by Greg Dragon
STEEL-WINGED VALKYRIE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2021 by Greg Dragon
All rights reserved
Thirsty Bird Productions
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted without the publisher's written permission.
Cover Art by Tom Edwards
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1
Fio Doro ran her fingers over the leather seat next to her, taking in the texture and scent, relishing and wishing that she could afford a transport like the one she was seated in. For an up-and-coming fortune-runner of Basce City, this was one of those moments that either became a common occurrence from scoring the bigger jobs, or a once in a lifetime view of the ceiling, the one job that would pay enough credits to change her life for the better.
The Cel-toc in the driver’s seat hadn’t spoken to her since they made their introductions. She had been scanned for weapons and contraband, then ushered into the back of the aircar. Here she waited for her mysterious contact, who had hired her through “the company,” so this was to be the first and only time they would see each other.
Reaching out to touch the square glass panel in the seat’s headrest in front of her, Fio changed its display to become a mirror, touching up the black around her eyes. She scrutinized her appearance, trying to imagine how she would appear to a stranger looking to hire a smuggler. Did she look reliable, seasoned enough, or would this be yet another client lost due to her youthful appearance?
The front door popped out with a loud sound before sliding backwards to open as a dark form slid into the front seat. “Drive,” he commanded, in a deep baritone, accented with the rolling r’s of a Virulian. The door slid shut before the interior of the vehicle became awash with light. Fio felt the ground drop from below them as the aircar took off into the sky.
“You have ten minutes to convince me that I’m not wasting my time,” the deep voice said, still not giving her the courtesy of an about-face, a name, or direct acknowledgment.
“I’m Fio, and I’m the best at this, which is why you took this meeting,” she responded confidently. “I know Basce City like the back of my hand, and have the support of four of the six major clans. Those relationships give me access to zones where your product can be transported quickly and discreetly. I may look young to you, but I’ve been doing this since I was sixteen, running with the Lords. I’ve got runners, gunners, and transports, all ready to haul your cargo.”
“Ever move living cargo?” the mysterious man asked.
“Living cargo?” Fio knitted her brow, frustrated. There were lines one shouldn’t cross as a fortune-runner, and actions that could black line a smuggler’s reputation forever. “Are we talking livestock, prisoners of war, or do we mean slaves? Can you turn around and face me? I feel like I’m talking to the back of your seat and it’s unnerving.”
The passenger seat made a hum, tilted forward, and then shifted towards the door, rotating slowly until the mysterious man was facing her. He was everything she imagined he would be, a suited, manicured, elitist with power. His low-cut curls were black but for the sides, which showed snowy white patches, patterned to favor snowflakes, blowing from his face to the back of his scalp.
While he could be considered handsome, even without the trimmed beard and mustache, his piercing brown eyes were off-putting, reminding her that beyond the money and costume, what sat before her was a ruthless predator. She held his gaze without showing fear, a practice mastered from a truncated youth filled with many powerful men questioning her usefulness.
“Is this better?” he asked, spreading his arms for effect.
“Much better,” Fio agreed. “As to your question, I will need details. I’m not in the habit of transporting slaves, captures, or soon-to-be prisoners. No offense, but if that is what this is all about, I am not the smuggler you’re looking for.”
“You’re not what I expected,” he admitted, “Can you even fight? Or should I say, have you won any fights? That’s a right nasty scar there by your ear.”
Fio thought of the dagger tucked away in her sleeve, and wondered if the poison would be potent enough to stop this man if he tried to test her physically. “Look, man, I don’t care what you expected,” she said coolly, “Either detail me the job, or you can land this junker and let me on my way to find a client with some actual professionalism.”
“You’re icy, that’s good,” he allowed, reaching into his pocket to pull out a holo-card bearing the image of a man. “Know this fellow here?”
Fio leaned in closer, though she instantly recognized the face. It was a local gangster, a man with a wicked reputation that stretched back over twenty years. “He’s a heavy-duty runner, practically a legend. What? He was busy, so you had to come down to the stocks to get one of us up-and-comers?”
“Not quite,” he countered quickly, nearly cutting her off. “This man has something of mine I’d like returned. The job is simple. This thief, this fatheaded thug, stole a suitcase with my belongings in order to contact me, looking for ransom. Luckily there was nothing compromising in that luggage, though there is an important set of documents for my work. One-of-a-kind documents, the type the city doesn’t want on the black market, you understand?”
“He stole your luggage then, and I am supposed to, what? Take him on somehow, and get it back?” Fio didn’t like where this was going. She was quick and had connections, sure, and there was access to arms, but she knew better than to mix up with the gangs.
“Not proud to admit this, but I contacted the thug and we came to an agreement on a price for my luggage. Now, your part is easy, I will give you an address and a time to retrieve my luggage from where he’s supposed to drop it off. Bring it back to me, and you get 500 credits,” he said, whispering the words as if the number was astronomical for such a “simple” job.
Fio nearly laughed. “500 credits, really? All this secrecy, and bringing me up here for this chat, all to offer me a pittance for risking my life? 1,500 credits.”
