by Greg Dragon
“Yeah, I’ll be alright. Just going to miss the old girl, that’s all. Funny how it feels so long since we first came onboard.”
“All that action on Sanctuary then getting grounded for as long as we did,” Quentin said. “I think we all feel like it’s been a lifetime since we first set foot here.”
“You know, there’s been something bothering me ever since we got off Argan-10,” Helga said as she walked past them, leading the way towards the stern of the ship.
“The hostages?” Raileo tried.
“No, not them. But now that you mention it, how can I not? It’s too bad we couldn’t rescue any of them, but my concern is for the Geralos that Q and Sunny found,” she said.
“Oh,” Quentin said. “The doctor’s theory about them working to look like us?”
“Yeah. My thoughts are on that last push, and the extraction of the prince. The Shrikes aren’t privy to Cleia’s theory, so all they know is that the pirates are working with the lizards. That was us before Argan-10, ignorant to the fact that this goes so deep we’ll likely never know. It’s just that if Cleia is right, and they can mimic us through physical transformation, how do we know that the prince is the same person that got captured?
“A’wfa Terracydes is considered neutral, but Marines routinely visit the space to resupply. Some have families there, and the station has open contact with the Alliance council. The prince is powerful, so he ranks just about everyone stationed there, and could use his power to affect decisions that could ultimately aid the lizards. We cracked that box on the dreadnought that came for us, and that prompted an investigation into the station heads. If it were the prince, there would have been no investigation, now would there? And if the prince is now a lizard, everything we’ve done in the past week was for nothing.”
“It’s a valid concern, Ate, except for one problem,” Raileo said. “The prince is Arisani, not Vestalian. The doctor’s theory dealt with them mimicking us exclusively, but let’s say they could dupe other species, then we’re thyped.”
“The Geralos have been robbing our minds for many lifetimes. This is a new turn in their methods, but not much different from what they’ve always done,” Quentin said. “The Alliance will send dropships to Argan-10, loaded with a whole company of planet-busters looking to claim Geralos skulls—”
“And las-swords,” Helga said, stopping and spinning to mimic the flourishes of Sundown.
“Yes, and las-swords,” Quentin agreed. “They will break open that bunker and tear it apart. Once they’re finished, we won’t need any theories. We’ll know what they’ve been up to on that moon. As to the hostages, we all feel bad about how it went, but our job was discovery, and in that, we were successful. Not only did we learn that the lizards were on the moon, but we killed one of their new mutants. Without us doing that, we would still be in the dark about what they’re doing.”
“All that tells me is they have a lot more experiments on other moons that we aren’t privy to,” Helga said.
They found the exit hatch, where Cleia, Zan, and Sundown were seated, waiting for the commander. Cleia looked practically regal in an eggshell-colored cloak draped over a black 3B XO-suit. Zan wore her blue Rendron coveralls, and Sundown was in a sharp, gentleman’s business suit. His slicked-back hair was immaculate, a single grey streak down the middle, like the galaxy’s dandiest skunk.
“Oh, Helga, you look so important,” Cleia said, grinning.
“Is that a compliment, Doc, because I don’t know how to take it,” Helga said, winking. “You’re looking official. I love it, and Zan, you look lovely too. Sunny, you look like a well-dressed, murderous pimp.”
They all laughed and began trading barbs with one another to the astonishment of Cleia and Zan, who both stood back smiling, watching them act like children. When the commander emerged from his cabin, however, they all straightened up and got into their roles.
“I guess you all are ready to get off this beast?” he said, straightening his jacket and securing his hat. He was in his dress whites with medals and looked every part the captain of their ship. Even his walk had the confident air of a man who had control of his life. “Ursula, open the hatch and lower the ramp so that we can deplane,” he announced, and the corvette quickly complied.
The hatch came open to cheers from a crowd of spacers waiting at the foot of the ramp. Halfway up it was Captain Retzo Sho, followed by Commander Jit Nam, immaculate in their all-black uniforms. Cilas stepped out and nodded at the crowd, and his eyes momentarily tilted to catch the flobot above him, filming video for the live feed. He closed with the captain and greeted him with the clasping of forearms, followed by a bear hug. He did the same with Jit Nam, and then together they walked to the end of the ramp.
