by Greg Dragon
“Have it all figured out, huh?”
“Yes,” she exclaimed, not considering the fact that she was proposing they use the children as bait.
“Thanks for letting me see her, Sergeant, but I should go. It’s almost the start of a brand new cycle, and I really need to go and get dressed.”
21
Cilas Mec wasn’t a drinker, but this late-cycle he allowed himself to indulge. He sat slumped on a metal stool sharing a drink with Quentin Tutt, who hadn’t seemed like himself since the mission with the Marines.
Quentin was a deep pool of tranquil water, and Cilas understood him better than any of the other Nighthawks.
The two men had developed a bond, not just because their ages were close, but also because they had experienced many of the same things. Before Cilas met Quentin, while reviewing his records, he thought that the Marine would be an asset, but was pleased to find that he was a man of action, just like he was.
Their conversations would seem stunted to an outsider, with long bouts of silence between them, but they didn’t need to talk to be comfortable in one another’s company. No small talk or unnecessary words were required, and when they did speak, the conversations were golden.
“You look beat up, Rend,” Quentin said, causing Cilas to stop. He rarely called him by his callsign, but when he did it was because he needed to talk. Helga had started that trend to annoy him, but he took away her power by choosing to accept it. The result? She decided to stop using it altogether, but the other two Nighthawks adopted it. “Anything I can help with?”
“Nah, I’ll be better after two more glasses,” Cilas said. “Plus we’re here to celebrate the acquisition of the Ursula, not talk about my relationship woes.”
“Oh,” he said, dragging it out to show that he understood. “Is that why you’re here? Joy locked you out of your compartment?”
“Don’t I wish it were that; I can fix that easy. A jog to the mess for her favorite dessert and she would happily let me in. Nope, door’s open, but I am getting the silent treatment. That woman is stubborn, so I gave up and came here to be with my Nighthawks. The tadpoles will be along any minute now, and we can raise a toast to Sanctuary.”
“Tadpoles. Haven’t heard that one in a while.”
“We’re both twenty-five in Vestalian years, which makes us old men in ESO terms,” Cilas said. “Operators don’t live long, but—”
“Life is short, so blaze brightly,” they said in unison. It was a passage from “Warriors: The Enforcer’s Creed,” a poem they’d been made to memorize during BLAST. By the time you were reciting and quoting those words with your mates, you had survived the course and proven yourself a prospect.
“Hell yeah,” Quentin said. “Bring it on; I will abide. I went to Arbar as a man; she took my life and gave me pride. So what is death to a ghost, a proven shadow from the depths? I am revenant, an operator, a lizard killing, bloody mess.”
The two men raised their metal mugs and tipped their heads before taking a drink. Reciting that poem did so many things: it honored the dead and bolstered their commitment. Perhaps it was the timing of when they had learned it, or the pleasure of knowing that you were part of an exclusive club. Cilas knew this, so he would throw it into his speech periodically to see if his team would pick up on it.
“Hey, question,” Quentin said. “I always wanted to ask: did Joy get her squadron name from the Enforcer’s Creed?”
“Joy? I doubt it; she isn’t an ESO. If she did, she heard it from a scumbag that didn’t finish the training. There’s no shortage of stiffs posted up at bars, talking out of their rear end about BLAST.”
“Which exposes them immediately, because we all know that BLAST business is private unless you’re with an ESO.”
A long silence followed as the two men went into their thoughts, and Cilas noticed that Quentin wasn’t drinking.
He was hunched over with his eyes closed and his head bopping along to the music. Cilas hadn’t noticed it till now, the soft tunes coming from Raileo’s berth. He had rigged up an old device to act as a music player, then loaded it with songs they liked. Right now it was playing an old Meluvian symphony, one of Helga’s favorites, he recalled. It was great background noise, and helped to lighten the mood, so he poured himself another drink and sniffed it.
“Do you know how to tell a Genesian from a Vestalian?” Quentin said, breaking his train of thought.
