by Greg Dragon
Helga struck her so hard that her head struck the shuttle. She put her heel on Verity’s neck and raised her pistol. “We have people waiting, cruta, and I’m out of patience, so move. If you think that thyping you has softened my friend to a maiming, then I would really think long and hard on your chances right now.”
The woman nodded and then got slowly to her feet. Helga pushed her towards the shuttle where Sundown waited, now brandishing his heavy pistol at the crowd. “We need to move. Sanctuary Security is on their way here,” he said.
Helga shoved Verity harder and she tumbled into the back, where she locked her in a set of stasis cuffs and bound her legs to the deck. “I’ll take us on a tour of the districts while you and the lady here make your acquaintances,” he said.
Helga climbed in next to her captive and Sundown took them up and out of the district. “Am I going to have to hurt you?” Helga said. “Or do you accept that you’re out of options?”
“Options?” The woman scoffed and Helga flipped on her comms to record their conversation. “Do you think I had options when I was made to thype that animal, just so he could send me to the pit?”
“No riddles. What animal?”
“If I talk, what happens to me? You kill me, right? Or worse, you put me in the stocks to deal with the wrath of his people?”
Helga was dumbfounded. She hadn’t considered the fallout, and the potential harm that would come to any citizen of Sanctuary who aided in the downfall of Vulwin Arl. “We won’t kill you, and your fate would be left in the hands of the Alliance, not us. And I doubt that they would keep you in any place reachable by your employer’s thugs. Now, tell me Verity, who is that hired you to have the Ursula robbed?”
“Hold on,” Sundown said suddenly, and brought them so low that it looked as if he was trying to crash on purpose. There were several transports following them, all black and menacing, but Sundown’s move had thrown them, and they were now trying to come about. He took them between two buildings, a maneuver that Helga had impressed him with not five hours before. Then he climbed and leveled out within more traffic going the other direction.
“Cruta, I’m not going to ask you again,” Helga said, balling up her right fist as her left hand shot out to grip Verity’s shoulder. “I need you to say it his name, or thype me if I don’t break your face.”
“I don’t trust any of you,” she started, then Sundown looked back and aimed his pistol at her head.
“You don’t know the lieutenant, Verity, but you know me and what I’ve done,” he said. “I work for her now, and she’s being nice, but you are endangering us with the stalling, and you’re going to force me to kill you.”
“It was Verillion Wren,” she whispered, as if it hurt to say his name.
“Who!?” Helga shouted at her, assuming she was still protecting the councilman.
“Verillion Wren, one of the council’s Navy goons,” Verity shouted back, no longer afraid as she thrust out her chin in defiance. “He came to the club one night, paid for my time, and when we were done, he asked me for a favor in exchange for ownership of the club. Said a talented girl like me should be much more than a worker. I agreed—I’ve been doing this schtill for five years—so he gave me a shot and I took it. All I had to do was deliver a message, and once his business was done, he’d make me rich. It seemed so easy; too good to be true, they say, but so what? He’s in with the council, and they get anything they want—”
“Oh, you dumb girl,” Helga whispered, ruefully. “You must think that your chiern is solid gold for them to give you that building just for delivering a message. Just so you know, your little stunt has caused people to die, and could have gotten Sanctuary exposed. Some owner you’d be. You’re dumb as rocks.” She turned to Sundown. “Did we lose them, Sunny?”
The dark jumper smiled when he heard his nickname, and seemed to relax now that Verity had talked. “We lost them for now. Did you get what you needed from her, Nighthawk?”
“I did, and now I have to update the commander on this Verillion Wren.”
After gagging Verity, who had started to wail, Helga called up Cilas to explain what she had been told. She transferred the recording, and waited while he listened and he started to laugh, something Cilas never did. “I know that man,” he said excitedly. “He’s the one who came up to me in the center when I was waiting for Admiral Mor. He’s a wannabe roughneck, a station Marine, and now I know that he’s the other man on Sundown’s chip. It has the evidence of him meeting the Meluvian councilman, Vulwin Arl.”
