by Greg Dragon
Helga and the other two Nighthawks exchanged curious looks, then the four of them burst out laughing. It was a strange feeling, being an outsider, and while Helga had similar emotions during their time on Meluvia, this one felt different, but she couldn’t reason why. Culture shock was an understatement, and she recalled Cilas warning her about this.
They walked past teenagers of cadet-age, who neither acknowledged them or anyone else for that matter. On a starship the young showed deference to adults, particularly officers, but here they were merely visitors that no one gave a second glance. Children ran about unchecked, and the adults were not much better, refusing to clear a path for the high-ranking Navy personnel.
After forty meters of swimming through this humanoid ocean, appreciation and awe took a backseat to military readiness. They stopped before a set of large terminals showcasing all of the ships coming and going from the station. There was a holographic map hovering slightly below the ceiling, showing the different districts on the station and revealing just how expansive Sanctuary truly was.
Helga looked up with interest, seeing for the first time that they were on a narrow strip of land, with water on its boundaries like an island. “Fascinating,” she whispered before looking behind her, where there was a disturbance in the crowd. Quentin took her by the shoulders and pulled her back to a column spattered in animated holographic offerings. She made to object but saw that Cilas and Raileo were already there.
A pretty, red-colored Cel-toc emerged from the crowd, looking every bit like a Vestalian but for a set of dark, metallic eyes. “Welcome to Sanctuary, Commander Mec, Lieutenant Ate, Sergeant Tutt, and Chief Raileo Lei,” she said, before bowing low and holding the position with her hands resting on her knees. It seemed obscene, her taking that position, but Helga had known there would be customs that would be strange to them.
“Are you Hope?” Cilas said, and she stood up slowly to meet his eyes.
“I am Zeta. It is good to meet you, Commander Mec,” she said, flashing them a welcoming smile. “You will be staying at the Empyrean, which is the highest-rated hotel in this district. Councilman Mor knows of your arrival and has instructed me to take you there.”
“Will the councilman be meeting us this cycle … I mean, today?” Cilas said.
“He intends to. I apologize for the inconvenience, but he did not give a time,” Zeta said. “His instructions were for me to get you to the hotel, where he will contact the commander as soon as time permits.”
“Sounds like the councilman is very busy. Take us to the hotel. We’ll happily wait for him there,” Cilas said.
28
The districts of Sanctuary were very much like small towns with immense technology, each as different in its décor as the planets where their inhabitants originated. The Empyrean was in the wealthy remote section of the Victory District, where most of the citizens were Vestalian.
To get there, the Nighthawks had to take a shuttle from the starport, past the beautiful artwork of the Conquest Circle where Helga saw ten tall statues dedicated to the Alliance council. On the digital surfaces of billboards were quotes from what she assumed were famous philosophers, each a nugget of wisdom on how to conduct oneself as a good citizen.
The shuttle was apparently made for tourists, since it followed a path that conveniently showed the best that the districts had to offer. They flew past many statues dedicated to Sanctuary’s leaders, or former heroes, whose reputation carried over to the station. Helga saw expensive apartments in eight-story buildings, and floating past them in well-ordered lines were hundreds of transports going about their business.
The trip took a little over ten minutes from the starport, and they touched down on a landing platform bordered by tall trees. “How did they manage this?” Helga whispered, as she looked down the row of windows at the trees growing everywhere. It reminded her of Meluvia, and their days in that jungle hell, except that above them now the sky was all sun and clouds. Down there, in the bush, it had been rainy and overcast, which only added to their discomfort. This place was paradise.
“So, this is where our wealthy ancestors escaped to,” Raileo said, as they stepped off the shuttle to make their way to the hotel. “The amount of years and dedication this took, and from all the planets combined. Why are they keeping this place a secret, Commander? Why aren’t we allowing our cadets to see that we are capable of this?” He spread his hands for emphasis.
“Feels odd being part of the Alliance when the very people you’re fighting for don’t know it, eh?” Quentin said.
