Half-Alien Warfighter (Lady Hellgate Book 3)

by Greg Dragon

  “Tutt likes you, Helga. I really wouldn’t worry about it. What about me, are we still good?” he said, and her shoulders sagged unintentionally. Why did he have to ask that question, and why did he have to look so concerned about it? The look in his eyes was the same as it was on Meluvia, when he’d learned that she’d been shot and rushed over to see about her.

  “Do we really need to do this, Cilas? We just traded jibes and it wasn’t awkward. If that doesn’t tell you that we’re good, what else do you need? We’re so good, but I meant what I said about it being a mistake.” She caught herself fidgeting and knew he would have noticed it. She had called it a mistake, but the sleep she got after leaving his cabin had been peaceful and sweet, and a part of her pined for an encore. “I don’t regret it, so please don’t think that you’re at fault, or I don’t trust you, or whatever. I—we, just can’t talk about it here. Any of the others could pop in, and—” He made the symbol of surrender, and she exhaled with a heavy heart.

  “Good, maybe we can discuss it later, whenever you’re ready,” he said. Helga nodded in agreement, forced a smile, and then slunk past him through the door towards the closest ladderwell. On approach, she saw that there was a lift, which she’d somehow missed on her brief tour. There was a section of the deck that was slightly recessed, a platform, circular in shape and bordered by a metal railing. At first glance Helga had assumed it was a workstation, but it was indeed a lift.

  She stepped into the center and touched the down arrow on the railing. As expected, it sunk into the deck and began the short descent to the Ursula’s dock. Quentin Tutt was inside one of the compartment cells mounted to the port-side bulkhead. He was hovering over a table applying oil to Cilas’s auto-rifle. All around him were the weapons of their trade, which he was apparently cleaning.

  Helga pulled open the cage at the front, entered the compartment, and sat down in front of him. Quentin looked up and wiped at his brow with the back of his hand. He seemed tired and ready to collapse, as if he hadn’t slept for several cycles. She got up and walked over to his stool, where she rested an arm on his shoulder.

  “When was the last time you slept?” she said.

  He leaned a meaty forearm on his knee. “Can’t sleep lately. Don’t ask me why. It just hasn’t come for two cycles now. I’ve been passing the time by making myself useful, getting our loadout primed.”

  “But this trip to Sanctuary is practically a vacation, Quentin. Well, the trip itself, not the mission. I imagine we will be at light speed for at least a Vestalian month, and during that time we all need to get rested and ready for anything. There has to be something I can get you. Wine, milk, I’ll get it, but this working on our guns all hours of the cycle, you’re bound to crash eventually. If I come down here and find you face down on the deck, I’m going to paint your legs green in permanent ink.”

  A smile brightened his melancholy face. “You seem different, Lieutenant Ate. Is it the ship or the jump to light speed? I swear you aces go crazy over anything past thrust. Like children seeing a planet for the first time, that is how you all are.”

  “It’s not the idea, it’s the science that gets us. The knowledge that we can freely jump to other areas of the galaxy. It’s unreal, the speeds we can travel at now. Don’t poke fun, I’m sure there’s something you Marines go for that doesn’t involve sex.” He laughed and that was enough for her to feel better about his condition, so she pointed to the guns which was his cue to tell her what he had done.

  “This one’s yours,” he said, and tossed her an auto-rifle. “It can take all manner of elemental rounds, even combinations. Ever fused an incendiary round with an energy-fused kinetic? Explosive rounds emerge, useless on armor but makes a big hole in flesh. Those chemicals don’t mix, and trapped inside the casing, they’re ready to escape. Shoot a lizard with one of them, and parts of him will disintegrate.”

  Helga took the rifle and scrutinized it, recognizing it as her old ASR from Meluvia. Quentin had not only modified it to accept a variety of rounds, but he’d painted it in Alliance Black to match their PAS. That wasn’t all, she soon discovered, when she flipped it around to examine his work. On the side below the serial number, were letters that spelled “Lady Hellgate.”

