Resurrection

by Jeffrey Burger

  “Not my top priority, Lieutenant. Oh, and if anyone runs across a Marauder Class gunship called the Black Widow - Antwerp Shipworks is the registrar, have it escorted to the closest UFW base and detain the crew.”

  ■ ■ ■

  From the side, the shape looked like a pancake draped over an upside-down fork, with few defining lines, the rounded wingtips nearly touching the warehouse floor, the tail sweeping low in the back, the nose tilted down in the front. But as he moved around the dull gray ship, he realized it looked more like a bird laying on a flat surface with its wings partially unfolded, the tail extended straight out behind it. “What the hell is this thing?”

  Standing in a row of smaller ships for sale on the warehouse floor, surrounded by maintenance and repair equipment, Cheriska entered the security code on the fuselage key panel, under the tail. “It’s a one-off, custom built for a client. It really doesn’t have a name or designation… But her designer nicknamed her the Goshawk. Fully articulated wings and tail, she flies more like a bird than a ship.”

  Steele ran his hand over its surface, “What’s it used for? I don’t even see any engines or armaments, much less plating of any type.”

  Low to the deck, no cargo ramp needed, a circular cargo door with such a close seam as to be nearly undetectable from the rest of the ship’s skin, opened like an iris, disappearing into the bulkhead, the interior dark. “Right, no armor,” agreed Cheriska. “No shields either. She’s designed mostly for in-system travel as a drop ship. She can do gate travel, but its rather small for that. She’s for, ah… discreet deliveries.”

  Steele raised a dubious eyebrow, “So she a smuggling ship.”

  “Well if you want to throw labels at something, then yes.”

  “No armor, no shields, no guns, feels like she’s made out of plastic. What could possibly go wrong?”

  “It might interest you to know she’s had at least twenty successful runs.” She knocked on the hull with her knuckle, “Her entire construction, except for her engines, is a very tough, rigid, non-reflective tri-polymer, nanotube fiber, composite. Very little visual or sensor profile. A special engine exhaust baffle system disperses trailable tailings.” Cheriska’s mouth curled at the corners, glancing at the Chief and Sam who were inspecting their combat gear on the warehouse floor a few feet away, “You could say, she’s something between a ghost and a shadow.”

  “I see what you did there,” smirked Jack, wiggling his finger at her. He motioned inside, “I suppose I’d better get a look at the cockpit and the controls…”

  “In your dreams, flyboy. The Goshawk is my ship. If anyone’s going to put a scratch on her, it’s me.”

  “I thought you said it was a client’s…”

  “It was, until he lost it to me in a game of Ruge.”

  “Hmm, big better, huh?”

  “Big loser,” she shot back, climbing into the darkened ship. Steele could hear the grin in her voice.

  ■ ■ ■

  Ragnaar sidled up to Jack as he loaded gear into the Goshawk’s cargo pods, laying a hand on his shoulder, leading him away from the others, “We have a problem…” he turned his back toward the ship, speaking low, “Except for the Perseus, we’re on our own.”

  Jack could feel the color drain from his face, “What? Why?”

  “You - he - whomever he is, cut ties with the UFW. “

  “I’m aware…”

  “The UFW has you listed as compromised. They won’t risk assets, and officially, no UFW ship will follow your orders or offer assistance since they can neither confirm nor deny your identity. Additionally, all your security access and clearances have been rescinded.”

  Steele chewed the inside of his lip, “That means he won’t have any either - I can live with that. What about the Perseus…?”

  “Commander Reegan had the station send the communication. So, since we’re still operating under Dark Protocol, we’re autonomous. Reegan will follow your orders. They are underway at best speed.”

  “The distress call didn’t go out at all then, did it.” It wasn’t really a question, just an acknowledgement of the lonely position they were in.

  “Resurrection Station put it out on our behest. The station commander remembered you, he sends his regards.”

  “Damn, that’s ballsy. Remind me to order that man a case…”

  “A case of what?”

  “A case of whatever the hell he wants.”

