“Aye, Cap. Tubal sure picked an obnoxious emblem for Dawnstar’s sigil, huh? Spineless weasel, maybe he’s compensatin’ for somethin’.”
Molon laughed, nodding in agreement, and headed for the exit. The deck chief let out a sharp whistle, and two more beige-clad deck hands jumped up to help him see to the maintenance of the STS.
Molon made his way from Star Wolf’s shuttle bay to the starboard elevator, punching the button for the bridge deck. He lugged John’s unconscious form down the short hallway and into the cramped medic station, having to duck to get himself and John through the tight portal. A muscled, dyed-blond corpsman, Madrick ‘Patch’ Kakuma, snapped a sharp salute and stood rigidly at attention.
“Captain on deck!” Patch said to no one in particular, since he was the only other person present.
“At ease, Patch,” Molon said, laying John down on one of the small examination bunks and returning a half-hearted salute. “You are not with the Imperial Marines anymore, corpsman. I know you are new here, but ease up a bit on the military protocol. It gives me the twitches.”
Kakuma could not help himself. Trained as an elite commando and recipient of the coveted Special Assault Reconnaissance Corpsman accreditation, Patch was hardwired military. Rare circumstances and solid conscience had brought him out of the Provisional Imperium Marines and into service aboard Star Wolf. They were lucky to have him.
“Sorry, sir,” Patch replied, relaxing visibly and blushing slightly at the good-natured reprimand. “Force of habit.”
“A good habit to break.”
“Aye, sir. Civvy casualty?”
“Yeah, he’s out from an adrenocap crash, but they worked him over pretty good. Give him a thorough once-over. What I witnessed looked superficial, from a shock-whip mostly, but no telling what they did to him before I got there.”
“Yes, sir,” Patch said, shaking his head as he began to examine John’s injuries. “Looks like this guy’s back went through a cheese grater.”
“He definitely got dealt. Didn’t exactly give his face a free pass either. Do what you can. We need him up and functional by the morning.”
“Aye, skipper. You want me to scan for sub-cute trackers too?”
“Not a bad idea. I doubt they had any plans on him leaving alive, but better safe than sorry.”
“Aye, sir. If you want to interrogate him now, I can slip him some stims to counter the adreno-crash.”
“Nah, he’s not a prisoner, he’s our mission. Let him rest. He’s gonna have enough to process when he wakes up. Have him up and at the command officers meeting in the morning. We have a lot to discuss.”
“Aye, sir. I’m off duty at 0200, but I will pass the word on to my relief.”
“Thanks, Patch,” Molon said as he ducked out of the med station.
Upon arriving at the starboard bridge entrance, Molon tapped his security code into the access panel. The portal opened, and he strode confidently onto Star Wolf’s bridge. All eyes turned to see who had entered. Ensign Zach Zarizzo, a crack pilot and one of the newest additions to the Star Wolf crew, jumped up from the helm station and snapped to attention as soon as he spotted Molon. None of the other bridge officers followed suit.
“Captain on the bridge!” announced the eager young officer.
“At ease, Z-Man,” Molon answered using the helmsman’s call sign rather than his name.
Call signs had become the customary address aboard Star Wolf, for everyone besides the captain anyway. Few knew or used Molon’s call sign, ‘Lobo’, save for his XO and long-time partner, Jane ‘Twitch’ Richardson. Even Twitch normally reserved it for occasions when she really wanted to get his attention. If Twitch called him Lobo, he was about to get an earful about something. Thinking about his XO, he noted her conspicuous absence from the bridge.
“We’re at status amber, where is Twitch?” Molon asked no one in particular, more wondering aloud than actually inquiring.
Z-Man sank wordlessly into his seat at the helm, deferring the answer to his superior officers.
“Well, O fearless leader,” began a beautiful dark-haired, gray-skinned woman, who had just evacuated the captain’s chair.
Lieutenant Commander Yasu ‘Voide’ Matsumura, was Molon’s chief of security and third in Star Wolf’s chain of command, right behind Twitch and himself.
