by Greg Dragon
“Everything is great,” the big man answered, turning to salute her, along with the other rates.
The Genesians seemed taken with Helga’s appearance, something she’d expected so it didn’t bother her as much as it normally did. She wore her dress blacks, with a blue beret sitting tilted with Ursula’s “AWS” symbol embroidered in gold thread. The hat was a gift from Captain Retzo Sho as a show of appreciation for her service. Every Nighthawk was gifted one, but only she and Raileo chose to wear theirs.
“Getting some local recipes, Chief?” she teased him, waving casually at his guests, who stopped their gawking long enough to return the greeting.
“Learning about the station, Lieutenant. It’s crazy how much they have going on here,” Mas-Umbra explained. “Those farms you see out there produce enough insect-based protein to feed a tenth of the planet. Looking to get a crate of it for Ursula, and cans of dried fish from the fisheries down there.” He waved an arm towards the opposite side of the lake from where Helga had been observing, and she saw row upon row of vegetation, some sections separated by tall metal fixtures, and greenhouses built of transparent glass.
“So that’s what those are,” Helga mused. “Fisheries. That would explain all the water, and factories everywhere.”
“I think the good doctor will enjoy what I have in store for the upcoming cycles,” Mas-Umbra whispered, inching in closer as if to share a secret. “Traxis stuffed dumplings, mock Surlem spores, and rice. It’s a Traxis delicacy that I learned back on Missio-Tral. One of my bros from the galley was a Traxian, taught me how to make it. Just wait. She’s going to flip.”
“I don’t know what any of that is, Chief, but knowing your talents, I expect it to be delicious,” Helga said. “The prospect of Cleia flipping does have me intrigued, so when you do make it, let me know. I want to see her reaction myself.”
She waved goodbye to him and made her way past the only other vessel on the platform, a boxy, merchant-class hauler, where four filthy-faced Genesian men scrubbed at her hull with long-handled brushes. All about the platform, dockworkers scurried to and fro, going about their duties. It reminded Helga of Rendron’s hangar, which was always active with Cel-tocs and people tending to the ships.
At the far end past the ships were ten caged lifts meant for transporting people up and down to the starport’s entry. Bordering them was a rail system connecting eight other platforms wrapped about the station, each with its own collection of docked ships. Helga hadn’t noticed this until she saw the rail and followed it with her eyes, spying another platform off in the distance, closer to the water but much lower to the floor than theirs.
“Just heard from Rendron,” Cilas announced from an ascending lift. “Looks like we’ll be stationed at least another day. Captain Sho has asked me to meet with the local Alliance rep, Colonel Orlan Fumo. Spoke to him briefly, along with the captain, and the colonel requested a meeting to discuss something troubling. Earlier today, someone shared with him a frightening bit of intel. We might have a level three security breach.”
“Level three.” Helga chewed on her lip, trying to remember the top three levels of their leadership. “One’s the council, two is at the admiral level, so that makes three a captain, or someone trusted with the helm of a class A warship. This is serious, Cilas. It could affect the Rendron—it could be the Rendron.” It felt absurd to even consider it yet alone put the thought into words. “Do you get to meet him? The one with the intel, I mean, not the colonel.”
“I get to meet her when I go to see the colonel, but I could use the company,” Cilas urged. “Maybe with a woman there she will be more comfortable speaking.”
“Maybe.” Helga shrugged before falling in next to him. “This woman, they say anything else about her?”
“Just that she escaped here from the planet. Our talk was pretty short. Captain wanted to make the introduction and let me know personally that I was at the disposal of this colonel.”
“Are we to protect her, transport her, or do something with the intel? I am struggling to see where a Nighthawk fits into this,” Helga admitted.
“I can the codes, which the colonel wouldn’t know, and with you along, you can verify the coordinates, and together we can see if this is a real threat. If it’s real, I’ll update the captain, then it will go up to the council, and they will handle it from there. If it’s mutiny or a captain gone rogue, I don’t know how they’d fix that. Probably send in another starship, but the point is they’d squash it immediately. We can’t have leaks in the Alliance, but that isn’t to say that some haven’t tried.”