  ■ ■ ■

  Steele scrubbed his beard with his fingertips, “Look, guys, I appreciate this and all,” he swept the air with his hand over the assortment of gear, “but the more I think about it, the more I think it would be better for me to go down to the surface alone. I can’t ask you to risk…”

  “Then don’t ask,” offered Sam.

  “No guys, I’m serious…”

  “Look, Cap… Admira… your Highness?” Sam waved it off, “Fuck, I don’t even know what to call you anymore… The point is, no matter what the plan is, whether you have one or not, you’re safer with us than without us. This is what we do.”

  “But you’ve done your hitch, you guys are retired…”

  “Shadows never retire,” laughed the Chief. “Ever.”

  “We live for chaos,” added Sam. “It’s where we thrive; whether we’re creating it or we’re crushing it - we’re comfortable there.”

  The Chief stuffed his hands in his pockets, “Yeah, and besides, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. I owe you… So, whether you ask or not, you’re gonna’ have a couple shadows tagging along.”

  Sam rubbed his hands together, “I love field trips, they’re so much fun…”

  Jack rolled his eyes, capitulating, “Fine, fine. But nobody dies, understand? There are no red shirts on this trip…”

  Sam and the Chief exchanged questioning glances as Steele turned away, “Red shirts?” whispered Sam.

  Daryl shrugged dismissively, “Who the hellion wears red shirts in this business?”

  ■ ■ ■

  Sam, the Chief, Ragnaar, Andrea and Fritz, all reclined in individual deployment pods, padded with adaptive gel bladders, their faces covered with oxygen masks. The two pods of equipment were already sealed, and Jack’s was the last, nearest the cockpit, the cover open. Stooping in the low, close confines of the ship’s hull, he checked and sealed them all, the digital panel on each pod showing the operational status of the units. Their comms live, they could communicate freely to one another and the cockpit of the Goshawk. Satisfied, Jack made his way up towards the cockpit, pausing at the entry and staring at the odd layout and bizarre pilot’s station.

  “What the hell is this?”

  Mounted on a short pedestal, Cheriska lay straddled over a padded form on her stomach, which resembled a racing motorcycle without wheels, a HUD displayed on what might be a windscreen. Her feet fitted into stirrups behind her, her knees bent, her hands, on articulated handgrips in front of her. A formed, padded shell covered her back, securing her in place, control panels attached to the station surrounded her on either side, a hands breadth away from her control grips. “You don’t so much as fly the Goshawk as ride her,” commented Cheriska. “She provides body-wide haptic feedback so you can actually feel her… Primarily why I can’t let you fly her; she takes some getting used to.”

  “I… I… no words. I have no words. That is just bizarre… you look like a sandwich.”

  “As you know, even for a small bird like this, a gravity gyro system takes quite a bit of power and space. In an effort to keep her light and small, she has a very small system. Since it’s a minimalist system, the energy gel in the seat and pod designs will compensate with a considerable amount of comfort…”

  Steele was busy connecting his MOBIUS to the Goshawk to navigate the various information tabs on the holo-screen in front of him, “Uh-huh…”

  Cheriska keyed her mic, “Goshawk to Deep Star Control, ready for departure, Bay Fourteen…”

  “Copy Ms. Skye. Bay Fo
urteen activated, stand by.” A blue stasis field flashed into existence around the bay door, covering it in wavy static. Splitting diagonally, the door panels smoothly disappeared into the station’s structure. “Goshawk, you are clear for departure…”

  “You might want to get into your pod, Jack…”

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  VELORIA : SKYFALL

  Commander Brian Carter, keyed his comm, “Bridge to the Reaper; Ensign, have the repairs been completed? Is she ready to fly?”

  “Affirmative, Commander - the boys did a fine job on the canopy. We’re tucked in with a positive seal and we’re ready to launch.”

  “Good to hear. Alright, Mr. Dado, you’re clear to launch. We’ll meet you at the station - we need to get your bird rearmed.” Brian ended the comm and sat back, eyeing the flight of Cyclone V2s escorting them to Deep Star Station. “Because nothing about this feels right…” he grumbled.

  “Velorian escort is breaking off, Commander, resuming their patrol.”

