by Greg Dragon
The R20-Lodestar did shake a lot, and the reactor droned on miserably, as if it was being made to work against its will. Helga showed no sympathy to its plight, however, putting the thrusters on standby while overcharging the crystal core to near critical levels. The trick was to store up enough energy to divert it to the reactor for the power necessary to rocket them into space.
They shot upwards towards the clouds, gaining altitude steadily, while Helga monitored the radar and radio for any surprises. The system seemed to go out momentarily as the energy generated from the crystal core was transferred to the engine’s reactor. Lights flickered and the console came to life with a million warnings, and then the three Nighthawks were thrown back in their chairs as the dropship soared up towards the atmosphere.
“Goodbye Basce City, hope to never see you again,” Helga managed to comment, but it likely wasn’t heard by Cilas, who blacked out on the sudden change in g-force, leaving her to whisper an, “I told you so,” to herself.
28
Having dedicated spacers on Ursula made everything feel so much different than when it was just Helga, Raileo, Quentin, and Cilas Mec. Walking the passageways now, the feelings of “my ship” had morphed into “our ship,” and Helga just didn’t know if this was a good or a bad thing. Ownership had come from her multiple roles, which placed the Ursula’s every operation on her shoulders, especially with abstract decisions that required breaking protocol and baked-in tactics.
Now, although she remained first officer, despite Ina’s rank as a lieutenant, it didn’t help the way she felt. Ursula had been transformed into a formal warship, serviced by not only the Nighthawks, but a host of spacers, freshly graduated from the cadet academy. There were pimple-faced petty officers at once-vacant stations on the bridge, career Marines anticipating action from being on a ship with Cilas Mec, and midshipmen looking for a fast track to a lieutenancy.
Each of these youthful hopefuls seemed to love Ursula as much as she did, but it still didn’t give her ownership, not the way it did when the decks were vacant. What couldn’t be argued, and this she was forced to acknowledge, was that their new crew was efficient, even in their absence.
As with all deployments, now that they had crew and officers to keep the Ursula capable, the Nighthawks not named Cilas were given a cycle of personal time before returning to formal duty. Helga, her mind still on Quentin and Anders, who were still on the planet somewhere, stayed inside her cabin to mull over everything that happened: from falling off the balcony to running the grounds with Raileo Lei.
She missed Sundown, her mystic mentor, who in times like this would be schooling her on the secrets of the universe, and her supposed power to see beyond the veil. A power she still didn’t understand because to her they were merely dreams. There were so many questions now that she needed him to answer, but he was off redoing the trials to prove himself worthy of his rank with the Jumper agency.
A familiar chime brought her attention up from cleaning her PAS helmet, and she stared at the door wondering at who could be waiting outside. Cilas would be busy playing catch-up with the Rendron’s captain, and she doubted Raileo would be able to pry himself free from Cleia Rai’to. Alon Weinstar, perhaps? she mused, hopping up to pull on a robe over her tank top and shorts combination.
Helga cracked her door slightly, peering out to see who would bother her on an off-day. The first thing she noticed was the blue hair, before the slender young woman stepped forward to get a look inside her compartment. “Your room is no bigger than mine back in the stocks,” Fio Doro commented, pushing past her to enter, uninvited, then turning to face Helga, who was annoyed at the intrusion but intrigued.
“Fio Doro,” Helga announced, flatly, pulling her robe close and crossing her arms to regard the smuggler. They were the same height, though she was skin and bones where Helga was Alliance Navy tempered musculature. “How may I help?”
“I came to thank you, actually,” Fio replied, still scrutinizing the compartment. “The soldier, Ray was his name? Told me you were the one who grabbed my things from the apartment.” She seemed to be struggling with getting the words out, as if speaking gratitude was somehow thick and disgusting to her taste. Helga chalked it up to a native Basce City Genesian’s struggles with the universal Vestalian tongue. “Wanted to tell you personally. I won’t forget it. You all have done much for me, and I know it’s because of the leaks, Vray, and the government, but this you didn’t have to do, so, thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Helga forced a smile, despite feeling that the gratitude was but a lead-in to another request. She wanted to ask what she had really come in here for, but this wasn’t Ina or Cleia who knew her well enough to be questioned without assuming offense. “Why don’t you sit down, Fio, you look like you have some questions,” she insisted instead, and the blue-haired woman complied readily, plopping down into the chair mounted at her desk.
