by Greg Dragon
“Again, ouch, but you have been heard,” Cilas said. “I will just have to prove it to you, won’t I?” He settled back down to the deck then, using his clothes for a cushion as he closed his eyes and went still as if he’d fallen asleep. “I held you long enough from the Ursula, and I know seeing her will cheer you up. Why don’t you go explore the interior, and when you’re done, I will be here, dreaming of you.”
“Oh enough, Mr. I’m-no-good-with-words,” she said, cutting her eyes at him, annoyed that she had let him break through. “Be back in a few then,” she said, stepping towards a door and giving him a long, measuring look before entering.
The hold opened up to the Ursula’s dock, which looked a little different than what Helga remembered. The already expansive space had gotten bigger, and where there were once stacked cages against the bulkhead for cargo, there now were open compartments with shielded entryways to protect the inhabitants from any loss of atmosphere during a launch. Two machine loaders stood powered down, like iron sentinels asleep until they received their orders.
Towards the stern sat the R60 Thundercat, whose mass took up a third of the landing space, her hull practically twinkling below the overhead lights. On the other side, lined up wing to wing facing one of the launch ports, was her Vestalian Classic, and a new Phantom fighter, though Helga hadn’t heard of another qualified pilot joining the team.
“Always good to have backups, I guess,” she muttered, though she still wondered who, aside from her, would be piloting a fighter if the need arose. “Loaders mean we intend to capture prizes, and there is more than enough space left for a cruiser or merchant class. Hmm, this will be helpful for the next time we’re sent on a reclamation or rescue mission.”
Fearful her Vestalian Classic had been tampered with, Helga spent several minutes scrutinizing her ship. Knowing the engineers on Rendron, and how eager they were to please Captain Retzo Sho, she expected to find the Classic outfitted with a new console and Phantom engine, her worst nightmare realized after years of fighting to keep her ship outdated the way she liked it. The Classic was what she had learned to fly on, and if they tampered with its controls, she would go ballistic.
After getting into the cockpit, powering it on and playing with the controls, Helga made a sigh of relief when she saw that it was still her old ship, through and through. The seats had been swapped out, and that was annoying, but there was nothing added, merely replaced, and that was good enough. Next, she checked the Thundercat, whose upgrades wouldn’t bother her as much, but she was pleased to find that it too hadn’t been touched.
The new compartments on the dock floor were cozy, and she was happy to find that Quentin’s supply cage and Raileo’s gun range simulation had been converted over. New installations, clean smell, but they were still the old docks that she remembered. This, more than even the official mess hall that was above deck, had been the Nighthawk’s primary hangout during their downtime.
Walking towards the stern where a wide passageway linked the docks to the Nighthawk’s berths, Helga saw that it too had been expanded, adding a fourth door on the port side next to hers. Every door had an access panel which required contact with the owner’s palm, but this fourth opened on approach, and Helga stepped in to find the crew’s new living quarters.
The space seemed cozy, and well thought out, holding twenty-four bunks, but strategically placed to give their inhabitants some space and privacy, which was more than they would have received on a starship. Helga counted six separate berthing blocks, each holding four bunks connected by a ladder and power-lift. Built into the bulkhead of every bunk was a storage cabinet and locker, a personal air-controller, and a noise-proof privacy shield.
Every section of the bulkhead not occupied by berths had something for the crew that would keep them entertained, educated, and comfortable. In the center was a low table installed on the deck, with a food processing unit for snacks, surrounded by an assortment of cards and games. Helga whistled. “Now every spacer’s going to want to serve on our ship. Look at you Ursula, all dressed up and beautiful on the inside and out.”
Curious about her own compartment, Helga decided she’d seen enough, and walked over to her own door, where a new plaque had been installed with her callsign “Hellgate” engraved on it. Running her fingers across it, she was surprised to find it truly etched in, practically permanent. Something about this brought her to tears, which she blinked away quickly, feeling foolish for having reacted that way, though hers was the only door with a plaque and name.
