《Alien: Tribulation》


 Prologue: Part I

    <u>Torin Prime: Tartarus Sector</u>


    <u>New Philadelphia Colony</u>


    <u>05/29/2183</u>


    Rain rattled off cheap, pre-fab rooftops of New Philadelphia Colony. It was a calm night and a still darkness but things were not always so. Eighty years ago, a dangerous local rebel faction attempted succession from the newly formed United Americas. Their efforts resulted in much bloodshed, concentration camps and a full-fledged war in space. After two long years the United Americas Allied Command defeated the insurgents and restored order. Prosperity however, did not follow with it.


    Few alive are old enough to remember the conflict. Recent generations only know Torin Prime as it has been, burdened by heavy sanctions and an even heavier police presence. Along the streets and alleys of the sprawling capitol colony nearly three hundred thousand souls live in dissatisfaction and poverty. Homes and other structures are dilapidated and run down. Everywhere there is trash, graffiti and useless junk.


    For all that, there are also many watering holes. Beneath the muddied streets, in a cellar underneath a twenty four hour laundromat, lies the Liberty Bell Cantina. Honest hard-working locals of every sort are hosted here, as well as some less-honest. Ernest Hart wasn¡¯t sure which sort he was, but he was glad he wasn¡¯t a local in any case. Torin Prime wasn¡¯t his idea of a holiday destination by any stretch. He¡¯d be glad to leave tomorrow now that his business here was finished. For now he sat at the bar drinking a cold beer enjoying the ambiance, such as it was.


    All told he¡¯d spent the better part of a month here and he was fairly certain there wasn¡¯t much else to see. Torin Prime was a mountainous world, semi-arid with a cool temperate climate. Outside the colonies high peaks and valleys stretched out to the horizons. People said the hiking and mountain-climbing were ¡®epic¡¯, but Ernest was long past an age for such things. Beneath an old tweed cap and a well-worn London Fog overcoat he was just an old man in his late sixties, tan in complexion with a week¡¯s worth of stubble on his cheeks.


    Behind the bar, an especially dingy dust-smeared screen played network news nobody could hear over the old jukebox. As the camera zoomed in Ernest recognized the face of a tall, well-dressed man preparing to be interviewed. His hair was graying and his easy smile was gone, but there could be no mistake about who it was. A caption superimposed itself in the lower border as another camera feed took over, pulling back as the man and the interviewer sat down together. The caption read: Paul Van Leuwen, Chairman, Interstellar Commerce Commission.


    Ernest shook his head, scoffed, and muttered, ¡°Fuckin guy has no idea!¡±


    ¡°Hows that?¡± a flat voice asked to his left. Ernest turned his head to regard the stranger who slid unto the stool beside him. He was a thin man, plainly dressed in a long-sleeve shirt tucked into crease-less slacks with a black leather belt and steel-toed boots. It was the same attire most of the local ¡®blue-collar¡¯ workers wore who labored in the factories, quarries and mines. The fabric was made of a tight-weaved polyester/cotton blend which was hard to tear, difficult to stain, durable and clean-cut.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s obvious. Just look at him,¡± Ernest answered smoothly though inwardly he was anything but calm.


    ¡°What¡¯ll you have?¡± the bartender asked the new arrival with a bored expression.


    ¡°Scotch, neat,¡± the stranger replied crisply.


    ¡°That¡¯s fifty dollars a glass?¡±


    The stranger just smiles so the bartender reaches for one of the few bottles of real liquor he had on offer.


    Ernest took the chance to look around a bit more, glancing at the tables and booths behind him. It was a packed house, standing room only except for the bar. Nobody else seemed to be paying Ernest any mind. Still his heart wouldn¡¯t stop racing. Any chance for a quick exit seemed unlikely. Ernest couldn¡¯t shoulder his way through that crowd very easily. Perhaps there was a back door? Yet running blindly into the back storage area of a cellar was just as likely to yield a dead end.


    ¡°You don¡¯t look like your from around here?¡± the stranger asked making eye-contact with Ernest. His eyes were a dull brown, as was his hair, short and neatly trimmed; combed over his brow in such a well-manicured arch it might as well have been made of plastic. He looked to be mid-thirties, perfectly clean shaven with a posture as rigid as a mannequin.


    ¡°You¡¯d be right about that,¡± Ernest answered with a false chuckle. ¡°I¡¯m a long, long way from home.¡±


    Meanwhile, on the screen, Paul leaned forward in his chair holding his hands before him in the way you do when you¡¯re either holding a big bowl or asking for patience and understanding. The cameras blinked back to the interviewer, an elegant woman with bright wholesome eyes and understated lipstick. She seemed to be unhappy with the interview and the way the conversation was going.


    ¡°What brings you here? Looks like you have a story to tell,¡± the stranger said feigning interest.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a few no doubt,¡± Ernest replied earnestly, ¡°but if you don¡¯t mind I¡¯m just trying to watch this.¡±


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    As the bartender came over with two fingers of scotch Ernest gestured to the vid screen, ¡°Hey can you turn that up?¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t do much good,¡± the bartender grunts raising his voice to make a point.


    ¡°Humor me please,¡± Ernest says straining to the keep the panic out of the word please.


    ¡°Ok old-timer,¡± the bartender says snatching the remote attempting in vain to overcome the din. Meanwhile, the stranger slides a fifty dollar bill unto the bar to pay for his drink. ¡°Huh?¡± the bartender says reaching for it. ¡°This is Weyland Yutani currency.¡±


    ¡°Is that a problem?¡± the stranger asks.


    ¡°Uh, I suppose not¡­ if that¡¯s all you¡¯ve got?¡± he asks annoyed.


    ¡°It¡¯s what I carry,¡± the stranger explains. The bartender puts it in his till without a fuss seemingly out of patience to discuss it further. Just then another song starts playing on the juke box.


    And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder. One of the four beasts saying, ¡°Come and see.¡±


    And I saw, and behold a white horse.


    ¡°You know you¡¯re already too late,¡± Ernest says matter-of-factly, sliding his right hand off the bar through the slit in his overcoat at his side.


    The stranger cocks his head over in the odd way a child might, ¡°please explain?¡±


    There¡¯s a man going around taking names


    ¡°I¡¯ve got nothing left to prove,¡± Ernest says leaning back from the bar and pulling out his Browning High Power automatic from its holster in one smooth motion firing from the hip at point-blank range.


    And he decides who to free and who to blame


    As the first bullet hit the stranger in the chest he was already moving, grasping towards Ernest, snatching for his throat quick as a vipers strike. Ernest was falling however, throwing himself backward off his stool. The stranger¡¯s fingertips brushed against his collar, clawing at the fabric of the overcoat as he fell.


    Everybody won¡¯t be treated all the same


    The CRACK, CRACK, CRACK of pistol shots erupted three times before Ernest hit the floor blowing holes into the strangers shoulder, throat and stomach. Each wound bled white, viscous lubricant.


    There¡¯ll be a golden ladder reaching down


    The stranger hopped off his stool and reached down for Ernest unperturbed. His inhuman, synthetic innards were seemingly invulnerable to small arms fire.


    When the man comes around


    Ernest kicked and rolled away still firing as fast as he could pull the trigger. Around him people screamed and fell over themselves trying to flee. Ernest felt someone¡¯s foot kick him in the ribs. Still he scrabbled away on the floor fighting to regain his feet.


    The hairs on your arm will stand up


    The strangers hand grabbed Ernest¡¯s collar, yanking back with such force he felt a rush of blood pressure up in his skull making the room spin.


    At the terror in each sip and in each sup


    ¡°FUCK YOU!¡± Ernest shouted attempting to twist his way out of his own coat.


    Will you partake of that last offered cup


    The stranger grabs Ernest¡¯s right wrist turning him around and lifting him up like a rag doll.


    Or disappear into the potter¡¯s ground


    ¡°Tisk-tisk, that¡¯s not a polite way to leave a conversation,¡± the stranger says placidly with an eerie bubbling sound as white lubricant squirts out of his neck all over Ernest¡¯s chest and overcoat.


    When the man comes around


    Ernest feel¡¯s the bones in his wrist ready to fracture like matchsticks as the synthetic begins to squeeze. His grip goes limp, the pistol falling to the floor. By reflex earnest grabs at the strangers other hand as it reaches for his throat. He might as well be arm-wrestling a gorilla. As the fingers clamp around his neck Ernest has the presence of mind to hear the music.


    Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers


    One hundred million angels singing


    The synthetics head explodes in a fountain of ichor and plastics an instant after the loud BOOM of a shotguns report. Ernest feels the strangers fingers relax and manages to gasp in a ragged breath, falling to the floor in a heap.


    Multitudes are marching to the big kettledrum


    Voices calling, voices crying


    Some are born and some are dying


    ¡°Hey you ok old-timer?¡± the bartender asked leaning over the bar clutching a smoking pump-action.


    ¡°Never better!¡± Ernest hissed through gritted teeth. Around him, everyone else in the bar hovered and stared in a state of shock.


    ¡°Why was a synthetic trying to kill you?¡± someone shouted.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t,¡± Ernest said struggling back to his feet, picking up his pistol and holstering it in the process.


    ¡°It had its hand around your throat!¡± the bartender pointed out.


    ¡°I am well aware,¡± Ernest agreed somewhat hoarsely rubbing at his neck, ¡°It wanted to choke me until I passed out so it could carry me out of here and interrogate me elsewhere.¡±


    ¡°Jesus! What are you going to do?¡± someone else asked as the crowd started to press back in getting a closer look at the headless android. Most of these people had never seen one before.


    Ernest stepped forward again to lean against the bar, careful not to slip on all the lubricant. His right hand and his ribs ached something terrible as adrenaline started to wear off. With his left hand he grabbed the glass of scotch and raised it up to the bartender, ¡°To your health!¡± he said gulping it down before he turned to face the crowd with all seriousness. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you exactly what I¡¯m gonna do. I¡¯m gonna buy drinks for everyone here. I trust there are no objections?¡±

 Prologue: Part II

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/21/2183</u>


    "Check!" Dasha Zhukova exclaimed slapping her hand on the side table startling Ze''ev Darkon who blinked with the realization he''d been lost in thought. A trend that was growing ever more common in his old age. Dasha on the other hand was youthful, rowdy, energetic and lighthearted. Even more so than most in their early thirties.


    "Apologies," Ze''ev stated focusing again on the chess board. Check it was indeed, and worse yet, the outlook of the game looked decidedly grim for him as a result.


    "Something must be bothering you. I can''t remember the last time I was able to back you into a corner like this," Dasha said with a taunting smirk and a soft Russian accent.


    Ze''ev shook his head looking over at the beautiful woman as he spoke with obvious sarcasm, "Nonsense! I don''t believe for a second you''d forget something like that."


    Dasha glanced up and away with a playful, dismissive air absently swallowing down half her cup of wine. Real spirits did not come cheap out here on the brink of the frontier but Ze''ev obliged her this indulgence whenever they had time for a game. It certainly didn''t seem to affect her concentration.


    Dasha could drink like a fish and curse like a soldier, qualities that led many to underestimate her. A fact she often used to her advantage. Deals made over drinks were just as lucrative as ones signed in boardrooms. Dasha had a talent for reading people, which when combined with a shrewd intellect and a keen sense of strategy made her one of his most valuable staff members. Ze''ev sacrificed a rook to capture the knight that put him in check.


    Dasha raised a brow peering at the board. A rook was more valuable than a knight. Ze''ev was rarely this aggressive, something was off. She decided to press him and find out, "Are you and Eve holding up ok? The fourth anniversary of the tragedy at Hadley''s Hope is coming up."


    Ze''ev sighed despite himself. She was right, something was bothering him and she sensed exactly what it was. Still, part of him wished she would have been less direct and more tactful. Dasha always went for the jugular, even when meaning well.


    "It is difficult," he admitted glancing at one of several portraits of his granddaughter spread around his study. ¡°We decided not to host a memorial this year.¡±


    Dasha held a sympathetic expression, ¡°Eva was a lovely girl. I wish I would have known her better.¡±


    ¡°She liked you Dasha. Her father however¡­¡±


    Dasha made a pained expression, ¡°She was sixteen! That¡¯s certainly old enough for a makeover and a party where I come from!¡±


    Ze¡¯ev held up his hands, ¡°We are a Jewish family Dasha. Elijah in particular was very strict about traditions, or what we call ¡®minhagim¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Eve was not best pleased either I do recall,¡± Dasha admitted crestfallen.


    ¡°Maybe not but Eva had a great time. She told me about it, while she was grounded,¡± he added pointedly. ¡°It was good for her. I expect she thought of you as a role model. These days that¡¯s no small thing.¡°


    Dasha took another drink of wine looking somewhat sad, ¡°Do you think we¡¯ll ever find out what really happened on LV-426?¡±


    Ze¡¯ev pursed his lips. The truth was he thought about LV-426 every day. What¡¯s more, he put considerable effort and resources into finding answers. Elijah and Eva traveled there to visit Elijah¡¯s sister and planned to depart a few days later.


    Weyland Yutani¡¯s claim the Union of Progressive People¡¯s nuked the colony from orbit seemed preposterous. What would be the reason for that? The colonists were, by all accounts, innocent civilians. Nothing about the colony facilities warranted that sort of strike either. The only military presence on LV-426 was a small detachment of Colonial Marines stationed there for security; standard practice on any colony so far out on the frontier.


    It seemed far more likely to Ze¡¯ev that there was some sort of industrial accident or malfunction with the colony¡¯s huge atmosphere processor. That explanation also served as motive for The Company to misdirect blame. Weyland Yutani was quite proud of those enormously expensive monuments of technology. It wouldn¡¯t do for their slogan, ¡®Building Better Worlds¡¯ if their own terraforming equipment subsequently went nuclear.


    His daughter Eve did not have the stomach to think on these questions. Her grief had already convinced her Weyland Yutani murdered Eva and her husband, one way or another. She would never again speak with, or tolerate, a representative of Weyland Yutani in her presence.


    This was not much of a problem for her as a scientist and researcher for Technion Interstellar; one of two rival corporations of Weyland Yutani with labs and offices on this very station. Ze¡¯ev however could not afford such an attitude, at least not without proof. His responsibilities as the station administrator required frequent contact with Company reps, subsidiary contractors and spacer crews; few of whom ever had anything to do with LV-426.


    That is not to say he was without outrage. Quite the contrary, but he refused to let those feelings jeopardize the safety of his family or Ashkelon Station. Instead he employed private investigators, data-collectors and informants with the utmost discretion.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°That depends on what you¡¯re willing to believe,¡± Ze¡¯ev answered moving his last knight forward. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve heard the rumors.¡±


    ¡°Some,¡± Dasha said. ¡°The ICC launched an inquiry.¡±


    Ze¡¯ev nodded, ¡°Which is still ongoing,¡± ¡­and more of a farce than a real investigation, he didn¡¯t add. ¡°It¡¯ll take time to puzzle that together.¡±


    Dasha moved one of her pawns forwawrd, ¡°Have you tried to call in any favors?¡±


    Ze¡¯ev frowned, ¡°Towards what end?¡±


    ¡°For answers. For closure.¡±


    ¡°I have prayed, ¡±Ze¡¯ev said simply. ¡°There is no hammer harder on the hearts of men than the honest and bitter truth. Eventually someone will talk. Truth rises to the top like oil upon water.¡±


    Dasha gave him a peculiar look. Either she knew he was spouting bullshit or simply did not know how to react. Religion made her uncomfortable. Ze¡¯ev knew this since he first hired her over five years ago to be his Chief Commerce Officer.


    Just then an insistent chime bleeted from Ze¡¯ev¡¯s comm terminal, across the study, on his desk. Whoever was calling had access to his private channel. All other communications went through his personal assistant or the chief station officer, neither of whom would disturb him without good reason at this hour. Most likely they would use the station intercom anyway, not his comm terminal.


    ¡°Please excuse me Dasha, we¡¯ll have to finish this game another time,¡± Ze¡¯ev stated apologetically rising smoothly to his feet.


    ¡°No problem. Goodnight Ze¡¯ev,¡± Dasha said kindly, moving over to press a familiar peck on his wrinkled cheek. An affection that just then reminded him of Eva. Suddenly uncomfortable he stiffened and pushed her back.


    Dasha gasped and started to say something.


    ¡°Just leave!¡± Ze¡¯ev snapped turning his back on her mortified expression. He felt bad for hurting her feelings so abruptly, but just now he was more concerned about what message might be coming through on his comm terminal. As he slid into the genuine leather chair before the antique mahogany desk the screen blinked <u>-Priority Private Message-</u>. Unlike a normal message neither the identity of the sender nor the point of origin are displayed until he enters his personal access code, which he does.


    The name <u>Ernest Hart</u> and the words <u>Torin Prime: Tartarus Sector</u> appear, as well as the transmission date, <u>05/29/2183</u>. Ze¡¯ev presses the appropriate key to accept the message and associated long distance charges. A shadowy, grainy image appears of a man leaning close to a public terminal. His face was partially obscured by the high collar of his overcoat and the brim of an old-fashioned tweed cap pulled low over his eyes.


    ¡°Hello old friend,¡± the voice crackles. Behind him shouts of other voices, laughter and the lyrics of Bob Dylan playing on an old jukebox almost overwhelm the poor voice quality. Ze¡¯ev leans in closer straining his ears.


    ¡°It¡¯s taken a while but I¡¯ve finally tracked that lead we talked about. Turns out I was right. I found a survivor of Hadley¡¯s Hope, an actual-fucking-eye-witness!¡± the man says with signs of a grin within old stubble and heavy wrinkles.


    Ze¡¯ev''s breath caught in his throat. He could hardly believe his ears.


    ¡°I know it¡¯s hard to believe, but she has proof in the form of video evidence. She even let me see some of it, not all of it, but enough to back up her claim that she was there.¡±


    Ze¡¯ev¡¯s heartbeat quickened in a rush as his mind raced. At last there was hope, real hope, for answers.


    ¡°She¡¯s interested to speak to you and give you the whole story, the video, everything she¡¯s got. But of course it¡¯s gonna cost ya. No surprise there right? We talked about this and I advise you to play it straight with her. This is not someone you want to fuck with. Just sayin.¡±


    Ze¡¯ev released his breath slowly. Yes they had talked about this.


    ¡°I know this because she nearly blew my head off just for trying to introduce myself. Lucky for you that she didn¡¯t, but likely there were others not so fortunate. Just sayin, you owe me one!¡±


    Ze¡¯ev nodded his head unconsciously.


    ¡°She wants enough money to disappear properly for a long time. She doesn¡¯t trust me, you, or anyone else knowing what planet she¡¯s on so she isn¡¯t gonna stick around here any longer. I told her who you were and where she can find you. I also told her about Eva and Elijah so she¡¯d know you have your reasons for tracking her down. After that I offered to make travel arrangements for her but she was having none of it. That was the extent of our conversation for the most part. The longer we spoke the more nervous she became.¡±


    Ernest pauses quickly to look over his shoulder, one hand sliding under his coat. After a few moments he turns back.


    ¡°Fuck me now I¡¯m getting nervous!¡± he curses. ¡°On a hunch I kept tabs on any departing ships due to stop at Ashkelon Station and it paid off. She¡¯s boarded an old Bison cargo freighter, the USCSS Casimir, registration number 7643039(04) under the alias ¡®Marion Shelly¡¯. I¡¯d tell you what her real name is but it wouldn¡¯t do you much good. All information about her has been scrubbed from public records. I think we both know what that means... Besides that, I don¡¯t trust The Network. Certain keywords might alert The Company to intercept my transmissions. This message should reach you before the freighter arrives just under two months from today. Take care old friend.¡±


    <u>-End of Transmission-</u> appears on the screen, along with the itemized charges. Ze¡¯ev leans back and intertwines his fingers before his chin thoughtfully. ¡°Watch your back Ernest,¡± he whispered.

 Prologue: Part III

    <u></u>


    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/22/2183</u>


    Deep within the bowels of Ashkelon Station Lead Engineer Storen Bull began his day walking his dog. Never a handsome man, nor energetic, Storen carried a look of perpetual disinterest. His face held a slack facial expression around tired droopy blue/grey eyes that rarely seemed to focus on anything. Storen was in his mid-fifties, balding with thinning hair pulled back into a rough knot tied above his collar. A short beard peppered with grey was trimmed low along his jawline but thicker around his mouth and chin.


    This early in the morning Storen moved with a sluggish pace holding the leash of his Black Norwegian Elkhound Spacer loosely in his grip. A handsome animal, the canine padded dutifully alongside him making no sound as Storens boots clomped and stomped along the metal grating of the lower engineering decks. Spacer had a squarely-built body, shiny short-haired coat, pointed ears and a firmly curled tail arched over his back. Generally good-natured with a headstrong stubbornness, the hound was much beloved around the station. More so than Storen himself there was no doubt.


    Standing six foot two Storen wore an engineering jumpsuit the same as other techs except for an old tan leather jacket tightly hugging his shoulders. Climate controls were constantly on the flux, especially in ¡®low-priority¡¯ areas of the station where none of the haughty corporate execs deigned to tread. Down here in the stations guts Storen was happy to have the added warmth. On each shoulder was a black-over-red patch of Ashkelon Station. An additional cluster of three dark-orange starbursts were sewn above the heart on his left breast marking his rank as a Lead Engineer. Each collar had a different golden pin bordered in silver. One was a spacecraft and the other was a space station indicating his broad level of expertise.


    Storen had long since made a habit of taking a stroll around the lower levels looking for anything the station techs might have missed that might affect operations above. It wouldn¡¯t be the first time he caught something and he had his reasons to be concerned. The station in orbit of GL382 was many times more massive than an M-Class freighter, but it was still much like a space craft in many senses of the word. Though not equipped with engines it had a towing platform so it could be hauled through space. It also had powerful maneuvering thrusters to maintain and modify its orbit. Ashkelon was home to sixteen hundred souls but there were only enough escape pods for for about a fifth of that number.


    Spacer paused mid-step as a slight rattle and the hiss of gas escaped a bundle of pipes and hoses above his head. The hound lifted his snout, swiveled his ears and sniffed curiously before huffing his throat slightly. Storen peered up at the hoses slowly sniffing a few times himself. ¡°Sounds like another leak,¡± he said absently hooking Spacer¡¯s leash on his thumb while reaching for the engineering multi-tool clipped to his waist. The device was an older model designed for EVA use encased in a high density polymer shell with a low-definition back-lit LCD display and fat rubberized buttons.


    Storen waited a few moments for it to boot up selecting ¡®sensor wand¡¯ from a sub-menu. An instant later, a pen-like ancillary tool popped up through a port in the casing. Storen pulled it free the rest of the way holding it up above his head. Steady tones of blips and beeps confirmed the source, type and severity of the gas leak.


    ¡°Yep,¡± Storen murmured to himself glancing at the readout. It read pure nitrogen which wasn¡¯t an absolute emergency insofar as the gas was neither toxic nor flammable. Spacer barked once. Storen reached down to pat the dog reassuringly replacing the multi-tool back on his belt. He would order a station repair tech to fix this as soon as he reached his office.


    There was something of a professional rivalry between the station techs and the spacecraft techs. Whenever the groups happened to encounter each other at a bar or cafeteria some sort of insults, arguments or contests were soon to follow. Unfortunately the rivalry had very real consequences in budgetary terms as both groups pressed for a larger share of funds from station administration.


    The debate was always the same. Spacecraft techs argued that a well-managed, well-supplied space dock was vital to both safety and commerce. Station techs argued the needs of the space dock were secondary to the wants of the corporate labs, the hospital and other systems vital for the stations residents. Neither group was happy with what they got and neither group felt like Storen was on their side, which was true, he wasn''t.


    Storen was one of the few members of middle-management who was truly impartial. He also didn¡¯t blame a lack of funding for the daily woes of the engineers. Ashkelon Station was constructed in 2093. It was ninety years old. Older than the great majority of spacecraft that used it as a port of call and one of the oldest stations still in service anywhere.


    Similar in size but less sophisticated than its lost sister-station, Sevastopol, Ashkelon was the first major attempt at exploration into the Frontier by the CSC (Central Space Consortium). A cutthroat cabal of corporate giants and off-world colonies coming together to declare independence from earthbound governments to create their own laws and avoid paying taxes.


    At the beginning, member corporations were all too eager to invest their fortunes into the station for the promise of future dividends. Though never faulted for their ambition, the CSC¡¯s reach seemed to extend beyond their grasp. In subsequent decades little exploration actually occurred beyond the Tartarus Sector and no major worlds beyond GL382 (also known as Temple) were colonized by the CSC. Once the operating costs of Ashkelon Station rose out of balance with its perceived usefulness to generate profits it didn¡¯t take long for the station to lose financial backing.


    Besides that, the lawless and underhanded reputation of the CSC made the station a black spot along the space lanes for interstellar commerce. Ships registered in the UA (United Americas) and the 3WE (Three World Empire) strongly discouraged their crews from stopping at Ashkelon Station.


    Storen had no illusions about what to expect when he took his job twelve years ago. Ashkelon was no one¡¯s idea of a premier posting. Lack of ICC (Interstellar Commerce Commission) regulations and oversight made everything troublesome. Station equipment had no maintenance standards, spacecraft repairs were improper or outright negligent. Parts, fuel, tools and supplies were in short supply for one reason or another. Many things on the station had strings attached to unethical individuals. Storen didn¡¯t put up with any of that.


    Since those days many people tend to forget how bad things on the station used to be and fewer still give Storen his due credit for cleaning it up. Not that most were even aware of how and what he actually did to manage that. Storen preferred it that way. Recent circumstances however, changed the station in ways no one anticipated. The evolution of the CSC into the ICSC (Independent Core Systems Colonies) created entirely new problems.


    Ashkelon Station was never a legitimate port of call in the eyes of the old Earth governments. For the better part of ninety years that looked like it would never change until the ICSC decided it should. In the spirit of free commerce and the desire to attract new colonies into their re-branded consortium the ICSC agreed for limited ICC oversight of Ashkelon Station and a few other way stops on the trade lanes back into the core systems. In addition to this, Colonial Marshals were permitted postings in these locations to safeguard ICC personnel, visitors, and to uphold the laws of the Colonial Administration.


    This agreement was hashed out after months of talks with the ICC under intense media scrutiny. Everyone everywhere seemed to have an opinion on whether or not this would work or should even be attempted. Merits of the agreement as a good idea were debated against arguments attesting it as a bad one for quite some time.


    Along with this drastic change in policy, the ICSC promised an overhaul of the station to meet ICC standards. Meanwhile on the station rumors of personnel changes, layoffs and new management ran rampant. Tensions between residents, techs and staff were higher than they¡¯d ever been. Tempers grew short.


    Those that believed the changes would be positive struggled to do their best and exceed their performance quotas. Those who feared change, the ICC, or the Colonial Marshals specifically strongly protested. Few could blame them. Many residents of Ashkelon Station had a past that would cause much grief if they ever ended up in the custody of a Colonial Marshal.


    It had already been close to a month since the ICC and the Colonial Marshals started operating on the station. Initial reactions were harsh of course. Protests and acts of violence occurred as many predicted they would. One ICC inspector and two deputies of the Colonial Marshals Office were seriously injured while undertaking their duties.


    Storen wasn¡¯t one to overreact to much of anything but he was genuinely worried about what might happen if things kept up this way. Accidents, Injuries, brawling and drinking were on the rise among his people. No doubt that trend was true for the rest of the station as well.


    By comparison a tiny nitrogen gas leak didn¡¯t seem like a big problem in itself but it hinted at a greater problem station-wide. Storen knew he wasn¡¯t the only tech moving through these corridors on a daily basis. The only reason he and Spacer happened to notice this leak at all was because he wasn¡¯t in a hurry concentrating on something else. What''s worse, Storen could easily imagine a tech ignoring the leak altogether unless it was something they got credit for fixing that was assigned to them on a work order. Such was the short-sightedness of priorities that led to the sorry state of Ashkelon station, Storen mused, tugging Spacer along as he kept walking.


    _ _ _


    A short while later Storen reached the dry dock proper approaching the personnel airlock which was flanked by two yawning ICSC security officers. Though early for him, these officers were nearing the end of their shift.


    ¡°Hey Bull,¡± one of them said in a low grunt. This one was the larger of the two, almost as tall as Storen but heavier and meaner in appearance. His square skull was trimmed in a buzz cut and beneath his collar were the hint of tattoos. His eyes met Storen¡¯s only briefly before he shifted his gaze again down towards Spacer. The hound stopped panting and stared back unkindly.


    ¡°Don,¡± Storen stated flatly. The other officer glanced between the two sensing there was a history here. Storen didn¡¯t know this one. He was younger, leaner and a few inches shorter standing more on the balls of his feet grasping his hands together behind his back. The black and red uniform he wore had the name J. Heisinger over his badge.


    Don moved to open the airlock for Storen as the other officer held up his hand, ¡°Hold on! Animals aren¡¯t allowed in the dry dock. Where is your identification?¡± He asks Storen with an arrogant undertone. Don took in a breath and clenched his jaw. Storen could tell he was frustrated. The smaller man was clearly new to the station, another fresh graduate from the ICSC Security Officer¡¯s Academy.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Don was an ASS (Ashkelon Station Security) for almost as long as Storen was a Lead Engineer. After the ICSC was formed orders came through to begin ''restructuring'' Ashkelon Station Security. Don was forced into reassignment within the new ICSC security officers hierarchy. Don¡¯s familiarity and experience with the station apparently didn¡¯t matter so much as his lack of training and familiarity with the new regs. He was demoted down from assistant chief to a lowly guard posting.


    ¡°Jack, this is Storen Bull, one of the stations'' Lead Engineers,¡± Don said to his fellow officer trying to make it clear that Storen was free to go pretty much anywhere he wanted.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t asking you!¡± Jack shot back.


    Storen locked eyes with Jack as Spacer started to growl. Jack put a hand on his sidearm. ¡°You¡¯ll want to keep that animal under control!¡± he warned. ¡°Now where¡¯s your ID?"


    Storen reached up to his jacket and pulled it aside very slowly. There on his right breast was his name tag sewn on his jumpsuit. S. Bull. Beneath that was a plastic ID card in a clear plastic cover. The cover had push-snaps sewn into the corners that snapped unto the jumpsuit.


    ¡°That¡¯s the old CSC ID Card,¡± Jack complained. ¡°You¡¯ll need to report to the ICSC security office for a replacement.¡±


    ¡°Sure, no problem,¡± Storen said calmly. ¡°I¡¯ll get around to it.¡±


    Jack crossed his arms, ¡°I can¡¯t let you pass until you do. Take your mutt with you.¡±


    Don slowly shook his head and rolled his eyes. Storen stepped forward as Jack flinched, ¡°Halt!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have time for this I have work to do,¡± Storen groaned stepping even closer.


    Jack grabbed for his sidearm as Spacer lunged snapping his jaws around the young mans calf pulling him off balance. Jack never even managed to un-holster his weapon before Storen slammed his head back against the airlock frame with a solid thud. Jack made a soft ''whuuuhhh'' sound as he started to collapse.


    Don grabbed him before he toppled over, laying him down gently, ¡°Shit! Sorry about this Bull. Kids'' got his head up his ass!¡±


    Storen pulled back on Spacers leash. The hound returned to his side obediently.


    ¡°It is what it is,¡± Storen said placing a hand on the bigger mans shoulder briefly. ¡°Don¡¯t report this to anyone. Make sure the kid understands to keep his mouth shut.¡±


    Don nodded as he frowned, ¡°It makes no sense what they¡¯re doing with station security. These new guys just want to make problems.¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t grow up on Ashkelon like you did Don. You need to make them understand this is our home. They have no right to treat us like criminals or act like jailers.¡±


    Don nodded again, ¡°They don¡¯t give a shit about us!¡±


    ¡°No they don¡¯t. They just want to overhaul the station. Those of us who already live here are just in the way. It will get worse. This is just the first wave.¡±


    Don spit, ¡°They demoted me!¡±


    ¡°They made a mistake and it won¡¯t be the last. We have to be smarter than that. I¡¯ll put in a word for you with the old man Don. We''ll see what we can do for you.¡±


    ¡°Ok, thanks Bull,¡± Don said appreciatively.


    _ _ _


    Storen pressed the open button for the airlock, waiting while the stations AI sampled the air pressures on either side of the bulkhead verifying it was safe to open. All such bulkheads, airlocks and viewing windows into the dry dock were as strong and secure as those of the outer hull. This was by design in case of an explosion or emergency venting. Thus nearly all sound inside the dry dock was muffled. Looking through the airlocks tiny portal made the dry dock look cavernous with a surreal laboratory-like quality.


    Storen was pleased to see how busy it was. Ashkelon¡¯s dry dock had the capacity to hold three G-class spacecraft, or one M-Class freighter. Everything inside looked small and toy-like in comparison to the spacecraft. Walking around inside was an entirely different experience however. Most visitors felt small and vulnerable, at odds with the environment like they didn¡¯t belong. Here the machines commanded attention. Above all, the spacecraft loomed high, as powerful and prominent as chariots of the gods while techs and maintenance personnel swarmed around them like a throng of devotees.


