Both older men, the first wore a heavily weathered Griffclaws jacket that had gone out of uniform at least two decades earlier over his standard blue duty uniform. Though no ranks stood out on the jacket, the air of authority the dark-skinned man exuded marked him as having a position of power, possibly the squadron’s commander. The man beside him had a similar bearing, though taller and lighter in build and tone than the first man. His two-tone grey uniform, and six barred epaulettes with the twin arrows jutting out of a domed embellishment, marked him as the Marine Battalion Commandant.
Blazer landed and shuffled towards the pair, pulling out his macomm to perform the official signing over. He came to a halt before the pair and saluted, his right arm across his chest. “Blade Force team leader, O-25 Schan Vaughnt reporting. Ready for personnel sign-off.” He handed the macomm over, and the Marine Commandant snatched it up.
He signed then, with a strange drawl Blazer couldn’t place, motioned towards the grills behind him. “Yo, Spanks. You needing to sign off on yer jocks here? I got my marines.”
Blazer looked past the pair at a stocky, balding man beside one the grills, the top of his flight suit tied off around his waist. He raised a pair of tongs high into the air. “I’m cooking here. Captain, can you take care of that for me?”
Blazer did his best to maintain his composure as he turned to the man in the faded bomber jacket. He knew the man only by reputation, Daro Sardenon, Captain of the Wolfsbane, and one of the top bomber pilots in the Confederation. “Sir, I’m sorry. I did not recognize...”
The Captain accepted the macomm and signed off on it. “I don’t put on airs on the flight decks.” He handed it back to Blazer. “I expected that you would at least recognize your new commanding officer upon reporting in.”
New Commanding Officer. That was news to Blazer. “Sir? Are you taking command of Cathedral Seven?”
Captain Sardenon rubbed his temples and Blazer couldn’t tell if he was hiding a smile or a scowl. “No son. Your squadron has been transferred aboard the Wolfsbane as our new Rescue and Ship Capture teams.”
If Blazer had been under gravity he would have fallen to the deck in shock. Before he could reply however a voice behind him called out in joy. He looked back.
Zithe had launched himself across the deck towards him wearing a smile larger than he’d ever thought the man capable of. His landing was clumsy, his focus off at what he considered good news. Blazer could only wonder when he might see his family again. “Sir, Enerian Zithe of the Zithe Pack.” Zithe took a knee and looked up at the older Lycan, presenting his throat to him. “I swear on this cycle to dutifully carry out any and all orders you issue for the honor of my pack and yours.”
Captain Sardenon shook his head and rolled his eyes, a smirk on his lips. “Stand up young wolf. Though I may be of Pack Sardenon I do not hold to those old traditions.”
Zithe was slow to stand but did and nodded. “I’m sorry sir,” he replied, somewhat perplexed. Pack Sardenon was one of the oldest and most revered of the Lycan packs and their leadership maintained the majority of the Lycan records and traditions. To hear that one of their own did not hold to them shocked Zithe into silence. The Captain himself was a hero to Zithe. “I see. Though Pack Zithe is small and rebellious I will show no such…”
“Officer Zithe, calm down. I’m Sardenon by marriage and don’t put stock into Pack politics. I didn’t think your pack did either.”
“The pack as a whole might not, sir. But I wish to keep our honor intact, and hope one cycle to rise as high as you, sir.”
“A lofty goal.”
Blazer looked back to the dropship as the rest of the team filed out and joined the bomber pilots in celebration. He turned back and interceded in the discussion. “Sir, we were not informed of any transfer. We have personnel and equipment back on Cathedral Seven…”
“All of which are en-route Officer Vaughnt. In fact,” he motioned towards one of the hatches back into the main part of the ship. Marda stood there with Chrisvian in her arms and Tadeh Qudas at her side, sideways to him, the deck alignment of the ship perpendicular to the stern. “Your fighters, equipment and personal belongings will arrive by next cycle. Now go, enjoy the celebration. I’ll brief you on our situation on the dawn.”
“Thank you, sir,” Blazer replied and launched off towards his wife and son.
