by Mark Wandrey
“Who do you think made that thing?” Alan asked.
“Don’t know. But if I were to guess, I’d say Pushtal.”
“Really?”
A’kef nodded.
“So, this is a pirate outpost?”
“That is the captain’s fear.”
Alan had never fought, nor even met, a Pushtal. He knew they looked a lot like Bengal tigers, which was frightening enough. But the Pushtal were commonly referred to as a ‘failed merc race.’ He didn’t know for certain what that meant, only that the Pushtal were no longer members of the Mercenary Guild and had turned to theft, larceny, and even piracy to make a living.
“Have you encountered Pushtal pirates before?” A’kef asked, turning away from the space station for the first time.
“No,” Alan admitted. “Silent Night is classified as a Light Assault company. Most of our missions tend to be relief of besieged targets, attacking moderately defended bases, or part of a larger campaign.” He shrugged. “We’re not one of the Four Horsemen.”
“Your Hosh,” A’kef said, nodding. “We have come up against the one called Asbaran once. It was many years ago, and luckily we were on the backside of that contract. They are savage fighters.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“True, you Humans don’t fight each other.” His ears swiveled as he considered.
“Almost never,” Alan admitted. “It’s an unwritten rule.”
A’kef cocked his head in confusion, and Alan tried again. “That means it isn’t a hard law, just a sort of rule we all agree on. There have been a few big fights between Humans, but not many.”
“I understand,” A’kef said. “Insho’Ze prefers not to fight other Zuul, but at times honor pulls us other ways.”
“We have comms,” a technician said.
“Any signs of active drives around the emergence point?” Captain I’kik asked.
“No, Captain,” another tech said. “There is a lot of garbage here, though. I have the remains of nine ships, and pieces of many more. Some of the debris could be drone clusters.” The technician looked at the captain and whined. “It could be a trap.”
Alan watch the captain, whose jaw was tightly clenched and her eyes fixed on the Tri-V. The comms tech looked from the captain to a tech strapped in next to him then back at the captain. He noted that the discipline on the bridge was perfect. He’d never been on a ship with the degree of compliance and discipline he was currently seeing. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was simply the Zuul’s nature or the captain’s ability.
“Let’s have those comms,” she finally said. The hissing, snapping language that erupted over the bridge speakers was the most evocative of its representative race Alan had ever heard.
“Pushtal,” A’kef confirmed.
“What ship are you? Why are you here? Why have you not responded until now?”
“Am I going to be allowed to answer, or do you intend to simply continue blurting questions?” When the Pushtal inquisitor went silent, I’kik continued, “This is ZMS Paku. We are conducting an investigation. We didn’t respond because we were trying to decide if this was an ambush.”
“Is that an accusation?” the Pushtal asked, the translator conveying anger.
“Should it be?”
“We Pushtal are often unjustly persecuted.”
“Unjustly?” Silence ensued. “May I inquire to the purpose of your…station? There is no record in the GalNet of it, or in the Cartography Guild navigational data. Since you suggest you are not involved in anything untoward, an explanation would be useful.”
“This is our trading station,” the Pushtal said. “We are still working on it.”
“So it seems.”
The Tri-V showed a number of ancillary scans, which were ongoing. Alan could see as each section was scanned, categorized, or in some cases identified as a particular class of ship. A few were definitely armed, though none of them were likely a danger to anything except themselves.
“Risk assessment?” Captain I’kik asked.
“Very little,” what Alan assumed was the tactical officer responded. “Even if we’re off on the facilities’ offensive capabilities by an order of magnitude.”
The captain nodded and spoke to the Pushtal again. “We would like to dock and trade.”
“Why?”
“You said you are a trading station. Are you or not?”
Alan could hear the Pushtal mumbling something, and he imagined a Bengal tiger grumbling about its prey. The thought didn’t make him smile.
“Permission granted,” the Pushtal said and cut the line.
“Helm, maneuver for the station.”
“This should prove interesting,” Alan said.
“Interesting at the least,” A’kef agreed. “I suggest you prep a squad of your troopers for action. Not many encounters with Pushtal end in anything other than violence.”
* * *
“What’s going on?” Sonya asked for the third time.
“I said I don’t know,” Rex replied, also for the third time. He’d gotten the same message from their father as the rest.
“Report to the squad room, draw light combat armor and hand weapons. Stand by for orders.”
“I heard one of the crew say there are pirates in this system,” Shadow said casually. Rex noted he then repeated the sentence in Zuul. Rex’s translator only gave incorrect replies on the word pirates. Of them all, Shadow was working the hardest to learn their new language. He seemed beyond driven—especially when Drake showed the most natural affinity. That drove Shadow crazy, which Drake only made worse by pointing out that Shadow spent all his time sniffing Isgono’s butt, not listening to his mouth. What Shadow had failed to notice was exactly how fast Drake seemed to be picking up the language.
Getting geared up in light armor while in freefall was an order of magnitude easier than getting into a CASPer in the same situation. Even though the CASPer would be locked against a bulkhead so it didn’t move around, you were forced to contort yourself without the benefit of gravity pulling you. He’d thought it would be easier in space; he was wrong.
