The Auditor

Act 4, Scene 2

A Moreauverse Novella

He landed near Baron and Rakshasa. “Either of you seen the Associate?"

Both of them shook their heads. “No." Baron said, ears and whiskers twitching in concern. “After he got the first group to the landing and told us where to go he said he was going to go back, take up the rear guard with you."

“I never saw him." The tiger reported. “I was the last off, before the security team."

Salen was not among the crowd where his stark black fur and lush tail would have stood out.

“Go ahead, I need to go back and find him." He turned but a huge, sharp clawed hand clamped down on his shoulder firmly.

“No. Th' core is too vast fer you t' be searchin' in th' dark, fer all o' us to search. If something's happened to 'im we can do nothing but go forward. Is what ye want, is what 'e wanted. Ye go, we all lost in th' dark, human. They be followin' ye, no Baron 'er meself. Ya gots t' continue forward!"

Johan sought to jerk his shoulder away but the tiger's grip was unbreakable. “No, I must go find him!"

“'E'll find us if'n 'e can, man!" The tiger snarled into his face. “I be carrin' ye if I has ta. Now, we go!" He hauled Johan toward the elevators, bypassing the queue that had formed awaiting the next lift car, and held him in place despite his writhing and protests until the door opened. He was bodily thrust in and the crowd pressing in directly behind him, flowing around the tiger, pushed him solidly against the back wall.

“Salen, no! No! I must find him!" The door, unheeding, hissed shut with deadly finality.

After conducting the first group to the landing and securing the emergency light that would act as a beacon Salen moved back along the line of beacons as each group made their way across the void. Other than the lights each was heralded by the terrified yowls and shrieks of children, and some adults, moving for the first time across the inky blackness of the core. He swung up above the line at somewhere around its middle point, occasionally sweeping in to gather up those who strayed. That was usually due to only passing familiarity with their thruster packs sending them careering off at unexpected angles. Salen would swoop in, carefully arrest their momentum, give them a quick refresher course on the control module, and send them back on their way before returning to his post hovering high above.

The groups began to peter out until there were only three sets of beacons were left on the landing to the stockade; Johan and two others Salen could not identify from five hundred meters away. He angled toward the path they would take to intercept.

And that's when something struck him; a sharp, painful sting in his neck just above the protection of his micro-woven armored clothing. Sufficient to slow a pneumatic flechette, and stop a blade, it would never have withstood anything more powerful. Or, in this case, protect him from whatever bit painfully at his neck. A moment later pain flooded through him, his muzzle opening in a started trill of agony, but the shock had stolen his voice, arresting his breath within his throat.

As he writhed a form drifted closer with the soft hisses of a thruster pack but there were no beacons. In the darkness they were a wraith, only a face lit by Salen's beacons above dark clothing leering hungrily at him as they came around to face the stricken canine moreau. Confident in Salen's incapacity they maneuvered closer, reaching around to tinker with Salen's pack until his beacons blinked out.

In the darkness of the void the black furred skunk shaped moreau simply… disappeared from sight as did his attacker, vanishing utterly to anyone more than a couple of meters away. Before a greater darkness rose up and stole his sight Salen felt himself being dragged through space, wind whipping at his fur, but there was no sense of direction. No up, down, in or out, simply motion.

And then a darkness greater than the void.

When he regained his wits he had no idea how much time had passed. His body ached horribly, every muscle slack with over-exertion and his thoughts were muddy. He was no longer wearing his pack, nor a stitch of clothing, and was lying on his back. A laborious shift of an arm was met almost immediately with resistance, as did his head and legs. He was strapped down on something, secured at wrists, ankles, and neck. It was still dark, though less fathomless, a light moving somewhere nearby as rough-hewn corridor walls slid past far above. He rasped a breath and tried to look around, to figure out where he was, to reach out to the ghost only to receive silent absence in return.

“Ah, awake again." A voice said from somewhere above his head. “I would have expected you to be out hours yet, animal, after a stunner hit that strong."

“Brady?" Salen rasped through a throat that felt as if he had been screaming for hours. The man's scent gave him away, and that familiar servile tone. “What the -"

“Oh, thought I would have lit out with Jeyev and the others?" The man chuffed a laugh as the blank stare of a dead overhead light slid across Salen's vision, defined solely by the ambient glow of Brady's light. “No, you he promised to me. Another pelt and polished skull to add to my collection. You'll see it shortly, and be amazed." The conveyance continued to move inexorably toward its destination but Brady stopped to let it pass slightly so that he could look down upon his prisoner. “I'll let you enjoy the sight for a good while, until you no longer have either voice or sanity." His eyes gleamed as he met Salen's, the hunger almost palpable, as dangerous a predator as the enhanced dog had ever encountered. His eyes promised violence, but not the brutal touch of a fist or boot, but the protracted exercise of a practiced butcher. “But first I need to get off this rock. I'll bring you along, of course, because it'll be a long trip and I do need some entertainment."

Salen sensed a change in the air and the echoes of Brady's voice as the walls, already distant, receded away, the ceiling high disappearing abruptly up into darkness. Most of the echoes bespoke of rock, hard and unyielding, but that soon transitioned to boots on metal and Salen's conveyance pitched slightly upward; a boarding ramp. Lights blinked on, blinding in their intensity and Salen slammed his eyes shut. He strove against the bindings but they held fast, muscles overloaded by the stun charge too weak to offer much contest against them. At the top of the ramp he saw the frame of the access bay slide past his vision, and then… a horror that made his heart flip and his fur bush.