Marda proceeded out of the hatchway, following the guides on the deck and ceiling as the tunnel twisted to align her with the hangar floor. Chrisvian laughed and clambered towards his father. Hearts racing, Blazer hugged Marda as he neared her and kissed Chrisvian on the head, relieved to see them despite his trepidation. “What’s going on?”
Tadeh Qudas stepped up. “The Wolfsbane has been operating without a rescue team since the Gorvian conflict. High Command also just reassigned her ship capture squad after losses incurred. Our squadron was tapped as their replacements after command reviewed your most recent rescue plan. When you succeeded, the order came down for immediate transfer.”
Blazer took Chrisvian into his arms, hugging the toddler close. “But what about Marda’s work on the Cathedral station and Chrisvian here?”
Marda pulled in close to her husband. “It’s all right. I’ve been offered a position in charge of one of the medical bays. I’m still attached to the Blade Force and as a result Chrisvian can be here as well. Our quarters are deep in the Egg.”
That brought some relief to Blazer’s mind. The Egg was one of the most expensive and secure areas of any ship. A proprietary design by Weaver Matte Inc, an Acklid Company, the Egg was a self-contained shelter capable of surviving even a starship core breach. Not all ships had them, but large-scale ships like the Wolfsbane typically came so equipped. Access to Egg levels were through phase-wall doors during emergencies. In the event of a power loss, the Egg would seal and move to internal power and life-support. Crews of numerous ships had been saved in that way, evacuating to their Egg before their ships had been destroyed. Still, few frontline capital ships allowed dependents on board. For Chrisvian to be allowed meant that Command had a vested interest in moving the squadron here.
“It’ll be okay. I’ve also met your new medic. He’s good, qualified as all get out, if a little distant, but I’ll stay on in a reserve capacity.”
Gavit sauntered up before Blazer could ask more. With two big mugs in his hands, his eyes had already started to get glassy. “Did I hear that right?” he slurred a little through his massive grin. “We’re transferring aboard the Wolfsbane?”
Blazer nodded. “Yes, and what’s that?” he asked, his nose crinkling from the smell even at a distance.
“Bomber Ale,” Gavit replied, then taking a drink. He shook at even just a sip. “Dag! That stuff’ll make even Porc think twice,” he said before taking another gulp and stopped. “Shreg! If we’re transferring here, then…”
Blazer rested a hand on Gavit’s shoulder and took a mug. “Don’t stress it. You’ll find some way to contact Tris. And quit cussing in front of my son.”
“And take it easy on that, you’re on painkillers,” Marda snapped and stole the other mug away from him. “We don’t need you overdosing.”
“Or you could just realize that she was a mistake and move on,” Chris remarked floating up with a mug and a plate full of food. “What’s one more stamp on your dick right?”
Gavit forced his trademark smile. “Maybe, but what a stamp right? Like slapping a Barker on the side of your fighter.”
Chris shook her head at the reference to the Galactic Federation supercarrier. “Yeah right. More like a tramp freighter.”
Blazer had had enough and stepped in. “Well you all have fun. I’m going to take my family and check out our new quarters.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Marda replied. She grabbed him with one hand and pointed towards the grill. “You’re going to get me some food and split these with me first before the Explosions get up here and Porc drinks the kegs dry.”
* * *
A
rion couldn’t believe it, but he actually found himself having a good time at the party. Grief counselling had seemed to work, and while he’d never be completely over Alieha, or what had happened to her, he felt his guard lowering. Finally taking your own advice helped, he told himself. Of course, it could have been the Bomber Ale. He couldn’t remember the last time, other than that horrid Nerzain hooch of Porc’s, that alcohol had even given him, with his self-healer physiology, even so much as a buzz. He bade Blazer and Marda farewell, though he realized that he had no idea where anyone’s new quarters were. Maybe they're in our macomms.
He stepped away from the party for a moment to clear his head. Flight operations on this deck were at a minimum. The dropship crew had departed, returning to Cathedral Seven and a bomber patrol launched after one had returned. Otherwise it remained quiet away from the party.