“What’s the plan then?” Helga said, hoping it meant that the admiral could act.
“Well, now I make a call to the admiral to pinpoint where this rat is located, and then the three of us Nighthawks will pay him a late visit. Ate, good work. I mean it. Seems like you and old Sundown make a good team. Does he still listen to you now that he has his relic?”
“He’s one of us now, Rend, you can rest easy,” she said. They spoke briefly on a few more steps, including where to take Verity to wait for them to make their arrest. When she clicked off, she found that she missed him; just hearing him happy had warmed her heart. “Cilas sends his thanks, Sunny, we’re cleared to return to the hotel. Admiral Mor is sending us backup just in case Arl tries to strike at pretty Miss Mare. What’re you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that we got what we need from the—um, lady. I say we do Sanctuary a favor and push her out of that door. No one will miss her, and the station would be that much safer for it. Let them find her broken body tomorrow. It will be a sign to the citizens: This is what we do to traitors, crutas.”
“No,” Verity gasped through her gag. Her eyes were saucers and all of the color drained from her face.
“Oh perk up, Verity, he’s just having a laugh,” Helga said, and the dark man looked back at her with a smile. “See, it’s what we do with our mates. Poke some fun, have a laugh. Especially in situations like yours, when you know that you’re royally thyped.”
From an open vent within the tall ceiling of the community center, Cilas Mec watched silently as Verillion Wren spoke on his comms. The person on the other end sounded agitated, and Verillion was doing a poor job of calming him down. “No, he didn’t suspect anything, but he grew impatient and left to find the admiral, I presume. Sir … sir, I couldn’t stop him. He’s an Alliance officer and I had no reason. Sir—”
Cilas pulled himself forward and fell through the hole. At the same time there was a loud noise that came from next door, and Verillion turned in that direction, muting the comms to investigate. He wouldn’t know that it was a shot from a rifle, fired by one Raileo Lei. He was on an adjacent rooftop, on orders from Cilas to time it with his fall. The shot masked the sound of his landing, as well as Quentin Tutt’s, and they crouched behind a large desk, watching Verillion slink over to the window.
For several long moments he stared outside, trying in vain to locate the source of the sound. He spun around to face the door, pulling his sidearm and moving to the wall, where he crept over to the lights and dimmed them. I guess he isn’t totally full of schtill, Cilas thought, since the man did have the foresight to establish his safety zone.
Quentin made to jump him, but Cilas stopped him. He was enjoying watching this man pretend that he’d have a chance against them.
“Hello,” Verillion said into his comms. “I must call you back. There was a noise, and I need to make sure it’s not them.”
As soon as he hung up, Quentin flung his knife at the man, catching him in his hand and forcing him to drop the pistol. Verillion cried out in pain. Cilas hopped over the desk, grabbed him by the lapel, and stood him up. “Hello again, Marine. Remember me? Looks like you’re working late tonight. How come?”
Verillion tried to talk but words would not leave his mouth as he struggled between looking down at his mangled hand to Quentin’s hard face. The big man stepped forward to grab his arm and wrench his knife out, then he wiped off the blood on Verillion’s jacket before cr
ouching down to slide it back into his boot. “This one here looks like he’s just seen a ghost,” Quentin said.
“It would seem like it,” said Cilas. “Is that what I am, Verillion? Something that is supposed to be dead?”
“No, wait. What do you mean?” said the man, forcing a smile on his face despite the pain.
“Verity Mare,” Cilas tried, and though he hid it well, he saw the recognition reflected in the man’s eyes.
“Who?” he said, clearing his throat, and Cilas looked over at Quentin, who was ready to explode.
