by Nick Webb
Sergeant Anarraham nodded crisply. “Exactly. Intelligence suggests they’ll attempt to reactivate the station’s secondary self-destruct routine, using the resulting explosion as a false flag to rally support among both sides. I was tracking the man in the doctor’s office through your station when I lost him.” She worked her bottom lip with her teeth, as much thoughtfully as punishingly. “He must have realized I had spotted him, popped some kind of suicide pill… “
“What was that now?” Xenecia asked, her ears pricking up at the key phrase Anarraham had tossed off so casually. “Something about a self-destruct routine?”
“Correct.”
“Would that not have been disabled when the station was first established?”
“The primary self-destruct routine would have, yes. But these old super freighters were built with separate secondary routines that can be easy to overlook. Think about it. Some of these ships were contracted to transport military cargo, including classified prototypes. They had to have multiple layers of security in the event they were ambushed and incapacitated.”
“So what you are saying is that the entire station is rigged with an active array of explosives?”
“And has been for five generations, yes. The difference now is that one of the bad guys knows how to make them go boom again.”
“Then I suppose it is up to us to make sure they do not succeed.”
“‘Us?’ No way. There’s no us here. I’m a trained professional on an off-book black ops mission that my government will disavow in the event I’m captured or killed. The last thing I need right now is to babysit some D-grade mercenary.”
Xenecia curled her lip in a display of thinning patience. She was well aware that most military professionals considered the practice of hunting to be a bastardized, even base form of the venerated art of soldiering. Still, this one was pushing her sense of professional decorum to its outermost limits.
“Let me be perfectly clear about two things, “ she said in answer. “This station is my home, and whether it is under threat from within or without I intend to do my utmost to assure that no harm comes to it or its people.”
The woman shifted her bearing, and for a moment Xenecia thought she detected a note of respect in the way she regarded her. “All right. Point taken. And the second?”
Xenecia allowed her curled lips to spread into a grin. “I was not asking.”
At that, Anarraham sighed tellingly. “I thought as much… “
Even if the attack hadn’t been telegraphed, Xenecia had been preparing for one from the moment she sealed the door of her space behind them. The struggle that followed was brief—more of a tussle, really—her superior size allowing her to leverage the sergeant’s arm behind her back. From there it was only a matter of a few quick steps to force her against the wall.
“You will find the inner workings of this station far more complex than you imagine,” Xenecia whispered against the curve of the woman’s ear. “Whatever schematics you are drawing from, I guarantee they do not provide you with the full picture you require to navigate the areas you seek.”
“Let me guess: you’re volunteering to be my friendly neighborhood guide?” Anarraham attempted to use the distraction of her question to dislodge her arm and throw Xenecia off balance, and failed. With a defeated growl she added, “Fine! Get off me already.”
At length, Xenecia stepped back and allowed the sergeant to push off the wall. “Who said anything about friendly?”
* * *
The labyrinth that was the station’s penetralia unfolded before them under Xenecia’s superior guidance. Drawing upon an intimate familiarity with the station’s inner workings, she guided them through a twisting warren of seldom-used corridors and passages between levels known primarily to the station’s vermin—both human and otherwise—and her. Thankfully during this excursion they came across none of the human variety. Whether the lack of any internal maintenance that day was thanks to a happy accident or good planning on the part of Anarraham’s intelligence asset, Xenecia couldn’t say. (She did however discover that the sergeant had something of an aversion to rat droppings, which proved a source of private amusement to her, considering how many there were to avoid. So there was that, at least.)
It only got worse from there. The closer their path took them toward the engineering grid, the higher the temperature rose. Incrementally at first, until the change was too significant for Anarraham to ignore. Sweat clung to every inch of her exposed skin, slowing their progress considerably. To her, the salty discharge was an inconvenience, one that required she open her coveralls to the waist and stop repeatedly to swipe at her unprotected eyes.
“How much further?” Anarraham asked in the lowest of whispers after nearly two hours of creeping and skulking. Without the chatter of the common areas to mask it, speech and other seemingly insignificant noises—the errant scrape of metal on metal, the toe of a boot dragging against ductwork as they crawled through it—had a way of taking on a life of their own within the confined spaces.
“Not much. We should be only a few meters away.”
“Should be?” she hissed, a little too animatedly. “I thought you said you knew this place like the back of your—”
Xenecia stopped her abruptly, raising the back of the very hand Anarraham was referring to. Below them, two guards stationed outside the entrance of the engineering grid were chatting in discreet tones. It didn’t take long to discern that one of the men was relating the details of an intimate encounter he had recently enjoyed while on leave… a rather vulgar and generously embellished one, at that. Xenecia and Anarraham shared a scowling shake of their heads before continuing forward.
On the plus side, the story would likely hold the men’s attention for some time. All the better to ensure they weren’t interrupted.
