by Nick Cole
The station AI began to croon a somber countdown. “Ten… Nine…”
Rechs reached the escape pod and pulled himself into the tight compartment, joining G232 inside. He prayed that Lyra had lifted off as he killed his defensive shield and slammed the hatch control.
When the door sealed, the sound of war machine blaster fire was silenced. And just as the station AI reached “three” in its diligent countdown to its own destruction, its doleful voice coming through the linked speaker system, Rechs reached up and pulled the ejection bar.
He wasn’t strapped in as the pod exploded way from the doomed station. There had been no time. As the fleeing lifeboat rocketed away, Rechs crashed hard against the pod’s interior.
“Zero,” the AI intoned.
Rechs felt rather than heard the explosion as the station’s main reactor triggered the Romula nuclear space mine housed inside Graveyard 13. The shockwave engulfed the escape pod in a sudden typhoon of violently released energy. Rechs’s body, already screaming from the acceleration trauma, now roared blue murder.
With only the strength of his arms, his mind wracked with pain, Rechs held on as the pod was flung away from the doomed station. Flung off into the vast interstellar darkness that surrounded the swollen gas giant.
***
The pod had only just barely escaped the expanding debris wave of the station’s detonation. Tyrus Rechs and G232 had survived the blast. But that was only the first hurdle. The second came moments later when the pod aimed itself directly at the crushing gravity well of the super gas giant, a violent spinning iridescent green planet tormented by intense storms. Its mass was so significant that instant death below a certain altitude was assured.
Lyra, running the Obsidian Crow, came in fast. But the new AI had little confidence in her ability to pilot the freighter. She made three attempts to connect with the escape pod and reel it in, missing each time. As the pod plummeted deeper and deeper into the atmosphere, Lyra grew more and more annoyed with herself with each missed opportunity.
“Clearly this unfortunate situation is not your fault, miss,” soothed G232 as the pod began to enter the atmosphere’s outer reaches. The violent shaking even at this height was incredible. Within minutes the powerful gravitational forces of the massive giant would crush the pod like an old nutrition pack. “Someone failed to set the pod’s escape parameters in a sufficiently safe direction. It is almost as though they deliberately aimed us directly at the one place in the system that would kill us the fastest. The nerve of such shoddy programming! Further problematic still is how the pod allowed Master Rechs to activate the escape controls before having strapped in.”
Rechs fought to catch his breath. His ribs, already tender from the events at Minaron, were now certainly broken. The violence of the unintended atmospheric reentry, short-lived as it would be, wasn’t helping.
“Tyrus,” exclaimed Lyra over the pod’s internal comm, “I can’t do this!” Frustration and despair were evident in her voice pattern.
Rechs didn’t trust his ability to remain conscious after the battering he’d just endured. The front of his chest plate was heavily damaged where he’d been shot.
“Must…” croaked Rechs, feeling as though all the seas on all the planets were resting on his chest. As though some merciless giant were squeezing the life out of him. Tranqs and painkillers were not an option. Anything strong enough to deal with the pain would remove him from consciousness. And who knew how much of him might be needed to avoid being crushed in the unforgiving gravity well of one of the biggest giants he’d ever seen.
Lyra sighed. “Coming in for an additional pass.”
There was silence over the comm as the AI tried once more to rescue Rechs and G232. The escape pod continued to rattle violently through the poisonous atmosphere.
“You can do it, Miss Lyra,” cheered G232. The bot then turned to face Rechs in an aside. “Or at least I certainly hope so for our sakes, master. I mean, Captain.”
Rechs nodded, just for something to do. He felt as helpless as he’d ever had in his life. It was a feeling he’d not felt since… since slavery.
“Because we’ll be crushed to death in less than a minute,” the bot needlessly explained.
A moment later the pod’s shaking was punctuated by a large jolt.
“I may have miscalculated,” murmured G232. “We seem doomed now.”
“No,” grunted Rechs, the very word torture. “Docking… tractor. She’s… got us.”
As he slipped into unconsciousness, Rechs wasn’t quite sure if he’d said that last part out loud. But he had managed to close a gauntleted fist to activate his tranq controls, flooding his system with a full suite of painkillers. Because escaping the pain was all that mattered right now.
Gone from the pod, he dreamed of ravens who handed him a ball. Squawking one word at him.
“Ball.”
The lost raven child from long ago, a boy playing in a rainy forest, had said that one word to the stranger he discovered watching them from the woods.
“Ball.”
Rechs had forgotten that. Or maybe it was just the dream. Maybe it hadn’t happened.
But then, from the hollows of the forest, came an echoing word that Rechs hadn’t heard or used in centuries… and the darkness of all those lost places took hold of him, and he could not remember what lost wonders they showed him from their hidden treasuries.