Zeta, once chatty, was eerily silent as she led them across a stone bridge, which spanned an expansive body of water. Below them were several green and blue-skinned people, swimming and laughing together. Before them stood the Empyrean, its design a work of Casanian magnificence, as it sat atop a waterfall as if it grew out of the rocks. To Helga it reminded her of stacked breakfast bowls, staggered so a few of them would jut out at odd angles.
“My worlds, how do you go back to a starship after experiencing a place like this?” she said.
“Do you know what I find odd?” Quentin said, urging her back until they were out of earshot of the Cel-toc. “The people here don’t seem to be aware there is a war going on outside. This place is beautiful, but it’s frightening with the illusions, and is it me, or do they all seem a tad too mellow?”
“I think they just take things a lot slower here, and living on this station insulates them from any real danger,” Helga said. “That shouldn’t make us suspicious, it should make us happy that peace exists in our galaxy.”
“Seems like a lull before the wake, and I like to be ready for whatever is to come. Stay frosty, Lieutenant. Despite what you’re seeing, people are people, and there’s bound to be something.”
“You mean like that,” she said, and pointed below them to the lake, where two human boys were fighting while a Traxian girl sat watching them.
“Is that a Traxian there in this maze of stone and metal?” Quentin said.
“Yes, that is a Traxian. There’s enough water here to accommodate them; vast artificial lakes, from what I saw on our flyover.”
“But they don’t eat the same foods as a Vestalian or Meluvian. I cannot imagine it being easy for them.”
“She’s a young teen who has only known this place, and I’m sure she has lineage leading back to her ancestors who helped build this station. She’s beautiful, my worlds, look how her skin changes color beneath the sun. No wonder those boys are fighting over her.”
“As if they could ever keep up if she goes for a swim.” He laughed. “Damn it, Ate, I didn’t expect all this positivity from you. Normally you’re the most cautious of us all, while Ray is … Ray,” he said, and they both laughed. “Either way, I acknowledge the hope that Sanctuary gives, and if there was no war I could happily retire to a place like this.”
“Find yourself a good Genesian woman, or a Traxian like that one. Wait; maybe her mother is single,” Helga said.
“Just remember what I said about watching your flank around civilians, and keep your eyes open for anything and anyone that’s around you. Here it’s nice and open, and you were still sharp enough to see that scuffle on the rocks. That’s good; just keep that up, and I’ll be here to get your six.” Helga saw that the boys had grown tired of fighting and were now sitting on opposite sides of the girl.
“My goal while we’re here, Tutt, is to find you some company to clear your head. You are wound tight, Nighthawk, and you’re starting to make me worried. You haven’t exhaled since that schtill with the dreadnought, and you haven’t really slept either.”
“Keep the company. I need to stay tight to see this mission through to success. I’m not being negative just to be negative, Lieutenant. It’s just that you can’t be too careful down here.”
“Honor in service?” she said, citing a famous Alliance Navy saying, and touching her fist to her left shoulder in a mock salute.
“Honor in service,”
Quentin repeated, but unlike her, he actually meant it. As a former planet buster, those words weren’t something he’d joke about. Seeing his reaction, Helga felt foolish for uttering the words and she made a mental note of this faux pas. There were jokes that she could make with Raileo Lei, but with Quentin Tutt, she had to be careful.
“I don’t care what you say, Tutt, I’m getting you laid,” she said, and was quite surprised when he gave her a smile.
“Everything alright up there, Commander?” Raileo said, putting words to a thought in Helga’s mind. While the three of them had oohed and aahed over the spectacle of Sanctuary, their leader had been silently walking next to Zeta.
“All is well, Lei, just taking in the sights and enjoying the banter amongst you three. Unfortunately, we spent all that time in Meluvia, and I couldn’t take you to see the metropolis of Edyn. Now there you would have seen some truly wondrous sights, and impossible to imagine them being built.”
“Impressive?” Helga said.
“Indeed,” Cilas replied.
