by Greg Dragon
“How bad can it be? We’re Nighthawks,” Raileo whispered to Helga.
“Guess it could be bad,” Helga said. “As in sabotage, like if someone important blows up a section of this station. You know how desperate rats can get when they want to keep their identity a secret. No PAS suits could protect us from a ruptured bulkhead blowing us out into the black, and that’s precisely what could happen if we’re here. I like the idea; they can take their time and catch the mole, while we will learn where next to jump to catch these pirates looking for ransom.”
“Alright, Sergeant, let’s chat,” Cilas said, standing and turning to face the rest of the team. “Nighthawks, you have two hours, after which we’re meeting at the port to make our egress. This is a station-world; take advantage of it and get some supplies for yourselves and the ship. Get something for your berth, mess, whatever. We don’t know the next time we’ll be afforded the privilege of a place like this.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Raileo whispered, showing his teeth. “I’m going to see what they have for loadouts. What do you plan to do, Ate?”
“Me? I don’t know, maybe get something to sleep in? No, I should get some artwork for my cabin, or one of those holo-butlers that welcomes you home when you power on the lights,” she said, giggling foolishly. “I’ll figure it out, but tell you what, if you see a pistol I would like, I’ll give you back the credits.”
“I know that I will already, so I will keep that in mind when I buy it,” he said, winking as he walked out behind Quentin and Sundown.
They all went their separate ways, and Helga picked up several items that would make downtime more enjoyable on the ship. She got some comfortable shoes that were easy to slide into for the times when she was bored and would traipse up and down the deck. Normally she would do this barefooted, which wasn’t ideal since the metal was cold. She got an outfit for Zan, to give her some variety that she hoped would inspire the other Nighthawks to engage her more when she was present.
By the time she was finished the two hours were nearly up, so she made her way back to the dock with a bulky bag of knickknacks that she bought. An hour later and everyone was back aboard the Ursula. Cilas had been given the decoded files with a promise that the station security would go after the pirate mole. They shoved off not long after boarding, and Helga took them away from the station, jumping immediately to get out of the Alliance Marine’s jurisdiction.
The station would remain safe under the watchful eye of the Alliance, and once Cilas was done poring over the logs, he would confer with Retzo Sho and they’d have a new mission. Would it be the moon of Argan-10? A part of her hoped not, given that it gave her chilly recollections of the Louine moon Dyn. Last time we set foot on a moon, we lost five of our eight operators, she thought. Makes me wonder what chances we have, us five, to make it out alive.
Her thoughts on death and the fear associated with it were more for her brothers than herself, since she was still numb to the prospect of being killed. When she would try to focus on it, there would be nothing, just a blank mental block where others would literally be shaking in their boots. Helga reasoned that this was either her conditioning as an ESO preventing those thoughts, or something more sinister like a mental wall put up due to the trauma she’d experienced.
Either way, she welcomed death. It was just another adventure to a great unknown, but what she feared more than anything was losing Cilas violently, and seeing him opened up from a las-sword the way she’d seen Cage Hem, Horne Wyatt, and Casein Varnes.
The image of those three men that she’d grown to like being massacred by that cruel blade sent chills down her spine. She could never forget it; this was a permanent vision that could only be hidden but never destroyed. For that to happen to Cilas, she would cry blood, and become something terrible. This was what she feared with going down to that moon, especially if it had Geralos Special Forces.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” said a melodious voice that could only come from Cleia Rai’to, whose presence was felt before she spoke.
Helga leaned back in her comfy pilot’s seat then turned to face the doctor slowly, forcing what she hoped to be received as a warm, welcoming smile.
“Hello Doc, how may I assist you?” she said, and the blue-skinned beauty volleyed back the smile. Traxians had pronounced eye-teeth that could make them look predatory even though they were plant-eating pacifists. The teeth were an evolution to help them tear at fish, which was their only source of meat, though being off Traxis made fishing impossible, so most stuck to ration bars that were manufactured out of algae.
