Angel of the Alliance (Lady Hellgate Book 4)

by Greg Dragon

  As a cadet she had heard so many stories about those hardened men and women with their demonic tattoos and cybernetic body parts. What stood before her was just a man, no scarier than the average hub-dwelling vagrant. “I wonder what the captain wants with you?” she whispered, as if the man could hear, then tapped the glass gently with her fist before making her way over to the dropship.

  There were people milling about, some exercising, others dancing, which Helga felt was absurd. The ship they originated on was a party cruiser, but to dance now when they were refugees on an ESO ship? It seemed rather ridiculous, but she envied the time that those people had to enjoy their young lives dancing, and the freedom to do whatever they wanted to do.

  Helga entered the ship, started the checks, then sat in the pilot’s chair and kicked her legs up, taking a moment to catch her breath. She became anxious, but there was no trigger that she could identify.

  One minute she was enjoying the silence and the smell of the Thundercat’s cockpit, then the next she wanted to run out and get into a wide-open space where she could extend her arms. Something about that would calm her down when she was feeling trapped or closed-in, and that was how she felt now, as if she would never be able to escape that cockpit.

  She bravely fought through the discomfort until the checks were finished, then quickly made her way off the Thundercat. When she descended the ramp to gain the hangar and dock, Helga stopped, frozen in her tracks.

  Despite the expensive clothing—which at one point was probably adorned with even more expensive jewelry—the belly of the Ursula had somehow transformed into a hub.

  Helga hadn’t noticed the similarity before when she had defeated her angst to walk amongst their guests, but now it hit her like a trace-laser broadside from a cloaked infiltrator.

  She found it fascinating how different the once empty compartments and makeshift storage looked now that they were used as berthing. The satellite from which they were rescued had been the only hub Helga had visited, and though she hadn’t taken the time to look inside many of the crate homes, she had seen enough photos and vids to know what to expect inside of them.

  There were too few people here to consider it a proper “hub,” or refugee camp, but the clothes hanging from the overheads and sloppy upkeep of the general area gave her flashes of that desperate reality.

  It bothered her, this chaotic and sloppy transformation; it was further evidence that their guests were privileged snots with servants who did all of their cleaning up. She wondered if they would remember to shower and eat without a lowly Arisani or Cel-toc to tell them that it was time.

  Helga turned her nose up in disgust, unaware that everyone in her vicinity could read it on her face. “We’ll be out of your hair soon, daughter,” said an older man to her right, and it was enough to snap her out of that momentary funk.

  She was about to turn on him to tell him to clear the Thundercat when a familiar alarm blared, putting fire into feet that were once planted with authoritative disdain at the state of her dock.

  Sprinting as if it was an obstacle course at BLAST, Helga found the ladder leading up to the bridge’s deck and scaled it skillfully to make her way to the cockpit. Zan was at the console staring forward blankly, charging as she had been ordered to do when Helga wanted absolute control.

  “Snap out of it, girl, we have a situation,” she ordered, and Zan, recognizing Helga’s voice and tone, powered on quickly and translated the warning.

  With civilians on the ship, Cilas had asked that the intercom be relegated to emergencies only, and anything relative to the ship or a perceived threat to the crew be delivered directly from their resident Cel-toc whose CPU was linked to the ship. In doing this, Ursula became Zan, in as much as a ship could talk and walk about, and the Nighthawks became accustomed to treating her like crew.

  “Lieutenant, seventeen minutes ago an unidentified vessel came out of light speed to track our location. It is currently headed toward our vector at supercruise speed,” Zan announced. “Attempts to make contact have been rejected and based on my calculations, it will break our impact perimeter within 1.5 hours. Thrust has been raised to 80% and shields maximized to reduce the chance of impact. We await your orders, Lieutenant.”

