Gemina
Page 5
Donnelly, H: Determining your future.
Merrick, J: [laughs.] Sorry. I’m just a little under the pump at the mo’.
Merrick, J: But no excuses, Merrick.
Merrick, J: You’re amazing. As I try to tell you every day. Might I ask why I’m telling you at this particular moment, though?
Donnelly, H: Let me count the ways.
Donnelly, H: Dad says I can lurk up the back with you during the speeches. Though he will be watching the exact placement of your hands at all times.
Merrick, J: Outrageous.
Donnelly, H: He probably feels this will be necessary due to reason number two, which is the Danae Matresco jumpsuit that should arrive for me on today’s shipment.
Donnelly, H: Your jaw.
Donnelly, H: Will drop.
Merrick, J: Is she that designer with the genetically modified hairless corgi and seven husbands? All named Jean Luc?
Merrick, J: Or is it seven corgis and a genetically modified hairless husband?
Donnelly, H: You are hopeless.
Merrick, J: True.
Donnelly, H: She has two husbands and four hairless corgis, which frankly makes perfect sense in zero grav. Otherwise what would you do with the fur when they shed?
Merrick, J: That actually makes very litt—
Donnelly, H: Anyway, you are focused on the wrong bit. Danae Matresco JUMPSUIT. The cut on her stuff, Jax. You are not going to be thinking about her pets.
Merrick, J: Isn’t her gear really expensive? I heard the standard rate for one of her handbags is your firstborn man-child. Not sure I’m keen on the idea of handing over Jackson junior just to match an ensemble.
Donnelly, H: She already has two husbands, she doesn’t need Jax junior.
Donnelly, H: Dad gave me a little extra pocket money. Which is handy, because I’d already ordered it.
Merrick, J: You’re incorrigible, madam.
Merrick, J: I like it.
Donnelly, H: So the plan is that I will see you at about 17:15, and you will fall into a dead faint, overwhelmed by this outfit.
Merrick, J: A manly faint, though, right?
Donnelly, H: And you will remember to block my PLoB right beforehand so I can pick up the postmatch entertainment?
Donnelly, H: Hello?
Merrick, J: Sorry. I’m here. Under the pump, like I say. I need about seven more sets of hands. Eight, by the sounds of this jumpsuit.
Merrick, J: Wink wink?
Merrick, J: Right. PLoB blocked. Fainting. Yes. Got it.
Donnelly, H: Hmmmmm.
Donnelly, H: I will leave you to apply your hands to the things you are paid to do, but come party time, we’re going to have fun, okay? It’s not like Heimdall is famous for her crazy action.
Merrick, J: Fun. Yes.
Merrick, J: Just don’t be late. You know how your dad gets. I’d rather enjoy avoiding another “friendly man-to-man” if at all possible.
Donnelly, H: I consider those to be tests of your affection for me.
Donnelly, H: But I’ll be on time. Wouldn’t want to miss a stirring word of the speeches.
Donnelly, H: Ciao for now!
Merrick, J: Ciao, bella.
HEIMDALL CHAT: GUEST793
Wheaton, S: Malikov.
Guest793: Hey ****stain. I was just talking about you.
Wheaton, S: Are your people ready for tomorrow?
Guest793: Question: How do you expect to keep a girlfriend with no tongue in your head? You don’t strike me as a ladies-first kind of guy, but they’re still pretty important in maintaining a healthy—
Wheaton, S: Put it back in your pants, kid. I’m not interested.
Wheaton, S: Are your people ready, or do I break the news to your uncle and Little Miss T&A?
Guest793: We’re ready.
Wheaton, S: You better be.
Guest793: We’ve been doing this for a while, ****head. We can handle one delivery.
Wheaton, S: Just make sure you do.
Guest793: When this is over, Wheaton, you and me are gonna have a quiet chat. Feel me?
Wheaton, S: When this is over, Malikov, you and I will have nothing to chat about.
Wheaton, S: 15:00 sharp. Bay 17. Do NOT be late.
——CONNECTION TERMINATED——
Guest793: ********ing mother****ing piece of ****ing ****.
HEIMDALL CHAT: CHARLES DONNELLY
Donnelly, C: Isaac.
Grant, I: Boss.
