by Greg Dragon
“Verillion, is it?” he said. “Word of advice. Treat her as you would the most vicious of brain-biting lizards. The girl she once was died the moment they took her mind. The thing inside of her is older than this war. It is a zealot for their beliefs, a true believer who gave up its life for their wicked cause. Now think about what happens if a creature like that were to get loose in this station. Think of what it would do because you underestimated it.”
“That is truly grim, Cilas, but I know what the Geralos are from firsthand experience. I was a Missio-Tral boomer before earning this post with Admiral Mor, and came face-to-face with many lizards on our drops.”
“You’re a Marine?” Cilas said, pulling back a bit of his judgment. “Missio-Tral doesn’t do soft. I’m surprised someone of your quality would be good with—” He gestured at their surroundings, looking around.
“They may raise us to be monsters, but we don’t have to remain that way when we become adults,” Verillion said, slipping in his own insult. “I bathed in blood from thirteen until I was undeniably an adult, but by the time I got my own berthing, I had already tired of the schtill. You know they lace the food on those starships to help us cope? Drugs that keep you smiling, thinking of nothing but chiern, and Meluvian moans.
“Yeah, I was a happy killer, ready to do whatever my Alliance sent me to do, but when she sent me here, I realized there was more to life than kill counts. So, I wouldn’t call it soft as much as I would call it truly living. But you won’t know that until you’ve tasted it, eh, Commander Mec?” He grinned. “Talk to me in a week, and we’ll see if you still believe that this life is so terrible.”
Cilas listened as Verillion kept on talking about his ascent from planet-buster to officer in an official post on this station. It was interesting at first, until he realized the man was yet another sycophant, happy to be in the presence of the admiral.
Still, he was one of a small percent of Navy personnel that had been allowed to transfer to the station. It was natural for someone in so rare a position to be somewhat condescending to others that served. He had seen this same attitude manifest itself with newly recruited Nighthawks from BLAST.
Verillion’s story was so long and full of exaggerations that Cilas began to wonder if any of it was true. The man was no Quentin Tutt—who was the quintessential Marine—and he took note of his physique and flawlessly smooth skin. It just didn’t match what he was hearing. Verillion had a look of privilege, and a life of non-processed foods—much like everyone he’d seen since arriving, with the exception of Sundown, who was every bit the rogue.
The man was Vestalian Navy—that Cilas was sure of because of his uniform—but he had to have been born on peaceful Sanctuary, where he looked up to men like Cilas Mec. This meant that the feats he spoke of were only simulations, and he would not have been on the real Missio-Tral, going through the trials of war. His service was merely clerical, which was absolutely necessary, but not impressive enough to brag about.
So, to real warfighters, he had to invent stories of a past, and this made Cilas write him off as a pathetic excuse for an officer. Cilas noticed that he stayed away from the topic of the pod, even when he cut in to ask instructions on what their next steps should be. The man just kept on about his life, the Alliance, and Admiral Mor. He talked so much, in fact, that Cilas’s mind began to wander, wanting to know the status of his Nighthawks, and that was when he noticed his wrist-comms.
“Sorry, Verillion, but I should really answer this,” he cut-in.
“Go ahead,” Verillion said, standing up suddenly, almost knocking over his plate filled with treats. “Apologies, but I must run out to make a call of my own, but when I return we’ll get to business so that you can get back to your team.”
Marine, huh? Cilas thought, catching his breath for the first time since meeting the repulsive man. Why did Mor send me this politician in uniform, lying about his service to keep me here? Every alarm inside of his warrior’s brain was starting to go off, and he wanted more than anything to get back with his Nighthawks. He activated his comms and saw several urgent messages from his lieutenant.
“Ate,” he said, standing as he placed the receiver behind his ear. “Ate, you there? Helga, do you copy?”
“I’m here, Rend,” she said casually, but he could feel the tension behind her words. Something was wrong, and his fiery lieutenant was working hard at keeping her composure as she spoke.
