by Nick Cole
Ravi stared out the cockpit windows at the brilliant flashes of blaster fire between the rebels and Republicans. He heard the door to Keel’s quarters whoosh open and closed, then turned on his audio-visual scanner to pick up the conversation inside the lieutenant’s command sled. Wraith always communicated face to face.
***
The hair stood up on the back of Lieutenant Pratell’s neck as the incoming call chime sounded from her newly appointed command sled’s console. Fighting back the tremor raging along her spine and shoulders, she took a breath to make sure her voice would be clear and even. The Wraith only communicated—when he could be reached at all—face to face. Grizzled spacers said this was because the Wraith took hold of your soul when communicating. Science and reason had taught Pratell better than that. The soul was a bit of fanciful superstition.
More likely, Wraith wanted to read the face of whomever he spoke to. Use their fear, or whatever other tell he was supplied over the holoscreens, to his advantage. So Pratell would remain calm and impassive, calling on all of her academy poise.
She cleared her throat, wondering for a moment if the sled’s drivers took this as a sign of weakness or fear. “Bring on screen.”
The interior cabin lights dimmed as a hexagonal screen flickered to life, revealing the spectral visage of the Wraith. The bounty hunter was positioned in front of his holocam so the screen was filled by his legionnaire-like helmet, a modification of the MK-100 series from a decade prior, the last set of useful armor. It was a ghostly shade of gray, reminiscent of that worn by the fabled Victory Company. Pratell could feel Wraith’s eyes examining her, boring into her from behind the jet-black visor akin to the sunshields built into space fighters’ helmets. A glint of light from the holocam reflected in his mask like a sunspot.
One of the drivers swallowed audibly. Both men worked the console in front of them, pretending not to notice who was before them.
If the rumors are true…
They gave sidelong glances to Pratell, probably spying to see if she, too, marveled at the sight of the infamous bounty hunter. Perhaps the last man in the galaxy who dealt openly with the Republic on his own terms.
“Wraith,” Pratell began, cursing herself for the way her voice involuntarily wavered. “A certain Captain Keel is demanding that—”
“Pay him.” Wraith’s voice was cold and hard, grains of sand propelled into a duracrete wall in a cat-4 duster. He turned away from the camera.
The holofeed cut away abruptly, replaced by the rotating crest of the Republic. The cabin lights increased their glow.
The sled’s drivers looked at Lieutenant Pratell expectantly.
“Route the necessary credits to Captain Keel.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“The moment his ship takes off, cut down every last one of those rebels.”
“Lieutenant? Our orders were to take possession of the Mid-Core Rebels for questioning.”
“No. No survivors.”
07
Lieutenant Pratell stepped from her combat sled and walked toward the remains of the deceased rebels. Their miserable resistance had been overcome the moment that incorrigible Captain Keel blasted off. In the end, the main battle tank wasn’t even needed. Republic combat sleds had sped around the rock that sheltered the rebels and torn the seditious criminals apart with their heavy twin blaster cannons. Legionnaires now picked over the dead, searching for any actionable intelligence on the bodies of the traitors.
“Ma’am,” came the crackling voice of a legionnaire through his helmet speaker. “I’ve found a survivor.”
Unsure which legionnaire was speaking, she scowled at one kneeling next to the still-smoking carcass of a dead horned githid rebel, its lifeless square pupils fixed on the orange skies overhead.
“Then kill him,” Pratell ordered. The very fact that she had to repeat her order caused her blood pressure to rise. It was bad enough the prisoner transfer had failed under her watch. Now she would have to defend her administration of orders to an efficiency bot upon return to Fort Bantam.
“Why was it necessary for you to repeat orders?” the bot would ask from behind a half-moon-shaped desk, there to make the whole process seem somehow more… normal. As if the bot kept hours inside the debrief office instead of powered down in some closet.
“How might you have delivered your instructions so as to leave no doubt of your intentions?”
“Do you find yourself questioning your own orders?”