Donnelly, C: I’m just about to queue up our auto-response in case comms go down during maintenance. Anything I should know?
Grant, I: I’m guessing we’re going to run slightly over the planned six-day downtime due to this goddamn malware issue. Best to give us a full week of no traffic.
Donnelly, C: My alarm clock played that damnable lollipop song when it woke me this morning.
Grant, I: I know, I know. It’s into everything. We’re on it. Seven days and we’re golden.
Donnelly, C: I have faith. But make sure you give your people at least a little R&R tonight. Humanity doesn’t leave its solar system every day.
Grant, I: Affirmative. Celebrate the little things, Helena always says. I’ve got a bottle of ’57 Sláine I was planning to crack at midnight, if you’d like a taste?
Donnelly, C: Dare I ask where you got it?
Grant, I: Ignorance is bliss, Charles. But so is a dram of ’57 Sláine.
Donnelly, C: [laughs.] Roger that, then. Donnelly out.
From: Auto-Response System/A-RHEIMDALLONBOARD
To: All Incoming
Incept: 08/15/75
Time: 10:00
Subject: Heimdall Maintenance
Greetings from the Wallace Ulyanov Consortium!
Jump Station Heimdall is currently undergoing scheduled maintenance. Our wormhole and waypoints to and from the following sectors will be offline from 08/15/75 until 08/22/75:
•Corwin
•Hawking
•Kerenza
•Ptolemy
•Saine
•Tyson
All travel to and from Core systems through the above-listed waypoints will be unavailable during this period. It is also possible Jump Station Heimdall may experience intermittent outages of communications and other systems during maintenance.
We will return to full operation status as of August 30. We apologize for any inconvenience caused. Please direct all inquiries regarding Jump Station Heimdall maintenance to Wallace Ulyanov Consortium headquarters on Ares VI.
Have a nice day!
From: Hanna Donnelly/HDONNELLYHEIMDALLONBOARD
To: Jackson Merrick/JMERRICKHEIMDALLONBOARD
Incept: 08/15/75
Time: 14:30
Subject: I am basically Medusa
Hey you,
Can you do the block on my locator from 17:30 to 18:00 instead? I had to push back picking up the party treats from your favorite guy, as there is a hair disaster of epic proportions taking place right now at Chateau Donnelly. You don’t want to know the details.
Anyway, I told him I’ll have to pick up and pay later. Will hustle straight from there to the party in C & C so I’ll still be on time.
You’re the best!
XOXOXO
From: Jackson Merrick/JMERRICKHEIMDALLONBOARD
To: Hanna Donnelly/HDONNELLYHEIMDALLONBOARD
Incept: 08/15/75
Time: 14:32
Subject: Re: I am basically Medusa
Well, Medusa was apparently something of a stunner before the whole snake hair/curse thing. :)
Listen, why don’t you just arrange to meet with PrisonBoy AFTER the function? That way there’s no risk of you being late?
You know there’s no way I can cover for you to your father if you’re not there. He’ll notice.
Read: explode.
From: Jackson Merrick/JMERRICKHEIMDALLONBOARD
To: Hanna Donnelly/HDONNELLYHEIMDALLONBOARD
Incept: 08/15/75
Time: 14:55<
br />
Subject: Re: I am basically Medusa
Hello? Hanna? Are you ignoring me on your whisperNET?
You haven’t angered any goddesses recently, have you?
How serious is this hair emergency? 0_o
Footage for this segment has been collected from cameras all over Docking Bay 17 of Heimdall Station, along with several externals. We open inside Service Elevator 17B, on a shot of Handsome Mike Malikov, Soraya Een Hajji, Nik Malikov and two other Dom Najov foot soldiers—Giovanni Genovesi (known to his friends as Double G) and Ivan “Puck” Federov. A tinny rendition of Lexi Blue’s “I Wanna Lick Ya (Lollipop)” is thumping through the elevator PA.
Double G, a solid brick of tattooed muscle with no front teeth, is tapping his foot in time.
“This song,” he grunts. “Very catchy.”
Nik Malikov glares at the speakers, looking ready to stab somebody.