They waited for Helga to descend, then Quentin and Raileo, followed by Sundown, and Cleia Rai’to. Unlike the rest who got claps, cheers, and sometimes shouts, the doctor evoked a chorus of wide-ranging responses. Traxians were not as well-traveled as their planetary neighbors, so most spacers had never met one before. Helga worried for her friend and what she considered to be a rude welcome, but the doctor was so happy she seemed to be floating.
Zan emerged last and looked so human that even she got a round of applause. One after another, they greeted the captain, then the XO, before retreating to stand at attention with their backs to the ramp. Captain Retzo Sho walked out into the center of the small hangar, and the crowd backed up to form a circle about him so that he could make his address.
“Welcome home, Nighthawks,” he said to loud chairs and whistles. “And welcome to our new friends, who signed on to support them and Commander Cilas Mec. Welcome, you mighty crew of the Ursula, welcome, and congratulations on a mission well done. As you see, we have gathered today a large gathering of our Rendron family, but none of them are here by chance. Every one of them has ties to something that you’ve done. These cadets have families on hubs you have liberated, brothers and sisters rescued from the clutches of the Geralos.
“Service is a hard thing to fathom for those who haven’t yet been made to fight for something greater than life. And what is life without freedom? Peace without choice? We lay down our lives for the Alliance, because to the chosen, there is no other choice. But in this commitment, we get so focused on the enemy that it is hard to see the results from our strides. Like the fact that the Vestalians of Arisani are back home with their families, safe, thanks to the effort of multiple ESO teams.
“At times, it can seem like the hardest jobs yield the most meager of rewards if you’re lucky. No one knows that you just saved millions of lives, and you can’t discuss it, not even a hint. The congratulations are left up to us, your superiors, the captains, admirals, and council that order you to place your lives on the line. So allow me to thank you, Nighthawks, for your continued diligence and success in the most extreme circumstances. For being my hidden blade when I need you, slicing through bonds and the throats of our wicked lizard oppressors.”
“Sambe!” Quentin shouted suddenly, which caused Helga to look over at Raileo, who could barely conceal a smile.
“Commander Mec, my commendations to you, our finest son. What you have accomplished with so small a team is a testament to your leadership. Now that you’re home, it is time to become whole again, and when next you leave, I expect it will be with a full complement.”
His speech went on for a long ten minutes, laced with the bravado and patriotic flair that the spacers loved to hear. Retzo Sho was a brilliant orator, so despite the length and their weary bodies, everyone was tuned into his every word, as he shifted praise from the Nighthawks to the unsung heroes on the hubs and warships. Helga didn’t know why this return was so important for the captain to turn it into such a spectacle, but she felt honored nonetheless, seeing the awe reflected in the cadets’ eyes.
It felt odd being on Rendron without the presence of Joy Valance, and once the speech was over and the crowd thinned, Helga found herself feeling incredibly alone. She looked
for Cilas, but he was gone, tethered to the captain, who would want to hear every detail of their adventures. Raileo and Cleia had vanished, and Quentin was being interviewed by a reporter. The only ones left were Sundown and Zan, who was busy transporting their luggage to a lift.
Suddenly the reality of how much she disliked the starship washed over her like a black wave of doom. It brought with it depression, bad memories, and the need to run. But where could one truly escape on a floating city, packed with spacers wanting to worship you? To your berth, but for how long? And would that truly be escaping when at any time your comms would buzz, summoning you to a meeting that barely had anything to do with you?
When the Nighthawks first learned that the Ursula was theirs, Helga had all but done a backflip with excitement. It was to be her ship as much as it was Cilas’s, but the joy came from the fact that they would finally be allowed to leave.
From her days as a cadet, Helga had set her eyes on Special Forces. Her instructors tried to talk her out of it because they saw it as a waste of her potential. How could they have known that she wanted to escape? She ignored their advice and signed up for BLAST, which resulted in her becoming an ESO.
