by Greg Dragon
“Commander, we have reached our destination,” she announced to Cilas behind her, who thanked her before removing his restraints and retreating to his cabin to contact the captain. “Nighthawks, Ursula crew, and guests, we’ve come out of light speed,” Helga said. “Feel free to move about the ship and resume your regular duties and activities.”
She stood up and reached over to place a hand on Zan’s shoulder, which was rewarded with a look of bashfulness, followed by a big warm smile. This caught Helga by surprise. She didn’t know much about Cel-tocs to experience just how like people they were, and since this was the first time that she’d touched her, it was also surprising how real and organic she felt beneath the uniform.
Helga wanted to tell her just how proud she was for her actions during the assault of the pirate ship, but decided that the touch would be enough to convey her thoughts. Inside her chest was a heaviness, a presence of nerves, and she didn’t know why. They had left the unstable vessel, and were now underway to dropping off their passengers, and the Nighthawks had returned without anyone being hurt or left behind.
Logically she knew these things to be true, and they should have been enough to put her mind at rest. But for some reason she felt as if they had forgotten something, or were about to make a dreadful mistake.
Oh, how she hated this feeling, this crawling discomfort that lay below the surface. She would much rather deal with a definitive enemy, slight, or upcoming threat than this mysterious fog that refused to come clear. She growled audibly and decided it was time for a walk. They would be at supercruise for half a cycle, and she didn’t want to spend it staring out at the streaming stars.
Helga could hear Sundown’s voice inside her head telling her to face the source of her worry rather than run away and look for a distraction. Maybe now is the time for me to depress myself with that internal fight, she thought, half-jogging to the stern of the ship, looking for a compartment—any compartment to isolate herself from the men.
She stopped in front of the briefing room, which they had used once for the satellite mission. It was perfect. No one outside of Cilas was likely to happen by, and he would be on a lengthy call with their captain. Closing the door, she grabbed one of the chairs and sat staring at the translucent planet rotating slowly above the central table.
Helga decided that she was lonely. Despite everyone being nice and respectful, she wasn’t truly free to be herself. She could if she wanted to, Raileo would love it, and Quentin would ignore her immature jokes, but as their lieutenant there was that invisible wall of respect that would only become weak with her antics. Even Cilas, who had seen every bit of her 160 cm frame, was still too much of an authority for her to let her hair down fully.
She missed Joy Valance, and wished she had her here to chat. Despite their rivalries—which were as significant as they were superficial—Joy had become something of a family member to the Nighthawk. If she were here now, there would be laughter in the atmosphere, and no matter her anxiety, Helga would at the very least feel loved.
Thinking this made her realize that this was the ache inside her heart. It had been lonely without her sister, and she wasn’t yet ready to let anyone else inside. While sharing the commander’s bed provided warmth, she knew that they were merely using one another, and it would never go beyond physical gratification. That cold wall of duty prevented him from ever claiming her overtly, and it wasn’t bringing them closer; quite the opposite.
Sitting forward, she grabbed her hair while resting her elbows on her knees, then closed her eyes and thought more on Joy and everything that came with her memory. There was angry Joy, screaming at her on the bridge of the Inginus to dress in her flight suit when coming to one of her briefs. Then loving Joy, hugging her closely by the fire on Meluvia as they looked up into the sky, wondering if Rendron would survive the night. Feisty Joy was a constant, and gentle Joy was reserved for Cilas.
Was it guilt she was feeling now as she reminisced about her friend? Guilt for taking her place in the commander’s arms, yet delaying correspondence out of fear of having to tell her what they were doing. Tears fell to the deck as her chest began to ache, not over Joy, but this refusal to allow herself any happiness. She needed a drink.
“No,” she whispered. “No more crutches. Nighthawks persevere.”
It was enough to slow her tears, and she sat back suddenly and took a breath. High emotions like this weren’t new, but digging into the source was the plan, and alcohol was merely a distraction. Several deep breaths followed by slow exhalations made her head swim with dizziness, but it served to calm her down.
“Lieutenant,” came a voice in her ear, which she recognized as Zan’s.
