look at her captor. She was wearing a black unisuit that wouldn't incite a passion-starved trillite miner, but she wasn't surprised at his reaction. Gordon Pureblood made a point of being a prig. “You don't have the authority to forbid me anything, Gordon.”

He glowered at her, his round face petulant. His scalp showed pink through his thinning hair in a sunburn he'd probably acquired watching Mary's punishment. Knowing Gordon, he'd showed up early. “We're getting married next week, Trinity. And I don't think it's appropriate for my wife to—”

“We are
not
getting married,” Trin interrupted, sick of hearing that particular song.

“Yes, we are.” He tilted both his chins. “I've been saving my money for months. I'm going to be the high bidder.”