“I spoke to Admiral Mor. Turns out he hasn’t heard from you since this morning,” Cilas said. “Now what I find odd is that I distinctly remember you telling me he was delayed by the council. You held me up, talking about your family, your missions; all types of schtill. Held me up while my Nighthawks were ambushed by a coward with a bomb inside of your starport. Now, I asked myself: Cilas, why would he do that? Why would a Missio-Tral lizard-killer turn on his brothers for a measly grudge between two old men? Is it credits, Marine? Because if it’s credits at least then it would make some sort of sense.”
“Did you say Missio-Tral, Commander?” Quentin said, stepping forward to look at him. “Not the Missio-Tral I know; he’s way too soft and clean to be a graduate of that ship. Hey, schtill-face liar, is that what you tell the girls to get them to do what you want down here? Let me educate you on Missio-Tral, since she was my ship for more than ten years. Our Marines, they keep their scars, and we stay hard, and you are not us.”
With that he took his foot and shoved Verillion into the wall so hard that he lost consciousness as soon as he made contact. Quentin Tutt kneeled over him and slapped him but he didn’t wake up.
“What? You’re just going to lay there and let me beat on you, Marine? Where’s the Missio-Tral valor? The grit that comes with being trained in that hell?” He punched Verillion in the abdomen so hard that he came awake with tears running from his eyes. “You aren’t Missio-Tral, you schtill. You’re not even a real, Marine,” Quentin said. Then he stood up, coughed up phlegm and spat it into his face. Quentin made to follow it up with a kick, but Cilas stopped him.
“Go easy, Tutt. We want him alive. He’ll be getting his and trust me, it will be worse than anything you and I could do.”
“For you, Commander, I’ll check my rage,” he said, then punched the wall so hard that it felt as if it shook the room.
“Will you be okay?” Cilas said. “You still look worked up.”
“I just can’t believe someone would do that, Cilas. Make claim to a ship they know nothing about. If I were younger, whew, you know how it is. We don’t suffer this slight, so I know you understand me.”
“That’s the reason I brought you, brother. I needed to keep my head. We’re out there fighting for our planet, and they get to sit up in a place like this, pretending to be us. You know, I tried to like being here, I really did. It’s beautiful, a dream, all of those things, and if I had children I’d want them to be born here instead of on some old thype’s ship. But, they have resources, and credits, and space for 100,000 more families to get out of the schtill. They horde it, Quentin, and this plotting … all for some petty schtill. What is this place?”
“Hell?” Quentin tried, and the two of them started laughing at the absurdity of it all.
“Let’s tie him up and get him to the transport. We can rendezvous with Helga at the hotel. The admiral will be flying in; apparently he wants to let Val know that he has his people.”
“Why is he doing that, Commander? Doesn’t that give him time to escape or have the witnesses all killed?”
“I think that is what he’s hoping for, Q, because in either case, Arl’s life would be forfeit. None of the councilmembers would put their support behind a proven murderer. The evidence is too damning, so either way he’s out, and the admiral knows him better than most.”
“What about us, Rend, what do we get?”
Cilas shrugged. He grabbed Verillion’s legs and started binding them with a piece of torn fabric. “We get to relax for a bit and enjoy being heroes. We’ll have free drinks, some eager company, and if we’re lucky, we’ll get to see Vulwin Arl do the walk of shame. Maybe a medal, or some sort of plaque. From what I hear, Sanctuary loves to commemorate its heroes. I’m just looking forward to the bed, to be honest. This has been the longest day of my life.”
“You? At least you weren’t in a ruin being shot at from every shadowy corner.”
“I would have preferred that to listening to Missio-Tral here go on and on about his ‘missions.’ I tell you, Quentin, if that is what I have to deal with when I retire, listening to some lying schtill weave stories to make himself look like a tough guy, I say, forget it. I’d rather die in action than be relegated to that schtill.”
“That makes the two of us, Commander. Tell you what, it’s like we used to say in the field: burn fast, and the last one out get the lights. I don’t see you retiring; either of us, really. We’re right where we’re meant to be, and that’s for life.”
