Tuesday's Short - The Songster & the Pirates

This week’s short story takes us from a science fiction setting where family politics lead to corporate enslavement to a science fiction setting where mythical creatures walk the stars. Welcome to The Songster & the Pirates.

Once a space merc, now a singer, Taran keeps her identity as a siren secret. When spacewolves join the audience at her current gig, she knows what they’re looking for. The only question is can she slip away, before the wolves and her past can catch up with her?

The Songster & the Pirates

 

Taran looked out into the audience, noting the four hulking figures in dark grey ship suits, mingling amongst them. She knew spacers when she saw them, and she knew werewolves, too—and these were trying way too hard to blend in to be interested in anyone but her. She studied them, as she continued to sing, letting her eyes rove over the audience, and snatching details of her targets as she went. It wouldn’t do to stare, or they might do something rash—like try to take her before she’d finished her set.

And Taran wanted to be paid. She needed the credits for the next fare out to the most deserted backwater planet she could find. She needed to be able to stretch her wings where someone wasn’t going to try and pluck them, or force her to sing something she didn’t want to. In the meantime, she’d made the bartender a promise, and she intended to keep it… Right after she dusted the four furry knuckleheads setting up to spoil her day.

Once she was sure they hadn’t come with sound suppression—and what idiot would come after her without it?—she ruffled the lyrics of what she was singing, added a spike to the pitch, and smoothed the subsonics. There was a brief surge of patrons to the bar, and one of the wolves’ eyes widened.

Sucks to be you, Taran thought, adding an extra layer to the ultrasonics only they could hear. It came out as a brief yip in the lyrics, and she wove ultra and sub together, smiling as she sang of wickedness and desire. The only wolf that had registered the change clapped its hands over its ears and bolted for the nearest exit.

One of the others reached out and grabbed hold of a passing waitress, and the other two… Well, that made it difficult to focus on her song. Taran grabbed hold of the urge to laugh, and kept the song running for another twenty seconds, and then she slipped quietly from the stage. No one was going to notice her with the wolves providing that kind of entertainment. That, and the waitress, had a friend or three, and the first punch had already been thrown. Taran sighed.

Maybe she was going to need another gig to pay for the next shuttle out.

With any luck, she’d gained herself a five minute start, and there’d be a cab waiting in the ranks at the back of the club. Having a dressing room had its advantages, but she didn’t go back to it. If she’d been chasing her, she’d have snuck someone into the dressing room, or just back stage. She glanced at the shadowed recesses behind the wings, and was relieved when nothing moved.

For just a moment, she regretted turning down the Mentraden Security offer. She’d told them she wanted to leave that kind of work behind. After what had happened to the Knights… Taran shook her head, trying to dispel the memories of ships on fire, atmospheres venting to space, of men trying to beat their way through bulkheads to save those already dead. She tried…

Taran stopped at the door leading out to the loading dock and the carpark. Faint shouts, and the tinkle of shattered glass reached her from the direction of the stage, and she wondered if the wolves had broken free of the song’s holdover, yet. Hades’ feet, she hoped not. They were going to be beyond angry, when they realised what she’d done.

For a moment, she almost regretted raising their libidos to that level, but it had been too good an opportunity to miss. She was smiling, again, when she quietly turned the door handle, and peeked out into the night. If she’d been hunting a performer, she’d have stationed someone out back, in case the performer tried to make a break for it.

It was hard to listen to what might be outside with the increasing volume of the brawl behind her, but, if that sound was anything to go by, she had to leave. There was nothing like the surge of adrenaline from a good fight to clear a song’s after-effects from your head. She should have remembered that, modified the song to suit. She just hadn’t thought.

Stars, she’d been out of the game for far too long.

Bounty hunters of the human variety, bad guys in black, dudes with tranquilizer guns, tough guys who hadn’t fought the battles she’d seen with the Knights, those she’d been ready to handle. Werewolves? Not so much. She’d forgotten that not all the wolves were quietly trying to rehabilitate a devastated Earth, or rebuild their lives on frontier worlds. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

A clatter broke through her self-chastisement, and Taran stepped through the door, pulling it closed behind her, and hurrying towards the cab ranks. She needed to readjust, and fast. She had the skills to survive a hunt like this, had had them drilled into her when she’d first sought shelter with the Knights.