Cilas looked over at him, took a sip and shook his head. “Impossible to tell, since we’re genetically similar. You all do grow taller it seems, but no, how can you tell?”
“Ask him to pick up the tab,” the big man said, smiling, though there was no mirth in his expression. “My people have a terrible history of being opportunistic credit hounds. Even listening to you talk about our future ship made it seem that going to the guild was a bad thing.”
Cilas made to explain his words, but Quentin lifted his hand to stop him. “It’s on the deck, Rend. No offense, not from this Genesian. We earned that reputation. It’s what happens when you have corporations running your government. Alliances become business deals, with no care for the people. That’s Genese, but that’s not me, so I can laugh along with the rest.”
“Is there something you need to tell me, Q?” Cilas said, still watching him squirm with his mitts around the mug.
After fidgeting for a few more minutes, he put it to his lips and drained it. “Thing is, Cilas, I am committed. We’ve shared blood and smoke on Meluvia, and I’ve learned more in my short time with you than all the years I spent with the infantry.” He stopped talking all of a sudden, and Cilas watched him, trying to decipher what he wanted to say.
“Thype me, Q, I’m your friend. We’re sitting together, sharing a drink. Will you stop fumbling around and let the damned thing out already?”
“Alright,” Quentin said, placing the mug down on the table, then flinched when it made a clanging sound. Cilas saw that he was having a case of nerves, and wondered what could be eating at him like this.
“Why is it you never push back, Cilas? You have the three of us, and we’re a deadly effective unit. Before I say what I have to say, let me start with that. You have done a bang-up job of putting together a team this talented.”
“Thank you. I appreciate you saying that, but the kudos belong to Helga, Ray, and you. Now cut the schtill and have it out, man. Tell me what is really eating you. I never push back is what you started with. What do you mean? Push back on what?”
Quentin pointed upwards then retracted his hand. It was the symbol for the captain. Thype, Cilas thought, he wants to question Retzo Sho. This is one wormhole that I’m not ready to jump into.
“Cilas, I’m tired, truly tired, and this was supposed to be our break. The Geralos attack, that can’t be helped, and we handled that as we always do, but this new mission so soon after everything else… I’m starting to question whether they care about our lives. We come in hot from exploring that ghost ship and we’re immediately made to play master-at-arms. Ate’s halfway out of her mind. Have you talked to her lately? She’s got bad cargo up here.” He gestured to his head. “She more than any of us needed this time to get right, and she’s been running about, playing detective when she’s not in that fighter of hers.
“Do they ever give you a choice to push back? Do you ever take it? In one breath you say that we’re rebuilding the Nighthawks, but in another we’re doing this for the XO. He pulled Helga in from a pre-jump entry where she could have died, Cilas, pulled her in to assign us more work when she was obviously hurting and shaken out of her mind.” He threw up his hands and slid his chair back. “I hope you know that it kills me to even put voice to these concerns, because I know you see it, and you have your reasons, but we need to protect our people.”
“I care for Helga more than you know, and I’m not blind. I see what’s happening,” Cilas said. “We’re getting a ship, and time to recruit, rebuild, and train new members up. These were promises made directly to me fr
om the captain, and he assures me that once we deliver the lizard, we will get our break. The Rendron has seen a lot of action lately, and he’s aware of our involvement. We will not be going to Genese, Ursula can make the trip, and while we’re at Sanctuary, we’ll be on our own, doing what we want to do.”
“He guaranteed this?” Quentin said, looking into his eyes.
“He did, but regarding Genese, you could go there for shore leave once we return. It’s completely up to you. Just let me know before we shove off.”
Quentin Tutt seemed to think on this for a time. He let out a laugh then grabbed the bottle and topped off both their mugs. “I’m with you for the long haul, Commander. I will see Genese when we see Genese.”