[redacted]
To: [redacted]
From: [redacted]
Re: Psych Eval, Operator 901
After a final medical assessment completed during Operator 901’s last deployment into the Reach, specifically [redacted], to work with the disenfranchised factions of [redacted] in their struggle against the Mid-Core Separatists, the subject showed signs of stress regarding a variety of issues. As this subject has been flagged for special analysis under a program of which I am not familiar, I have been required to submit this report—though there is little to note beyond what I have already stated.
That he is Sinasian, or half-Sinasian, is clear in his features, though his medical records are unavailable to me. I only bring up the subject of his race and genetic origin due to the strong family and cultural ties most Sinasians exhibit. Yet the subject seems to have no familial connections or distractions, which may contribute to his low psych eval performance indicators. More generally, the subject never relates anything of his personal history during our sessions.
When probed about this, the subject withdraws.
I was specifically asked to address and report on whether the subject seemed hostile to the Galactic Republic. I do not find in the subject any great level of dissatisfaction with the government. No more than the average legionnaire.
I can find nothing else that may be of importance, and I myself am unsure of the importance of the above observations, such as they are.
I recommend that the subject be mentored by a senior career officer. This might alleviate some of the stressors and provide a father figure to which the subject can confide.
(Signature Redacted)
[redacted]
[redacted]
15
Taijing was the gateway to the Sinasian worlds. It was the only world within that stellar cluster that had been directly settled by colonies from what was once known as Asia. A lost and mythical place the stellar charts couldn’t find anymore. And it was the Republic’s only port of call within Sinasia, the spread of worlds now designated a protectorate.
In the worst days of the Savage Wars, when the struggling Galactic Republic needed every ally it could muster, the Sinasian worlds had elected not to be among those allies. Under the sway of a powerful khan known as Gatsu the Merciless, the Sinasians, a closed and secretive society that brooked no outside interference and was known to shoot down a trade ship just as soon as allow it to land, threw in with the Savages in
stead.
There was no shortage of speculative historians explaining the reason for this. Most believed they’d simply sensed their opportunity to be finally and fully free of the society that had spread across the galaxy with the discovery of faster-than-light travel. But others postulated darker reasons. Blackmail. Treachery. Even a Savage-created mind control parasite.
Whatever the reason, their technologically advanced forces had come to bear against the young and desperate Republic. And against the Legion. All at the most critical of times.
The Sinasian Conflict was Casper’s war, remembered Rechs.
He eased himself behind the controls of the Crow. During the week’s flight time required to reach Sinasia, he had begun to recover from the injuries he’d sustained at Graveyard 13. Now he studied the approach to Taijing.
Rechs had been at the front lines of the war against the Savages from practically bell to bell. That included the battle on the wild desert world Kangok.
The battle that brought an end to the Sinasian Conflict.
And almost destroyed the Republic at its most vulnerable moment.
Rechs throttled forward. Over Taijing’s main port of entry hung a Republic super-destroyer—what they’d once called a “pocket battleship” back during the Savage Wars. The destroyer’s traffic control was handling landing clearances.
“Freighter Alpha Seven Niner One Zero,” the traffic controller said. “Provide clearance or wave off. You’re approaching a restricted planet.”
Rechs waited a second, as though he were busy with something else. Then he flicked the switch for the comm and guided the Crow straight in toward the group of ships. “This is freighter Balcytron out of Sturgis Wells. Regular run. You’ll find my previous idents from every week for the last fifty-eight. Transmitting codes now.”
There was a pause.
“You’re in order, Balcytron. You’re advised to get your load and get clear if you know what’s good for you.”
Because such a vague and ominous comm required a question if the role of average lonely freighter captain were to be believed, Rechs asked it.
“Something going on down there?”
Pause.
“State business.”
And that was all. Which in its own way said a lot. There was an unspoken rule between comm operators—even military, so long as their CO wasn’t standing over their shoulders—that information, gossip, and general scuttlebutt got distributed.
The space lanes were a lonely place. Information was gold. Information meant connections. So for this Repub comm operator, who likely was as bored as he imagined the freighter jockey on the other end was, to be so sparse with the gossip spoke volumes.
People were watching. Nothing was left to chance.
And Rechs knew why.
The Dragon.
For whatever reason, they wanted him dead.
Rechs was patched through to someone on the ground who assigned landing pads. And then the Crow was diving through the outer atmosphere of the jungle world, falling through a soup of yellow haze and seeing glimpses of the river systems and volcanic mountains below.
Ionic interference that affected local comm, which was no doubt being listened in on, made the approach a perfect time to open a channel to Gabriella. When she answered, her voice sounded as though she’d been sleeping.
“Rechs?” she whispered into the ether of wherever she was, whoever she was with.
“I’m taking the Dragon,” Rechs said. “Tell everyone in the guild to stay out of my way.”
Gabriella knew that wasn’t a threat. It was a warning. A courtesy. Specially offered for those who wanted to go on living. But most of her contractors, type-A testosterone junkies and flat-out sociopathic troublemakers, weren’t used to heeding warnings.
“I’ll pass on the message,” she said softly. “But Rechs… I don’t think they’ll listen. There’s just too many credits. And the House is supposedly adding more benefits. No tax on the prize. Full pardons for any outstanding crimes. Half of them would be stupid not to take the offer.”