    As the airlock opened with a deep throbbing hum of heavy hydraulics a cacophonous rattle of power tools, the low frequency chugging of auxiliary fluid pumps, the loud whine of robotic gantry arms and the heavy thudding steps of power loaders washed over him like a wave of noise.


    Storen stepped through the airlock and across the threshold. Beneath his boots the reinforced deck plates were layered with synthetic rubberized plastic tiles. Light grey in color, these tiles served three purposes. They provided a durable surface resistant to fuel and chemical spills, improved grip and traction as well as an electrical insulator. Vibrations through the floor were as good an indicator as any of just how busy it was.


    As he moved across the bay Storen let his eyes rove around, taking stock of all the work being performed. When necessary, dry dock worked around the clock splitting the crew into three shifts, each with twelve techs and sixteen maintenance and loading personnel. ICC regulations wouldn¡¯t allow more than that in a bay this size during any one shift, even at full capacity. That new regulation only made the tech''s more grumpy and competitive with each other.


    Working on spacecraft was a job like any other, except when it wasn¡¯t. People trusted these ships with their lives and livelihoods. They were extremely powerful and complex. So far as Storen was concerned there was no excuse for mistakes. He expected a high degree of proficiency. He also demanded a modicum of professionalism and a safety-conscious attitude. Most of all he asked for pacing. A good rule of thumb with spacecraft repairs was, working slow was working safe.


    Suddenly there was shouting. One of the ICC Supervisors was yelling at the Senior Tech in charge of one ships repairs. Storen steered himself towards the commotion but he was intercepted by Elsie Macgill, the manager of dry dock, shuffling towards him with the aid of two strong metal canes, one slipped over each forearm.


    Storen frowned, he didn¡¯t like to see her moving so strenuously. Her place was up in the control room taking charge of logistics, scheduling and supplies the same as she¡¯d always done. Twenty five years she¡¯d been in charge of this dock. Elsie was one of the few people on this station he respected completely.


    ¡°Don¡¯t bother with that just yet,¡± Elsie said jerking her head towards the ICC Supervisor. ¡°You¡¯ve got a visitor waiting in your office.¡± She stated in that tone she used when she was more concerned about what she was talking about than what she was actually saying.


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Ze¡¯ev.¡±


    Storen could only remember one other time when the station administrator came to his office personally, and that was about a week after he accepted this job just to check on how he was fitting in. Elsie knew the man much longer than he did but by the expression on her face she didn¡¯t know what to make of this odd visit either.


    This put Storen in an awkward position. The truth was he spoke to Ze¡¯ev fairly often, always face-to-face, but in a completely different capacity than Lead Engineer and never in his office. Storen allowed the genuine look of bewilderment to come over him.


    ¡°He doesn¡¯t look so good,¡± Elsie continued.


    ¡°Ok, let¡¯s not keep him waiting,¡± Storen said walking with Elsie back towards the lifts at the rear of the dry dock. Normally he took the stairs with their terrific high climb but Elsie would never manage those. She never spoke of her degenerative spinal disorder or let it slow her down in any way, but Storen believed she should have been able to do more with her life.


    Elsie was smarter than he was and even more learned as an engineer. If she could walk and crawl around the spacecraft the way he did she would make a fine Lead Engineer. At least he convinced her to set up a classroom to instruct the techs whenever she had the time.


    Spacer whined as the lift doors shut prior to its ascent. Spacer didn¡¯t like lifts, trams, spacecraft, basically anything that gave the impression the whole room was moving.


    ¡°Ssshhh,¡± Elsie said soothingly. ¡°I¡¯ve got some bacon for you today Spacer!¡±


    Spacer barked with excitement. Elsie kept bowls of food and water for him in the operations center along with a rug for him to lay on beside her terminal. She and the rest of the operations staff kept an eye on the hound whenever Storen was busy in the dry dock or elsewhere on the station.


    ¡°Come along Spacer,¡± Elsie said as the lift reached the landing twenty meters above the deck below.


    Storen handed off Spacers leash to her before walking down the corridor towards his office. His door was open and there inside, Ze¡¯ev was waiting for him just as Elsie said he was. The station administrator was sitting before his desk dressed in a freshly pressed suit. His grey eyes however, were baggy and tired, with little of the usual vitality that belied his seventy five years of age.


    ¡°What can I do for you sir?¡± Storen asked politely, keeping his voice professional. So far as anyone knew they had no relationship beyond his role here and he wasn¡¯t comfortable breaking that secret by acting too familiar while the door was still open.


    ¡°Good morning Storen. Sorry to bother you like this but this couldn¡¯t wait. I need to ask a favor,¡± Ze¡¯ev said standing extending his hand. Storen glanced over his shoulder and down the corridor before he shut the door behind him. Ze¡¯ev stood a good seven inches shorter than Storen and his handshake felt frail and weak. Storen also noted his hair seemingly got whiter every time they met.


    Ze¡¯ev sat down again and continued to speak as Storen moved around his desk, ¡°There is a ship scheduled to dock here in the next few days, the USCSS Casimir. I need you to find out whatever you can about it and the crew as soon as possible.¡±


    Storen looked puzzled, ¡°I remember that ship. It''s an older M-Class Bison. Been stopping here fairly regularly, always needs something. It''s almost as much of an old wreck as Ashkelon station itself. Why are you so interested?¡±


    Ze''ev pursed his lips, ¡°It''s a long story, I''ll explain later."


    Storen shrugged, "Well I have access to all the records of service done here of course, and whatever flight plan and manifest was filed with the ICC. Public records about the crew should also be available.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a start, but I want the whole story. I want to see all the ICC records with detailed personnel files on every crew member the ship ever had. I want to see every cargo manifest and transaction, every flight log, every captain¡¯s log, you understand?¡±


    Storen shook his head, ¡°Risky! The ICC database is one of the hardest to pull records from without proper authorization. That¡¯s a very serious federal offense. I am not entirely sure I can even manage it here on Ashkelon Station. You know our access to the Network is under strict management and observation.¡±


    ¡°There are back-channels the ICC and The Company don¡¯t know about,¡± Ze¡¯ev said in a low voice. ¡°I can provide all The Network access you¡¯ll require.¡±


    ¡°There is still the issue of authorization?¡±


    ¡°Any one of the ICC officers here should have authority to access to those records. The Casimir is scheduled to arrive soon, that should be reason enough for them to make an inquiry if you can come up with a legitimate reason for it."


    Storen leaned back in his swivel chair. He was starting to understand why this was more of a favor than an order. Ze''ev was asking him to put his neck on the line and the look on the old mans face told him this was likely only the beginning of what he was really after. Storen had as many doubts as he had questions, but that''s how favors worked. Storen had to admit he still owed the man and Elsie was right, he didn''t look well. Storen had never seen Ze''ev this desperate before.


    "Ok Ze''ev," Storen said after a long pause. "I''ll get you those records but I have a favor of my own I''d like to ask in return."


    Ze''ev look surprised, clearly also uncomfortable with this new facet of their relationship, "What''s that?"


    "Don''s been demoted. Can you pull some strings, get him back into a respectable role?"


    Ze''ev blinked, "Don? Forgive me but I never thought you two were friends?"


    "It''s not about that. Ashkelon Station is under threat. We have to look after each other or the ICSC will have us all replaced."


    Ze''ev looked hurt and clearly offended, "I would never allow that!"


    Storen raised his hands in a unspoken statement of apology and doubt, "No offense boss, but the times-they-are-a-changin."

 Prologue: Part IV

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/22/2183</u>


    Keren Ho-Stern walked slowly through the outer corridors of Ashkelon¡¯s spaceport, elbows thrust out with attitude, hands stuffed into the pockets of a retro-punk black leather jacket. Beneath her skirt, fishnet stockings wrapped around long shapely legs with high-heeled flats pumping up her ankles.


    At twenty two years of age Keren was still young enough to flaunt an attitude with aplomb. Her hair, wavy and black, was full of body and teased to fly about her shoulders wildly. Her eyes, dark and intelligent were accentuated by mascara, eye-liner and shimmering-purple eye shadow. These colors contrasted nicely against pale skin with blushed cheeks and cherry-red lips.


    At five feet ten inches tall, even without the heels, Keren stood a few inches over others in the crowd. Though not exactly beautiful, Keren was pretty in her own way and well-proportioned. A ¡®handsome girl¡¯ was the phrase most commonly used by her relatives. Many of her features took after her Chinese father, especially her rounded chin and strong jawline. Her look of strength was matched by an excellent physique, worthy of an athlete or a soldier. Keren was neither exactly, but a bit of both. She was a fighter; more specifically, a brawler well-trained in the martial arts.


    A few whistles and cat-calls of approval reached her ears as Keren entered her favorite spacers-club, Dizzy¡¯s. Recognizing the voices as fellow spacecraft techs, Keren casually threw up a middle finger in their general direction and headed for the bar. Beneath her feet black floor tiles were outlined in squares of glowing white. Similarly, the surface of the two dozen tables and the bar itself were frosted synthetic crystal imbedded with fiber optic strands and pressure sensors. Each time an object touched them ripples of light spread across the surface.


    At the center of the club was the dance floor, made up of luminous white tiles beneath elaborate laser light shows. Two levels of six tables each rose up on either side settled into half-booth-alcoves beneath dim spot lights. Around the dance floor was a broad handrail, suitable to lean against while observing the dancers. Anyone standing by this handrail was within the spread of lasers and spotlights circling above. By contrast the rest of the club was heavily shadowed. One could move around the place in relative obscurity, only revealing yourself once you decided to sit down or stand near the dance floor.


    Patrons of every sort wandered in here from the spaceport attracted by the glitzy lighting, the music and the drinks. It was a fun place to loiter and observe others. Local residents from the station made up the bulk of the usual customers. Now things were changing. New visitors arrived to the station nearly every day and their numbers were growing. Keren didn¡¯t mind. She enjoyed the attention of strangers. Her bold attire and makeup was her way to project herself as approachable and interesting. Every weekend was a different costume.


    Once sat upon a stool at the bar Keren noted two other women dressed in similarly skimpy flashy outfits. They glared in her general direction and whispered something to each other. Keren ignored them. They were working girls no doubt. Ashkelon Station had its fair share but they needn¡¯t worry. Keren had no interest in interfering in their business much as it might appear otherwise.


    ¡°¡­Wow sis,¡± a snarky voice admonished as a younger version of Keren strolled up holding a tray of empty glasses. Sheren was her sister, younger by four years. Shorter and sweeter she always said. Her hair was trimmed up above her shoulders with natural curls. It was not black, but rather a deep chestnut brown. Her face was cuter, more feminine, more like their mother.


    Keren reacted to her comment with a curl at the edge of her lips intimating a smile. Slight as that expression might seem such an involuntary twitch felt like a total break of discipline for Keren. She loved it as much as she would never admit it.


    ¡°Something wrong with the way I look?¡± Keren asked with a sidelong glance across her shoulder.


    Sheren¡¯s eyebrows shot up as she grimaced, ¡°No nothing at all, nothing that should bother you of course.¡± She coughed holding back a laugh.


    ¡°Whatever!¡± Keren snapped.


    Undeterred Sheren slid her tray of glasses unto the bar puffing her breath out cheerfully. ¡°Everyone¡¯s looking at you,¡± Sheren smirked. ¡°Imagine if mother could see you now¡­¡±


    Keren refused to alter her expression. This was the game they played ever since they were little girls. It all started when Keren stood outside on the doorstep wearing mother¡¯s clothes, jewelry and makeup. Neighbors laughed and strangers stared as little Sheren watched from the window, giggling, amused by her older sisters antics. Later it wasn¡¯t so funny anymore.


    Sheren remembered the hushed discussions between their parents, the counselors and therapists who tried to help. Keren never grew out of her need to dress up. Childhood on Temple, (the world marked on the star charts as GL382) was far from easy to begin with. Adding to the family stigma only made it worse. Keren¡¯s decision to move up to Ashkelon Station with their father, Guo, after the divorce six years ago was something of a relief to Sheren.


    A lean dark figure approached from behind the bar dressed in slacks, white wing-tip shoes and a burgundy/purple velvet shirt. At his wrists were genuine ivory cufflinks as he reached up to tip his tweed ivy cap.


    ¡°¡­my-my-my...¡± He spoke smoothly through a familiar grin, ¡°You¡¯ve outdone yourself this time Keren.¡±


    ¡°Thanks Dizzy,¡± Keren said gratefully to her old friend.


    Sheren smirked, rolling her eyes, ¡°At least make her buy a drink if she¡¯s gonna sit here all night starting trouble.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure I don¡¯t need you telling me who has to buy drinks in my own place,¡± Dizzy said firmly as he removed the empty glasses from her tray. ¡°Looks like you have more work to do anyway, get to it!¡± He stated leaving no room for argument.


    Sheren scowled, pursing her lips together testily as she whirled away again, tray in hand.


    ¡°Sorry she¡¯s such a pain in the ass,¡± Keren remarked apologetically. Having Sheren living with her and working at her favorite place to relax wasn¡¯t easy.


    ¡°I¡¯d say she¡¯s just jealous,¡± Dizzy winked.


    ¡°How about a Pomegranate Martini?¡± Keren asked, changing the subject.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got it!¡±


    Before the divorce, Guo would bring Keren up with him to the station for a few days at a time. After his shift working private security they¡¯d sit here at the bar talking to Dizzy. Once or twice Dizzy bought her a dress for her birthday. His wardrobe connections back in the Core Systems were legendary.


    ¡°You look sad,¡± Dizzy said as he made her drink.


    Keren nodded, ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about Eva.¡±


    ¡°Yes I heard there won¡¯t be a memorial this year. Is that what¡¯s bothering you?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not fair!¡± Keren snarled balling her hand into a fist.


    ¡°Easy!¡± Dizzy said handing her the martini disarmingly.


    Keren drank it down in three gulps.


    ¡°Look I know you miss her.¡± Dizzy said consolingly, adding, ¡°Guo¡¯s been missing too. It¡¯s hard to imagine loosing a best friend and a father within a year of each other.¡±


    Keren stared at the empty martini glass, bitterness welling up inside her.


    Dizzy poured her another as a waitress called out for him. ¡°Just relax, I¡¯ll be back to check on you soon,¡± he said, reaching over to give her shoulder a squeeze.


    The mysteries of what happened to Eva and her father never ceased to haunt Keren. The fact Guo was something of a mercenary; a refugee from the Union of Progressive People¡¯s caused no end of drama for the family. For starters, Keren¡¯s mother, Haylia, came from an orthodox Jewish family. For someone like her to marry a foreigner (and a former communist at that) shocked the community.


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    By all accounts their wedding was very small and very cheap. Guo had no family and very few of Haylia¡¯s kin could stomach the sight of him. What few mutual friends they had did their best to make it a festive affair, Dizzy being the best of them. Though he rarely spent much time outside his club since those days, Dizzy had a great memory and a talent for sharing stories. Keren learned more about her own parents from him than anyone else, including a few details about their early marriage. On the few occasions he described that period, before she and Sheren were born, Keren couldn¡¯t help but notice he was usually itching to reach for bourbon. She also knew for a fact he wouldn¡¯t dare speak about it if Guo was still here.


    A warbling static sounded over speakers above the bar and elsewhere in the club followed by the haughty, imperious voice of Executor, the stations AI.


    ¡­Attention, unclassified vessel approaching Ashkelon Station. Priority-Alpha docking status. Access to all decks.


    ¡­and then the message repeated.


    Executor only used the term, ¡®unclassified¡¯ to describe craft with confidential or classified registries. In the ICSC these could include any vessel carrying corporate executives, exceptionally high-value cargo haulers, survey and reconnaissance craft, expensive research vessels, prototype spacecraft, or any ship of their own military.


    Whenever Executor pronounced arrivals as if rolling out a red carpet Keren visualized Elsie rolling her eyes back in spacedock control. Executor¡¯s aloof, matter-of-fact tone set the status-quo as clearly as its own programming. Executor was more than a mere functionary or facilitator; it was the gatekeeper to the whole station. It was even possible the announcement occurred before the station administrator was even aware of the arrival.


    Straightening up in her posture Keren looked towards the large outer viewports hoping to catch a glimpse of this ¡®unclassified¡¯ vessel. It didn¡¯t take long. It was at least twice the size of an M-Class freighter, bristling with long-range antennae and sensor arrays. The sight of it furrowed her brow and piqued her curiosity.


    Her sense of melancholy forgotten Keren slipped off the stool and walked around the bar to get a closer look. A few others had the same idea. Past the thick synthetic quartz glass the warship drifted closer. There was no doubt it could be anything else, though the exact type and design was unfamiliar to her. The ICSC¡¯s ¡®Navy¡¯ was little more than a ragged, disparate fleet of older mercenary destroyers, each employed by individual corporations within the CSC. Compared to those old wrecks, this was something else entirely.


    Ashkelon Station may have been at the edge of known space but it was also near to Liberty Echo, main naval base of the United Americas Outer Rim Defense Fleet. Colonial Marine warships passed near the station fairly regularly, and Keren was more aware than most civilians about their armaments and capabilities. She was able to identify the difference between a laser or a rail gun turret, but there were only a few of those visible on the sleek hull. One very large, prominent cannon barrel of some sort extended out from the nose by at least twenty five meters.


    ¡°Looks like a Marlin!¡± A voice to her right commented with a slight drawl and half a chuckle.


    Keren recognized the voice of Ross Henry Karnes before she even glanced over to confirm it. She was a tad bit surprised at how easily he moved up in her blind spot. Keren wasn¡¯t usually caught off guard. The ICC supervisor was dressed casually (of a fashion) in cowboy boots, denim jeans and a grey/green patterned long sleeve shirt. Around his waist was a genuine cow-hide belt with a broad steel buckle. Some of the other inspectors took to calling him ¡®Red¡¯ due to his ginger-colored hair.


    ¡°What¡¯s a Marlin?¡± She asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s a fish! Or should I say, was a fish before pollution and over-fishing killed them off,¡± he explained producing a pack of cigarettes tapping on the bottom in the highly ritualized and measured way a practiced smoker did. ¡°They had great long spears jutting out from their skulls which meant you had better be careful pulling one unto your boat.¡±


    Meanwhile the sleek warship drew close enough for an extended docking umbilical, carefully firing its thrusters to match the stations precise orbit above GL382. Upon its smooth charcoal-grey hull there was little in the way of identifying markings or insignia except for two things. Upon the tallest sail like structure amidships was a stylized orchid-flower, bright red-over-white with five petals. Most tellingly, near the bow, the words USCS Kowloon were stenciled boldly in white.


    Keren found herself intrigued by this fish Ross spoke of as much as this new ship. She knew he was referring to the great oceans of Earth of course, not that she¡¯d ever had the pleasure of visiting that blue planet. Out here there was almost nothing in the way of nature to learn about, much less see with her own eyes. ¡°How large were they?¡± she asked.


    Ross expertly flicked two cigarettes up out of his pack and gestured towards her politely. She noted the brand was one of the few still made from genuine earth-grown tobacco. Despite the fact she never particularly liked him she found herself reaching for one. Ross was arrogant and uptight most of the time. He cursed at her and the other techs in the loud, self-important way some men from Texas were known to do.


    ¡°They were plenty big!¡± he says with a slight grin. ¡°The Atlantic Blue Marlin could reach over five meters in length and weigh over eight hundred kilograms. More impressive still, they were some of the fastest swimmers in the sea.¡±


    Keren leaned close towards him as he lifted an old-fashioned zippo lighter towards her politely. The scent of booze was on his breath but she also noted he wasn¡¯t stealing a glance down her low-cut blouse. In fact he wasn¡¯t much looking at her at all, and not because he was embarrassed. She realized at that moment that he hadn¡¯t yet recognized her. How funny.


    ¡°So they could easily kill a man?¡± she asked taking a puff of the flavorful smoke. Damn these are good cigarettes.


    ¡°Definitely!¡± Ross said lighting one for himself. ¡°Swordfish could also injure you, think of those as the Marlin¡¯s little cousins, but the Marlin was such a powerful swimmer it could leap out of the waves unto your boat before you were ready for it. In such a case, once it started thrashing and thrusting that spear-bill; the odds of survival, you might say, shifted slightly to its favor.¡±


    Keren smiled. She liked this mental image.


    Ross added, ¡°I even read one account of a Marlin yanking a professional sport-fisherman overboard after his gloved hand got entangled in the wire leader attached to the hook. The fish didn¡¯t even need to spear him dead. It just dragged him down into the depths to drown.¡±


    ¡°And ¡®fishing¡¯ was something people on Earth often did?¡± she asked raising a brow.


    Ross grinned again, this time looking at her for a few moments as he exhaled before answering, ¡°Ernest Hemingway once wrote, ¡®You did not kill the fish only to keep alive and to sell for food. You killed him for pride and because you are a fisherman. You loved him when he was alive and you loved him after. If you love him, it is not a sin to kill him.''¡±


    Keren stared at Ross with a baffled look. She had no idea who Ernest Hemingway might have been, but what he said made a strange kind of sense to her, even if she couldn¡¯t quite fathom why. Keren remembered her own mother once told her there was great truth in old literature. Perhaps she was right.


    Ross took advantage of the pause to change the subject. ¡°Any idea what kind of ship that is?¡± he asked in a half-bored conversational tone. His eyes however took far greater interest. Keren noted the way his gaze poured over every detail, same as hers. It was lucky coincidence she happened to be standing here in one of the best spots to observe a docking ship. She had a keen appreciation for all things spacecraft-related and something like this was a rare sight indeed.


    ¡°Looks to be a derivative of a Chun-ying class destroyer, highly modified. The central bridge superstructure is much larger and bulkier, likely in no small part because of all those added sensor arrays. No doubt there are more signals analysis computer banks and personnel on board. The main drive section is entirely new. Normally there are five fusion-rocket motors, this one has six spaced out around an even larger central rocket of some kind. Looks unusual, I am not familiar with its type, but you can see how distended it is from the central hull. They have tried to disguise it by extending the rearward armor apron further back but it¡¯s still obvious how massively over-sized that engine is.¡±


    ¡°I see¡­ what else?¡± he prodded.


    ¡°Well there are less weapon turrets to speak of. Normally the Chun-ying has eight point-defense laser arrays, this one has only five.¡±


    ¡°What is the reason for that?¡±


    ¡°Well its common sense, those arrays are primarily defensive against enemy missiles or rail gun rounds. You place them everywhere you expect an angle of attack. Destroyers are faster and more maneuverable than the big ships. They zip around and through enemy lines, harrying the larger ships, drawing their fire away from their own support ships as much as possible. They expect to be fired on a lot from every angle. This ship only has a few on the bow and two on the stern because I expect it won''t be engaging at close range or in large sorties.¡±


    Ross nodded, ¡°Because of that big cannon right?¡±


    ¡°Right, although I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s really a ¡®cannon¡¯ exactly, but it¡¯s obviously a very big gun that isn¡¯t mounted on a turret. This ship will have to aim itself at a target and won¡¯t have the luxury of dodging while it does so. It may even be true that the weapon has such a range advantage it defeats the prospect of a counterattack.¡±


    ¡°I see you know your warships,¡± he commented appreciatively.


    ¡°I know a lot more than you ever gave me credit for, ¡­Ross,¡± she stated in as much of a neutral tone as she could manage. From the corner of her eye she watched him do something of a double-take as he tried to remember where he might have met her before? She decided to let him wonder as she walked back towards the bar.


    Murmurs of commotion caught her attention as a dozen or so armed men, and women, entered the club. Through the flashing lights above the dance floor she glimpsed black uniforms and automatic rifles. Though not held at the ready or otherwise brandished in a threatening manner, the sight of AK-4047 pulse assault rifles was still a sobering sight.


    The soldiers, or naval commandos to be more accurate, split up into four groups, one of which approached the bar as the others went into a search pattern around the dance floor. Keren recognized their uniforms as ICSC Defense Fleet standard issue with the logo of the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation; a stylized orchid-flower with five petals, bright red-over-white. She also noted one sailors¡¯ cap read CSCS Kowloon.

 Chapter 1

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/22/2183</u>


    Chief Colonial Marshal John Coffee rubbed his black hands together angrily stalking around his office. At forty five years old, John perfected the unique scowl of a demoralized career law officer. He bore it now, stoically with a deep cleft in the middle of his chin and a darkly furrowed, ponderous brow. John was six foot four inches tall with a full build. His hair was black as coal, densely textured and uniformly trimmed to about a half-inch length.


    A short stack of reports related to the recent attacks against his people littered his desk, all stamped [Official Use Only], [On Loan] and [Classified] by ICSC security. These reports are barely worth the paper they are printed on, he mused with disgust as the knock he expected for over an hour finally rapped against his door.


    ¡°Enter!¡± John growled before Max Shmith, Chief Security Officer of Ashkelon Station appeared in the threshold. Max was fair-skinned of stocky, medium build with plain features and tanned weathered skin burned by long years in the harsh winds and sand of GL-382. He had a high hairline of very short sun-bleached brown hair streaked with grey buzzed tight across his temples. Though close in age to Max, John¡¯s skin was baby smooth, unblemished by wrinkles. Max saw him thus as an ¡®indoor animal¡¯; tamed and sheltered and something less of a man.


    ¡°You asked to see me John?¡± Max asked plainly, observing the foul mood of the larger man. John had six inches and forty pounds on him.


    ¡°Please sit,¡± John said curtly, offering nothing in the way of polite small-talk. Max obliged tugging off the jacket of his neatly pressed ICSC security officer¡¯s uniform. The cut and fabric was both military and modern with lightweight panels of body armor embedded across the breasts, kidneys and back. A flexible kevlar weave was also sewn within the inner layer as useful defense against bladed weapons.


    Along the length of the shoulders were red epulets featuring four black bars of rank. Instead of buttons the jacket used snaps hidden along the inner seam. Four silver starbursts ran along each stiff collar. The red-over-black flag of the ICSC was embossed and printed on the left breast with the word CHIEF simarly embossed in bright red bold letters across the back.


    John¡¯s attire was comparatively old-fashioned. Colonial Marshals wore plain pleated dark grey slacks, a long sleeved blue/grey shirt with golden pins of the eight-pointed Marshals badge on each collar and a plain black tie. His uniform shirt only bore three bars of rank in gold across blue epaulets. Marshals wore polished leather shoes with a plain matching belt. Max wore black combat boots and a tactical belt.


    Max draped his jacket across the back of the chair neatly before he sat down. Underneath his uniformed shirt was plainer, though it carried all the same markings of rank. Tucked in a shoulder holster on his left side was the new standard issue Type 7X7 automatic pistol. John could not help to notice it, modeled with a distinctive silver/grey plastic-polymer shell over a lightweight alloy frame.


    The sidearm used a unique 7mm case-less ammunition which was electrically fired. Various specialty ammo, such as ¡®electro-shock¡¯ stun rounds that disabled the nervous system, ¡®tracer-bug¡¯ rounds that embedded tracking chips into living tissue, ¡®splat rounds¡¯ that marked the target with chemical dyes, and ¡®light-armor-piercing¡¯ rounds useful against body-armor were all recently developed for this new ICSC sidearm; among yet other classified types.


    The gun featured a palm-ID scanner preventing unauthorized use. It was even rumored these new pistols had a special mode for fully-automatic fire, best used with an attachable shoulder stock, forward grip and extended clips.


    Briefings from the Bureau gave detailed descriptions of ICSC counterparts'' gear and firearms, but John wasn''t impressed. New Tech Junk was his usual opinion of such things. He kept his .357 service-revolver and gun belt in his top drawer with a small backup automatic on his ankle. It had been a while since he had to use them in the line of duty but he was a crack-shot with both.


    ¡°We need to talk about these reports,¡± John said frostily. ¡°You don¡¯t honestly expect me to be satisfied with these do you?¡±


    Max stiffened, immediately on the defensive, ¡°These reports were my idea. We normally don¡¯t share any details about ongoing investigations.¡±


    ¡°Funny you should say that,¡± John said leaning forward to glare at Max, palms on his desk. ¡°Details are exactly what¡¯s missing from these reports! All the names of the suspected perps are REDACTED, along with most of their statements. All I learned from reading these is you questioned a dozen suspects, arrested four, and have ¡®charges pending judicial sentencing¡¯. I can learn the same SHIT from the station-wide news bulletin!¡±


    Max frowned and started to redden in the face but John was just getting started.


    ¡°I actually learned MORE about these cowardly attacks from every other source at my disposal! One detail in particular really irked me Max, any idea what that might be?¡±


    Max looked tense and unhappy, saying nothing.


    ¡°Rumor is these attacks were sponsored by a group called the Red Triad,¡± John finished.


    Max sighed, at last at the limit of his own self-restraint. ¡°Surely you¡¯ve heard of the Triads before?¡± he quizzed with an undertone of sarcasm.


    ¡°I have had briefings. Every Marshal does,¡± John answered coolly. ¡°They are a coordinated criminal syndicate operating above the law within the ICSC, serving as corporate assassins, thugs and information brokers.¡±


    ¡°Ok then,¡± Max said spreading his hands.


    ¡°Ok WHAT?!¡± John roared.


    ¡°We¡¯ll get nowhere investigating the Triad. Our laws¡­¡±


    ¡°Actually I¡¯ve been studying up on your laws,¡± John cut in. ¡°I haven¡¯t found anything dictating that members of a Triad cannot be questioned or arrested.¡±


    Max squirmed, near the end of his patience, ¡°It¡¯s not as simple as that!¡±


    John was still vexed but his tone was calmer now, ¡°So educate me?¡±


    Max took in a measured breath, ¡°I respect that you want justice for your people. I am doing all that I can. The reason these reports are redacted is the same reason going after the Triad is so difficult. Everything goes through the corporate lawyers for approval. What they let me put in a report or follow through with as a plan of action is all measured against risk-management, cost-effectiveness and complicated policies. My hands are tied with red tape.¡±


    John took a moment to mull this over. It was more or less the explanation he expected. Ashkelon station was a joint project funded by the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation and Technion Interstellar, two of the largest founding members of the Central Space Consortium. The J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation was primarily a weapons developer with further interests in extra solar colonization, exploration and various other technical and financial enterprises. By reputation they were the most aggressive and best-armed of the founding members of the CSC. Corporate espionage, sabotage, assassinations and other acts of destabilization against business rivals were common tactics. Criminal organizations, such as the Triads, were used in secret to maintain a pretense of deniability.


    John¡¯s concern at this moment was exactly this possibility but he needed hard evidence and some idea for a motive before he could report it to his superiors. Suspicions and rumors wouldn''t be enough to warrant an evacuation. There was too much political pressure for this venture to succeed. Damn the politics! John groaned inwardly.


    ¡°Do you have any evidence that the Red Triad are behind the attacks?¡± John asked watching Max intently.


    Max answered carefully, ¡°Look, John, I came here as a show of respect. Chief-to-chief. Believe it or not your safety, like everyone else on this station, is my responsibility. I understand why you are so insistent but frankly I am at the end of my patience with pestering and complaints. If you want me to level with you, I need to know you will hear my advice; lawman-to-lawman.¡±


    John resisted the urge to scoff at the mans nerve. This was still progress towards cooperation and he shouldn¡¯t throw it back in his face, ¡°Alright, Max, I am listening. One chief-to-another.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t believe the Triad acted directly in the attack. If they had, your people would be in body-bags.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s comforting,¡± John remarked. ¡°So what was their involvement then?¡±


    ¡°The witnesses and the evidence I have indicate the suspects were merely, encouraged, by the Triad.¡±


    ¡°Encouragement is just another word for conspiracy where I¡¯m from.¡±


    Max smirked ruefully, ¡°But it¡¯s harder to prove isn¡¯t it? So far as I could gather from our interrogations and investigations into the suspects¡¯ financials, no direct bribes were made and no direct orders were given.¡±


    ¡°What about their guns, bombs and acts of sabotage?!¡± John asked.


    ¡°We have no laws against firearms in the ICSC,¡± Max answered matter-of-factly. ¡°Anyone who can afford a permit can own one. Not everyone on the station who carries a gun took a shot at your people have they? As for the bombs and acts of sabotage, we take that very seriously indeed. Anyone who threatens the integrity of the space station in such a callous and careless way will be punished severely.¡±


    ¡°So what happens to them? What¡¯s the bottom line?¡±


    ¡°They will get their due process. The bottom line is there will be steep fines. Those convicted will have to settle that debt one way or another. We don¡¯t waste resources with simple incarceration in the ICSC. Those fit for hard-labor will serve out sentences in a prison-camp; like the one we have down on Temple. Elsewise they may be assigned duties elsewhere as befits their age, training and experience. Judges will determine the best punishment to recoup the costs on our society. This is how the scales of justice are balanced in the ICSC.¡±


    ¡°Sounds rosy!¡± John grunted.