“No one’s going to have time to keep you alive in the field, girl. You’re going to have to do that yourself—and you’re going to have to keep the song going while you do.” Garth’s words crashed through her with the force of a freight train, and Taran bit back a sob—Garth had died in the Knights’ last battle, his body lost to battle debris, and ship fire.

The memory of his first piece of advice had been so vivid that she’d almost missed the sound of movement on the club’s roof. She’d definitely missed the wolf’s scent, but that was due more to the stink of the dumpsters around the loading dock than anything else.

The cab rank was empty, and there was no time to hotwire a car. She’d come out from under the club’s eaves, before she’d registered there was anyone on the roof, and kept moving once she had. She couldn’t go back to the club—the wolves she’d messed with would already be moving through to the back. Her only hope was to try and make her bolt-hole in the hotel across the street.

She’d picked it because it was hemmed in by narrow alleys. Way back before this world had become a hub for inter-galactic trade, it hadn’t had a lot plumbing, and sewerage had been collected by truck, and used for fertilizer. The practice hadn’t lasted long, but it had been long enough for ‘poop-runs’ to need access lanes for the communal tanks in the centre of every housing block.

Whatever worked, right?

The sound of heavy boots hitting gravel behind her, jolted through her mind, and Taran took off, heading for the alley she needed. The hotel was a two-storey affair, sandwiched in between a used skimmer lot, and a four-storey apartment block. No one needed the central tank, anymore, but the lanes were still there. Taran ran for it as hard as she could go, wishing she’d stayed fitter.

Behind her, the crash of a door slamming open let her know the other wolves had arrived. More footsteps hammered concrete, and crunched across gravel. Taran cursed the heels she wore when on-stage. Even running on her toes wasn’t going to help her outdistance these guys, but she couldn’t take them off; the alley was full of debris, and she’d be down to a sliced sole in seconds.

She’d have to fly. To do that she’d have to morph. Which meant she’d have to stop.

This was so not a good idea.

Still, it was the only chance she had.

She stopped, pivoting so she was facing back the way she’d come.

There were six of them, all in hybrid form and no longer trying to blend in. Well, for the Stars’ sake! They slowed when she stopped, their ears pricked, nostrils flaring.

“Give it up. You’re coming with us.”

Taran didn’t dignify that with an answer, but settled her feet, and took a deep, steadying breath. She swept her hands in and up, crossing them at the wrists as they reached her chest—just like she’d learned when meditating. She focused on the change, felt her skin ripple and bones begin to shift. One of the wolves gave a long, low growl, one that vibrated over her skin, and through to the heart of her. It was enough to break the concentration she needed to begin the morph.

Taran frowned. It was as if he’d known what she was trying to do. She let her arms drop back to her sides, watching as the wolves stalked closer, weaving their way around cars, until four had arrayed themselves in front of her, and two were fanning out to the sides, as they worked to cut off her retreat. Taran watched them, taking a second breath, and trying to re-gather the calm she’d lost.

With them that close, she doubted she could focus long enough to shift, let alone take flight. Maybe it would be better if she sang. She’d learned a good single-note shriek from a banshee, once…

That thought was as far as she got, before the wolves struck. Four came bounding in, two from the side, and two from the front. Taran steadied herself, and sang a high, pure note that then descended the scale of fear. It should have sent them fleeing in all directions, but even terror cannot stop a wolf mid-leap—and no song can stop a wolf that had finally remembered to put its sound suppressors in.

Taran had time to duck, but no time to get clear, as the wolves impacted above her, and came crashing down. She was flattened against the pavement, and fighting to breathe, the song knocked out of her lungs, when they landed. She waited as the weight pinning her lightened, each wolf shifting slightly as it moved.

They didn’t stand, when they got off her; they crouched beside her, one placing a heavy hand on her head and pressing it against the gravel, two more taking a firm grip on her ankles, and the fourth sliding its knees down to either side of her, as it sat on her back and ran its hands over her shoulders as though checking for weapons… or wings.

And just what would they have done with those if they’d found them?

“I’ve got her head,” the wolf said, and Taran felt the first hand move as a second took a firm grip of her neck at the base of her skull. “You get her hands.”

Its tone was all soldier, professional, detached, and completely without mercy. Taran decided not to move, not even when both wrists were brought together and cuffed.