“That we both know from personal experience,” Helga said.
The lift descended through a glass tube past a layer of concrete that was the rooftop of the Neroka starport. Inside was a world of glass and metal, covered bridges crisscrossing on all sides of the lift as they made their slow descent. It was an ant nest of activity, with colorful bodies darting one way or another. Genesians moved so fast Helga had to wonder how it was that no-one tripped and fell.
“Not just a starport is it?” Helga looked up at Cilas, who seemed mesmerized by the splendor of the starport.
“Station like this, operating semi-independently from the planet. Real estate would be astronomical, so all of these companies will make the most of their space,” Cilas said. “They put their hangar on the rooftops rather than have a big open field. This way, they could rent out the space inside. You see it all about us, and more where those bridges spanned up there. Over fifty different offices, including the Alliance’s, all packed in this compact footprint.”
The lift came to a stop and the doors slid open to a line of travel kiosks and a Cel-toc dressed in an officer’s uniform, offering help to anyone who needed it. Helga and Cilas stepped onto a tiled floor which felt softer than it appeared. There were plants everywhere, sprouting up from square platforms that bordered the walkway leading from the lifts. The Nighthawks followed the signs to the Alliance recruitment station, adapting the quick stride of the Genesian residents.
It didn’t take long for them to find it, a small corner compartment opposite a row of travel kiosks. Through the glass door and walls, Helga saw a man and a woman. The man was dressed like a Marine, but the woman was dressed in a tight blue skinsuit and a long white jacket with no rank or medals. Cilas pushed open the door and entered, and Helga followed him inside, surveying the place.
Behind the two occupants was a large desk with the flag of the Alliance above it, draped on the wall. Next to it were different models of spacecraft and miniature versions of the twelve major warships. Helga recognized Rendron and Aqnaqak, “the wayward lovers,” and wished she had a replica of her own to mount in her cabin. The floor was painted in the Alliance’s colors, red, black, and white circles, and across from the desk sat five empty chairs.
It was a cold, unfriendly place, which didn’t particularly enthuse even a die-hard Alliance warfighter like Cilas Mec. If this is what they use to recruit for the Navy, it would explain why we don’t have many Genesians on the ship, Helga wanted to say. Instead, she stood silently next to her commander as he clasped forearms with the older Marine, who she saluted when he acknowledged her.
“Welcome, Nighthawks. Welcome to Neroka, jewel of Genesian space. I heard you met some of the friendly locals out there.” He pointed to the ceiling, which Helga took his meaning to be out in space.
“They weren’t so friendly,” Cilas said. “They reached for an easy prize and ended up cutting their hands on the blade.”
“Sambe,” Colonel Fumo roared, and Helga wished that Quentin was present to hear someone else use his favorite word. This wasn’t the “sambe” he would utter when he agreed with something, but more of a “sambe” as in, “sambe, that’s what they get for daring to threaten an Alliance warship.” The office and colors were superficial, but standing before Helga was a true believer, the type of man who had fought his whole life and was rewarded for it with this office, whic
h he likely took pride in running.
“And this is? Colonel?” Cilas inquired of the young woman who had been silently watching them.
The first thing that stuck out to Helga was just how young she was. When Cilas had told her about a local with information on a possible security breach, she envisioned a woman in her thirties, hardened from a life of crime, and likely dangerous. A woman like Domina from Sanctuary, a gangster in silk and lace, with the golden tongue and guile to match any street criminal’s wit.
What she saw standing next to the man was a young woman, no older than she was. The difference between them could have spanned Anstractor’s systems, however. She was small, slender, and she glared at Helga, grimacing, her lips a tight line beneath a mess of wet blue hair. She was dressed in a tight navy-colored skinsuit with a long white jacket smeared with blood. One hand caressed the triceps of the other arm, which hung limply to one side.
“These are the people I spoke about, Fio,” Colonel Fumo informed her, and the young woman’s demeanor softened.