  “Thank you, Tutt,” she said, and hugged him tightly before stepping back to shoulder her weapon. It felt lighter than before and was extremely comfortable. “How much modification have you done to this?” she said, wishing she could fire it.

  “Wait till you see your sidearm,” he said grinning. “I don’t know how you hit anything with that weapon, but it’s deadly accurate now. Ray made a range over there; it’s got a variety of holo-targets. You can use it to see how well it fares, and tell me if you need something adjusted.”

  Helga left the table and crossed the dock to another caged compartment. It was deeply recessed, with sheets of reinforced metal tacked up against the bulkhead. She looked over her shoulder to where Quentin waited by his chair, then accessed the computer mounted near the entrance to select a variety of targets.

  The first set were orbs, holograms that zipped out in front of her, bobbing in and out of sync. Helga put her finger on the trigger to let out a stream of bullets, but nothing happened except for the lights on the sights turning on, and then the shots began to fly, popping the orbs convincingly.

  “Hope you don’t mind. I bio-linked all of our individual weapons. Now if any of us get disarmed, we don’t have to worry about dying from our own weapons.”

  “It’s light, accurate, and barely has any lift,” Helga said. “If there’s perfection then this is it. I do hope we won’t have to use them when we get to Sanctuary.”

  “Try your pistol,” he said, and Helga returned to the table and grabbed her sidearm. This time she used her senses to calm her nerves, focusing on each orb and firing on them with confidence. Out of eight shots none were missed, and Helga selected a program that mixed in Geralos with hostages. This was always tougher because you were not allowed to shoot the hostages, and with the targets moving as if they were real, it was an actual test of skill. Again she dropped all of the enemies, and twenty dead Geralos lost their hostages.

  “Do you want to hear something funny?” she said, as she fired on a few more targets. “I started going to the range with Cilas, when it was just the two of us on the Aqnaqak. He would never miss, and I thought back then, ‘Helga, you will never be as good as him.’ I had top marks for rifles as a cadet, and I was in competitions for handguns, I was so good. Cilas, however, is on another level that I cannot fathom. It’s as if he doesn’t need to aim. Ray, too. You’ve seen him in action.”

  “Cilas is one of the best, Ate. Not freaky like Ray, but definitely the man you look for to take a crucial shot.”

  “This I know, but at the range, I kept going back to practice, and then I started to pay attention to my weapons. People think laser-tech makes up for a steady aim, but it takes more than accuracy. You have to be comfortable with your weapon. When I started picking favorites and practicing with them, I stopped missing targets after a time. I was getting better and better before we were forced off that ship, but with these mods to my pistol, I believe I could compete with him.”

  “You worry too much for me, Ate,” he said, suddenly wiping his hands on a rag. “I have one more modification that I want to look at, and then I promise I will go back to my cabin.”

  “Good, and when are we going to start training together again?” she said. “I’ve been practicing all the things you showed me, and ever since I managed to throw Ray, he’s refused to let me try out anything on him.”

  Quentin chuckled. “Sounds like we need to pick up a training robot when we make it to Sanctuary. Ray doesn’t want to play with you because he thinks you’re out to hurt him.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, the last time, you almost broke his arm when it was just a friendly little bout of sparring. This isn’t basic strikes from the academy, Ate. You’re learning debilitating techniques
, Jumper-influenced, assassin stuff. One ill-timed twist and you could hurt our resident shootist. So don’t look for him volunteering anytime soon.”

  Helga felt terrible. An hour ago she had threatened to really break his arm. When he hurried to leave the bridge, she had thought it was due to their friendship with some influence from her rank. Now she began to wonder if he felt that she was sadistic.

  “My shooting improved under Cilas, but Raileo made me understand why. He’s a great teacher and friend. I really do hope he doesn’t see me as some sort of tyrant.”

  “You never know with that man,” Quentin said.

  “You’re one to talk,” Helga said coolly, retaking the seat across from where he slumped. “What’s his or her name, Quentin Tutt? I will not leave this dock until you tell me.”

