by Caleb Fast
Richardson hated Triborn with a passion, the man forced him to do all of Jenniston’s dirty work, thinking he could break him. Now look who’s broken and who’s calling the shots for a change. He thinks, remembering the cruel things that had transpired over the years. Richardson stops his browsing and takes a book by an author named JJ Holmes, titled Deathwalk out from its place.
Richardson looks the cover over, smiling he drops it into his bag. Might as well make use of my time here, he thinks. Inside of his bag was various tech, valuables, and other odd-and-ins, things he knew he would need at some point. Grabbing a few other books, he preps for all the time he would have to burn, going who knows where. Finishing off his collection of books, Richardson grabs Frigid Fires which is also by the author JJ Holmes, and Treasure Amongst the Stars by a Harrison Matterhorn. Dropping each of these book into his bag, he makes his way to the Holo-Port. Sitting down at the desk, he fires up the computer and scrolls through various files, skimming over them, looking for whatever seemed either valuable or volatile. One file was marked Urgent, but he couldn’t access it due to an encryption. Bookmarking it, he continues his search, after all, if he was going to turn his back on the Coalition, he might as well know everything about them. Another file named T-I 1847 was left unencrypted. Richardson began reading, quickly seeing it was from Reiz Holenhuge the harbinger to the Prime Minister of the Coalition.
Richardson skims the file, seeing plans to strike a place located on the Coalition-Alexandrian border. No planet name was mentioned, just the vague description of an old outpost planet in Alexandrian space. The file mentioned that the operation was being financed by slave trade, and that the currency would be used to hire pirates and other criminal factions to assist in the raid. Most of the outpost’s civilian population was expected to die in/due to the attack, which appears to possibly be a weapons test as well. Permission was giving to inflict maximum civilian casualties as “collateral damage” allowed. Leaning forward he was drawn into the information. And it’s written as if the killing of civilians is the goal, Richardson thinks in disgust, knowing, from experience, that the Coalition was more than comfortable killing innocents.
“Good morning, this is the Accolade requesting permission to land,” A voice sounds, snapping Richardson from his trance.
“Security clearance please,” Richardson requests as he presses his hand to his earpiece. He didn’t understand why the Coalition required the shuttle to provided confirmation, because everything was following a predetermined schedule for an obsolete prison’s obsolete delivery and pickup. It seemed excessive, in his opinion.
“Clearance code is, ‘47465385316’” The freighter’s captain reads off. Judging by the tone of his voice, Richardson could tell that the captain thought the codes were unnecessary as well.
“Permission granted,” Richardson informs the freighter, “Welcome to Paradise.”
“Comms acting up again?” The captain inquires in a friendly voice.
“It would seem so,” Richardson lies. He doubted the captain would believe the fact that he knocked out the comms himself in order to aid in an escape attempt.
Cracking the Holo-Port open, Richardson removes the hard drive and backups intending to read them over later. He then throws a few valuables from the desk into his bag. This is it, he thinks, taking a slow breath, No turning back now.
Richardson takes some of the books he didn’t want and rips them apart. Throwing them into a pile, he douses the room in starship fuel. He has to take a step back because of the strong fumes of the fuel. Starship fuel is the most volatile fuel the prisons had, which was exactly what he needed to ensure things went down in their favor. Soon the room would burn, Maybe this whole building will burn, he thinks happily. Exiting the room, Richardson lowers his bag to the ground, and begins arming his time-bomb near the doorway, he didn’t intend to be anywhere near it when it blew. And so begins my life as a wanted man, he thinks, making his way down the hallway to the docking bay where he would meet up with his guards and begin the next phase of the plan.
