by Stina Leicht
God, I miss him, she thought. But Kurosawa was well and truly dead—as dead as AGIs got. So much death. The dull ache nesting in her chest didn’t seem to be getting any better. At least it’s not getting any worse. She thought about what was likely to be ahead and added, Yet.
She laid a hand on a spotless panel. The ship’s color scheme was straight out of the factory: black, white, grey, and chrome. Maybe I can do something about that when I change the name.
If I keep it.
Who am I kidding? Of course, I’m damned well keeping it.
Flipping a switch, she spoke into the ship’s com unit. “How are the mechs looking back there? Are they secure?”
“All locked down,” Annalee said.
All in all, Annalee had been a surprise. Her attitude was entirely changed—proving that her apology had been genuine. Apparently, she had severe issues with being used to gun down the innocent. Her bitterness had been self-recrimination, not resentment. Whether or not Captain Reese had done so knowingly, she’d misrepresented the job. That, more than anything, had been the reason for Annalee and the others to break contract with Serrao-Orlov.
It was, Angel decided, an honorable decision after all. She’d have done the same.
Of the original six mech pilots assigned to Shrike, two had survived the assault, and of the four mechs whose pilots had died, only one unit was salvageable. Angel didn’t know the first thing about mechs, but Annalee did. Her intent was to repair the unit and sell it. The proceeds would go to helping the people of Ogenth.
Angel was both grateful and embarrassed about having been so wrong.
“Shrike, how long until we reach the station?” she asked.
“Due to current weather conditions, I anticipate arrival in twenty-three minutes and eleven seconds.”
Shrike’s voice wasn’t what Angel expected. Everything else about the ship was the default setting. As far as she could tell, no personalization had been done at all. However, Shrike had a Brynner accent. It was going to take some getting used to.
“All done with your checks, Miri?” Angel asked.
Miri nodded.
Angel spoke into the ship’s com. “Buckle up, everyone. Prepare for dust off.”
After Miri tapped the appropriate menu sequence, the engines flared. Shrike shuddered. Even the sounds of the ship’s propulsion system were distinct from Kurosawa’s. Shrike was throatier and smoother. The vibration through the ship’s frame was less immediate.
Miri laid a hand on the stick and glanced to Angel as if asking permission.
“Let’s do it,” Angel said.
Beginning the ascent, Miri’s face grew serious. She checked all the visuals as Shrike slowly lifted into the air.
The ache in Angel’s chest intensified as more little differences between Kurosawa and Shrike were brought to her attention. She told herself it was because Lou wasn’t there. Lou’s takeoffs tended to be fast and abrupt as if she couldn’t wait to get where she was going. Miri was more careful, methodical, even graceful.
First the woods and then the mountain shrank beneath them. The sky was cloudy per usual, but rain didn’t appear to be in the forecast. Sunlight filtered between puffs of white, minting gold on the trees. It was the first time Angel had seen a sunny day in months. She couldn’t help thinking it was as if Persephone was glad to see them go.
They rose higher. Suddenly, the view was obscured by white mist. They flew blind for a few moments before the clouds dissipated. The sky over Persephone grew darker and acquired a purple cast. It’d been months since she’d last watched the transition from a planet’s atmosphere to space through a ship’s screen. The ride became a little bumpy. She didn’t blame Miri. Turbulence was expected.
As they exited the stratosphere and entered the mesosphere, planetside gravity acquiesced its hold on Shrike to velocity. Angel’s stomach lodged a complaint. Her CA automatically administered anti-nausea meds to help her adjust to weightlessness. It would take a few moments before the drug took effect. In the meantime, she resorted to well-practiced breathing techniques to avoid throwing up.
She checked on Miri.
Blond hair floating around her head gave her the appearance of a surprised hedgehog. Other than that, she seemed to be coping just fine.
Emissaries apparently don’t get space sick, Angel thought.