There was some commotion, and Cilas looked up to see Helga Ate push Raileo Lei through the door. They were both laughing, and for a second he wondered if something was going on between the two of them. It was a bad idea to have two active operators in a relationship, since critical decisions could be muddied when intimate feelings were involved. It was the main reason he had worked to keep a line between him and his Nighthawk lieutenant, but he felt strangely jealous, and he didn’t know why.
They were laughing and talking loudly as they came into the space, but there were no touches or overt suggestions to say they were more than friends. Helga seemed to be teasing him about something, and he was being Raileo about it. Eventually they looked up and saw that they were not alone, and they quickly rushed over to the table.
“Look, Ray, they’re drinking without us,” Helga said, then she sat down beside Quentin and pulled him in to rub his head. “Hey big guy, what’re you drinking?” she said, but her eyes were on Cilas Mec.
“Just some juice from the wardroom. It has real fruit … really rare stuff,” Quentin said, winking at Cilas.
“And I was born on a skiff just last cycle. Real fruit, you say. Is it from a tree on the—I’m not buying it—deck?” She reached out and grabbed the bottle, then took a whiff and recoiled. “Savages,” she barked. “Ray, they’re drinking your favorite brand of swill. Mixed spirits from twenty different sources.” She produced a mug and poured herself a cup.
“The way that drinking cup materialized out of nowhere tells me you may have a problem, Helga,” Cilas said.
“Relax, man, I haven’t drunk anything in over a cycle. Seriously, I’ve been good without it, ever since I saw the psych. So what’s the conversation? The two of you in here all alone, drinking liquor? What gives?”
“Tutt and I were talking about the team,” he said, scanning their faces. “I haven’t been around, and I allowed things to go on that has us constantly in the action, with no time to rest. Ate, I know you were drinking because of Dyn, and if not Dyn then Meluvia, and I intended to give you a break once we were here.”
Helga, like Quentin before her, was holding the mug and staring at the burgundy-colored liquid inside. She seemed to think hard on it before raising it to her lips, but instead of draining it, she merely sipped, then her eyes came up to find his. “Cilas, I was in a lot of the same meetings you were. Some without you, since you were badly injured, and I know for a fact that you’ve tried. Which of us can solve the problem of bored, xenophobic spacers with too much time on their hands, eh? Or lizard operatives, employing methods we barely understand to sneak aboard our ship for sabotage?
“Luck is to blame, and ours have been schtill, but there will be brighter days, and time for us to relax once we’re off the Rendron and out there doing our work. You mentioned Meluvia, and I did get shot and bitten.” She chuckled. “Not to mention, you had me eat a cute pair of rats and scolded me for saving your life. But, what I remember of Meluvia was the beautiful sky and the ruins inside the forest. The four of us in camp, having the experience together, and all of the talks. It was great.
“So, don’t blame yourself or us. This is what we signed up for, isn’t it? I remember the men, those original Nighthawks, and how they razzed me continuously about how much this is going to stink. They weren’t wrong, and I was forced to grow up extremely fast on that moon, but now it sounds like you’re about to apologize for it. I say you shouldn’t.” She stared at Quentin, as if to make sure he was listening. “When you chose BLAST, you chose us, and when it comes to us, our ready mode is always on.”
With that she drained the mug, then sat back and belched with her hands on her stomach. The three men looked at her, surprised, but she merely shrugged. “I’m with family; all of that social politeness gets stowed. Now, can we change the subject? We have another hour, and I don’t want to spend it moping about the past.”
The men agreed and Raileo grabbed a chair and slid it in between Cilas and Quentin. “So, how did Joy take it?” Helga said, and the reminder was a punch to Cilas’s gut. He considered snapping at her, telling her to mind her business, but Helga knew Joy, and he had just admitted to being too cold with his team.
“Better than I thought,” he said, reluctantly. “Especially the part where we won’t be on the same ship. The Ursula will house Nighthawks and a few rates assigned to various roles. Joy, however, is going to SoulSpur to take on the role of CAG.”