  “You think I’m losing sleep over love?”

  “I do,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “And you won’t leave unless I tell you?”

  “That’s what I just said.”

  “But what if it’s you?”

  “It’s not. You treat me like a niece or younger sister, so I cannot even imagine entertaining that thought. Plus you’re too much of a gold star cadet to fraternize with an officer. So who is it?”

  “You are really annoying. I don’t have relationship problems, Ate. Relationship problems would require a relationship, which I don’t have nor plan to have any time soon. Tried it a few times, and it just isn’t worth the heartache, considering we have enough to think about with what we do.”

  Helga laughed. “Can’t argue with you about that, you’re right. Relationships are absolute schtill.” She grew serious for a moment, her mind going back to the material she was studying, “Tutt, you’re quite amazing with all things combat-related. Do your skills happen to extend to firing mounted guns?”

  “You mean the energy cannons outside?”

  “Precisely. Auto-targeting is enabled, but take it from a pilot, they’re predictable, which makes them practically worthless. I’ve been studying up our ship, and we’re going to need gunners to have a chance at anything coming at us. I’m not talking about Nighthawks; I mean skilled spacers who know their way around the equipment. I know that’s the plan, you don’t have to tell me, but in the interim, I am going to need your help.”

  “If it shoots, I can figure it out,” he said. “Though I must say, I don’t plan to read any manuals.”

  “No, that’s enough, that’s reassuring. Just to let you know, when we come out of light speed, I plan to run some ordnance tests that will require you and Ray to man the cannons. I may even take my Classic out to play bogey. See firsthand how well you men aim when it’s not a rifle you’re firing. Just don’t go depleting my shields too much. It would be sad to die at the hands of my own teammates.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of harming a single lock of that bad haircut of yours, Lieutenant,” Quentin said.

  Helga grabbed at her hair. It had been ages since she cut it, and where it once had form, it now stuck up as if she’d been electrocuted. “Just for you, I’ll shave it off. How’s that?”

  “Then you’d look like a Marine, and I’m not sure if you’re ready for that sort of pressure,” he said proudly.

  “Don’t think I could hack it?”

  “Being a Marine?” He laughed. “Hell no. You’re tough, so don’t go thinking that’s what I’m questioning. It’s just that there’s a lot more to it than strength.”

  “I swear, you Marines are so in love with your qualifications, as if it was the hardest task to make it into a unit. I graduated BLAST. Tough doesn’t begin to define who I am, and I dare any Marine to test me. Not you, you great big frigate, but any woman of my years and quality. Have her try me one-on-one, and we’ll see who handles who.”

  “You’re proving my point with that chip on your shoulder. We all know you’re capable, but that doesn’t stop you from reminding us whenever you hear criticism. Marines aren’t individuals; I am a Nighthawk before I am Quentin Tutt, but you are Lady Hellgate before anything else, and that is why you wouldn’t make it as a Marine.”

  Helga wanted to say more, but she just sat there and watched him field-strip one of Raileo’s pistols. He was no longer slumped, having caught a second wind from laughing at her foolishness.

  “I appreciate you, Tutt, but this is an order. Get your rear inside of your berth, kill the lights and sleep. Take a shot of the liquor I stashed on the left of the coffee machine, then retire to your cabin and get some shut-eye. From what you’ve done to our weapons, nothing can stand against us in the field, but your health is the focus for this cycle, so up and off with you.”

  25

  Helga found that being on the Ursula provided the time she needed to heal her old wounds. It did help that, unlike the Rendron, there weren’t constant reminders of her childhood. Sleep was a different matter, her dreams sometimes dragging old memories to the forefront, but for the most part she was able to move forward, and due to this her spirits were high.

  Cilas, she saw, was warming to his position. First, he instituted a meeting at the beginning of every cycle, where he would do a status report before doling out assignments. These were varied tasks, meant to acclimate them with the ship. He also coordinated with Helga for simulated emergency drills. They were only four and every member had a role, but due to their small size, they each needed to know a little bit of everything.