“I saw you were coming in clean,” Voide continued through a sly smile. “So, I called for Z-Man to relieve her. She had only been on duty for sixteen straight hours, but you know how anemic those humans can be, right?”
“Oh,” Molon said, flashing his security chief a quizzical look. “Was I gone that long?”
“Yeah,” Voide answered, with a playful double-blink of her bright yellow eyes. “If you had been gone much longer, I was thinking I would have to come and rescue you myself.”
“Hah, rescue me, in what, our slow, clunky, unarmed cargo STS? That’d have been a hoot!”
“Who needs a ship?” Voide replied.
Voide was alluding to the ability of her race, the Prophane, to personally enter voidspace, briefly, without need for ships or life-support — effectively a short-distance teleport. Molon cocked his head to one side.
“The hundred sixty klicks from orbit to ground would be a bit much for even a Prophane jump-trooper, much less an untrained Pariah, don’t you think?”
“For you, Molon,” she winked, “I’d have given it a shot.”
This drew a laugh from the Lubanian captain. He raised an eyebrow and drew his top lip back revealing a single canine, his best version of a wolfish smirk, while relaxing his ears into a playful semi-droop.
“You bucking for a bonus or something, Voide?”
“Why, you offering one?”
“You might risk your life pushing your ability to kill me if I crossed you, but to save me? Not a chance.”
Voide gave Molon a playful raising and lowering of her eyebrows.
Voide was a good and loyal officer. She was also, however, what could be best described as a high-functioning sociopath with a playfully sarcastic wit. She was Prophane, after all, and stable, predictable behavior wasn’t exactly in her DNA.
“So, did you solve the conundrum of our missing pair-of-docs?” Voide punned. “Are we getting paid?”
“I rescued one,” Molon frowned. “Dr. Elena Salzmann didn’t make it. We’ll go over everything in the morning briefing. For now, let’s get back to Tede, best speed. Z-Man, have you got us a course?”
“Well, sir,” answered the young helmsman, “I can retrace the rabbit trail route we discovered from Hatacks. Then we hit the mapped voidspace jump route from Hatacks to Tede. Barring any misjumps or running into any Dawnstar SysDef en route, I put us back in the Tede system in just under three days.”
“Lion’s breath, son,” Molon said, fighting his frustration at Z-Man’s verbosity, “we’d be halfway there by now if you were flying instead of talking. A simple yes would have sufficed.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Null sweat, son. Just set up the jump and get us into voidspace ASAP.”
“Aye, sir,” Z-Man responded, blushing slightly at the captain’s rebuke as he worked the helm controls.
“Everyone look sharp,” Molon continued in a voice loud enough to address the entire bridge crew. “Prison Colony Ratuen may have gotten a System Express jumper out to Hececcrir before I toasted the place.”
“I didn’t spot anything leaving the system, captain,” replied Lieutenant Junior Grade Jerry “Hoot” Barundi, currently manning the bridge sensor station. “It’s possible something might have gotten out of the system without me spotting it, but I doubt it.”
“That’s good news, but Hececcrir is Tubal Halberan’s main star base in this subsector. It hosts a huge Dawnstar shipyard. If the message did get out, there could be half a dozen Dawnstar ships dropping in on Tede within a week.”
“Aye, captain,” the young helmsman responded. “Already en route. We’ll reach the rabbit trail voidspace entry
point in just under two hours.”
Molon turned to the waifish female operating the communications station. Her powder-blue skin, bluish-green hair and slightly pointed ears showed she was a Fei; a race known for their incredible terraforming skills and mild telepathic abilities.
“Mel,”
“Yes, Molon?” Lieutenant Imeldria “Mel” Sarum, Star Wolf’s senior communications officer answered in a sweetly quiet voice, turning her shining emerald-colored eyes toward him.
Mel had the habit of addressing almost everyone informally. If Mel didn’t call someone by their first name, it meant she either didn’t trust them or had another reason to keep her distance. Molon wasn’t sure if this had more to do with Fei customary address or her empathic tendencies, but the verbal intimacy was somehow comforting.
“Queue up a broadband blast to transmit as soon as we hit Tede space. Message: ‘the doctor is in’. Set it to repeat hourly until we get a response.”