Pelts, drawn taut and meticulously groomed, tacked to the walls of the chamber he was guided into. Many were raccoon; gray furred and black striped, vacant holes staring out of masks empty of muscle and bone. There were others as well, if fewer; a deer, many varieties of canine and feline, arms outstretched and genetically granted fingers spread upon metal frames. Above each a skull was mounted, ostensibly of the pelt's former owner, empty sockets staring down at him. Beyond the pelts, which crowded the walls, the smooth polished metal and heavy reinforcing ribs of a pressure hull bespoke of a cargo pod.

“Jeyev was the only one who knew about my ship, but never where I kept it." Brady said as the conveyance stopped and he went about securing it in place, heavy metal clamps slamming down with noisy metal clangs. “I found this nice little hangar, completely off the station network, fed from a very old micro-reactor. This is where they first began excavating, I figure, then abandoned when they established the cap and ejecta modules. A nice, forgotten, undetectable hole just for me and my fun." Brady leaned over to look down at Johan, his cheeks ruddy with expectation. “You'll be the crown of my collection, whatever you are, dog or skunk or cat I don't know, and don't care." He patted Salen's furred cheek and, when he tried to jerk his head away, tweaked his plentiful whiskers painfully. “Now, now, we'll have plenty of time for all of that once we're on our way to jump radius."

Turning, Brady strode away, a confident, jaunty tempo to his echoing booted steps.

For several minutes Salen did nothing, could do nothing, but lay there immobilized, staring at the macabre pelts and their bony witnesses mounted above. He seethed at himself for being so easily captured, after half a decade of intensive physical and inducted training. He should have sensed Brady approaching, heard the sound of his thruster pack. Hell, just smelled him nearby! Fear and grief warred with his self-recrimination as he gazed up at the polished yellow-white bone of a raccoon's fleshless skull when he heard a click.

It did not come from above him, toward whatever control deck Brady's ship utilized, where the sounds of startup continued unabated. No, that click had come from down toward his feet, but he could not lift his head enough to look. He knew enough not to cry out, though his limbic hind-brain was demanding he scream out for help with everything he had.

Or had left, at least.

Then the smell came to him on the air drifting in from the open ramp; moreau, canine, female. He flexed his toes to give whomever was out there, if they were looking into the ship, some sign that he was still alive and not some cadaver laid out on a slab. Then careful, quiet sounds came from the direction of his feet. Not the approaching click and hiss of a claw tipped foot pad but subtle, gentle metallic sounds. Tapping, the soft squeal of a hinge turning, the muted grinding hiss of a panel moving. For several minutes he listened, one ear turned toward Brady in the cockpit, the other toward his feet or as much as he could get it so turned. Then the metallic noises reversed; grind, squeak, tap tap tap.

Then silence.

In the cockpit the sound of Brady's startup sequence slowed, paused, backed up and repeated several times as he muttered and finally let out a sharp curse. The sound of his booted feet stomping back toward the cargo bay and his prisoner echoing loud from the walls of the hold, muted in spots by the absorbing fur of his trophies.

He stalked angrily past Salen without a glance, the ramp booming as he descended. Before the metallic booms transitioned to stone, however, he let out a startled human yelp. A snarl cut the silence, flesh striking flesh, the sound of someone falling and, from the clatter of equipment and boots it was Brady.

“You fucking bitch!" He heard Brady bellow, then another smack of flesh against flesh, a grunt, a cursed oath. “I should have put you on the wall long ago!" The sound of shuffling, Brady regaining his feet, staggering, the scent of blood reaching Salen's nose and he struggled vainly against his bonds. The one at his throat was snug enough to choke him as he fought, black spots swimming against the light. “But no. He wanted to make an example, show everyone he was in control, their master, their fucking KING." Booted feet running, a bellow as he charged, the skirl and hiss of padded footpads and claws on stone. A snarl, the sound of impact, grunts of struggle.

“You forget, human." The voice snarled; female, canine, absolutely enraged. “They made us stronger than you to put our bodies to work so they could bask in their laziness." Another rushing close, grunts, snarls, a short canine squeal of shock and pain cut by a snarl at the end.

“So you came to get your tail raised, one last time, before I strip that worthless hide from your carcass?" Brady challenged, his voice quavering past a mouthful of substance; blood? How badly had she injured him? “Maybe make that animal in there watch, yes, so he'll know what's in store."

A sharp canine snort of derision, claws scraping stone. “Even if I were still a virgin you aren't man enough for me to notice. Not even enough to tear my veil for the first time." The canine barked a laugh, boots and claws circling on stone, across metal, the ramp thumping and echoing. “You've no manhood to be your pride, so blood and death compensates. The smallest toe of your clawless foot is bigger than your dick."

Another rushing close of claws and boots, impact with a wheezing grunt of released breath followed by a flurry of fleshy blows punctuated by short human grunts of exertion. Then a snap and a bellow of pain. Another clatter of gear and boots. “I am not like you furless fucks." The female moreau snarled in restrained fury. “I do not kill, for sport or for life." Another snap, another yelp of pain, the sound of padded feet tipped with claws ascending the ramp.

The light shifted across the walls and trophies, reflections from someone at Salen's feet. A short jerk and they were suddenly free, and his savior moved into sight, a wicked looking blade descending toward his wrist.

“Lara." Salen croaked through his restraint-bruised throat. She glanced up at him, meeting his gaze, the fury melting from her warm brown eyes as she smiled a toothless smile. “Stars, how?" She turned her attention away, leaning across him, unclad fur swathed breasts brushing his chest and groin as she cut through the strap holding his other wrist.