“Well, it helps that Meluvians are thyping brilliant,” Raileo said. “It must be that emerald hair. Beautiful and superbly intelligent. Thype, is the universe unfair. Why did I end up a dumb Vestalian spacer?”
“There is so much wrong with what you just said,” Helga groaned. “I swear, Ray, you’re like a thirteen-year-old sometimes.”
“What?” he said, and she made to give him her customary punch to the gut, but he artfully parried it with a laugh. “You’re getting too predictable, Lieutenant,” he said.
“Here we are,” Zeta said, beaming, and Helga stopped her tussling to find that they had reached the hotel. All around her were water fountains arranged in pairs up to the lobby. Pink flowers bloomed from grooves in the walls, their vines reaching high to the dome-shaped rooftops. Outside it was a part of nature, but inside it was a modern hotel. There were checkout kiosks along the wall, metal abominations in that garden paradise.
The guests appeared to be wealthy, dressed in their dresses, capes, and robes. A few were at the kiosks checking in and out of the hotel, but most were mingling, drinking at the bar, or merely admiring the decor. A few of them began to congregate to gawk at the overdressed newcomers.
“Gastun uck?” a blue-skinned man said, and he approached them so fast that he appeared to float.
Helga’s mouth fell open when he slid across the floor, but after a second, she realized that his long robes created the illusion. It was like her PAS; he had something below it to move him along.
“How great is this place?” she whispered, nudging Quentin, “They can’t even bother to walk.”
“Ilse huma yong—offworlders, Galactic Alliance,” the man tried, and Cilas shook his head to let him know he couldn’t understand.
“Ah, apologies,” he said. “I mistook you for the admiral’s crew. My name is Amelo, property owner, first seat Victory District. Welcome to my hotel. Zeta alerted me to your arrival and we’ve prepared four of our best rooms for your stay. I see no luggage, so if you would like, I can have one of my assistants fetch you something to relax in?”
This Louine is speaking Basic, but I still don’t understand a word coming out of his mouth, Helga thought.
“Please, and thank you,” Cilas said, attempting the angled nod of respect that Louines often did with other Louines. They had picked up a few of these customs when they spent time on the Sur, a Louine pirate ship. Amelo returned the bow, touching his forehead to Cilas’s, acknowledging their newfound friendship. It was a bold move by the commander, who must’ve practiced the motion before leaving the ship.
They were each shown their rooms, which were four choice offerings on the top floor of the six-story building. Helga was blown away by what she saw when she entered her room. There was the normal amenities: a queen-sized bed, a bathroom, and a kitchen with a meal dispenser. In addition to what was expected, there was a full bar with drinks included, and a starmap over a desk, with holographic stations, moons, and planets.
After cleaning up and getting settled in, Helga went to the bar and made herself a drink. This was just too good to be true, having a room the size of a captain’s, with a bar all to herself and time to do whatever she wanted. First she downed the drink, then she danced around naked, because what else would a boomer do when given this much berthing on a beautiful station?
An hour later, a young Meluvian girl showed up at her door, struggling with a case full of clothing. Helga let her in and she apologized then spread the clothes out for her to see. Erring on the side of caution, Helga decided to keep them all, and the girl took it upon herself to file them away inside the closet for her. When she was finished, she turned and stood at attention, waiting for Helga’s approval. “Oh you, dear,” Helga exclaimed, then placed a hard credit inside her palm.
“This is too much,” the young girl said.
“Not to me it isn’t. You did a great job, and you have excellent taste, young woman.”
Her words inspired a bow, and when the girl left she looked happy enough to float without a robe’s assistance. Robed, slightly tipsy—from drinking before eating—and feeling like a Casanian princess, Helga dressed formally in a black maxi dress with a split up to the thigh, where an empty holster hung. She chose thigh-high boots to cover the majority of her leg, and a cape that she fastened to the turtleneck on her dress. Then she trimmed her Mohawk low to start the process of growing out her hair.