“Yes, Zan,” she croaked before clearing her throat and repeating it in a stronger voice. “Yes, Zan, what is it?”
“Lieutenant, there’s an urgent communication awaiting a response. It’s from the station A’wfa Terracydes. Would you like me to patch it through?”
Helga sat up and took a breath before using her fingers to comb back her disheveled hair. It should really be Cilas to take the call, but she didn’t want to disturb his communication with the captain.
“Please go ahead, Zan, I’ll take it in here,” she said, standing up to start pacing about the table.
“This is Angor Rian of the Anstractor Alliance. You have entered protected space and must identify yourself or we will be forced to disable your ship. Non-compliance with our directive will be considered an act of war. This is your last warning; you have five minutes to either leave this system or send us your identification.”
“Oh, schtill,” Helga whispered when Zan pushed the communication through to her wrist-comms. A holo-readout popped up, hovering just above her arm, identifying the vessel that was hailing them, and it was definitely an Alliance Marine assault ship. Guess the Arisanis called in a favor to deal with the chance of any more pirates, she theorized to herself. “Sergeant Rian, this is Lieutenant Helga Ate of the Nighthawks ESO, standing in for Commander Cilas Mec.”
“Hold while we verify your claim, Lieutenant,” Angor Rian said, and then she was on pins and needles for a grueling forty seconds while she waited. “Rendron?” he said when he came back, and Helga hesitated too long, questioning whether or not he said the name of their starship. “Are you from Rendron, Lieutenant Ate?” he repeated.
“Yes, Rendron,” she said. “We’re from the starship Rendron and you’re with a Marine unit. How are you out here alone with no fighter presence, Sergeant Rian?”
“We’re merely scouts assisting the local volunteer Corps, ma’am,” he said, sounding exasperated. “There are a number of us sprinkled about to keep things safe for our allies, the Arisanis. Well, let me not keep you, Lieutenant, I know that you and your crew have a mission, though it’s good to know that the Rendron is here to help.”
“What other starships have units here?” Helga said, her curiosity too much not to ask.
“Just Helysian, but it is enough to vaporize any so-called pirate looking to come in and strong-arm vessels,” he said proudly.
“Good chat, be safe Marine,” Helga said.
“The same to you and yours, Lieutenant. Things must be really bad for them to request a Special Forces crew,” the man said, taking on a more casual-than-usual tone.
“Let’s just hope it’s over soon, so that we can go back to killing lizards,” she said, already out the door and heading towards the bridge to prep the crew.
She clicked off before he could say anything more, and sent a message to Cilas to update him of their status. Once he confirmed, she got on the intercom and openly announced that they were finally heading towards the station. Their passengers had been through a lot, and since the plan to pass them off to a shuttle had gone awry, she thought that right now they could use some good news.
There were no two stations alike, and A’wfa Terracydes was no exception; just one glance was enough to know that the rich and powerful paid for and lived within its belt. S
haped like a wine glass, with a belt about the stem and a shielded dome where the wine would normally be poured, it wasn’t as massive as Sanctuary station, but what it lacked in size it made up for with style.
Docking was an automated process, and before Helga knew it, she and the other Nighthawks were in their PAS suits, escorting the passengers onto the station. This they did through a docking tunnel, to the sound of music being played by a welcome party at the end of the gangway. It was so bizarre that not three times did Helga and Raileo exchange glances, and the people receiving them were so happy and jovial that it was as if there had been no pirate attack.
On the station, they were asked to give up their weapons, but Cilas pushed back aggressively, reminding the blue-uniformed officer that they were Alliance ESOs. There were some words exchanged which put Helga on edge, since a muscular Arisani was trying to remove the commander’s sidearm. It was one of the passengers that defused the situation by saying something in their native tongue. The man’s demeanor changed to one of deference, and Helga wondered what had been said.
“Looks like the senator there pulled rank for us,” Quentin said laughing. “Arisani is a neutral planet in our war, and aside from taking in the Vestalians, they don’t know what an ESO is to afford us the flexibility that other stations would. Our friend there just told them what we did on that other station. Did you see their eyes? I think they’re frightened of us.”
