by Tao Wong
“Problem?” I say, eyeing the closed doors.
“Riots,” Harry says. “Everyone’s scared, now that the way out is firmly shut. Lots of accusations of incompetence.” A loud thud against the docking gate interrupts whatever else Harry is about to say.
A moment later, Dornalor appears in one of the viewing screens, looking grim. “They’re hauling up a door buster. Get out there before they damage my ship even more.”
Bolo reacts first, walking forward with his hammer held out before him. The docking gates slide open, revealing the rebel who’s been punching the doors with a still-raised fist. His eyes widen as he spots Bolo and the fast-moving hammer before he’s sent careening back down the corridor, bowling over the rest of the rioters. Bolo lets the hammer drop to the floor, the thump resounding down the enclosed docking gate and silencing the crowd.
“Go. Away. I won’t be as gentle next time.” Bolo makes the statement entirely too calmly, as if he’s talking of building a staircase instead of pummeling a sentient.
The crowd sheepishly backs away, the door cracker stored in someone’s inventory to allow for an expeditious retreat. It does raise the question of why they didn’t just use the door cracker when we first arrived, but then again, rioting in a space station isn’t exactly the action of the rational.
Grunting in appreciation of his own awesomeness, Bolo watches as the docking bay doors slide shut before he sends Harry a glare. “Draco fangs, how did you and the Inner Crew miss the fleet arrival?”
“I don’t know.” Harry shakes his head. “I’ve tried everything I can think of to parse the information, but all my sources, from the Shop to indirect feeds and foodie reports, show that the fleet is still back in Dexaz IV. Hell, I have a live running feed of one of the captain’s, a well-known foodie blogger, ‘live streaming’ his latest meal at Koos!”
“I’m going to assume that’s meant to mean something,” I say.
“Philistine. Koos is the preeminent restaurant on Dexaz IV. Their live butchering and cooking of harpy meat by Master Chef Qased is considered a highlight of any foodie’s life,” Ali replies. “If even Olson over there can’t figure out what’s going on, it’s got to be a disinformation campaign.”
“Like the paper tanks in England?” Mikito says, cocking her head.
“Much like that. Except on a much larger scale. I’d say there’s got to be at least a few Master Class Spies or Disinformation Specialists at play. Maybe a Heroic …” Ali turns to stare at Bolo.
The Dragon Lord returns the look blankly before his eyes widen. “No. Impossible. She has no reason to do it.”
“That we know of. Who can read her mind?”
“For the humans here, care to expand?” I say, stomping my foot.
“No. I really don’t,” Ali says. When I glare, he holds up a hand. “We don’t say her name. Or her nicknames. Or anything else that might trigger her attention. I’ve already said enough. If it is her, you’ll know soon enough. And if it isn’t—”
“We don’t want her attention,” Bolo finishes flatly.
I stare at the pair, my jaw working for a moment in frustration before I drop the question. Bolo has never looked terrified before, but I see the fear lurking in his eyes. Even Ali, the Spirit who barely cares about the material world because it can’t really affect him, looks worried. Whoever this lady is, she’s not someone I want to annoy just for my curiosity.
“Anyway, it might not be her. There are a few organizations—including the Erethrans—who could pull this off. A concerted effort by one of their disinformation departments could occlude and create the false narratives,” Ali finishes.
“Occlude. Big word for a small man.”
“Goblin shit, John.”
I grin, then let the smile fade as another loud thump echoes through the room. I tilt my head, watching the vidscreens and the growing riot outside. “How long do you think this is going to last?”
“About twenty minutes.”
“That fast?” Mikito says, frowning.
From our experience, most riots last a little longer than that. In answer, Bolo points at another screen, this one showing the oxygen content on the station. Which I realize is fast dropping.
“That’s one way of fixing the issue,” I say. Vicious and effective. With the System’s healing factor, only those at the lowest levels of Constitution would die. And only if they don’t run off to whatever emergency chambers there are. Which, I’m hoping, are being controlled by Oi and his men.