He swipes his badge on the hangar’s side door that was nearest his office. This was his first time in the main hangar, pausing he takes in just how massive it was. Dozens of cranes, and even more cargo tunnels line the wall opposite of him, fuel tanks are piled all around, as are cargo containers awaiting pickup. Like the rest of the prison, the walls are grey, but here the ceiling was white, crisscrossed with bulkheads and tracks for the heavy machinery. Richardson lowers his eyes to the lustrous black floor, gazing into the reflection of the grand hangar he feels a chill. Looking at the reflection of Commander Jenniston who is making her way to him. He looks up and gives a quick salute, taking a left he busies himself with a few prisoners who are posing as the prison’s ground crew. Jenniston marches out the doorway behind him, into the administration wing of the prison, which he had just left. Jenniston didn't even regard Richardson, which he found very relieving, it was nice not being studied by that bloodthirsty woman.
“Is everything in order?” Richardson asks Clive, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.
“Yes,” Clive nods.
“What did the others think about being left behind?” Richardson presses.
“They didn’t like the idea until we promised them Jenniston’s head,” Clive laughs.
“You promised that?” Richardson asks incredulously.
“Sure I did,” Clive reports, “And then I saw to it that Mav could make that possible.
“So, we’ll be seeing a lot more explosions?”
“A whole lot more, Trix found the motherload just off of the hangar she was in.”
“Really? And how much is that?”
“Enough to take out every security door that is still standing.”
“Well that’s a lot of explosives indeed,”
“Most everyone agreed to meet us when we come back, but some said that they wanted to stay here and beg for the Coalition’s forgiveness.”
“How many people?” Richardson asks as his heart sinks. He knew that such an idea was a fool’s errand.
“Almost three hundred,” Clive whispers, clearly as sure of their impending doom as Richardson was.
“Did you try to talk them out of it?”
“Yes, to no avail,” Clive reports. He glances around for a moment before continuing, “I’ve got some last-minute preparations to make,”
“Godspeed,” Richardson nods before Clive turns and races away.
The freighter takes several minutes—which seem like hours to Richardson—before it close enough to see. The craft slowly descends out of the ominous and ever-present cloud cover and slowly lines itself up for its final approach. How are we going to make it off this rock in such a slow ship? He wondered. As the freighter draws near he can just make out the shapes of its five escorts, which are Straf-180s. Ah, that’s how we are going to make it, he thinks with a chuckle. He heard that five Coalition 180’s had more than enough firepower to overpower the ragtag fleets put together in uprisings. Their sleek black hulls and four wings that jut out into a bronze cross have cannons attached anywhere and everywhere. Most are equipped with guidance systems for large tactical missiles in addition to their countless smaller armaments. They are agile, durable, and were supposedly stronger than anything the Alexandrians could come up with.
We are probably going to the Alexandrians, seeing how Clive hates the Coalition, Richardson thinks, with a pang of anger. It had been forty years since the Coalition was officially divided by the Alexandrian Freedom Fighters. The Alexandrian’s militiamen, their guerillas, and their powerful allies from across the galaxy, and—as was widely claimed—from another galaxy as well, made quick work of countless unsuspecting Coalition armadas and garrisons alike. The war lasted several years, due to the vast amount of territory that had to be covered, but every individual battle was short-lived in comparison to most of the wars the Coalition had fought.
It wasn’t until too late that the Coalition was adequately
prepared to fend off the Alexandrian’s many-pronged approach, but by then, the Alexandrians were already requesting an end to the war. They said that they had taken all the systems they had set out to liberate, and that they had no interest in eliminating the Coalition completely. Even then, there were still skirmishes along the border and countless gambles to conquer more systems. The Alexandrians seemed to have no interest in honoring their word.
“What is it Wyndover?” Richardson asks, seeing the concern on his friend's face as he walks towards him. Richardson then notes that Wyndover isn’t limping, despite his previous injury, so he continues, “I see the doctor fixed you up right,”
“Hey boss,” Wyndover starts, he takes off his cap and runs his hand through his jet-black hair as he sighs. After several moments, he continues, “My leg’s fine, but it's my family that I am worried about. With us going turncoat, won't the Coalition go after them?”