Then she moved for his throat. “Nose, silly boy." She hooked a finger under the strap, making it bind more firmly for the moment it took her to slice through it with the wicked edge of the blade. “Smelled him in the core. I would know that smell anywhere, no matter how diffuse, so I followed it." Freeing his neck she set the blade aside and shifted an arm under his shoulders, helping him sit up and turn to drop his legs over the side of the gurney. “Fucker took my teeth. I'd love to take his, right now, the same way but there's no time. The Auditor has gathered up the others, they're making their way to the freighters to evacuate."

A klaxon suddenly began blaring, though it was more of a muted buzz than the normal docking alert. Salen felt a subtle shudder through his backside on the gurney and Lara through the pads of her feet. They both glanced at each other, eyes going wide.

“Fuck!" Lara cursed, trying to haul Salen to his feet and doing little more than making them both stagger drunkenly when his weight fell against her.

“Stunner shock." He admitted as he leaned heavily against her, his muscles all jelly. “Muscles still fucked." A loud squeal began at the back of the bay, echoing loudly from the hard stone. “Go, Lara, run! If you get to Johan - The Auditor - tell them where I am, or was. Go!"

Lara hauled at him, one arm under his and around his back. “Come ON! I can drag you!"

“No!" Salen rasped, slumping back against the cot. “Go, get back to the others! You can run, so fucking do it!"

She let out a sharp, pained whine. “I didn't come all this way to save you just to run, now!"

Salen leaned in, grabbed her head, and hauled her in to place a powerful kiss upon her toothless muzzle. “You saved me from him, now save yourself!" He pushed her away as much as his flaccid muscles would allow, which was not much. The shrieking grew louder, someone was forcing the outer hangar door. “Go!" He pushed again and, with a piteous whine, she looked at him, at Brady who was laboriously trying to rise, and then back.

Then she fled, leaping gracefully over Brady, claws skirling on the stone floor as she darted for the corridor beyond, disappearing into darkness. Brady slowly drew himself upright, swaying, one arm dangling useless at his side, dislocated at the shoulder and broken at the forearm. He fumbled with something on his hip, awkwardly reaching across his body; a sidearm. “Cowardly bitch." He slurred, blood spattering from his lips, his chin mouth and chin vibrant red from a broken nose and a cut above one eye. “At least I get to -" He turned his head slightly and raised the weapon, but not toward Salen.

Loud, squealing chirps echoed from the walls. Two impacts struck Brady in the chest, exploding out his back in geysers of blood and viscera. A third plowed into his face, just above his nose, blowing both eyes from their sockets as the back of his skull vented rearward, vacating the hollow where his brain had been. His body toppled backward like a felled tree, his emptied skull making a flat wet sound when it struck stone.

Heavy booted footsteps echoed back into the cargo container from the walls as whomever had violently ended Brady's sociopathic tendencies surrounded the ship. A head briefly popped around the corner of the open hatch above a long, heavy looking railgun. It pointed at Salen, slumped against the cot, then tracked the rest of the pod.

“Holy fucking whore of Satan." The owner of the rifle rasped in shock upon seeing the walls of the pod. “Sarge, you gotta fucking see this!" Behind the opaque visor of the speaker's helmet the voice was female, the physique of the combat armor defining her curves. She kept panning her weapon around the hold though not at Salen, who remained unmoving against the gurney.

Two other suits moved into view, at the end of the loading ramp rather than peering around from the side. One had a yellow diamond with stylized flames around it and a smaller trio of pips in the center, the one beside them with only two pips and the female's, still couched just around the side of the ramp, was not visible.

“Identify yourself." Three pips ordered firmly as Salen cowered. He immediately slumped to the floor, dropping to his knees, arms outstretched and hands open, before kowtowing down fully. Abasing himself toward them, recalling days long past where he had performed the same posture, tail flat out behind him, for his first masters. They had not been cruel, but neither had they been kind. Cruelty often came from his fellow moreau servants in the Household.

“00-Kine/Mar-007-SEL." He said in his most respectful, and pitiful, rasp. “Seven, it was called, masters."

Three pips grunted. “Never seen your like before, prototype?"

“This one knows not, master." Salen said, keeping his head as low as possible yet still able to speak. “Patent information not provided to it during gestation nor provided subsequent to awakening. Culled to this place, unfit for desired gestational function."

“What happened here?" The man demanded, waving the arm of his suit at the cargo hold. It was not the terrifying powered armor that some military contractors used, but was still more than sufficient to instill fear in those facing it. “Who did this?"

“That one, masters, the deceased one. This one was to be his next… uhh… trophy." He acted suitably terrified and, in truth, he had been until Lara's miraculous appearance. “Captured during evacuation, they meant to take it on this ship for torture and to be… on the wall."

Heavy booted feet crept up the ramp but, with his head bowed to the floor, Salen could not observe who was approaching. They stopped just beyond Salen's outstretched arms. “Straps on the gurney were cut, sarge. Someone worked that sack of shit over pretty good before we got in. Got a skinning blade here." The woman reported, turning slightly in place to examine the gurney. He heard the soft rasp of metal when she picked up the knife. “You did this?"

“This one got master's blade, cut itself loose when he was powering up to take off. Left blade behind, on table." Salen said to the floor, his voice still raspy through his bruised throat. His muscles were still weak due to the stunner but were beginning to regain their strength, if slowly. That had been one powerful hit. “Master saw this one get free, caught it at end of the ramp trying to escape. We fought. This one meant to get back to the blade but masters arrived."