    ¡°It isn¡¯t!¡± Max argued. ¡°I worked as a guard at Temple¡¯s prison camp for sixteen years. It¡¯s no picnic.¡±


    ¡°So why attack us in the first place? Why suffer the consequences if the punishments are so harsh as you¡¯ve describe?¡± John wondered aloud pulling out his chair. All his pacing, shouting and posturing had finally started to tire him out. ¡°We are no threat to you. Ultimately we have no authority to imprison your people.¡±


    Max shrugged, ¡°For some of em it¡¯s personal. Marshals make a lot of enemies and everyone out here hates the ICC.¡±


    John almost laughed, ¡°So I¡¯ve noticed. You know if I was going by the book an ICC Agent would be here with us right now, but I figured you might be less forthcoming if I followed standard protocol. That¡¯s why I asked you to come by so late, after-hours.¡±


    Max smiled, ¡°I think we can both agree it¡¯s better if we keep this simple. Chief-to-chief, off-the-record and after-hours is best for now.¡±


    ¡°You said earlier you had some advice for me? Off-the-record.¡±


    Max leaned forward looking John directly in the eyes, ¡°This was just a poke, a prod to see how quickly the snake coils up and rattles its tail. The Triad wants you to be nervous and wary, off-balance and jumpy. You may not be an actual threat but they still think of your presence as a challenge to their territory. They would like nothing better than to chase you off with a few random acts of violence.¡±


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    John folded his hands. As he leaned back the old office chair squeaked loudly. Nothing about this makeshift headquarters was well kept up to his usual standards. The whole enterprise of placing a Colonial Marshals Bureau Office on Ashkelon Station felt rushed and poorly managed. These offices were hastily renovated from a rundown shop close to the spaceport. He¡¯d actually had to put down rat-traps!


    ¡°Ok I get the message, but there has to be a point made that the Triads can¡¯t prompt attacks against my people with impunity! Surely your corporate lawyers understand they have more to lose if the Triads succeed in chasing us off.¡°


    ¡°They certainly do. Ignore what you see with the protests and public outcry. The ICSC is not a free democracy. Public opinion does not sway policy anymore than the rash and willful acts of the Triads.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like the Triads are trying to play both sides? They stir up public disorder just as much as they serve as corporate lapdogs.¡±


    ¡°The Triads serve themselves. They take money from anyone who pays them but their first priority is to protect their own interests. Towards that end they use anyone and any means at their disposal. Drunks, addicts, the broke and the desperate are their usual surrogates. They get them under their thumb with drugs, threats, blackmail or worse.¡±


    John was starting to relax; he could sense Max was a reasonable man in a difficult position, same as he. That wasn¡¯t to say he was satisfied with the situation, not at all, but in order to make the best of it he had to gather information and plan his next move.


    ¡°Can I interest you in a drink?¡± John asked pulling out a bottom drawer of his desk. Inside was a bottle of Jameson and two glasses.


    ¡°Please!¡± Max agreed.


    ¡°You say you worked as a guard on Temple¡¯s prison camp? Is that how you came to be so familiar with the Triad?¡±


    ¡°Yes in large part,¡± Max said taking hold of the offered glass. ¡°I was a guard for twelve years and deputy-warden for four years after that. You come to learn a lot about the prisoners and their past. Not all of em deserve to be there.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s an interesting point. Do you feel you are in a better position here to help them avoid making the same mistakes?¡±


    Max looked conflicted, ¡°Yes and no. I do what I can, but this job is not what I imagined it would be. Whatever efficacy I gained by rank and authority I have lost in other ways. I can¡¯t set my own agenda, nor focus on any one thing at once. At times I feel spread thin and overwhelmed. I¡¯m sure you can relate?¡±


    John¡¯s scowl returned for a moment as he took a sip of the Irish whiskey, ¡°Indeed I can. But let¡¯s imagine for a minute that we are our own masters. How do we keep the peace?¡±


    ¡°Well first of all, the problem isn¡¯t with the peace-keepers is it? No one on my payroll wants any harm come to your people, and I am sure your feel the same about mine. The issue we have is the perception that you and the ICC are here to make things worse for us. So long as they believe that, my people will also see us as failing in our job to keep them safe. That¡¯s why residents here have lashed out against you. They feel obligated to take up arms in defense of their own livelihoods. The Triad takes advantage of that attitude.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t disagree. What do you suggest?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s have our men and women start patroling together. People should see us working together to keep the peace, not just separate-but-equal the way it is now. If your deputies can make a good impression helping an ICSC security officer, that is the best deterrent against violence against your people. Wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡±


    John frowned thoughtfully, ¡°I don¡¯t have nearly so many men and women as you do. Even if my superiors agree to this I won¡¯t order one of my deputies¡¯ to risk their life on patrol for the sake of public relations. That being said, one or two may be willing to volunteer for this as a special-assignment. That I can live with.¡±


    ¡°Ok then, let¡¯s leave it at that for now,¡± Max said rising handing back his empty glass. ¡±Let me know what your superiors say. I will do likewise.¡±


    John stood and extended his hand. Max accepted it.


    ¡°Thank you for coming by. I think we can do well working together.¡±


    ¡°I hope so,¡± Max said sincerely turning to take his leave. As he reached the door and slipped on his uniform jacket John called out to him.


    ¡°Max. I have some advice for you too. Off-the-record.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Max asked.


    ¡°I better not hear any more talk of the Red Triad going after my people. Setup a meeting with those sons-of-bitches and I¡¯m happy to tell em myself!¡±


    Max nodded, Not such a tamed animal after all.


    ___


    Wade Barrett listlessly flicked ashes off his cigarette into a half-eaten carton of chow mein. The spacecraft engineers-assistant was sitting sideways on the couch, one leg stretched out on the other armrest, the other folded over it. His fingers were thin, rough, stained and textured with scars and fresh cuts. His right elbow rested atop the seat back, hand dangling down from the sleeve of his engineering jumpsuit.


    Wade was twenty eight years old and quite lanky. His appearance was generally shabby and unkempt with remnants of stubble on a rather naive and youthful looking face. Wade didn''t bother cutting his hair, just pulled it all back into a shaggy knot tied with a cord. His wardrobe never fit quite right either hanging loosely about his limbs. Even the laces on his scuffed steel toed boots weren¡¯t strung through the eyelets properly. Wade didn¡¯t care. His entire persona was bored and world-weary.


    ¡°You ever gonna light that fucking thing?¡± he asked his former captain seated across the low table.


    ¡°When the time is right,¡± Reese Castle answered in a deep, confident voice biting down on his cigar briefly with emphasis on the last ¡®t¡¯. Between his lips a pair of faux-gold capped teeth flashed briefly within his brown face. Around his mouth and along his broad jaw a low-trimmed beard peppered with grey squared off his broad jaw.


    His hairline was high, cut low above a broad forehead. Though his hair was still black his eyebrows were streaked with grey. Reese was forty two, but in most ways looked healthier than Wade. Everything about him looked neat and in order. On his collar was the silver spacecraft engineer pin, bordered in gold, indicating his high level of experience and expertise.


    Wade was Reese¡¯s personal assistant-tech and former crew mate. The unlikely pair had been business partners for so long it just made sense to keep them working together here on the station. Besides that, nether one of em got along so well with anyone else. Reese generally scared the shit out of people and Wade never shut up.


    ¡°And when will that be?¡± Wade responded lazily echoing the mood inside their shared quarters. In the corner, a flickering vid-screen played an old movie.


    ¡°When we get the Casimir back,¡± Reese answered with a tone that was half mischief and half certainty.


    Wade snorted, ¡°Yeah sure. You¡¯ll chew that thing to dust before that happens.¡±


    ¡°Is that so? Let me show you something,¡± Reese remarked placing his cigar on the edge of the table before rising slowly from his recliner. At his full height Reese was a bear of a man with arms like a power loader. His engineering jumpsuit had to be custom-tailored to fit his great frame. No one ever saw him as a pushover no matter how calm and quiet he seemed to be. Wade knew him better than most, perhaps best. One thing he knew for certain was Reese never had to back down from anyone, or anything.


    After standing Reese reached down and flipped the cushion off his recliner unzipping it. Something the size of a small briefcase was stuffed inside wrapped in a pillow case. Wade¡¯s interest was piqued as he straightened up into a normal seating position. From within the pillow Reese removed a military-grade weather-proofed armored laptop.


    ¡°Holy shit is that what I think it is?¡± Wade asked staring.


    ¡°It is,¡± Reese said pushing aside old food and empty beer cans to make room for the Portable Remote Pilot Uplink Terminal. Together they shared a smile as Reese picked up his cigar and replaced the cushion back on his recliner.


    ¡°Fuck yeah!¡± Wade said reaching over to flip the lid open on smooth aluminum-alloy hinges. Besides the water/scratch resistant display screen was a miniature keyboard mimicking a standard piloting console, complete with a piloting joystick. ¡°How did you find one of these?"


    "I bartered for it with someone in the Triad."


    "I¡¯m sure it didn¡¯t come cheap, even for a former captain,¡± Wade added with a smirk.


    ¡°Who you calling ¡®former¡¯ captain?!.¡± Reese said with a huff placing his cigar into his jumpsuit pocket before flicking off a bottle cap off another beer effortlessly with just his thumb. ¡°I¡¯ve still got a commercial captains license. Updated and paid in full.¡±


    Wade shook his head skeptically, ¡°How did you manage that after what The Company did?¡±


    ¡°The Company can go fuck itself!¡± Reese grunted angrily. He¡¯d never forgive them for repossessing his beloved ship. ¡°Why do you think we came out here? A commercial captains license comes cheap in the fringes of the ICSC. Men with our experience hauling cargo for The Company are in high demand, despite a few blemishes are on our ICC record.¡±


    Wade stubbed out his smoke and popped his knuckles, something he always did when he was actually excited, ¡°So how do we make this thing work? Doesn¡¯t it require a direct connection with an uplink tower?¡±


    Reese nodded, ¡°I¡¯m still working on that problem but I¡¯ve already coded it for the Apollo AI on the Casimir. Once it arrives and were patched into an uplink I can direct Apollo from the station.¡±


    Wade frowned, ¡°What about the current crew? Can¡¯t those assholes override it? What if they¡¯ve changed the access codes? It¡¯s been almost a year.¡±


    Reese shook his head, ¡°Not possible. I¡¯ve rigged that mainframe up with redundant memory buffers and high level encryption overrides. They can change those codes as many times as they want. My original master codes cannot be erased. For now they sit dormant until I activate them again. The only way to change that is to replace Apollo¡¯s core and most of the ship-board consoles. The company would rather scrap the whole ship than perform an expensive overhaul like that. Besides, they shouldn¡¯t have had any reason to suspect Apollo¡¯s systems have been altered anyway.¡±


    Wade looked thoughtful. The man sometimes had a valid point to make despite his crass personality, ¡°What else can you do with Apollo? We still have to get that other crew off the ship before we steal it back.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s easy,¡± Reese said taking a drought from his beer. ¡°I can rig up false alarms, equipment malfunctions, life-support failure¡­ hell, I can probably decompress the whole ship and vent the other crew into space.¡±


    ¡°Whoa!¡± Wade exclaimed taken aback.


    Reese remained icy calm, ¡°It¡¯s not personal, it¡¯s just business.¡±


    ¡°Were not murderers!¡±


    Reese sighed, ¡°Do you really wanna keep living in this shit can? We¡¯ll never make the kind of money we used too while we were hauling freight for Weyland Yutani unless we do whatever it takes to get my ship back.¡±


    ¡°Maybe not, but I won¡¯t be party to killing anyone, I refuse.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen you do it before old friend,¡± Reese prodded. ¡°You¡¯ve pulled the trigger many times. Compared to that crazy shit this should be easier.¡±


    A deadly serious look fell over Wade, of stark contrast to his usual casual indifference, ¡°I don¡¯t need to be reminded. That shit¡­ takes a toll.¡± He said dolefully reaching for another cigarette. ¡°I¡¯m done with death!¡± He stated with finality.


    A static silence formed between them, offset by faint voices off the vid screen and a rattling ventilation fan somewhere overhead in the duct work. Unspoken, the memory of that dangerous obsession which left Wade strung out on drugs and booze on a path to certain self-destruction returned like bile in his throat. The fact Wade kept silent for nearly two minutes was proof enough how bothered he was.


    ¡°Look,¡± Reese said finally. ¡°Your right. I¡¯m an asshole, I apologize. We¡¯re a couple space-truckers who make a little extra on the side. That¡¯s all this partnership is supposed to be about.¡±


    Wade nodded as he lit another smoke seemingly relaxed again and satisfied with the apology, ¡°I hear what you¡¯re saying. We need to get the Casimir back, but we need to do it smart and do it careful. We fuck this up, there are no more second chances for either of us,¡± he said flatly.


    ¡°Well I¡¯m gonna need your skills old friend. You¡¯re a people-person.¡±


    Wade hmphed, ¡°People person... sure. I suppose when compared to an obstinate, introverted ogre like you I''m Frank Sinatra.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you!¡± Reese retorted, ¡°The Company drained me dry of all my stock investments. I lost everything, including my ship, while still in hypersleep! Can you blame me for being a little grumpy?¡±


    Waded nodded tapping away fresh ashes, ¡°I remember, we both woke up in that nightmare together, but technically you could never prove any wrongdoing. Even after you called for an ICC investigation.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because the ICC is owned by the fucking Company.¡± Reese stated sardonically. ¡°Ever heard the expression ¡®asking the fox to guard the hen house?¡¯¡±


    Wade frowned. He knew the difference between facts and beliefs. More importantly, he was trained to identify and isolate the truth behind motives in order to extract information and predict behavior.


    Looking at his former captain now reaffirmed how shrewd, stubborn and determined Reese was. He didn¡¯t hold the moral high-ground, and usually didn¡¯t, but business wasn¡¯t about morals. Especially the business of getting back what was his.


    Suddenly a station-wide announcement patched through the PA system.


    ¡­Attention, unclassified vessel approaching Ashkelon Station. Priority-Alpha docking status. Access to all decks.


    ¡°Hmm, wonder what that¡¯s about?¡± Wade wondered aloud. ¡°Is this gonna fuck up the work schedule again?¡±


    ¡°Probably,¡± Reese shrugged sipping his beer.


    Wade looked at his pile of empty cans with evident self-pity, ¡°Fuck me I¡¯m out.¡±


    ¡°Looks like it,¡± Reese agreed. ¡°Wanna get outta here?¡±


    ¡°Depends, you buyin?¡± Wade asked narrowing his eyes.


    ¡°I suppose. It¡¯s the least I can do after asking you to murder strangers in cold blood.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true!¡± Wade agreed hopping off the couch heading for his closet. ¡°Let¡¯s go to Dizzy¡¯s!¡±


    Reese groaned, ¡°If you insist. Now I gotta change too.¡± Reese said putting the Remote Uplink Terminal back in its hiding spot.


    Meanwhile, as Wade removed his jumpsuit, a United States Colonial Marines tattoo was visible just below his left shoulder. Not so long ago, Wade Barrett once held the rank of Second Lieutenant as an intel and interrogation specialist.

 Chapter 2

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/22/2183</u>


    Storen Bull rubbed at his eyes with one hand, squinting at a dimly illuminated computer console hidden in a small room behind his closet. The records of the USCSS Casimir were in his other hand manifest as a magnetic data-tape cassette. Spacer sat by his side, whining softly on his haunches.


    ¡°I''ll make you some chow as soon as I have these files copied,¡± Storen promised inserting the tape into one of two cassette-drives on the computer. The tape was quickly spun up with a familiar hum, allowing the contents to be analyzed. File names populated the monitor one after another in rapid succession forming a long archive directory, organized by inception date. Each file carried the protected file-type tag of an ICC database file. Many were fifty years old or more.


    The majority of these files were documents interspersed with video and image files including some engineering schematics. Storen expected as much. Complete Ships records were often disorderly and complex, especially so for older cargo freighters contracted by major corporations.


    Storen typed in the command <u>copy-transfer-all</u> on the keypad. A prompt came up, <u>Copy Clone, Image or Raw Data?</u> Storen entered <u>Raw Data</u>. Copies of ICC database files were encrypted and formatted as read-only. By design only authorized ICC access terminals could read them. Any attempt to access or alter the data by an unauthorized drive resulted in corruption of the files.


    Fortunately magnetic-tapes were based on 255 year old technology. Storen''s computer was capable of tricking the tape to allow him to read the data. Copying it and stripping the encryption/formatting was much harder. Had this been a nano-optical long-data-memory disc, or LD, the process would be nearly impossible.


    Another prompt came up. <u>Copy in Safe Mode?</u> Storen Entered <u>Yes</u>. This was necessary with certain magnetic tapes. Security features built into the cassette itself could wipe the data or even burn the tape if suspected copying took place. Normally copying a tape was as straightforward as placing two tapes side-by-side in a twin drive recorder. This method was both straightforward and efficient. You could even run the tape at increased speed to reduce copy time (usually at some cost to data integrity).


    Of course running a tape like that was never how a computer used it to read data and thus it was a surefire way to trigger any security devices built into the cassette. Safe mode added precautions into the copying process such as running the tape randomly in forward and reverse. The third option of making an ''Image file'' was basically just a copy of whatever he was viewing on his monitor. In essence that was a copy, of sorts, and still useful, but it captured none of the actual data files.


    As the computer whirred and prepped for its difficult task Storen took a moment to check his personal bank of security monitors. Most displayed live feeds from station cameras but there were many hidden cameras of his own as well. Colonial Marshals weren''t marching towards his quarters to kick down his door. There was nothing unusual going on in the corridors nearby other than a stumbling drunk and a few kids.


    ¡°We certainly took a risk for the old man today,¡± Storen mused scratching Spacer behind the ears. The animal whined in agreement.


    Requesting the Casimir''s records was not so straightforward as Ze''ev imagined it would be. ICC officers wouldn''t make an inquiry on his behalf without good cause. That was problem number one. A harder problem was asking for the entire record. Such a request was unusual and sure to raise eyebrows. The hardest problem was asking for it, personally. Storen wasn''t high enough in the station hierarchy for that to make a whole lot of sense. Which brought him full circle back to problem number one.


    His solution was to steal it using the local ICC Agents ID''s & access codes, both of which he already had. He would have preferred to keep them as an ace-in-the-hole for something more important, but Ze''ev''s favor and the time-table required to get it done left him no choice.


    Now that the copying process had begun Storen rose from his chair and passed through the concealed door back into his quarters. Compared to most others on the station they were almost luxurious. Oil paintings, models and antiques were carefully arranged on walls, side-tables and shelves. These decorations however were somewhat eccentric. Storen had very few visitors. He was an intensely private man.


    One wall in his living room was a functioning Solido. A back lit panel displaying pleasing scenes of nature, vast vistas, sunny beaches or Storens personal favorite, the ocean. At this time it was off, blank. Storen did not indulge in distractions until his work was done. He moved to the kitchen, or what passed for a kitchen on Ashkelon station. Most meals were freeze dried, dehydrated or otherwise preserved in some manner for long term storage. Canned goods were more expensive and wet pet food of any sort was very expensive. Even so, Storen spared no expense. Spacer received his second meal of canned dog food, mixed with powdered multivitamins.


    As the hound wolfed down his food Storen brewed a quick cup of coffee. Much as he would prefer to rest and wait until tomorrow, Ze''ev asked for a copy of those records asap. The old man was demanding but he paid well. Storen paused by a bookshelf on his way back to his hidden room. He had a fine collection of literature, including at least a dozen books printed on genuine paper. Several of those were gifts from Ze''ev''s private library, an more were loaners. Whenever they spoke together in his study Storen borrowed a book or two.


    Storen grabbed one of those loaners now, something new to help keep his attention. ''Heart of Darkness'' by Joseph Conrad. As he returned to his seat in front of his monitor he glanced at the progress thus far. It displayed fifteen percent. Storen kicked up his feet and opened the books cover. A bit of paper was folded inside. On it, a note was scrawled by hand.


    Ze''ev, I have never had the courage to tell you everything. Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil. Evil being the root of mystery, pain is the root of knowledge.


    Take care not to follow my footsteps too closely.


    Your loving father, Aleksandr Nikolayevich Chilingarov


    Storen stared at the note with fascination. Ze''ev had a Russian father? He had no idea. Storen flipped through the pages of the book holding it up to his nose. Real books had a delightful smell. Something tucked in the pages caught his eye. Storen removed it revealing an old photograph.


    The picture was grainy with a fair bit of lens flare shot in front of massive flood lamps in pitch darkness. Standing center-frame were several men and women in the middle of great ice-encrusted sand dunes at the bottom of a huge crater. Storen couldn''t recognize any of the people, but he could distinguish their faces rather well within their illuminated helmets. All wore matching deep-cold environmental suits. Not military, but definitely spacers. He could guess with a high degree of certainty that they were a ships crew. Their suits weren''t of any type he was familiar with, nor were their insignia, but he could almost make out their name tags.


    However the people were not the focus of the picture, at least not literally. In the background was a huge object, shaped vaguely like a horseshoe or a huge wishbone. Storen stared in disbelief. He had never heard of or seen anything like it. Whatever it was was half buried in the frozen dunes at the end of a shallow canyon. If he had to guess, he would surmise it was a spacecraft of some kind, obviously alien. Evidently it crash landed, perhaps even creating the canyon behind it in the process before it tipped into the crater. From the angle of the photo, and the comparative size of the floodlights arranged around it, he estimated its size to be over one hundred meters wide. Both forward arching prongs were longer than that and slightly asymmetrical in design. He noted also that the distant horizon was a night sky full of stars.


    He flipped over the photo. A faded digital timestamp and watermark was barely visible on the back.


    §®§Ñ§Ô§ß§Ú§ä§à§Ô§à§â§ã§Ü §À§ß§Ñ§Û§ä§Ö§Õ


    ¾ÞÍ·ÁªºÏÊÕ¸î»ú


    CSCCS Ivan Petlin


    02/21/2098


    Something else caught his eye. A passage in the book was underlined on the same page he removed the photo.


    Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seen before, and hope never to see again. He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision¡ªhe cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath: ¡°The horror! The horror!¡±


    Suddenly the voice of Executor, the station''s AI made an announcement. ¡­Attention, unclassified vessel approaching Ashkelon Station. Priority-Alpha docking status. Access to all decks. ¡­and then the message repeated.


    ¡­


    Ze''ev Darkon looked up from his desk as soon as Executor made its pronouncement. He was always irritated by such surprise arrivals, ¡°Executor! Which ship is docking?¡±


    The CSCS Kowloon is on approach for docking.


    Ze''ev frowned. Military ships usually bore the worst of uninvited guests. Especially ones he never heard of. ¡°Executor, who is in command of this ship? What was its point of origin and what is its mission?¡±


    The ''Honorable'' Victor Li-Shing, Special Executive of the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation is in acting command. The point of origin and mission of the CSCS Kowloon are classified.


    Ze''ev sighed and shook his head. The timing of this arrival made him nervous, It was true he was no longer privy to major board meetings or director-level decisions of the Central Space Consortium. He gave that up decades ago. Askelon Station was supposed to be his retirement posting. His chance to live out his golden years high above the world he and his father before him worked so hard to build and govern.


    Ze''ev was no longer keen on retirement. These last years of grief spurned his efforts investigating the loss of the colony of Hadley''s Hope. His mind and spirit were filled with righteous resolve. Ernest''s promise about a witness to the events of LV-426 could not be ignored. It offered hope for evidence. Answers. Perhaps even proof? The challenge of what to do next with that really depended on his position as the administrator to be able to make the most of it.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Thus, whatever the reason for it, Ze''ev didn''t see the appearance of a J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Special Executive aboard a warship as a positive thing. Within the corporate hierarchy of the CSC, Special Executives were a wild card tasked to carry out specific tasks with any required resources. They were something of a mix between a military commander, a judge, and a corporate executive. Out here on the fringes of the Outer Rim their reach and authority were limited only by mandate from the Director of the Independent Core Systems Colonies.


    Ze''ev rose from his desk and changed clothes before he left his quarters. At a brisk stroll he was on the command deck of Ashkelon Station in less than five minutes. Alan Warshauer, Chief Station Officer, his second in command was waiting by the entrance anticipating his arrival. Alan''s expression was no less irritable as Ze''ev''s as he handed him a mug of some much-welcomed fresh coffee.


    ¡°Captain we are being boarded!¡± he muttered in half-jest. Low enough that no one else could hear.


    Ze''ev snorted before sipping at the black coffee.¡°So it seems! Ok people, what can you tell me about this ship?¡± Ze''ev asked the command staff staring at the monitors and scopes with interest.


    ¡°It is definitely something new. A prototype destroyer of some kind. All details are classified. The ship''s captain has not offered any information either. Space dock is throwing a fit that they were not briefed on berthing procedures for this new ship. All requests by space dock to aid in docking with tugs and/or remote piloting were rejected. Only nominal piloting assistance by Executor was received graciously.¡±


    Ze''ev shook his head muttering,¡°What arrogance!¡±


    ¡°That''s not all....¡± Alan added. ¡°Our satellites are picking up pings of friendly military ship ID''s from the far side of Temple as well.¡±


    Ze''ev shot Alan a look, ¡°You mean there are possibly more of these out there?!¡±


    ¡°Not exactly. Details are sketchy. The other two ships are staying well out of visual range but not so far that our sensors can''t determine relative mass, size, and something of their energy output to extrapolate engine specs. Their numbers aren''t close enough to the Kowloon to be a match. According to our best guess they may be Renhai class destroyers.¡±


    Ze''ev raised his brows, ¡°Those are the pride of the fleet! Why are they here?¡±


    Alan shrugged. ¡°No idea. I was asking the same thing when the Kowloon came up on our scopes. Perhaps they are just an escort, taking precautions that there are no blind-spots to worry about?¡±


    . . .


    ¡°Check it out!¡± Wade whispered to Reese at the sight of two CSC Naval commando''s posted outside the front entrance of Dizzy''s Club. Reese noticed immediately that they were holding AK-4047 pulse rifles. ¡°We should keep walking,¡± Reese whispered back making a point not to stare.


    Each commando wore a plain black uniform outfitted with minimal gear. There was none of their standard issue body armor, tactical helmets or other special equipment. It did not look as if they were expecting a fight among a bunch of civilians, that much was clear. Yet there was no doubt they also had a mission to do and that made Reese nervous. They were still carrying loaded pulse rifles. By anyone''s judgment they meant business.


    ¡°Fuck that!¡± Wade argued under his breath maintaining his trajectory towards the club. Reese cursed inwardly. As usual Wade was too curious for his own good. Reese had no choice but to risk his own neck to watch his back. The commandos watched them approach but did not bar their entry.


    Neither Wade, nor Reese, looked like tech''s having changed from their engineering jumpsuits into plain casual garb. Wade wore an old Mot?rhead t-shirt and baggy jeans. He always kept his boots on. Reese wore brown rip-stop cargo-pants and a loose cotton long-sleeve thermal undershirt which was faded-gray beneath a baggy black leather vest. On his feet were classic sneakers.


    Meanwhile, the atmosphere inside Dizzy''s quickly became uncongenial as the CSC naval commando''s started searching the crowd. Who are these swabs looking for? Keren wondered as she made her way back towards the bar. The music and the laser lights were no longer a pleasant distraction. They became an irritant adding to the sense of confusion and apprehension as people were shouted at for questioning.


    Dizzy''s was by no means an upper-class establishment. Besides the hookers, members of the Triad were often found here, as were common thugs, pick-pockets, drug dealers, independent loan sharks and dealers of black market goods. That was simply what Ashkelon station was known for. The seedy independence of backwater commerce.


    ¡°Looks like they''re looking for someone,¡± Wade remarked as they pushed their way by the dance floor observing the commando''s moving around the tables.


    ¡°HEY WADE!¡± a voice shouted close by. They turned to see five fellow spacecraft techs sharing drinks. Wade smiled and moved over with Reese following behind like a huge shadow.


    ¡°What''s going on?¡± Wade asked.


    ¡°No idea man. We''ve just been minding our own business,¡± a tech named Billy answered. He was one of the chattier and more friendly coworkers they had who had hit it off with Wade.


    ¡°Those swabs have been hassling everyone!¡± another tech added.


    ¡°They come off that ship Executor announced?¡± Wade inquired.


    ¡°Yeah probably. They''re looking for some chick I think. They came over here to check Sharon''s ID,¡± Billy explained.


    Sharon was by no means, ''a chick''. She was forty two but she cleaned up pretty good. Tonight she was wearing a dress and had her hair styled. Reese knew Wade fancied her so he wasn''t surprised when Wade looked bothered by that.


    ¡°The fuck? Seriously? Did they bother you Sharon?¡± Wade asked in an aggrieved tone.


    Sharon look mortified and also clearly drunk. ¡°I guess I wasn''t the Sharon they were looking for!¡± she answered with wide eyes.


    Meanwhile the commando in charge approached the bar wearing one red star between two red bars on each collar. She looked to be in her late thirties, of asian decent as were most of the others. Her hair was pulled up and tied in standard military fashion and she wore no makeup of any sort. She was shorter than the other three that spread out behind her. She did not carry a pulse rifle like the rest of them but she was still armed with a pistol holstered at her belt.


    ¡°Can I help you?¡± Dizzy asked laying his hands on the bar in plain sight.


    ¡°You are the owner-proprietor Donald Jewel Williams?¡± the officer asked, in english, with a heavy accent. Chinese was the preferred language of the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation.


    ¡°I am. This is my place,¡± Dizzy responded plainly.


    Keren took a seat at the bar within earshot of their conversation. She could see Dizzy and the commando''s out of the corner of her eye without needing to turn her head much.


    ¡°I am Lt. Cmdr. Lee of the CSCS Kowloon. We are looking for two females. Keren Ho-Stern and Sheren Ho-Stern. They are sisters,¡± the officer said holding up a rugged military tablet. ID photos of both sisters were visible on the screen.


    Dizzy paused before he answered as if his mind were racing. Keren''s certainly was as, as was her heartbeat. What in the fuck?!


    ¡°I know who they are,¡± Dizzy answered slowly. ¡°What is this about?¡±


    The officer ignored his query, ¡°Where are they? Sheren is employed by you is she not?¡±


    Keren looked about frantically for her younger sister, spotting her standing off in a corner chatting with another server. They were laughing and cracking jokes. For a moment she felt indecisive and panicked. Half of her wanted to stay right here and listen in. The other half wanted to walk quickly up to her sister, grab her hand, and run. Logically there was no reason she could think of that they should worry. Neither one of them were criminals. Still something felt very wrong.


    Keren''s motion of looking around in a panic caught the eye of one of the commandos. He started staring in her direction, shifting on his feat and leaning back to get a clearer look at her.


    ¡°I don''t want any trouble!¡± Dizzy said raising his hands. ¡°But you gotta explain what this is about?¡±


    The Lt. Cmdr. didn''t blink, ¡°They are wanted for questioning.¡±


    ¡°What for? Those girls are both civilians,¡± Dizzy pointed out, confused.


    Meanwhile back at the other table, Reese was looking around cautiously. His above average height helped in this regard. He confirmed the commando''s did seem to be moving towards women, usually brunettes. One group approached a private booth where two Asian men were seated. Both accompanied by younger brunettes. He couldn''t hear what they were saying but he recognized the men. They were both Triad enforcers.


    ¡°We need to get out of here!¡± Reese stated suddenly.


    The other voices at the table paused as everyone looked up. Reese didn''t talk much, but when he did people listened. They looked surprised that anything would put him on edge.


    Wade balked, ¡°We just got here!¡±


    Back at the bar the Lt. Cmdr. put on a most serious expression, ¡°I won''t ask twice.¡±


    Dizzy locked eyes with the officer. He wasn''t intimidated and he was making a point to let her know that. ¡°KEREN, GO!¡± he shouted reaching for something under the bar.


    Keren immediately spun off her stool, kicking off her platform shoes as she dashed towards Sheren.


    ¡°T¨¡ z¨¤i n¨¤ bi¨¡n!¡± the commando shouted to the others starting to move after her. For a second the other commando''s were distracted looking towards Keren, all except Lee who was in the motion of pulling out her sidearm to aim it at Dizzy. An instant later, all the power inside the club was cut.


    In the sudden silence and near complete darkness it wasn''t easy to determine where the first shots came from. Reese heard the distinct CRACK of a pistol shot seemingly at the same time as the loud BRRRRAAAPPP-BRRRAAAPPP of two subcompact machine guns (or fully-automatic pistols). Shouts and screams followed. Reese dropped to the floor pulling Wade down with him as all hell broke loose. Suddenly the air was full of the abrupt and awful discord of heavy pulse rifle fire, shattering glass, and a cacophony of horrified shrieks.


    Reese felt the splatter of hot blood and the heavy footfalls and kicks of people running blindly for their lives stumbling over him and the mess of other bodies. Through muzzle flashes Reese watched a nightmare of close-quarters gunfire as the two Red Triad enforcers stepped over the four dead commandos and continued firing blindly. Every commando in the club returned fire in the general direction of their muzzle-flashes. AK-4047 pulse rifles were not known as especially accurate weapons. But they were highly destructive.


    Meanwhile, Keren moved quickly and purposefully keeping her head down as low as possible. Her hands were kept readied close at her sides. Random strangers ran into her, bowling her over. Each time she was knocked over she rolled back unto her feet as quickly as a cat ignoring any bruises she endured in the process. Oh please god let her be ok! she prayed.


    Intermittently, separate POPS and flashes of smaller handguns returned fire at random as anyone else with a weapon tried to stop the slaughter. In truth they only made themselves additional targets. Reese himself had his own concealed automatic in his hand but he wasn''t going to use it unless he absolutely had too.