  “Thype!” Helga shouted loudly, and glanced around angrily for someone, anyone, from the crew. “Where is everyone?” she said, fighting back the panic. The bridge was clear but for the Cel-toc, and she still wasn’t used to the corvette’s independence of a proper crew. A situation like this should not be left to the logic-based algorithms of a machine, no matter how “real” she came off with her soothing voice, adoption of Vestalian Navy slang, and as Raileo would put it, “her anatomically perfect female form.”

  It was especially odd that Cilas wasn’t on the bridge at this early hour, and since she had just come from the dock—which he barely ever visited—she assumed that he was in his cabin, stuck in another brief with their captain. “Hey, commander.” She spoke into her wrist-comms after activating the rarely used, emergencies-only feature.

  It was nearly forbidden to disturb a commanding officer while he entertained a high-ranking member of the Alliance, but Zan’s report had sent a chilly spike down her spine, and with civilians on board, she did not want to risk.

  Only once before had she used the emergency feature, and that was due to too much drink, her having a free cycle, and the growing casualness between she and her commander.

  Helga had thought it would be funny to wake him up with an emergency comms summons, just to alert him that she was outside his door.

  Cilas was normally easy when it came to her “clowning tendencies,” as he labeled it, but that stunt had apparently been the invisible line being crossed. He had responded with as much urgency as could be expected from a seasoned warrior professional, but upon learning that it was a ruse, her Cilas vanished almost instantly and was replaced by Commander Mec, leader of the Nighthawks.

  Not only did she not spend the night, but he did not speak to her for nearly three cycles. This wasn’t so devastating—having differences and arguments were all a part of what they had—what was tough, however, was knowing that she was wrong, yet being too prideful to apologize for it.

  Now, they were on great terms, and she would spend two out of five late shifts in his arms, but they had never overtly conversed over what had happened that fateful cycle. It made using it now extremely complicated, because when he answered, she knew that he would wonder if she once again was playing a game.

  It had been the biggest point of discussion between them, the wonder if their coupling would affect their military service. Hesitation was death, and she had hesitated before using that option. He would likely hesitate to answer it, not wanting another awkward set of cycles, and that twisted the knife inside of Helga’s heart, the fact that her drunken impulses had managed to turn her love into a liability.

  “Helga,” Cilas’s voice came on, unamused. “If you’re outside of my door, or anything short of this being a crisis, I don’t care what came before this very moment, I will have you doing first shift PT rotations for five cycles along with writing out records from our last two drops. Now, what is it?”

  “Commander, we have an unidentified vessel bearing down on us and it is unresponsive to the Ursula’s request for identification,” she said, too petrified to respond in her typical, lighthearted sarcasm. “I need permission to activate hardpoints and sound the alarm for battle stations.”

  “Do it, I’m en route. Put a trace across their bow to let them know we are serious. Punching in my approval to the system now. Keep me posted, I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

  Helga was one of the youngest spacers at her current rank of lieutenant junior grade. It was a position that came with much scrutiny from her peers, particularly those who only knew of her by name. To the handful of people that had experienced the Nighthawk in action, however, there was no questioning her rank or ability to win.

  She was special, and tho
ugh she had been reminded of this multiple times, she still had those moments when she’d stop and wonder if she’d bitten off more than she could chew.

  Even now as she ran to the bridge, shouting frantically into her comms, she wondered at her position, and why it was that she had been so lucky in surviving these last two years of hell.

  Either she was the luckiest spacer on Anstractor, or she was some sort of maker-selected chosen one. Seeing enough death up close, however, made it impossible to believe it was either, and what she did believe was that it was only a matter of time before her number would be up.

  This fear—if you could truly call it fear—kept her extra salty whenever it was time to act, taking charge when Cilas wasn’t present and being decisive with their options. Helga, as a student to both Cilas and Captain Retzo Sho, knew only excellence under pressure, so when the walls were closing in, she was at her best.

  “I’m just a little girl that likes space ships,” used to be her answer to outsiders commending her on her success, but the truth was that she didn’t know how she’d come this far. The only thing that was certain was that none of it would have been possible without the support of the ranks that believed in her.