“I know.”
They were stupid either way.
Rechs spotted the big ramshackle wood city just off the southern shores of a large equatorial mass. It was essentially a floating island built on top of ten thousand manmade mats, each the size of a city block. The mats were composed of high-tech materials that could sense and adjust for currents and temperature. Well, some of them were. Others they were made of nothing more than bamboo.
The floating city lorded over the shallow waters of a vast aquamarine lagoon. Up in the highlands, along the slopes of the coastal mountain range, duracrete abutments had been molded and leveled like ancient terraces. And it was here that the local ground control directed Rechs to land the Crow.
Pad N8873.
Rechs cut the thrusters to one quarter and threw out the landing gear. Throughout the ramshackle city, giant floating neon spam boards offering everything from the lurid to the enigmatic competed to distract him. But he dropped the Crow down with a low hum onto an ancient gray pad, where she settled onto her absorbers. Rechs was snapping off power and other systems when he realized he was still in a conversation with Gabriella.
She’d been sitting there, waiting for him to speak. It was the middle of the night where she was, and she was waiting for him to say something.
“Where are you?” she finally asked, sounding like a family member he hadn’t talked to in months. Asking him what new and exotic part of the world he’d traveled to so he could kill more people.
Not the world. It’s the galaxy now, thought Rechs. He went to new and exotic places in the galaxy to kill people.
He’d left the world long ago.
But the question brought about a feeling Rechs had not experienced in a long time. Someone wanting to know where he was, but not so that they could kill him. Or arrange for him to be killed by someone else. Just… to know.
It brought forth a vague memory from long ago. Standing on some desert base, back on Earth. Using a… phone… and telling someone—he could no longer remember who—that he was okay. But that he couldn’t say where he was. Or where he had been. Or where he was going.
And he remembered in that long-ago time feeling not so alone and dead simply because someone had cared enough to ask where he was calling from. Even though he couldn’t tell them.
Gabriella in the night was like the second coming of that long-lost memory. And before he could wonder if he really should trust her as much as he did—which was considerably more than he trusted anyone else in this rotten backstabbing galaxy where anyone would sell you out as fast as they could for a few credits more—he told her.
“Taijing.”
“Why there?”
“It’s where I think he’s gone.”
“All our intel and reports say Tyran or Sussa. What makes you think he went to Taijing?”
Rechs paused. There was trust… and then there was trust.
He didn’t trust her that much. Not with everything.
Not yet. Probably not ever.
“Some intel.”
“Okaaay,” she said slowly.
“Clear everyone off. I don’t want anyone getting hurt. This is a courtesy call, Gabriella.”
“I know that, Tyrus. But again, I don’t think they’ll listen. And… nobody is looking at Taijing.”
“I know,” said Rechs. “Not yet.”
And then the comm was dead, likely leaving Gabriella to lie there in the night, guarding all the secrets she knew, and thinking about Rechs.
Because no one else ever really did. Not the way she did.
[redacted]
[Fumbling sounds of recording device being turned on]
[redacted]: … Operator 901 didn’t do anything other than what the rest of us do. [redacted] Team watched him for
six straight days. He drank, spent time and probably money on various local ladies. All of the Sinasian race. Gambled on Green Dragon Street. Ate a lot of food off the street. He also took a couple of tours of the various historical sites on Taijing, including one temple.
Most of these were off limits because [redacted]. Distance observation and audio tracking compensated adequately except for some signal drop at two sites. Drone recon was used to track the visit to Museum of Sinasian History and some little temple called Temple of the Giant in the local dialect. It was located in a neighborhood district known as [redacted].
[Untranslatable audio from other end of comm]
[redacted]: No. Nothing detected was anything other than the expected. But it should be noted that the subject’s skill set, from what [redacted] Team has been allowed access to, would be consistent with conducting operations under direct observation. Keeping that in mind, we…
[End of recording]
16
Rechs was in his armor and ready to go within thirty minutes of landing. He left G232 and Lyra to watch the ship, exiting via the boarding ramp and sealing the hatch with his personal ident.
Taijing docking berths were a massive engineering feat that acted like a giant elevator carrying mass quantities of shipped products from the Sinasian worlds. Everything in Sinasia flowed through Taijing before being allowed out of the protectorate, and the berths subsequently needed to be intricate, industrial, and powerful. Untold amounts of cargo passed through or was stored in a massive deep warehouse complex built inside the mountain. The warehouse was said to be so wide that freighters larger than the Crow could fly side by side through the long corridors, like two people passing in a hallway.
Between the stadium-sized cargo platforms ran tram cars that seemed wild and out of control as they switched lines to avoid the constant stoppages caused by lift platforms halting to load or unload their cargo. The tram cars were covered in graffiti in a hybrid of Standard and Sinasian—the latter of which was an amalgam of the ancient languages said to have come from that mythical land of Asia.