by Greg Dragon
“Is that so?” Helga said. “The station girls are really into that look of yours, huh?”
“Yes they are. They seem to love it, so you owe me an apology.”
Helga could no longer keep in her laughter, and she let it all out, roaring as if it was just the two of them at the bar. It was strange but delightful, frightening yet intoxicating, to let slip the invisible chains of duty and have a good laugh with friends.
She had been a rebellious cadet, staying in fights and getting in trouble, and as she grew older, she’d spent the majority of her cycles alone. With no real friends, she had embraced duty, aiming to be one of the best pilots on the ship. Ambition had led her to BLAST, which in turn had made her a Nighthawk, and for the first time in years, she felt accepted and free.
Getting the Ursula was a dream come true, especially with mates she adored and who knew her well enough to not be put off by her jokes. It brought her back to who she really was: that feisty, fighting, rebellious cadet.
29
Cilas, convinced that delivering Bira to the council was critical to the war effort, expected to be seen soon after their arrival. He was shown to his room, which was just as impressive as his berthing on the Ursula, but he couldn’t enjoy it, not before meeting his contact and handing the stasis pod over to them.
After three hours passed with him pacing his miniature palace, he decided that he needed company and took the elevator down to the lobby. There he saw his Nighthawks chatting at one of the tables as if they were already citizens, spending time together after hours.
As he grew closer he expected to hear the lighthearted gibes that the trio would engage in when drinking, but what he heard was whispering, and their tense body language hinted at conflict preparation. Had something happened? The rest of the guests seemed happy in their drunken aloofness. He looked about for security; perhaps they’d bumped heads with the local authority. But the lobby was jumping, and there were no uniforms in sight.
“There’s the commander,” Helga said as he came upon their table, and she adjusted the seating to make room for him to sit. There were several tables, small and round, with four curved, cushioned chairs wrapped about each. Many had parties similar to the Nighthawks, with three or four friends or lovers huddled about their drinks. Cilas settled into the vacant one and shifted forward to complete the circle.
“That’s neat,” he said.
“Think that’s something? Watch this,” Raileo said, then waved his hand over the table, and a bottle of wine materialized in front of him.
Cilas put his hands up in surrender. “Now that’s something I haven’t seen,” he said. “Holographic wine. Can it still make you drunk?” They rewarded his pathetic joke with a laugh. “SitRep?” he said, eager for some distraction to help with his anxiety.
“We’ve had a shadow since arriving,” Helga said plainly. “The life-sucking wormhole at the bar over there, doing a poor job of blending in.”
Cilas reached for the bottle and pretended to examine it as he looked at the bar, where a crowd of people were making merry. “It’s always funny to me how similar these places are,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what planet, ship, or station. You introduce drink, and people will gather to wash away their woes.”
He didn’t see anything particularly out of place until he paid attention to the way everyone was dressed. Most wore the same things he’d seen since they arrived at Sanctuary, but for one individual, drinking alone and dressed all in black. The hairs on the back of Cilas’s neck stood up when he recognized the man’s style of dress.
“I’m pretty sure our resident shadow is either a pirate or bounty hunter,” he said. “That’s the only way he’d be able to obtain that gear. That’s an armored skinsuit for special operations; old Lamia used to wear one on our missions. Do you remember it, Ate? Look at the glowing blue lines on his leg. You probably missed it due to the hat and duster, but he wouldn’t be able to get that on this station.”
“He’s also aware that he’s been made, and is waiting for us to make a move,” Quentin said. “I was just about to confront him when you came down.”
Cilas pushed back his chair, stood up and walked over to the man, not giving much thought to what he was doing. The man, dark and unshaven below his black derby hat, watched him approach then drained the last bit of liquor from his glass. “Navy, right?” he said with a Virulian accent, as if he had been waiting for the commander to arrive.
“What gave me away, the medals or the uniform?” Cilas said, walking up to stand next to him and leaning against the bar.