When her disorientation finally began to fade, she fixed her gaze on the cockpit screen. It made automatic adjustments to the light pouring from Persephone’s sun.
The new perspective stole her breath away. Persephone was all deep blues, various shades of greens, whites, and browns. The proportions weren’t the same as Thandh’s or even Earth’s, of course, but it was beautiful nonetheless. Persephone’s seas were much larger—80 percent of the planet’s surface. The ship continued upward until Angel saw Persephone as a whole, taking up the entirety of the viewscreen. Clouds stretched in broad spirals and wispy curves as the prevailing winds pulled them across the surface like a series of white cotton veils.
There was something about seeing a planet from space that triggered awe. The idea that so many fragile balances and tiny lives existed to support life as a whole was more immediate. She thought it was probably because there was no denying the vast nothingness that surrounded it. Hard as one tried to ignore the subject, a majority of the universe was comprised of vacuum, lifeless rocks, and stars. Space reminded her she was tiny and her problems were even tinier. That was easy to forget when she was on the surface—no matter which planet she was on. Worry over bills, money, career, loneliness, personal drama, or the seeming million other small everyday stresses seemed to squeeze out the beauty of life as seen close up.
Maybe that’s why we keep killing one another over stupid things? she thought.
Shrike righted itself, orienting to its next destination.
Persephone Station hung in the blackness over the planet like a great wheel. The long hub—longer than the station was wide—provided a series of landing ports for ships of varying sizes. Thick windows along the rotating wheel glittered in the light of the sun. The station was made of white and gold and steel. Blinking lights and black lettering ran along the length of the hub. A thick cluster of ships waited to dock all around the station.
Individual planets may or may not be corporate held, but all the stations were operated, owned, and regulated by the United Republic of Worlds. This arrangement not only kept the fees affordable and the station maintenance to a consistent standard, it also prevented stations from withholding emergency services to distressed ships. Intergalactic trade had its hazards, and hard lessons were learned in the early years.
Space traffic controllers were URW trained. Station congestion tended to follow familiar patterns. While she didn’t have a conscious awareness of what those were, Angel had traveled often enough to have a vague idea of what to expect.
Something wasn’t quite right. What that something was suddenly occurred to her.
No one was leaving. And in spite of a number of vacancies, no one was docking either. She was about to make a comment to that effect when the cockpit com channel buzzed. Miri punched the call through.
“You have entered a high-traffic zone and are currently under URW jurisdiction.” The space station traffic controller was a woman with a crisp URW Standard accent. “Please identify.”
Angel prepared to reply.
“We are the dropship Shrike,” Miri said in a bored professional tone.
The response surprised Angel. She’d assumed that Miri had the same communication limitations as her mother. You know what they say about assumptions.
Miri recited the ship’s registration number in expert fashion. “Requesting permission to enter Serrao-Orlov private dock number one. We have a load of riot-control equipment for repair.”
Many of the corporation’s warehouses and closely associated businesses had been looted and/or burned to the ground. As a result, extensive mech repairs could only be attempted on the station. H
ence, the damaged unit onboard. Angel hoped station traffic wouldn’t examine the excuse too closely. Someone was bound to ask for Captain Reese, and Reese was dead. While that wasn’t an insurmountable problem—they could always claim that Reese had been injured and was unavailable—it could ultimately lead to a roster check, and that was a problem.
Miri continued. “Jenn Reese is the captain of record. Currently, we are under contract with Vissia Corsini of Serrao-Orlov. Do you require our charter number?”
We’re all friends here, Angel thought. See? Look. Nothing up our sleeves. Not even a stolen ship.
“Identity confirmed, Shrike,” the traffic controller said. “Sending docking coordinates. How long do you intend to stay?”
“However long it takes to off-load the busted mechs and load the new units,” Miri said. “They’re needed for crowd suppression.”
“Understood. I hear it’s a mess down there.”