“Q, you speak Arisani?” Helga whispered, grabbing his arm to pull him close to where she waited by one of the guard rails. They were on a bridge of sorts, connecting the access tunnel to the dock, and while Cilas was handling business, she’d hung back to watch his flank.
“Some, from my past life as a planet buster, traipsing all about. There was a girl, Cagina Nova, she taught me much of the Imperial tongue—as they call it—and then I took some time to practice with our Vestalian guests on the Ursula. Some of them are important diplomats and ambassadors from Arisani nations, but most are actually retired. They were on that ship to celebrate with their prince,” he said, settling in next to her with his elbows on the railing.
“This prince that they’re all so concerned about. Is he their ruler, and are they all from his continent?” Helga said.
One of the younger men near them smiled and fanned the air in front of him—which was a Vestalian gesture with derogatory implications. Helga slatted her eyes and glared at him.
“You’re a bit of a hard one, aren’t you, Lieutenant?” he said, turning to face her now in his fancy robes. “The prince, Joras Kane, is son to our ruler, the honorable Joras Yog, but we are more than his subjects. He is my friend, which is why I was invited here. We weren’t on Lucia to serve him, but to join him in celebration of a wonderful merger, which now might not happen unless the Alliance can stop those pirates.”
“Thank you, Zelon,” Quentin said. “That was a better explanation than the one I was cooking up, and I can assure you that our leaders will see to the prince’s return and some righteous punishment to those traitors.”
“Mr. Tutt, you were a breath of fresh air during our stay on the Ursula,” Zelon said, walking up to clasp forearms with the giant Nighthawk. “This whole ordeal will have me in nightmares for the rest of my life, but if it had ended with the Nighthawks, and your lessons on self-defense, I would have considered it bittersweet, understand?”
Helga examined this Vestalian in his red and gold fineries that cost about as much as a small home on the planet. He was dark-skinned, bald, and reminded her of the late Cage Hem, but unlike the old master chief, this man was no warrior. While she didn’t care for his confusing, sugary sweet semi-insults, she did feel bad for not having given him and the other passengers a chance. She disliked strangers since her past had given her plenty of reasons not to trust them, but on a ship so small with a handful of crew members, she could have been nicer, and his attitude revealed this.
“I’ll leave you to it, good Quentin Tutt. If I see you at the bar later on, your drinks will be on my tab,” he said with a wink. Before he took his leave he offered Helga a bow, then turned to leave before she could respond.
“Well, that one obviously likes you,” she said when he was gone.
“Zelon is one of the good ones, Ate. He has a brother on Missio-Tral, but he’s too young for me to know who he is. Much of my time on the dock these last few cycles have been with that one and the woman over there, a former Marine named Terra. She served on Aqnaqak until her 40th year, and then used her credits to take a one-way trip to Arisani, where she got involved in a revolution which resulted in them naming her a ruler over some territory. They all had crazy stories like that from their past, so it was quite an honor meeting and listening to them. Can you imagine retiring just to have something that major happen to you on a planet?” he said.
“It sounds too good to be true,” Helga said, deciding to double-down on her disdain.
“Well, I believe them. The details were just too strange and specific to be smoke up the thrust, know what I mean?”
“I do, Nighthawk, I get it,” she said as her eyes caught Cilas waving them over. “Looks like we’re cleared to enter, thanks to your newfound friends in high places.”
“It sure does,” he said, laughing as he moved to catch up with the commander. Cilas was bordered by Cleia Rai’to, Raileo Lei, and the darkly clad Sundown.
“Race you to the bar,” Raileo whispered as soon as she was within earshot, and though she knew that he was joking it was music to her ears.
12
The station of A’wfa Terracydes passageways were darker than a starship’s and shaped like a subterranean tunnel. There were no windows looking out to remind you that you were in space, and condensation from an unknown source made the cylindrical walls sweat and the floor glisten wetly below the fluorescent lights.