He drifted towards an old Gallant-D across the deck. It was an anomaly on the carrier. Originally designed as multirole craft to relieve the overtaxed Feral bomber of some of its additional duties, it had been considered a failure as a military craft. The squat design featured powerful engines and plenty of internal volume to swap out mission specific modules and cargo, but had sacrificed manoeuvrability and weapons capacity. Instead it had found an uncommon role as a courier and light freighter in civilian service.
He wasn’t aware of any that remained in frontline service. Two Anulians in civilian clothes stood beside it. They conversed with an enlisted Otlian whose upper shoulder brandished three blue horizontal stripes over four angled ones, above the box and bridge sigil of the quartermaster corps. Arion couldn’t help but look at the tall, raven-haired female as she gestured towards the transport. Something about how she moved and filled out her jumpsuit looked familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Then she turned.
He’d recognize that silhouette anywhere. Alieha?! He rubbed his eyes and looked down at the empty mug in his hand. He couldn’t believe it, but when he looked back, it was still her, still Alieha. He floated towards her dumbstruck, unable to believe his eyes. Am I having a mental breakdown? He continued to drift as he began to self-analyze, looking for other signs of mental instability as the woman turned away and he came within earshot.
“This all the cargo you requested, but not the payment.” The voice was unmistakable. A little gruffer than the Alieha he knew, but everything else was spot on.
The quartermaster motioned towards one of the reverse thruster exhausts on the transport. “I know the deal you made with the Captain, Alieha, but we don’t have the thruster on hand. It’s going to take a few cycles to fabricate it, and then at least another cycle to install and test it.”
She nodded. “I was aware of that and ready for the delay. I’ll just need temporary quarters for my co-pilot and I while we wait. Again, that was what I negotiated with Captain Sardenon and the Admiral,” she went on, putting extra emphasis on the name drop of the battlegroup commanders.
The quartermaster pulled his macomm and scrolled through it before nodding. “Looks that way. Keep your macomm on and we’ll contact you with quarters assignments shortly. You know the areas of the ship you’re allowed…”
“I’ll be at The Burning Crater,” she replied, cutting him off and turned. She locked eyes with Arion. She looked at him with an unimpressed expression then motioned with her eyes to his right.
Arion jerked and looked up in time to ram face-first into the side of her transport’s raised cockpit. He rebounded back towards the runway, grabbing his face. He found a few drops of blood there, nothing extreme, but it upset him just the same. Regaining his composure, he kicked his legs down and activated the mag locks in his boots. They pulled him to the deck with a nice double thump upon landing. He looked back to where Alieha had been. She was gone.
He shook his head, grabbing his face. All in my imagination. He turned to head back towards the others and there she stood in front of him, a lopsided grin on her face. She was not exactly as he’d remembered her. Her skin was not nearly so flawless, little laugh lines marking her eyes and mouth. Her hair, tied up in the zero gravity, still had stray strands out of place, and maybe a touch of grey on the fringes. Her mocha skin shone with a light sheen of sweat. It all made her that much lovelier to him. “Not used to null-g big guy?”
Arion shook his head, unable to find the words and reached out to touch her. Alieha slapped his hand away. “Whoa. I didn’t give you permission to touch!” she snapped.
He pulled back his hand. It stung just a little from the strike, she was real. “Alieha? How?”
“Do I know you?” she asked, clearly not recognizing him.
“It’s me. Arion, Arion Scotts. Did they figure out some way to, to restore you?”
She returned a quizzical look for a moment before recognition dawned in her eyes. “Holy Shreg!” she exclaimed, a tiny crack in her lower lip visible. “You knew Number Three!”
Arion nodded; there was a tiny scar over her left eye, barely noticeable, and multiple piercings in her left ear. “Wait, Scotts, Arion,” she put a hand to her lips. Her nails were rough, cuticles cracked, and there was a grease stain on the back of her hand that ran up her sleeve. “You were the lover?”
If it weren’t for the mag boots Arion would have surely lost his footing. “Yes. Yes I was.”
Alieha gave him an appraising look. “Well, Three got my taste in men right.”