Her first mission was a disaster, and the many that followed were just as bad. Still, they allowed her to see Dyn, Meluvia, Sanctuary, A’wfa Terracydes, and Argan-10, not to mention the starship Aqnaqak.
Helga was a blink away from her 19th year of life, and she had already seen and fought enough to make the most seasoned of Marines jealous. Quentin Tutt had said as much, and he had a resume that was a breath short of legendary. Yet here she was, back home, and feeling every bit the young outcast that she had been before she became a Nighthawk.
“Feels strange, doesn’t it?” Sundown said, walking up to stand next to her, his black gloves resting in the small of his back.
“Do you have any Seeker tricks to make time go by rapidly?” she said. “I could use one right now to blank this place.”
“You seem tortured here, la’una. Surprising, since I expected you to relish returning to your mothership.”
“Oh, don’t go feeling too sorry for me, Sun So-Jung,” she said, rubbing at her neck. “You’re lucky, you’re Virulian, with nothing to physically other you from a Vestalian man. Me and these spots of mine make me a walking target for every soon-to-be sociopath on this ship, and even now when I look at them, I can’t help but feel the rage deep inside my soul. Don’t bother with the Jumper philosophy on this, Sunny. I like my head right where it is, and nothing you say will change it.”
“Didn’t plan to talk you down from your hate precipice, because I know that emotion all too well. When people hurt you, there are two paths the mind can take: either the path of acceptance, oftentimes believing that the pain was deserved, or the path of the warrior, which you are now exhibiting,” Sundown said.
“Odd hearing that from you, Sunny, but I’ve seen you fight, so I know that below all that blackness is bright red laser fire,” Helga said, smiling. “Still, some would argue that there’s a third path. The path of peace, in which you accept that the bullies were little schtills and that everyone matures and gets better and more accepting.”
“And how is that fair to the victims?” Sundown said, and Helga looked up at him with some surprise.
“Oh, you’re dark,” she said, smiling. “Are you suggesting I walk in there, letting loose with my guns?
“I don’t agree with either path taken to the extreme,” Sundown said, “but a bit of both is what you need to choose. Consider the wheel of pain and its philosophy. One child hurts another, who grows up to rightfully seek revenge. The other child, the aggressor, grows up remembering all the bad that he’s done. Either he regrets it and seeks absolution, or accepts it and relishes in the memory of it all. However, if he knows his victim is resentful and seeking revenge, he will train and prepare, if anything, to preserve his life.”
“Then it becomes a circle,” Helga muttered, understanding now where he was going with his explanation.
“Yes, la’una, a vicious circle of revenge that can poison your bloodlines, leading to years of pain, all because you gave your oppressors the signs they needed to prepare. Keep walking around here with that scowl on your face, and your enemies will avoid you, knowing you hold on to the past. Now, if you are calm and appear open, being the star ESO that you are—”
“They won’t see me coming when I choose to attack?” Helga said, studying his face to make sure that this was what he meant. “I bet you were the most lethal assassin on Sanctuary, Sunny. That’s some thyped-up advice, do you not see that? You’re not only telling me you agree to me harming these men and women, but telling me to be sneaky so that I’m guaranteed to do it. I think that I love you.”
“Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it, Helga?” he said, his face reflecting his frustration.
“Come on, Sunny, don’t be upset. Joking is my way to clear the air, and you have to admit, that moment we had was positively evil just now,” she said.
“Maybe a wee bit,” he admitted and started laughing. “I was sort of making it up as I went.”
“Oh, I know, and you even spiced it up with the ‘la’una’ here and there. When you called me Helga, I knew that I had broken you, but regardless of you being full of schtill, Sunny, thanks for listening. Your terrible advice makes me want to play this game, and for every bastard from the academy I see, there will be a deceptive little smile.”