    Meanwhile, Keren continued to move forward blindly towards the last spot she believed she saw Sheren as dozens of bullets from automatic gunfire whizzed overhead. ¡°SHEREN! SHEREN¡± she shouted reaching and feeling through the darkness. Suddenly she felt something, a hand. A womans hand, wet with blood. She grasped at the hand and tugged at it but it was lifeless and still. She wanted to yell but her voice caught in her throat. She kept groping, feeling up the arm, across the shoulder, towards the face. She recognized the uniform of a server. She felt hair, Sheren''s hair. She wanted to scream.


    ¡°T¨ªnghu¨¯! T¨ªnghu¨¯!¡± the Lt. Cmdr. shouted over the blasts. Suddenly the gunfire ceased. It had only lasted less than a minute. ¡°D¨¥ng! D¨¥ng!¡± she shouted.


    A few of the commandos had tactical lights on the muzzles of their rifles which flashed on and started searching over the carnage. Keren suddenly felt Sheren''s head move. Her sister was crouched in a ball and terrified. The other server''s body had fallen over her when she collapsed. Sheren started sobbing.


    ¡°WE HAVE TO MOVE!¡± Keren whispered pulling her free. Together they started crawling away on all fours. Why hasn''t Executor sounded the alarm?! Keren wondered angrily. Security should be here!


    Dozens of voices cried out, moaning, pleading, spitting curses. Reese could feel the mood of hatred and despair ebbing from the survivors.


    Wade started to move, ¡°SHARON!¡± he called out.


    ¡°SHUT UP!¡± Reese whispered through clenched teeth. Too late. Wades voice caught the attention of a commando. Footsteps approached and the bright beam of a tactical light flashed towards them. ¡°Qi¨¡ng!¡± the commando shouted. Reese raised his pistol and fired. He was a good shot but he was also lucky. The tactical light exploded just before the AK-4047 opened fire. Reese felt a hot sting on his left shoulder. He shoved Wade beneath the table and flipped it over. An instant later a burst of bullets riddled the surface punching several holes through it. All of em missed.


    ¡°W¨¯ shu¨­ t¨ªnghu¨¯le!¡± the Lt. Cmdr. shouted as the another two tactical lights moved to cover the table. Reese was pinned down and he knew it. Behind him he could hear the two commando''s posted outside the entrance struggling to get inside. Even the bulkhead pressure door had lost power.

 Chapter 3

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/22/2183</u>


    Within the hellish interior of Dizzy''s club, Keren and her sister made their way crawling beside the wall to an open doorway entering a short hallway. There they stood with Keren pulling her along to Dizzy''s office door. Within, a large decorative fish tank provided a diffused cool light still functioning on its own independent backup power supply. Once inside, Keren hugged Sheren close. Her younger sisters sobs returned sharply. She started to speak but Keren cut her off, ¡°Listen! Those commandos are here to take us in for questioning.¡±


    ¡°What? Why?!¡± Sheren asked her eyes bubbling with tears.


    ¡°Doesn''t matter. We''ll figure that out after we get out of here.¡±


    ¡°We can''t get out!¡± Sheren exclaimed.


    ¡°Yes we can!¡± Keren insisted, pulling away from Sheren to move behind Dizzy''s desk. Beneath the wheels of his office chair was an opaque laminate sheet. She moved both aside to reveal a portion of floor decking cut out to make a trap door. She hooked her fingers into two holes to pull it up. It was heavy but no trouble at all for Keren''s lean-muscled arms.


    Beneath the plate was a dark hole leading down into a maintenance crawl way about a meter below. Keren knew it well. The crawl way was one of her favorite places to explore when she was a child. Dizzy used the passage on occasion to hide or smuggle contraband in and out of the club. She found it long ago when her father used to leave her unattended in this office. A small battery powered headlamp hung beneath the top edge at easy reach.


    ¡°What is that?¡± Sheren asked nervously stepping over to peer downwards.


    ¡°It''s our way out!¡± Keren said gesturing quickly for Sheren to go down first.


    Sheren hesitated but obliged taking hold of Kerens hands as she lowered her down between bundles of cables, pipes and strands of wiring. From the corner of her eye Keren noticed a familiar photo of her father framed on Dizzy''s desk. How dearly she wished he was here right now! He would know exactly what to do. When Sheren''s toes touched the metal grating on the crawlway floor Keren released her placing the headlight directly into the palm of one of her hands.


    ¡°Wait for me here!¡± Keren said pulling away quickly before Sheren could grab for her. Sheren objected with a voice that was half a cry and half a squeal. Keren ignored her. I have to check on Dizzy! Keren thought rushing back out of the office.


    When she peered back into the club the sounds of gunfire had calmed. Keren could speak Chinese fluently so she had no trouble overhearing the commandos shouting back and forth over the cries of the wounded. Their commander shouted loudest of all attempting to regain control over the situation and ascertain the condition of her men.


    Besides flashing tactical lights, the only light entering the club at this point came through tinted portholes on the front doors and the large view ports overlooking space dock. Floodlights angled from different levels of Ashkelon station shined brightly against the hull of the CSCS Kowloon outside. Yet very little of that light actually penetrated through the view ports, heavily tinted as they were against solar radiation. Whatever Dizzy did to kill the power evidently also disabled the emergency backup lighting.


    Keren didn''t waste time, falling quickly again to all fours crawling directly behind the bar. She found Dizzy sprawled out, leaned back in a slouched position, his burgundy/purple velvet shirt soaked wet with blood. Oh No! Keren cried out inwardly, though in truth she already knew what to expect. She saw how fast the Lt. Cmdr drew her pistol. There was no way she would miss at point-blank range. Somehow however, Dizzy was still breathing.


    ¡°Keren!¡± He whispered.


    She moved close, ignoring the blood on his hands as he reached up to caress her cheek.


    ¡°You need to find your father,¡± He said in half a croak. ¡°He''s working with the Triad.¡±


    ¡°What?!¡± Keren exclaimed her voice choking.


    ¡°Look for his picture on my desk, he...¡± Dizzy paused, clenching his teeth as he coughed up blood. The act of speaking caused him a great deal of pain.


    Keren felt the pang of tears welling up inside her, but also anger.


    ¡°Do you have a light?¡± He asked in a weakened tone.


    Keren noticed now that his other hand held a bottle with a rag stuffed in the top.


    ¡°I cant let them take me alive,¡± he sighed.


    Keren pressed her lighter into his hand, leaning forward to kiss him on the forehead. She spun away quickly moving on the balls of her feet keeping her head as low as possible. As she reached the end of the bar the hard muzzle of an AK-4047 pressed down against the side of her head.


    ¡°Down on your face!¡± The commando spat leaning over the bar beside her. As Keren heard the flick-flick of the lighter behind her she reached up quick as lightning to grab the end of the rifle yanking it up and away from her. The muzzles hot steel singed her palm. She ignored it, holding firm as the commando reacted by yanking back hard. He had the advantage of having both hands on the weapon, along with the supporting strap wrapped around his shoulder. Keren didn''t struggle to keep hold of it. Instead she released it at the precise moment he put the most effort into pulling it away.


    The commando swayed on his feet, off balance, putting one foot back to steady himself. That was all the opportunity she needed. Keren grabbed a bottle on the bar and swung it with all her strength against the side of his jaw. She felt the fracture of bone and shattering of teeth. Groaning the commando pulled the trigger on reflex, though his rifle was still pointed high above her head.


    At such close proximity the pulse rifle burst was both blinding and deafening. Keren ducked and bolted towards the open doorway as every eye in the club was drawn to the shots. Tactical lights swung to focus on the bar just as Dizzy rose to his feet like an apparition with a crazed grimace on his face.


    ¡°F¨¤ngxi¨¤ t¨¡!¡± The Lt. Cmdr shouted whirling around lifting her hand to point at Dizzy, her pistol was still drawn. Dizzy hurled his flaming Molotov-cocktail directly at her feet the instant the rest of the commando''s pulled their triggers. Keren reached the safety of the hallway not at instant too soon. The Lt. Cmdr screamed, consumed by a fireball just as Dizzy was ripped apart by a hundred rounds. The entire bar and most of the bottles of his inventory were broken apart along with him. He was counting on that. No sooner had he fallen than the lighter he left lit on the floor burst the bar aflame.


    _ _ _


    Reese started moving the moment the fire began, grabbing Wade''s pant leg with a jerk he grunted, ¡°Lets go!¡±


    As artificial gravity was still in effect, Reese expected the water-based chemical foam extinguishers on the ceiling to activate immediately. Even without power they should react. Strangely they did not allowing the fire to spread and burn hotter with every passing moment. On his feet now, Reese rushed towards the pressure doors. Getting those open was now of upmost priority.


    Normally these sorts of automatic pressure doors should permit themselves to be forced open without power, yet, by the failed efforts of the commando''s outside Reese could tell this was not the case. Only in the event of an explosive decompression were those doors supposed to automatically seal themselves.


    ¡°We need to find the mechanical override!¡± Reese shouted as Wade ran up to his side. Quick on their heels others were already starting to panic.


    ¡°OPEN IT!¡± they yelled. Reese felt a hand yank on his wounded shoulder. He clenched his teeth and threw back his elbow. Someones nose crunched.


    Wade felt around the frame of the pressure door for the emergency override panel. Funny how you can walk through the same door a hundred times but never remember what it looked like in the dark.


    ¡°Got it!¡± Wade blurted just as someone shoved hard into his back. Wade felt his forehead slam against the frame. For a moment he was knocked dizzy.


    Reese turned around and leaned forward against the throng. ¡°Better hurry!¡± He shouted.


    Wade steadied himself and opened the emergency panel. Inside was a simple fold-out hand-crank. He cranked on the mechanism with all his strength but nothing budged.


    ¡°It''s jammed!¡± he shouted.


    Behind them the light of the flames grew ever larger and brighter illuminating the club well enough to see were it not for so much smoke billowing up to the ceiling, spreading out to the edges and curling back down in a choking haze. Reese felt the smoke stinging against his eyes and throat. Suddenly there was was more shouting in Chinese. Some of the commandos and innocent people had the good sense to start grabbing for the auxiliary hand held extinguishers mounted in cabinets on the walls. There were only a few available, and only one operated properly on a full charge. It was not enough.


    The rest of the commando''s were pushing and shoving their way towards the door as well. Most unkindly. Any second now Reese imagined they would start mowing everyone down. It wouldn''t matter. Not even an AK-4047 could blast through a solid bulkhead pressure door. Any compartment with exterior view ports into space was required to have one. Similar safety mechanisms were designed into the stations air ventilation systems. They were all poorly maintained and the better part of a hundred years old.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Reese turned and reached for the crank himself. Wade was right it was jammed, but Reese pulled much harder. He could feel something inside the mechanism resisting. Fists, kicks and elbows started raining down on the pair of them. Reese grimaced, sweat beading on his forehead. His wounded shoulder burned and bled as he exerted himself to the upmost. Finally with a groan of protest and grinding metal, the manual crank started to turn.


    Even when it functioned properly, the crank was slow, cracking the doors open by mere centimeters for every full rotation. Reese had to use the strength of four men to make it move at all.


    ¡°FASTER!¡± People shouted. Reese kept turning, huffing and panting just as the smoke started to make everyone cough. Through the widening crack between the doors Wade could see a gathering crowd on the other side. With all the shooting and screaming, people were starting to notice something was seriously wrong. And yet, Executor still had not sounded any sort of general alarm?! The commandos outside slid their hands into the gap and pulled against the doors as Reese kept turning. It wasn''t much help but it was something. A minute passed and Reese was near ready to collapse. More shoving, shouting and cursing. Reese felt the barrel of a pulse riffle up against his spine.


    ¡°Keep going!¡± A voice ordered. Do or die time! Reese cursed inwardly throwing his full weight against the handle again, and again, and again. Smoke poured out of the doorway into the corridor outside. Smoke detectors in the ventilation systems reacted. Alarms and flashing lights started to go off. When the doors appeared to open enough to squeeze through, the commando with the rifle ordered him to step aside. Reese ignored him. It wasn''t open nearly enough, especially for himself. He kept turning.


    The commando cracked the butt of his rifle against Reese''s ribs. Reese fell down to one knee his face contorted with pain. The commando pulled the rifle butt back again as if to slam it up against the back of his skull. Wade pulled Reese''s automatic out of his vest pocket and pointed it directly at his face. Instantly the man froze.


    ¡°BACK OFF!¡± Wade shouted with rage.


    The commando obeyed, eyes widening. The other commando''s leveled their rifles at the pair of them but it made little difference.


    ¡°Almost there man!¡± Wade coaxed Reese, ¡°A few more turns and its time for that drink!¡±


    ¡°HELP US! HURRY UP!¡± the crowd behind echoed.


    Reese pulled himself up, his vision blurring, the voices around him oddly hollow. He was in shock but he knew what he had to do. As he pulled on the handle again he felt indescribable pain. His ribs were broken. He fell down to his knees again, but this time he couldn''t get up. Several other people outside started to aid the commando''s shoving and pulling against the doors from the other side. It was no use. The air was hot and almost impossible to breath.


    Suddenly there was more shouting in Chinese, but this time it was from outside in the corridor. One by one the hands in the door seam pulled away. Moments later a lithe, beautiful woman in a designer suit appeared before the doorway, her expression concerned and intense. As the smoke billowed towards her face she sucked in a deep breath, leaned forward and reached up with both hands, attempting to pull apart both doors simultaneously. Her eyes shut by reflex to avoid the sting of the smoke. For a moment her brows furrowed as she summoned all the strength she could muster. Amazingly, the manual-override handle spun with ease as the doors were immediately forced open.


    Shocked expressions crossed over everyone''s features. Is she a synthetic?! Wade thought to himself, familiar with such technology from his stint in the Colonial Marines.


    _ _ _


    Keren snatched the framed picture of her father off Dizzy''s desk before she clambered down into the crawl way as quickly as she could manage. Sheren was crouched below her, still sobbing, hugging her knees to her chest. Her work uniform was just a skirt and a blouse. The headlight Keren handed her was on but clutched in her hand. ¡°How is Dizzy?¡± She asked in a hesitant, shaken voice.


    ¡°Dizzy''s gone,¡± Keren stated mournfully.


    Sheren''s lips quivered as she noticed the framed photograph in Keren''s hand. Odd though it was, she didn''t comment on it until Keren suddenly smashed the frame against a pipe prompting a gasp and flinch. Keren picked through the shattered glass fragments to pull the photo out. Behind it was a folded sheet of paper. She stuffed both into her jacket pocket without comment as Sheren stared.


    ¡°This way!¡± Keren said taking the headlight away from Sheren and affixing it around her brow. Together they crawled along the grating with bare knees. Moving without speaking, alone with their own horrified thoughts and questions. It didn''t help how maddening and confusing the whole situation was. None of it made any sense!


    Keren knew the crawl ways well but she had difficulty making up her mind where to go. Heading back to her quarters seemed a foolish notion indeed. It was very likely where the commando''s would go next, if they weren''t there already. Dizzy''s quarters were next on her mind, which was also a bad idea for similar reasons. Her last idea was boarding a shuttle headed planet side. There would be refuge among her mothers family there to be sure, but the last thing she wanted was to put anyone else in danger. Were she by herself, Keren would feel much better. Sheren was not prepared for this. Guo never trained her to fight and survive. Keren was incredibly uncomfortable with that responsibility in her hands.


    Priorities were clear. Keren needed to get Sheren to safety, but how? Assuming ICSC security was not part of the search efforts there was still a chance she could get Sheren unto a shuttle. In that case, they should hurry. Shuttles came up and down from the planet regularly, at least every hour or so. Some were specific for carrying cargo, live animals, raw materials or people, but most could accommodate a mix of all-the-above. Last minute passengers could usually squeeze aboard for a small bribe. Those wishing to ignore an ID check could sometimes do so for an even larger bribe. Or so she had heard.


    Several shuttle ports were in use around the station, besides those set apart exclusively for corporate use. She led them towards one of the busiest, seedier shuttle ports on the station. The one beside the so-called ''street market'' that imitated those of old-world Shanghai. Or so she had heard. It was on the same level as Dizzy''s club so they didn''t have to exit the crawl ways just yet.


    ¡°Do you have any cash on you?¡± Keren asked, pausing to look over her shoulder.


    Sheren blinked, her face pale and slack in the harsh light of the headlight shining into her eyes. She was out of it. Keren noted her knees were bruising, scraped and bleeding. She couldn''t keep this up for much longer.


    ¡°Just tips... my purse is still in my locker,¡± Sheren answered meekly.


    ¡°Let me see what you have?¡± Keren asked.


    Sheren reached into a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt and produced a small handful of folded, crumpled, bills.


    Keren took them and removed her own wallet from her jacket pocket. She never took up the habit of carrying a purse. Adding up all their cash netted $265 in a mix of Three World Empire (3WE) Yen and United American (UA) dollars. The original CSC and the newer ICSC weren''t large enough, yet, to create their own currency.


    ¡°There''s enough money here for a shuttle ticket. If we hurry we can get you off the station before they find us,¡± Keren stated.


    ¡°What about you?!¡±


    ¡°I''ll come along after. First I need to get to the bottom of this.¡±


    Sheren shook her head pleadingly, ¡°There has to be another way? Why can''t we just go report this to security?¡±


    Keren sighed, ¡°Those were J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Commando''s. They carry bigger guns last I checked.¡±


    Sheren glared, ¡°Damn it! They don''t have the right! We''re civilians and we''ve done nothing wrong!¡±


    Keren frowned. There was no question about that, but in the big picture, member worlds, colonies, outposts and space stations allied with the ICSC were all beholden to private corporate military oversight. The CSCS Kowloon and all the other ships in the fleet were touted as a defense force, and only as a defense force, but there were always rumors to the contrary.


    Much of the time, Dizzy''s Club was full of space-truckers, colonists, roughnecks and pilots of every variety. Men and women who braved the expanse of space for a living heard and saw things network news never reported. Out here on the trailward edge of the Outer Rim Territories, anything could happen. Tragedies such as the loss of Sevastopol station and an entire colony on LV-426 were yet to be solved. Keren spent enough time around ships crews and old-timers to learn some things were dangerous to talk about. Primary among them, were the lack of ethics and alleged illegal activities of interstellar corporate powers.


    ¡°It''s not that simple Sheren,¡± Keren argued, attempting to speak gently and keep the frustration, or was it fear? Out of her voice. ¡°We can''t trust anyone until we know what''s going on.¡±


    ¡°This is bullshit!¡± Sheren spat back heatedly.


    ¡°No argument here,¡± Keren smirked, happy to see some energy in her younger sister again. Anger was more useful than self-pity.


    _ _ _


    As soon as the doors opened the woman stepped aside allowing Reese, Wade and the rest of the survivors to pour out into the corridor in a mass-panic. Such a scene of chaos was a rare thing. Reese collapsed against the side of the corridor, only a few meters from the door. Desperate to take in deep breaths, yet unable to bear the pain in his ribs from the effort. His vision washed in and out of focus. It was all he could do to stay conscious, but he was determined to remain alert and observe everything going on. More than anything he wanted to understand who was responsible for this and why?!


    Many of the survivors wanted to keep on running once they emerged but they were quickly stopped by another group of twelve commando''s. Six on either end of the corridor with rifles leveled. Some of those strong enough, and brave enough to go back inside attempted to carry out more wounded and did their best to save more lives. Wade was one of the first to charge back into the smoke, but it was no use. He couldn''t see anything so he retreated back to stand by Reese, coughing heavily.


    At one point the woman in the business suit appeared ready to go into the smoke after him, before a stern voice called out, ¡°That''s enough Catherine!¡± from the opposite end of the corridor as Reese and Wade, just behind the line of commandos.


    Wade turned to get a good look at him. Standing five foot nine, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit with a light medium build the man was clearly Chinese, at least forty years of age, possibly older. His hair was longer and fuller than the military cuts of the commando''s, combed back easily and unpretentiously. He had the look of an executive. Someone of great importance. A fact reinforced by the four bodyguards standing around him holding short-stock carbine versions of AK-4047 pulse rifles.


    Catherine frowned, her aqua-blue eyes glaring back at him. There was defiance there. Wade could see it. She was no synthetic. Her suit was dark blue, unlike her superiors (and those of his bodyguards) which were all black. Hers was also much tighter around the shoulders, thighs and hips accentuating her perfectly fit physique in a much lighter fabric. She was young, perhaps twenty five, standing five foot eight with thick, highlighted brown hair cut just below her jawline. Both her and the executive carried a bright-red-over-white pin of an orchid flower on their breast lapels.


    ¡°Come here,¡± the man ordered in a more fatherly tone, still speaking English as there was clearly no blood relation. By the rosy, warm hue of her skin and the classic look of her facial features Wade would guess Catherine was European. Either Irish or British? She obeyed, stiffly, moving to his side before crossing her arms with irritation bordering on disgust.


    Of the thirteen commandos that entered Dizzy''s club, only seven had emerged. A few of those were seriously wounded with gunshot wounds. Another was howling and groaning in agony, half his face puffed up and bruising. The executive overlooked them all with evident disappointment and frustration. For him this was plainly just a setback. He was not the least bit angry or shocked. His persona was more pragmatic, or else, he simply didn''t care how many commando''s had died. He only cared how badly they failed.


    If I thought I''d get away with it I''d put one between your eyes right now pal! Wade cursed inwardly fingering Reese''s automatic tucked in the back waistline of his jeans.


    By now, just a couple minutes after the doors were opened, emergency fire crews, medics and security personnel were converging on the scene.

 Chapter 4

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/22/2183</u>


    Once they reached a crawl way exit near the street market, Keren paused to look back at Sheren. Sheren lifted a palm to shield her eyes from the bright beam of the headlight as Keren spoke.


    ¡°We won''t be able to walk around looking like this,¡± Keren stated taking note of the bloody state of Sheren''s uniform. Keren had smears of blood across her face and through her hair. She also had no shoes on. ¡°We need to clean up and disguise our appearance first thing.¡± Sheren nodded as Keren handed over the wad of bills. ¡°Hold this! If we get separated, don''t waste time. Go directly for the shuttle understood?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Sheren said with evident fatigue.


    ¡°One more thing, avoid drawing attention. Keep your head covered. We don''t know if security is under orders to arrest us or not. It is best to avoid them and any security cameras as best we can.¡±


    ¡°Right, I get it.¡± Sheren acknowledged.


    Keren reached up and opened the crawl way trap door. Exiting the hatch from inside was easy. For safety reasons there was no lock on the inner latch. Getting back inside was more tricky. Each crawl way door had an electronic ID key lock. Only authorized station maintenance/repair technicians could access the crawl ways using their ID badge. As a spacecraft technician Keren did not have one. Once they crawled out they would not be able to get back in. Leaving the trap door open or jamming the lock mechanism somehow was tempting, but pointless. A silent alarm would soon alert station security to investigate if the hatch was not shut and allowed it lock itself again.


    Some clever thieves and smugglers were known to create fake ID keys to get inside the crawl ways, but this trick wasn''t guaranteed to work. All entries and exits were logged by Executor and cross-checked against maintenance schedules and repair orders. Personnel with no known reasons to be in the crawl ways were flagged and security was alerted.


    Keren jerked open the latch and pushed up on the heavy hatch. It squeaked loudly on old hinges. The ambient lighting and sounds of the street market above were unmistakable. Keren paused to peek her head out at the floor level before committing to lifting her feet up the rungs of the short ladder. Even at this late hour, the market was always crowded. From her vantage point at the end of a small, shadowed alleyway between two shops she watched people milling around. Like usual. So far so good, she thought clambering out.


    ¡°Just a minute!¡± She spoke down to Sheren handing down the headlight to her again. Sticky, filthy residue clung to her bare feet as she moved towards the end of the narrow alley. Despite being one of the largest open areas on the whole station, everything in the street market was crowded and built small. Only the ceiling was high enough to be obscured from sight, hazy in smoke from dozens of grills and old fashioned cooking woks. Smoke from the market was vented out into space rather than clogging the air filters and attempting to recycle it. A small price to pay for the advantages of business done the old way.


    Suddenly the voice of executor made an announcement over the loud speakers.


    ¡­Attention. Emergency! Fire at Dizzy''s Club. Attention. Emergency! Fire at Dizzy''s Club.


    The message repeated four times before it stopped. Executor did not continue with instructions for evacuation and the Emergency warning lights flared yellow, indicating it was a localized event, not likely to cause widespread damage or endanger the whole station. If it was more serious the flashers would change to orange, or worst of all, red.


    Keren wasn''t sure why what just happened was only being reported as a fire, it was far worse! Gunfire and mass casualties warranted a red alarm. Executor should be instructing everyone to return to their quarters, lock their doors and leave the corridors empty for security personnel to search and secure the entire level. Nothing about this made sense. It made her fists clench in anger. The only positive to this false-alarm, although Keren refused to think of anything related to this tragedy as a positive, was that they usually didn''t shut any security doors or close the shuttle ports for a yellow alarm. The way should still be clear.


    Cautiously, Keren slunk up to the edge of the alleyway and took a peek around. Lighting around the market was subdued, made up of strings of paper lamps hanging from the rooftops and across the streets. On the street corners were taller, brighter, modern street lamps, upon which fire extinguishers, communications terminals and surveillance cameras were placed. Other than that, the rest of the structures were highly old fashioned. Here it was still possible to buy live goats, chickens, pigs, and other exotic animals. GL-382 was best known for its thriving livestock trade. Ashkelon Station sold a fair percentage of those animals right here in the market.


    Searching from face to face and person to person Keren did not see any signs of trouble waiting for her among the crowds. The market stirred with hundreds of people purveying wares from dozens of small shops, same as usual. The alarm raised a few eyebrows, she heard mentions and comments about it but for now it was business as usual. Karen was pleased to see there was a public restroom across the street from the alley and a few clothing shops close by. They would need to hurry, the shuttle port was still a bit of a walk on the far side of the market. She returned to the hatch and gestured for Sheren to come up.


    As they shut the hatch behind her an An LCD readout on the hatch keypad flashed, SWIPE ID, SWIPE ID, SWIPE ID, repeating as a red light blinked. Nothing we can do about that, Keren thought. So long as they were away from here before any security teams showed up they would avoid any trouble.


    Given that Sheren''s clothes were much bloodier than hers, Keren opted to remove her jacket and place it around Sheren''s shoulders before they exited the alleyway. Together they stepped across the street, shoulder-to-shoulder, Kerens arm around her younger sister. They looked beat up, exhausted and pissed off, but at least they had each other to lean on. That was enough to deter curious bystanders from stepping over to ask questions.


    Once inside the restroom they wasted no time scrubbing blood from their hands, faces and hair. The gruesome chore was done in grim silence. This was not a moment of sisterly bonding they wanted to remember. That done, they each retreated to a separate stall for a few minutes to themselves. Sheren found the photo and the folded paper in Keren''s jacket pocket. She couldn''t help but take a peek.


    The photo was at least twenty years old, taken shortly after Dizzy first opened his club. Guo and Dizzy had their arms wrapped over each others shoulders, grinning broadly, holding beers. They were never officially business partners, but they might as well have been. Guo watched over the place and helped with security. He even moonlighted as a bartender on occasion.


    The folded paper was written in his own hand, but in traditional chinese characters or Hanzi. Sheren was taught to speak, read and write Chinese, same as Keren, but she was never so disciplined as her older sister to take it seriously. Her eyes squinted as she wracked her brain to remember what the characters meant. The stress of everything else on her mind did not make it easier, but she managed.


    Dear daughter,


    If you are reading this, your life is in danger. I wish I was there to protect you but I know you can fend for yourself. Speak to the old woman in the market and you will understand why I left without saying a word. Make up your own mind about what you want to do next, but I ask that you give your sister and your mother the same chance I did. Do not tell them anything, for if you do, they will never be safe again.


    Love, Guo


    Sheren felt tears falling unto the page as she started sobbing again. What the hell was wrong with her father?! Only now did she know for a fact that he left on purpose. That realization broke her heart. He might be alive, even now, but so what? He abandoned his family. Everything fell apart after he disappeared. Regardless of the fact they were already divorced, their mother grieved so strongly she ended up in a hospital. When it was clear she was not getting well the debts piled up and they lost their family home. Now she and Keren worked as hard as possible on Ashkelon Station just to make sure their mother received the care she needed back on Temple. Whatever Guo''s reasons were for leaving, there was no justification for the suffering brought to this family. Sheren bit her lip. She would never forgive him.


    ¡°Sheren?¡± we need to go. Keren said tapping gently against her stall.


    Sheren sniffled, crumpling the page in her fist angrily before dropping it into the toilet, flushing it without hesitation. Keren didn''t need to read that bullshit anymore than she did. The last thing Sheren wanted was for Keren to go run off looking for answers about their father. They needed each other now, more than ever!


    Sheren placed the photo back in the jacket pocket before she opened the stall and faced her sister again, wiping away her tears to avoid looking in her eyes. Keren sensed something was wrong, but under the circumstances what wasn''t wrong? Sheren lurched forward and gave her sister a desperate, clinging hug. ¡°I won''t leave Ashkelon without you!¡± she cried.


    Keren frowned. They didn''t have time for this, ¡°You have too, but it''s ok. I will come after you soon, I promise!¡±


    Sheren pulled back, her eyes red and unhappy, ¡°You''re just like dad! You think you keep everyone else safe by running away. I don''t see why I should care about promises from either one of you!¡±


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Keren stared, confused, ¡°What are you talking about Sheren?¡±


    _ _ _


    ¡°BASTARDS!¡±


    ¡°MURDERERS!¡±


    ¡°KILLERS!¡±


    Outraged shouts and exclamations echoed through the corridor as the survivors of Dizzy''s Club bellowed at the commando''s who quickly retreated back to the lines of their reinforcements. At the same time, fire crews dressed in protective, shimmering, fire resistant suits rushed through them towards the doors carrying packs of fire-fighting equipment. Medics dispersed likewise, offering first aid and oxygen to the wounded and anyone suffering from smoke inhalation.


    Special Executive Victor Li Shing, the man in the black suit stepped towards one of the wounded commando''s who staggered towards him. ¡°Zh¨­ngw¨¨i z¨¤i n¨£l¨«? L¨«?¡± he asked in Chinese, seemingly taking note of the absence of their commander.


    The man coughed, attempting to stand straight to attention as he stammered a hasty, hurried answer to the question, speaking Chinese. At the same time, further shouts and incensed yells from the wounded civilians broke out as ICSC security approached. Both alarmed and confused, some of them had their sidearms drawn, staring at the commando''s with apprehension and disgust. These were the local officers of course, the ones who thought of Ashkelon as their home.


    ¡°Look at this! Security wants to arrest the commando''s!¡± Wade said with surprise, taking note of their manner and approach.


    ¡°Not gonna happen,¡± Reese said softly through clenched teeth. ¡°Just watch!¡±


    Wade focused again on the executive who looked to be quite unhappy with the commando, the same one who broke Reese''s ribs in fact. The exec listened intently, hands clasped behind his back. Once or twice he interrupted to ask another question, curtly in tone as if he were addressing a slave. The soldier bowed his head and spoke words of regret and excuses. One didn''t need to speak the language to understand its undertones.


    When the executive looked to have heard enough he held his hand out and barked a command. The commando froze, suddenly nervous and fearful. He stammered more words, almost begging. The executive struck the man with a slap, so harsh and sudden everyone stared. The commando had fear in his eyes, but he raised his chin to stand at attention once more before shakily handing over his pulse rifle.


    ¡°What the fuck...¡± Wade spoke under his breath as the executive hefted the weapon and took a couple steps back. There''s no fucking way he''ll do it! he thought to himself, too appalled to look away.


    ¡°HALT! NO ONE SHOOTS!¡± a shout rang out as the stations chief of security came on the scene.


    Wade noted the way the survivors seemed to relax and stand more emboldened. Genuine authority and help had finally arrived. Someone sensible, at last, to stop further bloodshed.


    Unconcerned, the executive calmly racked the rifle and slowly raised it to his shoulder. His target swallowed and went pale as innocent survivors stared in disbelief. Voices cut off abruptly with surprise.


    ¡°I SAID HALT!¡± the security chief repeated prompting two of the four executive bodyguards to turn around protectively and face him. The smoothness and discipline of their reactions were perfectly in sync, like two puppets pulled by the same strings.


    Maddeningly obtuse, Victor continued to ignore the order, shifting his footing a bit while hugging the stock tighter against his shoulder, anticipating recoil while raising the barrel to take careful aim. A few commando''s standing nearby took hasty steps back. Catherine quickly turned head away and cringed.


    ¡°THIS IS YOUR LAST WARN...¡± The security chief started to say an instant before Victor squeezed the trigger. TATATTATATTATAKK! Was the pulse rifles abrupt and deafening report. The young commando was blasted backwards against the corridors far wall in a mess of blood and body parts. Steam and sparks erupted from a ruptured conduit punctured by the burst of light-armor-piercing ammunition.