“To kill him?" Three pips asked suspiciously. Most artificially gestated moreaus had a proscription against harming humans hard-wired into their brains during the growth process.

“This one sought to try, masters, else this one would perish and become… display."

“On your feet, morrie; Seven." Three pips, ostensibly the sergeant, ordered. Salen moved to rise and a strong, firm hand slipped under his arm to all but haul him to his feet. While not complete power armor the suits were obviously augmented for strength, she lifted him easily, clamping a hand on his upper arm firmly, but not painfully, to keep him upright. “Do you seek to kill?"

“This one does not, master. Threat to life deceased." Salen wavered in place, not entirely an act. His legs were still a bit wobbly.

“Aykay, then. You know this place?"

“Not where this one is now, master, no. It knows inner station, core, elevator to command cap. Deceased one said this location not mapped; secret."

“Given this mess I can see why." The sergeant said with a grunt and a shake of his opaque helmet. “Grady, any info on the ship?"

A voice from somewhere Salen could not see outside of the ship echoed from the walls. “Modified fuel transport, limited jump capabilities. Someone's made garbage of the power distribution node from the reactor. She's not going anywhere without a bit of repair."

“Okay, folks, let's move out. Falcon Three has gained access to the upper hangar. One ship managed to evade them and escape, so the Kiplinger and Pride are going to hold standoff overwatch. We're to rendezvous with those teams in what they're calling the core, some sort of hollowed out chamber in the center of this rock. Round up any morries you find, and humans who surrender or are unable to fight, bring them to the core for transport. Weapons free but, remember, no energy discharge under any circumstances. Magnetic or pneumatic only."

There were affirmative grunts all around and armored soldiers Salen had not previously seen filtered past the ship, a few casting glances back and in at the macabre display before hastening on. The female soldier, her suit emblazoned with the same flame wrapped diamond that held a single pip, pulled Salen toward the door, firmly but not ungently, until he staggered. “What's with you?" She asked as she righted him with a lift upon his arm.

“This one was struck with a stunner, master. It has not regained full use of its muscles, yet."

“Well, shit." She said and then, turning, dropped both hands to his waist, hoisted him easily from the floor and flopped him over her armored shoulder like a towel. He braced his hands upon the large pack she wore, its contents unknown, as she trotted to catch up. He saw, from his inverted pose, that four soldiers had remained behind. He also saw that some sort of vessel was moored at the hangar door which had been forced open. It created a seal and its interior was brightly lit but, other than the racks that had restrained the armored suits, there was nothing to see.

Twenty meters from the ship a vast opening yawned in the rock; the corridor Salen had been brought through. It was vast, at least twenty or so meters in diameter, clearly made by some manner of vast boring machine. Brady had said it was the initial point of entry when mining began. Being at the central point of gravitational rotation would have made managing the mass of the borer easier to control and simplify ejecting debris while the void was hollowed out to create the core.

In all likelihood that was where the first transport ships maneuvered during early operations, loading up in the center of the station and following the vast bore hole out. Those had been, of necessity, smaller ships that did not require the gravity assist like much larger ones might, the ones currently docked in the freighter bay.

Where Johan was, he hoped, escaping.

Johan was not, in fact, escaping. After exiting the emergency lift they were met by a group of the Leftenant's soldiers. She had posted four of them to keep the elevator bay secure. When Johan emerged from the elevators, shell shocked and beside himself with worry, one approached him.

“Auditor. LT and the rest kept on down the corridor. Everything's clear and secure the last we were informed. Once we get everyone assembled we'll head down the corridor. We will have to pass through the press room to reach the hangar which will be a choke point that'll take this group quite a bit of time to traverse."

“Press room?" Johan asked numbly, his mind elsewhere.

“It's where robots press the raw crackle into ingots for shipment. Automated, but all that's down right now with the power out. Crackle dust is on everything so we'll have to be careful not to cause any sparks. The bullets in our weapons are almost entirely lead and some other stuff to eliminate sparks, but anything metal could cause one, even if just static."

Johan turned a hollow-eyed glance back at the ever-increasing press of moreau and human bodies filling the elevator bay, blocking him from returning, to hunt for his lost skunk shaped dog. “Fur." He pointed out, his voice flat.

“Not going to be an issue. The food contains a natural oil that will inhibit static in their fur and, besides, they're shoeless. They'll naturally ground themselves."

“If you say so." He shrugged. “Because if we're wrong none of us will ever notice the pop that ignites this entire powder keg."

“Yeah, tell me something I don't know… ah, sir." The man offered a wavering smile.

A few minutes later Rakshasa appeared and let them know that the last of them had come through. Still no Salen, though. The tiger caught Johan's desperate glance past him, toward the now empty elevator bay, and stepped into his possible path with a hard, but not unkind, expression on his broad, striped muzzle. Johan had a job to do, one that superseded the life of one lost moreau.

To get them away from this place.

The muscles in Johan's jaw jumped as he nodded acknowledgment and waved for the soldiers to lead them on. He had a duty to fulfill before he could assume a more pressing, more personal duty. Once they were safely aboard the freighters he would turn back for Salen, no matter the risk or the cost, or what he might discover.

Salen was his only true priority.

A dim, almost felt more than heard, sound vibrated through boots and paws and made ears twitch as they hastened down the corridor. A few additional soldiers, posted in empty rooms such as laundry, galley, temporary housing, and infirmary joined the throng, collapsing inward toward the hangar bay where, hopefully, the Leftenant had secured their escape.

“What is that noise?" Johan asked as a much more noticeable, ominous rumble reached even his human ears.