Great, she thought. At least they’re not putting them behind my back.

“Feet,” the command came, and her ankles received the same treatment as her wrists.

Good one, smart asses. Now how are you going to get me to the car?

“You got the suitcase?”

A suitcase? Oh, Hades, no! Taran tried to lift her head.

“Give it up, sweetmeat. We’ve been told to tag and bag you out of here, and you’ve drawn too much attention, already.”

Yeah? Well, whose fault was that? And who the Stars was he calling ‘sweetmeat’? And what did they want with her, anyway?

She took a breath, and opened her mouth to ask that last question, only to feel her head lifted and pulled back. The wolf that had shackled her wrists was waiting—and fast. Taran didn’t manage to get a single word out before he’d pressed a length of wide, black tape over her mouth.

“Sshh,” he said, as the wolf pinning her down, stood up—and used his grip on the back of her neck to pull her to her feet.

One of the two that had stood back, while two of the others that had tackled her, came forward, carrying a suitcase. He unzipped it and put it down on the ground at her feet.

“In,” he said, like she had a choice, given the brute holding her, lifted her up and set her feet squarely in the centre of the case. She stared at him, and he pointed at the suitcase she was standing in.

“In.”

Taran didn’t want to get ‘in’. What she wanted to do was say ‘no’, and maybe scream for help. Neither of which were possible with her mouth taped shut. What she wanted to do was run—away from the wolves, and the carpark, and the club she’d never be able to work at, again. Away from the memories of Garth and the Zanzibar Knights, too—but that was never going to happen, just like there was no way she was going to be able to run, now.

Taran glared at the wolf, and shook her neck free of his colleague’s grasp. She kept her eyes on the wolf’s face, as she lowered herself to her knees. He knelt with her, resting his hands on the edge of the bag. Behind her, his companion knelt, also, the warmth of his hand in the centre of her back a warning that he was present, even though it offered no restraint.

Taran closed her eyes as she curled up in the centre of the suitcase, unnerved to be so vulnerable amongst predators, and not comforted by the hand that shifted from her back to her shoulder. She opened her eyes, again, just in time to see the first wolf lift the top of the bag and fold it over her. That was when she remembered just how well she coped with confined spaces, particularly spaces she hadn’t chosen to enter, herself.

Something in the way her body tensed must have alerted them, because the lid lifted again, and the grip on her shoulder tightened.

“There’s no way you’re going to stay quiet in that bag, is there?”

Taran flicked her gaze from one to the other, and wished she hadn’t been quite so cooperative. She also wished her fear would subside. These were wolves. Fear was exciting and had a distinctive scent. If she couldn’t get a grip on herself, she’d go from being designated prey to actual prey. She watched their gazes sharpen with interest, and tried to shift out from under the hand pinning her in place.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

At the sight of the auto-injector, Taran tried to claw her way out of the bag and under the nearest car. It wasn’t that she was afraid of needles; it was more that she didn’t want to be unconscious and completely at their mercy.

“Too bad,” the wolf said, and set the auto-injector against her skin.

Taran froze, staring at him in horror.

You’re psi?

You thought our timing was luck?

And Taran remembered the growl disrupting her concentration, the wolf on the roof, the wolf running from the club with his hands over his ears—this wolf running from… the… oh. She was screaming as the darkness reached out and pulled her under, fighting to get out of the bag without moving a muscle, completely unconscious, when the wolves closed the lid and zipped it tight.

*   *   *

Awareness returned with a multitude of grasping hands, and the heated rush of pins and needles, as Taran was pulled from the suitcase. It also came with a rolling stomach, stuffy head and an overwhelming surge of fear. She was already moving when she came clear of the bag, even if her eyes weren’t obeying her commands to open, and her muscles wouldn’t respond. In her head, she was running.

She didn’t remember the psi, until he pounced on her thoughts, and pinned them in a squirming mass to the floor of her mind.

“Stay still,” he ordered. “The Wayfarer wishes to speak with you.”

Taran had questions, so many questions. Wayfarer? What in all of Hades would he want with her?

“Me? I want you to sing a military transport into an asteroid belt, and then I want you to keep its escort from firing.” The reply came in tones rolled in wealth and smoothed by power—and it came from right in front of her. Taran tried to open her eyes, but they still wouldn’t obey.