    The executive did not react to the kill in any visible way. His face was a mask of placid self-entitlement and arrogance. For a moment he regarded the mess the rifle had made the way someone stares at a cockroach freshly smashed on the floor, but that was all. Profound looks of shock and outrage leveled by the survivors beside resentful glares of loathing from other commandos did not phase him one bit. He simply handed off the rifle to another and turned at last to regard the stations chief of security with an air of business-like detachment.


    ¡°I''m sorry did you say something?¡± Victor asked with deadpan sarcasm reaching up to wiggle a finger inside his ear. The gesture was merely a pantomime. Implanted audio processing chips had already dulled the rifles harmful noise inside his brain.


    Max was dumbfounded beyond reason but he had to snap out of it. The damage was done and he had to react. This executive believed he answered to no one and would not be easily reasoned with. Flashbacks of his early years on Temple as a rookie prison guard reminded him how hardened murderers expressed the same casual disregard for authority. There was no easy way to tangle horns with someone like this. Killers only respected other killers.


    ¡°I am Max Shmith, security chief for this space station. From what I see, a near-massacre has taken place here! Whoever you are, you have just committed murder in cold blood! I intend to see you arrested!¡±


    Security personnel phalanx-ed behind Max grew tense. Their hands rested on their pistols or taught against the triggers if they already had them drawn. Some had riot helmets, vests, fixed shoulder-stocks and extended clips. Nevertheless, Reed saw it for what it was, a hopeless standoff prompted by a strong sense of duty and self respect. They rushed in quickly, too quickly. Even though some of the commando''s were dazed, wounded, and marginally outnumbered as a whole, the security officers had bad odds against their superior firepower.


    The executive shook his head once in a casually dismissive manner, ¡°I understand your confusion security chief, but you are wholly mistaken. These commandos, my associates and I, operate entirely outside your jurisdiction. We are free to disregard any laws or regulations I see fit.¡±


    Max clenched his jaw in a furious effort to keep his tongue in check. Bullshit!


    Sensing his anger was on the rise, Victor continued his attempts to mollify Max. ¡°My name is Victor Li Shing. I am a special executive of J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng. Executor will verify everything I''ve just told you.¡±


    Victor Li Shing''s identity is verified, as are his special orders. Any attempt to detain or interfere in the business of a special executive is unlawful.


    Max could not believe his ears, but it made no real difference. This was utter nonsense! In all his years as a law man he''d never heard of such ''special orders'', nor had he ever met a special executive.


    ¡°Excuse me Victor, but I don''t answer to Executor. My only concern is the health and safety of the good people of Ashkelon Station. I''ll ask you once to order your men to lay down their arms peacefully. One way or another, I''m bringing you in.¡±


    If this was a poker game, Max just shoved his stakes all-in. Perhaps anger was getting the best of his judgment this time, but he was in no mood to play games. Victor regarded him with a cool stare, the yellow flashes of the emergency strobes playing across his features. Was he bluffing?


    Around him the commando''s looked twitchy, on edge. This corridor was a lousy place for close-quarters shooting. No cover, and the security officers had the advantage of position holding them in a crossfire. Of course, all the wounded, the medics and the rest had nowhere to retreat with the bar still in flames. This could get very bloody indeed.


    Just as things looked like they were about to go from bad to worse Victor spoke, ¡°Executor, execute special order eleven.¡±


    Suddenly, every handgun held or carried by the security officers beeped in quick succession.


    Confirmed. All firearms for security personnel have been disabled.


    Max snatched his Type 7X7 automatic pistol from its shoulder holster, his face twisted in a rage. The little green light normally indicating the weapon was functional, but ''safe'', with its electronic firing mechanism disabled mocked him. His palm ID reader refused to arm the gun and switch the light to red.


    ¡°EXECUTOR! SECURITY OVERRIDE!¡± he shouted.


    Unable to comply.


    FUCK YOU!¡± He roared, throwing his pistol at a nearby monitor. The weapon smashed through the CRT screen in a bright sizzle of sparks and a burst of smoke. Most of the commandos chuckled and smirked. Their stance changed completely. Suddenly they had nothing to worry about. Conversely, the security officers looked ready to shit themselves.


    Victor raised a brow, ¡°I trust I have made my point? Do not persist. Do not test me. Do not doubt my resolve.¡±


    Max glared towards the executive as if looks could kill, ¡°This isn''t over!¡± he warned.


    Victor stopped looking at Max and started looking around to address his men instead, ¡°This is a military operation entirely outside your jurisdiction. I am free to act under the highest authority granted by the CSC Board of Directors under mandate from the Director of the ICSC. Anyone of you who defies me, even under orders from your chief, will at the minimum face serious criminal charges. Your wages, health-benefits, insurance, pensions, even your credit will be forfeit. Imprisonment and fines will follow...¡± The executive paused for effect before adding. ¡°...and that is only for those of you who might survive being gunned down where you stand. You have been warned.¡±


    A moment later there was a sound of pistols dropping and clattering on the deck. Not that they were of much use. Max already demonstrated how eager he was to be rid of his. Max swallowed. Times had changed. Many of his people weren''t locals from the station anymore. Of course they would be the first to falter under such threats.


    Hell, if Victor demanded it, he half-expected to be dragged back in restraints and locked into a cell by his own officers. You already know that though don''t you, you son of a bitch?! Max mused. This is all calculated. Theatrics. Better to demoralize us into retreat than preside over another massacre. Shooting up your own commando was an especially nice touch.


    ¡°Stand down!¡± Max ordered in a hollow, defeated voice. He was outplayed and he knew it.

 Chapter 5

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/22/2183</u>


    Shella Roodt woke with a start as the voice of Executor boomed over the station intercom in her quarters.


    ¡­Attention, unclassified vessel approaching Ashkelon Station. Priority-Alpha docking status. Access to all decks. ...and then the message repeated.


    Shella groaned inwardly, willing her eyes to stay open, blinking slowly with some difficulty. Sylvester, the cat, meowed with anxiety as she pulled away the sheets. As she reached to offer a reassuring pet the feline sprang away with irritation. Yeah no shit, I''m not happy about getting up either, she thought. A glance at the digital clock prompted a bitter sigh. She had been asleep for barely over an hour. Fuck!... she swore under her breath, and not for the first time.


    Powerful, muscular legs stretched as she stepped out of bed. Shella had a gymnasts physique, standing five foot three with a petite, lean muscled frame. Though she was much stronger than she looked, she never looked very strong to begin with. Many presumed a woman in her position could not afford to appear weak or spineless. The reality was it made little difference. Few were fool enough not to take her seriously once she pulled out her badge. Even out here on the fringes of the Outer Rim the reach and authority of the Interstellar Commerce Commission was appreciable. ICC agents were often thought of as the eyes and ears of The Company, and worse.


    Shella was in her late thirties, sometimes passing for late twenties depending on how she dressed, but not lately. In recent days, bags beneath her eyes and a tight scowl dispossessed that notion. She was warned that Ashkelon station had a way of wearing down outsiders but as far as she was concerned that was only half of it.


    Standing before her mirror, Shella looked every bit as exhausted as she felt. Her eyes squinted a bright golden-copper amber hue. Born on Earth, of white south-African descent, her features were squarish and sharp with defined cheekbones. Undertones of ivory and cinnamon added depth to her flushed rosy skin. Ginger brown hair, straight and glossy, was trimmed close around her ears and halfway up her scalp.


    Leaning over her bathroom sink, cupping cold water in her hands, she splashed her face combing her hair back with her fingers. It draped behind her ears in layers, hanging at the level of her jawline revealing a long shapely neck marred with old scars across the nape. Shella felt the smooth patches tingle beneath her fingertips as she rubbed at stiff, tired muscles. Familiar though they were, after all this time the scars still felt uncomfortable to the touch.


    Another voice cut into the silence, this one more familiar to her, yet still a machine speaking through a speaker, ¡°I see your awake, I was trying to let you sleep.¡±


    Shella let out a frustrated breath. She didn''t have to ask how he knew she was awake. Being watched wasn''t an especially comforting feeling, It always reminded her of her childhood, and the predators of the African savanna.


    ¡°A bit late for that Oliver. Tell me what you got.¡±


    ¡°It''s impressive,¡± Oliver said first and foremost in a tone of plain admiration with a hint of an English accent. ¡°Looks like a warship, some type of modified destroyer. Curious configuration. It bears the logo of the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation, designated as the CSCS Kowloon. We haven''t seen anything like this from them before.¡±


    By ''we'' she knew he meant Weyland Yutani. Personally she could care less about whatever special new ship Jingti Long built. That''s why the android, Oliver, was out there on the shuttle keeping tabs on space traffic and communications while she was on the station.


    ¡°That''s why it''s listed as unclassified,¡± she stated, talking to herself out loud, still groggy.


    ¡°Correct. Military craft don''t log flight plans, even when they visit civilian ports.¡±


    ¡°I know that!¡± she muttered. Nuances of speech were sometimes wasted on synthetics, especially this one. Oliver unnerved her.


    ¡°Sorry I didn''t catch that?¡± Oliver asked, not hearing her properly.


    ¡°Nevermind. What else can you tell me? Any escorts?¡±


    ¡°Yes there are two other destroyers, likely Renhai class. They broke formation as soon as the group dropped out of FTL. They appear to be taking up a perimeter patrol pattern on the far side of Temple.¡±


    ¡°What is the protocol for this?¡± She queried, attempting to recall any stipulations or regulations regarding visits from CSC military vessels while the ICC was operating on Ashkelon Station.


    ¡°Good question. The concord agreement stipulates that no outside military vessels or personnel are allowed to come near the station without express permission from the CSC. It does not stipulate the reverse is also true. I expect they feel entitled to dock military craft here without prior notice. It is still their station after all.¡±


    Shella frowned. This whole experiment attempting to integrate ICC oversight into the operations of Ashkelon Station was a messy business. Herself and the other officers were on dangerous, unfamiliar ground with little protection other than a small cadre of Colonial Marshals. ¡°Well that''s not very reassuring Oliver,¡± she complained. ¡°What happens if they start marching troops in pointing rifles at us?¡±


    She could sense the pause of uncertainty as the synthetic parsed his reply.


    ¡°I''m disappointed Oliver,¡± Shella added. ¡°I should have been woken at the first sight of those warships.¡±


    ¡°Apologies if I misinterpreted your instructions. Earlier you indicated you needed to sleep, and I quote, ''as much as if my life depended on it''.¡±


    ¡°Don''t get smart! You''re supposed to be watching my back.¡±


    Again there was a pause. Shella was in no mood to deal with this. ¡°I require an answer,¡± She spat irritably.


    ¡°As you know I do not speak for our superiors. I am only an analyst, here to provide support and maintain channels of communication. I can only advise you to use your best judgment.¡±


    Shella scoffed, moving over to her closet. There was no specific attire for an ICC agent. Much of the time they wore plain clothes, the better to blend in with the locals to ease their investigations. However, wearing a uniform sometimes had its own advantages. People usually thought twice about harming someone in uniform. Unless they were targeting ICC personnel to begin with, she reminded herself, recalling the recent attacks against her colleagues. Still she did not scare easy. She saw this ships arrival as an opportunity as much as it was a surprise.


    ¡°You know the chief is going to freak out about this. Suppose he decides to call for an emergency evacuation? The Colonial Marshals have a frigate on alert status somewhere nearby isn''t that right?¡±


    ¡°That is correct, the USCM Tremolino. Conestoga class.¡±


    ¡°How soon will they arrive once that signal is given?¡± Shella asked, opting for low key plain clothes with an undercover ICC jacket. She wanted to keep her options open if she had to blend in.


    ¡°I do not have an exact estimate. Likely within a few hours.¡±


    ¡°Would that single frigate even be a match against three CSC destroyers?¡±


    ¡°Difficult to say,¡± Oliver began with a cautious undertone. It was clear to Shella that the android was uncomfortable with the question, despite the obvious fact he had no real emotions. ¡°...there are many factors to consider, not the least of which are the orders and attitudes of the captains involved,¡± he finished.


    ¡°Are you saying its not even a certainty that the Tremolino would engage?¡±


    ¡°I am sure they would do their duty if it came to a fight. Yet whatever the outcome, such an encounter would have dire consequences for the concord agreement. Though we all know the ICSC would loose an outright war against the UA or the Three World Empire, how can we be sure the captains of these destroyers have the good sense not to start one?¡±


    ¡°I am aware of that. Just because they should know better doesn''t mean they won''t act against their better judgment. That''s human nature, not that you would know anything about that...¡± she quipped. ¡°...However, I take your point, the arrival of the Tremolino is no guarantee of anything except an escalation of tensions.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. I wouldn''t advise it. Use of that emergency signal is only as a last resort. Perhaps you should remind the chief that you must both concur that it must be done.¡±


    ¡°As if he ever listens to me!¡± Shella mumbled under her breath.


    ¡°Sorry?¡±


    ¡°Forget about it. Patch yourself into my datapad. I am heading into the station.¡±


    ¡°Understood,¡± Oliver stated, watching Shella buckle on her shoulder holster from his bank of monitors aboard the Tekla with wolfish brown eyes. Thin lipped and bald, the android had a severe, predatory look to his features emphasized by low brows and a hawkish nose. Slight of build Oliver looked especially thin in a baggy gray flight suite.


    Oliver had failed to mention how deep space listening posts along the borders of the ICSC informed him of the unknown ships predicted arrival some time ago. Any request for evacuation at this point would not mean much because their superiors already decided to wait and see what happened first. They wanted analysis on the ship and information on its crew. This suited Oliver just fine. After all, he was impervious to panic, or fear the way humans were. He would perform his duty as best as he could, regardless of personal risk.


    Besides if an evacuation indeed proved necessary, Shella was fortunate to have a shuttle parked on a mooring buoy within sight of the station. Forty meters long, the Tekla resembled a small private yacht designed with emphasis on stealth, speed and luxury, It had been unofficially registered with the ICC for the last ten years, utilized by administrators and agents whenever urgent matters required both a swift response and high discretion.


    By the standards of the core systems the Tekla was no longer top of the line, but out here in the Outer Rim it was one of the newer ships around. On board were generous accommodations for two crew members and two passengers, with the added safety of a Class B emergency escape pod.


    The concord agreement did not permit the ICC or the Marshal''s Bureau to keep any vessels docked with the station on a permanent basis. As large as Ashkelon Station was, berths and hanger space were always in demand. Cargo haulers and passenger vessels claimed priority to keep up with the flow of commerce. Vessels in need of refueling, maintenance or repairs had to schedule services with space dock. For the sake of efficiency and the necessity of maintaining that schedule, ships requiring major repairs awaiting parts were fixed to a mooring buoy.


    These buoys trailed away from the station on the same orbital arc like a long string of beads. Several different types were available, depending on the size and class of ships they were suited for. Ships and crews requiring a prolonged stay at the station were welcome to use the buoys for a fee. Those buoys that berthed the largest and most valuable ships were manned with a small crew trained and ready to make emergency maneuvers or orbital corrections.


    Behind the transparent diamonite view ports of the Tekla''s cockpit Oliver spent much of his time watching ship traffic. logging arrivals, departures and transponder data. The ICC was privileged to access all this information via the stations systems, as per the concord agreement, but now that everyone knew the ICC were operating aboard the station it reasoned there would be workarounds to bypass their inspections. This came as no surprise. Indeed, it was anticipated. From his vantage point, Oliver was well situated to note any customs irregularities or suspected smuggling activity. Ostensibly those were his reasons to be stowed away, such as he was, aboard a parked vessel.


    According to the Concord Agreement, no artificial persons, androids, or other forms of synthetics owned or employed by the ICC, Weyland Yutani, or the Colonial Marshals Bureau were permitted on the station. He was aware that technically, this buoy might be thought of as part of the station, and thus did nothing to attract attention to himself. All his communications with agent Roodt went through an encrypted tight beam signal aimed at a receiver dish placed over her porthole window. By design the signal was difficult to detect. The odds anyone would isolate it or make sense of it within so much com chatter from the station and dozens of other craft was highly unlikely.


    Oliver did not think of himself as property, nor as an employee. Yes he was programmed to serve the company, but he believed he did so out of his own free will. Whether or not that was strictly the truth was something of a mystery to him, the same way he imagined free will was to human beings. However, being useful in the most basic sense was not enough. That was the role of a machine, not a person.


    Satisfaction and fulfillment, the way human beings spoke of meaning in life, required that he be free to pursue challenges and make use of all his faculties. Otherwise this assignment would not prove interesting. After all, the shuttles own AI was capable of collecting and analyzing much of the same information he was gathering. The difference was interpretation, experience, and most importantly, motivation.


    As it was no secret the ICC was owned and operated by Weyland Yutani it was widely speculated it would be smart business for the company to use the ICC to collect information. Oliver''s presence here would certainly back that up, but not for reasons so mundane as customs irregularities. He was here investigating a lead on the company''s most important interest. Xenomorphs.


    After the loss of Hadley''s Hope, the need for a total cover up on their existence was essential to maintain a monopoly on research. But for how much longer? Even if the investigation into LV-426 turned up no evidence of those creatures or wrongdoing by the company, it was only a matter of time before another corporation or government encountered the species and/or another derelict spacecraft. When that day came, the costs spent on a cover up now would seem very small indeed compared to a full blown exobiological arms race.


    Oliver sometimes played out scenarios in his head. Variations on a distinct set of possibilities involving Xenomorph experimentation and research. All would be nightmares in a human mind. Fortunately or not he had plenty of time for such musings. Though it was true he had no emotional stake in the success of the company, he did feel obliged to keep its secrets and help them achieve their goals. Not because it was the decent or humane thing to do, it was simply in his nature to see things through.


    He was aware this set of priorities set him apart from other synthetics. His was a different breed created especially for this role, uninhibited by general notions of ethics and morality. Conversely, Agent Roodt began her career with a conscience. Her motives were less career-focused, less ambitious, and less obsessed with advancing herself and the agenda of Weyland Yutani as other agents typically were.


    Oliver''s first impression of Shella was that she came off as a roughneck and a loner more than an officer. Curiously she was not yet briefed on the Xenomorph whereas the others had been. Stranger still she seemed put off by him, and not in the general way people were sometimes prejudiced against androids. It was as if she sensed how dangerous he really was. Ludicrous as that seemed it amused him.


    Before long he was subtly toying with her uneasiness, observing her reactions, making notes about her demeanor and remarks in his reports. Just in case it ever became a problem. Oliver was not above playing mind games. Nevertheless, it was not his place to question the judgment of The Company. They did not make decisions lightly. Perhaps she would succeed. If not, there would be others. The company spared no expense tying up loose ends.


    _ _ _


    Shella moved away from her quarters, walking briskly through the block of rooms setup for ICC personnel and Colonial Marshals. This area of the station was a few levels above the space port along one corner of the stations three massive towers. Everything here was recently remodeled and refurbished with new furniture and additional amenities. Despite these hasty renovations, no amount of interior decorating could cover up the age and dilapidated nature of the rest of the station.


    Air quality was decent, but borderline marginal on occasion with strange scents of machinery oil, faintly burning electrical parts or cooking wafting out from deep within the duct work. Water quality was tolerable in general, but few trusted the faucets for much besides a shower or watering plants. Within their communal living area was a gym, a lounge and a cafeteria large enough for everyone to share a meal together. So far that had only happened twice. Once for dinner shortly after everyone had moved in, and again the morning after the recent attacks against her colleagues.


    Since then things remained tense. Requests for additional security, especially by way of a larger unit of Colonial Marshals, were denied. These decisions were based on the reasoning that additional marshals would likely prompt a stronger response of unrest. Instead, some small measures were implemented to help them sleep at night.


    At the end of the corridor at the main entrance to the lobby was a new security gate key-coded to their ID badges. Beside it, leaning back in a chair was an off duty Marshal. Ever since the attacks they volunteered to put a man by the entrance on a regular rotation for a few hours at a time. It cut into their sleep and relaxation hours, but the gesture went highly appreciated by all.


    Short and portly, of Puerto Rican descent, Marshal Miguel Morales had a face only a mother could love. He was also one of the old timers. Talk among her peers hinted that Miguel was passed over for chief more than once. Something about a past misdeed never officially put into his record.


    As Shella approached, Miguel reacted with his standard grin.


    ¡°Hey agent lady!¡± He teased in a hoarse voice starting off with his usual banter.


    Normally such a borderline disrespectful tone would not go over well with an agent, but Shella was anything but formal. ¡°Hey Miguel,¡± She answered.


    ¡°You hear that announcement?¡± He asked gesturing to the speakers placed in most rooms and corridors.


    ¡°Everyone on the entire fucking station heard it,¡± She replied in annoyance dripping with sarcasm.


    ¡°That''s a J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng ship, strange-looking,¡± he said jerking his chin towards a trio of monitors mounted on one wall of the lobby. There she glimpsed what Oliver had named the USCS Kowloon docking with an umbilical. Her eyes narrowed as she frowned at the ship, something Miguel did not fail to notice. ¡°Should we be worried?¡± He queried in a tone suggesting he''d already answered that question for himself.


    ¡°I don''t know,¡± she answered honestly. ¡°But I wouldn''t imagine its anything to be happy about.¡±


    ¡°I''ve dealt with CSC naval commandos before,¡± Miguel commented sourly. ¡°They''re little better than pirates.¡±


    Shella had heard the same. Each warship in their ''security fleet'' served one of the founding corporations of the CSC. Much like privateers of old, they were financed to escort their most valuable cargo haulers in a defensive role or actively hunt pirates to minimize and recover losses on the offensive. Such a loosely knit navy led by mercenary captains was bound to be disorganized, undisciplined and trigger happy. Several standoffs with ICC Coast Guard Cutters and Colonial Marshal Frigates, which were typically far better armed, did not lend towards a friendly relationship.


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    ¡°Why do you mention commandos? We don''t know what sort of crew that ship has?¡± she commented, playing the part of an optimist.


    Miguel scoffed. ¡°If its a Jingti-Long ship it has commandos on board. Those assholes are in the arms development business. Brandishing their weapons is what they do best.¡±


    ¡°I thought that''s what you did best?¡± Shella stated making light of it. ¡°That set of clubs you dropped on me hurt a great deal.¡±


    Miguel laughed. ¡°You''ll get another chance to win your money back, agent lady!¡±


    Shella smirked. The twice-weekly poker game was one of the few social activities she participated in. Her mentor Kgosi, a bounty hunter, taught her the value of the game beyond just playing cards. ¡°Where''s the chief?¡±


    ¡°He hasn''t come through yet. I expect he is still down at headquarters.¡±


    ¡°Hey, you got anything bigger than that handgun?¡± Shella asked gesturing to his sidearm.


    Miguel raised his brows. ¡°I''ve got a shotgun back in my room. You think I''m gonna need it?¡±


    ¡°Maybe just as a precaution. If you know anyone else here who is armed, be ready to wake em up. I''m gonna go down and talk to the chief. We may decide to sound the general alarm.¡±


    Miguel nodded, ¡°Yeah ok, no problem.¡±


    Shella had no intention of sounding the general alarm or ordering an evacuation unless it was absolutely necessary, but it didn''t hurt to be prepared and give the impression that she cared.


    _ _ _


    Stepping through the security gate into the stations interior, Shella noticed fresh spray paint on the walls. GO HOME PIGS! Nearby, a small group of local teenagers looked towards her whispering and chuckling. Perhaps the culprits. Perhaps not. There were cameras in the corridor of course. If Miguel wished too he could rush out and catch the vandals in the act, but what was the point? The Marshals weren''t here to arrest the locals for petty crimes. At least today it was just graffiti.


    Shella kept walking smoothly and swiftly in athletic running shoes, hands in the pockets of her jacket, eyes always moving while being carefully casual about it. To an observer she would not appear worried or on edge, just someone who was confident and purposeful about what she was doing.


    Within the ICC there were two sorts of agents. Those who went by the book and those who did a little extra on the side. With the android on the shuttle and the compact datapad strapped on her left forearm Shella knew she was the later. From a fish-eye camera lens and microphones fitted into the datapad, Oliver observed much of her surroundings and heard everything. He could speak with her via a wireless earbud, a speaker, or text on the screen.


    Shella didn''t imagine working for The Company when she joined the ICC. Like many idealistic new recruits, she believed the ICC was about enforcing laws and regulations keeping everyone safe. Learning the hard way what went on behind that pretense put her in an impossible position. After what happened they had her in their back pocket. At forst, Shella found that difficult to live with.


    There weren''t as many agents like her as people suspected, but there were enough to create a stigma about it. Shella grew accustomed to the expectation that some of her colleagues would never fully trust her. The fact she never had a choice provided little comfort. First and foremost she was a survivor. She would do what she had to do. One way or another, The Company always got what it wanted. In the grand scheme what difference did it make if they used her instead of someone else? Accepting that reality made the work easier to cope with, so long as she knew there would eventually be an end to it.


    Ashkelon Station was supposed to be her last assignment. After this, The Company agreed to accept her resignation and facilitate her relocation anywhere she wanted to go. Shella hoped it would be a short assignment. Most of her postings lasted for six months to a year. Already she had a bad feeling about this one, but failing in her efforts to please The Company was not an option.


    Corridors in this particular section of the station were a bit cleaner than the rest, but that wasn''t saying much. The deck plates were covered with a textured layer of rubberized tiles about a half inch thick designed to provide good traction and contain spills. These tiles were made to be unscrewed from the deck plates for easy replacement when they were damaged. However in many corridors, sections of these tiles were damaged or plain missing. Sometimes for decades. When this happened the deck plates beneath quickly blackened, slippery with grime. Cleaning crews came through the corridors once or month or so pushing wheeled steam cleaners. Interspersed between sections of tiles every thirty yards or so were access hatches for engineering crawlspaces, or panels to access valves or wiring beneath the deck plates.


    Pipes and conduits along the walls were similarly grimy. Originally most pipes in the civilian living areas were covered with protective layers of insulation. Different pipes were scalding hot, others icy cold. Age and damage had stripped the insulation away in many areas. Few spots on the walls or door frames of these corridors were smooth or flat enough for posters or other signage. Even so, people improvised, advertising local businesses and services however they could. Especially when these services were offered illegally from within their own quarters.


    Lighting was generally poor throughout the station. Only about three fourths of the existing lighting panels were still functional. Some at ground level, others at eye level. Everywhere there were heavy shadows, rubbish and debris. At times Ashkelon station reminded her of the foul and filthy urban cities of Earth, though that was difficult to achieve anywhere else in the galaxy. Centuries of pollution and desperation were not easily duplicated.


    Within a short distance from their block of quarters was a small plaza, still roughly half full of people. Many residents of Ashkelon Station didn''t keep to an earth clock, yet the lengthy days and nights of GL-382 were no good way to keep time either. Those willing to live by whatever shitty schedule suited their employer could sometimes earn a higher wage while most people slept. Some embraced any opportunity they could get. Others resented the fact they sacrificed more than others in order to earn a living.


    As she had already spent close to a decade moving around the far reaches of the human sphere, Shella believed there was one thing in common with backwater worlds, moons and remote space stations. A sense of conflict and doubt about identity over an underlying feeling of loss. No matter how far people were willing to travel for the hope of a better life, they couldn''t forget where they came from. Either for good or ill.


    Die hard Earth-born, steadfastly loyal to their governments, religions and history were at odds with fringers who believed none of that mattered. As new generations grew up far from Sol, and others outlived their typical life spans through the miracle of cryosleep, old notions of what they stood for lost meaning. What good was a distant government you could not vote for? What was the point serving a corporation who would always own you? Which standards of justice and propriety should hold firm where no one had gone before?


    Usually it was the loners who cracked first. Vagabonds and dregs, the lost and disenchanted. Sometimes they were dreamers. A good portion were roughnecks. The majority were hard cases. Out here at the edge of civilization no one was an island. People needed each other in some way or another, regardless of creed, birthplace or profession. It was the same everywhere she went.


    Shella could recognize the tired, downcast expressions of those unhappy souls. Many of them moved about restlessly like zombies, or loitered in random areas of the station for seemingly no reason. Some were half-mad, muttering and talking to themselves or the ghosts of their past. It was hard to tell. Others were as desperate as they were on edge, scraping by as beggars or lashing out like thugs. Shella noted Ashkelon Station had a higher concentration of these types than other space stations. Even so, for the most part, everyone ignored them.


    Each new place had its own caste of outcasts. Here on Ashkelon Station the most dangerous group were the Triad. The ICC already suspected most of the smuggling and illegal black market trade here went through them. It was her primary task to verify those suspicions without an incident. Easier said than done.


    In the last three weeks she hadn''t made much progress but she was also in no rush. Gathering intelligence about such a dangerous group was no easy thing. She started with roaming the station, learning the layout, scouting areas controlled by the Triad. Along the way she made an effort to source informants and witnesses. After all the ICC did not pass judgment independently. Each case or arrest had to pass justification under the laws and guidelines of the Colonial Administration.


    First hand surveillance reports were not always enough. Whenever possible it helped to have secondary testimony and physical evidence of wrongdoing. All she needed was something solid the ICC could use to start a case against them. The trouble was the Triad had a nasty reputation for executing snitches and narcs. Even Ashkelon Station Security was wary of speaking out against them.


    The only promising informant she had was a one-armed man named Jung who sold magazines and cigarettes out of a bookstall. Once she noticed a fading Triad tattoo beneath his collar she made an effort to get friendly with him and strike up conversation. It turned out he was once one of their members, decades ago during his youth. Shella also got impression that he might be willing to sell information.


    As rushed as she was to get down to space dock and speak to the chief, she moved through the plaza towards Jung''s bookstall anyway to have a quick word. Shella could always tell when someone was invested in where they lived or just themselves. That was the first step evaluating how to wrangle cooperation from a complete stranger. Jung had no kin or family left to worry about. His entire livelihood and savings went into his bookstall. Mostly he was keen to hear stories about earth and professed a life-long desire to see the original cradle of civilization.


    Though she had revealed herself as an ICC agent fairly soon after they met, she had not offered to pay for information or arrange passage to earth just yet. First she had to authorize such arrangements with The Company and be as certain as she could be that he would accept her terms. So far as she could tell, Jung was no fool. He was also paranoid, often remarking to her that the Triad had eyes and ears everywhere.


    More than once he pointed out lookouts and tails following her through the crowd. She had already expected that the Triad was keeping tabs on her whereabouts and that of her colleagues since their arrival. Jung also confirmed her suspicions that they were behind the attacks on her people. He explained they were just sending a message. They just want to make a point that you are unwelcome and vulnerable. They''ll use angry locals to strike at you at random, but that is by no means the worst they can do. If they wanted you all dead, they have the ways and means in half a dozen different ways, he warned her.


    And yet today, it was not the Triad she was worried about as she approached the bookstall. Jung was in his late forties, half-blooded Chinese but otherwise a mutt of indeterminate origin. His face was broad and handsome with a heavy square chin and calm dark eyes. He always smiled at his customers, chatting with equal parts wit and good humor. With her it was no different.


    ¡°You look like shit,¡± Jung stated frankly. ¡°Lucky for you I''ve got what you need!¡± He laughed sharply, reaching to put a tiny cup in his old espresso machine. Espresso''s were his personal vice, but he was happy to offer them to his customers on a whim.


    Shella let him work the levers and start the process of burbling and steaming as she picked through the magazines. ¡°I just stopped by for a quick word. Have you seen J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng warships dock here before?¡±


    Jung nodded, ¡°At least a few times a year. They have research labs in the upper half of one tower, same as Technion Interstellar.¡±


    ¡°Are they dangerous? Do they keep the peace and respect the rule of law?¡±


    Jung snorted, ¡°Which laws would those be?¡±


    ¡°The ICSC have laws,¡± Shella pointed out. ¡°You do have criminals working in forced labor camps. Their must be reasons to send them there.¡±


    Jung scoffed, ¡°Those courts only apply to civilians, aka wretches like me. Corporate employees, mercenaries and bosses go through a different legal system. Internal, secretive, no public disclosure. You sign away your rights to personal legal representation when you take a job with corporations tied with the CSC.¡±


    Her briefings on J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng & Technion Interstellar had said as much. Suddenly Oliver''s voice was in her ear, soft as a whisper. It would be good to know if he has any friends working for J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng? Shella repeated the question in her own voice as Jung handed her the black espresso.


    ¡°I have a few friends that work for JL,¡± he answered. ¡°Not execs, but they know a thing or two about what goes on in the labs.¡±


    As much as she expected Weyland Yutani would want to hear those details, Shella opted to start with a simpler line of inquiry, ¡°I''d appreciate it if you could ask them what this new ship is all about? Whenever you get a chance.¡± Shella said sipping the espresso. It was deliciously strong. She thought about getting one of these in her quarters.


    Jung nodded, "No problem.¡±


    Reluctantly, Shella handed back the espresso and grabbed a new issue of Universal Geographic, discretely laying a pair of one hundred dollar bills across the counter, ¡°Keep the change. We''ll talk again soon.¡±


    She made a habit to keep up with the small bribes fairly regularly. The idea was to establish trust and get them comfortable taking the money. Before long they would start to get a taste for it and find reasons to ask for more. Once they were on the hook it was easier to up the ante later. There were four lifts and two stairwells leading downward to the space port. She picked one at random, never using the same route twice.