With nothing better to do, we find chairs and relax, keeping an eye on the door. As I wait, I pull out a piece of chocolate and consider the enemy fleet’s next play. They could come in hot. With AIs working to reorient everyone and fill in gaps from the destruction, the fleet should be mostly ready to go by now. The next few minutes will answer the question if they are coming immediately or if there’s something else they’re after.
Once I know what they’re doing, then I’ll know what my next play should be. Thus far, playing foot soldier has been less effective than I’d hoped. As the velvety chocolate goodness slides down my throat, I pull out the station information, parsing together maps and 3D diagrams of the area. Perhaps it’s time to get a little more proactive.
***
It doesn’t even take twenty minutes for the riots to end. Through all that, there’s nary a peep from the Galactic fleet. They just sit there, waiting and watching us. I barely pay attention to the solar map, my focus on the station plans, the details that I should have learned but ignored. I soak floor plans into my bones—the multiple layers of gated tubes, the fallback positions we’ll need to know. I burrow into details about the inner two stations too, pulling everything that’s available to me, making Harry pass me every little scrap of information he can find.
I almost ignore the summons when it comes, so immersed am I. But I eventually relent and go to the war room. If nothing else, at least someone there might have a clue as to why the fleet isn’t right on us.
The war room is more a seminar room, reminiscent of a lecture hall with arena seating going down to the stage, than a place where the few and the relevant gather. The room itself is three-quarters filled with a wide variety of interested parties. Some are known factors—security personnel and Captains of the largest ships. Others are less immediately useful—Merchants and Smugglers, Craftsman and other Artisans. Oi and I Shao stand at the bottom of the room, flanked by a series of floor-to-ceiling vidscreens.
Bolo stomps to the front of the audience and glares at the couple of Captains and their security crew. They don’t even pause before beating a retreat, leaving the seats available for all of us. Harry scurries off to the side, leaving us to the front as he sets up for a better view while avoiding not-so-subtle glares.
“Making friends, are we?” I mutter as I sprawl in a seat beside Bolo.
“They’re not friends. Scum and villains, all of them.”
“And then you wonder why people are trying to kill you.”
“I do not wonder.”
“I was being sarcastic, you big idiot.”
I find myself falling silent like the rest of the crowd as the screens beside Oi flicker to life. The public faces of the Inner Crew appear on each screen, glowering at us. A flicker, then Ali has their data populated for me. No surprise, but all I get is their damn names. Everything else is greyed out.
Adonael K’mini, System Pinion, Spaks Station Master, Tithed Lord, One in a Million, … (Galactic Station Master Level ???) (H)
Ifd of Clan 42.1, Credits from Dregs, Connected, Slayer of Thurma Parasites, … (System Quartermaster Level ???) (M)
Corellis Solarborn, Dread Pirate Corellis, Ten Most Wanted, Robber Baron, Slayer of Thurma, Selkies, Drimana, … (Robber Baron Level ???) (M)
“Thank you for coming.” Corellis the Robber Baron takes center stage. Even through the vidscreens, I can feel the tug on my emotions, the weird interplay that high level Charisma has on the mind and the emotions. It’s a nudge, a
twist in my tastes so that I’m more inclined to listen to him. But it’s also my mental resistances that let me note and understand the affect, while making me clinically wonder exactly how high his Charisma has to be for me to sense it even through screens. “As you know, Spaks is under attack.”
“No shit,” Bolo mutters, but even he keeps his voice low.
“At this time, we have received a communication from the fleet facing us. They have requested that we transmit this communication to all denizens in the station.” The Baron pauses, looking as if he wants to say something else but decides against it.
His image fades away, leaving a blank surface before it flares to life with a new image. The creature that stares at us is a weird, beak-faced, antlered, biped creature. A pair of arms are held behind it, the whole body of the creature covered in a simple touch-tab jumpsuit of primary purple with pink and grey highlights.