Richardson's heart drops as he thinks about what the Coalition would do. They have always used families to get to people, and Wyndover would be no exception. Eventually, he asks, “Do you know anyone that could smuggle them out to safety?”
“No boss, I never thought we would do something like this.”
“Oh, Wyndover, I am sorry I put this on you. I didn't think about what could happen to your family!”
“Boss, don't be sorry. I am with you, like the others. I've just been worrying about them.”
“Have you contacted your family, told them they might be in danger?”
“Not yet, I don't want them to worry, I want everything to be set up for them before I have to tell them.”
“There has got to be something we can do for them… Where are they living now, Wyndover?”
“They moved back to Secora Prime, now that things there have calmed down again.”
“Secora… Secora…” Richardson rakes through everyone he knew, hoping he could remember anyone who could help him get Wyndover's family out. After several moments, he meets Wyndover's sorrowful look. With a heavy heart, he admits, “I don't have anyone that can help them.”
Wyndover nod and sits against a cargo crate, staring blankly outside the hangar.
“Did I hear you two talking about the Secora System?” Richardson hears a cheery voice, which he remembered belongs to the girl who barged in on the meeting yesterday. She wasn’t dressed in a prison jumpsuit, instead she seemed to be in some green uniform Richardson hadn’t seen before.
“Yes, why?” Richardson asks, straightening his back. He then remembers the girl's name is Trix, and he continues, “Are you from there, Trix?”
“You could say that. I'm from Secora Four, but I spent most of my time—before getting stuck here in Paradise—on Secora Prime.”
“Do you know anyone—" Wyndover's voice cracks with emotion as he jumps to his feet. He collects himself before continuing, “Do you know anyone that could get my family off-planet?”
“Of course, I do. Oh, you must have been worried sick for them! Yes, I have some contacts, and people that owe me favors. I can get your family wherever we need, no questions asked.”
“Thank you, thank you!” Wyndover whoops for joy as he wraps his arms around Trix in a bear hug and spins her around.
“Yeah,” Trix manages as she is crushed in the hug, “Any time, big boy.”
“Can we make the arrangements now? Send them off to a neutral system for the time being?” Wyndover asks excitedly, after he sets Trix back down.
“Sure,” Trix says after catching her breath, “Get me a secure comm and it'll take me maybe ten minutes to have everything set up.”
“Let's not waste time!” Wyndover says, dragging Trix along with him, “There’s a secure comm right over here!”
Smiling, Richardson watches them take off. He was happy to see that Wyndover wouldn't have to suffer for his choice to help the prisoners. He was also happy to know that the rest of his squad, like him, didn't have a family to worry about. They had all been orphans, brought up by the Coalition. They had all been together as long as Richardson could remember. The Coalition had been taking in young orphans for generations, training them to become soldiers. Orphans of similar ages were grouped together into squads, and they would grow up together. Richardson knew the system worked well, taking in kids and shaping them to be capable teams, but he still longed for a real family.
Eventually, the Accolade eases its way into the hangar, and deploys its landing gear. The pilots skillfully land the few thousand-ton freighter with hardly a sound at all. Richardson leads four of his guards to the front of the ship, in order to greet the crew when they lower their ramp. Moments later, the crew of the freighter open up and Richardson marches in to check their paperwork.
Marching up the ramp and into a communal area, Richardson takes in what appears to be a whole array of pastimes, he finds a crewmember sleeping, as three others prepare to draw on the sleeping man's face. Someone else is watching some Holo-Broadcast, and two more are arm-wrestling. The ship feels comfortable, and safe, with such familial things happening amongst the crew. With a chuckle he makes his way to the bridge to speak with the captain. He walks by the cabins of the lively crew, past the galley where, if smell is any measure of ability, a very talented chef was at work inside. Stepping into the ship’s lift he hits the button to go up to the bridge.