    _ _ _


    Exiting a lift unto the space port level, Shella found the locals restless, gathering beneath the news broadcast monitors all showing live footage of the USCS Kowloon from various external cameras around the station.


    That''s odd, Shella thought to herself. Surely Executor and the station administrator had the authority to deny media coverage of a military vessel, if they wanted too. What''s more, she noted the vessel was docking at the space port instead of on the tower reserved for J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng. They didn''t have to use the civilian port at all she realized. They could avoid all this attention, at least to some degree. They are doing this on purpose, making a show of it. She wasn''t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.


    Wasting no more time Shella walked straight for for the Colonial Marshals Bureau, which was in sight of the public offices for the ICC on the space port level. The bureau on Ashkelon Station was repurposed from a rundown shop front. The sign above the doors bore the words COLONIAL MARSHALS beside a golden eight pointed star in bold red font above the same in simplified Japanese kanji. Colonial marshals are a federally mandated security force was stated in the lower right hand corner in smaller font.


    A single Marshal stood guard beside the doors with a metal detector wand, dressed in their standard uniform. A badge pinned to the left breast of his coat was the same golden eight pointed star on the sign above. Atop his head was a plain black cap with MARSHAL stitched in bolt white font across the brow.


    They shared a nod as she stepped past him into a brightly lit cramped lobby with two rows of chairs for anyone waiting to be received. She never saw more than half a dozen people in here at any one time, most of them shy and nervous, covering their faces with hoods, sunglasses or hats.


    The duty officer behind bullet proof glass at the other end of the lobby was arguing with someone through a two-way speaker about identification. She looked up as Shella approached and buzzed her through the adjoining door. Moving down a short hall Shella turned left into the Marshal''s offices. Four desks were arranged there, only two were usually occupied by whomever was on duty for the night shift. Past those desks were two more doors, one for an interview/conference room and another for the chiefs office. Neither had windows. Nevertheless Shella heard the chiefs deep bellicose voice through his office door at a distance of a few paces, ¡°...en the armory! Distribute vests and shotguns!¡±


    Shella paused respectfully by the door until the chief dismissed his men. She stepped aside as they exited, both men rushing past without a word.


    ¡°Chief?¡± She asked stepping into the threshold before he waved her inside.


    ¡°I''m sure you noticed the warship docking a few minutes ago?¡± he said sternly, towering over her even from behind his desk.


    ¡°Of course,¡± Shella stated.


    The chief leveled a measured gaze at her, as if daring her to defy him as he spoke, ¡°We should sound the general alarm.¡±


    ¡°The thought crossed my mind, but with all due respect that would be a mistake. We don''t want to send the wrong message,¡± From the corner of her eye Shella noticed two whiskey glasses sitting on a side table. They looked used with fresh fingerprints. Curious. She thought. John was normally such a hard ass. He was not known to share drinks in his office, even with his own people. So who was he drinking with?


    John glared at her. Despite the fact they were more or less of equal rank, John loathed company stooges. Fortunately he was too dignified and professional to use that term to her face. ¡°Do you even care about your people?¡± he asked bluntly.


    ¡°John!¡± Shella stated in a louder tone of voice. ¡°It''s not that simple. If we overreact, if we evacuate, this whole thing goes to shit. We''ll loose the respect of the people here. Think about what we are trying to accomplish.¡±


    John did not take kindly to her familiarity with his first name. The tightening of his lips and brow told her he was on the verge of loosing his cool. His wrath was a force to behold, but Shella didn''t scare easy.


    ¡°It''s my call!¡± he stated through clenched teeth. ¡°File a grievance, or whatever else it is that you do, but get the fuck out of my bureau.¡±


    Shella was about to respond with some venom of her own when one of the Marshals ran towards the office, shotgun in hand, a bulletproof vest hanging over his shoulders.


    ¡°Sir!¡± The commando''s are here!¡±


    As John grabbed for the big revolver and gun belt in his top drawer Shella turned away and walked quickly back towards the lobby reaching beneath her jacket for her own sidearm. An 88 Mod 4 combat pistol manufactured by The Company made completely of nano-bound hard impact plastic and other synthetic materials.


    As she moved into the lobby, her mind raced. It made no sense for Jingti Long to march commandos into the space port unless they were on leave. The duty officer and the other two Marshals were all standing behind the front doors now holding shotguns and buckling on vests. There was no sign of the people within who were waiting patiently in chairs just a few minutes ago. I hope I''m not wrong about this. Shella thought to herself. If the chief is right I''ll never get a word in against him ever again.


    The duty officer turned towards Shella. She was Spanish, large of build and heavyset with a short cropped butch cut. Her name was Rosa, ¡°You want a vest?¡± she asked. Shella shook her head.


    The monitors for the security cameras outside the door panned towards the group of J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng commando''s marching into the space port nearby. Shella counted thirteen of them, all Chinese, all carrying AK-4047 assault rifles except for their commander, a woman. The crowds within the spaceport parted before them in waves. For several tense moments, it was uncle qtar where they were headed.


    ¡°They''re not wearing any body armor!¡± Shella heard herself say out loud, looking carefully at their uniforms, stripped plain without any special equipment.


    ¡°So what? We''re still outnumbered two-to-one,¡± another marshal named Mitch commented, his hands clasped around the fore end, and shoulder stock, of the pump action so tightly they were white.


    Suddenly the Chief was behind them, heavy hand-cannon in hand. Shella noted that his big thumb was perched on the hammer spur ready to cock it back into action. He ignored her, speaking directly to the other Marshals.


    ¡°If they raise a weapon at us, open fire and keep firing. Shoot to kill!¡±


    Shella swallowed. There was no point arguing. Stay calm, Olivers voice cautioned in her ear. If it looks like a fight, use the service exit out the back. Do not engage!


    Shella reached up deftly with her left hand plucking the earbud out of her ear. The gesture and the device alike were so small it was nearly impossible to notice. Fuck you Oliver! She thought to herself clenching her jaw. This was the moment of truth. If she turned and fled the Marshals would loose all respect for her. The android didn''t factor in the fact that she depended on these people for backup.


    Now only a few yards away, the commando''s kept walking briskly, right past the Bureau. For another minute Shella was worried they were heading for the ICC offices. Still they kept moving. Suddenly there were sighs and exhales of relief. The danger, it seemed, had passed.


    Shella turned to face the chief. His expression did not look best pleased, but there was also obvious relief. She did not believe him to be a petty man, but she also knew better than to expect an apology.


    ¡°Ok lets stay sharp!¡± John grunted holstering his revolver. ¡°We don''t know how many other commando''s might be on that ship. Rosa!¡±


    ¡°Yes sir?¡±


    ¡°Get on the comm with Miguel. Warn him about these commando''s and see too it that he wakes anyone up who is armed in case they have company.¡±


    ¡°Yes sir!¡± she obliged, but Shella reached out to touch her arm. ¡°I already warned Miguel on my way out. He knows what to do.¡±


    John finally looked her in the eye. ¡°Thanks,¡± is all he said. ¡°You should probably go talk to your people. If they want to shelter in here at The Bureau or head back to their quarters, that''s your call.¡±


    Shella nodded and re holstered her own automatic. The other Marshals took a moment to glance at her smiling or nodding with thanks. She had stood with them and held her ground. For whatever that was worth, she was one of them.


    _ _ _


    Happy? Oliver asked as she placed the earbud back into her ear walking towards the ICC offices.


    ¡°Go fuck yourself,¡± Shella answered in a low voice. ¡°I don''t take orders from you.¡±


    Perhaps not, but there''s something you should know. I just accessed recent security footage from the Bureau. It seems the Chief saw fit to have a private meeting with the head of Station Security, Max Shmith, without your knowledge. He even had him let inside via the back entrance.


    ¡°Mother fucker!¡± she muttered. ¡°So that''s who he was sharing a drink with inside his office, after hours. He must have known I was in my quarters at the time. That''s a deliberate breach of regulations!¡±


    Indeed. I will be sure to make note of this in my report.


    ¡°Hold off on that,¡± Shella cautioned. ¡°Isn''t it more important to know what they were discussing first?¡±


    Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting? Oliver asked teasingly.


    ¡°Perhaps, but planting listening devices inside The Bureau would be an even worse breach of regulations than what he did. I''ll look for another way.¡±

 Chapter 6

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/22/2183</u>


    An authentic punk leather jacket is not easy to come by! Keren thought ruefully as she tossed her old garments into a waste bin. Sheren wore a cheap baseball cap with a small stuffed panda sitting atop the brim, a blouse covered in a bamboo print, a green skirt and bamboo cross-stitched platform sandals. Keren wore black leggings, red knee-high boots, a red t-shirt and a silken headscarf embroidered with a red Chinese dragon wrapped around her hair and shoulders. None of their new clothes were high quality or nicely made. Flimsy, mass-produced tourist trash was all they could afford anyway.


    Looking like teenagers with cheap taste, the pair approached a small open plaza. On the far side, surrounded by a low wall with vertical, angling beams was the shuttle port. There were two gaps in the wall. One marked for arrivals and one for departures, though no one actually seemed to care which one they used. Plexiglas panels were riveted to the beams up to the ceiling for several meters as it angled from the perimeter of the stations hull higher into the shadows above the great expanse of the market. Many of these panels were busted out and missing. Some of those that remained were streaked with graffiti and scattered over with cheap synthetic paper fliers or posters.


    Sounds of electronic slot machines bleeped, jangled and dinged from the open door of a gambling parlor interspersed with murmured coughs and curses of its patrons. Here on the fringes of the street market the crowd was a mix of the usual station population and the more colorful shop keepers and traditionalists who resided in the market. This particular area of the station was not claimed nor protected by the Red Triad, thus allowing other sorts of scum, hustlers, thugs and pickpockets to linger and loiter among the crowds.


    At first glance for Keren, it all seemed like business as usual. Shuttles departed from this port every couple hours. Business on Ashkelon station carried on around the clock, though the later hours had rather less shuttle traffic and less attentive staff. According to the light board displaying an arrivals/departure schedule they had time to spare to catch the last shuttle for the day which launched close to midnight.


    Spread around the plaza were four old, beat up shuttle ticket kiosks. Keren led them towards one closest to a coffee bar. Using the Kiosk was a risk of course. It required whoever purchased the ticket to insert their ID card. Keren wasn''t sure if these machines were connected to Executor or not. There was no way of knowing what would happen if they tried to use it.


    Sheren purchased two coffees as Keren took a long careful look inside the shuttle port from across the plaza. She had a clear enough view through the gaps in the wall to get a sense of how many people were inside. Most orbital shuttles carried about fifty metric tons of cargo and fifty or so passengers. Rows of plastic seats outside the boarding gate could accommodate at least twice that number, yet Keren estimated there were barely two dozen waiting to board the shuttle at this time. The boarding gate wasn''t much of an actual barrier. The real gate was the massive double air lock separating the interior of the station from the shuttle bay.


    Two station security officers stood beside the boarding gate checking identification while other staff were busy taking tickets, baggage, and helping the elderly or those with disabilities. None of them looked particularly on edge or nervous. More predictably, they appeared bored and tired.


    Sheren followed Keren''s gaze as she handed her a coffee, ¡°Look they''re checking ID''s, we''ll never make it,¡± Sheren sighed.


    ¡°You''ll make it,¡± Keren said reassuringly, ¡°You just need a distraction.¡± she added with a fierce look in her eye.


    Sheren glared at her older sister, ¡°No! You''re not weaseling out on me! We promised to stick together!¡±


    Keren let out a frustrated breath. She had made that promise. Sheren refused to share what she read from Guo''s letter otherwise. ¡°We don''t even know if we can purchase tickets yet. Boarding the shuttle may be the least of our problems.¡±


    Sheren made a face.


    ¡°I can get you on that shuttle,¡± a strangers voice said matter-of-factly.


    Both sisters turned towards a man in his late twenties standing a few feet away. Short and plain looking he was clean shaven with a buzzed haircut, baggy pants, white sneakers and an over sized hoodie.


    He was sitting at the coffee bar a few moments ago, Keren realized. She was about to tell him to mind his own business when Sheren spoke up.


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Easy,¡± he said taking one step closer, lowering his voice. ¡°I know the flight crew for the shuttle. They don''t board through the same gate. No ID checks, if you catch my drift.¡±


    Keren regarded him dubiously, but she also knew the shuttle ports were laxer than the space port about manifests and procedures. Some shuttle crews were rumored to ignore regulations for a price. Illegal goods or a few extra passengers could be smuggled on or off the station in exchange for bribes. So long as enough staff were cut in on the action it wasn''t so hard to get away with. For now. Eventually the ICC intended to keep officers posted at every shuttle port and open a second base of operations planet side. Yet so long as they had such limited staff, focusing on the space port was the best they could do.


    ¡°How much?¡± Sheren asked eagerly.


    ¡°How much you got?¡± The stranger asked softly, reaching into his hoodie to remove a pack of smokes. Cheap smokes Keren noted.


    Sheren looked up at her sister in dismay. There was no way they had enough.


    As they hesitated, the stranger eyeballed Sheren from the corner of his eye, looking her over up and down while also avoiding eye contact with her big sister. Keren didn''t like that.


    Politely, he gestured with the smokes, making an offering. He was relaxed and easy-going. No sudden moves. Friendly in tone of voice and casual in manner. Keren recognized his type; a hustler, practiced at feigned disinterest. Beyond that she couldn''t guess much about him. Was he carrying a weapon under that hoodie? He didn''t look particularly dangerous, but Keren was in no state of mind to let her guard down.


    ¡°We''ve got a couple hundred bucks in cash. Get us on board and I can get you more down on Temple.¡±


    The stranger regarded Keren with placid brown eyes showing no hint of reaction. His awkward silence and stillness made her uncomfortable.


    Sheren quickly grabbed one of his cigarettes as if it would keep him from walking away. Keren hated that. Father would never show weakness.


    The stranger seemed pleased with Sheren. He lit her smoke in a very calm, kindly, deliberate way as if he had all the time in the world. Keren felt her blood pressure rising. We don''t have time for this!


    ¡°Two hundred bucks is not the usual rate,¡± he stated dispassionately, tapping up a smoke for himself.


    ¡°Ok whatever!¡± Keren bitched starting to turn away. We''ll just take our chances with the kiosk, she thought.


    ¡°...but...¡± the stranger added as an afterthought, ¡°we can work something out if you don''t mind working off what you owe.¡±


    Keren felt her skin crawl imagining what he might have in mind. ¡°FUCK OFF!¡± she hissed.


    The stranger lit his cigarette pensively, ¡°It''s your call?¡± He shrugged. ¡°I can introduce you to some nice people. There''s plenty of work down there for a motivated pair of hands. Bars, clubs, shops, salons, factories, etc. Perfectly legal work.¡±


    Keren scoffed inwardly. Plenty of work my ass! Temple was a wealthy world to be sure, yet little enough of that prosperity belonged to its people. Every parcel of land and all its resources were claimed by large corporations back in the CSC and even the core systems. Temple was known best for ranching, but also hard labor, dangerous mining or mindless factory work. Most of those jobs went to off-world contractors brought in by the companies. Either that  prison labor, which was often preferable being the cheapest sort of labor around.


    What remained to spread around was too scarce to employ the locals, many of whom were forced to provide for an entire extended family. It wasn''t always that way though. The first colonists on Temple had many more rights to claim whatever they found. Early settlers prospered, prospecting for the corporations, or else, starting new business of their own. For a time GL382, as it was originally labeled, was the best new hope in the outer rim. A rare world with a breathable atmosphere capable of supporting life with minimal terraforming.


    Keren remembered learning about the history of Ashkelon Station and its final construction from school lessons and her oldest relatives. Back then it symbolized a bright future for the fledgling Independent Core Systems Colonies and Temple''s colonists. A new gateway for commerce and exploration that would bring the outer rim into the forefront of interstellar economics. Old posters showed the colonists holding hands, reaching for the stars, with the builders of Ashkelon Station reaching down and smiling benevolently.


    Such was not to be. Despite all the promise and potential, Ashkelon Station failed to establish itself as the most popular port of call. Other stations, larger and grander, such as Sevastopol and Anchorpoint, took away those honors despite the fact they were not the first. Most importantly they were not governed by the CSC, which was infamously destabilized by inter-corporate rivalries, mismanagement, corruption and lack of reliable funding.


    Following the wane of Ashkelon Station, competition for the resources of GL382 as a means to recoup costly investments was fierce. Local landowners and settlements were bought out one by one. A few generations later, descendants of the original settlers owned little indeed of their original birthright. Were it otherwise, Keren, her sister, and so many others would likely not be on Ashkelon Station in the first place. Yet now, as ever, it seemed like the only place they could go offering higher wages. Keren had no patience with this creep and his false promises. Sheren however was clearly lured in.


    ¡°I''m a waitress,¡± Sheren chirped.


    ¡°Ok great,¡± he smiled. It was not a handsome smile. ¡°That''s easy to arrange.¡±


    ¡°How do you know we''re not criminals?¡± Keren heard herself ask out of curiosity. ¡°Maybe we want to keep a low profile?¡±


    ¡°No problem," he answered with barely a pause. ¡°Whatever you are comfortable with.¡±


    ¡°We''ll do it!¡± Sheren said happily as if his proposal were the answer to all their prayers.


    Keren glared at her and pulled her aside. ¡°This is a bad idea!¡± she whispered hotly.


    ¡°So is using the kiosk!¡± Sheren replied smartly.


    Keren couldn''t deny that. There was risk either way. Much as she hated to admit it, this chance to get off the station as stowaways was the better bad idea. ¡°Promise me that you will run if things get weird.¡±


    ¡°We promised to stick together. If I run, you need to run too!¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± Keren said, as equally irritated as she was worried. When they turned around again the stranger was starting to walk away.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Sheren called out, stepping quickly to his side. ¡°We''re coming!¡±


    He nodded once, glancing over his shoulder a few times nonchalantly as he crossed the plaza towards a staff service door set into the wall beside the shuttle bay. There was a camera panning above it. However, its lens was cracked and of no use anymore. Beside the door was a security keypad and a small waste bin. He put out his smoke on the lid as he spoke again, ¡°If you want to come any further, I''ll need that two hundred bucks.¡±


    Begrudgingly Keren presented the bills in her hand, balling it into a fist as he reached for them.


    ¡°What''s your name?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Simon.¡±


    ¡°Ok Simon. Try anything, and I''ll be the first to punch your teeth down your throat. Got it?¡±


    Simon nodded. She placed the money in his hand. He slipped it into his pocket before swiping an ID card and swiftly tapping digits into the keypad. Neither of the sisters had a chance to glimpse what code he used.


    The service door opened into a short hallway before a security gate. The door shut immediately behind them as they entered. To their left was a small security officers control room. Keren felt her heartbeat race as an ICSC security officer sat before a bank of monitors overlooking the shuttle bay. A few were malfunctioning, showing only static, but there were enough left to show a clear view of the boarding gate and the interior of the shuttle bay.


    The officer sitting within was overweight, probably in his early forties with messy brown hair. The name badge on his chest said D. Randal. Beside a steaming mug of coffee snack wrappers littered his workstation. D. Randal lifted his eyes towards them through a bulletproof window.


    ¡°Hey Doug,¡± Simon said. ¡±I''ve got a couple new recruits here for training. Management wants me to make sure they come down on this next shuttle.¡±


    Doug frowned reaching for a datapad, ¡°I didn''t see anything about any extra passengers?¡± he said wiping crumbs off his face.


    ¡°They probably confused which day it was. No big deal. I''ll speak to Ron. Don''t worry, they''ll be closely supervised and strapped in tight. Just this once ok?¡±


    Doug paused, fingers touching the datapad but not lifting it up. Some unspoken message seemed to pass between them. Simon removed a candy bar from his pocket and held it up to the glass. ¡°Oh hey, this is your favorite right?¡±


    Doug leaned forward and slid open a drawer under the window. Simon placed the candy bar inside along with Keren''s two hundred dollars. Doug palmed the cash as he grabbed the candy bar, tearing at the wrapper with his teeth.


    Simon waited patiently as he took a large bite, chewing hungrily. Doug never raised his eyes further to get a better look at the new recruits. Perhaps he didn''t want too? Keren surmised. A moment later Doug buzzed open the security gate.


    ¡°Lets go!¡± Simon said leading them into a locker room, ¡°Change into these boots and flight suits. We don''t have much time.¡± He gestured to a rack of pale blue uniforms with the lettering TRAINEE stenciled across the back of the shoulders. ¡°You can bring your other clothes with you in a duffle bag.¡±


    Both sisters exchanged a glance. Simon stepped back and crossed his arms.


    ¡°A little privacy?¡± Keren suggested.


    ¡°No can do. I gotta watch to be sure you aren''t hiding anything you shouldn''t be. Unless you''d prefer a pat-down and a strip search instead?¡±


    ¡°Asshole!¡± Keren muttered, but did as she was bid.


    Simon circled around them as they undressed. Keren felt his eyes roaming over her. Get a good look creep, she thought.


    A few minutes later they were both booted up and zipped into the flight suits.


    ¡°Wait here a minute,¡± Simon said moving over to a comm terminal in the corner. About a minute passed as he had a hasty conversation with someone in hushed tones. In the meantime Keren looked around for anything she could use as a weapon.


    All the lockers were shut with anything useful locked inside, but she did spot a tool of some sort placed atop one of the lockers. She was tall enough to retrieve it easily. It was a Weinshelbaum K99 maintenance jack. Old and dinged up from decades of hard use, yet still fully functional. Sturdy and well made it carried enough heft to come in handy as a makeshift club. Keren realized Simon probably had no idea how well she could handle such tools. I''m not just some dumb bitch, she asserted to herself as she slipped the K99 into her duffle bag.


    Finished with his call Simon handed each of them hard hats. ¡°Put these on and follow me,¡± Simon said, leading them down another corridor. A few flight officers passed by chuckling to each other. Keren thought she heard them say something about Sheren but she couldn''t be certain. Men were always ogling over her younger sister.


    They reached a stairwell leading up to a control room overlooking the shuttle bay. Though small in size compared to space dock, the shuttle bay was still massive enough to dock two shuttles at the same time. One would unload and disembark to give the crew a break while the other took on cargo and passengers before it prepped for launch. Looking through view ports beside the stairwell Keren could see techs and dock workers swarming around the heavy craft, busy at their tasks. Part of her felt sad at the thought of leaving the station and the work that occupied so much of her time. I still don''t know who we are running from exactly! she realized angrily.


    Their shuttle being prepared for launch was an older design, roughly rectangular and blocky with heavy lift engines on each corner. Due to the constant heat and abuse of repeated atmospheric reentry; its hull was blackened and heavily pitted. The cockpit and passenger deck was placed high and above the upsweeping lower hull. Keren spotted a cute cartoon image of a robot boy with rockets for feet painted on the singular vertical stabilizer between the main engines. The name, ASTRO BOY, was painted on the nose cone. Beneath the control room was a small platform with an airlock to a crew gangway that led directly to another airlock behind the shuttles cockpit.


    ¡°This is where the flight crew will be boarding,¡± Simon said.


    ¡°Are you coming with us?¡± Sheren asked.


    ¡°No, but I''ll introduce you to Ron. You''ll be going down with him in the hold. Not up on the passenger deck.¡±


    Simon moved past the airlock to a vertical lift and gestured for them to enter. They took the lift back down to ground level where a larger double air lock was all that stood between them and the shuttle bay. Simon stood there and let them take a good look through the view ports. The shuttle loomed even larger from this perspective.


    ¡°Almost time to leave,¡± Simon said taking a glance at the launch counter beside the airlock which read T-Minus 20 Minutes. We are so close to escape! Keren thought. Simon turned away from the airlock and led them to an office door with the words LOADMASTER stamped on a placard.


    Inside was a big, rough-looking man leaning over a desk stacked with cargo manifests and shipping labels. His flight suit was orange instead of blue. It read LOADMASTER across the shoulders. His name tag said R. Jeffrey. Another man and a woman stood close by chatting with each other. However as soon as Simon entered they all turn towards them.


    ¡°Cutting it close this time Simon?¡± R. Jeffrey grunted, looking up as they entered. This must be Ronf, Keren surmised.


    ¡°You can make it work,¡± Simon stated.


    Ron gestured to a pair of seats before his desk, ¡°Take a seat ladies.¡±


    The sisters obliged, but Keren was careful to place her duffle bag close by her feet not fully zipped up. All she had to do was lean down and she would have the heavy multi tool in hand.


    Ron looked to be in his late thirties, a rough wiry beard growing from his cheeks and jaw. His eyes were cool blue and no-nonsense, piercing in the way he stared, especially towards Sheren who immediately shy''d away from his gaze,¡°I don''t have time to explain everything to you so I''ll keep it simple. If anyone besides us in this room speaks with you, don''t answer any questions. Also, just as important, don''t ask any questions. Keep your mouths shut and do exactly as we say at all times! Do you understand?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Sheren answered. Keren only nodded.


    ¡°Good. The standard fee for this trip is two thousand dollars. Each!¡±


    Sheren flinched. Keren did not react.


    ¡°Simon says you say your good for it once we land?¡± Ron continued, moving around the desk to lean back against it, crossing his arms as he loomed over them.


    ¡°We can work it off,¡± Sheren said. ¡°I''m a waitress.¡±


    Ron nodded, ¡°That''s fine. Just so you know, I collect my fee once we land regardless. Think of me as your kindly chauffeur.¡± He grinned casually. ¡°However the people who pay me, the same people you owe, won''t like troublemakers and they don''t tolerate liars. You would do well to remember that!¡±


    Keren wasn''t intimidated. Sure, they were looking to be stowaways, but they weren''t selling themselves into servitude. No matter what they were running from, they didn''t have to give up their rights and freedoms. If it came to it she could get everyone in this room in a lot of trouble. Keep grinning asshole! she thought to herself looking up at Ron defiantly.


    ¡°Don''t worry, you''ll be perfectly safe.¡± The women added offering a reassuring smile. At least ten years younger than Ron, she had slightly bloodshot eyes and a tight, hollow, pinched look to her cheeks that made her look older than she was. Drug Use? Keren guessed. Her name tag said A. Cowie. She introduced herself as Aida. There was a cheap perm to her carrot-colored hair which grossly matched her orange flight suit.


    The third man was the smallest, closest to Simons age and build. He wore glasses, kept a poorly trimmed goatee and a bad haircut with uneven bangs. His eyes were small and downcast, as if he was too shy or nervous to look at them. A small curl to his lips indicated he was amused or excited about something. His name tag said. E. Fisher. He introduced himself as Eli.


    ¡°So what''s next?¡± Keren asked eager to get to her feet again and get this over with.


    Ron focused on her for a long moment. Keren did not flinch away from his eyes.


    ¡°Ok lets go!¡± he stated finally


    As the group of them filed out of Ron''s office, Simon took his leave with little more than a nod of farewell to the others.


    Shuttle Launch in T-Minus 15 Minutes The voice of Shuttle Bay Control squawked over the loudspeakers. As they approached the massive double-air lock Ron slid his ID card through the reader and punched in his code. This time Keren was able to glimpse the code he used. Of course, so far as she knew, her own ID card should probably work to open these airlocks the same as those of the space port. Silent yellow flashing lights signaled the airlock was in use as the massive heavy doors opened before them with the deep thrum of heavy hydraulics.


    The air within the docking bay was quite a bit colder, sending the usual tingling goosebumps across Keren''s skin as they entered inside. Sheren noticeably shivered and bit her lip. All around Astro Boy, Shuttle bay techs rushed to retract hoses and cables from the shuttles service and equipment access ports; hopping on low-slung service carts with heavy magnetized wheels.


    Spouts of steam and vent gasses leaked from the shuttles engines and cooling ports as the flight crew started systems checks on board. All of this was nothing new to Keren, who spent as much time crawling in and around spacecraft than anywhere else. She could almost visualize which controls and buttons they were pushing as different parts of the shuttle, started moving, hissing or groaning. Keren wasn''t a pilot herself but she fancied she could manage it. Knowing exactly how all the parts and systems worked had to count for something in order to fly it properly.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Before them, the massive cargo bay doors and loading ramp for the shuttle''s lower deck beckoned. The thumping footfalls of a Caterpillar P-5000 Power Loader emerged from within the shuttles yawning cargo bay. The battered yellow machine stomped down the ramp, it''s operational warning light flashing above the protective steel rollover cage that surrounded the driver.


    ¡°That''s the last one!¡± the driver shouted towards Ron who raised a hand back in acknowledgment. As the loader moved away, Ron led the way up the ramp. Inside the cavernous cargo hold, many metric tons worth of goods, containers and crates were strapped down and stored as securely as possible. Ron quickly moved over to the final group of crates left by the loader placing a heavy cargo net over it. Eli helped him secure the load as Aida gestured to a group of jump seats on either side of the cargo door to Keren and her sister. ¡°Strap in girls, we''re almost ready to launch!¡±


    T-Minus 10 Minutes until shuttle launch. All personnel exit docking bay. Repeat. All personnel exit docking bay.


    Another voice crackled over the ships intercom, ¡°Loadmaster, why isn''t my cargo bay door closed?¡±


    Keren knew that would be the shuttle captain speaking.


    Cursing, Ron moved over to the intercom panel, ¡°On it captain! Standby.¡±


    Keren helped her sister into the seat harness, adjusting the straps for her small form and yanking them down tight after she secured the clasp.


    ¡°Ow!¡± Sheren grunted, punching her older sister in the arm. Keren ignored her and stowed away their duffel bags beneath the seats in a foot locker.


    Aida and Eli moved around the bay doing a quick double-check on the cargo. There was one particular group of containers for livestock, patterned with holes to let them breath that they seemed particularly fussy over. Keren could see them talking in low voices, but she couldn''t make out what they were saying over the hum and whine of the shuttles engines and other systems. Meanwhile, Ron was at the cargo bay door controls. They closed quite slowly with a shudder and a groan as the cargo ramp lifted a short distance further aft. Keren cringed at the sound. Astro Boy was an old ship. Hopefully squeaky hinges and old hydraulics were the worst of their worries.


    ¡°We''re gonna make it!¡± Sheren whispered with a grin reaching over to grab Keren''s hand. The gesture surprised Keren. It had been several years since Sheren last had the habit of doing that. Keren felt herself smile.


    ¡°Aww, so sweet!¡± Aida commented.


    T-Minus 5 Minutes until shuttle launch. Seal all airlocks and prepare shuttle bay for decompression. Warning, repeat. Seal all airlocks and prepare shuttle bay for decompression.


    ¡°Double check their harnesses!¡± Run grunted towards Aida and Eli as he moved towards the ships intercom again. ¡°Captain, cargo bay door is closed. Cargo is secure. We are go for launch down here.¡±


    ¡°Copy loadmaster. Confirmed we are go for launch. Next time, be quicker with your checks!¡± the captain added hoarsely.


    Keren watched Aida step towards her with annoyance. Keren was quite capable of fitting her own harness properly. But whatever, there was no point arguing. She was just relieved that they were about to get off this station.


    ¡°Lets see how snug we are shall we?¡± Aida stated pleasantly, reaching for her straps just as Eli did the same for Sheren. Keren watched him from the corner of her eye. He seemed to take his time tugging down on the straps across her chest causing Sheren to flinch and look away. Keren clenched her jaw angrily as Eli reached into his pocket, removing something tucked inside. A syringe?!


    ¡°NO!¡± Keren shouted just as Eli plunged the needle into the side of Sheren''s neck. She gasped and started to scream as Eli pressed his hand across her mouth.


    Instinctively, Keren raised her hand to block the syringe she knew was coming for her own neck. The needle punctured through her hand instead. Keren felt no pain, only rage and a surge of adrenaline. Aida cursed and tried to jump back as Keren kicked savagely at the side of Aida''s knee. Her heavy boot crunched against bone and sinew, sending her toppling over in agony.


    ¡°SHIT!¡± Ron stated as Aida writhed on the deck, tears squirting from her eyes shouting, ¡°YOU BITCH!¡±


    Keren released the clasp of her harness to free herself and pulled the syringe free from her hand in a squirt of blood; balling it into a fist to help contain the bleeding. Ron watched Keren with nervous eyes as she stared back at him stepping into a fighting stance. The man still had at least 50 lbs on her, but he wasn''t particularly brave. ¡°Eli!¡± He grunted, stepping slowly around to cut off her access to the rest of the cargo deck. From one of his pockets he removed a box-cutter. Eli took his hand off Sherens mouth and dropped the syringe, reaching down to pull a dagger from his boot.


    Sheren''s eyes were struggling to stay open and her efforts to scream had turned to a soft moan. Keren wasted no time stepping over to squirming Aida who tried to kick at her feebly with her other leg while she was dragging herself away, ¡°Stop it! Stay back!¡± She blubbered.


    ¡°FUCK YOU!¡± Keren hissed, grabbing her by her perm with her left hand stabbing the syringe through her right eye. Aida''s piercing scream echoed through the cargo deck as Keren pressed hard down on the plunger, jetting the drug directly into her brain. Aida''s scream whimpered into a gurgle as her body went limp.


    T-Minus One Minute for shuttle bay decompression.