Liftom Minora, The Last Stand, Phoenix Arisen, Slayer of Goblins, Space Phantoms, Ghosts, (more), Anointed of the Third Limit (Fleet Admiral, Level 18) (H)
HP: ???/???
MP: ???/???
Conditions: ???
“Station residents and visitors to Spaks. You are surrounded. We—the fleet before you—are charged with the destruction, capture, and restraint of the station, its occupants, and its managers. To decrease the loss of life, we are offering you a chance to surrender. If you decide to do so, you will be taken into custody and judged based on all current charges laid against you. You will not receive any further charges for the defense or the illegal escape attempt.” Liftom pauses. “You will be given six hours to decide your fate and arrive before us. Those who refuse to surrender will be charged as accessories to the defense of a Pirate Station, at the very least. Additional charges will be laid depending on the vigor of your defense and the actions taken during your illegal resistance. Any resistance will be dealt with appropriately and with all reasonable force.”
The Admiral holds that flat, no-nonsense stare for a tense silence, letting his words hang in the air before his image shudders and disappears. There’s a long moment of quiet as everyone takes in what was said before everyone talks at once, some muttering about taking the offer while others are looking into space, staring at their rap sheets. It’s amusing, in some ways, but rather depressing in others.
“I’m assuming us giving up is a bad, bad idea,” I send to Ali, who snorts.
“Well, you did just try to destroy a multi-billion Credit ship. And have a bounty that states dead, rather than dead or alive.”
I laugh grimly, looking at Mikito, who shrugs phlegmatically. When I turn toward Harry, the reporter shakes his head.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m a War Reporter. Registered and all.”
“Cheater.” I shake my head and turn to the last of the group, only to find Bolo looking pensive. A flash of fear then anger runs through me, the anger chasing away the fear. These days, I’ve realized that some of my anger is misplaced, so I eye it and the fear contemplatively. Technically, Bolo isn’t part of the crew, just a hanger-on. But I’ll admit, I’ve gotten used to the big lug. “You coming?”
“Come to where?” Bolo sniffs and looks at the pirates and rebels around us, disdain in his eyes. “Unlike many, I have conducted no wrong in the wider Galactic world. My sins are mine and mine alone.”
“In other words, there’s nothing keeping you here,” I say. “Then why join us on the earlier fight?”
Bolo shrugged. “I was paid. There was a possibility that we could succeed and escape. Now, matters have changed. Continuing to stay here seems foolish, does it not?”
“Depends,” I say, gesturing to the now-blank screens.
Oi and I Shao are conversing with their own party, offering words of assurance before the group splits up to allay fears among the crowd.
“On?”
“If you can trust them to keep their word. If you want to continue using the station in the future. If you think the station itself has some use in a world like this.” I cock my head, a little heat entering my voice. “If you like being pushed around by a bunch of bullies.”
“I’m surprised to hear you standing up for us, Paladin,” Oi says as he approaches us. “I had believed you were not a fan of us pirates.”
“I’m not,” I say. “You guys might not be as bad as our historical pirates, but there’s still blood on your hands. But those bastards out there aren’t any better than you. Worse even, in some cases. Even if they are, legally, allowed to do what they do.”
“What is legal is not necessarily moral,” I Shao intones, then sighs. “Still, they are smart.”
“You’re talking about the pronouncement.” When I Shao nods, I let my eyes wander over the crowd. A few sneak out the doors even as Dornalor updates my feed from the ship, letting me know that some ships are already taking off. “Creating dissent within. I do wonder, why didn’t the Inner Crew stop it? Are they that certain they can win with what they have left?”
“Hardly,” Oi says. “But the Lady of Shadows is in play. And in her field, no one dares to deal with her.”
“She’s confirmed then?” Ali says.
Harry freezes, holding his whole body still but for his fingers. Those twitch in rapid motion as he calls up screens and data. Dark brows crease, eyes growing more intent as he reads. It’s an interesting reaction, made more so when Bolo pales at I Shao’s nod of confirmation.