“I shall comply,” Mel replied. “Is this to be the signal for our contact?”
“It is. Then we wait. The contract stipulates that our patron will contact us to arrange swapping the rescuees for the payment.”
“Should I also send a message to the government on Tede to warn them of the possible attack from Hececcrir?” Mel said, demonstrating the empathy for which her race was known.
“We will leave that up to the good doctor, since he’s the one that tipped Tubal’s people where to attack. I’ll let him square that with the system feds. As far as we know, our deal isn’t with the Tede government. Contract was set for an anonymous drop.”
Voide was shaking her head.
“Something you want to get off your chest, Voide?” Molon asked, already guessing the answer.
“You really believe whoever the patron is on this contract will pay off for half the cargo?” asked Voide, as if Dr. Salzmann were nothing more than a container of canned goods.
“They’d better,” answered Molon. “This crate is due for maintenance, and we’re low on missiles after that scuffle with those pirate raiders last month. I hate flying light, but it is what it is.”
“Remind me, Molon, when was the last time we had an antsy patron pay in full for us delivering half the job?” Voide asked, not bothering to suppress her frown.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Molon answered, biting back a growl.
Voide’s assessment was likely dead on. Still, he didn’t appreciate having it delivered in her needlessly snarky tone.
“But Tede is controlled by the Theocracy of the Faithful,” Molon continued. “If Enoch and the TotF are behind this job, maybe we’ll catch a break.”
“Uh-huh,” Voide scrunched up her face. “And if poop was platinum we’d all be rich. You really think by-the-book knee-benders are hiring merc crews on the sly to pull rescue missions?”
“Maybe,” Molon answered, trying to sound convincing, more for his own benefit than Voide’s. “Do you always have to be such a cynic?”
“It’s a survival skill,” she grinned.
“I’ll bet,” Molon answered.
“Besides,” Voide said, refusing to let the matter drop. “That contract payment was hefty. We were lucky to snag it as fast as we did.”
“And?” Molon growled, wondering where this was heading.
“And, there is no way a bunch of pew-warmers put up that kind of stake for us to go mess up some routine kidnapping.”
“Voide…” Molon squinted and shook his head, hoping the pleading tone in his voice would end the increasingly depressing exchange; it didn’t.
“People get snatched off border worlds all the time, and the ransom they ask isn’t a quarter of what this contract is paying.”
“What’s your point?” Molon growled.
“The point is, there is something bigger going on here.”
Molon fixed his gaze on her and gritted his teeth. Most of his crew withered and found someplace else to be when he locked that look onto them. Voide, however, just smiled defiantly back at him as though his angry glare were no more than a playful wink.
“Just a warm ball of sunshine, ain’t you, Voide?”
“I do my best.”
“Keep it up and I might have to make you morale officer.”
“I thought I was.”
Molon could not hold back a laugh at that thought. He let out a half bark, half yip that startled the young helmsman, Z-Man, half out of his chair.
“Anyway,” Molon added, shaking his head. “Dr. Salzmann might have more insights in the morning. If the Theocracy contracted the rescue, those religious types aren’t as unforgiving or likely to stiff us as most patrons.”
“Oh yeah?” Voide scoffed. “Don’t bet your payday on that.”
“Unfortunately,” Molon replied, “that’s all we’ve got left to bet.”
Three – Search for Reason
The casual chatter in Star Wolf’s conference room halted as the door slid open. Dr. John Salzmann stood, pale-faced and stunned, in the doorway. The bob-tailed, gray-furred Lubanian corpsman who had escorted him saluted the other Lubanian present, who was seated near the far end of the table. John recognized the seated, silvery-gray-furred Lubanian as Molon Hawkins, the one who had rescued him from the Dawnstar detention center. John’s bob-tailed escort nudged John into the conference room, and withdrew.
The sight before John’s eyes was so bewildering it stunned him into temporary paralysis. There, sitting around a conference room table, in addition to the Lubanian who had rescued him from the prison, were four other individuals, only one of whom looked completely human.
