Half-Alien Warfighter (Lady Hellgate Book 3)

by Greg Dragon

  “My friend, Lamia, had one of those swords, but he was a Jumper, and that’s what they use. The things I saw him do with that weapon makes it hard to imagine you fighting against it. Lamia minced up lizards like processed meat, and cut chunks out of vehicles with just that blade. You faced it with only a knife and won. Maker, Tutt, you are the living definition of cool.”

  Quentin smiled. “You have so much respect for the las-sword, Ate. It’s still just a tool, only as good as the person behind it. “

  “Yes, but that tool is priceless, practically invaluable, and you could sell it and retire to Meluvia. I remember how those native girls were giving you the eye,” she said, smiling.

  “I remember it too,” he said, his mood seeming to lighten. “But when I retire, it will be when I’m an old man. My life belongs to the Alliance, and I don’t see this sword as a way out.”

  “Yeah, but you now own something every spacer dreams of having. Make sure you secure it. If one of them gets a whiff you have that sword, they’ll go out of their way to lift it off you.”

  “They can try,” he said, then exhaled and adjusted himself. Helga realized that they had been talking for some time, and he was bound to need some rest.

  “Tutt, I’m going to go check on some of the rescues, but I am here if you need anything. Just call. Word of advice, if I may? Don’t beat yourself up about those Marines. There’s a lot of blame to go around, but none of it is on you. After all, you killed a Craqtii and saved our Marines in the process. The maker favored you because of your selflessness. Hold your head high and focus on the positive.”

  “Thank you, Ate,” he said, in a forced, unnatural way.

  “Get some rest, big guy. I’ll be back to check on you in the next cycle.”

  He gave her a nod then closed his eyes as his lips turned up into a smile. Must have the good stuff pumping through those lines, she thought, as she watched him drift off to sleep. Outside, she observed the space, which had five times the number of patients from when she had come to look for Cilas Mec. One of the men waved at her and she recognized him as a survivor from the explosion.

  Helga gave him the Alliance greeting, not wanting to be too familiar. She was a lieutenant now, and in the back of her head she could hear Cilas telling her to command the respect she deserved. She took inventory of the beds where more of the survivors lay, getting their injuries treated by the medics.

  She looked for the young cadet they rescued, who was alive when Raileo had taken her out of the passageway. The girl wasn’t there, and Helga wondered which of the isolated compartments she could be resting in. She sought out a computer to put her mind at rest, and searched for newly admitted females, 10-13 years of age. This didn’t take long, since there were only a few young patients, and Bira Sun was the sole female, aged 11 years old.

  The report showed that she had been treated, and was now recovering from her burns. Helga wanted to speak with her and learn what she’d seen and heard before the explosion. After taking time to read up on her condition, a heaviness found her heart, and she began to question why she was here, playing at master-at-arms.

  Was she suddenly suspicious of this child? From what she knew—and she had obsessed over the subject—a Geralos transfer was a painful process for both the invader and the host. Not to mention it was a one-way trip for the invader, so normally they would choose someone important, like an officer.

  For the Geralos to choose a tiny cadet, with no command over anyone—even themselves—simply made no sense, but Helga didn’t want to rule anything out. Bira was but a child, but she could still be dangerous if she was indeed the Geralos. But she had been hurt badly and was now quarantined, and it would be a long time before anyone would be allowed to visit her.

  As a Geralos spy, this would be the ultimate cover, since they could lay dormant for a number of cycles before finding a way to destroy the Rendron. She would be forgotten while the rest of the ship exhausted their search, convinced that this had all been a mistake.

  This thought frightened Helga so much that she began to shake, believing that if she gave up now, her negligence would cost them their lives. She used her officer’s credentials to access more of Bira’s profile, wanting footage of her being admitted to see if something stood out. At the very least, she could look at her eyes to put her mind at rest. When she found the feed, it was as she feared: the girl’s eyes remained shut, so there was no way to see the color.