“A good friend of your captain asked me to meet you,” he said, sliding a glass in front of Cilas. “Name’s, Jung, by the way. Sun So-Jung. But people ‘round here know me as, Sundown.”
“And who is this friend?” Cilas said, staring at the contents of the glass and wondering what sort of fool this stranger took him for to accept a drink from someone who looked like a pirate.
“Arn Stryker,” the man said under his breath. His eyes swept the room as if he expected someone to be reading his lips.
Cilas Mec almost choked at the utterance of that name. It was the last thing he would expect to hear in a place as remote as Sanctuary.
Arn Stryker was the Supreme Leader of the clandestine group known as the Jumpers. They were a group of spies who lived on Virulia, where they trained in the galaxy’s darkest arts. What this involved, no one knew, since Jumpers were sworn to a code that they deemed impossible to break. The only Jumper Cilas had ever known was Lamia Brafa—who Arn donated to the Rendron’s cause. Was this man a Jumper, and if he was, how did he know that they would be arriving at Sanctuary?
Cilas looked back at his Nighthawks and they were all watching him intently. “This is highly suspicious, and I don’t know who you are, but if you know Arn Stryker, then you should know the name of the Jumper that was once with my team. Tell me his name and describe him in detail, or all civility is off the table.”
“Lamia Brafa was what we called a person; it is the highest rank we reach in my order. He was of Virulia, like me, skilled with the las-sword and sniper rifle. When he died he was with your team, but what we know is that his mind became corrupted by the Geralos. We know of his death, but not how he died. His spirit never returned to the temple. How was he killed, Commander Mec? The brothers and I need to know.”
“He died by my hands after becoming corrupted and using that las-sword on his Nighthawk brothers,” Cilas said. “Is this what this is about? You’re here about revenge? I loved Lamia like a blood brother, the same way I loved the men he killed, and if a duel is what you want from me, then I will agree to it, but only when I’m finished with my business.”
“I was sent by my master to help you, Commander, whatever you need. You have enemies in high places, enemies whose names cannot be mentioned in a place such as this. I am not to interfere directly, but can provide intelligence to you and your team.”
“Why should I believe you?” Cilas said.
“Because anything is possible, and nothing is as it seems.”
It was a Jumper quote, one that Lamia would use whenever the Nighthawks asked about his abilities. Even if this stranger wasn’t a Jumper, he did know something of his old friend, and that was enough to keep Cilas’s attention.
“So it appears you did know him, but if you’re here to help us then why didn’t you just come forward when we landed? My men said you’ve been following us. None of your actions make sense to me.”
“Approach you at the starport where there are spies and anti-Alliance personnel? Come on, Commander, this isn’t advanced engineering. How many near-misses must you have before you realize that you are marked?”
“Marked?” Cilas said, leaning closer, “Are you telling me that there’s a bounty on my head?”
“Not a bounty—nothing formal like that—but someone is out for you Nighthawks, someone important enough to pull you from the war and bring you here, where you will be vulnerable. Half of Sanctu
ary knew of your coming; the news got circulated days before you arrived. Now tell me, does that sound like coincidence to you?”
Cilas watched him intently, looking for a twitch, or something to tell him that the stranger was lying. But the man stood his ground with the patience of a monk, and it forced him to consider his words. “Do people know why we’ve come here?” he said, remembering that Bira was on the ship.
“They don’t know details,” Sundown said. “Some think you’re here as a proxy for your captain, while others think you’ve come to be trained for a bigger seat. Either way, you’re deemed important. Important enough to be kidnapped for ransom or killed.”
“Is this the part where you tell me the price for your services?” Cilas said.
“Commander,” Sundown said, placing his drink on the counter to turn and square up with Cilas’s frame. “I expected resistance from the famous Nighthawk leader. How else could you have survived this long to make it to this lofty position? To show that I am being sincere, I am going to leave you with a holo-chip. Watch it in a place of privacy, away from the city’s surveillance.”