Cilas clapped him on the shoulder and they both hoisted the man, who had only been able to dream up the eventful life these men had led. They took him out to the transport where Raileo waited patiently with his rifle primed. “Is that it?” he said, looking more tired than Cilas had ever seen him.
“I hope so,” Cilas said. “But with us you never know.”
“You’ve got that right,” Quentin said. “But that’s just how we like it, Nighthawks. What do we say?”
“We say we like it,” they replied simultaneously, repeating the cadence that they all knew.
36
It was night time, and the Nighthawks and Sundown were seated inside of Cilas’s room waiting for him to return. Now that it was over, Helga felt strange about being on the station; she began to feel the same guilt Raileo had admitted to earlier.
They had made it to Sanctuary, reclaimed the pod, and delivered it to the admiral, who was now on a first-name basis with their commander. She should’ve been elated, practically skipping. They were on shore leave—finally, an official declaration by the captain in his message to Cilas Mec. The cargo had been delivered, and their ship would be receiving upgrades. They were on hold until the Rendron needed their service.
She glanced over at Quentin seated on the couch next to Raileo, who was already fast asleep. Sundown paced, seemingly restless, humming an old Virulian song. Helga was on the sofa, reclined slightly with her legs propped up on the cushions. If she could sleep, she would, but her eyes were dead set on the holo-display showing several incidents happening around the station.
There were updates on the starport, with information for donating to the families of the deceased, but nothing on the pit. It was as if she’d imagined everything from earlier. Sundown had told her that the people in charge of the individual districts would not touch the underworld, even to offer help. To live there was to be forgotten; technically dead where the station was concerned. It was where criminals fled to keep their lives, with knowledge that they relinquished their rights.
He had lived there, worked there, and become a gun-for-hire until his master had given him a chance. Exiled for a full year, he knew the pit better than anyone, especially when it came to politics. “You won’t get any updates here on the aftermath of what we’ve done,” he had said. “We should have chased them down and finished them, Lieutenant Ate. We would have been doing the station a favor getting rid of those thugs in uniform.”
“Do you think they’ll make trouble for us?”
“No. They’re about to be in a world of schtill once Admiral Mor gets going. They will be questioned, tried, and locked away permanently, so the smart ones won’t come back here, though being in Sanctuary Security carries a death sentence down there. Dying to us would have been the best option for those fools, or killing us, which was the plan, except no one bothered to tell them they were dealing with ESOs.”
Helga closed her eyes and allowed herself to
doze. In the limbo that existed between the conscious and the dimension of dreams, she waded through an ocean of darkness; memories of combat and impending death. She allowed herself to push through the trauma and settle on a vision of Cilas Mec.
He would be there soon to rouse her and update them all on the admiral, and anything new from Retzo Sho. They would likely toast another successful mission, make plans for tomorrow, and then separate to enjoy the rest of their night. Not her, however. She had decided that she would stay. The worry for her career was now gone, replaced by a need to be wanted.
All this time she had thought that the loyalty she’d given was reciprocated by the Navy she served. Since leaving Meluvia, however, it had become abundantly clear that she and the Nighthawks were little more than tools. All they had were each other, in a life devoted to service; even if that service was for imperfect men living inside of this remote bubble. She would stay, and he would let her, and instead of lieutenant and commander, they would simply be friends.
They were on Sanctuary station—a place that made its own rules—and whatever came from them being together would be theirs to share, and theirs alone.
About The Author
GREG DRAGON brings a fresh perspective to fiction by telling human stories of life, love and relationships in a science fiction setting. This unconventional author spins his celestial scenes from an imagination nurtured from being an avid reader himself. His exposure to multiple cultures, multiple religions, martial arts, and travel lends a unique dynamic to his stories.
See Greg’s author page at gregdragon.com or keep up with his latest books and appearances through email.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7