“750, and I will refer you to my colleagues who need smuggling,” he countered, looking away from her to stare out at the rooftops. He was trying to be stoic, but Fio had seen his eyes when she countered, and knew he was bartering out of principle. This was a desperate man, and he was aware of who she was and that she would take the job. Why else would he have given her so much detail?
Fio thought hard on how she should answer. 750 was enough to purchase a hover, or pay rent for half a year. Standing on principle the way he was could have her back on the street that night with no credits and no job. She had been out of options until tonight, and here was this man offering the type of credits that she and other runners only speculated on.
Agreeing could mean the difference between remaining a small-time go-between, or riding expensive aircars to high-rise levels above Basce City. But something inside of her despised the thought of compromise. Not with a robe-wearing serpent like the one sitting in front of her, slithering to the poor section to offer a pittance to any fool willing to take the job.
If all I wanted was to survive, I’d be hawking loose supplies and trinkets, not sitting here about to be ripped off, Fio decided. Looking up from the floor, where she had sat thinking with her elbows resting on her knees, she met his eyes bravely. “1,500 credits is my price. You deposit 500 now, I pick up your luggage, show you the evidence, and you deposit another 500 for me to drop it off at the address. Once
business is concluded, you pay me the final 500, and we can do this again. Agreed?”
The older man grinned, a wolfish smile, one of acknowledgment and respect, before handing her a paper to write down her bank information. He let her off by the wet docks with an address for the pickup and a contact for arranging the drop-off. The night air held a chill that forced her to pull her cloak close, and she regretted that she hadn’t forced him to drop her off near the tenements where she could run to her apartment.
It started to rain, so she ducked into the closest door, which turned out to be a ticketing station. It was dark and smelled of rusty metal, mold, and something else foul, but it provided her some shelter and privacy. Her cloak was heavy with rain, so she hung it up on a bit of metal jutting out from one of the stations. She hugged herself tightly and rubbed at her arms, trying in vain to warm herself up.
“This is schtill,” she shouted, frustrated with the weather, but this soon passed when it dawned on her the number of credits she was about to earn. Fumbling for her smart-comms, she placed it to her lips and asked it to bring up her credit account, and search for any pending deposits. The disk-shaped device vibrated and emitted several running lights, and a set of holographic numbers hovered above it, which made Fio smile with satisfaction.
At least this will pay well just to make the drop-off, she thought, trying to imagine a future where she had her own transport and could upgrade her apartment. “Something stinks,” she decided out loud, remembering how calm he was. She hadn’t even gotten his name, but he had deposited a third of the credits. Is he setting me up for a fall? She wondered if this was a trap being set for her arrest from an enemy, possibly a rival?
No, that wouldn’t make any sense, she decided. This was Basce City, and if it were an enemy, they would have just had her shot. Closing out the finances, she cupped the small disk in her hands and held it up to eye-level, thinking about who she should call for advice.
“Call Pops,” she announced, and the device came to life, cycling through a myriad of cards bearing faces and names. It’s shuffling stopped on an older, smooth-faced man with a scar running from one glassy, dead eye to the left corner of his mouth. His card glowed and came to life, replaced by the actual man. He didn’t appear happy to see her.
“You have thirty seconds, Runner, and if it’s not about my credits, I’m gone. You know the rules, and you’re one day out. What have you got for me?” he practically growled, violating the silence of the rundown ticket station, with only a well-timed echo of thunder to drown him out.
“I have your credits, but I need some help, Pops, not as a runner but as your daughter,” Fio offered, biting the inside of her lip, hoping that her play on his sentimental side would soften him up.
“Daughter?” he guffawed. “You have some nerve, Fio Doro, I’ll give you that. You were my best student, but that was a lifetime ago, and the woman on the call is not my child, but a thyping psychopath.”
“Can we not bring that up now, Djesu? This isn’t a trick, I may be in trouble, and like it or not you’re all that I have,” Fio pressed, already sure he would crack. “Got a job, but it’s likely dirty. A ransomed recovery for a politician who tried to rip me but I stood my ground. Threatened to cut him and he was soft, so he allowed me to carve him up. Tune of three times the going rate, had him make a deposit, like you taught me. That stack of credits is yours.”
“Politician, you say?” Djesu seemed intrigued, “Are we talking about William Vray, Fio? Or should I say the so-called consul since he’s as crooked as the BasPol bruisers?”
“One in the same, but how should I play it?” Fio said, shivering now and rubbing her palms together to try and summon some warmth.
“That one has no honor, little Fio, you should have cut him when you had him alone,” Djesu said, rubbing at his chin. “The entire Basce City underworld would love you, and the rest of the consul as well. What’re you running?”
“He said government documents. Scarred Roan ripped him when he landed at the shuttle port. Cruta stuck a thyping councilman, can you believe it? Then he goes and pays for it, the sucker. There’s bound to be spice in that package, or some sort of weird sexual deviance. Who knows?”
“Can’t trust the BasPol for justice, Fio. A mark this big if he decides not to pay, nothing much can be done short of threatening his family,” Djesu said, still rubbing away at his chin. “This your first time running for Vray? Yeah? Who made the rec then?”