“How might this hesitation have been detrimental to the Republic?”
“How did…”
“Why did…”
“If you were in the place of…”
Pratell gritted her teeth, almost wishing the legionnaire would challenge her. Give her a reason to shout and yell. To show that her rank was not to be questioned.
“No, ma’am. It’s one of ours.” The legionnaire speaking was not the one she was looking at. Since her childhood, she had never seemed able to pinpoint where noises came from. Bumps in the night might be from the streets below her parents’ high-rise, or behind the closet door. She never could figure out which.
She turned to where two of the three dead legionnaires lay—the ones that had been dead when she’d arrived. The incompetents killed by the rebels.
One of the two, LS-19 according to his armor, was being attended to by a regular Repub-Army medic and another legionnaire. They removed his helmet and applied skin packs to the blaster-ravaged flesh on his neck.
LS-19 attempted to speak, but could only manage a sickly gurgle. A mixture of blood and saliva bubbled from his lips.
“Easy, buddy,” his legionnaire comrade soothed, squeezing the dying man’s hand. “You’ll be top gear in no time.”
The medic’s brows furrowed in confusion. “He’s panicking.”
The legionnaire hissed through his speakers. “Leejes don’t panic.”
“Well, he won’t stop tapping his fingers against my wrist. I’m going to sedate him.”
“No.” The legionnaire—he was marked as a corporal, but Pratell could never remember their numbers or little nicknames—pushed the medic aside and bent close to the wounded man.
Pratell watched with interest as the dying legionnaire tapped rapidly on his companion’s reflective armored forearm. She could hear the rhythmic noise of it, like fingers drumming on a table.
“You’re sure?” asked the legionnaire attending to LS-19. By now the other surviving shock troopers were gathered around their dying comrade.
“Sure of what?” Pratell had no idea what was going on, but judging by the way the legionnaires behaved, it was important. She received no reply.
The tapping slowed… slowed… and stopped. The arms of the wounded legionnaire went limp and were gently lowered onto his chest.
“Sure of what?” she asked again.
“It’s a non-verbal code we learn at academy,” the legionnaire corporal said, rising to his feet.
“And what did he communicate?”
“He kept saying… double cross.”
A flush of hot anger reddened Pratell’s face. She fought back tears of frustration. She knew—she knew—the captain was hiding something. She assumed it was just bluffing a false ship ID. But to cut down a trio of legionnaires and paint it as a failure—her failure—in order to extort money from the Republic…
She turned and ran to the nearest combat sled. She passed the cockpit and moved to the transport section to activate the comm, not wanting the drivers to hear her conversation. “This is Lieutenant Pratell. I need to speak with Commander Ardent immediately.”
The wait seemed interminable before the front display flickered to reveal the bloated commander.
He eyed Pratell suspiciously. “What, pray tell, requires me being rousted from my evening meal?”
“Commander, I have actionable intelligence that the freighter captain who oversaw transfer of prisoners in fact released the prisoners, resulting in the deaths of multiple legio
nnaires. He also extorted… a substantial sum from the Republic and forced a confrontation that resulted in the death of all the Mid-Core Rebel prisoners.”
Commander Ardent tugged at the corners of his mouth. “That is incorrect, Lieutenant.” His voice was cold, correcting. “The prisoners transferred to us had already succumbed to wounds sustained in the surprise attack. The captain delivered them without incident. The legionnaires were killed in a freak sled accident. Is that clear?”
“But, sir. This captain is a menace to the Republic. The way he brazenly—”
“Lieutenant Pratell!” shouted the commander, his face red and glistening with sudden perspiration. “I have worked and scraped to get within sniffing distance of the mid-core, but look around you. This is still very much galaxy’s edge. Officers who fail to complete their tasks are only reassigned farther toward the edge. I will not let that happen!” He stood up, his portly gut filling the holoscreen before the cam realigned with his face. “I will not!”
Pratell knew better than to press. She held her peace as the commander regained control of his emotions.