  Brian pulled on his lower lip deep in thought, “Mmm-hmm.” He watched the purple-tailed Cyclones bank and shoot away. “Is it just me, or did their communication protocols seem… sloppy?”

  Raulya swiveled her seat, looking back over her shoulder, “Sloppy is being kind, Commander. That was terribly unprofessional. And I don’t think their flying was up to any kind of standards we should expect, either...”

  “Mmm, I agree,” he nodded. “I detect some massive fuckery, afoot here… And we need to get to the bottom of it.”

  ■ ■ ■

  Torn Dado glanced up through the Reaper’s newly replaced canopy at the retracting mooring clamps as he nudged the throttle, angling away from the Revenge. “Reaper is clear.”

  “Copy that,” came the response in his helmet.

  Torn Dado swept the Reaper in a wide arc, pointing the nose toward Deep Star in the distance, “Not all that impressive, is it… I mean it’s rather plain - no real design effort…”

  “I suppose…” came the reply from the rear seat.

  Torn Dado glanced up at the rearview mirror mounted to the canopy strut above him, “You with me, buddy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So enthusiastic…”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Hey, unacceptable, Sergeant,” snapped Torn Dado. “Do we have an issue? Because I need to know that I can count on you back there. I pulled you because you know the bird best, but I do have other choices…”

  “Yeah, I’ll do my job. Just make sure you do yours,” replied Draza Mac, his tone dripping with animosity.

  Torn Dado reached through his open visor and rubbed the sudden tension in his brow, “Look, Mac, I’m sorry about Lisa, I truly am. But nothing I say can make that better for you… I wish I had some magical words of wisdom that could fix it all - but I don’t. If you need time, just say so and I’ll pull another second seater, nobody would blame you…”

  Mac cleared his throat, “No. No don’t do that, I need to be in this seat. I can’t just sit alone in my quarters with my thoughts.”

  “Believe me, I understand.”

  “Sorry…” Draza Mac desperately searched for something else to talk about…

  ■ ■ ■

  When Raulya entered the Captain’s ready room, Brian was leaning over the chart table a holo-globe of Veloria rotating slowly in front of him, his back to the doorway, Chase Holt and Mercedes Huang sitting on the sofa a few feet away.

  “You alright, Commander?”

  “No…” his head dropped momentarily, shaking slowly. “This whole thing stinks to high heaven.” He turned around to face her. “Are we on the deck?”

  “Yes, Sir. Just now. Fifteen minutes to a sealed and pressurized bay.”

  “Where’s the Reaper?”

  “Pad Seven, it’s an internal bay.”

  “As soon as we have atmosphere, send our people over to prep her, I want her combat ready ASAP.” He took a deep breath, “I sure wish we had a few more birds…”

  “Like the Freedom?”

  “Or the Conquest?” offered Chase.

  What he said,” pointed Brian.

  Raulya folded her arms across her chest, “You’re expecting this to be bad…”

  Brian leaned back against the holo-chart table, “I’m telling you it can’t really be Jack… But I won’t know until I get to look him in the eye, face-to-face.”

  “Brother Jack is in trouble,” added Chase. “Pulling UFW support and declaring independence? That’s not sanity talking.”

  “If it really is Jack,” countered Brian, “remember Invasion of the Body Snatchers…?”

  “They Live,” volunteered Chase.

  “Pod People,” added Mercedes.

  “What’s happening?” asked Raulya.

  “I don’t remember that one…”

  Brian shook his head, exchanging glances with Chase, “Me neither.”

  Raulya’s ear began a nervous twitch as her hands went to her hips, her yellow-green eyes narrowing, before Mercedes finally realized what was happening, “Movie titles, Lieutenant. Each movie dealt with people who really weren’t who they appeared to be…”

  “Like a clone or a synth,” the Ketarian nodded appreciatively, her expression softening.

  “No, like an evil alien.”

  “We’re all aliens,” she countered, a touch of sarcasm escaping.

  “Her ear’s doing that thing again,” pointed Chase.

  “Wait,” waved Brian, “hold on, she might be on to something. I know what a clone is, Lieutenant… what the hell is a synth…?”