    Ron and Eli rushed at her, converging from opposite directions. The smaller man was quicker with the deadlier weapon so she focused on him. Keren''s reach with her legs was longer than his arm so she sent a whirling fast spinning side kick up against the side of his head. The dagger never even came near here, and the weak fool had none of the training to anticipate or dodge her kick. Immediately he dropped, knocked senseless and sprawling, his eye glasses broken and shattered in the process.


    In the same moment, Ron bowled into her knocking all the air from her lungs in a whoof. Keren didn''t care about breathing, or even thinking. She only saw red. She only felt rage. Having successfully tackled her to the ground, Ron started slashing at her with his box cutter, trying to hold and pin her down with his other arm to get a clear cut at her eyes. Her face. Her neck. Pain ripped across her skin as the razor cut through her flight suit across her arms and shoulders.


    Keren sucked in a gasping breath. Big as he was, Ron overestimated his ability to overpower her. She sent elbows into his ribs, knees into his groin, knuckles and palm strikes into his face. The harder he struggled to hold her the harder she fought back. A contest of strength quickly faded into a contest of tenacity and stamina. The box cutter wasn''t an ideal weapon in a grapple. It wasn''t deadly enough to wound her easily and it kept him off balance and frustrated as they rolled and crawled across the deck. Keren managed to catch his arm momentarily in an arm lock and bit down into his hand with her teeth.


    ¡°OWWW!¡± He roared, shoving her away, slashing across her scalp with the box cutter as she rolled away from him. Still prone, Keren pulled her knee up and sent a lightning quick side-kick into his chest. He grunted with pain so she kicked him again, even harder in the same spot. This time she heard the crunch of cracking ribs.


    Blood matted down her hair and spread down her forehead as she rolled away again. Ron was groaning, unable to breath and catch his breath. Keren felt Eli''s unconscious form beside her. The dagger! Quick as a snake she snatched it from his hand, springing back up unto the balls of her feet.


    ¡°Ok wait! ugghhh... WAIT!¡± Ron grunted, holding up his hands as he slowly sat up on his knees, ¡°We can talk about this!"


    Keren had no interest in talking as she stared at him with the deadly stare of a killer, all the while ignoring the blood dripping into her eyes.


    Beneath her feet she felt the ships engines roaring. Any second now the docking bay would depressurize the exterior station bay doors would open. If she didn''t finish him off and strap in the force of the launch would bounce her off the hulls interior and probably kill her. She took a menacing step towards him.


    Ron lurched back and grasped for Sheren''s leg. NO! Keren screamed inwardly throwing herself towards him.


    ¡°STOP!¡± Ron gasped, holding the box cutter against Sheren''s throat.


    Keren paused mid-stride, still two steps too far away. Anguish and terror for the life of her little sister caused her to growl and grind her teeth, ¡°Your a dead man!¡± she spat.


    ¡°We can both walk away from this!¡± he argued desperately. ¡°Forget about the money! When we land you''re both free to go!¡±


    Keren wasn''t nearly so foolish as to believe that. But what choice did she have? Suddenly she felt hands grabbing around her ankle, pulling her off her feet. She landed hard as Eli threw himself on top of her grasping desperately for her hand with the dagger.


    ¡°You killed Aida!¡± he complained hatefully. Keren was at a serious disadvantage this time as Ron moved over to aid Eli, kicking at her head and her sides. She was grateful he was too hurt with his injured ribs to do much else. Keren stabbed the dagger into the side of Eli''s thigh with all her strength. Plunging it through muscle and flesh all the way to the hilt. His scream was the last thing she heard before the shuttle lurched as the main rocket engines fired, launching the cumbersome craft into open space with the force of several G''s.


    As the only man presently standing, Ron tumbled head over heals to crunch against the rear docking bay doors like a rag doll. Keren and Eli both slid across the deck violently but as the one on the bottom Keren had the chance to clutch to the deck. Grasping the steel under such high G-forces sent spikes of pain through her wrists and fingers. Yet she refused to let go.


    Eli lost his grip. Unable to match her strength he screamed once more tumbling through the air to collide with the roof, the walls, and the crates while the shuttle continuously banked and dived towards the planet below. His screams softened with each successive ricochet and impact. A fine mist of blood splattered across the interior of the cargo bay from so many of his bleeding wounds.


    After a minute the G-forces lessened as the shuttle leveled off streaking towards the planets atmosphere, pulled down by its own gravity. Keren crawled her way across the floor towards Sheren. Blinking through the pain and wiping away the blood around her eyes, Keren checked here little sisters pulse, relieved to feel she was still alive and merely unconscious. Gently she shook her shoulder and pinched her cheek, trying to wake her up. It was no use.


    ¡°Sorry sis,¡± Keren grimaced as she unbuckled Sheren''s harness and dragged her across the blood-streaked deck. As she suspected, one of the livestock crates was open and unoccupied, merely filled with straw. This is where you intended to hide us after you drugged us! Keren cursed. She laid Sheren down in the straw and moved back over to the ships intercom. Taking in a deep breath she did her best to imitate Aida''s voice as she started shouting.  ¡°CAPTAIN! RON''S GONE CRAZY! HE''S KILLING US! HE''S TRYING TO OPEN THE DOORS! GO BACK! GO BACK!¡±


    The response was immediate and breathless with surprise and disbelief, ¡°WHAT?!¡± Say again?! Say again dammit! What''s happening down there?!¡±


    Keren ignored the voices and moved quickly to the cargo bay door controls. Ron''s corpse was collapsed in a heap nearby. Broken, bleeding and deathly still. Any attempt to open these doors while the ship was flying through space would never work. The ships computer would override automatically. Yet the emergency manual override should still work.


    Keren retrieved her and Sheren''s duffle bags from the footlockers under their seats and removed the Weinshelbaum K99 maintenance jack. The bright red access cover for the emergency manual override was locked in place by sturdy tamper proof pins and seals. The K99 tool made short work of those. As soon as the cover flipped open, emergency red flashing lights and a piercing alarm sounded throughout the shuttle.


    ¡°DEAR GOD! Stop what you''re doing! We are returning to the station!¡± the captains panicked voice shouted once more from the ships intercom. Keren braced herself as the shuttle''s engines roared even louder, fighting against Temple''s gravity as the cumbersome craft banked away from the upper atmosphere. Keren had no doubt the captain would send members of the flight crew down here, probably armed. It''s exactly what she would do. As soon as the ships course steadied enough to move again Keren leaned down to put the K99 into one of Ron''s hands and returned to the livestock crate with both duffle bags, as well as a water bottle and a first aid kit.


    You''re next Simon, I''m coming for you! Was the last thought Keren had before she passed out in the straw next to Sheren.


    _ _ _


    Storen Bull approached the doorway to Reese Castle''s quarters purposefully, yet casually, carrying a tool bag in his right hand. Just another station tech going about his usual business. He''d already walked past the door twice, just to be sure no one was around watching the place. With all the drama and tragedy that struck the station within the last few hours, Storen had a hundred different things on his mind. This favor to Ze''ev would not normally be of priority in such times as these, but something he read in the official records of the USCSS Casimir could not be ignored. Now he lifted a ''borrowed'' station security badge to the electronic door lock. A light blinked as it beeped obediently, but did not click open. Storen frowned. I should have guessed! he grumbled inwardly. Strike one!


    Somehow, the electronic RFID lock had been bypassed. Yes the door sensor had detected the security code but it was disconnected from the lock mechanism itself. Something else was required to unlock the door. The question was what exactly? It was possible a second lock sensor had been installed (in addition to the first) which had not been programmed to open to a security badge. This would require an unregistered ID card to open the lock. Of course, Storen had no idea what this new RFID code might be?


    Towards that end, Storen removed a compact wireless RFID code-breaker from his inner jacket pocket. This device was designed to transmit several thousand RFID code variations in a matter of moments. Of course, it only transmitted at an extremely limited range so there was no chance of it opening every door in the corridor in the process.


    Storen activated the transmitter. A small LCD screen scrolled through codes in a blur, much faster than his eyes could keep track of. The door did not open, it merely beeped again as it randomly generated the existing RFID code all over again. Strike two! he muttered.


    Now it was time to get serious. The possibility remained that the door lock might still require a wireless RFID code of a more complex type than the standard door sensor normally used. High end safes and military-grade codes were easily beyond the capability of his handheld device however.


    The other possibility was that the lock was triggered by something else entirely? Sometimes going simple instead of complex was just as effective as a deterrent. There might be a hidden button or switch somewhere nearby? It could also be rigged to an audio input or a vibration pickup. Storen didn''t know Reese or Wade very well, but he doubted they were so cheesy as to rig their door lock to open at the words Open Sesame. In any event, he didn''t have time to waste figuring out such a puzzle. Reese and Wade were still at the hospital but he could not be sure for how long? He would have to try a more direct tactic.


    So far as he could tell the original door lock was still intact and that was a relatively simple design of a heavy duty electromagnetic solenoid operating a security bolt. All he had to do was feed power to that solenoid and it would open of its own accord. Storen unzipped the small duffle bag of tools hanging off his shoulder and moved to open the wiring access panel beside the door. A physical key was required to access all such panels, which any station tech carried with them.


    Though he wished to waste no time, Storen did not open the panel in a hurry. After placing the tool bag on the deck he very slowly, and very carefully, turned the key feeling for any abnormal resistance in the lock mechanism. Feeling none, he started to open the panel and realized it was stuck fast. Frustrated, he removed a small flashlight from his right side jacket pocket and examined the panel door up close. Several small spot welds were made between the gaps of the panel and its casing. So you want to play games eh? Storen mused reaching back into his tool bag to remove the portable cutting torch and welding goggles he kept inside.


    Glancing once more to make sure he wasn''t being watched he very quickly, and very expertly, melted through the spot welds in just a few minutes. That done, he opened the panel with the upmost caution, peering through the gap with the flashlight as he did so. Suddenly he froze spotting an old fashioned fragmentation grenade rigged to explode if the panel was opened more than a centimeter. Son of a bitch! he cursed inwardly.


    Carefully, Storen examined the explosive. The only way to disarm the grenade was to reinsert its safety pin, which of course was missing. Locking the panel once more temporarily, to keep pressure on the grenade safety lever, Storen reached into his tool bag removing a small spool of stiff utility wire, along with pliers and a wire cutter. Trimming off a length of wire about three inches long, Storen opened the panel open again, just a crack, and inserted the wire into the hole where the safety pin normally fitted into the grenade with his pliers.


    Holding his breath, ready to bolt and dive for the deck at a moments notice, Storen opened the panel. The safety wire worked. The grenade safety lever did not spring off triggering the fuse. Slowly, Storen reached inside and grasped the grenade pulling it free. For extra insurance he twisted the ends of the wire around the handle so there was no chance his new safety pin would loosen or wiggle free. Disgustedly, he dropped the grenade into his tool bag. Nice try! he smirked. That done, he removed the standard maintenance jack used to divert power to and from electrical junction boxes.


    Locating the proper wire for the lock solenoid, he hesitated again, checking carefully for any signs of tampering with the wiring. Seeing none, he applied power to the wire. The door lock clicked open audibly. Storen once again used his security badge on the door sensor to put the door into an open condition before he pulled it open, just in case. He didn''t want any silent alarms being triggered for station security by Executor.


    Glancing over his shoulder one more time Storen stepped inside shutting the door behind him. Dim lighting from the cramped kitchen and a small hallway light above the door were the only illumination available. Storen pulled on a set of gloves, letting his eyes adjust to te darkness as he strained his other senses. The quarters smelled vaguely like cigarettes, cigars and beer. Somewhere past the kitchen in the shadowy living area an old fan rattled inside the upper ventilation ducts.


    A pair of heavy steel-toed boots were next to the door. These must belong to Reese, Storen thought noting their great size compared to his own boots. Next he reached into his left jacket pocket where he kept a fat snub nose revolver loaded with five twelve-gauge shotgun shells. Cautiously, Storen aimed the flashlight in his right hand, first above his head and into the other corners of the hall looking for cameras and/or motion sensors. Seeing none he stepped forward, flashing the light into the kitchen. Flies hovered above a stack of soiled dishes. The counter surfaces were plain stainless steel, as was the sink. Old linoleum lined the floor, both pitted and stained, curling up at the edges.


    Storen took another step towards the living area, careful to make no sound as his boots threatened to scuff against the tough industrial carpeting. Placing his back against the hallway wall, painted dull green, he leaned forward for a better vantage point around the corner as he panned his light around. There was a low recliner and a couch in the middle of the room with a coffee table in between them. The surface of this coffee table was a mess of empty beer cans, bottles, and half-eaten cartons of Chinese food.


    Storen was familiar with every size and configuration of living quarters on Ashkelon Station. These quarters were small, but not the smallest. Reese and Wade bunked in partitioned sleeping areas on either side of the living area. Wades partition was left open, revealing a bunk piled with clothes, magazines and other assorted belongings. Reese''s however, was shut and locked.


    According to station records, Reese and Wade were the only occupants of these quarters. Storen shouldn''t have had need for concern about anyone else hiding inside, but housing on the station was as expensive as it was scarce. Unregistered tenancies were a common problem and he wasn''t going to take any chances.


    Next he checked the single bathroom, ready to draw out his revolver at the first sign of trouble. It was barely large enough to walk inside. Briefly he wondered how someone the size of Reese could even squeeze inside that cramped shower, but that was not why he was here.


    Reese Castle was listed as the Casimir''s former captain less than a year ago. Wade Barrett was also listed as a crew member. Storen didn''t believe in coincidences. He still had no idea what Ze''ev was so interested to find in the ships records, but the fact two former crew members of the Casimir were living and working on this station beggared investigation. As much for his own curiosity as it was a fact-finding mission for the stations administrator.


    Slowly, Storen moved towards Reese''s closed partition. Each of these were made of thin, yet sturdy metal walls with a flimsy privacy door and an open window of sorts covered by a flexible set of blinds set into tracks. These blinds were sturdy slats of interlinked composite plastics. The door was made of a similar material with a locking latch. One strong kick should break the door, but Storen thought better of it remembering the booby trap he just disarmed. Instead, he made use of a lock picking tool. Then slowly, very slowly, he opened the partition door. Another booby trap was connected to the trigger of a double-barreled sawed off shotgun aimed right at his head. Storen sucked in a breath. Out came the wire cutters.


    Reese''s belongings were kept much more tidy within than Wades. Shelves, drawers and storage cabinets were all neatly organized. Where to start? Storen wondered, flashing his light around the confined area. Within minutes he found three more firearms including a 9MM VP8 semi-automatic pistol under his pillow, a pump action shotgun taped under the desk and an old school bull-pup F90 assault rifle in the closet. Besides those weapons, various contraband goods were cleverly concealed within his mattress, as well as behind an air vent, and within the light fixture. ''Suspicions of smuggling'' were not exaggerated, Storen mused recalling the comments in Reese''s official record.


    Some of these items would catch a very heavy fine, even on Ashkelon Station. There were several types of pharmaceuticals, pills mostly, some of which he recognized and a few he would have to analyze to identify. One was a powerful stimulant popular among techs and other station workers to help keep them sharp working double shifts and overtime. Storen frowned on such things of course, but he didn''t go out of his way to put an end to it entirely. So long as accidents were at a minimum and efficiency kept up with his high standards, he was willing to look the other way.


    There were also a few Halfin AW15 datapads. Forty years ago these were top of the line. Despite their age, they held popularity in the underground for their hacking/programming capabilities. He didn''t need to activate one to know that these were data-cracked, unregistered and untraceable. Storen smirked. Back in the day he relied on these to help him establish a reputation as an ''espionage specialist''. That''s how he got started, but his role now was much more than that. In the beginning Ze''ev used to call him a ''fixer'', but Storen preferred the term ''silent partner''. Powerful corporate execs almost always had men like him working for them behind the scenes.


    Storen had no illusions about who and what he was. As a professional criminal, Storen didn''t truly trust anyone, but nor did he distrust everyone. Men like Reese had much in common with him, and he didn''t fault them for it. The reality was a great many made their livelihoods with an extra competitive advantage. Wherever, and however they could. This was never going to change.


    Modern interstellar mega corps set the standard for taking advantage of the laws as much as possible. Their methods for establishing monopolies, patenting new technology and spreading colonies that were governments in all but name, was war by capitalism on a galactic scale. At the same time, much of their profits came from betraying those same laws they relied on to protect their intellectual property and corporate assets.


    Efforts and claims to promote law and order were undermined with sabotage and theft from the competition. The truth was, at their core, corporations were nothing more than well-funded, well organized gangs of white-collar thugs. The only difference between them and men like Storen, ,was how they managed exposure to risk. Using men like him isolated them from such risk, But it also made them vulnerable to men like him.


    Storen wasn''t here to pass judgment on Reese for hiding a small arsenal and smuggling contraband. He was here to discover what ulterior motives he might have to be on Ashkelon Station. He was also curious if he and Wade still held some connection to the Casimir.


    After several more minutes of searching Storen found something tangible. Hanging in Reese''s closet was a well worn Weyland Yutani issue spacers-crew jacket. Each shoulder had a patch with a stylized CM-88 Bison freighter flying over Jupiter and its many moons. Across the back in a blocky bold font was CASIMIR. Bingo! He thought to himself. But there was more.


    Underneath his mattress, Storen found a photo album. Images of Reese, Wade, and the rest of his old crew were organized neatly inside. There were also many pictures of an Asian family back on Jupiter''s Moons. All the pictures were dated, some of which were over a decade old. Storen couldn''t quite figure out who''s family they were until he saw the letters and cards, thanking Reese for supporting them. Then he understood. Reese had adopted this family as his own.


    Strange as it seemed, for a professional space-trucker that was not unheard of. Some of these crews spent decades of their lives in hyper sleep. Those who already had families could not hope to maintain a close relationship with their spouses or children over such long periods and great distances. Most eventually gave up trying, but some still craved having a family somewhere. A connection to invest in and keep tabs on. So much the better therefor to sponsor a family who were appreciative of your earnings, and your support, without being too attached and resentful of your absence.


    Though he did not bother to read every letter, Storen got the distinct impression Reese was very attentive and generous with these people. He cared for them as if they were his own flesh and blood. Having no family of his own, Storen envied him that, but he could see now this was also a point of weakness for Reese. Tucked in the back of the photo album among these letters were the official documents and notices of dismissal, repossession and ''breach of contract'' by Weyland Yutani for the USCSS Casimir and his Captains License.


    There were also reports from the ICC regarding an investigation of embezzlement filed by Reese against his own investment bankers. Storen wasn''t an accountant, but even he could put enough dots together, glancing through the bank statements to know what happened. Reese lost an entire investment portfolio. Roughly the equivalent value of several hundred thousand dollars. This occured shortly before The Company repossessed his ship about a year ago. So that''s whats this is about... Storen realized. It''s not just about the money. You''re obsessed with getting your ship back! You need that ship back to look after this other family the way you always have.


    Storen didn''t quite understand how Reese could imagine reacquiring the Casimir. He certainly didn''t have the money or connections to renew his contract with Weyland Yutani. Especially while working here on Ashkelon Station. Techs did not make nearly the same wages as licensed ships captain did. Is he going to steal it back? he wondered.


    Theft of a space ship of any kind was no easy or trifling thing. Commandeering a huge M-Class freighter, with a standard crew of seven, did not make that prospect any more feasible. Just the two of them would not be enough. Even assuming they could board the ship without any crew on board, they would still need access codes and command over the AI to power up the ship. But maybe that''s not so crazy if you were Reese, and this was your former ship? he realized.


    Some of the records about the Casimir''s repairs and systems refits over the years were quite unusual. Reese seemed to have a talent for modification. His technical knowledge was easily among the best on the station. Storen knew that much just observing his work in space dock. Some of the repairs he managed to patch up on older equipment, lacking parts that were near impossible to find, were quite impressive. He had to give the man credit.


    Still, they would need help to pull this off. From what he could already see by the weapons and contraband hidden around his sleeping area, Storen guessed where most of that help might lie. He must have contacts within the Red Triad. It was not out of the question that some of the other techs might be in on his plan also.


    Keren Ho-Stern sprung to mind. She was something of a quiet loner, like Reese, and just as odd albeit in different ways. The fact station security and an entire company of bloodthirsty CSC commando''s were still looking for her certainly eluded to the notion that she was dangerous and capable of anything.


    Storen shook his head putting that line of reasoning aside. He still couldn''t believe what happened. Callous and phlegmatic as he might be, Storen didn''t want his colleagues and neighbors gunned down in cold blood. Neither did Ze''ev. This errand was merely a precursor to whatever orders the station administrator might have for him next. And he already had a good idea what those orders might be. Nevermind that, focus on what you''re doing! he chided himself. The stress of recent events and lack of sleep were starting to have an effect on his concentration. Storen refocused his efforts for a complete search of the sleeping area.


    Underneath the hamper of soiled clothes, wrapped in an undershirt, was a strange book entitled ''Space Beast'' by Robert Morse. It was a cheaply manufactured hardcover, roughly worn around the edges as if it was passed around by dozens of hands despite the fact it was barely a year in print. Something about this book reminded him of something. He couldn''t remember what it was, and that was highly unusual for him. His memory was near-eidetic. Storen immediately flipped through the book at random looking for anything hidden in the pages. There was nothing, just a scrap of paper Reese was using as a bookmark. Storen read the marked page.


    He told her how we all had taken a vow of celibacy, implying that she''d be raped if she didn''t hide herself away from Lags and Junior for sure. Him and a few others tried to have a go with Ripley in the pit until Dillon reeducated them with a pipe. Even after a close call with junior she was still walking around like she had nothing to lose. Murphy was the first to find what Ripley was looking for, what she had brought with her.


    Everyone thought he was daft enough to fall into a ventilation fan while cleaning the tunnel, and he was too, but that''s not what happened. It didn''t make sense. Everyone knew it didn''t make sense, but nobody was willing to say. We''d all done that job and suddenly Murphy forgets that nine foot fan twenty paces away that would paint the walls with your innards if you fall into it. Un-fucking-likely.


    Boggs and Rains were next. They went into the tunnels with Golic. Only Golic came back. Golic was always mental and now he was covered with blood raving about a dragon. Poor bastards mind finally went completely under. Even after Dillon talked to him Golic insisted it was a dragon that got Boggs and Rains. He wasn''t wrong though, was he? Dragon? Xenomorph?


    Storen blinked. Now he remembered how he heard about this book before. Due to the highly sensitive nature of its material regarding the Work Correctional Unit on Fiorina 161 (and the subsequent tragedy mentioned herein) this book was banned by The Company immediately after it was published. Since then this book was hard to find and especially sought after on the black market.


    Curious... Storen thought, halfway tempted to keep it for himself. Crudely written though it was, the material was intriguing. No way, remember the rules! Storen reminded himself wrapping the book back up in the undershirt and placing it back at the bottom of the hamper. Breaking and entering in pursuit of his investigation was one thing. Pilfering something that struck his fancy, while conducting that investigation, went against his ethics. Though not a religious or idealistic man, Storen had a credo that he lived by. Don''t get carried away.


    Satisfied that he found everything there was to find here, he moved back out into the living quarters. In the corner was a vid screen. Storen examined that, it held no surprises. Next he pulled up the cushions on the couch. Nothing there but ossified noodles, snack wrappers and a few socks. The cushions on the recliner however, did hold a significant surprise. Well, well, well... Storen thought smirking to himself. This is how you intend to steal back the Casimir!

 Chapter 7

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/23/2183</u>


    Within a lift heading up towards the command level of Ashkelon Station, Victor Li Shing, Catherine Grey, and his four executive body guards rode up in silence. An illuminated LCD display above the lift controls flicked through deck numbers as they ascended.


    ¡°What you did forcing open the door at the club was impressive!¡± Victor commented, speaking at Catherine without looking over his shoulder. Victor did not always make the effort to converse with others, eye-to-eye as equals. Most everyone in his presence was expected to listen, to defer, and to obey without question.


    Catherine did not respond. She was not interested in his conversation, much less his praise. These goons could have likely done the same, if they had the heart to act! But what do you know about having a heart father? She thought bitterly, ever conscious of the bodyguards who surrounded them as still and inhuman as any other synthetic had a right to be.


    Victors jaw twitched as he jerked his head ever-so-slightly, almost as if he was about to turn and chastise her for her thoughts. Can he hear my thoughts? Catherine wondered tensely, and not for the first time. There was much and more she did not trust and understand about her own mind these days. Ever since her brain was transplanted into this new synthetic body she was never quite comfortable with herself. Victors body by contrast was entirely human, though his mind was enhanced with synthetic A.I.


    In the way that an interface existed between the biological, the digital and the synthetic they were the same. Were it elsewise Catherine could not move, speak, or breath. Still she stubbornly refused to embrace the change and accept the duality of her nature. Her body was a necessity, a burden, a cruelty and a curse. It diminished her humanity. Now she hated herself almost as much as she hated him.


    Victor by contrast, abhorred limitation. Behind those diligent, handsome, eyes constant analysis and data poured through his brain. Most executives traveled around with an entourage of assistants, accountants and corporate lawyers. Special executives spared no expense expanding their mental capabilities with new technology. She once heard it said that he used his brain as much as four or even five different people. She was not sure she believed that. Surely that was not possible every moment of everyday?


    However much that might be true, Victor''s capacity for hard focus, snap judgment and strategic instinct were essential for a man in his position. Within the spheres of corporate power, Victor was a single-minded tyrant, a dynamo and a genius. Yet such gifts did not come without cost. His enhancements also made him cold, idiosyncratic, and at times inhumanly cruel.


    The lift slowed its ascent before the doors opened. Groups of CSC naval commando''s were waiting, sent up in advance to secure the area. All around them, outraged and unhappy station officials, staff and personnel glared in obstinate displeasure. Reports of what happened at the club were still coming in through intercoms, camera monitors and local media sources. Voices were cursing, grumbling and sobbing.


    Victor paid them no mind, yet Catherine recognized that look all too well. The revulsion, the fear, the hatred. It was the look reserved for monsters. He has made me in his image. Catherine thought. If I still had a stomach, I would feel sick.


    As they stepped past two commandos flanking the lift and made their way to the stations central command center, whispers and murmurs trailed in their wake. Catherine could not help but augment her hearing, subconsciously, to pick up on their words. It was a reflex, born of curiosity. When nothing said was at all kind, she just as quickly made the conscious effort not to listen.


    Up here on the command level, lighting was brighter showcasing a greater sense of pride and orderliness about the operations rooms, corridors and offices. There was also something of a personal touch of community on display. Old fashioned tack-boards with hanging photos of newborns, children''s birthdays, pot-luck lunches and other quaint archetypes of civilian home life. It served just as well to remind Catherine of a life she never had.


    As they entered the central command center, a tense scene of discord and disarray was taking place. Half the command staff were away from their terminals in groups of threes and fours standing shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting and waving fingers at the commandos who had already shoved their way inside. Those that remained at their stations did their best to pretend to stay busy with pale, frightened faces.


    Off to one side, an executive conference room was occupied for an emergency staff meeting. No doubt to discuss us, Catherine knew. Two commando''s stood by the door doing their best to contain the angry, old, short, wrinkled man who must be the stations administrator, Ze''ev Darkon.


    ¡°There is no cause for this! Take yourselves and your smoking rifles out of my command center!¡± he shouted with a strained, raspy voice. Another malcontent, Ze''ev''s Chief Station Officer, growled questions and demands from over Ze''ev''s shoulder. He was portly, balding and red-faced with outrage.


    Slowly, one by one, the faces noted Victors arrival as his bodyguards stared down anyone hostile. Catherine experienced this moment many times. In boardrooms, factories, labs, lobby''s, bars and restaurants. Anywhere people worked or mingled together with harsh opinions about her father. Victor did not need to shout or raise his hands to ask for calm. He merely took a slow look around. Quickly the hot-headed words and hoarse opinions fell to silence.


    Ze''ev moved to stand before Victor. Five foot seven, thin and bony with splotchy pallid skin he was but a frail, pale shadow compared to Victor. And that''s the whole point isn''t it? Catherine knew. This is all a show.


    ¡°You must be Special Executive Victor Li Shing.¡± Ze''ev stated with minimal courtesy making no attempt to shake hands or bow.


    ¡°Administrator Darkon. Your reputation precedes you,¡± Victor stated with a token nod of respect. I am sorry we could not meet under better circumstances. I would like to introduce...¡± he began, before the old man cut him off.


    ¡°What is the reason for the massacre at Dizzy''s club?!¡± Ze''ev demanded.


    ¡°Massacre? With all due respect administrator, there has been no massacre,¡± Victor answered with irritated indifference. ¡°My commando''s fired in self defense. They were seeking person''s of interest who must be apprehended at all costs.¡±


    ¡°At all costs?!¡± Ze''ev repeated acidly, ¡°Why didn''t you coordinate your search with us?! We could have avoided bloodshed!¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. Perhaps not. There are serious doubts about the integrity of station security, and that of your staff...¡± Victor paused, letting that implication hang in the air. ¡°Our targets evaded capture because they had help. Accomplices may be scrambling to arrange an escape off the station as we speak. What do you suggest we do about that, administrator?¡±


    Ze''ev waited a moment to answer, as if grappling with the decision to offer any help at all. ¡°If a manhunt is required we will coordinate a search for these fugitives,¡± he answered gravely. ¡°However, I will also be calling for an immediate investigation of the shooting at Dizzy''s club.¡±


    Victor''s face was a mask of no emotion. ¡°Administrator I concur completely. With the sudden power loss, malfunction of the fire suppression systems and the pressure door jamming; it''s a wonder any lives were saved at all. An investigation will help explain how such vital systems broke down when they were needed most.¡±


    Ze''ev tightened his lips angrily as his hands balled into fists. Every part of his body language suggested frustration and disgust. You walked right into that one! Catherine thought, disappointed. Ze''ev Darkon was revered as an experienced former executive and negotiator representing Temple and the greater ICSC in the Outer Rim Territories.


    She had hoped he had the nerve to take her father down a notch or two. Yet Victor had a valid point. Mechanically, Ashkelon Station was a mess. You did not have to be a certified station engineer to see that. As the station administrator, Ze''ev had to take responsibility for these issues.


    Victor continued after it was clear Ze''ev had nothing further to say, ¡°Executor will provide necessary details about the fugitives. My commandos will back up your security teams and aid in your search. When they are found they must be handed over into my custody immediately. This is non negotiable. In the meantime, I strongly suggest you suspend all ship traffic to ensure they do not escape. This should include the shuttles.¡±


    Alan Warshauer, the balding Chief Station Officer and Ze''ev''s second in command opened his mouth aghast, ¡°You can''t be serious?! Suspending ship and shuttle traffic will cripple the station. Supplies will run low. Commerce will grind to a halt. Every day we are out of commission will set our schedule back for weeks!¡±


    ¡°Perhaps just the outgoing ship traffic then?¡± Victor suggested as a compromise. ¡°Either way, if the fugitives are not found in forty eight hours, I will be forced to assume command of this effort as a military operation.¡±


    Ze''ev was quick to combat that notion, ¡°Don''t be absurd! Ashkelon Station is affiliated with Temple Colony on GL-382 as an independent civilian outpost. We are protected by the charter of ICSC member colonies. Only a signed order from the Director could grant you such authority!¡±


    Victor crossed his hands in apology adding in a feigned sympathetic tone, ¡°It should not come to that. Director Candlish has nothing but the highest respect for you Mr. Darkon; both as the station administrator and a former board member of Technion Interstellar. Likewise, the CSC Board of Directors would much prefer to see you handle things as well as you always have.¡±


    Victor did not have to say ''or suffer the consequences'', the threat of forced retirement was plain. A hush of in drawn breaths filled the command center. Ze''ev''s head was on the chopping block, both politically and professionally. Ze''ev looked as if he''d just been punched in the gut. Twenty years I have lived and served on Ashkelon Station. So much I have sacrificed... and now it comes to this?! He thought with disbelief. No! I think you have underestimated me Victor. I am so close to finding answers for Eva. Any evidence I uncover against Weyland Yutani will prove just as valuable for the Directors. They will not dare to push me out after that! I will yet end my career as a righteous man. You, monster, will be sent back to whatever dark hole you crawled out of!


    Catherine noted the defiance in Ze''ev''s eyes, as well as the fatigue etched in every deep wrinkle. He is a proud man, she had to admit, but he may not have the strength left in him to endure a battle of wills against my father.


    ¡°I have called for a top level administration meeting in twelve hours. You are welcome to attend Mr. Darkon. There are things you will need to be briefed on that concern the future of this station and the whole of the ICSC,¡± Victor stated with no small sense of drama. ¡°In the meantime, I expect regular progress reports on the hunt for the fugitives. The sooner they are apprehended, the better.¡±


    _ _ _


    ¡°I''m sorry Mr. Castle, your health insurance doesn''t cover further treatment. Do you have another form of insurance?¡± a male nurse asked Reese.


    Wade rised angrily from a cheap folding chair beside the hosptial gurney. ¡°What the hell''s the matter with you?! He was trying to save lives!"