Propped up between two lean, well-muscled bodies, Taran felt someone unshackle her feet, while someone else undid the cuffs at her wrists. She felt the metal ease away from her flesh, and heard the clink as the cuffs and shackles were stowed, wondered when they’d take the tape off.

“I don’t think we need to do that, do you?”

As if one psi wasn’t enough.

“I’m not psi,” the Wayfarer said. “I can only raid a mind. I can’t communicate with it,” and Taran wondered what it would take to keep either one of them out.

“More training then you’ve got time for. So, will you sing for me?”

Sing, huh? There was no way in a hundred years of no that she wanted to sing for him, but Taran figured he’d worked that out already, and he’d have the first threat ready to roll.

“I’d rather not have to motivate you,” the Wayfarer said, “so I’ll ask you, one more time: Will you sing for me?”

Help him wreck a military transport, and murder countless people?

Taran swallowed, kept her eyes closed, and shook her head. Her ‘no’ was muffled by the tape across her lips, but the Wayfarer wasn’t happy, regardless.

“I believe there are three wolves who’d like a piece of you, right now. Are you saying you’d rather have their company, than sing for me?”

A wave of cold swept over Taran’s body, and her face went numb. She swayed on her feet, and two sets of hands grabbed hold of her arms to steady her. Taran’s muffled squawk of fear made the Wayfarer laugh.

“No? So you will sing?”

Taran curled in on herself, pulling her arms in close to her chest, but her escorts wouldn’t let her go.

I don’t want to… but she didn’t want to go with the wolves, either. She tried to open her eyes, managed a flicker that showed her a blur of grey foregrounded in stark, white light, a monochrome world populated by shadows. The blue-grey shadow in front of her stepped back, turned, and walked away.

“Walk her out of it,” he said, and waited while Taran’s escort took her for a circuit of the large room they were in. Was it a hold? Or somewhere else?

Keep moving, which meant the psi must be one of the wolves with a grip on her arm.

Fantastic. Taran wondered if walking would make it any harder for him to wander through her mind. Was it something that needed focus, or something—

It’s more like breathing, or trying to walk and talk at the same time. It depends on what I’m doing.

That wasn’t what Taran had wanted to know, but she was glad she did. The feeling slowly returned to her feet and legs, and the sluggishness disappeared. The weight of her eyelids lightened, and she opened her eyes, taking in the space around them. It was more like a training room, with a firm track skirting its edges for running, and the centre covered with mats for sparring.

“I figured you might need the space to run in. The wolves like a chase.”

Taran’s heart sped up, and she snapped her gaze towards the Wayfarer’s voice, and stopped, pulling at the hands that held her.

Sweet Hades, the man really should have been an elf, she thought, taking in the narrow arctic features of his human form. He took a step towards her, and she took in the incredible pallor of his skin and the royal blue of his combat fatigues.

“An elf, you say?” he said, and sounded more amused than he had any right to be.

Taran continued to stare, as he moved from the shadowed edge of the walkway and onto the mats in front of her. His skin really was the color of glacial ice. She continued to stare. Apart from the hard lines marring his features, the guy was incredibly stare-worthy… right up until she looked into his eyes.

Oh, yeah, that was a mistake.

If she’d thought the rest of him was cold, his eyes made him seem warm. They were a blue dark enough to match the fatigues, but there was nothing in them—no heart, no feeling, not even the slightest skerrick of a damn. Uncertainty tremored in her chest.

What’s it carrying?

“The convoy?”

What else?

“That’s none of your concern.”

How many lives?

“Does it matter?”

It always matters.

“And, yet, you’ve taken lives before.”

I’ve left that kind of work behind.

“You can never leave that kind of work behind you. Someone always remembers—and, when they don’t, the work itself calls.”

That much was very true. Taran remembered nights when singing for an audience hadn’t been enough, nights when she’d longed for more purpose than just making folk happy. On those nights, she’d had to be very careful not to let the battle songs rise, and stir dreams of combat in people’s heads. Mercenary recruiters reported a surge in applications on every morning after.

“You see?”

And Taran did, but she didn’t want to admit it.

“You’d be happier working for me, and the Star Shadow clan.”