“Can I ask a question? I don’t know how to phrase it without it sounding offensive, so know that isn’t my intent,” Fio tried, grinning nervously.
“Alright,” Helga said, tying her robe before sitting across from her on the edge of the bed.
“What are you, exactly? No offense, but I thought you were Vestalian or off-world Genesian, but you have those spots.” Fio ran a hand down her own face to indicate her meaning.
“Vestalian father and a Casanian mother.” Helga recited the same explanation she had been giving people her entire career. “Sort of a super-rare pairing, I guess, and most of us half-breeds either come out looking completely Casanian or human, but I wasn’t so lucky.”
“Wasn’t lucky? You’re thyping gorgeous,” Fio admitted. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you from the first time I saw you on Neroka with Captain tall-and-angry.”
“You know his name. It’s Commander Cilas Mec, Fio, come on now,” Helga scolded her, still shocked at Fio calling her gorgeous after coming unannounced to her compartment. She decided to change the subject. “Did Ray tell you we met a young boy playing guardian to your apartment? He was the cutest little thing, all fight with nothing behind it, like a freshly minted Alliance cadet.”
“Oh, Aqui, my little man,” Fio gushed. “Wow, so the tier really did welcome you in. That’s what I like to hear. Thrall owed me one big, whopping favor, so it’s good to know he did right by you. Guess he and I can now call it even.”
“I have to apologize, Fio, our presence there likely had something to do with the BasPol raid on the city,” Helga confessed.
“Pfft, I doubt it. Raids aren’t new to us,” Fio said. “You get used to it. This is what they do routinely, whenever there is an election and someone important makes the stocks their target. BasPol comes in and makes a big show of it, roughing up everyone too dumb to avoid them. Feathers get ruffled, some end up dead. Most get thrown into the bricks—”
“Bricks?” Helga puzzled.
“Sorry, it’s a Basce City thing, what we call our jail,” Fio clarified quickly. “Same old thing every year. The gangsters like Thrall do what they can to fight back against the BasPol thugs, but nothing ever changes. The powerful still do whoever, whenever, with whatever gets them off, and the people of the stocks go back to living. I’m just glad you all were able to see it. Now, maybe someone in your Alliance can expose what is happening to us down there.”
Helga made a face, and Fio shrugged with a casual familiarity that wasn’t the response the Nighthawk expected. She was tempted to ask her about that, but knew it would only serve to further douse what little flames were left in the once blazing bonfire of her smuggler’s soul. “If it helps,” she tried, “we delivered one of the key conspirators to the Genesian Guard, but that’s all I’m at liberty to share. He had a big, fancy house to the north.”
Fio’s face immediately brightened, and her eyes went wide as she studied Helga’s face, looking for the lie that wasn’t evident there. “I know the house but not who it belongs to,” she admitted. “I do know they
are connected to the raids and the pressure on the stocks, so if you truly got that thype, my people are forever in your debt. I don’t expect you to understand the complications of our politics, but you all have earned my respect.”
“Been to many stations, Fio?” Helga asked, seeing an opportunity to corroborate the details of that strange dream she’d had about a Harridan dropship.
Fio Doro shook her head in the negative. “Neroka was my first trip off-planet, and I only made it there because of a friend.”
“The one whose berth was raided by the bounty hunters you shot?” Helga confirmed.
“Yes, if by berth you mean home,” Fio corrected her. “She’s an attendant for one of the shuttle companies, so she’s seen all the stations. Me? All I knew was Basce City up until a week—is it weeks up here to you people? Feels like about a week, but who knows. Everything’s just been fast, thyped, and inconvenient. Why? Are you looking for something?”