“What’s the situation? I see that you’ve been trying to buzz me for a while.”
“I take it you’re trapped in a room somewhere, unable to see the latest on the starport?” Helga said.
“The starport.” He repeated the words, wondering at what they meant. “Did something happen with the ship?”
“Yes and no. Let me see if I can summarize it somewhat. Alright, don’t panic but someone tried to kill me with a junk bomb. Set the starport on fire with it, and then tried to shoot me when I escaped the explosion. We had split up to look for the cargo, and I got caught in an office interviewing the starport’s dockmaster. Sundown intercepted the assassin and got me out of the fire. Now we’re in the Victory commons, walking about in some sort of market. I’ve been trying to reach you since the attack, to warn you that we’re being targeted.”
“Are you hurt in any way?” he said, already feeling guilty for abandoning them to the search.
“Got a few burns on my hands, but nothing to be concerned about, and everything else is right where they need to be. We’re all just itching to go after the thieves but need your permission to engage them when we’re ready. Sundown knows who they are, and they live in a place below the districts.”
“Is he positive that it’s them? I’d hate to let you go only for you all to be wrong.”
“He’s sure. He’s done work for them as a shooter and a negotiator, back when he was stuck here, down and out.”
“Sounds like you two have gotten friendly,” he said, hating the jealousy it denoted.
“Best of friends, me and him; can’t really be a cruta once a man has saved your life. He says they’re led by a woman named Domina Ryse. She’s some sort of gangster, with a handful of ex-Navy bodyguards. He doesn’t think it will take much for us to get in there to corner her. Says it’s so dark down there in those ruins that we could get the drop on them if we stay in the shadows.”
“I bet Tutt loved hearing that,” Cilas said. “But what do you think?”
“I want our things back, especially my gun, and the longer the cargo is out of sight, the more I worry it has broken free. As to Sundown and me, I believe him. We’re his only shot of getting out of here, and he is what he claims to be. With me, Sundown, Ray, and Tutt, that gives us four, armed, with whatever Ray’s able to purchase. Any way you can join us? Our chances improve significantly with five.”
“I’m flattered, but I’m still here waiting for the admiral. Hel,” he said, shortening her name and hoping she wouldn’t object. “Do you really trust this man? He’s no Lamia, and looks to have lived through the worst on this station.”
“He saved my life, Cilas, so I am going to go with yes. Do we have your permission to go after our cargo?”
“You do, but I want it neat. Keep your heads, and do what you’re good at. Get our cargo and get back here,” Cilas said. It was frustrating not being able to express his thoughts freely, with the threat of their conversation being open to surveillance. Verillion walked back into the room, his face a mask of grave concern. Cilas wondered if he had stepped out into the hallway, only to receive some tragic news.
“When is Admiral Mor going to see me?” Cilas said, his patience wholly gone now that Helga had given him an update.
“I do apologize, Cilas, but the meeting has been postponed. The admiral is being rushed to the Prosperity district, to advise the council on an emergency that is of the highest priority. He asked me to make arrangements for retrieving the pod, and we’ll be rescheduling the meeting until the same time tomorrow.”
; “Whoever that is, you can bet he is full of schtill,” Helga said in his ear. “All of this mess, the robbery, them keeping you on ice; it seems as if we’ve fallen into a trap that has been carefully planned and executed.”
“When you get the package, send me a message on my comms,” Cilas said, then clicked off communication and removed the earpiece. “One of my Nighthawks was attacked this morning while meeting with your starport’s dockmaster. Someone threw an explosive inside of the room where they were meeting. The dockmaster has died but she made it out alive. Have you heard anything about this?”
“I have, just now. I hope your person wasn’t badly injured. Are they alright? If anything, Sanctuary has the galaxy’s best surgeons. Cilas, this isn’t typical, believe me. Whatever you need for your people, just let me know.”
“She’s doing well, but if you’re all aware of the bomb, why haven’t you moved on these criminals? It shouldn’t be difficult to assemble a posse when there’s Missio-Tral talent right here,” Cilas said.