“Hey Arion,” Rudjick called as he sailed towards him, his face flushed and words slurred. “Who's your friend?” Alieha turned and Rudjick threw himself into a spin in response that sent his mug soaring away. Arion grabbed hold of the elf and pulled him to the deck as he gibbered at the sight of Alieha. “What in the Shregging Sheol was in that drink?!” he slurred. “She’s, she can’t…” he looked up at Arion. “Can she?”
“So, you both knew Three then?” Alieha asked.
Arion motioned towards the others as they stared at them from across the deck. “We all did. We were at the academy together. We were all there when Alieha, the other Alieha, when she…”
“Sacrificed herself,” she said nonchalantly but with a touch of remorse. “I read the report.” Arion wasn’t sure what to make of that. From the twitch of her head, the thought of it clearly bothered her. Yet at the same time, she had to know from the beginning that the Alieha they knew was a robot.
Rudjick looked ready to throw up in his mouth as he wavered beside Arion. “Are you? What number?”
“No number. I’m the real deal, the template.”
“And even more beautiful,” Arion said before he could stop himself.
Alieha blushed and smiled, a lovely combination. “Thank you.”
Something Alieha used to say when she spoke about her sisters came to mind. “You were the mental template too. That’s why she used to say that you ‘remembered things to her.’”
“Pretty much, yes. I don’t know the specifics.” There was a long silence. None of them knew what to say. To Arion’s thanks, she broke the silence again. “I want you to tell me about her. I was always closest to Three. She was probably the most like me, the least tinkered with.”
Arion felt his cheeks flush with happiness at that. “Of course. You mentioned something about a ‘Burning Crater?’”
Alieha took his arm, and pointed towards the nearest exit hatch. “Ship’s bar. You’ll love it.”
Room PQ-451, Wolfsbane
Chris didn’t stay long at the party. She was too tired and had far too much on her mind to celebrate with the bomber crews. The marines however, had she known where their welcome home party was, then she might have gone there. Nothing helped her burn off self-doubt and emotional baggage like chucking a few marines around at one of their raucous shindigs. Instead, after Gavit had limped away, she’d followed her micomm’s instructions to her room. To her surprise she discovered that she now shared a space with not only Bichard, but Gavit and Matt. Their quarters on Cathedral Seven had each crew sharing an apartment. Now the two crews would share a flat wi
th four small bedrooms exiting off a common living space and bathroom.
It was cozy. Smaller than their quarters back on Cathedral Seven, but then, this was a warship. Her room was tiny, barely large enough for the bunk, the small desk beside it, and a wardrobe. The small space was almost calming, fitting comfortably with her minimalistic upbringing. It would however, require her to stow away most of her silent weapons collection, assuming the others didn’t have an issue with her hanging them in the common area.
The sound of soft music reverberated through the wall she shared with Gavit. She only hoped that the walls of the bathroom were better soundproofed, and that Gavit didn’t bring any dates back here. The music slowly changed in tempo, pitch and volume, reacting to his biorhythms to lull him to sleep. It would increase for a moment erratically, Gavit tossing in his attempts to get to sleep. Pain or feelings of loss about Tris? She figured it had to be pain. The speed-heal cast on his leg she knew from experience to be uncomfortable.
The music soon receded to nothing, plunging Chris into silence and she tapped the screen on her desk. The display sprang to life with a soft glow. A number of icons appeared and she accessed the external comms stitch. A Drashig Psi-Comm operator appeared on her screen. A number of leathery, tree trunk-like Donvarion stood behind her, a surreal alien forest deep within the ship. “Wolfsbane Unclassified Psi-Comm Operations. How can I help you this shift?”
The system was not as automated as it had been back on the larger space station; Chris gritted her teeth at that. “I need to place a personal call to Anul,” she replied, tying her micomm into the link to avoid waking Gavit.
The operator looked offscreen before replying. “Yes ma’am. We have one unsecured line open to Anul. Please specify recipient and location.”
“Torishen Anit, Hang Dor. Scibe City has the nearest Psi-Comm station.”
“Connection to Scibe City established. I show two listings, a static terminal and macomm.”
Hell's Razer Page 12