“Debris in the ejecta chute. Without gravity plating to keep it in the center of the chute the coriolis effect of rotation is making it fall into the walls."

“And that won't create a damn spark?" He grunted, surprised. He had not imagined how many megatonnes of discarded rock might still be tumbling out of the reducer, even without power, accelerating down the kilometers long tube as the station's rotation imparted weight upon their mass.

“Discharge is hard vacuum, that saps any heat that might be generated. Any residual crackle can't be detonated by compression so the impacts won't be a problem. Well, unless you happen to be in the tube, itself."

Like the former commander, Nan, and his staff.

Other, sounds, however, did attract the soldier's attention as they approached the far end of the corridor where the doors to either side became more numerous. Shouting, the heavy thwack of frangible or malleable weapons fire hitting metal and rock, the heavy tread of armored boots.

Johan threw out an arm, expecting Salen to immediately take charge of the refugees pressing close in behind but, of course, no one was there to see his silent order. After a moment of confusion he turned and motioned hastily for the crowd to fall back, thrusting his hand left and right; get in the rooms, out of the corridor.

The crowd melted silently away, any hushed talk abruptly silenced, and the soldiers they had filtered out until only they remained behind with those securing the corridor under the Leftenant's orders.

“What the hell is that?" Johan asked of the soldier in the lead, the two bars on his uniform identifying him as a junior non-commissioned officer; corporal or petty officer depending on how rank was structured on the facility.

“Weapons fire." The man pointed out. Obviously, it was unmistakable.

“I can hear that, but who is shooting at whom? And why?"

“Remember the ships?" The corporal asked as they sidled up to a large open hatch, secured to one wall by a short length of chain designed for the purpose. “Three of them were lighters, probably troop ships. One of them has probably landed a boarding party that's holding the freighter bay."

“From the sounds of it the fighting is in there." Johan pointed toward the open hatch. In the darkness beyond he could see lights rapidly moving, sweeping in every direction, etching out the lines of massive industrial machines in stark shadows.

“Probably more cover in there." The soldier sidled up to the door, his light off, and peered inside. “Yeah, they're fighting in there. No clue who's where so no one's going in." He waved an arm back in an easily read sign to 'fall back'. “We take up posts in these support areas, wait it out. I don't have any schematics without the computer." He tapped the dark plate of glass extended across the eyeline of his helmet; a HUD without any data to bother illuminating.

They fell back into the adjoining rooms where they could hold cover and engage anyone that emerged from the cargo handling bay. After several minutes a light brightened and shone out of the door, bobbing as its bearer charged the door, fetching up against one side, panting hard.

“Anyone here? Harcourt, Trent?" The winded soldier called out, though in a hushed, urgent voice. “LT's pinned down, if anyone can hear me, we need support. PMC's holding the hangar, we can't secure it. Anyone?"

Johan watched the dark door across the corridor but none of the soldiers within appeared, hunkering back in the shadows created by the new arrival's helmet mounted light. Then, further down the corridor, someone peeked out from their concealment, just enough for their face and weapon to be visible.

“Dog dick." The peeking face said, just loud enough to be heard down the corridor.

“Raccoon pussy! Farmer, stars damn you." The soldier at the cargo handling door snapped back, just as quietly. “It's hot, tight, and furry."

“Hot and hard, you mean, and I don't choke on hairballs!" Farmer replied, sidling out but keeping low and to one side, his own light set to its dimmest level. “Sitrep?"

“No one's down, a few are hit but not bad. PMC's hunkered tight just inside the machine room." The man at the door hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “LT's in the center with six other guys, holding some sort of control booth that gives them a full field of fire. No idea how many of the boarders they've taken down, but traded hit for hit."

“Can we get in and flank them?" The corporal asked from across the corridor, slipping forward enough to be seen from the position of the two soldiers but not the cargo room door.

“Yeah, left and right, but goin' in on midnight mode." The soldier replied, tapping his light and dimming it rapidly until it barely illuminated the floor at his feet. Johan stepped out, still keeping low and to the wall.

“That has got to be the strangest fucking challenge and response I've ever heard." He said with an incredulous shake of his head. “Quick thinking."

“Yeah, well," the soldier from the cargo room hooked a thumb at the one named Farmer. “Fag, all the way. Me, I'm straight."

Farmer snorted in the back of his nose. “So says you, after I've gulped enough of your spunk for ten kids. And can you really be straight if you're shagging a 'coon?"

“Boys, enough of your testosterone bragging, can we get in and support the Leftenant, or not?"

“Yes, sir." The 'straight' soldier said with a quick nod. “We can get in, keep to the wall left and right. Goes maybe fifty, sixty meters to the gantry supports either way. We can gain access to the gantry catwalks or cross over the transfer conveyors, catch them in a crossfire and push them back out into the freighter bay."

“And then what, they still hold the hangar. They can cover the doorway indefinitely." Johan challenged, dimming his own light to a midnight glow.

“We can push 'em out." Straight soldier said. “There's a service catwalk around the top of the hangar to service the transfer system. No ladders up from inside the hangar, two access hatches from this side. There's also the conveyors, which extend into the hangar for loading. Those have big ass doors though, I doubt we could get them open even if we could release the manual locks."

“First things first, let's get the LT some breathing space. Figure out the manpower you need and split into four teams. Two each left and right, one of each up to the catwalks. We'll rain hell down on them until they retreat, then secure the cargo area before pushing further."

“Good enough plan. Where is everyone? Just you guys?"