He made a flick of the wrist and a small object appeared between his thumb and forefinger. He handed it to Cilas, who took it and quickly tucked it beneath his wrist-comms. “Once you’ve seen it, you will want to contact me. To do that, just come down here and order the Vestalian Sunset.”
“I do hope for your sake that you aren’t wasting my time,” Cilas said, then started back towards the table. When he glanced over his shoulder to see if Sundown was doing anything suspicious, he was nowhere to be seen, his seat now occupied by a Traxian. He remembered Lamia disappearing at will, using a form of cloak that the Jumpers all employed.
There were other tricks as well, like the canny ability to vanish and appear somewhere else entirely. It was all tricks, of course, but the things Lamia had done defied explanation. Cilas looked about for the tall, dark shadow that had warned him and slipped him the chip, but it really was as if he had vanished, which supported his claim of being a Jumper agent.
“Well that was some meeting,” he said as he retook his seat at the table, and picked up one of the glasses and placed it to his lips. “The Jumper spy agency sends its regards, Nighthawks.”
Helga almost choked on her drink. “The Jumpers? That was a Jumper?”
“I gave him a good grilling but he was able to answer everything. Says that outlaws know we’re here, and that we could be captured for a ransom.”
“Which fool would dare try that with us?” Raileo said.
“Oh, there’s more. Captain Sho was the one who asked the Jumpers to send him. We have our mission, but there is a chance that someone here has baited us.”
“I still don’t believe him, Cilas. This doesn’t make sense,” Helga said. “How would they be able to communicate fast enough to get word here? The outlaws, I mean. With our advanced technology, there is still a delay when sending and receiving messages. We’re to somehow believe that a network of thugs got tipped off while we were at light speed?”
“We can believe it when Jumpers are involved,” Cilas said. “Half of the things they’re capable of defy logic, science, and the technology we rely on. Lamia would come and go like the wind. He could dispatch whole units with just his las-sword, and it took robbing him of his mind to destroy him. It’s a reach to think that we are infiltrated at the highest level, but considering what we’ve been through, would you risk it?”
Helga shook her head slowly, and Cilas turned to Raileo, who had been waiting to speak. “Just wanted to give my opinion on that stranger, Commander,” he said. “I have never met a Jumper. I don’t think many spacers have; only those who’ve traveled around and had the privilege to be off the starships.”
“That makes sense,” Cilas said, wondering where he was going with his thesis. “They are like the Craqtii, favoring the las-sword, but they are proficient with just about any weapon. That skinsuit he wore, the one that threw me when I first saw him, it is the Jumper’s take on an armored 3B-XO suit. It’s the quickest way to spot them when they aren’t trying to blend in.”
“And our new friend chose to wear it to make the introduction,” Raileo said. “I believe his story, Commander. I may not know Jumpers, but anyone that cocky is either genuine or off his schtill.”
Quentin let out a laugh. “You all believe that man is a Jumper? There’s no way. He must be really good at fighting then, because stealth is not his thing.”
“To be fair, he wasn’t really trying, Tutt. His name is Jung, I think, but he goes by the codename Sundown. I know you’re itching to test him, but if he’s right we need to be careful. He slipped me a holo-chip at the bar, told me to watch it away from any surveillance.”
“So they’re recording us as well?” Helga said. “What if they are listening right now?”
“They can record us to their heart’s content and it still will not make a difference,” Cilas said. “If our tables are bugged then so is the bar, where he spoke to me plainly, though that could be because it’s rather noisy. Let’s not get into conspiracy theories.”
“Commander Mec?” came a voice from behind him, and he turned to find a teenager standing at attention, his grooming crisp as befitted a professional Navy person. He wore a suit, sharp and pressed, with the symbol of Vestalia above an assortment of medals. A proper cadet, down here in paradise? he wondered, and got his confirmation when the boy saluted.
“What have you got for me?” Cilas said, dryly, already tired of the surprises.