“Lieutenant, I thought we understood one another. Your career can’t afford a… failure of this magnitude. Now, I only want what’s best for my most promising officer.”
You only want to be sure no one asks why you didn’t oversee the prisoner transfer yourself, per our orders. Pratell swallowed the urge to vocalize this barb, opting instead to try one more time—delicately. “Sir, yes, but the Inscrutable is between us and the desert moon. If we hail them, they could intercept Keel before—”
“Enough, Lieutenant.” Commander Ardent waved away the suggestion. “I won’t risk the questions and reports that would follow. Now, I have guests waiting at table for my return. I expect your report to reflect the circumstances… appropriately.”
“Yes, Commander.”
The screen went black, and Pratell bit her lip. There was more than one way to put down this Captain Keel.
***
“Here, Princess, take my hand.” Captain Keel reached into the smuggling hold and pulled the princess out of the sweltering space. The general held up his own hand for assistance from Keel, but the captain promptly turned to focus his attention on the princess, leaving the man in the hold with his hand raised awkwardly.
“Thank you,” said the princess. “And please, call me Leenah.”
“Sure, Leenah.”
The princess possessed a near-human physiology. Her bright pink skin and red tendrils—hanging from her head like hair—were the only features that outed her as a non-human. Keel was unfamiliar with the species, but found the princess attractive enough, especially when she took in a lungful of Indelible VI’s cool, filtered air. Keel was sure it had been hot in that hold before he had placed the wool blanket over the seams. Her white and teal utility suit was soaked in sweat.
“There’s a shower down the corridor if you need to use it,” he offered. “Right next to the navigator’s quarters. Ravi doesn’t actually need his own room, so it’s yours until we reach Pellek. Not that it’s a long jump.” He looked over his shoulder. The general was awkwardly hoisting himself out of the hold, struggling as he threw his leg up.
The princess gave Keel a warm smile. “Thank you, Captain. You’ve been most selfless. Hiding us from the Republic and now offering your accommodations.”
Keel matched her smile with a roguish grin of his own. “I do try.”
“There’s something I’d like to know,” said the general as he dusted himself off. He stood a head shorter than Keel, and was young. Far too young to have such a lofty rank, unless the Mid-Core Rebels were desperate for any sort of leadership. Or unless he had a wealthy father or patron who had placed him higher in command than he deserved. Keel made a mental note to stay on the young man’s good side if he showed any of the telltale signs of good breeding and accustomed wealth.
He held open his palms. “Ask away, General…?”
“Lem Parrish. What exactly was going on outside while we were stuck in that hold? It sounded like a full-scale war.”
With a somber nod, Keel puffed out his breath. “Yeah, it was pretty bad.” He clapped his hands together and bent down to put the deck plate covering the smuggler’s hold back in place. “But that’s water under the crossing!”
“Captain, are we still in any danger from the Republic?” The princess placed her hand lightly on Keel’s shoulder.
Standing up to look into her violet eyes, Keel said, “No. We passed the Republic frigate Inscrutable without issues. I waited until we were safely in hyperspace before letting you out of your hidey-hole.”
“I suppose we owe you a debt of gratitude for saving our lives twice, Captain,” said Parrish.
“Nah, you don’t owe me anything, General. Although there may be some repairs necessary for the shield generators…”
Parrish nodded.
“Maybe I can take a look?” suggested the princess.
Keel rubbed the back of his neck. The thought of anyone but him looking around his ship didn’t sit well.
Think of the big picture…
“Of course you can see the ship, Your Highness.”
Keel took Leenah gently by the hand. It was surprisingly callused. Probably some sort of evolutionary byproduct. He escorted her toward the refresh room, leaving the general to his own devices in the small common area by the smuggler’s hold. “We’ll drop out of hyperspace and arrive in the Pellek system soon, though. It’s a quick jump. After we dock, I’ll give you a tour before heading into Tannespa. There are some supplies I need to get, and then I’ll take you on to the port of your choosing.”
