by Greg Dragon
“Thank you, my friends,” Joras Kane said. “I am happy we could do this, but my work has just begun. I look forward to further discussions on our trade.”
27
For a war-tested, hardened graduate of BLAST, it would be a stretch to say that Helga Ate needed someone in order to feel “safe.” Still, as she opened her eyes to the dusky atmosphere of Cilas’s cabin, she felt safer than she’d felt in what seemed like years.
She could hear his shallow breathing and felt the rising of his chest as he went through whatever nightmare mission that he was assigned in the land of dreams. Her left leg was across his, resting in the gap between his legs, and her head was on his chest, where he held her to him with one powerful arm.
What they had was complicated and forbidden, which they had both acknowledged and chose to ignore. Helga knew the boundaries they were supposed to keep, just like she understood chain of command, but her young mind still struggled at the futile need for secrecy. It should have been simple: they would keep this private or face the consequences of separation if Commander Jit Nam or the captain were to find out.
Alliance command knew that operatives too long in the field were bound to develop relationships, but in this case it would be a high-ranking commander sharing his berth with a younger subordinate. The age thing burned Helga up more than the difference in rank because everyone expected her to behave irrationally, like a child. They didn’t acknowledge her time in the field, and being raised in the sort of conditions that forced a young woman to grow up fast.
It was offensive to think that the same Alliance who trusted her with ships that cost millions of credits would think that mixing desire and professionalism was somehow beyond her. Cilas was neither her boyfriend nor a lovesick old man looking to add her to a list of conquests, but the Navy and its rules didn’t seem to care about the details. It was all about optics, and she hated that.
In Helga’s mind, both she and Cilas were supposed to die on the moon of Dyn. The Geralos had massacred their team and placed the two of them in stasis for future consumption. Escape led to isolation inside a pod for several long months together, followed by more missions, and more near-misses with death, until they were forced to surrender to the feelings they had for each other.
For their captain, Retzo Sho, not to have seen the connection between them, he would have had to be thick and blind, unlikely traits for a former ESO. Yet, despite what he assumed or knew in his heart was happening with his two lead Nighthawks, it still came down to appearances, so they still had to keep it a secret.
Helga wiggled out of his arms and laid on her back, enjoying the cool air from the vents on her warm, clammy body. Shouldn’t happiness be enough? she thought. And really, what do I want, a formal announcement? She couldn’t honestly answer that question, so she did what she’d normally do when confronted, and focused on the here and now.
She reached over and touched Cilas’ nose, rousing him from sleep.
“Hey, are you awake?” she said, knowing that he wasn’t.
“No,” he whispered, opening his bloodshot eyes. “What’s going on, Hel? Is everything okay?”
“What about Ina?” she said, playing with the stubble on his chin. Cilas groaned and tried to turn away from her but couldn’t since she had him pinned beneath one of her legs.
“What?” he said, reaching up to rub his eyes.
“Ina Reysor, the pilot. Remember her? The red-haired Meluvian we rescued from that junker back before we docked with the Inginus.”
“Yeah, I remember her. Why now? What about her warrants rousing me out of the little sleep I get?” he whined.
“I would like to recommend her for Ursula,” Helga said. “Zan is good, but she’s a Cel-toc, and we need an Alliance pilot for our ship.”
“Is that it? You got it, alright. Thype. I will add her name to the list. She was amazing during that firefight, and after the capture as well. Hey, what time is it anyway?”
“Half an hour before first shift. Sorry to wake you up so early, but I wanted to talk to you before the cycle started.”
“Thirty minutes of sleep awaits then,” he mumbled, turning his head and closing his eyes. “Contacting Ina may be a challenge, though, Hel. The ship she left Inginus for was an old salvaged junker, and she was on really bad terms with Commander Lang.”
“Who cares? That old thype was a traitor who you had to relieve of his command,” Helga said, confused at him invoking the late commander’s name.