“Nah." Farmer said, giving a low, three tone whistle that rose and fell. After a few seconds he gave two more short whistles followed by a longer single note. Armed bodies, human at first with moreaus following, emerged from doorways along the corridor."

“That's what I'm talkin' about, fuck yeah." The straight soldier said as he bobbed his head. “Split 'em up, keep the morries spread even among us, tell them to follow our lead. Heck, put them ahead because they've got the noses and ears to figure shit out better than we can. Any of them trained?"

The question filtered through the hushed crowd of security and moreaus, a few of the latter putting up tentative hands. After their experiences the last several months, or even years, few of them were wholly trusting of the security forces that kept them oppressively in check. Those same humans offered a route of escape from the hell the facility had become so they were willing to throw their lot in, regardless.

After some more wrangling two groups lined either side of the hallway while the sounds coming from the cargo bay petered off to brief, rapid exchanges and then silence once more. During one of those spates of violence in the darkness the soldiers placed in leadership positions waved their arms in circular motions and darted for the door. Their squads followed quickly behind, boots thumping and claws scraping.

Johan found himself following a relatively slim, striped tail behind a hulking form through the door and immediately to the right. Rakshasa followed doggedly on the heels of the human in front of him, a long rifle held as easily in one massive hand as Johan held is sidearm. After an interminably long trot the line staggered to a halt, kneeling and holding tight to the wall. They could hear voices from across the vast chamber; shouted orders, questions, answers.

Nothing from above.

A soldier pointed forward, to the right, and then up. Two soldiers shifted out of the line, followed by the tiger, with Johan a pace behind. They found two soldiers at the base of a ladder, illuminating it dimly with their helmet lights. The four of them swarmed up, not nearly as silent as Johan would have wished, Rakshasa's weighty tail bumping against his head with each rung, smelling powerfully of cat.

Cat, and pungently male. The tiger was still wearing the garish harness they had seen under his robe during their initial meeting and nothing else.

The climb up seemed as long as the jog to the ladder and the catwalk was unpleasantly loud. With their lights off, going only by the feel of the safety railing under one hand, they were nothing more than noise in the darkness, not even shadows against black. A few desultory shots winged their way, clattering through machinery, but none of them came close.

That's when Johan realized that the invading soldiers were just as blind as he was, they were not using thermal optics that could have picked them out against the cold, unmoving machine. Of course, thermal optics created a lot of heat to cool the internal sensors, probably too much to risk in the volatile environment full of crackle dust. Johan found a thick steel pipe that supported the catwalk and took a knee, peering down at the floor below.

It took many long seconds before his eyes began to notice points of shifting lights, movement far below. A few other lights were clustered at some higher point and did not move around nearly so much. Bracing his forearm against the lower railing of the catwalk he sighted on one of the lights that was moving far below and close to the opposite wall from their point of entry.

Someone on the other catwalk let off a shot, a sharp pneumatic pop that echoed in the darkness. From down below whining chirps answered. Johan located a light, whether it was a helmet light or a reflection he did not know, and squeezed off a shot. The sidearm bucked slightly, coughing a breath of compressed air that was almost deafening in the silent dark. The light he had sighted on ducked behind something, no yell of pain or surprise, and winked out.

Soon after every light on that wall winked out.

Then yells of shock and surprise began, a rapid series of chirping cracks, the sharp report of weapons fire striking metal or stone. Snarls, churrs, and beastial roars filled the room and lights came back on, brighter, as those under attack fell back quickly. Those without lights returned fire, from both sides, covering the retreat or attack in turn. From the booth slightly below Johan's position more barks from pneumatic rifles as the Leftenant and her squad joined the fray.

More roaring animal cries filled the room, most the higher pitched angry growls of human sized raccoons, a few canine barks, feline yowls, the deafening neigh of an angry stallion as the refugees poured in. Swarming over the machinery, probably putting them in more danger fumbling around in the dark than engaging armed resistance, they surged into the fray. Weapons chirped and coughed, bullets sang and thunked, a few voices were raised in pain, shock, and fear, and then a loud, heavy, metallic boom as the hangar bay door was slammed shut.

After silence fell into the lull a few lights flicked on, then a few more, seeking out sounds of pain and injury. Johan saw a crowd surround the hangar door though no one attempted to push it open. Others fanned out among the stark shadows of the machinery, locating the injured and the fallen. Johan watched from above with the other three of his squad, their lights out.

“Anyone down?" He heard the Leftenant's voice below, taking charge.

“Two down, Grease and Jamer, they're both dead." Someone reported back.

“Got twelve injured." Another voice from somewhere in the center of the room as the injured were gathered and brought together. “Bumps and bruises, nothing dangerous. Most from running into shit, no gunshots."

“Three of the enemy." More reports filtered across the room. “Nothing fatal, but they'll require medical care."

“Just kill them!" Someone churred in a sharp, procyonid voice.

“No!" Johan called out from his perch high above, the echoing hardness of the walls and machinery carrying every voice to him as if they stood feet away. “Kill no one! We take them alive and barter with them. Give them whatever medical care we can provide!"

Something rumbled loudly, making everyone tense and look about as several pieces of the huge machine shifted. Lights sprang on with blinding illumination, a general cry of startled distress issuing up from dozens of voices. A few pieces of machinery whirred and whined, jerking into motion before stilling as they settled into place, quiescent. Johan could see several huge ingots, a meter wide and three meters or so long, on the conveyor. Purified from the stony strata the pressed crackle was an ugly bruise purple hue with splotches of sickly yellow.

The reactors were back up, the station once more had power.

They could see.

And so could their foe.