  Frustrated and annoyed, Helga checked to see if she had parents on the Rendron. She found no records, since Bira had been born on a hub and was one of the numerous orphans gifted to the Navy. This was a stroke of good fortune when things were starting to look hopeless, and Helga synced her personal comm-link to the cadet’s profile. Now if there was any change in her condition, she would get an update.

  But what if she really is the Geralos? she thought. Will I be willing to do what it takes to stop this sweet young girl?

  14

  The life of a spacer is routine, but for those serving in the former Alliance Navy, that routine was often disrupted by the ongoing war. For most living on the Rendron, however, contact with the Geralos was the privilege of aces and planet-busting Marines. The extent of their disruption came by way of an enemy vessel, throwing payload at the outer hull just to have it reflected by shields.

  The Geralos had frightening tools, but until the explosion on Aurora, the crewmen on the Rendron had felt safe inside their berths. Now the ship was buzzing, as fear took hold of everybody. The dockhand who used to spend her free time in the simulation arcade was now going to the range to sharpen up her aim. The pilot whose life was study and flight now carried a firearm wherever he went. Officers grew serious about patrols, and checked in with their rates more often.

  For the truly frightened, whose instinct was to run, they sat in their compartments for as long as they could. What were they to do? They were stuck on a ship, in the deep void of space, millions of kilometers away from a station. Not to mention, where would they run to? Vestalia now belonged to the Geralos.

  The Rendron had been invaded, silently, and the explosion had claimed many lives. That news was public, shaking the crew to its core, and it was no longer possible to just simply exist. Now everyone was on high alert, and eager to show their Alliance pride. Cynicism became dangerous because everything stated was taken literally, and a quip about the captain would have the MA at your berth, inquiring about your words.

  Stressful did not begin to explain the general mood, and though the danger was no longer present, people walled themselves off, sticking to their own. This more than anything else bothered Raileo Lei, who had always enjoyed the attention he received, walking through the passageways. Being a Nighthawk made him a celebrity wherever he went; who didn’t want to speak to an ESO?

  Now they saw him as the captain’s enforcer, charged to arrest or kill suspected traitors. Even the ones he did know pretended not to see him, or became suddenly busy, rushing off to their jobs. The strangers would look away quickly when they weren’t saluting and pronouncing their commitment to Retzo Sho. It was all so exhausting that it made him want to scream: “If none of you are guilty, then why are you so afraid?”

  He found that he too was on edge from everything that had happened since Meluvia. Before that mission, his outlook was bright. He had graduated BLAST, and was invited to try out for the Nighthawks, Special Forces. Where career was concerned, he was on his way, but that first mission changed the way he viewed the Alliance. He learned of the Meluvian Liberation Force, who was one of the many arms of The Collective. Now he knew that the Geralos was but one enemy, and that the galaxy as a whole disliked Vestalians.

  Then through Helga he had learned of another problem: xenophobia exhibited by his people. This was more disappointing than anything else, to learn that the so-called Alliance was really not united and likely to tear itself apart.

  Wanting a distraction to take his mind off things, Raileo walked to the mess hall to grab somet
hing to eat. He stepped inside to the low murmur of chatter and trays being shifted around, and was stunned to see how many people were in attendance. This was standard for the hour, but he hadn’t bothered to look at the time, and now the conversations came to a halt as they all regarded him, skeptically.

  “Welcome, Chief,” someone said, and he returned the greeting with a forced smile. They all seemed to be waiting for him to say more, so he put his head down and made a beeline for the meal dispensers. That seemed to do it as the chatter resumed, but he wished he hadn’t worn his jacket. “I’m like a glowing thyping beacon,” he muttered, frustrated with himself.

  There was a line for the ten dispensers, so he used his wrist comms to surf the public feed. The Rendron kept an accessible log of reports concerning the ship; it was an endless scroll of words and dates, but with the flick of a finger, you could find out more. They were generated by the ship’s computer but the communications department could add their own detailed notes.