  ■ ■ ■

  The Goshawk seemed eerily quiet compared to almost any other ship Jack could think of. Cocooned into his own pod, his oxygen mask covering his face, he felt rather comfortable, almost like he was floating. Which was possible, because of the low gravity in the ship. “Man, it’s a good thing I’m not claustrophobic…”

  “Are we there yet? I need to get out of this thing…!”

  “Ragnaar?”

  “I am not comfortable in close spaces, Admiral.”

  “Calm down, big guy, you’ll be ok. Just turn up your oxygen…”

  “Are we even moving? I don’t hear anything! It feels like we’re just sitting still…”

  “Ragnaar, this is Cheriska – there is some sound, but your pods will isolate you from it. We’re currently running on the EMW Drive because we’re trying to avoid detection…”

  “EMW?”

  “Electro-Magnetic Wave Drive. It’s pretty quiet when the thrusters and pulse drive are offline.”

  “How long? How long have we been flying…? How long till we get there?”

  “Easy, Lieutenant,” commanded Jack.

  Cheriska cut off her comm mic, speaking directly to the ship, “AnnieAnn, humanoid occupant in pod three is in anxiety distress…”

  “Claustrophobia?” asked the Goshawk’s female voice.

  “I am not a psychologist, AnnieAnn, but I would have to assume that is correct.”

  “I would recommend IR light and calming open spaces imagery with soothing sounds.”

  “Thank you, Annie.”

  “Initiating sequence. Might I also suggest Pattahoulia flower scent - it has a very calming effect…”

  ■ ■ ■

  The screen on the desk chimed, switching from a semi-transparent UFW logo to Raulya’s face, “Commander, a live comm from Ensign Dado’s TESS…”

  Brian Carter swiveled the screen to face him at the holo-chart table, “Send it.”

  Torn Dado appeared on the screen a moment later, standing to the rear of the Reaper, a ground crew behind him working on loading her ordnance. “Ensign,” acknowledged Brian, “how’s it going?”

  “Fine, Commander. She has a few minor scratches on the hull, but overall it looks like the canopy was the extent of the damages.”

  “Good to hear. She almost ready?”

  “Yes, Sir. But that’s not why I checked in…”

  “Go
on.”

  “I just had a conversation with a couple of the station’s dock workers who had an interesting bit of scuttlebutt… they told me about a large man with a tribal tattoo on his face who came aboard the station with an animal that talked…”

  “Noooo…” frowned Brian, “it couldn’t be – could it? How is that even possible?”

  “Sounds like Ragnaar and Fritz, doesn’t it?” Torn Dado turned, pointing at a silver-gray vessel parked two bays over. “Said he came in on that courier yacht. Evidently the owner is listed as a woman named, Z. Sans and they’ve only seen her once, when it first docked.”

  “Do they know where she’s at?”

  “Aboard the yacht, Commander. She’s been keeping to herself.”

  Brian leaned in toward the screen, his hands on the desk, “Keep an eye on that ship Ensign, let me know if anything changes - I’m sending a security team over to interview her…” He ended the comm. Z. Sans… why did that name sound familiar? Zara…? Zarina…?

  ■ ■ ■

  “Revenge to Ensign Dado, launch immediately! Forwarding flight plan to your TESS.”

  Torn Dado pipped his comm mic, “Copy that.” He’d seen the security team from the Revenge cross the bay toward the yacht. He half-expected, like many bits of scuttlebutt, it was erroneous crap - but he’d hoped, for once, it had at least some truth to it. His hope was handed a rare reward and his anticipation of results meant he and Draza Mac were prepared; sitting in the cockpit, strapped in, plugged in, her systems live. He shoved the canopy handle, and it motored forward, dropping into the lock position, the air system kicking out a cool breeze of fresh oxygen as the canopy sealed and pressurized. “Reaper to Deep Star Control, I need clearance for immediate departure, Bay Seven.”

  A blue stasis field flashed into existence around the bay door, even before the station’s tower answered, “Clearing you for departure, Reaper, stand by…” Splitting diagonally, the bay door panels disappeared into the station’s structure, Veloria and a field of stars visible through wavy static. “You are clear...”