Taran recoiled. The Zanzibars had fought the Shadows all too often. Those wolves weren’t of Terran origin, and their civilizations were as old as Terra’s ancients. It had taken mankind many long wars to prove he was not prey—and the Shadows remained among those yet to be convinced.

“You misjudge us. We hold humankind in strong regard. They are warriors all. Our employers, on the other hand…” He let the words trail to nothing, before switching back to the matter before them. “You will sing for us… or should we find your mother?”

Her mother? Oh, Hades no!

Taran felt the world waver, and closed her eyes. No one wanted to find her mother. There was a reason her mama had hidden on the remotest world she could find. Taran was about to shake her head, when it occurred to her that she’d be doing the galaxy a favor if she did tell the Wayfarer where her mother was…

“Ah. Perhaps not then.”

In a way, that was a relief, but it left them with no option, but to try and make her comply. This was not a good place to be.

The werewolf at her side slid his arm around her waist, and pulled her close. He stroked a long-nailed claw down her cheek, his warm breath following the curve of her neck from shoulder to hairline.

I could chase your thoughts all day, murmured through her mind, and the quick wet dab of his tongue touched her skin, followed by the lightest scrape of teeth. Taran gasped, and the impression that the wolf could chase her all day, followed, before her head went quiet. She was pulling air in short fast puffs, by then, trying not to join her mind in hiding in one of the furthest corners of her skull.

I’ll sing, she said, the rush of her words caught behind the tape, but her thoughts clear.

Please. I’ll sing, she repeated, when the Wayfarer said nothing.

The wolf gave a disappointed rumble, but kept his arm around her. Taran kept her eyes fixed on the Wayfarer’s ice-touched features, her body tense, as she waited for his reply, frustration raging just below the surface.

Ridiculous that he hesitated now she had agreed to what he wanted. What sort of wolf was he anyway?

“You’d like to see?” he asked, his tone mocking, driving fear’s spike deeper.

Taran shook her head.

No. No. I don’t want to see.

It crossed her mind that there were very few things that frightened a siren, that, up until now, she hadn’t realised she should be afraid.

I will sing for you. And, now, she was begging like a child.

He laughed, short and sharp and bitter.

“Very well. Come. The convoy is almost here.”

But we’re nowhere near an asteroid belt.

“We didn’t pull you out of the suitcase, until we had arrived.”

Taran stopped.

They had what?

Wayfarer paused, and tilted his head slightly.

“Come.”

Like she was some errant wolf pup. Taran slapped her hand over the wolf hand settled on her hip, and peeled it off, passing it back to the psi with as much force as she could muster. How in all of Hades was she meant to sing down a fleet of ships, if they didn’t take the damn tape off her mouth?

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

It was enough to make her scream.

The Wayfarer didn’t stop, but moved through the sparring area, and through the door at the back. Taran followed, almost disappointed when her psi escort didn’t try to put his arm back around her, relieved to find that neither escort had a hold of her. Smarter than they looked.

Your anger rolls off you like a wave.

The psi sounded worried, and Taran smiled—a small tight thing that kept its teeth well-hidden. She hadn’t started being angry, yet. She’d forgotten. More of Garth’s words returned, unbidden.

“The only place for that beast is on the battlefield—and not even all of those. You keep that thing caged, save for the darkest of times.”

“And is it dark enough, yet?”

The Wayfarer sounded curious, but not alarmed.

Taran was glad her smile was hidden by the tape, gladder that she didn’t have to lie.

No.

“What beast?”

The Wayfarer was persistent, the psi suddenly quiet.

Taran followed him through the door, stifling a gasp of awe as she crossed the threshold and saw what lay beyond. It was magnificent. It was also a good thing she didn’t suffer agoraphobia; the sight of the stars only made her want to fly. Her skin itched, restless for change.

“You may need your wings,” the Wayfarer said, “if that is what helps you sing best. This task will be quite a challenge.”

Taran arched her eyebrows, and cocked her head.

Bring it.

Her beast stirred, waking from a year-long sleep.

Damn.

I need my mouth.

“Not yet, you don’t.”

He was right, but Taran narrowed her eyes. How, in all the Stars, was she meant to tune her voice, when her lips were bound?

“I’ll give you time.”

As if he knew just how much she needed.

“I’ve had experience with sirens, before.”