  He touched one randomly to see what it was about and saw that there had been a fight that sent several spacers to the medbay. This was unfortunate, but not really an unusual event, since spacers fought daily on a ship, especially when drink was involved. He opened another, and it was the same: more fights and arrests though none of it had to do with The Collective.

  “Station’s open,” someone called from behind him, and he saw that he was holding up the line. Closing his device, he stepped up to the dispenser, then quickly grabbed his favorite order: a sweet nut muffin with a cup of coffee, spiced with a touch of cinnamon. An expensive snack for the average spacer, but worth every credit to the brooding Nighthawk. He found a table in the back where he and the Nighthawks typically sat, and sipped at his coffee in silence.

  It tasted like dirt, but what could you expect from food and drink created from processed space algae? Still, he made himself love it, taking it black over dressing it up with sugar and milk. The muffin was much different, delectable and moist, so he picked at it slowly as he surveyed the room.

  Several Marines from an adjacent table kept looking back at him, and it was obvious that he was the topic of discussion. Surprisingly they didn’t bother him, which was probably a wise decision. The next time they glanced back at him, he made it a point to show that he was aware of them. This stopped their posturing, and a minute later they were up, making a hasty exit for the door.

  “Hey, cadet,” he heard a woman shout. “You can’t be in here. You’re on the wrong deck.”

  “Hold, don’t be so harsh,” someone else said. “She’s probably looking for someone. What do you need, sweetheart?”

  When Raileo looked to see the cause of the commotion, he saw the familiar little face of the cadet, Bira Sun. She had popped in and stood near the door, scanning the space with interest, not seeming to hear the spacers who were trying to help her along. When her eyes met Raileo’s, there was recognition reflected there, which struck him as odd, since she had been unconscious when he rushed her to the medbay.

  Is she here for me? he wondered, staring at her intently. She abruptly turned and exited the door but he was up and running after her. He didn’t know what she wanted, but she had obviously known who he was, and had probably come looking for help.

  With the disaster of Aurora, and maker knew what she had seen and experienced, he wanted nothing more than to be there for her, to lend his support where it was needed.

  She was also hurt, or should be hurt. Didn’t Helga tell him that Bira was still in medbay recovering from her injuries? Maybe he was mistaken, and this was a cadet who merely favored the girl he rescued. It was likely; after all, how many cadets did he know enough to recognize?

  She was gone by the time he made the exit, and ran out into the passageway only to see her slip inside another open door. He took his time, following her slowly, not wanting to alarm her into running away. She wouldn’t know his name or intentions, but he hoped she realized that he was a friend. It was odd that she would recognize him since they never spoke when he had pulled her out of the fire, but maybe she had opened her eyes when he wasn’t paying attention.

  He found the door, which led to a corridor ending at an elevator, accessible only to the officers and bridge crew. Why was a cadet playing around on this deck? He didn’t know what to think, but followed her in to see the reason. “Bira,” he called when the door slid open, but the corridor was vacant and the elevator was gone. “Impossible,” he whispered. Not even Cilas Mec could access that lift without the proper passcode from the captain.

  Suddenly he was confused, placing his back against the bulkhead to catch his breath as he surveyed the short, vacant corridor for any signs of the girl. “Oh boy,” he groaned, wondering if this was something new manifesting itself, something brought back from Meluvia, where he had seen things that haunted him till this day. He had known spacers that suffered from trauma, and the ones who saw invisible people were sent to medbay for a considerable time.

  “Thype,” he whispered, sliding down to the deck, running his hands through his hair as he pleaded internally for her to be real. He had seen her running, and others did too or else they wouldn’t have asked her if she was lost. Did he mistake her coming in here? That had to be it, so he hopped back up to his feet and made to exit the door, but something stopped him and told him to check the elevator, anyway.