“Commander, I am here with an urgent message from the most honorable Arkan Mor. Admiral Mor regrets that he cannot meet with you tonight, and hopes that you can find a secure place for the package until the morning. He will be sending you a shuttle at three hours past first light to transport you to his office, where you can discuss the finer details of your stay.”
“Thank you, Cadet Mor,” Cilas said, reading the nameplate on his chest. “Any relation to the admiral?”
“Councilman Mor is my father, Commander,” the boy said blushing.
“I will look forward to meeting with him tomorrow then,” Cilas said, and the young man saluted crisply. “You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.” The cadet bowed his head, then turned sharply in the crispiest about-face.
“I still remember being that young,” Raileo said.
“Of course you do; you’re not much older than the lot of them,” Quentin Tutt said, and when the younger man shot him a look of annoyance, it was met with a smile that betrayed his sarcasm.
“Looks like you’re off the hook tonight, Nighthawks,” Cilas said. “I am going back up to contact our captain.”
“Will you let us know if anything important is on that chip?” Helga said.
“Of course,” he said, draining the glass before collecting his jacket. “Stay icy out here, Nighthawks. I don’t know this Sundown, but to ignore his warning would make us fools if we manage to get captured, after all. Stay in the district and watch each other’s backs. Any sign of danger, tap my comms and let me know immediately. We’ve got a spending allowance of eight credits each per day, so use it wisely on whatever you want. Just remember, we need clothes to blend in, and weapons if you can manage to find any, Tutt.”
“Eight credits won’t get us the heavy stuff,” Quentin complained “Do you think the council can waive the weapons ban to allow us to have our sidearms? We would need something to trade if we don’t have the credits, and all we have on the Ursula is munitions.”
“Let’s worry about that later, Nighthawk. Go get some gear and see all that Sanctuary has to offer. Be back and ready for action at first light. I will be expected to have our cargo delivered when I see the councilman, and I won’t have time to be running about trying to locate the hole you’re passed out in.”
“We’ll be good, Commander,” Raileo said, which forced a smirk on Cilas Mec’s lips, since he expected it would be the young chief who would be lost by the time it was morning.
&n
bsp; 30
The sun came up, so bright that it was a spotlight across Helga’s sleeping form. Her eyes came open and the bright light marched in, forcing her to throw up a hand to shield her face. She turned away from the sunlight, examining the room, and remembered where she was.
This was a hotel room, yet it dwarfed any of the compartments held by officers on the Rendron. It was like the captain’s cabin, but with nothing remotely Vestalian. The desk by the door bore an alien design, like a squat figure-eight with a pane of glass hovering above it. On the walls were several paintings, and a handful of sculptures were seated on top of shelves.
“Wow,” she whispered, looking around, still not believing she was there. On the desk sat a covered tray that hadn’t been there the night before, and she could only imagine what delicious morsels awaited her.
She chanced a glance at the sun, white-hot and brilliant, but different now that she was fully awake and could appreciate its warmth. She had only experienced the suns on Meluvia, but there hadn’t been time to sit and reflect on their splendor. Their time on the planet had been spent fighting inside of a rainforest, so mornings such as this one didn’t happen.
Seeing the sun, so dominant that it ignored the clouds, gave her a sense of accomplishment for having survived long enough to be here. Helga enjoyed the sensation of having sun rays on her face. Oh, to have lived on the planet when things like this were taken for granted, she thought, imagining how different her life would have been back then.
In the distance she saw the rooftops of other fancy buildings, stacked and spread out as far as the eye could see. The sky was a façade, but it felt real, as if she really was on Vestalia back before the Geralos invaded. This would have been a thousand years before the chaos, when there was no human and Casanian interaction. I wouldn’t be alive back then, she admitted finally, since her parents would have been on their own worlds.
Blobs of color and negative light danced across her field of vision as she shifted her gaze from the sun to the eggshell-colored walls. “Everything’s so beautiful here,” she croaked, then cleared her throat and chanced a stretch.