“I appreciate the confidence, but that was a long time ago for me,” Verillion said, as if he hadn’t noticed the slight. “To be honest with you, that responsibility has been placed on Sanctuary’s Security force. They have a representative under Councilman Dove of this district. They would be the ones in charge of investigating the starport. Admiral Mor is going to be angry that you were threatened and almost hurt. That was one of the worst mistakes those thugs could have made. Attacking an ESO, and a special guest to the council.”
“It was a mistake, but my people are going to handle it ourselves.”
“Handle it? As in going after the terrorists yourselves?” Verillion said.
“Yes, and we already have one of them in custody, who I intend to question about my ship.”
He gauged Verillion’s reaction to his lie, watching for any signs that would allude to any involvement. His face turned white as he reached down nervously to grab his cup full of coffee, then he gulped it down and regarded Cilas as if he’d seen a ghost. “You have one of them in custody, you say?”
“We do. I was sent by my captain to deliver that pod, and we caught one of those thypes trying to steal it. I plan to squeeze some answers out of her, and she’s going to talk if I can help it. Listen, Verillion, when you talk to Admiral Mor, inform him that there was an attempt on our lives and we’re forced to do what it takes to secure the mission. Nothing will stop my team and me from accomplishing what we came here to do, and where next we see interference, there will be blood. Do you hear me, Verillion? When I find out who did this, there will be blood.”
With that he got up and walked out of the room, joining three other strangers that were going down in the elevator. When he reached the main floor of the commerce center, he saw the evidence of Helga’s near-miss. All around the kiosks, Sanctuary Security was interviewing citizens, while several areas were partitioned off to treat the injured survivors.
“What is going on?” he said, as a Sanctuary Security officer made to stop him. “I am Commander Cilas Mec, and I need to get back to my hotel. Unless you want greater Alliance problems, you’ll let me go about my business.”
33
Sundown had a black transport that he used to take the Nighthawks to the Hopeless’s hideout. Instead of flying the conventional path, he took a passage down to the sewer, which was a foul-smelling tunnel of perpetual blackness. Helga admired his ability to steer using the transport’s basic HUD.
They emerged to a world comprised of metal and glass, and for the first time since arriving on Sanctuary, Helga was reminded that it was still a station. The sky above them—if you could call it a sky—was an endless span of pipes and wires, showering the atmosphere with sparks.
Below it were the remains of a district where the once majestic buildings had devolved into ruins. The lights from their windows illuminated the dark, revealing mountains of refuse and strange, darkly clad people. Helga saw that most of these denizens were wearing protective masks and picking through the rubble for valuables. At one point, one of these scavengers started firing on them with an auto-rifle. Sundown did some fancy flying to avoid most of these shots, then took them up higher to the rooftops.
“What is this place?” Helga said, baffled that they were still on Sanctuary.
“This is the pit, the old Freedom District. Before the collapse, gangs controlled the streets, defying even the council with their rule. Most of those hoodlums met their doom at the hands of Sanctuary Security. Of all the opposition, Nighthawks, they are the ones you don’t want to cross. They are the biggest crooks on this station, and are backed by the council to uphold the law. When they were sent in to remove the gangs, they caused so much damage that the foundation failed. A new Freedom District was built above the old one, leaving what you see here as a forgotten city.”
They touched down near the entrance of a commerce center, similar to the one next to the starport. Helga looked up as sparks showered them from a disconnected line somewhere below the upper district. It was fascinating to witness, though she feared that it was a malfunction that could catch fire at any time. Then there were the masks the people wore, hinting at something in the atmosphere that they didn’t want to breathe. There were so many questions on safety, but if this was where the thieves operated, then this was where she needed to be.
“This is for you,” Raileo said, handing her a tiny pistol. It looked ancient, as if it was used back when humans still owned Vestalia. She took it and scrutinized it, wondering if it would fire. “I see you’re wearing the harness,” he said. “And … wait, is that another pistol there, under your arm? How did you sneak that in?”