“No, it’s stupid,” Helga began, but thought better of giving it up, deciding instead to at least try her. “If we can get you contact with your friend, could you ask her about a starport with tall, vaulted walls and a checkered floor, firm like the floors on the planet, not adaptive paneling like the ones on Neroka? There has to be hundreds of starports I know, but this one seemed to have heavy traffic judging by the state of the filthy deck. Limited workers, large hangar, checkered floor, and the biggest clue would be a uniformed presence. The locals would assume they’re Alliance.”
“Is that all?” Fio asked “And what are you going to do for me?” Laughing when she saw Helga sit up straight. “It’s a joke, relax. I owe you for getting my stuff, and speaking to someone who likely hates me now is the least I can do to repay you. Where did you get that description anyway? Sounds about as vague as schtill. I’m not so confident you’ll get an answer.”
“Footage I saw on a vid long destroyed,” Helga lied. “Uniformed men, not Alliance but dressed in our armor, exiting a dropship similar to the one you saw us arrive in. The floor was checkered in red and white, and I could tell that this was a port beyond a planet. I don’t expect much, but I want to at least try. Do you know what I mean?”
“I do,” Fio admitted, beaming at her now. “So, you and the commander,” she whispered, her eyes full of mischief and wonder.
“What about us?” the Nighthawk asked innocently, eyes still locked in with Fio’s, robbing her of the reaction she anticipated.
“Come on; I have eyes. You’re on a small ship full of good-looking people, young, no doubt randy from all the long trips. Better to have someone to keep your mind off it, right? I picked up on your energy the moment you two walked into Fumo's office, barely able to resist holding hands.”
“That’s schtill, and you know it. Your radar needs calibrating,” Helga cracked, disbelieving Fio’s observation. There was no way she and Cilas were that obvious, especially now with a full complement and observant rates on the ship.
“So, you’re saying you two are not together?” Fio pressed, her eyes softening to reveal something behind the questions.
Is she asking because she’s interested in me or Cilas? Helga had to wonder. She took a measured breath and looked off towards the bulkhead, her eyes finding the helmet gifted to her by her best friend, Joy Valance. She could hear her now, “Spacers thype, Helga, who cares? If it doesn't upset your work or your ability to take orders, who gives a schtill whose bunk you wake up in?”
The thought of the fiery, brown-skinned beauty throwing care to the wind and passing it off as advice brought a smile to Helga's face, which confused Fio further.
“That good, huh?” she remarked. “He doesn’t seem like much, honestly. Don’t get me wrong, he’s an amazing person for rescuing me and taking on Vray’s thugs, but as a mate he looks as boring as they come.”
Helga rolled her eyes unconsciously. “Cilas is ... complicated,” she had to admit, “but he’s also caring, reliable, and loyal to a fault. As you said, we’re a small ship, and I was the only woman for a long time. It’s a position I’ve known my whole life. I'm sure that you know it as well, doing what you do with smuggling, but Ursula isn’t a good example because of the Nighthawks. On Rendron, our mothership, it’s like a city, so you get all types. It was never safe to be alone, not if you’re small and vulnerable. You have to know who has your back, and who will come for you when you call. Cilas, Raileo, and Q have proven to be my brothers, but over time we all grew closer. I’ll leave it at that.”
Fio burst out laughing. “All of that runaround to avoid saying you chose the commander to thype out of all these blokes. Is that it, though, nothing more?”
“That’s all you're going to get, you nosy little cruta,” Helga quipped. “I don’t even know why I gave you any of it, but repeat it to anyone and I will airlock your skinny rear faster than the span of two blinks, and inform the others you were screwing about and did it to yourself somehow.”
Fio made to counter, but then an alarm began to blare, and Helga hopped up to her feet, beckoning the blue-haired smuggler to follow her into the passageway outside her compartment.
“That alarm signals incoming, Fio. Get back to your quarters, quickly, and strap yourself in,” she instructed. “We can finish our chat later, but for now do as I tell you, and no matter how much you’re tempted don’t go roaming about the ship. I will talk to you later.” Helga’s comms was already chirping from Ida and Zan giving her updates on what was happening.