“Gaius referred me,” Fio replied. “I was quite shocked, to be honest. Thought he wanted nothing to do with me.”
“Gaius?” Djesu practically shouted. “Didn’t he get picked up?”
“Yeah, for running spice out of Stardust’s,” Fio admitted.
“The minimum detainment for spice is a week inside, Fio Doro. Selling it gets you three months hard labor, scrubbing out grime from the barges, or buffing old metal down at the yards. Smuggling though, girlie, you should know well the risks we take being runners. Smuggling comes with a fine and a lengthy stay in the Municipal Rehabilitation Center.”
Fio wasn’t sure what to say to that, but her memory of the Municipal Rehabilitation Center sent shivers down to her toes. “He knows my past then,” she said, standing up to grab the disk and pace about to get the blood flowing. “Is that what you’re thinking, he’s got a stash of spice?”
“Not likely,” Djesu replied. “But these ransom jobs are always crooked. Either you won’t be paid or he’ll call BasPol, telling them that you were the one who stole it.”
“So what am I to do, Pops? Just go through with it, get arrested and thrown into one of those five hundred cells with the rest of them? I would sooner join the outlaws before I subject myself to that.”
“Easy now, girl, we’ll think of something,” Djesu urged, and she could see that his protective ice had all but melted. He stopped rubbing at his chin and stared directly at her, as if they were really together, and not his holographic representative. “It’s the eve of the grand committee, Fio, the time of year these politicians come knocking. They will use us for their blackmails, kidnappings, anything. Why not? They won’t be the ones losing their lives over it. There is no limit to their conniving. Tell you what, Fio, when you get the package, take it out of the city and look inside. When you learn what it is, you decide for yourself what to do with its contents.”
2
Static, rust on the bulkheads—wait, not rust, but something sticky, like clay or wet mud, thrown against it. An endless passageway of horrors, drifting past the young woman in this relative blackness. No alarms, which was the norm whenever there was a loss of atmosphere. Helga Ate, lieutenant (junior grade), was pulling herself along using handholds conveniently built into the bulkhead at the end of every third panel.
The low light made it hard to determine just how much farther she had to go, and at the twentieth handhold, she stopped to consider whether or not it was futile. A gauge at the corner of her mask’s HUD revealed the amount of oxygen left in her reservoir. Five minutes was the countdown, but still, she didn't panic, though anxiety had her hands shaking uncontrollably as she held on to that metal rung.
This isn’t good, she finally admitted to herself, and why am I shaking? I’m normally stronger than this. What am I going through?
Placing the toe of her boot inside another rung, she squatted as deep as she could go, then pushed off suddenly, propelling herself forward past a thousand motes of light and a ... human head? Whatever cool she had left in dealing with her plight was immediately shattered when she focused on the decapitated helmet bearing its grim visage.
Three minutes passed, and she was still pulling herself along by the handholds, floating at a steady pace. Which passageway is this, and how am I here? she kept thinking, probing the dark for answers. Nothing eased her thoughts or provided clarity, only more bulkhead, holds, and dead spacers drifting past.
Time felt ambiguous, which made no sense to her. Being so close to d
ying—familiar territory to a Nighthawk—yet accepting of it, somehow? No, this wasn't her. Not when all her life, she had fought hard to survive. Anticipating her demise, Helga looked for her oxygen gauge to see if it was depleted.
With the lack of any alarms coming from the helmet’s comms, she reasoned that there was a malfunction with the sound. Why else would her Nighthawks ignore her calls, and why was there no alarms warning her of her doom, which was standard when your oxygen was depleted?
Now there was no gauge, no readouts, and thinking that the display too had decided to die, Helga reached up to touch the glass, finding nothing there. The icy fingertips of her Powered Armor Suit’s gloves made contact with her bare face, sending a chill of panic through her body, causing her to sit up suddenly, inhaling a big gulp of air.
Recognizing that it had all been a nightmare, the frightened Nighthawk exhaled a long sigh of relief and looked about her dark compartment. She tried to recall what she had dreamed about and why it had her heart racing, but all she came up with was blank, leaving her confused more than anything else. A faint memory of a dark passageway was all she could recall, and she eventually gave up on trying when the details refused to resurface.
Helga swung her legs off the side of the rack and stared off into the darkness. Waking up with the sweats in this tiny compartment made her miss Joy Valance, who always knew what to say to her when she was alone and feeling foolish.
Before Joy’s promotion to CAG of the infiltrator Soulspur, Helga would look forward to spending time with her, drinking, arguing, and getting into mischief. Having those long talks into the night, with each of them bearing their soul. Even monotonous patrols were a riot when they involved Joy. Her sister, rival, mentor, and drinking partner, all bundled up in an imposing figure of beauty, brains, and short temper.
Never before had Helga felt as alone as she had since returning to Rendron. Every Nighthawk had resumed their former lives, including Cilas, who, in her opinion, was too busy traipsing after the captain to give her any attention. Even Raileo Lei, who had grown closer to her in their last mission, spent all his time with his girlfriend, Cleia Rai’to.