“He was still Alliance when he would have given the report to her old starship, Aqnaqak, so it does matter,” Cilas said. “When we ask to bring crew aboard, they go through intensive records checks. Cleia Rai’to went through it, and they even sent a message of inquiry all the way back to Sanctuary. If Lang questioned Ina’s abilities, she will be all but forbidden from touching another console on an Alliance vessel.”
“How could he question her abilities?” Helga said. “All he knew of her was that she was a captured spacer from Aqnaqak that he was forced to house until she decided that she’d had enough of Navy life.”
“Even if he didn’t knock her, I doubt that she would have left a contact code for us to reach her,” Cilas said.
“Well,” Helga said, sitting up, “if we can somehow reach her, are you open to the idea of bringing her back into the fold?”
“Helga, time is ticking. Get to the point or I am going to close my eyes and fall asleep on this conversation. Plus, I believe that I’ve more than shown that I am interested,” Cilas said without turning to face her.
“I’ve been wracking my brain on how to reach her,” Helga said, “and all that I can come up with is reaching out to Brise Sol.”
“Brise Sol again? Why?” Cilas said, turning now to face her.
“After Dyn, when we were to be awarded with our medals, Commander Qu reached out to Brise to see if he wanted to attend as my guest. That means she knows how to reach him, and I never got a chance to see her for Brise’s code. If we can reach out to her, we can call Brise, and I am sure that he’s still in contact with Ina, since he couldn’t take his eyes off her back when we were on Inginus.”
“That is quite the reach, Helga, but I won’t stand in your way, since it’s Ina. I agree on her worth, and we need experienced spacers on our ship. Speak with Loray Qu, and if you have any luck finding Ina, I will speak to the captain about bringing her in.”
“You’re amazing,” Helga said excitedly, planting a kiss on his cheek, and then made to get up off the bed.
“Wait,” he said. “What about Misa Veil? Do you remember her?”
“I do,” Helga said, remembering the spritely pilot from the starship Aqnaqak. Misa piloted the dropship that took them down to Meluvia on a mission to reclaim some stolen weapons. She was a veteran and an ace, so she was more than qualified for the job. Helga had gotten to know her a bit on the rough exit from that planet, but hadn’t thought about her until now.
“Misa would be a solid addition,” she admitted. “But what about Captain Tara Cor? I can’t see her surrendering one of her top pilots to us.”
“Do you doubt the influence of our captain, Helga Ate?”
“Where Captain Tara Cor is concerned, that’s a hell no,” Helga relented, laughing, surprised to hear Cilas hinting at something between the two ranks.
“That’s up to her, just like the rest of our candidates,” Cilas said. “It’s an opportunity, that’s all. She can always tell us no.”
“Which do you prefer?” Helga said. “It’s your ship, Commander, so you decide on who’s a better fit for your crew.”
“You don’t stop, do you?” He pulled himself up to a sitting position. “Look, Ina went through schtill, just like we did. One could argue that she put up with more, and when the time came to act, she never hesitated. But I don’t know much about her background, beyond her credentials as an ace that served on an Aqnaqak infiltrator. Misa is Captain Cor’s personal pilot. There’s no action in that job beyond being a glor
ified bodyguard, but to get the role, you have to stand out, and for a woman like Captain Cor to pick her for the job, it goes without saying, now doesn’t it?”
“Still didn’t answer my question, Cilas. Who do you prefer?” Helga said. “Both hail from the same ship, and have fought with us on missions, so I hold no personal bias towards either of them.”
“You’re so full of schtill, it’s oozing out of your ears,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You and Ina Reysor were thick as thieves. You even snuck her a weapon after I warned you not to. She’s who you want. I’ll put out a probe, and if she’s off the grid, then I’ll reach out to Misa to see what she thinks. Helga, I have to remind you how Ina felt when we found her on that ship. She wasn’t too thrilled with the Alliance. She felt that they had abandoned her and opted to discontinue her service.”