At last, their path terminated before a heavy steel grate. “We are here,” Xenecia announced. Producing a multitool from her pants pocket, she set to work on the screws securing the grate. There were several, and the process was painfully slow… but also rewarding. Xenecia was passing the last of the screws back to Anarraham when it slipped through the woman’s sweaty palm. The heavy screw hit the ductwork below with an audible clang. Xenecia and Anarraham froze, half expecting the guards to start firing up into the ductwork at any moment. No such firestorm came, though. The guards were still engrossed in conversation. They never even heard the screw fall.
With a relieved breath, Xenecia removed the grate. It was the last obstacle in their path, and with nothing else holding them back she slipped through the opening and into the engineering grid. Anarraham dropped down behind her, the sound of her landing all but inaudible. Her spook training at work, no doubt.
“This way,” she said.
Xenecia had barely taken the first step toward the central console when she felt a stinging bite against the nape of her neck.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Anarraham said coolly, “but I can take it from here.”
Xenecia had all of a second to spin and see Sergeant Anarraham extracting the ultra thin, millimeters-long silver needle from beneath her thumbnail. The paralytic agent lacing its crimson-tipped end had been transferred into her bloodstream, rendering it safe to the touch. Anarraham held the metal sliver between thumb and forefinger, regarding it almost thoughtfully. Then she shrugged and flicked it away as Xenecia collapsed to one knee before her, struggling to breathe.
“Here, let me help you with that.” Anarraham gripped Xenecia’s shoulder, shoving her roughly to the floor as she strode past her.
The paralytic agent coursed through her, binding Xenecia’s limbs more effectively than any external force. Her own body became a prison, her nerves and synapses crying mutiny against the directives they would have so readily obeyed only moments earlier. Her other senses remained unaffected, allowing her to see and hear Anarraham as she went about searching for the input required to activate the secondary self-destruct
routine. She hummed to herself all the while, an abominably cheerful melody Xenecia recognized as one of the harvest-time ditties that was so popular during the Arathian equinox.
With a flash of excruciating clarity, Xenecia knew she had allowed herself to be played. She had seen only what Anarraham wanted her to, never stopping to examine the situation from the other side. Anarraham was no special operative, she knew that now, but who or what was she really? An extremist? An opportunist? Disgruntled Arathian military? Perhaps the dying man in the doctor’s office could have cleared it up for her, though he was more likely just another link in the chain. Or had been, until he aborted his mission prematurely. Stranded and with no one to help her navigate the station’s complicated layout, Anarraham flipped the script, casting herself as the heroic operative in need of a local guide to maneuver through difficult, potentially hostile terrain.
And Xenecia had played right into the role Anarraham auditioned her for.
So much for that “finely calibrated bullshit detector.”
Finally the deceitful bitch found the input, the flimsy panel concealing it giving way easily. When revealed, the keypad beneath glowed an eerie golden yellow. The nuclear battery that powered it had not failed, despite Xenecia’s most earnest wishes to the contrary.
“Let’s see, how long should I give myself to get off station?” Anarraham purred as she pondered the keypad. “Three hours seems a little generous, but two might not be enough if I get hung up making my way back out. What do you think, Xenecia?”
Xenecia scowled—or at least she would have if her facial expression wasn’t fixed down to the nerve endings. Then she remembered she was scowling when the paralytic set. Small victory, that, though Anarraham didn’t seem to care one way or the other. She was much more concerned with the larger victory.
Well, that and saving her ass.
“Hmm. You’re right. Best to split the difference. Two and a half hours, it is.”
The moment she inputted the code the keypad turned an angry, accusing red. There were no sirens or klaxons, no computerized warnings announcing the start of the sequence, only the winking flash of the keypad’s digital readout as it counted down.
Anarraham crossed the grid and stooped before her, examining Xenecia closely. “Well, it looks like this is goodbye. Sorry it had to go down this way. No hard feelings, yeah?” With a soft pat to her cheek, she took her leave. “Oh, and don’t worry, I’ll say hello to your friends outside for you.”
Xenecia tried to call out as Anarraham approached the door, but of course it was no use. Her vocal cords were as fixed and inflexible as every other part of her body. Two muffled pops sounded as the door swished open, followed by a pair of clipped groans and what could only be the bodies of the guards outside hitting the floor.
So, this is how it ends, she thought, embracing the fatalism of the moment. Even before the wholesale obliteration of her planet and people, she had always imagined herself the hero of her own story. With so few of her kind—her kin—left afterward, it had seemed the only logical explanation. But if this was all she had been spared for—to die alone and imprisoned within herself, the unwitting tool of some double agent used to murder thousands and spark a war she had neither stake nor side in—then what else did that make her but a damnable, blighted fool?
The answer came, of all places, from her twitching toe. The paralytic was wearing off! Perhaps the dose had been improperly prepared; perhaps her body was metabolizing it quicker than a victim with human anatomy. Whatever the case, that lonely little twitch represented the sole hope of the station, if not the entire system.
Fifteen minutes passed before enough of the paralytic ebbed from her system to begin the painful process of moving. The climb to her feet was as slow as it was arduous, her muscles burning in protest through the entire effort. A nearby console proved a handy crutch, for which she was grateful. Without its reassuring presence she surely would have gone right back to ground.