“That’s just how you get them,” he said, leading her through the door to the passageway beyond. “You smile, pretend you don’t remember, and when they think that all is forgotten—”
“Boom, I turn off the lights … but not before I remind them of all they have done,” Helga said, still smiling.
“You look like you need some alone time, la’una. I’ll tell the others that you went to see an old friend,” Sundown said, touching her shoulder then turning to walk away. After five steps, he stopped and looked back at her. “Remember what I told you about facing your pain?”
Before she could reply, he vanished into the crowd, and Helga checked her wrist-comms for the time.
“Four hours until we get to dine with Captain Sho,” she whispered. “Let’s see if anything changed on this ship.”
30
After the speeches, debriefs, reunions, and awkward meetings were over, Helga bypassed going back to her berth and chose instead to explore one of the Rendron’s less popular decks. She had started walking the passageways with no goal in mind, just one foot in front of the other, eyes forward, thinking back on the events of their mission to Argan-10. As a cadet, she had dreamed of touching planets, moons, and remote satellites, but now that she had done it, she wanted to laugh at her youthful ignorance.
For a boomer growing up with decks, bulkheads, and uniforms for fashion, the allure of worlds endless in both beauty and culture made you feel trapped and displaced inside of a ship. No one had warned her about the dredges, brovilas, and szilocs, who owned their respective lands and were loath to share it with human outsiders. All they had were vids, simulations, and stories from well-traveled Marines.
Did she regret becoming a Nighthawk? If someone were to ask, she would inform them that they were asking the wrong question. What did she regret? Surely not her choice to become an Extraplanetary Spatial Operator. And what was regret? A word reserved for the tongues of more privileged spacers, who were given the choice of a life outside of the Alliance Navy. What choice did she have? She, the orphaned child of a Vestalian Marine and a Casanian artist? A child whose earliest memories were on the decks of this starship, being honed into a warrior for the Alliance?
What she regretted was how she’d gone about it all. Letting her rage dictate her choices rather than keeping a cool head. When asked why she had become an ESO, she had always replied with a story about seeing the PAS armor and wanting to have the training and prestige of an elite Special Forces operator. Even she had started to believe it, this lie she told, but in tr
uth it was her anger that had driven her to BLAST.
Tough teenage years had stoked the fires of a troubled childhood into something akin to a thruster. She had worn a brave face, impressing the ranks into believing that she was one of the Rendron’s brightest stars. Below it all she had been on the verge of eruption, and it made her aspire to be strong, stronger than all the cadets that had ridiculed her for being small, half-alien, and a girl who dared to compete with the boys.
Helga stopped at a mysterious black door. It was polished to the point of brilliance, reflecting her distorted image, with a shiny gold border around the edge, and in the center, the words, “Hall of Honor.” She hadn’t been paying attention to where she was, and had gone up and down several ladders before she wound up here. Now she looked behind her expectantly, but there was no one in the passageway. Just the bright lights of the overhead, and the sounds of spacers chatting from beyond.
She considered turning around to continue exploring the ship, but there was something about the door that drew her in. Hesitantly, she reached forward and placed her hand over the access-panel. The door came open with a hiss, revealing the biggest compartment Helga had ever seen.
Row upon row of thin black walls ran the length of the room, their shiny black surfaces covered with the names of those who had served and lost their lives. The foremost walls were the heroes, those honored as the Rendron’s finest. The second set of rows was for the officers and rates that had commanded men. The last set took up the most room, in a space that to Helga seemed endless.
These were spacers who had received the Alliance’s Medal of Service, which was a posthumous award for outstanding service. Every one of those names were dead, and they were the standouts, the one percent. It was such a humbling reminder of how much had been given to fight back against the Geralos that Helga felt foolish for her earlier thoughts.
“All of these people died to get us the footing we now have in this age, to stand toe to toe with the lizards and win,” she whispered, as she ran her hand across one of the hero’s names. The letters shimmered and projected out towards her, and a menu unfolded as the image became opaque. “Oh,” Helga said, surprised. “I can go through their records?” She selected an icon that displayed his face, and the menu promptly shifted and became a life-sized hologram of the man.