  Her cadet commander, Loray Qu, had helped her to survive the abuse of those first years as a spacer, then there was Captain Retzo Sho to approve her application for BLAST training.

  Cilas Mec accepted her onto the team, despite her being too small, and to certain parties, too female for the role, and now she had operators like Tutt and Sundown to support her in becoming better at the job.

  Helga could say that she had been lucky, but did luck push people to support you even when you weren’t of their blood? She was hot-blooded and she held grudges, and tripped over just about every social hurdle presented to her.

  Would she like herself if she was made to serve under her? That was what she couldn’t answer because even as Helga Ate, she had never been comfortable in her own skin.

  “Zan,” she said as the Cel-toc walked over and took the seat next to her. “Engage hardpoints and place a trace warning across that incoming’s nose.”

  “Hardpoints have been engaged, Lieutenant,” the Cel-toc said. “Tracer deployment in three, two, and one.” She wasn’t moving but her actions were still faster than three pilots at the helm. Zan was synched with the Ursula’s system, so she in essence was the ship.

  When Helga commanded her to engage hardpoints, it was a mere thought become action, just like the firing of the tracers. “Unidentified vessel has altered course, Lieutenant. I await your next command.”

  “So our friend values his life,” Helga said under her breath, and wondered what should be their next step.

  “Unidentified vessel has increased thrust,” Zan reported mechanically. “Collision is imminent. I suggest that we take evasive maneuvers.”

  “Do it,” Helga shouted, grabbing her wrist-comms. “Ray, get on a cannon and put some holes in her hull. Tutt, get our passengers inside their cages, and tell them to strap in. Everybody else, battle stations. I need as much firepower on that ship as we can manage.”

  Helga grabbed the controls, strapped in and placed her feet up on the deck, easing back as if she was in a fighter instead of a slow-moving, armored corvette. She increased their thrust, barely avoiding the incoming ship, which was much smaller than their own but was armed with torpedoes and energy cannons.

  Raileo Lei was on one of the cannons, whittling down the enemy’s shields as it put out a tracer, forcing Helga into evasive maneuvers. The result was a jolting escape from the vicinity of the laser, and Helga brought them about to the side where the tracer could never reach.

  Broadside to broadside, they exchanged cannon fire, and the Ursula’s alarm began to blare, warning its occupants that the enemy was arming a torpedo.

  Their shields were at 70% and dropping, but Helga knew that the enemy was worse off than they were. Zan was arming a torpedo, and when the shields fell they would break that suicidal ship’s spine in half.

  A chase like this, using a technique as insanely violent as a ram, had to be pirates, and Helga was confident that it was the same ones, coming to get their cargo.

  “Willing to call my bluff and we don’t even know each other,” Helga said, as if the ship’s captain could hear her.

  “Tracers online, Ate?” Cilas said from his chair behind her, and she was stunned for half-a-second, wondering why he hadn’t stepped in earlier.

  Maybe he just got here, Helga thought, putting it out of her mind. “Trace laser is ready, Commander,” she said, proudly, loving to see Cilas take charge as an actual warship captain.

  “Gut the thype, then pull us out to prepare to nuke her from a safe distance,” he said.

  “Zan, tracers on the broadside, coupled with our cannons. When the shield fails, exhaust the trace, then jump us out to a safe distance for torpedo deployment.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” the Cel-toc said, and for an instant Helga looked over, loving the ease of delegating. Whatever she said would happen, and there would be no botched clicks, overloading, or any of the other human mistakes.

  She watched the ship try to pull away as the Ursula’s accurate cannon fire put a strain on their shields. Helga let them pull off before bringing them to face their attacker, who had now become the runner.

  “Zan, what are you waiting for, girl? Let fly my tracers and split them,” she said.

  From the Ursula came several long columns of laser light, which melted through the ship’s outer hull, tearing a gash wide enough to fly a transport through. The vessel veered away from the Ursula, who was now flying circles about her like a predator.