The door opened with a chime and a pneumatic whoosh. “Thank you, Captain,” Leenah said as she stepped across the threshold. “The MCR owes you a debt of gratitude.”
“The honor is all mine, I assure you.” Keel bowed, eliciting a radiant smile from the princess. She clearly enjoyed the royal treatment.
Good. One more admirer stowed in another corner of the galaxy won’t hurt things, that’s for sure.
The trick was keeping those admirers from running into each other. Like that time at the under-ocean gaming palace on Kashir. Keel winced at the memory.
Keel returned to the common area, where he found the general at Indelible’s workstation, examining a pair of calibrated spanners.
“Careful with those, huh?” Keel said, adjusting the holster on his hip. “I just got them spaced properly for my Intec.” He patted the blaster at his side. “Took me the better part of a jump from Ackabar to Wendall Prime, so…”
General Parrish placed the spanners back on the workstation carefully. “You know, Leenah really would like to look at your shield generators.”
Keel scoffed. “What? Out of curiosity? I can just show her the owner’s manual.” He put his hands on his hips and leaned his face down to meet Parrish’s. “I don’t like people looking around my ship.”
“She’s a good fleet mechanic.”
“Who? The princess?”
The youthful general smiled, but his reply was drowned out by a ship-wide chime, followed by Ravi’s voice.
“Captain Keel, I am thinking you should come up here right away!”
Keel furrowed his brow and strode up the corridor to the cockpit. “You might want to buckle in, General,” he said over his shoulder.
As if to emphasize the point, the ship lurched. The Indelible VI, like most nimble starships, had gravity and motion equalizers, but quick, jerky motions, like evasive maneuvers or collisions, happened too fast for full compensation.
The cockpit door swooshed open at Keel’s approach, revealing Ravi working the flight controls frantically. They were out of hyperspace, newly arrived to the Pellek system. Bright flashes lit up the cockpit. Searing green lasers, fired from an extreme distance, were impacting harmlessly against the shields.
Keel jumped into his seat and flipped an array of switches. “Fly or shoot, Ravi?”
“This is depen
ding on who is firing at us. I am not comfortable firing at legitimate authority figures, as you—”
“Ravi! Focus!”
The holographic navigator twitched his mustache. “Six’s sensors have identified four K-13 Preyhunters flying toward us from the planet itself.”
“Those are old starfighters,” Keel mumbled to himself. Preyhunters were two-winged snub fighters with a single blaster cannon at the end of each wing. They were capable of atmospheric and space flight, and though old, they had shield tech and a single baryon torpedo apiece.
He pulled the ship up and looped it around until they were heading straight for the enemy craft. With a double tap of a red triangular button, the forward cam feed superimposed itself over the cockpit window with a magnified view of the starfighters. They were beat up, their brown-and-yellow finishes chipped and dinged to reveal the gunmetal gray hull beneath. “Yeah, that’s them.”
“Who?” Ravi asked.
“Pellekanese pirates. See?” He pointed out a magnified logo on one of the ships—a golden oak with a horned Ridoran skull in the foreground.
“Yes, I am seeing,” Ravi said. “In such an instance I am comfortable manning the weapon systems.”
“Good. I’m a better pilot anyway.”
The flashes continued to erupt harmlessly around the cockpit as the four Preyhunters fired. But the distance was shrinking, and after the pounding the shields had taken from that Republican MBT, the laser blasts would begin to do some damage before much longer.
“Ravi, how many concussion warheads do we have left?”
“Three of six.”
“Only need one. Fire right at the middle of the formation.”
Ravi primed Indelible’s missile launcher. “They will be having ample time in which to dodge.”
“That’s the plan, Ravi. Divide and destroy.”
With a perfunctory nod, Ravi fired the concussion missile. It streaked toward the oncoming Preyhunters, its single blast drive making it look like a pale blue comet. The pirates took evasive maneuvers, scattering like a nest of spooked gronks.