There was a tiny message on the bottom, “Dedicated to heroine Helga of the Revenants, who defended our home against Geralos invasion,” signed, Nova Han, Secretary, Meluvian Alliance.
Where seeing her name had stirred those emotions, the message and the memory of that battle overwhelmed Helga. Perhaps it wasn’t just seeing this; it was everything leading up to this moment where she was here, back on Ursula. Taking a breath, she touched the panel and the door opened up to her old compartment. All of her personal affects had been stacked neatly into a small crate, which was the first thing she noticed.
Ready to explode over the violation, Helga stood in the doorway, frozen, glaring at the contents, trying not to panic at the thought of something missing, broken, or spoiled. Some of those items were priceless, one-of-a-kind souvenirs from former ships, moons, and people who had passed on. Especially her most prized possession, an old Revenant helmet, gifted to her by the squadron Joy Valance commanded, most of which had died in the same conflict the plaque on her door honored her for.
Looking up to see what had been done to the compartment itself, Helga understood why they needed to box everything up. While she hadn’t noticed any new windows earlier when she examined the Ursula’s hull, she now saw across from her door a large round window. The shields were down, so the glass was opaque, though it would offer a breathtaking view of whatever planet or moon they were in close proximity of in the future.
Helga was a small woman, only 160 cm, but the overhead too seemed taller, making the space feel twice the size, though she was sure it was the same compartment she’d always had. Gone was the cozy bunk, replaced by a rack twice its size. Another Meluvian gift? she wondered. Across from it, against the bulkhead was a pair of giant lockers, and a multi-functional screen that displayed the ship’s statistics when it wasn’t pretending to be a mirror.
To the left of the entrance was her desk and PAS suit on its mannequin, next to a closet lined with uniforms and equipment. She took a step inside and sniffed at her underarms, feeling suddenly filthy within the Ursula’s sterile environment. A meal and a shower would be in order, then putting her compartment back together, before taking a tour of the bridge to see what new war toys would be available for them to use against the Geralos.
She thought about Cilas, still in the cargo hold, waiting, and considered inviting him in to accompany her on seeing the rest of the Ursula. “Nope,” she thought out loud, as she crossed to the window and retracted the shields, revealing the captain’s dock. “I’ve been waiting several cycles, and now its his turn. Now, let’s see if we have any of that rowcut tea left over from Meluvia.”
4
Fio Doro stood on a lonely elbow of the East Central monorail, staring out at the ocean. Black waves sparkled, reflecting light from a passing shuttle whose probing beacons illuminated the cloudy night sky. Surprisingly, there were no ships out on the ocean, though the wind picking up made her wonder if a storm was coming in.
The air was chilly and smelled of fish, chemicals, and something else familiar that she just couldn’t place. She inhaled it all, deeply, and closed her eyes, thinking this could be her last time visiting the shore. There had been tougher jobs in the past, challenging hauls in which she competed with some of the more desperate of the Runners, who did whatever it took to win.
This time it was simple, a pick-up and drop, but the job felt dirty, and every fiber of her being knew that it was a setup for her to
take a fall. She had made the one mistake her mentor, Djesu had warned her about. She had allowed credits to blind her to a gig that could have her locked away or shot.
Still, she reasoned, if there was any scene to choose as her final one, going out in a blaze while running a package on the shores might be it. A better moment and place didn’t exist, not for a homegrown of the dockside tenement stocks. Basce City had been a cold mother, favoring the strong, and accepting of only those lucky enough to score a fortune in credits to book a shuttle out past her walls.
There was a saying often repeated by the elders: “leave before you find yourself loving the wickedness.” Basce City was wicked, and for Fio Doro having been on both sides of that wickedness, she sometimes wondered if it was too late for her. If the job was to go through smoothly, and the balance made to her account, would life allow her to escape the tenements without a knife finding its way into her throat?