“Should only be for a few more hours,” Miri said. “They’ll lose their enthusiasm once they see the new squad of mechs. They generally do.”
“Please inform your captain that a full twenty-four-hour docking fee will be charged regardless of length of service,” the traffic controller said.
“Of course,” Miri said. “Thank you.”
“Coordinates have been sent,” the traffic controller said. “Please prepare for automatic piloting procedures.”
“Affirmative,” Miri said. She flipped off the external com switch. “Shrike, you have your orders.”
Shrike said, “Relinquishing navigation controls now.”
As the station steadily grew larger in the viewscreen, Angel reviewed its layout with her CA one last time.
Persephone Station had five floors of living quarters housed within the outer “wheel.” Elevators ran to and from the various berths and docks along the length of the station’s axel where the gravity field was the weakest. External docking areas for larger ships and inner berths for smaller ones were spaced along the upper and lower parts of the hub, projecting beyond the wheel. Two berths—one on each end of the hub—were reserved for Galaxy-class starships. Shrike was autopiloted to the lower section where both of Serrao-Orlov’s private docking facilities were located.
Angel understood Sergeant Todd was berthed somewhere in the upper hub. Briefly, she hoped that Rosie had paid Sukyi’s bills before being kidnapped. Angel wanted to think that, if she lived through what was ahead, she or Sukyi could take custody of Sergeant Todd.
There were approximately fifteen thousand private residences and business-related spaces within Persephone Station. Rosie could be in any one of them. Without an electronic tag on their person, there was no means of finding Rosie short of searching door by door. There wasn’t time. However, there was one person whose location could be discovered remotely. That person was Vissia Corsini. The corporate executive didn’t strike Angel as the patient type. Whatever she wanted Rosie for, she’d most likely be well on her way to getting.
With a pair of pliers, if need be. Angel shuddered.
Find Vissia, and Rosie was certain to be nearby.
Shrike? Angel activated her CA link. Where are Vissia Corsini’s offices and apartments?
Accessing the station directory, Shrike answered. There was a short pause. Vissia Corsini’s private apartment is located on the fourth level, section F. The Serrao-Orlov offices are also on the fourth level and occupy sections A through D. Her office address is 415C. The elevator from the private docking facility empties directly to a private corridor that will lead you to the Serrao-Orlov facilities.
What is her schedule for the day?
Accessing data. Another brief silence resulted. She has canceled all appointments and is not taking calls.
Angel took that as a confirmation of her worst fears. Thank you, Shrike. With that, she accessed the ship’s intercom. “All right, Kennedy. You said you could hack into security if you had to. You’re up. I hope the forged weapons’ licenses are up to close inspection.”
“They’ll pass,” Kennedy said. “Please be aware that the station’s weapons dampening systems will be in effect.”
Paulie asked, “What does that mean?”
“All of our weapons are powered,” Enid said. “Station security doesn’t want a stray rail-powered slug causing a decompression. Therefore, the rate of fire will be slowed so that the ammunition won’t pierce the hull. URW regulations.”
“Oh,” Paulie said, sounding relieved. “There won’t be a fire fight, then.”
“We can still shoot and be shot,” Enid said. “The slower rate of fire means shorter recharge rates.” Angel could hear the smile in her voice.
“Shorter wait times between shots,” Annalee said. “Less risk of jamming and overheating.”
“Oh,” Paulie said.
“Time for a quick review of station weapons protocols,” Enid said.
No off-planet facility allowed weapons that might endanger hull integrity. Hence, the forged permits. However, no permit was issued unless the recipient was clear on safety operations. The URW tended to get upset with anyone who endangered their expensive space stations.
Angel waited until Enid was finished. “We’re heading to business unit 415C and residence unit 430F. Kennedy? Can you get us through the security panels on those units?”
They would reach the station around 11:00. Vissia could be at either location.
After a short pause, Kennedy said, “Probably. But it may take time.”