She stood before a floor-length mirror examining herself, and felt good about her looks for the first time in ages. The black against her pale flesh did wonders to her features, and she thought that she looked more Casanian now than she ever had.
Something about the fabric made it seem valuable, as if she was wearing a councilwoman’s garment. Since the Meluvian girl had brought them, and she was an employee of the Empyrean, Helga wondered if they were donations from important people who had stayed at the hotel.
“Why did it take this long for me to realize that black is my color?” she mused. On a Navy commission she could never have clothes this valuable, so she wanted to take full advantage of the wardrobe while they were stationed here. She spoke to the mirror, role-playing a mysterious femme fatale hanging by the bar. “Oh, did you mistake me for a senator, sir? No, my name is Ate, Helga Ate of the Ursula,” she purred. It was so absurd that she started laughing, but it felt good to dress in something besides a uniform or sweats.
Helga had never been a stunning beauty, forcing heads to turn when she entered a room; she was the mysterious assassin, attractive enough to lure her prey before sliding out a blade strapped to her thigh. This thought emboldened her—now she really did look the part—and she was finally able to step away from the mirror. On her way out, Helga grabbed her wrist comms, strapped it on and made for the lobby. She knew that the men would have something to say, but she was flying too high to care.
Raileo Lei was already there, standing by the bar and nursing a drink. He wore black pants with straps hanging off random places, and a suede, blood-red jacket whose shiny gold buttons were reminiscent of an old-style captain’s coat. Helga remembered Cilas mentioning that Raileo was in the theater troupe on the Rendron, and the way he looked in that getup, he was every bit the wealthy thespian.
She snuck up on him at the bar, startling him when he saw that it was she who sat beside him. “Lieutenant,” he said under his breath, trying to mask his smile.
“Chief,” she said with a touch of sarcasm, then reached for his glass and sniffed it. “How do I look?” she whispered, giving his drink a nod of approval, and he stared at her dumbfounded, as if he had been caught doing something illegal.
“Honestly? You look amazing.”
“Do I?” she said, laughing. “Let me rephrase. Do I look like one of the locals?”
He exhaled. “Yes.” He returned to his glass, swallowing the liquid in one gulp, and then tapped the counter to get the bartender’s attention. “You had me fooled when you walked up. I was convinced y
ou were a socialite stopping to flirt.”
That explains the expression, she thought, remembering how he had looked, as if he’d swallowed an ice cube whole. She had felt that he was surprised to see her in civilian clothes, since even on Meluvia she’d worn Navy-issued gear.
“And, how do I look?” he said, stepping off the stool to show off his threads.
“Like a pirate captain. Aye-aye, Mr. Lei,” she mocked.
“What does that mean?” he said, looking around frantically. “Are you saying I should have worn something else?”
“Oh, relax, Laser-Ray, you look sharp as usual … like a gentleman of the arts,” she said, letting him off the hook. The reality, however, was that she thought he looked ridiculous, but he did fit in with the colorful crowd.
Sanctuary had its own community, with its own set of rules for fashion, which to Helga seemed little more than a chaotic patchwork of standards. Everything was formal jackets worn with informal shirts and pants, robes, capes, anything that flowed, and apparently red was in season.
“Should we get a table,” a familiar voice said, and from its grave, commanding tone Helga knew it was Quentin Tutt. She turned around to greet him, curious to see what he was wearing, but she was disappointed to find him in his uniform pants and tank top. The only change he had made was to ditch the jacket and change his shirt, but he still looked like a Marine from the Rendron.
Raileo, seemed dumbfounded at first, but then he doubled over laughing at the Nighthawk. “You look like schtill,” he said, laughing so hard there was tears in his eyes. “They gave you options to make you comfortable, and you opted for uniform pants and jackboots. What is wrong with you? Is it so hard to relax?”
“Going for the, I’m a Marine playing the part of a Marine look, Tutt?” Helga said.
“Excuse me?” Quentin said. “I’ll have you know that when I left my room, dressed in this very same outfit, not one but two beautiful ladies offered me drinks and their company.”