“All right. Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” I say grumpily.
“The Lady of Shadows is her unofficial name. No one likes to talk of her, though she is one of the Seated members of the Galactic Council,” Oi says, naming one of the nine members of the Inner Council of the Galactic System. Permanent members, the ones who enforce the final, planet-bending rules of the Galactic System and who also, with their decisions, may overrule or create new, lasting guidelines. I looked into what, exactly, they could do once, and found that even the smallest piece of substantiated information was worth the entire networth of Earth itself.
“Legendary Class?” I ask.
“Probably,” Bolo chimes in. “She’s the only one who could have hidden the movement of the entire navy by herself. At least, this seamlessly. Other organizations could try, but there are often gaps. And it’s why the Crew didn’t bother trying to hide the Admiral’s speech. If she wanted the announcement known, she would have made sure.”
“So why is a Legendary Class messing with us?” I say, waving. “And why now?”
Oi can only shrug, not having any answers himself. “I’m here to invite you—both of you—to the actual war room. It’s time for us to discuss what we will do when they attack.”
I nod then turn to look at Bolo. The Dragon Lord looks conflicted, unsure of what to do as he stares past the bulkheads toward the waiting fleet.
He hesitates for a long time, but in the end, Bolo lets out a low huff of rueful humor and nods. “I’ll come.”
I almost want to ask why but decide against it. It could be as easy as an idiosyncratic need to finish what he started—something I do recall the Dragon Lord having showcased in the past. For all his talk of practicality and disdain for the pirates, the Dragon Lord seems quite comfortable here. As we follow Oi, I keep the live feed from Dornalor going, watching as numerous ships leave the outer limits of our shields and enter the waiting arms of our enemies. Weakening us all.
***
“I’m assuming we’re letting them go because stopping them would end with us in a fight,” I say to I Shao, who’s dropped back to speak with us. The Truthteller nods, bare crystal feet ringing off the corridor as we walk. “Any estimates on how many we’d lose?”
“Not my area,” I Shao says.
Harry, walking alongside, slips in next to us, eyes still flicking over cameras. I’m a little surprised he’s not scrambling to the docks to film the exits. “We’ve already lost just over three percent of the remaining ships. I have indications of at least another four percent readying them
selves, with multiple reports coming in about disturbances, fights, and the like among crews. Overall, we’re likely to lose at least ten percent of our fighting strength, maybe up to twenty.”
“All that without swinging a hammer,” Bolo says admiringly. “The Admiral is smart.”
“Might not have been his idea,” I say.
We reach the inner chamber, the very same room Oi used to explain the situation to me. Except this time, it’s filled with more people, including a number of the more senior Rebel Captains and other personas of note. Dominating the room as normal is the holographic projection, displaying the current situation of the battlefield.
“So what next?” I ask. “They bombard us?”
“Unlikely,” one of the Rebel Captains says. “They’re not that dumb.” At my puzzled look, he continues speaking. “Scenario IV – B.”
The projected hologram ripples then resets, and all the moving ships are gone. Now it shows a visibly smaller fleet within the shelter of the station force fields, the fronts of their ships pointed outward. Without any indication, the enemy fleet opens up, an array of railguns and other physical projectiles launched first. Next, missiles are launched after the solid projectiles have made it halfway. Lastly, just before the combined might of the missiles and projectiles hit the first force shield, beam, spell, and particle cannons fire. The hologram washes out as the sheer volume of fire overloads our eyes, just before the program corrects itself. The combined attack ripples across the shield and I watch the shield stability notification as it dips by a good quarter.
Then, something else happens. All along the attacking ships, miniature explosions appear, their own force shields glowing brighter and brighter as they’re assaulted. Even as the station shield takes damage from repeated waves of attacks, the ships are assaulted by a hidden force. Before the station’s force shield dips below fifty percent, the first ship goes up. Then another and another. By the time the attack lowers the force shield by a third, a quarter of their fleet are gone.