  It didn’t hurt to be thorough, even if your mind was throwing out ghosts, so he strolled up to it and looked at the terminal. The lift was on its way up. Sprinting back down the corridor, he exited to the main passageway and opened another door. This one led to a corridor full of activity, and he hurried past the crewmen there to gain the far ladderwell. Bounding up the steps, taking them two at a time, Raileo burst out onto Cyrus deck in time to see Bira’s small frame vanish into the crowd.

  He started to follow her but pulled up short. Why was he chasing this child around the ship? She was fine before the Aurora incident, and would know her way around, just like he did.

  “Raileo Lei,” came a voice he recognized as Helga, and he took a second to compose himself before turning to his left to greet her.

  “Lieutenant,” a man shouted, but the Nighthawk didn’t seem to hear him as Helga touched forearms with Raileo.

  “Looks like they’re trying to get your attention, Ate,” he said, stepping back.

  “I know they are, but they aren’t going to get it,” she said, putting one foot in front of the other. “I’m over playing nice when the universe only cares for itself. I will reserve my time for my superiors, and people who treated me fairly back when I wasn’t a Nighthawk. Mark my words, Ray, they could give a schtill about us beyond our popularity.”

  “What happened?” he said, falling in behind her.

  “Nothing, I’m just venting. What about you, what are you doing up here?”

  Raileo struggled against telling her that he had seen Bira Sun. “Thought I saw someone I knew from the past, but it turns out I was just seeing things.” He laughed. “Ever happen to you?”

  “Seeing ghosts? Not unless you count dreaming,” she said as they watched a Vestalian shove a Meluvian woman in the back. Raileo made to step in, but Helga stopped him with an arm. “She can handle herself. If she couldn’t she wouldn’t be a Marine, though her looks lead me to think you had alterior motives.”

  A new Vestalian pushed his way through the crowd, kicked the attacker in his chest, and then helped the Meluvian woman up to her feet. “One Alliance,” he shouted, and several others echoed his words. He ran back and put another kick into the downed man’s ribs, then went back to join the Meluvian, who seemed to know him well.

  “See, she had it covered,” Helga said, smiling. “Raileo Lei, the defender of damsels in distress.”

  “Oh, come off it, Ate, if that was a thick neck, male Marine, I would have rushed to step in all the same.”

  “Yeah, sure you would have, lover boy. Now tell me about these ghosts. Were you serious about that?”

  �
�Not serious, but I thought I saw the girl from Aurora, the one we rescued. Remember?”

  “The cadet? No way. I have her medbay status synced to my wrist-comms to know when she’s allowed visitation. She’s in a quarantined room, getting treated for her burns. Poor thing, it had to be awful. I doubt she’s running about after such a short time has passed. Ray, there’s plenty of little pig-tailed cadets sneaking around the Rendron. I think you’re mistaken about seeing her.”

  More Marines flooded the passageway, friends of the downed man, looking for a fight. The Nighthawks, seeing this, found the ladderwell and descended it quickly to avoid the impending riot.

  “Ship’s gone to hell,” Raileo remarked, and was surprised to see Helga chuckle, as if he’d merely complained about the temperature. “Ate, is it me, or are we having a lot more fights breaking out?” he said, hoping she knew something to put his mind to rest.

  “It’s morale,” Helga said. “Alliance pride is at an all-time low. We’ve been attacked twice and both times we’ve had to jump away. Then the captain made his announcement, and now all the bullies of yesteryear are reliving their glory days. The Vestalian back there, I bet he likes her, but she’s Meluvian, so he automatically fears that she may be a part of The Collective.”

  “Come on, Ate, you can’t just assume that man’s a xenophobe. Maybe they were lovers having a spat, or maybe she insulted him and he just lost his temper.”

  “Or maybe he’s like every other privileged Vestalian brat on this ship,” Helga said, stopping in front of him with her hands on her hips. “You don’t see it, Ray. How can you see it? You’re a good-looking Vestalian male, and an ESO. I can’t help but notice the stares, since I’ve felt them the majority of my life. These aren’t curious stares, or ‘I think I know her’ stares. These are rates sizing me up, and I think that one will eventually try me.”