“Auditor, that you up there?" The Leftenant called from below, shading her eyes against the glare of a light panel that was mounted on the underside of the catwalk he was on. He did not bother to wave back; she could not have seen him against that brightness anyway.

“Yes, Leftenant. Now that the reactors are back online it's time we parlay. If they want this station I say we hand it over. You?"

“Completely agree."

“Okay, let's do that. Can their wounded be moved?" Johan stood and continued across the catwalk, Rakshasa and the two soldiers falling in behind him. On the opposite side there were no ladders back down, but he did see one of the hatches straight soldier had mentioned.

“Yeah, no problems. A concussion, a twisted or broken ankle and busted elbow, and one dude took a shot through the hand. He's gonna need some more first aid than we can do."

“All right, get them over to the door. Unload their weapons but don't take them. Whatever they had, they keep." He turned the handwheel on the hatch door, a pall of crackle dust hissing and spitting softly as it sifted down. “Down, guys." He said, motioning to either side. “Raks, get ready to pull me back if they start slinging rounds." The big cat nodded and grasped the belt of his torn and dirtied pants.

He pushed the door open, the hinges letting out a deafening squeal. As he had expected several rounds pinged off of the door and hangar side of the wall but none found their way through. Raks hauled him back with startling strength, wrapping his arms around the smaller human and spinning to put them against the wall, with Johan squished between cat and stone. There was only one burst that stopped within a couple of seconds.

Johan pushed against the tiger's broad chest until Raks stepped back and released him. He gave the big cat's shoulder a squeeze in thanks before sidling up toward the open hatch; someone beyond was speaking.

“I am Colonel Javier Black, of the Red Falcons, 3rd Expeditionary, Falcon Corps! If you surrender immediately and peacefully you will not be harmed any further! Lay down your weapons and no one will be harmed!"

Johan pitched his response to the open hatch which he knew would echo it to the hangar below. “I am the Auditor, for Convergent Molecular Industries, owner of this facility. My vessel, the Asset Manager , is on approach to the outer belt. Grant us passage to that vessel and we will offer no further resistance, the station is yours."

“You mean the freighter turned carrier that launched four corvettes to harass my fleet? That vessel?"

“That is its purpose here, yes. And it has a good bit more than corvettes."

“And the ship that launched from the cap, is that yours as well?"

“That is what I came on, yes."

“Then why are you down here contesting for this hangar?"

“Because my launch is too small to get us all out. Ask your men what's on this side of the door, besides the three injured we would like to return to you."

“Morries." The colonel called back, already knowing the answer. “A big riotous mob of armed morries staging a war against us; Humans, their creators!"

“And enslavers, Colonel. Let's not talk species politics. You're here to take this facility, and we're here to hand it over. Unless you're intent on eradicating recalcitrant slaves let's just leave it at that, shall we?"

“Conditions?"

“None. We surrender your injured, we board those freighters, and we exit, stage left. We'll even surrender our weapons on the way out, how's that?" He heard Raks growl behind him but waved a hand for him to be quiet, echoed vocally by one of the station's security in a low voice.

“What is the condition of my men?"

“I have not triaged them personally, but I was told a concussion, broken arm, and someone took a bullet through their hand. They're bleeding rather badly and we lack the supplies to do much more than try to stem the bleeding."

There was a lengthy pause and some muffled conversation from within the hangar before the colonel spoke up again. “All right, Auditor. Have the wounded moved to the hatchway and withdraw. We well retrieve them and we will talk again after we've treated their injuries."

“We lost two." Johan said as one of the security with him moved out to convey the colonel's orders.

“Combat is what it is, Auditor." The man called back, voice sounding resigned rather than eager for more bloodshed. “Lives are lost to save others."

“Our lives, colonel, to save our lives. Who are you saving?"

“Yours as well. We are preparing to retrieve our men, sir. Any continued violence will be met in kind."

“Tell them to hold their fire." Johan instructed the security officer who relayed the order. He moved down the catwalk to a point where he could see the hangar bay door. It creaked open slightly, but no weapon was thrust through. After several tense, silent moments the two ambulatory wounded were ushered over, half carrying the concussed third who could barely make his limbs work. Once they squeezed through the partially open hatch it thudded shut again, locks hammering closed with loud metallic noises.

Several hushed, expectant minutes passed as a muttering of conversation drifted up from the moreaus hiding among the quiescent machinery which hummed softly as if awaiting a command to resume its function. From the hangar Johan could hear similar conversations, sometimes sharp and loud; probably those who wanted to storm in guns blazing. Then the colonel spoke again.

“Our men are being treated. They did not say they were treated roughly upon capture, and you returned all of their equipment with them, including the weapons if unloaded. I will take that as a sign of good faith. Do you have wounded?"

“Several." Johan called through the open hatch door. “Though none as badly as your own. Mostly from falling over things in the dark."

“If you'd like to strike a truce we'll see to their care, as well."

“I'll gladly accept that, colonel." Johan sighed in triumph. At least their leader was someone with a degree of integrity, or at least expressed in words. Deeds would reveal the truth. “I will give three knocks when we're ready, colonel."

“Understood."

Johan moved back across the catwalk, his three shadows in tow, and descended back to the floor. Navigating around and through the machinery he made his way toward the wide space just within the door. “Bring the worst of our injured forward. Weapons secure but keep alert. No rash actions and no shooting until shot at." He said loudly enough to be heard through most of the bay. The Leftenant joined him a few moments later after abandoning their perch in the operation's booth.