I’m not sure if I can kill all these people, Richardson thinks, feeling guilty over his previous promises to dispatch—as Clive had put it—the whole crew. Sure, he was given other options, but with only a few men, he couldn't do much. Even the idea of forcing the crew to partake in their mission left Richardson feeling uneasy, because doing so would still devastate their livelihood.
Making his way to the bridge, several crewmembers stop and welcome him with smiles. How can people so happy, visiting a place like this? Richardson thinks in wonder. Eventually, he was welcomed by the captain who greets him as warmly as the rest of the crew. Richardson quickly looks over the papers that the captain had provided, setting them aside, Richardson looks the captain over one final time. He then decides what he must do. If Clive was here, he would understand, Richardson reaffirms himself.
“So, I’m new here,” Richardson begins, “How did a crew like you get stuck making pickups for a prison?” He figured a very direct course of action would save time, after all, with only an hour window to get everyone out, there wasn't time to make small talk. Depending on the captain's reaction, he would either entrust the captain with the lives of everyone or be forced to kill the captain and his crew.
“Prison pickups?” The captain asks, surprised, “We were told it was an automated mining facility.”
“No, it is a prison alright. In fact, it’s more of a death camp than anything.”
“Why are you telling me this?” The captain asks bewildered, clearly wondering why a prison official disclose so much information.
“Because we fear there is about to be a prison break. And I want to know whose side you’re on,” Richardson says, drawing a pair of handcuffs, “Can I trust you are with the Coalition, or do I need to lock you up for sedition?”
“You’re with the prisoners, aren’t you?” The captain asks with a smile, quickly seeing through Richardson’s ruse, “Don’t deny it. I can see that you are. Why would you help them?”
“I am,” Richardson says, raising his arms in mock-surrender. There was no point in denying the truth, he was always a horrible liar. Richardson saw the captain was sharp, and by the tone of his voice, he sounded like he could be swayed to help. And as a contingency, he had already blocked all communications from the ship, so there was no way Jenniston could be informed of any betrayal. Richardson eventually continues, “And I am helping them because of the conditions they are forced to live in. The commander of this horrid place had fifty people killed just two days ago.”
“Fifty? How many people are here?”
“Over a thousand.”
“What are their crimes?”
“Buddy,”
Apollo promptly answers, “If the Coalition wanted, they'd have you locked in here on some fairy tale story about how you killed your family. They can do anything, and everyone is kept in the dark.”
Apollo Danderon had been Richardson’s choice pilot for years. There was no one he trusted more to pilot a ship. Apollo had joined Richardson’s team when he was just a toddler, and even then, he somehow managed to steal their caretaker’s personal vehicle and drive away. Richardson had been seven years old when Apollo had done that, but even then, he knew he would always have a getaway driver.
By the time Richardson was fifteen, he used Apollo’s exceptional driving skills to get away from their orphanage for a week. They stole one of the base’s smaller hovercrafts to enjoy the beach like the kids they read about in the various books their teachers had them read. Apollo had shown off his skills by flying through the forests of Carlotta Three, rather than just flying over them. He managed to lose their pursuers in the forests, and that was when they finally made for the ocean.
Richardson, Phelix, and Apollo had then spent the ensuing week making themselves at home on the beach. The three of them had built a fort with everything they could pull out of the forest and they spent several nights on its roof to gaze at the stars. To this day, Richardson still treasures that moment, and he sometimes wonders how life would have been if they just stayed out there.
By the time Richardson and the others had returned to their barracks, their caretaker had called in all sorts of search teams from the main Coalition base on the planet. They had come en masse to find the kids since they were their best team and had been recognized by the system’s governor many times. Suffice to say, when they got back, they were subject to all sorts of punishments that truly didn’t teach them any lesson. The only reason they didn’t escape again was their team grew too large to go with everyone, and Richardson didn’t want to leave anyone behind again.
“So, they are all just ordinary people the Coalition doesn't like?” The captain asks skeptically.