Oh, he had, had he?

Taran wondered which of her sisters had vanished without her noticing—and how many. The Wayfarer’s sharp features no longer reminded her of an elf or a wolf, but an ice-blue fox—one whose face was covered with feathers.

“And blood,” he said. “Don’t forget the blood. Not everyone agreed to the tasks I set.”

The image in Taran’s head adjusted to include the blood, and she felt the pallor return to her face, like a layer of ice covering her skin. Pushing it aside, she stared through the viewing screen, past the asteroids at the edge of the belt, and out to the incoming ships.

What makes you think I have to sing them in? she thought. They look like they were bound here, anyway.

“They will swing past the belt, and then rise to the next world, where they are constructing orbitals. We cannot have an outpost of that size constructed here.”

And by ‘we’ Taran assumed he meant the clan, and not himself.

“Of course, the clan,” the Wayfarer agreed. “Without it, there is nothing.”

Nice words for a fringe dweller.

“Mind your mouth!”

As if she could.

“Any more of that, and I will pluck every feather from your wings, and etch where they used to grow in acid.”

Taran shuddered, grabbing hold of her mind, before it could bolt into the distant recesses of her head. She would need it, if she was to sing. She forced her attention to the screen watching the ships come closer.

I take it you have some way to project my voice out to where they can hear it.

“My technicians hacked their comms network some time ago—and they’ve maintained quiet access since. Your voice will reach them. Are you ready?”

Taran rolled her eyes.

Well, she might be ready if someone took the tape away.

“I’ve heard some songsters don’t need their mouth, in order to sing.”

That is a myth. Weird how many believe it.

“You know what they say about smoke and fire—also about vented atmospheres and holed ships.”

That last bit was a clear dig at Garth’s demise, and Taran’s beast unsheathed its claws. It wanted out. It wanted to shred and tear and pulverize, to ride the red wave of her outrage. The banshees were right to fear the baresark and the Valkyrie, but not for the reasons everyone thought. The banshees did not truly fear those creatures; they feared what rode with them.

Sirens and harpies were barely recorded, and variants existed the universe over. The wolves had taken to calling them songsters, regardless of their origin—and every world had its myths. Taran had met a banshee, once, an old recluse from Terra’s fall. Garth had not been impressed.

“That’s one trick I never want to see you use, again. EVER!” and he’d been adamant.

Taran’s beast had taken that trick and hidden it deep, but now it wanted to use it, again.

“Garth had a point,” the Wayfarer said. “Surely you have other ways.”

I’m not psi. If I were, you’d all be dead.

A smirk tightened the Wayfarer’s icy mouth.

“So you can only think it – you can’t actually do it.”

Not without my voice, although…

“Although what?”

Have your techs managed to hack the security feeds used by this military?

“Some. Why?”

Can they get me a visual of the control centre of each ship?

“They can,” although Taran wasn’t sure if that was a promise, or a threat.

Around the room, behind the bank of consoles set in in its furthest recesses, came the urgent clatter of keys.

Taran waited. Without lyrics, controlling the minds of those crewing each target was going to be difficult. If he removed the tape, she could project her voice, but then she’d also be able to affect every mind in hearing. It was understandable that he wouldn’t want that. Why hadn’t he prepared a sound-proof booth for her to sing from? He’d been planning the mission for long enough.

What sort of idiot captures a siren to use as a weapon, and then refuses to actually let her sing?

“Make her change.”

The Wayfarer’s order cracked out across the room, and the wolves on either side of her jumped. Taran stood still, as they grabbed hold of her.

You’re going to lose your chance, she thought, staring steadfastly out at the ships.

The Wayfarer glanced back at his targets, and Taran hoped he needed them as much as he said he did. She was walking a very thin line, here, and she didn’t know how she was going to do his bidding if he didn’t let her use her voice. It was all she had with which to project the song—and that was the key. If she’d been psi, she could have projected her song directly into the minds of the crew that mattered—as long as the Wayfarer’s crew could provide her with visuals.

But she wasn’t.

The only way she could project the song in her mind, was if her audience was already inside her head.

Taran’s beast broke loose.

It stood in the centre of her mind, flaring its wings as it raised its head.

“No!” and, even as the Wayfarer shouted, the wolf psi ran for the door, slamming it closed behind him as the beast opened its mouth.