“You have the time it takes for us to reach C level to work out a solution,” Angel said.
If Kennedy couldn’t get in, they’d have to get creative. Angel had a plan B, of course, and even a plan C and D—each progressively more complicated and more risky. It was what Angel did. No plan survived contact with the enemy. And Rosie’s life depended upon it.
The dock doors irised open, and Shrike glided inside the garage. Bright light cast everything in stark contrasts. It took several moments for Angel’s eyesight to adjust. As they entered the docking area, she noted the row of corporate freighters parked on the right. Four different personal yachts were berthed in the docking stations on the left. Shrike eased into its assigned berth.
Angel pushed her hair from her face. Yet another microchange—hub gravity was less powerful than that in the residential areas—took hold. Her stomach barely registered the difference.
Docking clamps thumped into place. Now that the ship was secure, Miri shut off the engine.
And no hiccups due to old firmware. I could get used to that, Angel thought.
“All right, we’re here,” she said, pressing the ramp release. She reached into a thigh pocket and grabbed one of the hair elastics stored there. “Miri, you know what to do. Wait for my call. But if things go sideways, I want you to get home.”
Miri said, “But—”
“You’re going back to your little sister. Alive and safe,” Angel said. She gathered her hair into a careless ponytail and centered it on the crown of her head with a quick tug. Then she unbuckled her harness. “No suicidal vengeance for you.”
Miri blinked, surprised. “I hadn’t considered it. Why would I?”
“Remind me never to explain,” Angel said.
“If I leave the station before you return, how will you get back to Brynner?” Miri asked.
“If the situation goes bad,” Angel said. And it probably will. “We won’t. The least I can do for Beak is make sure that you do.”
She half floated, half pulled herself through to the next compartment, meeting the others waiting for the ramp. Kennedy was still buckled into place. She was focused on her hand terminal and typing with her thumbs. Annalee’s mech suit was positioned right next to the ramp. Its hulking form neatly fit into the cargo space.
First in line, Angel thought. She pushed herself to the floor and activated her mag boots.
A loud thump and clank vibrated through Shrike’s hull as the ramp locked into place. Annalee’s mech thudded down. Enid f
ollowed. Then came Paulie.
Last in line, Angel called back to the cockpit. “Remember what I said. Get the hell out when I tell you to.”
Miri said, “May the positive energies of the universe guide and protect you.”
It was the first time Angel had heard any of the Emissaries say anything remotely religious. She realized she knew next to nothing about Emissary culture. There simply hadn’t been time to learn.
“Thanks. You, too,” she said.
Enid’s uneasy tone came through Angel’s suit com. “Ah, boss?”
Angel turned to the ramp opening and brought up her rifle. “Yeah?”
“Where is everyone?”
31
TIME: 01:30
DAY: MONDAY
PERSEPHONE STATION
The thin blanket didn’t cover the meager sheet, let alone the bed. With the covers tucked under their arms, Rosie’s bare feet stuck out at the bottom. Cold processed air poured into the small arctic-white room regardless of repeated protests. A flat screen shaped like a window, which normally provided the room’s occupant a view, was a dull black that didn’t even reflect the harsh ceiling light. The only furnishings—other than the bed—were the glass diagnostic panel built into the wall at Rosie’s head, the bed, and the abandoned cart near the door. Disposable restraints secured their wrists to the steel hospital bed. They’d been cinched too tight to permit relaxation, let alone rest. Sharp plastic edges threatened to cut skin if they struggled. Their arms and shoulders ached from being held in an awkward position designed for the convenience of the medical technicians. Their mouth was dry and had been for some time, but the water pitcher rested on the cart, out of reach. Their throat was scratchy from fruitless shouting for a med tech.
Well, this sucks, Rosie thought, not for the first time.
Panic haunted the darkest edges of their mind—a panic that they’d done a credible job of fending off, thus far. Still, it was only a matter of time before terror prevailed. That was the point, after all.