Her eyes roamed the skies until they settled on a long line of streamers, multicolored traces against the clouds. Hellcats on hacked hovers, racing for props at break-neck speeds between the spires of the towers spanning the city.
Seeing them go made Fio smile, the memory of a past love coming to mind for one sweet moment. Her first ride above the clouds on a rusty hover, screaming her lungs out, for never wanting it to end. Something caught her eye then, something below her on the sands, and she saw a slow, lumbering figure making his way across to the pier.
Fio stepped back into the shadows, watching him go, occasionally looking in the direction of the tracks, just in case someone had followed her up. I hope that’s him, she thought, watching the figure shambling onward. He was carrying a case and looking none too concerned for his personal welfare, which let Fio know that he was well-armed. Scar Roan the Blade, if what I hear about him has any parts that are true, then I better stay out of sight from that cruta.
She looked back to where he had come, surprised that he’d do this alone. Something flickered in the darkness, a bit of glass reflecting the light. Fio ducked down quickly behind the metal railing, adrenaline surging to prepare her for a fight. A near-numb, trembling hand fumbled for the sidearm that she had worn beneath her jacket.
Gripping it tightly, Fio brought the weapon up to her face, and took several breaths to calm her nerves. When her nerves became tolerable, she chanced a glance over the railing, seeing that the large man was now returning back to where he had come. Waiting was a transport, a two-seater that she hadn’t noticed before. Inside it was a driver, waiting patiently for his boss, and as the man stepped into the vehicle, the driver looked straight at Fio, and that was when she knew it was him that she had seen below the boardwalk.
Despite this validation that they knew she was there, Fio dared not reveal herself until they drove off, and even when they did she remained still for several minutes. When she was sure the coast was clear, she scrambled down a support beam and sprinted across the sand towards the boardwalk to where Scar Roan was to leave the luggage. She found it half-buried in the sand, with a busted lock and obscenities scratched into the surface.
I hope the inside of this thing had better luck with that animal and his goons, she thought, or all of this was for nothing, and Vray got doubly robbed. The thought of that pleased her before she realized it would mean that Vray would be less likely then to pay.
Fio scanned the skies for a flo-bot, reaper drone, or any sort of surveillance that could come back to haunt her. The skies were cloudy, but clear of anything short of stars and aircars, so she grabbed the suitcase handle and hoisted it, pleased to find that it was light. She felt a vibration in her front pocket from the communicator, and though she hoped it would be Djesu, the timing was concerning.
She plucked the disc out and placed it over her ear, depressing the center. “This is Fio Doro,” she answered.
“Did you get the package?” Djesu said.
“Literally just grabbed it, Pops. Let me buzz you back.” Fio stopped and looked around to make sure she was still alone.
“Fio Doro,” Djesu whispered sharply, “You need to run like the wind, girl. I just got off a call with Fiona Brightstar, and she says that BasPol was just tipped off on a runner making a pick-up by the docks.”
“Schtill!” Fio cursed and cut the call off. Djesu would understand and now she needed to focus, or she would end up inside The Brick or worse, dead from a gunshot. She sprinted down the boardwalk, then ran onto the beach, back below the tracks, where she ducked below a triad of clogged sewer pipes. This she did to get on the west side of the pier, where she could find her way back to her apartment.
The smell was suffocating, the pipes were broken here but clogged from the frozen spillage, which had the appearance of being caramelized in the rain. Where Fio emerged was a broad expanse of beach, with refuse littering the sands, from bottles, boxes, discarded clothing, the occasional Cel-toc body part, and a particularly disturbing doll’s head.
Fio ran past it all to a thick crop of bushes, which opened up to a road, paved with small, round lights. She slowed to a walk, hugging the suitcase close, holding her chin low to slow the rain running into her eyes. She eventually found a parking lot, barely occupied, though she could see people seated inside a shuttle. Not wanting to take the chance with them being BasPol, or Scar Roan’s men, Fio ducked between two transports to stay out of sight.