Squad Sergeant Bana came floating into the bay. He was, annoyingly, already fully geared up and ready to roll. Of their squad, only their two experienced members were more-or-less ready. Corporal Plesh and Private Dyffid were simply checking retention clips and armor segment positioning.
“Corporal, why isn’t everyone ready?”
Plesh blanched as she looked around, seemingly realizing the non-ready status of the squad for the first time. “Sergeant…I didn’t—”
“Exactly,” Bana snapped. “You didn’t.” His voice took on the sharp, cold edge soldiers knew and dreaded. Shit was about to happen. “We’ll be drilling in light combat armor donning drills once this fiasco is over, until the squad can be battle ready in under five minutes. Do I make myself clear, Corporal?”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
“And the rest of you shovelheads?”
“Yes, Sergeant!” they all shouted.
“Great,” Ripley whispered to them. They all glared at Corporal Plesh, who was visibly grinding her teeth in anger. “We’re going to pay for her screw-up.”
Rex did his best to ignore the drama and work as quickly as he could. It didn’t help that the light armor had been modified from Human types, so many of the parts simply didn’t fit well. He missed his beautiful CASPer. At least the other young Humans appeared to be struggling, as well.
Dyffid began moving among them to help. He hadn’t waited for anyone to say anything, just jumped in. Rex wondered why Plesh got the extra strip, and not Dyffid. He was the medic, and looked like he was more squared away.
“Thanks,” Rex grumbled as Dyffid helped adjust one of the modified chest straps on his armor. The Zuul chest was bigger around and longer than Human physiology.
“Piece of piss,” Dyffid said and slapped Rex’s armored shoulder. “Good to go.”
In another tense five minutes, they
were all geared up. Sergeant Bana looked ready to yell at them some more when their father floated in, cutting him short.
“They ready, Sergeant?”
Bana looked them over for a moment before nodding. “Took some extra work, sir, but they’re geared up.”
The ship began to spin, and everyone arrested the rotational momentum by whatever came to hand. “We’re going to be rendezvousing with an improvised trading station in this system,” their father explained. “Yes, the system is supposed to be empty except for a stargate. That intel proved flawed.”
“Is it Pushtal?” Dyffid asked. At Porter’s nod, he added a simple, “Ooof.”
Their dad raised a hand to calm them. “There have been no overt signs of hostility. Commander A’kef and I decided it was worth gathering intel. The station is at least a year old, maybe a bit more, and if Starbright came through, they would have seen her.” He took out his slate and used the Tri-V to show them the station.
“Looks like a rotating junk pile,” Ripley said and laughed.
“Not far off,” their dad agreed. “It’s functional enough to maintain some rotation and life support. It even has a few weapons, though not many.”
“Just a bunch of ships tied together,” Bana said and shook his head. “Pushtal are a pain in the ass to deal with. They still want to act like they’re players.”
* * *
As the airlock opened, Alan moved into the station proper. “Wow,” he said as he looked back and forth, then gestured behind for the rest of the squad to follow, which they did.
Sonya’s muzzle wrinkled the moment the airlock seal broke. She’d meant to keep a professional merc demeanor, but that was difficult when one’s nose tried to crawl back into one’s skull.
Stale air layered with a multitude of unfamiliar scents, none of them welcome, crowded into her, and she longed for the closed system of her CASPer.
They moved out in disciplined formation, as though they’d trained together for months instead of bare weeks. Sonya endeavored to control her face, which meant she kept her eyes locked forward. Of course, her eyes meant she had excellent peripheral vision, giving her a clear view of the mishmash of parts and missing wall panels in the corridor.
“No welcoming committee,” Ripley muttered.
“That a good thing, or bad?” Sonya answered, barely moving her mouth, both for professionalism and to minimize the station air passing through. It didn’t work, but she couldn’t help trying.
“Just keep your wits about you,” Alan said over his shoulder as he moved away from the lock. “Pushtal can be unpredictable.”
“Yes, sir,” the mercs from their squad intoned.
Bundles of wires looped from crookedly mounted bulkhead covers into gaps in the ceiling studded irregularly out down the corridor. The hallway had the feel of something she’d put together years ago, made of spare parts and salvage, soldered and re-welded within an inch of its life. This, however, was at the very least space worthy, which put it heads and tails above what she’d done.
Of course, she’d been eight. Still, interest took over enough of her thoughts that she could block out some of the smell. Pushtal might be interesting to meet after all.
Their hall spilled messily out into a crossing with six branches. The leftmost curved into darkness, the lights either missing or burnt out. Two more had as much debris as space for passage, which didn’t seem remotely safe, even given the state of everything else.
“This is where a welcoming committee would be good news,” Shadow said from behind her.
“Can’t you smell which way’s freshest?” Paulson asked, receiving a chorus of snorts or deep grumbles in immediate reply. “That good, huh?”
“Freshest is the funniest joke you’ve ever made, Paulson.” Drake’s tone made that almost a joke of its own. Sonya would have been impressed at her brother’s effort if she weren’t feeling jumpy.