The beast picked the one note Garth had forbidden Taran to use, the one crystal-clear note that pierced a man’s soul, and crushed his consciousness in a single, echoing shriek. It didn’t make it past the tape, but it did leach out of her mind, and into the single mind still in range. In front of the view screen, the Wayfarer dropped, and Taran remembered that taping her mouth did not stop her voice.

Even as the wolves stared at their fallen leader, she began to hum, shifting the music into the throat music she’d heard once from and old Earth Mongol. No one had thought to block her nose, as well as her mouth. She hummed a song of terror, mingling her own tune with the beast’s ululating song, thinking of the notes that shed slivers of terror down a spine, and caused fur to stand on end. She hummed the song of the great-cold-that-could-not-be-escaped, the tune of the hunter’s grief whose lyrics would spring to mind unbidden, the Vulpine Retreat, where an army of wolves retired to lick its wounds, and live to fight another day—and through the notes, the vibrating subs, and the chilling ultras, she wove her fear of the Wayfarer, of his vengeance, and the nameless unease he had engendered.

Around her, wolf shapes departed, taking the nearest exit, and pressing themselves against the walls to stay as far from her as possible. Taran hummed, and the beast sang making its tune in her throat alone, and together they wound emotion into every note, emanating dread like the centre of a terror storm. As the last wolf bolted from her presence, monitors on one of the console showed the first wolf drop-ships leaving, sending requests for emergency pick-up as they went.

Once the room was empty, Taran kept humming, and hoped she could activate the comms link before the wolves stopped running and remembered their sound suppressors. She spared a glance for the Wayfarer’s body, noting the blood staining his silver blue hair, and the corpse-still way in which he lay.

Threaten her wings, would he?

Her beast growled, well pleased at his demise—but disappointed there hadn’t been more enemies to kill.

Blood-thirsty child, she said, smoothing its fur, and scratching its head. Rest. There will be other battles where you can play. She found the controls she needed, and opened the channel, hoping there weren’t other crews aboard the Wayfarer’s vessel who could cut the link.

Once that was done, there was only one thing left to do: take the Stars-becursed tape from her mouth, and hope she could still make words afterwards.

It was not an experience that bore repeating.

Taran rubbed some of the pain away, rolling her lips together, and moving her mouth, before experimenting with a softly sung scale. It would have to be enough. Punching broadcast, she sent the call out, weaving the urgency of her need into the lyrics, opening the visuals, when the request came through—and painfully aware that she should have locked the doors before she began.

If she wasn’t very, very lucky, the battlecruiser answering her call would have nothing left to save.

May I come in?

Taran’s song faltered, as she looked for the source of the voice.

It was familiar, but she took a moment to place it, before remembering the damned werewolf psi. He’d been smart enough to leave her head, and then put most of a room between them before she and her beast had sung the banshee’s note. Why he was returning, now, was beyond her.

I seek mercy, and the chance to make amends. You have destroyed my pack. I will need someone new to follow.

Taran’s beast lifted its head, and Taran felt the wolf psi hesitate, realised he was in her head and well within her reach.

Please.

So, you could teach a werewolf to beg.

Come, she said, using her mind, so her voice would not waver, watching the door to the gym open slowly, and the wolf slide through—and only relaxing a fraction when he closed and locked it tight behind him.

She watched him lock the other two entrances, and then place himself between her and any incoming danger. Perhaps she would keep him alive, after all.

In her head, her beast circled the wolf psi’s presence, daring him to try and leave. It was disappointed when he did not so much as twitch. Taran ruffled its fur, again, and continued with her song, monitoring the military unit’s progress as it discovered the wolf ship floating, all alone, inside the edge of the asteroid belt.

“Come out,” its commander ordered, but the ship did not move.

It did not respond, save for the song it broadcast to his own vessel, the song which drew him, even though his mind rebelled. In the end, he tractored it out, wincing at each impact from stray asteroids, and surprised when the boarding party found, but two survivors—a wolf, a songster—and one dead pirate.

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The Songster & the Pirates is available as a stand-alone short story at the following links: books2read.com/u/31x1zl.

You can also find Kristine Kathryn Rusch's latest free short story over on her blog: kriswrites.com. Why don't you go and check it out?