The elevator doors open, spilling them out onto Docking Bay 17. Most of Heimdall’s twenty-four bays were of similar configuration and design—same as most of these big station docks. It’s a big space, lots of heavy equipment, forklifts, a rack of sealed actuator-assisted loading suits. The AALs are basically big envirosuits with hydraulic exoskeletons, used for heavy lifting in tight spaces or low grav. They stand about three and a half meters tall, can lift a couple of tons if the pilot knows his game.
Aside from Ella Malikova, the motley crew stalking into the bay represent the only House of Knives members still aboard Heimdall. Most of the cartel shipped back to Ares a week ago for the traditional HoK Terra Day celebrations in New Petersburg, and none of those remaining seem too happy about being on the clock.
No Heimdall staffers, docking crew or otherwise, are present. Presumably they’ve been paid off by the Dom Najov and have clocked off early to head to the Terra Day party in C & C.
All of the HoK crew are packing—mid-caliber pistols mostly, though Soraya is also sporting a long-handled cleaver (rumored to have been the last thing husband number two ever saw). Nik Malikov and Double G are smoking—probably tobacco, given the circumstances. Normally, firing up a smoke aboard a space station would set off approximately seventy-four thousand alarms, but Ella Malikova has overridden all the docking bay enviro sensors—every gang of interstellar criminals needs a vice, after all. Nikky in particular is hitting his cigarette hard, looking at his timepiece and pacing like an expectant father.
“Mother******s are nearly two hours late.”
Handsome Mike tilts his head till the vertebrae pop. “Patience, Nikky, patience.”
“I got biz.”
“This is biz.”
“Other biz.”
Mike raises an eyebrow. At least, I think he does. Scars make it hard to tell.
“What kind of other biz?”
“The kind with blue eyes and curves, feel me?”
“I thought Lucy’s eyes were brown?”
Guffaws of laughter around the crew. Rumors about Nik’s fondness for ladies of the bovine variety have obviously done the rounds. Malikov the Younger grins and raises his middle finger. His uncle smiles back and takes a bow. Looks like the boys kissed and made up after all.
External cams show an express freighter synchronizing rotation with Heimdall forty minutes later. They’re behind schedule, like Nik said. The freighter is huge—and I mean bigger than Buddha huge. Ugly. Weathered. It looks like a Griffon-class from the Vitus shipyards, the same kind of long-haul workhorse you’d find at any dock around a colonized sector. Nothing remarkable about its exterior, ’cept that it’s so unremarkable. It’s roughly rectangular, bow and stern flaring a little thicker than the middle. Eight-story thrusters are dwarfed by the sheer size of the thing. Micro-meteor scars pit its skin. Name stenciled down its snout in big black letters.
MAO.
The freighter’s way too big to dock direct, so it extends a long umbilical of segmented plasteel and iron-weave kevlar, locks onto Heimdall’s docking doors. Inside, the heavy thunks of the magnalocks echo around the bay as Nik lights another cigarette, tapping away at a palmpad between puffs. No one thinks it’s out of the ordinary—by now Double G and Puck are also on their palmpads playing a round of Shiv, and Handsome Mike is checking the scores on the traditional pre–Terra Day geeball match between the Kepler Knights and New Vegas Sabers (the game had been played the day before, but it took hours for the feed to hit the Heimdall waypoint and, from there, the station).
Sabers are up, 48–24.
A harsh electronic buzz reverberates around the bay. Several red globes above the airlock begin spinning and the dockcomp spits out an alert.
Handsome Mike looks up from his game. “ ’Sup?”
Soraya is already at the bay door controls, stabbing at the console. “Bad seal. Got a leak somewhere. System’s trying to lock it down.”
“Us or them?”
“Us, I think. One of the mags didn’t fire.”
“Reboot and cycle the system.” Mike spits between his teeth. “Tell these cowboys to detach and try again.”
Nik Malikov looks at his watch again, grinds out his cigarette on the deck and marches over to Mike. Chewing his lip like it was rubber.
“Uncle Mike, I gotta jump. You can handle this, yeah?”
Malikov looks his nephew up and down. “This is your deal, Nikky.”
“I know, I know. But I got this slice and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” He tries a conspiratorial grin. “She got a temper, feel me?”
“Don’t try that prettyboy smile on me, Killer. Save them dimples for the tourists.”