  The desperate captain engaged thrusters, flying perpendicular to the Ursula’s cycle, but Helga, anticipating them doing this, reduced thrust and locked on to where the thrusters and engine stood out.

  “Put a torpedo on that region, Zan,” she said, then looked back at Cilas for confirmation.

  “Horrible waste of life if you ask me,” he said. “You see what they force us to do, with threatening these people?”

  He nodded his approval and sat back down inside his chair. The result was glorious, a flash of light, that left a cascade of color in its wake. They had struck the exposed crystal core, which in turn crippled the ship.

  “Harpoon that floater, Ate, and anchor us here pending an investigation. I want to board that ship and see who they are to attack us, and then hopefully we can get back to ESO business,” Cilas said.

  9

  Helga stared out through the large window above the Ursula’s cockpit, watching the three dark figures making their way out to the disabled ship. It was a common exercise for the Nighthawks, spacewalking to invade an enemy vessel.

  Normally they were all together, the four ESO’s and now Sundown, but Cilas had commanded her to stay so that he could take the lead. It wasn’t a decision that she could argue; there needed to be an officer to hold down the bridge.

  The choice was made for the rest of the Nighthawks: Cilas, Quentin Tutt, and Raileo Lei. Helga and Sundown were left behind, so she busied herself getting prepared for any disaster that could possibly occur.

  They had tethered the wreckage, so now they were sitting ducks, stalled out and vulnerable to any other attackers. She instructed Zan to keep the hardpoints on, and to charge a torpedo, ready to fire on her command.

  Shields were undergoing repairs, though the energy for the weapons made it slow. After their brief, she had instructed Sundown to see to their passengers below deck. To Helga’s surprise, Dr. Rai’to joined him as they went from cage to cage, checking to make sure that the Vestalians were doing fine.

  Once they completed that simple job, the pair left together for medbay, which gave Helga pause as she began to wonder if she was wrong about the doctor being with Raileo Lei.

  Had she mistaken innocence and kindness for love and affection for the young Nighthawk? Raileo did admit to manipulating Cilas to bring the doctor onboard, however, so she
pushed aside her assumptions to focus on the men finally reaching the disabled ship.

  What Cleia Rai’to did with her time was none of her business, anyway. So what if she had two Nighthawks vying for her attention? She was an extremely good-looking woman, and that sort of attention was the curse of being attractive.

  What worried Helga, despite it not being her business, was the conflict that could result from having a love triangle on such a small ship. It had worried her when she thought that Raileo was somewhat interested in her, and selfishly she knew that any such conflict would bring a quick end to what she and Cilas had.

  Even Helga had to admit that had it been her, she would find any excuse to be with Cilas. He was her man, but beyond the tenderness that they shared, he had the biggest bed that she had ever slept in.

  Even now, she considered climbing the ladder and using his cabin to play at being captain. It was juvenile, she knew, but it was one of those mischievous goals she intended to act on one of these cycles.

  Instinctively, she felt the need to check in on their passengers, just in case there was something that Sundown had neglected to report. Instead of pulling up the feed on the HUD, she walked back to CIC, then made her way towards the mess.

  On her wrist-comms was a small link, showing the life signs of Cilas Mec, Raileo Lei, and Quentin Tutt, and though she could hear them in her ear, she kept glancing down at it, as if anticipating disaster.

  Helga walked over to a terminal and stared out at the eighteen civilians in the dock. She no longer felt hostile towards them but still more than anything else wished that they were off the Ursula. Having them onboard complicated the Nighthawk’s lives; not only socially but the strategic decisions made in combat as well.

  An ESO knew death’s gruesome visage better than most, but these wealthy humans from the mountains of Arisani were not to be harmed or put in the way of danger, which were Cilas’s orders via the captain. Having them here limited options, and limited options were a liability where space combat was concerned.