“Oh, but that’s wonderful,” Helga cut in, excited, “They couldn’t find a better candidate even if they scoured the entire galaxy. No wonder she’s been so tight with Millicent. I bet that she’ll be—”
“Helga, focus,” Cilas said, and they all began to laugh. “This stays here, since the captain hasn’t formally announced his plans. As to our relationship, we had a long talk. We’re forced to be realistic about these things. She’s on the line now, as well as I, and that makes any prospect of a future in normal civilian terms, impossible. We love one another and will make the best of it, but once we shove off then life moves on. You know how that is, the life of an ESO.” He sighed.
“I’m sorry, Cilas,” Helga said, and Quentin poured him another drink.
“This is why I don’t commit,” Raileo said. “Our duty, this life… there isn’t a chance for commitments. We move around too much for it. I just don’t see too many men and women being good with that.”
“Some make it work,” Cilas said. “Look at the captain, he and Captain Tara Cor. They only see each other a few cycles out of the year.”
“That’s making it work?” Helga said, looking at him suspiciously. “I think that the past is the past, and they have a bond, but the captain and Jenny are more of a thing than he and—”
“No way,” Raileo whispered, seeming to enjoy where the conversation was going.
“This is where I bow out,” Cilas said. “Not going to gossip about my captain.”
22
On the cycle for departure, Helga and the Nighthawks met up with Commander Jit Nam, who briefed them on the finer details of the mission. They were taken to the Nadir hangar, a coveted space that Helga had seen only a handful of times when sneaking around as a cadet. It was meant for high-level visitors, guests of the captain, and anyone that needed to come and go in private.
When the Aqnaqak was parked next to the Rendron, Helga had expected Captain Tara Cor to use this hangar, but she chose to use the fighter’s landing bay, stopping to greet spacers and share some words with the ranks. With this small gesture, the Aqnaqak’s captain made an impression on the crew, but most visitors on her level were made to use the Nadir hangar.
Now as Helga looked out at the space, she could identify the vessels that were stored there. She saw a first-generation Phantom that had probably never flown, and the captain’s old fighters, which he kept from his ESO days.
In the center was the belle of the ball, the Ursula, Alliance corvette, with a chassis like a fighter, all sleekness in angles, squat, long, and impressive. Her topmost regions were a charcoal gray, broken up by white lines meeting at her name “Ursula” written in angled letters above the wing.
Though she was a war machine built for space, they designed her in the style of fighter jets on Vestalia. Helga was awed by her beauty. When she heard “old
corvette” she had wrongly assumed that the vessel would be forgettable. She stood frozen at the sight of this sleeping behemoth whose frame took up the majority of the 120m length compartment.
Although it was built for scouting missions, the speedy Ursula hosted a unique assortment of weapons. The thirty gun batteries that usually armed the broadsides were replaced with a dozen focused miniature tracers, and above the landing gear were four square-shaped pylons that would generate energy torpedoes.
Behind the pylons, near the well-armored stern, was the ship’s FTL drive, disguised to look like a trace laser cannon. It was a brilliant design, since no fighter in their right mind would risk flying near that weapon, and at the top of the ship lay another decoy, this one a traditional gun battery, made to appear as the bridge.
Everything about the Ursula hinted at stealth, from the misdirection with the outer hull’s design to the dark paint on the lower half, complete with enough Genesian mirror-tech to make cloaking automatic. She was a sleek shard of glass, low to the deck on which she perched. Helga couldn’t wait to see inside, to play on the controls and learn her interface, and though she wasn’t proud of it, she wanted to test those trace lasers.
She was also curious as to how cozy they would be in their new berthing. It would be a nightmare to be assigned to a ship, with a faulty head that was co-ed and berthing so tight that they were practically on top of one another. The assault ships that carried Marines were built like that, but they weren’t meant for long trips.
Helga grew closer and the ship seemed to grow. Thype me, am I ready to fly something this big? she wondered as doubt started to seep in. All of their lives will be in my hands. It’s not like a fighter where it is just me.