“I am not here officially or anything,” Cleia said, “just wanted to… how you say? Build on our relationship, if you will let me. May I sit with you as we navigate the stars?”
“You’re really cute, do you know that?” Helga said, understanding now why Raileo was head-over-heels for the woman. “Sit, sit, you’re more than welcome. How are things with your medbay going? Do you miss your patients now that they’re all gone?”
Cleia inhaled as if to calm her nerves and closed her eyes, seemingly pleased with the texture of the cushions.
“This ship is very nice. I want to be here for as long as I can. In Sanctuary, all we had was the municipal hospital in the Freedom District, which was crowded with talented medical staff, so me and many others were on a waiting list. These last few days, or cycles as you all say”—this made her giggle—”I have felt very much a part of the crew, because you needed me to treat those people. They were all so gracious, and complimentary, to be honest I didn’t want to see them go. But to know that we saved them, and they will remember us fondly now that we’re gone. It does warm the heart. I am content, lieutenant—”
“You should call me Helga when we’re casual, Cleia. Everyone else calls me Helga, and since you’re not navy, it’s not like I can force you to respect the rank. Most I could do is correct you, but I do prefer Helga over lieutenant.”
“Helga,” the doctor said, repeating it several times, as if she enjoyed the way it sounded. “Helga, I have a question, please. Since leaving Sanctuary, we have encountered several enemy ships, and I was wondering if it is easy to tell a pirate or Geralos from an Alliance or neutral vessel?”
Did I just hear that right? The doctor wants to learn about spaceships? Helga thought, ready to burst with excitement. Here was an opportunity to school someone new on the fine nuances of identifying ships, as well as the rules of engagement. She rubbed her hands unconsciously, her eyes widening with anticipation of wowing the doctor with her knowledge, but then she remembered times in the past when her overly-detailed explanations caused her listener to check out.
“There’s a lot that goes with it, Cleia, I won’t lie,” Helga said. “But I will do my best to explain. Just stop me if you see that I am going too much into detail. Sound good?”
“Yes, I’m excited, please continue,” Cleia said, her skin becoming a lighter shade of blue, which Helga noticed immediately as it brought out the freckles on her cheeks and above her nose.
“I see you have spots like I do,” she joked, reaching up to brush back her hair so the doctor could see the Casanian spots near her ears. “Have you been to Traxis?”
“No, this is my first time leaving Sanctuary, but it is a life goal to swim the oceans of my mother-planet, though a rather far-fetched one until I can save up the credits necessary for such a trip. Tell me, Helga, will your Nighthawks missions take you to that region of space, or is our concentration on Meluvia? I’ve heard you mention that planet quite a few times—well, both you and Ray… I mean, Chief Lei.”
“Cleia,” Helga whispered, looking around for any eavesdroppers before leaning in close to the Traxian physician. “It’s okay to call him Ray, just like it’s okay to say Q, Sunny, and Helga. Now, the commander is the commander, unless he himself tells you differently as to how he should be addressed. This is his ship, so there are rules, Navy or not, but he’s the only exception as an officer. Anyway, as to Traxis,
our jurisdiction is the galaxy, every meter within it, as long as there are bad guys to be killed and good guys to be rescued. I can’t tell you when we’ll be there, but in all likelihood we will sooner than later, but I wouldn’t rely on that. I would save my credits just in case another opportunity arises.
“Now, in terms of ships, how can I best explain this,” she said, staring forward through the Ursula’s glass. “There are several classes and sizes of ships spanning three factions of Alliance, Geralos, and civilian, which we call, merchant, luxury, or pleasure. Fighters are smaller killing machines, like my Vestalian Classic you see parked on the dock. There are several classes of fighter, but that’s too much information, anyway. In the Alliance and Geralos ranks these are the smallest and easiest to identify. So if the radar, which sees things about 12.8km out, picks up a fighter that isn’t Alliance, we know immediately to prep for action. Understand?”