“Fio Doro,” she introduced herself, in a voice too big for her form. It was nearly commanding.
“I’m Commander Cilas Mec of the Rendron, Fio Doro,” Cilas said, his face betraying the surprise he shared with Helga in hearing that husky voice. “This is Lieutenant Helga Ate. We heard you may have some information about the Alliance?”
“Oh my, a female spacer with a spice pirate's hair." Fio sing-songed her observation of Helga’s undercut hairstyle and Casanian birthmarks. “What happened to the side of your head there, beautiful?”
“Is she serious?” Helga looked at the colonel, confused by the young woman's remarks. Both Cilas and Fumo remained silent, while Fio stood beaming at her as if she'd paid her the ultimate compliment. “I guess you haven’t met many ESO’s, have you?” Helga forced herself to soften. “Or spacers in general, for that matter. The haircut you can make fun of, but the marks are part of my heritage, so what happened was my birth. Blue hair a thing down on your planet, ‘beautiful?’”
Fio grinned at Helga’s barely veiled annoyance. “Nope, all me,” she replied proudly, reaching up to tease it. “I wasn’t trying to start a fight, sister. It’s just that you’re different from what we’re told a spacer from the Alliance is supposed to look like.”
“The Nighthawks do not have a lot of time,” Fumo reminded her, and Fio stepped forward and took a breath.
“Scythe, system: Cyrus,” she recited, mechanically, and followed it up with a series of coordinates whose pattern Helga knew to be the Louine system. It was a code she knew well from flying the Britz-SPZ as co-pilot to Casein Varnes on her first deployment to Dyn, a moon above Louine. Fio recited a few more vessels and coordinates as if they were a passage from a book she had memorized.
Helga saw Cilas’s lips part in disbelief and his eyes grow wide until she was finished speaking. He either knew what she was reciting or knew the pattern, but whichever it was, her knowing it was a problem.
“Where did you learn this information?” he said, looking up at the colonel, who had an, “I told you so,” smirk on his face.
Fio Doro exhaled heavily, made to cross her arms but thought better of it, a move that didn’t go unnoticed by the Nighthawks. “Before I say anything else, I need guarantees,” she said, straightening despite her obvious pain. “I only brought it to you because Djesu, I mean … people have been hurt, killed, and now I’m being hunted here. What I want, need, is to get off this station, and away from Basce City. I don’t care to where. You help me keep my life, I tell you everything I know.”
“How about you tell us how you came by this intel, and we’ll work out those logistics after?” Colonel Fumo urged. “You were involved in a shooting, Fio Doro. May I remind you that we’re the only thing preventing you from being detained and deported on the next shuttle back to Basce City.”
The young woman flinched at his words, and looked about the room as if she was plotting an escape. “You are all the same,” she said under her breath, her eyes finding Helga’s and holding the gaze with what she read as disappointment.
“You’re desperate.” Helga held her gaze. “But this isn’t a negotiation over credits for your work. This is the commander giving you an audience to hear the valuable intelligence you have in your possession. Now, if things are as dire as they appear, judging from your wounds and the way you’re barely drawing breath, you will need to trust us. If you thought we were untrustworthy then why even come here? Tell us your story and if we find that what you have poses an actual threat, the Alliance will want to get ahead of it, which means protecting you as an asset.”
She said too much, at least that’s how it felt from the silence that followed her speech to the young woman who still eyed her skeptically. “What are you?” Fio finally said, stepping forward to get a closer view of Helga’s face. Despite her every instinct telling her to shove the blue-haired hellion back a pace, Helga entertained the study, assuming that wherever this woman had come from had somehow failed her in basic etiquette. “Thought every species but the lizards came through our ports on Basce City, but you look Virulian with spots I cannot place.”
“We don’t have time for this foolishness,” Fumo cut in. “This is your last chance, girl, or we will go about this a much different way.”