“We aren’t the Alliance, in so much as we are in the Alliance,” Helga tried, her hands becoming animated as she puzzled over how to sell it. “Ina would be working for you, her savior, and she’ll be flying with me, and as you said, we shared a bond of sorts from the beginning. We Nighthawks operate under a different set of codes than say, the Marines, and I think she will like that.”
“I disagree, but I will try,” Cilas said. “Don’t get your hopes up, though. She seemed pretty set on her decisions. What’s with you, anyway? You seem really set on us drafting anyone that you remember from the past. We have two runners, one having been discharged, and a captain’s personal pilot. Who else?”
“I know it seems ridiculous to you, Cilas. You, who has always recruited from pools of the best, and had the genius to mesh them into a team that works well. To some of us, it isn’t so easy to make new friends. These are to be our brothers and sisters. Men and women we rely on to put their lives on the line for us, and hold this team above everything else. I don’t have your charisma and reputation, and I can’t have another Horne Wyatt questioning my being here every chance he gets. You see what I’m able to do inside that cockpit, Cy, and Zan makes me that much better. This role isn’t for a formal Nighthawk; it’s for another pilot that is skilled and can take commands.”
“Fair enough,” Cilas said. “I too would prefer familiar faces to get the seats on the bridge, but this is about our missions, and staying successful. I’ll entertain this role, for you, but as far as the rest … No Brise Sol to be reinstated as our engineer, and no Rendron classmates looking to use my ship as a means of escape.”
Helga stood up and stretched, unaware of how alluring she looked silhouetted beneath the low light. Cilas was about to reach for her but she danced away, picking up her clothes and flashing him a devilish grin.
“Speaking of familiar faces,” she said. “I better go, lest I get caught exiting my commander’s cabin.”
“When we make dock with Rendron, I should get a hatch installed with access to your berthing. Your cabins are right below the mess hall, which is right over there beneath the communications station. Then there wouldn’t be any hiding anymore. You can come up, or I can come down to visit,” he said, grinning.
“Time to get up for you anyway, Commander,” she said. “You’re being hailed.”
Where he had indicated that a hatch could be installed, there was now a flashing light with a holographic symbol of the Alliance hovering above it, spinning to get his attention.
Without waiting for him to confirm, she was out the door and tip-toeing down the ladderwell to the Ursula’s central passageway. Helga always loved the view whenever she would descend from his cabin. From the deck at the base of the ladder, she could see the bridge past the mess hall, lift stations and CIC. If someone was up and about, she would know it, and with so small a crew, it was rare to find anyone roaming about this early.
There was something different in this shift, however. From the open doorway of the mess, she could hear laughter and as she grew closer she recognized Quentin and Raileo’s voices. Helga checked her wrist-comms for the time, and saw that it was 0:372, exactly twelve minutes into the first shift. Thype, she thought, trying to think of a way to get to the lift without being noticed by the men. Normally at this time she would be dressed in either her uniform, flight suit, or 3B XO-suit, with a singular focus of getting her coffee to start the cycle. Now here she was, stuck in shorts and undershirt, with her newly purchased slippers on her feet. Even if she were to walk in and pretend that she didn’t care, one of them would notice, and then there would be questions.
She inched closer to the door, hoping to see that none of the Nighthawks were watching the doorway as they chatted. A tap on her shoulder froze her, and for the universe’s longest second she waited for her heart to dislodge from her throat. Closing her eyes to calm herself, Helga turned to see Cleia motioning for her to follow.
The Traxian took her back to medbay, where she poured both of them some tea with a drop of brown liquid from a tiny vial. Helga took it and sniffed at it and almost dropped it due to the smell, but Cleia was already drinking hers and watching her.