“I do,” Cleia said, still smiling and nodding as she absorbed the information.
“Next up are cruisers. These are multipurpose ships that cause the most confusion. They vary in size; some can carry an entire company of Marines, while others are built for spatial warfare, so they are heavy on the armor and light on the berthing. Cruisers that have been disabled in war are often converted into merchant vessels then sold to corporations to use for trade and transport. The Geralos know we do this, so they commandeer cruisers and use them as decoys within their fleet. I can go farther, but it’s too much for someone new, but when we see a cruiser, we normally prepare for the worst.”
“That large ship that attacked us, was that a cruiser?”
“It was, and if you recall we didn’t sit on our hands, I primed a torpedo and reached out on comms, practically begging them to identify themselves,” Helga said. She then touched several areas of the console to produce a holographic image of the disabled vessel. “As far as Alliance standard, you next have infiltrators, which are built exclusively for combat and function as junior starships in a sense. Still with me? Yeah, those you cannot mistake for anything else.” Helga touched a few more symbols and buttons, and the holograph transformed into the infiltrator, Inginus.
“They are all so beautifully designed, but what about the Geralos?” Cleia said.
“Almost there, Doc,” Helga said, pleased at her enthusiasm for a topic most shunned in the cadet academy. “Starships, as you know, are the largest of the vessels. They hold thousands of spacers, and are equipped with ordnance meant to obliterate other ships. These vary in sizes as well, with the average of—wait, this is too much information—just know that most starships are classed as destroyers, but the bigger ones are known as battleships, like the one we hail from, Rendron. Now as to the Geralos—”
There was a chime and the holo-image vanished, replaced by the Alliance symbol. Zan’s face appeared above the console, and behind her was the Cel-toc charging station.
“Sorry to disturb you, Lieutenant, but the commander would like you to gather the Nighthawks for a briefing inside of his cabin,” the Cel-toc said.
“We’ll pick this up later,” Helga said, resting a friendly hand on Cleia’s shoulder.
“I look forward to it,” the Traxian said, and repeated the gesture, completing the Vestalian bonding ritual. “Now I know to hide whenever I see anything smaller than an infiltrator incoming.”
Helga made to correct her, but when she thought of the logic in that statement, the doctor was actually right. They knew the signatures of all starships and infiltrators in the Alliance records, but the vessels with masses less than those could go either way. This included their corvette, which was part of a cluster of alien models that Helga had dreaded getting into because there were just too many for a non-pilot to absorb.
She hated that she was interrupted, since this was one of the most refreshing conversations she had experienced since Sanctuary. Helga had wanted to go into detail about the Geralos flotilla, but duty came first and they were being summoned, so she would have to table it for another time. Knowing that someone else had a love for ships brought a lightness to her heart that she couldn’t explain, but now she looked forward to the rest of their conversation, and future late shifts where she would continue Cleia Rai’to’s education.
15
When Cilas Mec was given the command of Ursula, something told him that it would mean more missions, more accountability, and more problems. Stepping away from the communication station that sat in the corner of his cabin, he collapsed into the closest chair and stared up through the transparent overhead at the distant stars.
Cilas was bone tired, mentally exhausted since leaving Sanctuary, which was exasperated by a four-hour conversation with both his captain, Retzo Sho, and his executive officer, Commander Jit Nam. The two men had been grilling him on the situation at A’wfa Terracydes, wanting every detail down to the minutiae.
He had told them everything, from the stealthy entrance made to avoid detection by the kidnappers, to the shootout and escape that led to the ambush when they were told to wait for a shuttle. Aside from divulging all the steps made to get the Vestalians back to their Arisani homes, he had Helga send the logs over to Rendron, as well as the footage recorded from his PAS helm.
The two men had expressed concern for his “state” as they had phrased it, since he wore his exhaustion on his face. Typically he could hide it, the same way that his captain could—being a master of wearing masks—but with the news that a high-ranking member of A’wfa Terracydes was instrumental in the pirate attack, it became impossible to relax for the young commander.