“My parents were Vestalian and Casanian,” Helga said coolly. “You haven’t seen anyone like me because apparently those two species aren’t exactly a match when it comes to DNA. My brother and I look very different, I take after my father, and he our mother, but I haven’t seen many others outside of one very remote station. I understand your hesitation; you have something valuable, and as a survivor you want to barter or risk being robbed and hung out to dry. Am I correct?”
Fio nodded, and her resolve seemed to settle a bit. “I’m so thyping tired of running. Man, you just don’t understand. Feels like I’ve been running for days on no sleep, dodging bullets, and bounty chasers aiming to make an arrest. I shouldn’t trust any of you but you’re right, I’m at the end of my line, and I am desperate. You said you’re part Vestalian. Well, my parents were supposedly Vestalian, so maybe that counts for something? Can I get some sort of guarantee that talking will not lead to my arrest? At least not from any local branch of government?”
Helga looked to Colonel Fumo, who seemed at his limit with Fio’s sudden demands and resistance. “You talk, we listen, and if we determine you have actual intelligence,” the older man said, “I will speak to the Alliance council about giving you the status of protected informant and getting you transported off this station and away from Genese. Now, this is your final chance. Tell us how you came by these codes and ship names.”
13
Fio Doro told the Nighthawks of her meeting with William Vray. She spared no detail but for Zulia’s role in rescuing her. What she told them was that she stowed away on a shuttle en route to Neroka, and how, upon arriving at the station, her old girlfriend, Zulia took her in. She told them about the break-in and how she was cornered by a pair of security guards acting as bounty hunters. She even told them about Djesu, and how he was betrayed by Garson Sunveil, the man they were to meet to deliver the documents. Her tale was thirty minutes long, but even Colonel Fumo seemed to be hanging onto her every word.
“This is serious,” Cilas said to no one in particular.
Colonel Fumo looked confused. His eyes had been on his wrist-comms ever since Fio mentioned Garson Sunveil. When he felt their eyes on him, he quickly explained what it was that he was doing. “I am looking through the records of recruiters stationed on Genese, and we haven’t had an office in Basce City for over fifteen years. Last one was vandalized and robbed of all its valuables. Wasn’t worth the trouble or risk of having our people in such a hostile environment. This Garrison Sunveil is a fraud, or one of our own using an alias. The men that killed your father, Fio, do you remember how they were dressed?”
“Couldn’t see anything. They were shoot
ing from the trees, and it was too dark to see anything out there,” Fio recalled.
“What were they firing?” Helga asked. “Was it just handguns or did they use an auto-rifle, or a pulse?”
“Sounded like handguns, light-pistols, the type BasPol carry, though there was one weapon that acted like a laser,” Fio recalled, speaking excitedly. “That’s what they used to burn the luggage, some kind of laser. In two seconds, it was up in flames, just like that.” She snapped her fingers loudly to emphasize the quickness. “Seeing it burn let me know that if it shot me, I would be gone like Djesu, so I took off running away from it, and that’s when I got on the shuttle.”
“Sounds like a laser-rifle using incendiary ray, aimed at close proximity,” Cilas said. “If it was shot from outside a hundred meters, it would have merely punctured a hole, not go up in flames. The shooter was next to the others when he made that shot.”
“Weapon wouldn’t be ours either,” Fumo added. “They are either black-market issued, or something else.”
Helga disliked how he tried to deflect from the idea that the men were Alliance operators shooting at civilians. Fumo wanted the reality to be hoodlums using stolen weapons to destroy the evidence. But there were too many variables adding up to this being an intelligence breach followed by an attempt to kill the person with the intel. “Any family left in Basce City?” Helga asked, but Fio merely shrugged and fidgeted, grimacing again.
Helga, seeing that she was uncomfortable, motioned for her to take one of the chairs. She looked towards Fumo to see if he would let her take a seat, and he waved to tell her to sit, his early hesitation now gone with her tale. Before taking the seat, however, she removed the coat to reveal the bloody bandage on her neck. It was an amateur application, nothing like the kind she’d receive from a clinic or hospital.