Cilas, led by two armed security guards, was taken to the offices of ACLOP, the Arisani Crime and Loss Prevention services. ACLOP was the law enforcement arm of the station, and the team that coordinated the rescue of the hostages along with Captain Retzo Sho. They wore body armor similar to PAS suits, minus the rockets and HUD upgrades, and their loadout was reduced to stun batons, edged blades, and an occasional sidearm.
Seeing the five Nighthawks armed with pistols visibly still resting inside of holsters made for a number of reactions from the clueless security team. ACLOP headquarters had the same sterile, unfriendly atmosphere that Helga felt on the Rendron’s medbay. The stark white walls and furniture reminded her that this was a place where fun was unwelcome, and the hard men and women in armor all about them drove that point home without having to say anything.
They were taken silently past several occupied desks, with what appeared to be detectives flipping through holo images and vids when they weren’t taking notes or on a call. Helga expected to see a few prisoners inside of cells, but the station was big enough to lock away their undesirables on a completely different deck. This one, it turns out, was for receiving guests like themselves, and conducting interrogations.
“Nighthawks, welcome to A’wfa Terracydes,” said a stately Arisani in a black-collared shirt, officer’s pants and boots. He looked more diplomat than law enforcer, and ogled Helga curiously as he gestured for them to step inside his tiny office. “I am Trisk A’lance, and I am in charge of ACLOP’s operations.”
“Sergeant A’lance, I am Commander Cilas Mec,” Cilas said, which gave Helga a warm feeling in her stomach when she heard him state his title and name. She still wasn’t used to Cilas being a commander and captain of his own ship, even though she had been with him all throughout that ascent. “This is Lieutenant Helga Ate, my second in command, and this is Sergeant Quentin Tutt, Chief Raileo Lei, and agent Sun So-Jung of the Jumper Agency. Our ship’s doctor Cleia Rai’to is also here on your station, but since this is a military affair, she has moved on to stock up on supplies.”
“Welcome, welcome,” Trisk A’lance said, and clasped forearms with Cilas before returning to
his chair. “We have plenty to discuss about these pirate bastards, eh? So come in and take a seat, and let me see how we can help.”
There were exactly five chairs facing the half-moon monstrosity he used as a desk, and above his throne—for it was a chair that was bigger than any Helga had ever seen—was a beautiful painting of what she could only assume was an Arisani goddess.
The figure was resplendent in a white robe, which blended in with her alabaster skin and hair. Large, gold-rimmed eyes glowed red, burning holes into the onlooker, and the ends of her robe were a tempest holding her aloft above a body of turbulent water.
Helga didn’t know the painting’s meaning, but the power it exuded made her want a copy for the Ursula. The goddess’s looks made Helga wonder at the beauty standards of the Arisani people, since she hadn’t had the privilege of meeting one until now.
From a human standpoint, they were a good-looking species, taller than the average Vestalian, with high cheekbones and slender, muscular limbs that seemed to come from genetics and not a rigid workout discipline. Their skin was stark white from what she could see, though some varied into shades of grey. Though their skin varied in shades, all flawless and smooth in texture, their long silver hair was an absolute constant, though some of the women chose to employ the usage of dyes.
She and the Nighthawks sat and waited as he and Cilas discussed the situation at hand with the pirates, and he relayed to the Arisani how there was a possible mole on the station, sending the pirates updates on their situation. There was universal agreement until Cilas suggested that it was someone high in their power structure, possibly one of his officers. This was met with push-back, as Trisk A’lance said that there was too much at stake for an officer to lose for one to be in league with pirates.
“I respectfully disagree,” Cilas said at one point, standing up to approach his desk. “We cannot afford to think of pirates as faceless thugs and killers, randomly robbing ships of cargo and crew. There is a war going on out there, and many of my people are suffering without their planet home. Some choose to fight, like those of us you see here, while others were rescued by charitable planets like your own. But there are some who see opportunity, and use the fear and hate we all feel to further fuel their ability to grift. That’s what we’re up against, Sergeant, it’s why even your officers could be true believers, despite the fallout if they get discovered.”