Neither her father, Sergeant Bana, nor A’kef had seemed thrilled about docking here. She couldn’t figure out why they had, truth be told. They’d expected the space on this side of the gate to be empty, so there couldn’t have been anything they needed to trade for.
It clicked, belatedly. She’d blame the smell if anyone asked. They hadn’t expected anyone to be here. Someone was here. Ships had gone missing.
She stopped admiring the sheer stubbornness it took to put something like this almost-station together and braced herself. Taking a long, deep breath she mastered the sudden urge to gag, swallowed a few more times, and pointed to the rightmost corridor.
“That one’s got the most going on. Not sure it’ll take us where we need to go, but it might work.” It might not have been on her to offer any such thing, but if they stood in this twisted corridor any longer, she might start howling and that embarrassment she’d never live down.
“Lead on,” Alan said. He wore light combat armor just like everyone else. He even had a laser carbine slung over his back, a sign of the potential seriousness of their situation. In diplomatic meetings, it was more common for a merc commander to only wear a sidearm.
The knowledge that her father was behind her, and the eyes of her siblings and the rest of the squad were upon her, got her moving onward.
* * *
Rex’s muzzle rippled as he did his best not to breathe through his nose. The stench was unspeakable. He’d scented cats in Brisbane. There weren’t many because the little beasts had become an invasive species in Australia. In order to rid themselves of them, the government had instituted a series of released retroviruses that had sterilized every cat not given a medical supplement. It had proven exceptionally effective. So much so, few people had them anymore. He was glad; they smelled…nasty.
The station reeked of something-like-and-not-quite-cat on a level he could scarcely imagine. His combat armor included the ability to seal the helmet, a human-manufactured helmet custom made to fit his physiology. Once sealed, they could operate for up to 96 hours. Oh, how he wanted to seal his helmet, but if Sonya didn’t, he wouldn’t.
As they moved forward, following Sonya’s nose, he wondered what it would be like to fight the Pushtal. Father was worried it was all a trap, one the Starbright might have fallen into. They’d scanned the ragtag station and found no evidence of the lost ship, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. The Pushtal were big, and supposedly fierce. They didn’t scare him.
They turned another poorly-designed corner, and the sound of life overcame the ever-present whir and chatter of the life support equipment. Yowls, growls, and mews of the Pushtal. Showtime.
* * *
There was nothing so organized as stalls. Shadow found the patterns in things, from waves to Humans to cubby-lights in Zuul games. This…
This read as pure chaos however he tried to understand it.
Pushtal in various shades of fur moved through narrow aisles in twisted paths around towering piles of assorted salvage.
Upon closer inspection, salvage was too generous a term. Piles of junk was more appropriate, some more precarious than others in the large, open space. Off to the left, a small cluster of the tiger-looking beings sorted through one of the larger piles made of big pieces. To the right, several wore helmets and were potentially welding, though he couldn’t make any sense of what they were putting together or taking apart.
Ahead, studded between four more junk heaps, Pushtal moved or sat or yelled at each other or grappled, and none took any notice of them at all.
“I don’t think we’re getting any trade out of them,” Shadow said in his lowest register. Drake’s ears flicked back toward him in silent agreement.
“They’re ignoring us a little too obviously, don’t you think?” Ripley flattened her ears, the only sign her purely neutral tone was covering some level of discomfort.
There was still no pattern, but Ripley’s point knocked understanding into place. The Pushtal were putting on something of a show, and could perform chaos quite well. He was sure he would have put it together s
ooner if the smell weren’t so…overwhelming.
They were hiding something. Protecting something? Shadow, who’d used others’ low expectations of him to his advantage before, should have seen it right away.
“What don’t they want us to see?” he asked, and this time his father heard him.
The colonel stiffened slightly, but didn’t reach for his carbine.
“Three down each aisle, the rest hold the entrance,” he said, voice pitched low. “Don’t start anything, but shut it down if they do. Main plan point is extraction, not victory. We don’t want to be forced to take this junk pile. See who you can get to talk.”
Shadow took a sharper look at the junk. Would they find something from the Starbright in this haphazard collection of detritus? He closed his eyes and called up Starbright’s plans and design. They’d been aboard it, but that was years ago, so he went with recorded images. Now he would see if anything popped out as familiar.
* * *
“You are visitors?”
Alan had caught the Pushtal sailing into the station’s…what, promenade? Most Union-manufactured space stations had a massive open area called a promenade. You could find the commercial sales areas there, and often top-tier private residences, as well as hotels, had overlooking views. Back in the 20th and 21st centuries on Earth, ocean-going cruise ships were constructed with massive interior open spaces that held vertical viewing areas, and even amusements. When he’d first seen Karma Station, he was reminded of those cruise ships. This station had nothing of the sort.
When they’d floated into the open area, it had looked more like an accident than a planned feature. Salvage, he thought. It looked more like the inside of a ship slowly being gutted for parts. The sinking feeling he’d felt upon spotting the station became more profound by the moment. Was his beloved Starbright part of this ragtag mess?