Next to the only empty seat at the table was a human woman with salt-and-pepper-laced, close-cut ginger hair. She had long, slender limbs, and despite her age she had a toned and fit musculature, topped by an aesthetically unremarkable yet elegant, almost regal face. John would not describe her as beautiful, yet she bore a comeliness stemming from the whole of her appearance being more striking than the mere sum of her parts. He noted she had an implanted data jack in the back of her neck at the base of her skull. He had seen similar implants during his residency on a core world. They were used to interface the human mind directly to some type of mechanical or computer systems.
Next to her sat a huge, hulking brute that looked almost human in a misshapen, twisted sort of way. The bald, mocha-skinned man would be nearly two meters tall if he stood, and must have weighed close to a hundred-sixty-five kilos. His physical bulk, deformed facial features, and large lump above his left shoulder reminded John of the old Terran story of Quasimodo. The man had huge, thick-fingered hands, but anchored to his wrists and fingers like strange wire-frame gloves were two mechanical glove-hands. The mechanical fingers were much more elegant and dexterous looking than his actual appendages. The man flashed a disturbing smile, showing several missing teeth and a deformed jaw with a pronounced underbite.
Sitting next to Molon was an attractive, athletically-muscled female alien with dark gray skin and shining yellow eyes. Her features looked human enough, but her skin tone and eyes marked her definitively as something else. Slightly elongated upper canine teeth also gave her a feral, vampiric quality. Her smile resembled more a predator noting that dinner had just arrived than any type of welcoming gesture.
The last being at the table, sitting next to the dark gray alien female, was another alien female, stunningly beautiful, with powder-blue skin. She seemed about average in height, from what he could tell with her sitting down, but her limbs, neck, and fingers were long and waifishly thin. She had short, blue-green hair in a bob-cut, which left her slightly pointed ears exposed. Deep, captivating, emerald eyes for a brief moment seized John and almost made him forget why he was standing there. Finally, he broke free from his daze, turning to address the human-looking woman.
“Are we the only humans on this ship?”
“Hey!” the dark-skinned man with the mechanical hands bellowed. “What do I look like, some kind of trained gorilla?”
Suddenly John called to mind his wife Elena’s research on malmorphsy, a genetic mutation wrought on many races by a bioweapon developed by the Daemi.
“Oh, I’m sorry, you poor man,” John said in a slightly patronizing tone, momentarily forgetting everyone else in the room. “You suffer from malmorphsy. I didn’t recognize the symptoms at first. That was really my wife’s area of study. Please accept my apologies.”
“Now, hold on a sec, Doc Fancy Pants,” the man answered, his warped smile now replaced with a scowl. “I’m a malmorph, but I wouldn’t say I suffer from anything. I got more good than harm out of the deal, so save your pity for those that need it, hermit-worlder.”
“Okay, everybody settle down,” Molon interjected. “Dr. Salzmann, please take a seat next to Commander Richardson,” Molon said, pointing to the empty chair next to the human woman.
John hesitated for a moment before sliding warily into the open seat. In a room full of aliens, the seat next to a human looked like the best spot.
“Everyone please be aware,” Molon explained, “Dr. Salzmann comes from a Faithful-controlled hermit-world, so I doubt he’s seen this many non-human sophonts in one place before. Cut him some slack while he adjusts.”
The crew turned generally unsympathetic eyes toward John, save for the powder-blue skinned woman. He could almost sense a comforting empathy from her that outweighed the heavy stares from the other officers.
“To answer your question, John,” Molon continued, “most members of Star Wolf’s crew are human. The command officers just happen to show a disproportionate percentage of other sophonts. Let me introduce you to my officers.
“Beside you is executive officer and chief helmsman, Commander Jane Richardson,” Molon said, nodding toward the human female at the table.
“Twitch,” she said, nodding to John.
“Yes,” Molon continued, “most crewman have call signs they prefer to their formal names. Commander Richardson’s is Twitch.
“The large fellow you have already managed to annoy is Lieutenant Commander Malik Dubronski, my chief engineer.”
Star Wolf (Shattered Galaxy) Page 3