  Beyond this the Nighthawks were left to their own devices, though they mostly stuck to the mess hall or the dock. Helga studied in the cockpit and Quentin converted another compartment into a gym; Raileo trained with guns inside their range, and Cilas kept mostly to himself.

  The third shift was Helga’s favorite time since everyone would gather in the mess. It was an organic gathering where they would eat and wind down, and then once the drinks began to flow, they would swap stories or play games. Having everyone together triggered happy memories for Helga, of their time on Meluvia camped out inside the forest.

  With time being on her side for once, she had begun to work out with weights. She was a smaller woman, which was nothing new, but enough sleepless nights after the trauma had taken a toll on her appearance and health. Quentin suggested that she use the gym and take advantage of the time to get back into shape, so every cycle she was down on the dock, squatting iron plates and doing a variety of exercises.

  On the third cycle into her regimen, she decided to look in on their Geralos prisoner. Bira’s stasis tank was on the dock, locked inside a compartment adjacent to the gym, but Helga had always been hesitant to step inside it by herself. The weights, however, gave her confidence, and so she decided that this would be the day.

  Grabbing a towel and dabbing her cheek, she walked below the dropship to the locked door whose panel pulsed a dull yellow light. She unlocked it with a wave of the hand, then waited as the door popped open with an audible hiss. Inside was a tank, but the condensation made it impossible to see what was floating on the inside. So, Helga threw the towel over her shoulder and used her hands to clear a portion of the glass.

  She gasped in horror at the body of the cadet suspended in what looked to be a falling motion. “You poor thing,” Helga whispered, seeing her now as the girl and not the Geralos that occupied her body. “I wanted to check on you after the rescue, but then they corrupted your mind and you became lost to us. It isn’t fair, and I pray that you are somewhere near the maker’s side. We’ll get them back, I promise. We’re going to bathe in lizard blood.”

  She stopped and took a breath, her heart rate still high from the circuit that she had been running earlier. Her words, though religious, were empty since she was barely a believer, but what else could she say to that child? She stood there staring into her vacant eyes, expecting her to wake. Could she wake? Was she conscious in there despite being in stasis? What if she did? Would she die inside the tank, or would she break through the glass to get at the Nighthawk making empty promises?

  Helga didn’t care to
find out, so she forced herself to leave and make her way back to the lift. She stopped at the circular platform and took a minute to collect herself. It was quiet, since all the men were in CIC, and she was the only inhabitant next to the cadet. I can see why Tutt spends all his time down here, she thought. This place is peaceful in its own way.

  She went to the crew quarters and took a long shower, letting the warm vapor collect on her flesh. It was an odd bit of therapy, feeling it chemically extracting the toxins and then watching it all blend in with sweat that trickled down to the drain. Leaning forward to touch the bulkhead, she stared at her feet, remembering days when she was embarrassed for anyone to see them.

  Before the Ursula, she hadn’t bothered to worry about her appearance. She was a Rendron ESO Nighthawk, destined to live in 3B-XO and Powered Armor Suits. Having gone through what she had gone through, getting cute was about as useful as tires on a spaceship. But then came Cilas and suddenly she cared, taking time to trim her nails, fix her hair, and dress intentionally.

  Every cycle had been a struggle not to give in to her lust. That first time had awakened a part of her that had been dormant since her last tryst. She wished she was more like Joy Valance, who could share his bed without a care that he was her commanding officer. In a community as small as the Rendron’s, casual sex was as common as sharing an MRE. Yet, she was never one of those cadets that would sneak into the berthing of the popular boy or girl.

  Helga missed Joy immensely, more than times before when she and the Nighthawks were deployed. If she were here she’d tell her how to deal with her feelings and though Cilas would be hers, somehow things would be okay.

  Joy was one of the toughest women she knew, but she had seen the other side that she kept hidden from her Revenants. This other side revealed a tortured soul who put a brave face on effortlessly, cycle after cycle. It took alcohol and chats that went deep into the Rendron’s third shift for Helga to see how somber her friend really was.