“Oh, it does smell bad, doesn’t it?” she said, making a face. “It tastes good though; you should try it. Removes the bland taste from the tea, which tends to linger, and can be disgusting. Everything on the ship is processed from algae and made to look and taste like other things that we’re familiar with from our respective planets. Coffee is the exception, but I don’t like it. As a Traxian, I am a tea-drinker, through and through.”
“Disgusting?” Helga said, raising an eyebrow. She had always thought that the meal dispenser was one of the greatest inventions to come out of the Alliance. “You must have a really sensitive palate. Too bad your nose doesn’t seem to work, because the smell alone makes me want to throw up.”
“Humor me, Helga. Please,” the tiny Traxian cooed, and Helga studied her face intently before holding her breath and taking a sip.
It was delicious, like hot chocolate, and as it warmed her stomach, she felt suddenly euphoric. All the concern for getting to the shower and dressing for the cycle dissolved, and a pleasant numbness found her limbs, with tiny pinpricks becoming a massage. Helga looked down into the mug, surprised, then back up at the doctor who gave her a wink.
“Now I know why you’re always smiling, you little sneak,” she said. “What’s inside that vial? Liquid rowcut, or something else more potent?”
Cleia laughed, “I’m not a sneak. It’s an energy supplement that I picked up from the station, crushed up and blended with a cocktail of my own. Which I cannot reveal until it’s patented. Like it?”
“Love it, but you really ought to work on the smell. I feel like I just gulped down liquid schtill.”
“That is absolutely disgusting, Helga, but noted. I forget that Vestalians can be overly sensitive to smells.”
Helga sat down on one of the beds, and this time when she sipped, she did not hold her breath. Cleia watched her do it, then crossed the deck and brought out a small disk from a pocket on the side of her coat. Placing it in the center of her palm where it stuck, she used it to scan several areas of the Nighthawk’s body.
“What are you doing?” Helga said, placing the mug down on a table.
“Well, Lieutenant Helga Ate, I am scanning you for injuries. You Nighthawks think that you’re invincible inside your powered suits, but I have news for you, you’re not. See here, there is bruising, and you have a hairline fracture in your right humerus. Have you had much trouble sleeping lately?” she said, then stopped to look Helga in the eyes.
“Since Argan-10 it’s been a challenge, for all of us I think,” Helga said. “My arm is fractured?”
“Not fractured; even you’re not so tough as to walk around like that,” Cleia said, smiling. “It’s a hairline break on your bone, in the region right below your bicep. Don’t you worry, though, my friend. We will get you patched up before you return to your duties today. There’s an extra set of coveralls inside the bin for you to wear when you leave me, as well. You might want to consider keeping a change of clothes within the
commander’s closet.”
Helga cleared her throat loudly. She still wasn’t comfortable with discussing what she and Cilas had with anyone from the team.
“So, you saw me just now then, trying to get past the mess?” Helga said.
“You needed an excuse for coming from this side so early in the cycle,” Cleia said, “and I needed to get you in here, and not just for your nutrition. You need a physical. Now, legs up, and let’s get those slippers off. There, now let’s have a look at you.”
28
Eyes closed, legs crossed, and the cold steel of the Thundercat’s port wing beneath her rear, Helga sat for a long time trying to get her mind to stop. It didn’t seem possible. How could she do it?
How do you stare into the void and let it cushion you when you just sent over thirty Geralos to their graves? No matter what she did, she kept seeing the same scene. The tracers tearing a seam into the side of that hull, and the bodies falling out of it, clawing at space, frozen before they knew it, gone from the world. It wasn’t regret or some deep wisdom she felt for being their executioner inside the cockpit, but something she couldn’t quantify, since it wasn’t an emotion she knew.
After leaving the bridge she had taken the lift down to the docks, then went to her room and got in front of the mirror, staring at herself for a while. She had wanted to speak to that girl whose reflection stared back with defiance, to tell her that she was beyond the line, burning out thrust as the g-force climbed. No time during that entire situation did she concern herself for the men and women on the dreadnought.