The transport on her left was a hover, luxury built, which made it nearly impossible to crack and steal. The one on her right was a one-person town-car, a model she knew well from joy rides in her younger years. Pumping a fist at her fortune, Fio used her knife to pry off the door’s handle, made a twist and it came unlocked.
Once inside with the console pried off, and the dashboard’s face open and completely hers, Fio allowed herself a second to relax. In the distance she could hear the BasPol sirens, and saw new lights from the direction of the beach. Despite it raining, her footprints from running were bound to stand out in the sand, and she felt disappointed with herself for not anticipating that. She expected that at any moment they would spill out into the parking lot, guns raised.
Fio jammed her thumb into the open faceplate and pumped the accelerator to bring it to life. She triggered the manual override to unlock the driving functions and watched the power gauge fill itself up before releasing the brake to start her drive. The old town-car shook to life, nearly choking Fio with fumes that she assumed meant a break in the regulator.
“I just need you to get to Jun Street, beautiful. Be a treat, will yeah?” Fio urged, tightly gripping the yoke and pushing it forward ever so slowly. The lights flicked on, and the engine revved. It was as if it heard her words and decided to betray its true master and assist the thief with her escape. Fio maneuvered past the hover, then around the shuttle, and was out in traffic less than a minute after leaving the parking lot.
Traffic was congested on the roads, forcing Fio to slip in and out of lanes with her smaller transport. Above them the lucky owners of hovers flew on unobstructed, slipping into launch pipes that would rocket them over to the far side of the city where she wanted to go. Wish I’d snagged a hover, she thought, nearly breaking her neck to follow one as it dipped low, banked, and performed a skillful U-turn.
“Hey, watch that junker,” someone shouted at her when she nearly collided with a shuttle that had suddenly braked. A last-minute twist and pulling of the yoke, however, slowed her enough to slip off to its right and avoid running into it, which would have surely crushed her. Shaken, though more annoyed than flustered, Fio took a moment to collect herself before pushing in the yoke again to pick up speed and weave her way through traffic.
Several BasPol drones littered the night sky, their blue and white trackers lasing the highway, scanning for the package sitting next to Fio Doro. To avoid being scanned, she pulled in between two larger cars, and sat sandwiched in between them until one exited the highway, leaving her exposed. Worried that she had come all this way just to be captured, Fio
stuck her head out into the wet air, craned her neck to look above her and was happy to see the drones flying off.
Pumping her fist excitedly, she wanted to scream, but inhaled the crisp air into her lungs and held it, exhaling it slowly until her head was swimming. That was too close, she thought, and stupid going in with a half-cocked plan. She hated being alone on a job like this, but being at large meant she couldn’t involve Emma Rhone or Flavia who were usual partners in getting contraband smuggles out to the space port.
Pulling off onto a narrow ramp, Fio coasted the town car onto a side road leading out into Bitcrest Algae Farms, a set of looming white domes arranged into a grid spanning 150 hectares of wetlands, far from the city. A few kilometers in and she chanced stopping to check on the package, pulling off onto a dry patch of land where the only light was from her headlights, which she cut and sat in silence, ready for anything.
Her right hand reached down to grip the handle of her gun, and brought it up to her chest, where she cradled it against her racing heart while she waited. Five minutes passed like hours, but Fio knew better than to think they were enough, and when nerves finally won out against patience, she exited the transport and looked around for any drones.
When nothing showed, she reentered the town car, grabbed the case and examined the lock, wondering how likely it was that it was rigged to harm her. That wouldn’t make sense if he planned to entrap me, she thought. No, there’s something in here that’s likely dangerous, but not to me. She brought out a flashlight, and placed it on the floor, positioning it so the light was just enough for her to see what she was doing.
“Now let’s see what we have here,” she whispered through teeth clenched tight against the growing fear.