“There's a manual startup in the booth." She pointed at the windowed cube. “That's why it didn't go right back into operation when the power was restored."

“Lucky us, with so many hiding in the works." Several moreaus and a couple of humans were helped to the front of the gathering crowd though no one with cubs was coming forward, yet, just in case fighting resumed. “This all of them?"

“Yes." Baron said with a relieved churr. “Everyone's fit enough to move, for the most part. I think she's got a leg fracture but is mobile enough." He indicated a raccoon behind supported by two others, one leg splinted with bits of straight metal and torn clothing.

“Okay, here's everything. Stay alert, people, fingers off triggers." Taking a rifle from a nearby security officer and removing the round from the chamber he used its butt to strike the hatch door solidly three times. The man re-chambered it the moment he handed it back but held it in a low ready position as he moved over to one side of the door, back to the wall. The door thunked as the locks on the hangar side were released and then it was drawn open half way.

A tall, broad shouldered but spare man stood two meters back on the other side, flanked by four soldiers in matching uniforms, their weapons held in low ready. Johan could see nothing past their face plates but the colonel had removed his helmet. He was a dark man, his skin the color of unadulterated coffee, a small triangle of beard on his chin while his head was clean shaved.

Johan stepped forward, a similar two meter gap from the door, but only Rakshasa stood at his back. The colonel's dark eyes flicked to the tiger, raking up and down as a thick black eyebrow lifted. After his perusal of the strangely clad tiger the man's gaze took in Johan, doing the same up and down assessment without the eyebrow lift.

“Colonel Black?"

“Indeed. You must be the Auditor? Or someone masquerading as such?" His eyes pointedly shifted to Johan's ravaged cheek and the still visible wire mesh beneath the shredded faux skin.

“Yes, sir. How shall we progress?"

“You let your injured through, yourself, and your… rather interestingly clad tiger as, I would imagine, your personal security or… something else?"

“Security, sir. And the others?" He waved his arm slightly toward the crowd behind him and the others still hiding amidst the machinery.

“For now they can remain here. I will make contact with my fleet and they can communicate with our employers to determine the best course of action. In the interim we'll see to your injured, though I request that they leave their weapons here."

“Agreeable, colonel." Johan said with a nod. He glanced at the waiting moreaus and the injured they were assisting. Those with weapons reluctantly surrendered them to others before filing awkwardly through the door which was still only half open. Johan followed the last of them with Rakshasa at his back leaving the Leftenant in charge of those remaining in the machine bay. The colonel came out last but forestalled his men from closing and resecuring the hatch. Instead he merely posted twenty men to stand guard.

The hangar was positively huge, the ceiling a hundred meters above, so far that the light panels looked positively miniscule. Two huge ships, medium freighters, hunkered in the center of the bay, their hulls open toward the ceiling, like giant clams, and gantry crane assemblies high above. The freighters were easily one hundred fifty meters long and seventy high, fifty or so wide, with two pairs of immense thrusters forward and aft. Johan could see racks of crackle ingots piled high in each of them, separated using bands of some material which locked one to the next.

“You mean to take those?" Colonel Black asked as he walked at Johan's side, his bearing relaxed though his gauntleted hand rested on a sidearm that could have doubled as a small artillery canon. “With their cargo?"

“Unless you want it all unloaded, yes. Honestly I'd prefer not flying with that much volatile explosives but if that is what we must do it is what must be done." Johan stopped and gazed up at the nearest freighter. There would be room in just one for all of his refugees but it would be extremely crowded with the cargo in place. If they secured both of them it would be far less stressful but twice as dangerous with that much crackle. “What's the situation outside? I haven't had comms to my ship since landing a few days ago, the station's material prevented it."

“Well, your carrier is holding station just beyond the belt where it stopped to release those corvettes. They've been annoying the pants off of the Pride and Kiplinger, popping them with targeting scans and scuttling away to circle like street dogs. No one's shooting, yet."

“The frigate and cutter that brought in your landing craft?"

“Yes." The colonel moved away and Johan followed. A lighter, or light freighter, was parked between the larger ships, its sides folded down as ramps to let the troops within exit swiftly. At the base of the near side ramp a medical station had been set up and half a dozen uniformed soldiers, all human but not in body armor, were tending to the moreaus that had been brought to them. The raccoon with the broken leg was being fitted with a compression splint to replace the impromptu one.

“Who's your employer?"

The colonel shot him a speculative sidelong glance. “That would be need to know, mister Auditor, and well -" He trailed off with a shrug.

“I don't, of course. But some more need to know information; the person who conducted the sale of this facility had no authority to do so. That would have been a decision from the Board of Directors, who sent me to conduct this audit without knowing of the impending transfer of ownership. They were also a mutineer and murderer, among a host of other charges I have discovered."

Black shrugged again. “That's between him, your employers, and my employers. I'm just a soldier with a job to do, which was to secure this station and all assets therein." He waved a hand toward the medical aid station and, ostensibly, the moreaus being cared for. “With as little damage as could be managed."

Johan made a face of discontent which the colonel caught but said nothing, merely raising that expressive black eyebrow. “Ah, well, you see, that is where we may run into some problems. The station and all of its non-biologic assets I surrender to you without reservation. The morries, however, are mine."

“And those ships?

“One of them, at least. If we can get it unloaded they'll all fit -" Johan was cut off when a soldier hastened up, snapped to attention, and saluted crisply.

“Sir, we have a problem, sir. A very, very big problem."

“Go." The colonel's posture became rigid, his return salute swift and perfunctory.

“We've detected a spike in one of the reactors, sir. It's fusing helium."