“Sundown gave it to me at the starport, remember? The explosion, the reason we’re here?”
“Oh,” he said, bopping his head with the heel of his hand. “This is for you also, Lieutenant, just in case you’re in a jam and can’t fire your weapon.” He placed a small knife into her palm, and she leaned down and slid it into a sheath on the side of her boot.
“Is the air down here safe?” she said to Sundown.
“For the most part, unless you live here. Then you’d want to cover up the way that they do,” he said.
“Is that why you’re still wearing that thing?” she said, pointing to his skinsuit and the scarf about his neck.
“It is. I was a worm in this pit for nearly a year. I wish I could call it home, but one never grows accustomed to the pit, not unless you’re a boss like Domina.”
“I’m guessing Sanctuary Security doesn’t come down here to make arrests,” Quentin said.
“Some have tried, but when they didn’t report back, their leaders got the message. I know what you’re going to say, and yes, they could raid like they did before, but they do not want to risk another collapse that could rupture the ring. That being said, Nighthawks, take this as a warning. If we fail or someone is badly injured, no one will attempt a rescue.”
“Those are odds that we’re used to. Right, men?” Helga said, and her words were met with affirmative grunts from both Raileo and Quentin. “Any reaper drones, cameras, or surveillance out here to be concerned with?”
“I highly doubt it,” Sundown said, starting away from the transport towards the ruins of the commerce center. “That isn’t to say that her spies haven’t already informed her about your survival, so we may have a welcoming party waiting behind that door.”
Helga considered his words and the odds of things not going their way. That was how it had always been since joining the team, but they had always found a way out. She felt invincible when they were together, but without Cilas, she was beginning to worry. What if Sundown was lying, or had made a wrong assumption on which gang was behind the bomb? Were they about to raid this building for nothing, and possibly kill people that were innocent of the theft?
She recognized the fear sowing doubts, and she pushed them down in favor of her training. To aid with her determination, she thought on how she had led the Nighthawks in clearing Auro
ra and killing the Geralos. Even the captain had complimented her on keeping things together during Cilas’s absence. “I can do this,” she said under her breath. She could lead men into battle, despite the odds being stacked against them.
“How are we feeling, Tutt?” she said, hoping his confidence would bolster hers.
“Ready to dance on your command, Lieutenant.”
“Ray?”
The Nighthawk turned as if to answer, but instead, spread his arms and tackled her into a pile of refuse. The move was so sudden that she had no time to react, but when she made to stand and give him a piece of her mind, Quentin grabbed her arm and pulled her down. Helga turned on him angrily, but he placed a finger up to his lips.
Looking back towards the transport, she saw the doors of the center slide open and several men walk out. They were armed to the teeth, wearing mask and rags to cover every bit of their exposed flesh. “Stay down,” Sundown whispered, and it was then that Helga realized that Raileo’s sharp sniper senses had probably saved their lives.
They lay in a pile amidst the trash as the three men approached the transport. Helga recognized battle dress uniforms beneath their rags, the kind owned by Alliance Marines, with the light-armored plates sewed into the fabric. Theirs were dyed black instead of the standard Alliance blue, and their owners carried two auto-rifles and several heavy pistols.
“The Maker provides,” Quentin said suddenly, and sprung at the first man, his knife becoming a blur of red death. Helga leaped over the pile, hoping to drop an elbow onto one of their heads, but she caught a kick to the chest, which hurt so badly it made her eyes water.
Quentin cut the first man’s throat and was on to the next, driving his knife home with the force of both his hands. This all happened so fast that Helga was still catching her breath, but for all she’d seen Quentin demonstrate on the Rendron, seeing him move was barely a surprise.
“Ray,” he shouted after dispatching the last man, and when the young Nighthawk ran over to where he stood, he handed him the dead man’s auto-rifle. Helga was sure everyone wanted to help, but Quentin Tutt had killed them in the span of a heartbeat.