Even attempting to move felt as if three times the normal gravity was crashing down upon her. Only with intense focus was she able to coax her listless legs forward, working inexorably toward the center console. Eventually she ran out of improvised handholds, barely making it to the console before her legs all but gave out on her. There was still half an hour on the timer, she saw. That was good; she could work with that.
But first, she had to get to the guards in the doorway. While they were definitely dead, their radios were not.
Getting to the guards proved less challenging than the center console. Her adrenaline was flowing now, though traces of the paralytic still lingered in her extremities. Her fingers in particular were slow to respond as she tried to work the radio. She fumbled it once, twice before finally managing to secure it within an awkward, claw-like grip. Holding down the call button proved a fresh challenge, one she had no choice but to master quickly.
“Security,” she barked into the radio’s mouthpiece once she had the frequency open. “Security, respond immediately!”
“What the—who is this?”
“You are speaking to Xenecia of Shih’ra. Listen to me. You need to alert your people that—”
“Wait, Xenecia of… the huntrex?”
“Yes, the huntrex!” she replied curtly.
“You shouldn’t be on this frequency. How did you get on this—”
“I said listen to me, damn it! Alert your people that there is an armed intruder aboard station, but do so quietly. She will likely be attempting to make her way to one of the docking bays.” Xenecia described Anarraham, waiting for a response.
“Got it,” the dispatcher said after a brief pause. “Anything else?”
“Yes. You will need to get someone down to the engineering grid to disengage the secondary self-destruct routine. You have approximately thirty minutes.”
“… the what now?”
With five quick strides Xenecia bolted from the engineering grid, the radio squawking in her wake. They would figure it out or they wouldn’t; either way, her sole duty was to prevent Soshi Anarraham from escaping whatever judgment awaited her aboard Over/Under Station.
If she had one trump card left, one thing that gave her half a shot of intercepting the conniving little backstabber before she had the chance to slip through security’s clumsy fingers, it was her own ego. She had led Anarraham to the engineering grid by a circuitous route, hoping to delay their arrival as long as possible and catch the conspirator in the act. Not only would the reward from the Triumvirate surely have been substantial, but the notoriety of her involvement in preventing the destruction of the station would have earned her bigger jobs, larger paydays, and hopefully someday a one-way ticket out of this backwater system. Win-win all around, she figured.
At least until—well, no need rehashing the past. Her eyes were fixed firmly, unrelentingly forward.
Lo and behold, there she was. Somehow Anarraham had backtracked her way through the guts of the station with time to spare… or so she thought, anyway.
Xenecia came flying out of the intersecting passageway at full speed, shoulder checking Anarraham into the unforgiving bulkhead. The side of the woman’s head slapped against the thick metal along with the rest of her body, and yet she still came away swinging. Xenecia easily deflected the attempts before slipping in to deliver two quick strikes to Anarraham’s midsection. She followed that combination with a stunning uppercut, the blow nearly taking the woman off her feet. Punch drunk, barely standing, Anarraham refused to give up. She made one last play, charging desperately. The attempt was so futile, so pathetic that Xenecia almost felt pity for the woman as she demolished her with a standing high kick. The kick found its mark beneath her chin, snapping Anarraham’s head back and spinning her around like a top before dropping her face-first to the floor.
This time she didn’t resist when Xenecia moved to secure her. “Do you recall what you said earlier?” she asked, forcing Anarraham’s hands b
ehind her back.
The woman laughed as Xenecia hauled her up once more, the sound as thick and slurred as her words. “About you being a D-grade mercenary? Sorry, a cheap shot like that isn’t about to change my mind.”
“I meant about me frogmarching you off to meet my security friends.”
“Ah.” Anarraham spat a bloody wad at their feet. At least one of her teeth clattered to the floor with it. “That.”
“Yes, that. This is that part.”
* * *
The Triumvirate was an unusual bunch. Isolated and elevated above all others from birth, they had a removed, almost casual affectation about them. Far from awkward—no, they were too comfortable with themselves and one another for that—they projected the airy, dynastic confidence of those who take their people’s approval for granted.
Such was the extent of their own species of self-worship that the Triumvirate required every meeting begin with a display of homage, no matter how small or seemingly mundane. As a result their chamber all but overflowed with an apparent random, altogether haphazard assortment of trinkets and baubles, knickknacks and curios, all of it stacked floor to ceiling and around and between their makeshift thrones. Some items were exceedingly valuable; others could only be charitably described as junk. The Triumvirate seemed to care not for the monetary value of any particular item, but rather what it represented to the giver.
For her tribute, Xenecia offered one of the teeth she had knocked free of Sergeant Anarrahamm’s skull.
“How droll,” said the first of the regents, as they preferred to be called individually, upon receipt of the tooth. “The offering is accepted. Let it be noted in the station log that this proceeding has commenced officially.”
“Welcome, Xenecia of Shih’ra,” the second regent continued. “We would first like to thank you for your service. The people of Over/Under Station owe you a great debt.”
“A great debt, indeed,” the third regent agreed. “Absent your actions, there is no telling what might have transpired.”