A Geralos dreadnought had come out of cloak, close enough to be picked up on radar, and was now coming about to engage them. Cilas, Ida, and Helga received an immediate summons to the bridge, where Zan was already priming weapons for the engagement. Helga got on the intercom, leaning over the console as she issued her commands. “All hands, beat to quarters. Non-crew find a station, strap on your restraints, and do not move about the ship unless instructed. This is what we all trained for, Ursula. Hurry to your posts. This is not a drill.”
Cilas stepped up to his post behind her, standing behind his high-backed chair. Helga and Ina stood up to acknowledge him, saluting with the rest of the crew on the bridge. The commander walked around and took his seat, staring forward through the viewport past the pilots’ heads at the tiny white speck that was the dreadnought. He leaned over to scrutinize a simulation of the Ursula and the incoming ship.
The dreadnought was close in mass but bulkier in shape, though its design was Louine, revealing it to be a convert. His computer gave him a series of details ranging from its weapons charging to its identification being that of a Geralos. This was all he needed. He gave Helga the nod of approval to go forward with carrying out their defense plans. No words needed to be exchanged, since the Ursula conducted drills weekly to simulate these situations, and she in turn gave Zan the go-ahead to run out their batteries at the enemy vessel.
Heavy caliber kinetic bullets soared across the 9km space to weaken the shields of the incoming warship. It in turn sent back a volley of bullets, which the Ursula shook off with its overcharged shields and armor. “System is screaming for us to take evasive maneuvers,” Ina warned, but Helga, whose flying style had always violated the safety protocol of ships’ systems, was so used to the shrill objections that she hadn’t even noticed until Ina had said something.
“Hold course, and let it come in close,” she commanded. “She assumes we’ll turn, which would be the smart thing to do, but our cannons will obliterate her shields before any form of collision can occur.”
“I guess we’re jousting then,” Ina commented, overloading their foremost shields by transferring energy away from the thrust.
“Brace for impact,” Helga shouted into the intercom. “If you’re not in a station by now, find the closest one and strap-in.” She rolled her eyes at the need to remind them, but Fio Doro was a civilian who needed to hear it. Alliance spacers were trained to get locked in and restrained on engagements, but she couldn’t assume the few drills would have been suff
icient.
“What’s the status on our tracers, Zan?” she asked the ever-busy, multi-tasking Cel-toc seated on the far side of Ina.
“Tracers are charged, Lieutenant,” she informed her.
“Good, now hold until I tell you,” Helga said. “Break away towards our port side when she’s 3km or less, Ina. When I give the command, Zan, you put all tracer focus on the near broadside.”
Ursula grew silent with anticipation, each spacer’s eye on a monitor, holo, or vid-screen. Many did brace for impact, not having seen direct combat before in a mid-sized warship. Some whispered prayers, some became angry, others wished they could do more, but were stuck waiting to hope that they had signed on with a competent captain. Cilas Mec’s face was stony anticipation, but there was no hint of hesitation, or any doubt of them calculating wrongly on this strategy.
The ship grew closer, but something was wrong. Helga felt the change but couldn’t verbalize it. A shrill, screaming whine came from Ursula’s alarms, warning of a loss of atmosphere from where a section of the hull had become ruptured from several hundred bullets getting past their shielding. The artificial gravity faltered, and the vessel shook, resulting in a chorus of gasps and groans, injured spacers who in the chaos had forgotten Helga’s warning.
“How are we breached when our shields are still at 80%?” Helga shouted. “Ina, transfer power back to thrusts, and prepare to break. Zan, let fly our tracers, I don’t care if you overheat them. This is survival now.”
The redheaded pilot did as she was commanded and Zan activated the tracers, sending four long lines of laser energy into the dreadnought’s hull. As predicted, their shields balked, nearly failing outright, but some of the tracers got through, cutting their own holes into the enemy and sending no less that ten Geralos spilling out into the vacuum of space. The dreadnought, not anticipating the Ursula staying the course to lash out so aggressively, reversed thrust to slow its approach, presenting to its broadside to turn away from the lancing tracers shredding its hull.