“Uncle Mike, come on. You got four crew here. You can handle one biotainer, Jesus.”
“We can handle it, sure. But I let you slip early, what’s in it for me?”
Malikov runs a hand through his hair, sucks his lip. “I’m due ten percent finder’s fee, yeah? I’ll kick you back a clip of that. Ten percent of my ten.”
Handsome Mike scoffs. “**** off.”
“Twenty, then. Twenty.”
Mike spits through his teeth. “Forty. And you’re taking Soraya’s shift on birth detail.”
“Jesus, I don’t wanna be there when those things hatch.”
“Well, Soraya doesn’t want to be there either. And I owe her a cool K for the Blackwings game. If I slam you her shift, she’ll call it even. So Miss Curves gets stood up or you butch up, li’l chum. Your call.”
“When they hatching?”
“Tonight. Staggered cycle. Three per hour, every hour till we’re done. First ones will be saying hello around 20:00, I’m thinking. You show up for second shift. Call it 01:00.”
“Christ, it’s Terra Day, Uncle Mike. I’m going hard with Ella tonight. You really want me in there half roasted when those things pop? I’ll paint the ****ing walls.”
“So bring a bucket, Killer.”
Nik makes a face. Shoves his hands in his pockets. His palmpad rings again and he glances at the screen. Sighs.
“Okay. All right. Thirty percent and I’m yours on the morrow. Deal?”
Malikov takes his nephew’s offered hand and shows a gap-tooth grin.
“Hope she’s worth it, Nikky.”
“I’ll let you know.” He winks. “If I’m not back by dawn, call the president.”
Nik slouches away as fast as he can, while still maintaining some semblance of chill, out the docking bay doors, through the secondary airlock and into the corridor beyond. Meanwhile, Soraya has been cycling the primary airlock seals again and is finally rewarded with a faint ping and a shift from red to green in the globes above the doors.
“You may begin kissing my *** now, boys. Form an orderly queue when ready.”
Seal established, the Dom Najov crew waits as the Mao’s umbilical pressurizes and fills with O2. After a few ticks, the bay doors cycle wide, revealing two figures in stock-built envirosuits. No markings or company ident. They step into the bay and remove their helmets. The first is a man, early thirties, dark hair shaved close to his scalp
. Tattoo of a biohazard symbol inked onto the back of his skull. The second is a woman. Late twenties, platinum blond hair sheared into a jagged fringe, clipped short back and sides. Fit and lean.
The pair touch hands. Just the lightest brush of their fingertips. Then the man begins wandering around the bay’s expanse, marking each camera location, blind spots, cover. Blondie looks around at the assembled crew.
“Where’s Malikov?” she asks.
“I’m Malikov,” says Handsome Mike.
“Not the Malikov I’m supposed to be meeting.”
“One of us is as good as another. You got something for me, Sweet?”
She blinks. Stares hard. Finally speaks. “Not until it’s aboard.”
Handsome Mike sighs expansively, nods to the Dom Najov. Puck jumps into an AAL, arcs up the controls. Servos and pistons whining, he slowly trudges down through the umbilical, Soraya hanging off the back of the suit. Handsome Mike and Double G stand with arms folded, watching the tattooed man wandering around the bay, tapping away on a handheld commlink. It’s bleeding-edge tech. Not sure of the make or model.
Mike looks at the woman. “Your man seems nervous.”
The woman doesn’t say a word. Puck and Soraya emerge from the Mao a few minutes later, a heavy biotainer locked in the AAL’s grip. The ’tainer is four meters by three, reinforced plasteel, marked with MÉDECINS SANS ÉTOILES seals and trimmed in yellow and black stripes. It’s the kind you’d haul perishable med supplies inside, but since it has no external viewports, you could stow pretty much anything in it.
Puck pilots his loader across the bay, stows the biotainer against one wall with a heavy clang. Making the motion of dusting off his huge, hydraulically augmented hands, he powers off the suit, lightly hops down to the deck.
“All good, Cap,” he calls.
Malikov nods. Turns to the woman. “Now. You got something for me, Sweet?”
Blondie looks him over. Looks to her companion, who simply nods.
“Yes,” she says. “I’ve got yours.”