“We’ve done our part in securing the Vestalians, Cilas,” Retzo Sho had said, exchanging looks with the ever-stoic Jit Nam. “Missio-Tral is near your location, and can send in their ESO Shrikes to look into things on the moon. You should return to Rendron and get in some time with the psych. Admiral Mor’s outline on the events at Sanctuary has been both disappointing and disturbing, to say the least. The Nighthawks have performed admirably, but you’re starting to show cracks and I don’t like it. Both the Inginus and SoulSpur are out hunting Geralos, so you will have the time to fill those gaps within your ranks.”
It was a tempting invitation, and Cilas wanted nothing more than to bring in more Nighthawks and crewmen to transform the Ursula into a formidable war machine, but it violated everything he believed in as team leader. How could he turn over the reins to another set of ESO when the Alliance had hand-selected his team to carry out the moon mission?
Selection was favor, and out of all the ESO units, his was in that rare category of being seen as, “deadly-effective.” To stop now meant that the Shrikes could take their place, and they would be back to mediocrity, doing salvage runs and chaperoning elites—the type of missions that made him dislike his job. Hearing this “kindness” from his commanding officers made him wonder if they were having doubts with him in his current position.
Ursula wasn’t an Infiltrator, but she was an expensive warship that he had been loaned. She hadn’t been built and newly christened; she was a convert, a means to an end, and that end had been Sanctuary station for an emergency escort mission. Unfortunately, things had gone about as badly as they could, and Sanctuary became an ironic name, for yet another battlefield where he and the Nighthawks had to shoot and fly their way out.
Cilas had wrongly assumed that after all that excitement, his team would be eased back into mission rotations while he was able to send out feelers for recruits. This pirate situation, however, had occurred very close to their vector, so they were called in, and here they were again, scrambling to do the will of the Alliance.
The captain was right. No one would begrudge him for putting his team first, but the mission was to investigate the moon, and the Shrikes didn’t have the intel that he and Tutt had gathered from the satellite. If they didn’t do it, things could go wrong and more innocents would die, and that would be the type of guilt that no psych could ever cure.
“Thank you, Captain. I appreciate your concer
n, but we’ll finish this mission and then head back to mother, where I can fully brief you in person. If Missio-Tral can provide support, that would be more than enough help for us, especially if they can intercept any dropships coming in once boots hit the ground,” he had replied, hoping that they wouldn’t push the issue, and to his surprise, Retzo Sho seemed relieved.
Now as he stared up at the stars, he wondered if that decision was a good one. He was the commander, but he hadn’t spoken much to his crew to gauge morale, health, and true battle-readiness for something as delicate as investigating a possible Geralos hive. With only four Nighthawks, he should have done that, but his pride had made him answer quickly, committing them to the mission.
Lifting his wrist-comms to his mouth, he summoned everyone to his cabin, taking the time to appreciate the fact that he was able to do this. On Rendron his berthing was your average officer’s wardroom, sizeable and comfortable, but only an eighth of the size of the one he had now. They all filed in separately, with Helga bringing up the rear, and they sat where they could about the compartment, which had ample seating for eight.
“Hey team, thanks for showing up on such short notice,” Cilas said, “I need to catch you all up so that you have time to prepare for this mission. Currently 1.25 light years from the Ursula’s current location is the planet Hiyt. Helga, am I correct in that estimate?”
“That sounds about right,” she said quietly, and he could tell that she too was seeing something off about him.
“Okay,” he said. “Above Hiyt is a ship-building station named Espiera. It is the home of over 50,000 scientists, engineers, and academic elite. There’s a security force of 1,200 Marines, as well, stationed there with the primary directive of protecting that community from outside invaders. They are well-trained warfighters, donated by the Alliance who, as we know, depend on those stations to build the generators that power our ships. Well, just two cycles ago, when we were on A’wfa Terracydes making our drop-off, a transmission was received from an encrypted source, issuing demands for a warship.