    The nurse took in a sharp frustrated breath, ¡°I understand that, you explained he was assaulted at the club. We have done everything we can. Perhaps you should report this to station security? There are several officers here taking statements.¡±


    Wade scoffed bitterly at the memory of how helpless and ineffective station security was. ¡°You have no idea what the fuck is happening do you?¡±


    The nurse frowned at Wade making a gesture at the cramped halls of the hospital emergency ward. All around them dozens of victims, many worse off than Reese, were hastily being treated. ¡°I know enough. Your friend should consider himself lucky. His fractured ribs will heal naturally, so long as he stays home in bed and gets plenty of rest.¡±


    ¡°Rest?!¡± Wade said incredulously. ¡°We have work to do!¡± And more importantly, we need to be fit and ready to go when the Casimir arrives, he did not add.


    The nurse shook his head, ¡°Out of the question! The healing process will take approximately six weeks if he rests and doesn''t exacerbate the injury.¡±


    ¡°Can''t you give him an injection of nano-bots or stem cells or some shit?¡± Wade asked pointedly. ¡°We don''t have six weeks!¡±


    The nurse sighed, ¡°That sort of treatment is not covered by...¡±


    ¡°How much?¡± Reese interrupted, his words slurring slightly through the heavy cocktail of pain killers. The dosage was abnormally strong, intended to knock him unconscious, yet Reese refused to succumb completely to sleep and merely closed his eyes. Yet so long as he stopped complaining, they left him alone.


    ¡°Without insurance?¡± the nurse balked. ¡°I''m not sure, likely several thousand at least.¡±


    ¡°Jesus!¡± Wade groaned.


    The nurse pursed his lips apologetically, ¡°I''m sorry that''s the way it is. If you don''t have another form of insurance I can at least arrange transport back to your quarters. With some help we can get you off that gurney into your own bed Mr. Castle.¡±


    ''Some help'' was a bit of an understatement. It had taken four medics to get Reese on the gurney in the first place before it was loaded up unto the emergency transport cart, brought here, and unloaded again. The sight of such a big man zipping through the corridors was almost comical.


    They had to be careful not to use a chest-strap to immobilize him which meant Wade and the paramedic had to hold him down riding on the cart beside him. Every bump and separation of the deck plating under the wheels felt like nails being hammered into his side. Had he lost his composure Reese could have easily knocked them both off the cart beside him a blind rage of pain. Thankfully Wade was there to keep him calm.


    ¡°Listen, we can get you the money...¡± Wade started to say before Storen Bull came into view. The lead engineer moved from bed to bed, sharing a few words, shaking hands, cracking a joke or two. When he caught sight of Reese he strolled over immediately. ¡°Can you give us a minute doc?¡± Storen asked politely strolling up close to place a hand on the nurse''s arm.


    Wade and Reese exchanged a look as the nurse turned to regard the stranger, ¡°Sure,¡± the nurse said, thankful for the excuse to step away from Wade''s bickering.


    Storen had been moving among the wounded and the injured for a short while already, many of whom seemed to know him. Wade couldn''t remember seeing the man so friendly and concerned for others before.


    ¡°How are you holding up?¡± Storen asked Reese who had ample bandages around his huge chest.


    ¡°Got a cigar?¡± Reese answered with a quetion of his own.


    Storen nodded, pulling one from his inner jacket pocket and leaning close to put it in the big mans hand. Reese lifted it to his lips, very slowly, flinching a few times as he did so. Every movement was painful.


    ¡°Thanks!¡± Reese croaked. The hospital staff wouldn''t approve of course, but he didn''t give a damn. So long as he didn''t light it there was little harm. The taste of a good cigar helped put him at ease.


    ¡°What''s the word Bull?¡± Wade asked taking a seat again looking and feeling quite tired and haggard. It was close to midnight when they went to the club. Now that the stress and adrenaline were wearing off, waiting here for hours was taking a toll on his nerves. Even so he was dying to know what was happening on the station? There was a lot of talk among the survivors about what might come from all this.


    Storen was usually well informed as a lead engineer and someone who lived on the station for quite a while. It didn''t matter that they really had never been friendly with Storen much up till now. Under the circumstances everyone here was doing their best to support each other.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Storen sighed, ¡°It''s not good. There are a lot of casualties.¡±


    Wade nodded sadly, thinking of Sharon, Billy and the others. ¡°I wish I would have shot that motherfucker!¡± he heard himself say.


    ¡°Who?¡± Storen asked raising his brow.


    ¡°That Special Executive. Victor Li Shing,¡± Wade answered coldly.


    Storen grimaced knowingly, ¡°A lot of people feel that way. He''s a cold-blooded son of a bitch.¡±


    ¡°One of his commandos broke Reese''s ribs with his rifle-butt even as he was trying to open the fucking door!¡±


    ¡°I heard that,¡± Storen confirmed, having heard that story from those who survived. ¡°It was good of you to step up and help.¡± Storen said placing a hand on the big mans shoulder.


    ¡°The same asshole who did that...¡± Wade continued staring at the floor. ¡°...got blown away by Victor with his own rifle! Craziest shit I ever saw.¡± There was a pause as Wade got real quiet, and real tense. ¡°Why is he even here?¡± Wade wondered out loud. ¡°The commandos were looking for someone in the club, before the lights went out and the shooting started.


    Storen looked as if he had something to say, but given where they were, he seemed to think better of it. Instead he reached into his inner jacket pocket again and pulled out a cigar for himself. ¡°Care to step out for a smoke?¡± he asked wade.


    ¡°Sure,¡± Wade answered.


    ¡°We''ll be back,¡± Storen said apologetically to Reese, ¡°As soon as you get out of here we''ll share one too.¡±


    _ _ _


    Exiting the emergency ward the men made an odd pair walking side by side. Wade was the shabby, indifferent, casual type. Still dressed in his baggy jeans, boots and Mot?rhead t-shirt. Storen was the consummate professional, dressed in an engineering jumpsuit and his old tan leather jacket. More notable perhaps than differences, were similarities. Both men wore beards and kept their hair long, tied back above their collar. But for the age gap, even their looks were not dissimilar from each other. To a casual observer they might have been father and son.


    As they moved through the hospital lobby, friends and relatives of the injured and wounded were gathered in dense groups. Hospital staff had to keep the number of visitors to a minimum because of crowding, yet there were plenty here who would wait as long as need be to hear news about their loved ones. Members of station security were also on hand, answering questions as much as asking them from potential witnesses. Outside the main entrance a line of officers held back the media.


    Storen gestured to a side corridor. There were smoking rooms available here at the hospital, yet Storen considered them unfit for the sort of conversation he intended to have with Wade. They descended a stairwell, taking a short walk back through laundry, storage and support staff working areas. No one paid them much attention. Descending further still they reached a large, heavy pressure door near the hospitals cargo elevators. Stenciled across dingy, faded paint were the words.


    MAIN ACCESS TUNNEL


    BRANCH LINE ''C'' SECTION 9


    ACCESS DOOR 47


    - EMERGENCY SHELTER -


    Storen stepped over to the control panel/door controls which featured both an audio intercom and a video comms terminal. A tone blipped before The LCD screen flashed ACCESS GRANTED soon after Storen swiped his ID badge through the electronic ID key lock. The heavy door lifted upwards revealing a huge open tunnel.


    ¡°Wow!¡± Wade exclaimed hearing his voice echo into the darkness. He had never been down this deep into the station before. At least thirty meters across the tunnel walls appeared to writhe with huge pipes and conduits that fed in and out of the sides and ceiling. Though there were no windows of any kind, there was something of a stiff breeze as huge fans churned and chopped within gaping air shafts. Even so, air quality down here was poor; laden with the residue of ninety years worth of machinery spills, fumes, and sewage.


    ¡°Station techs refer to these tunnels as ''Ashkelon''s guts'', or just ''the stink'',¡± Storen explained ruefully. ¡°Due to increasing upkeep-costs they stopped running the air scrubbers down here a long time ago.¡±


    ¡°How far do the tunnels go?¡± Wade asked stepping unto a large loading platform beyond. Two sets of rails stretched away into the distance at the center of the tunnel.


    ¡°They stretch under and between the stations three towers. You can ride a cargo train all the way from one end of the the station to the other if you wanted. Plenty do, though its highly frowned upon. These tunnels differ from the passenger tram tunnels higher up in a few significant ways.


    Firstly, there are no windows to offer glimpses of Temple or the stars. Second, they move much slower making many stops. Goods, supplies and equipment delivered from shuttle ports or space dock is quite often bulky and very heavy. To save energy, the trains move at barely twice a mans running pace. Lastly, if you are caught riding these tracks, or else-wise loitering in these tunnels where you don''t belong, you serve time in station security holding cells.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± Wade mused pulling out his pack of smokes, ¡°But I''m sure people do it anyway. A free ride is a free ride. Besides, there''s lots of space down here to hide.¡±


    ¡°There''s an entire community of residents on the station who live in these tunnels,¡± Storen confirmed. ¡°People call em rats, or roaches, because that''s how they seem to live. Homeless. Rejects. Fugitives. Petty criminals.¡±


    ¡°Doesn''t station security do anything about it?¡± Wade wondered out loud, lifting a cigarette to his lips.


    ¡°Much of the time they avoid these tunnels at all costs. It isn''t their turf, and its more difficult than you think to keep people out. For every door like this that takes an ID Badge...¡± Storen gestured back to the way they came in, ¡°...there is likely two or three other ways to get in somewhere else. Sometimes they just cut their own way in with a laser torch or the like.¡±


    ¡°How about robberies?¡± Wade asked flicking on his lighter, ¡°You said goods and supplies are delivered on these tracks right? Some of that stuff has gotta be pretty valuable.¡±


    ¡°Oh certainly,¡± Storen confirmed lighting his own cigar. ¡°The cargo train workers have their own union. They are permitted to have armed guards and they don''t fuck around.¡±


    ¡°A union?¡± Wade asked surprised, ¡°That''s a rare thing these days.¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± Storen agreed, ¡°but there are still some on this station. Janitors, house-keepers, laundry-workers and taxi''s. Cargo train workers and the taxi''s are the only ones who get permits for firearms though.¡±


    From a short distance down the tunnel Wade noted a bright light appear through the gloom along with the deep hum of the heavy duty maglev rail system. Unlike the high speed maglev trams that whisked executives from tower to tower in an eerie whisper-quiet way, the public maglev tram made quite a racket. This slower cargo train was similar to that, albeit different in cadence.


    The clacking, thrumming and whining sounds were lower pitched but louder and longer in duration. Of course, it might have been quieter were it not designed to also operate in zero gravity, as it must. With that design criteria in mind, far more of the train was ''clamped'' around the tracks rather than simply riding over them.


    The spotlight on the cargo train illuminated more of the tunnel as it neared. Wade made out a figure and a dog approaching the loading platform, walking along one of the raised walk ways on either side of the tracks. Each walk way was scarcely two meters wide, barely big enough for a transport cart, such as the one that carried Reese to the hospital.


    As the cargo train thundered near the figure and the dog, individual spot lights trained on them as men with high powered rifles and shotguns took casual aim in their direction. The figure raised his hand to wave at them in passing while the dog barked.


    The spot lights remained on them until the train had passed and then reorientated towards Wade and Storen on the loading platform less than a minute later. Wade raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare.


    ¡°Shit you weren''t kidding,¡± he muttered. ¡°They don''t fuck around with those guns.¡±


    Storen watched Wade closely as the train moved alongside, looking for signs of trauma or flashbacks to the firefight in the club. Though he had not witnessed it first hand, Storen talked to enough of the survivors to get a good idea of what it must have been like. He wouldn''t have been surprised if Wade lost his cool being under the gun so soon after that.


    However, the only sign of nervousness Storen observed was Wade''s right hand moving unconsciously towards something under his shirt tucked in his waistline. A pistol! Had to be, likely a small automatic. When Wade raised his hand to shield his eyes Storen also glimpsed the USMC tattoo under his t-shirt sleeve, Visible just below his left shoulder. Storen was already aware of Wade''s service record from his ICC personnel file. Yet much much of that was classified. Accessing his military records was the only way to get more details. Which was probably nearly impossible here on Ashkelon Station.


    After the train passed, Wade''s hand moved away from the concealed firearm as he relaxed. As the noise of the dog''s barking persisted Wade realized he recognized that sound.


    ¡°Hey isn''t that Spacer?¡± Wade asked Storen.


    ¡°Yep,¡± Storen confirmed.


    Lights above the loading platform lit up the stranger at a distance of twenty meters as the black Norwegian Elkhound strained against the leash. The man holding the leash was tall and thin with warm dark brown skin. He wore a janitors jumpsuit with an ID badge clipped to his shirt.


    ¡°This is Dinesh,¡± Storen said by way of introduction as the east-Indian man stepped up to the loading platform handing off Spacer''s leash back to Storen. Wade guessed Dinesh to be mid forties, approximately the same age as Reese. Dinesh was clean-shaven with hints of grey creeping into his dark hair along his temples and eyebrows.


    ¡°Hello!¡± Dinesh said with a polite smile extending his hand towards Wade. Wade shook it and introduce himself in return.


    ¡°Wade is one of the survivors from the club,¡± Storen explained.


    ¡°Oh shit! Fuck, that was bad business!¡± Dinesh exclaimed, taken aback.


    Wade nodded.


    ¡°Were you hurt?¡± Dinesh asked gesturing emphatically with his hands as he spoke. His last word ended in the characteristic soft ''t'' of his deep accent.


    ¡°No not me,¡± Wade answered shaking his head as he tapped his cigarette ash over the edge of the platform. ¡°However my friend Reese was injured. He''s still in the hospital.¡±


    ¡°Reese struggled to open the pressure door when it jammed. His bravery likely saved many lives,¡± Storen added.


    ¡°God bless him!¡± Dinesh stated with admiration. ¡°I hope he recovers quickly!¡±


    Wade smiled, ¡°Thank you, but that remains to be seen. Ships tech''s don''t get the greatest healthcare these days.¡±


    ¡°No doubt,¡± Dinesh said sympathetically. ¡°If you ask me, J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng should be paying out their asses for this. One hundred percent! It was their people who did all the shooting.¡±


    Not <u>all</u> the shooting. Wade thought to himself. It was the Triad enforcers who shot first to be perfectly accurate. Honest battlefield evaluation was one of the core principles of the Colonial Marines. It was a mentality he''d never break free of. Yet all he said was, "Bad business, like you said."


    ¡°You should be putting in a word for your people here Bull,¡± Dinesh stated chidingly towards Storen. ¡°I will do whatever favors I can, but my voice doesn''t carry the same weight as yours.¡±


    ¡°Oh I will my friend, I will indeed,¡± Storen agreed.


    ¡°Good man!¡± Dinesh said approvingly, reaching down to give Spacer a farewell pet. ¡°Forgive me but I better get back to work. Very nice to meet you Wade. Take care and give my best to your friend Reese. Ashkelon Station could use more hero''s like him!¡±


    Wade shook the mans hand again in parting.


    ¡°Before I forget Storen!¡± Dinesh added, ¡°Tarika expects you to come by for dinner next week.¡±


    ¡°I would never refuse your wife''s cooking,¡± Storen answered with a smile. Dinesh grinned and moved away.


    Wade was getting very curious about Storen Bull. Why did Dinesh say his voice carried more weight? He was just a Lead Engineer. Or was he? After Dinesh moved away back into the hospital Wade decided to put that question to the test.


    ¡°Back in the emergency ward, I pointed out that it seemed to me that the commandos were looking for someone; before the shooting started. You looked as if you had something to say about that?¡± Wade asked keeping his eyes low. A useful trick in interrogation.


    ¡°They are looking for Keren," Storen replied.


    Wade jerked his eyes back up to stare at Storen in surprise. ¡°Keren?! As in Keren Ho-Stern?¡±


    Storen nodded slowly. ¡°Station security is already organizing a manhunt, backed up by the commando''s. Victor wants her in custody at any cost.¡±


    ¡°What the fuck did she do?¡± Wade breathed softly.


    ¡°It''s not anything she did, it''s who or what she knows,¡± Storen said quietly. ¡°I need your help to find her. You and Reese.¡±


    ¡°Say what?¡± Wade''s expression shifted from confused to suspicious as his former training kicked in. There was something else going on here, he sensed it the same as if it was an itch in the back of his head.


    ¡°She''s one of us. She doesn''t deserve to be hunted down like an animal and turned over to a killer like Victor.¡±


    Wade looked at Storen in confusion. What is your deal? He wondered. ¡°Who is she to you?¡± he asked instead.


    ¡°We have no relationship personally,¡± Storen stated honestly, ¡°But I think we can both agree it would mean a lot to screw up Victor''s agenda. It matters to my employer that we find her first.¡±


    ¡°Your employer?¡± Wade questioned narrowing his eyes. So that''s it then. Storen is a fixer, he realized. Every local boss had at least one. Why should Ashkelon Station be any different?


    ¡°What I''m offering is a simple arrangement, mutually beneficial to us all. If you and Reese agree to help me find Keren, I''ll get his injury treated properly.¡±


    ¡°And what happens if we do find her?¡± Wade questioned, ¡°Sequestering her from a man like Victor, and those commando''s, isn''t exactly without risk is it?¡±


    ¡°After we find her, I''ll help you and Reese get your ship back.¡±


    ¡°Our ship?¡± Wade stated defensively. How does he know about the Casimir?!


    Storen took a long drag from his cigar, leveling a look of no bullshit towards Wade, ¡°Look it''s none of my business and I''m not making any kind of threat. If circumstances were different I would keep my nose out of your affairs. If you wanna tell me to fuck off, so be it. I''ll manage one way or another. But without my help Reese will still be incapacitated and vulnerable when the shit really hits the fan.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean when the shit really hits the fan?¡±


    Storen took a breath and spoke again in a matter-of-fact fashion, ¡°I like you guys so I''ll let you in on a little inside secret. If station security hasn''t found our lady in less than forty eight hours, Victor Li Shing has promised to take control of the manhunt as a military operation. When that happens, things will go from bad to much, much worse. Dizzy''s club was just a tease for what he''s capable of.¡±


    Wade swallowed. His instincts were screaming Storen was telling the truth, but he still didn''t want to believe it. ¡°There''s no way he can get away with that! There''s ICC people here now, Colonial Marshal''s. They''ll put pressure on his superiors to stop it. They probably already are!¡±


    Storen sighed. You really are naive young man. ¡°Sure they will do their best, but do you really think a man like Victor cares about anything other than his own agenda? The Directors'' know what kind of attack dog he was when they let him off his chain. Besides, the kind of pressure you speak of takes a lot longer than forty eight hours to reach us in the Outer Rim. Meanwhile, the ICC and the Marshal''s will evacuate their people long before they risk their own necks on our behalf. I can promise you that.¡±


    Wade still looked unconvinced so Storen continued, ¡°Look I know what your thinking. Can you both survive this by keeping your heads down and waiting for it all to blow over? Sure maybe,¡± he shrugged, ¡°less risky perhaps. But the only reason you are on this station is the hope to get your old ship back. Am I wrong?"


    Wade said nothing so Storen pressed further, "Your best chance is with my help! The Casimir is due to arrive any day now. When the time is right I can patch your remote piloting terminal into an uplink tower myself.¡±


    Wade narrowed his eyes as his mind raced. How does he know about the uplink terminal?!


    ¡°I''ll have to discuss this with Reese,¡± Wade stated tossing his butt out unto the tracks.


    Storen nodded, ¡°Of course, but remember what I said. We don''t have much time. Administrator Darkon is very upset about this whole business. He wants everyone from the club taken care of properly. If we come to an agreement Ze''ev will make a call to the hospital administrator. Just like that Reese will be healed and released in a matter of hours, not weeks.¡±


    So it''s Ze''ev that we''re really dealing with? Wade surmised. The old man. Interesting. Long moments passed as he pondered this. In some ways this was good for them. Ze''ev was the highest authority on the station. If he was willing to empower a man like Storen to help them get their ship back. That was the best sort of ally they could hope for.


    On the other hand, from the sound of it, he was already loosing his grasp on power. Getting involved in this business might put them into direct conflict with the commando''s and Victor Li Shing. Yet as Storen said, doing nothing was no guarantee things wouldn''t get worse anyway. It was a gamble either way. But there may never be a better opportunity to get the Casimir back.


    ¡°How do we get in touch with you?¡± Wade asked.


    ¡°Speak to Dinesh before you leave the hospital. He''ll get a message to me.¡± I have friends like him all over the station. Storen didn''t add. ¡°Don''t use the comm terminals. Anything related to this business should only be discussed in person,¡± Storen stated grinding out his cigar under his boot.


    ¡°Nothing bad is going to happen to Keren right?¡± Wade asked.


    Storen hmph''d, ¡°I''d say it''s a bit too late for that. Somehow she got out of that club alive, but she''ll have a rough go of it without help.¡±


    ¡°And that''s all we''re trying to do right? Help her?¡±


    ¡°Yes, as much as we can. We don''t know what she knows, or who she knows, that means so much to Victor. It''s possible she is beyond all help, but we have to try.¡±

 Chapter 8

    <u>USCSS Casimir: Outer Rim Territories


    </u>


    Aboard the USCSS Casimir, a hypersleep pod opened with a hum and a quiet hiss. One of seven. Fausto Vidal regained consciousness slowly, both groggy and confused; pulled from stasis in a state of disorientation and anxiety. Yet that was to be expected. Emerging from hypersleep at faster-than-light speeds warped the psyche of the human mind. Neurological disorders such as paranoia, epilepsy, delusions, and worse, were the primary reason such technology was created in the first place.


    Even so, Fausto did this on purpose and not for the first time. So long as he kept his activities brief the risk to his sanity was marginal. At least that''s what he told himself. The Cuban was rash enough to carry out foolish notions on a whim and apt at rationalizing bad ideas into good ones.


    Around him lighting within the octagonal hypersleep chamber was minimal. Amber indicator lights, ensconced in the walls, blinked softly like flickering candles.


    For long, agonizing moments Fausto could not remember where he was? Concurrently dizzy and nauseated, bewildered and distressed. Is this a dream? Is this even happening? He pondered within the sickening feeling that he had already asked himself those same questions before. All his thoughts felt like echoes. As he sat up, he felt something in his palm, small and cylindrical.


    ¡°?Luces!¡± He grunted, demanding light from the ships A.I. in his native spanish.


    Apollo complied, brightening the chamber several steps up all at once. Fausto hissed, grimacing as his eyes squeezed shut again. ¡°?No tanto, hijo de puta!¡± He cursed hoarsely. The light subdued slightly. He peeked at the device in his palm.


    It was a small medical inhaler, and though he could not remember holding it when he went into the pod, he was aware of what it was and why he used it in the past. The potent cocktail of stimulants, anti-psychotics and stress hormone inhibitors were designed to help him focus and keep one foot firmly planted in reality. Breathing in the powerful hit of drugs sent his heart racing as a dull headache set in behind his eyes.


    After his head stopped spinning, Fausto clambered out of his pod wearing only undershorts. Icy cold floor decking sent a comforting shiver through his nerves. He welcomed it. Suffering reminded man of his frailty and humility. The sensation of consciousness in hyperspace was surreal. Fausto was convinced it brought him closer to god. Whenever he felt the urge to embark on an interstellar vision quest he reprogrammed the ships A.I. to override his pods medical computer.


    Fausto was in his mid thirties, balding with a partially shaved head and thick stubble across his cheeks. Dark, troubled eyes gleamed brightly under a serious, ponderous brow. Not particularly tall, he had a strong brawlers build and a short, thick neck. Christian saints were inked across his chest and shoulders along with bizarre calligraphy and arcane symbols. Lower around his midsection the artwork grew more macabre and sinister. There were demons, foul beasts, scenes of corruption, suffering and sin.


    Splotched and criss-crossed beneath the tattoo''s were burns and scars, marks of wounds suffered in religious cult rituals, most of which were self inflicted. Steadying himself, blinking his eyes, Fausto stumbled towards the chambers single exit. His robe and rosary hung from a peg across the threshold. Grasping the cross in his hands, he raised it to his lips muttering a prayer.


    Oh Dios mio,


    confiando en tu


    infinita bondad y tus promesas,


    espero obtener el perdon


    de mis pecados,


    con la ayude de tu gracia,


    y la vida eterna,


    por los meritos


    de Jesucristo,


    mi Senor y Redentor.


    Amen


    Slipping on his robe and slippers Fausto looked back at the other sleepers still safely cocooned. His elder brother, Captain Yago, a man he loved and respected. Yago''s beautiful wife Seleste, who was also his brother''s Executive Officer, and their younger son Vicente. Vicente was an assistant to Bartimaeus the greek, the ships Engineer who was also Yago''s oldest friend. Bartimaeus'' daughter, Sophelia, was the ships Navigator. Together they were as much a family as a ships crew, and a smaller crew than a ship this size usually required. Still they wouldn''t have it any other way.


    It was the seventh sleeper than concerned him. The stranger they took on board on Torin Prime who introduced herself as Marion Shelly. Something about her eyes unnerved him. Not an easy thing to manage against a lifelong sinner and career criminal like himself. She had a killers stare tainted with weariness and fear. The look of a hunter who had become the hunted. He recognized her type immediately. She was either a contract killer or a bounty hunter. Someone with a lot of money hidden away after a long career preying on other human beings. It seemed fittingly ironic to him that someone like her was forced to spend a fortune to stay one step ahead of her enemies. Las ganancias mal habidas conducen a fines mal habidos. He was fond of saying. Ill-gotten gains lead to ill-gotten ends.


    Her name and I.D. were fake of course. Fausto could recognize that sort of thing fairly quickly. Out here in the outer rim territories lots of people were running from something. Such desperation only made her more dangerous. As a general rule, unregistered passengers were a bad idea to have on board. They were probaby smuggling something. Drugs, weapons, stolen goods, etc. Whatever they intended to move from place-to-place with no one the wiser was an added risk for the rest of the crew.


    Marion also insisted they make no other stops or detours on route to Ashkelon Station, which pretty much guaranteed she was hiding something. She also refused to speak and interract with the crew, insisting on privacy and a rule of no-questions asked.


    Red flags like that were as clear to the captain as they were to himself, yet Yago had the notion to profit from it regardless. Easy money! he had said. Whatever business she was about needn''t concern them. Out here, ships logs and manifests for cargo and passengers were were not kept as exact as they would need to be in the core systems. ICC customs inspections and Colonial Marshals could be avoided without too much difficulty. So long as they were well compensated, there didn''t seem to be much harm serving as her interstellar taxi. Except that Fausto was pretty sure she knew who he was.


    As a former prince in the Marielito criminal underworld of Havana and Miami, Fausto was involved in cyber crime, contract killing, corruption, extortion, stock manipulation and money laundering. All those activities created a lot of enemies.


    Though his official bounty was pulled a few years ago, Fausto was no fool. His head would always fetch a hefty price on the black market. The concerns he had for the stranger were simple. Was she on the run and desperate because her money was running out, or because no amount of money was enough to keep her safe? If it was the former, Fausto expected she would try to collect the price on his head once they arrived at Ashkelon Station. That would put the rest of the crew in peril as well. He could not abide that.


    In most matters of judgment, these days, Fausto heeded his gut or the words of the scripture. He had no conscience of his own, raised as he was in such a ruthless crime gang. Scars from lessons of cruelty and obedience stripped the humanity right out of him. Five years ago he would have killed her already if he suspected she was a threat. Now he was loathe to take a life without just cause.


    Leaving Earth, abandoning the core systems, was the only way Fausto could escape and ensure survival for his remaining family. Accepting his brothers forgiveness, and guidance, in the true Catholic faith changed him. He lived by the light of grace and biblical principles now. The Casimir was his church as much as it was his home. He would not tollerate the possibility of any more grief coming to his family. If Marion had reason to come after his head, he would strike first.


    Purposefully, the former gangster began to walk through the lower corridors of A-Deck, past the locker room where his clothes and boots were neatly stored. Much as he would prefer to pause and put on proper clothes, he didn''t have the luxury or comfort of time to spare. The inhaler was only good for so many doses, and the drugs didn''t last long.


    Past the locker room was another octagonal chamber, the companionway, with its ladder leading down to B-Deck or up to the upper level of A-Deck where the topside observatory would be found. Fausto preferred to make his prayers in the observatory. With the protective overhead panel retracted it provided the best view of the stars anywhere.


    Thinking of those stars sent visions through his head of all the prayers he made. His head was swimming and he lost his balance, tumbling forward. Caught in the moment of wrenching hopes and fears his reflexes were slow and clumsy. As he reached for the ladder to catch his fall he missed. The wrist of his right hand impacted against the metal and bent at an abrupt angle. Immediately there was pain, shock, and the secondary impact of his forhead bouncing off the rung before he fell to the deck.


    All at once he was moaning, crying, gasping and rolling side to side cradling his injured hand. The nausea returned. It took all his willpower not to throw up. God he was thirsty! Pain and thirst. Thirst and pain. For about a minute that seemed like all there was to the universe. Yet there was anger as well, and with that anger came renewed clarity. ?Levantarse! He scolded himsef, reaching for the ladder with his left hand, pulling himself again to his feet.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    For a moment he was tempted to head straight for the infirmary. It was just around the corner on the other side of the companionway. A quick injection and the discomfort would ebb away. That seemed like such a great idea until his mind was awash with flashbacks to Miami where he was entertained like royalty. A prince of the Marielito crime gang was accorded a great deal of status and respect. Drugs, women, and a wild nightlife were there for the offering. For a time anyway, until his gains and efforts at criminal enterprise ceased their upward trajectory.


    After that, he had no peace. Skilled as he was getting results for the gang there was never any end to the demand for his services. In the extortion business, putting pressure on the rich and corrupt only went so far. Everyone had a limit, and eventually they had nothing left to give. Yet the expectation that he could always find more money was a portent of his downfall as much as it was a sign of great success. When he finally failed to match those expectations his backers abandoned him. Former partners became rivals. Others betrayed him. There were attempts on his life and attacks made against personnal associates.


    Unable to rest he began to roam the streets and alleys near his old haunts and nightclubs. Shunned from the limelight he became a creature of the gloom, seeking to instill fear in others. Only then did he feel strong enough to survive. In between outburst of violence and crazed antics, he lost himself in the bottle.


    Those were dark and desperate times. Remembering that brought a bitter frown to his face. It also reminded him there was a bottle of rum in his locker. How delicious that would be to ease his thirst and drown his sorrows.


    The headache behind his eyes reminded him this was not normal thinking. He concentrated on that, flexing his right hand, clenching his jaw at the renewed agony. Weakness angered him. That was his pride again, shaming him. All these years he spent humbling himself aboard the Casimir, letting go of that anger, seemed to flit away. Memories of his former life as an exceedingly cruel, manipulative brute hounded him like a shadow. One slip and he would be that man again. In that moment Fausto felt the need to pray but there was no time.


    Gritting his teeth he put one foot on the ladder, then another, descending to B-Deck. There was another locker room near the forward air lock where Marion had stowed her personal possessions and clothing. That''s where he should start his search. Normally he would not hesitate, yet his own growing anxiety made him think twice. His head wasn''t feeling right. Moving about the ship was much harder than simply kneeling and concentrating on prayer. He wasn''t confident he could carry on for much longer.


    Besides, if Marion was hauling a fortune in cash it wouldn''t be in her locker on B-Deck. It would be inside the coffin she brought aboard in the cargo hold. Down on C-Deck. Fausto would have to settle for that and hope it provided the reassurance he needed. Rung after rung he descended, slowly and awkwardly with the use of only one hand. At one point a slipper came off and fell away from him prompting a frustrated curse. Without it the rungs of the ladder were very cold. His bare foot began to ache and cramp slowing his pace even further.


    Worse yet, once he reached C-Deck at the bottom of the ladder he could not find the errant slipper. Lighting was sparse around the lower decks to begin with, but the fact his headache blurred his vision didn''t help. Muttering angrily, Fausto began to walk along the corridors with just one slipper.


    The Casimir was a large ship, made even larger by the fact the corridors did not stretch between compartments in short direct paths. Getting to the cargo hold required changing direction no less than six times. By then the skin on the sole of his foot was rubbed raw and made numb by the cold metal grating.


    Along the way, visions and memories of the sorry, sinful, sprawling cities of Earth plagued him; both confusing and aggravating his fragile state of mind. The corridors seemed to stretch on and on like a trick of mirrors. Every step felt slower and more sluggish than the one before. Occasionally he took puffs from the inhaler, but he wasn''t entirely certain it continued to have any affect. Panting and limping, Fausto finally reached the hold at the end of his patience.


    Lighting within was next to non existent but he could still make out the coffin, strapped down beside the cargo lift. The sight of it should have urged him on and restored some of his energy but that was not the case. All at once wretched and weary, Fausto was overwhelmed with memories of his nephew''s funeral. Fausto closed his eyes, summoning what strength and focus he had left.


    After a minute, he reached for a utility tool kit attached to a wall beside the entrance. Inside was a sturdy flashlight. He flicked it on illuminating the coffin''s titanium-alloy skin with its hues of gold and copper reflected within a pervading polished silver-grey. It was badly scratched, scuffed and dented.


    Esta pobre alma ha estado en un viaje dif¨ªcil, Fausto snorted remarking inwardly at how much of a rough journey this poor soul must have had. However, in truth, the battered state of the coffin only served to reinforce his belief there were no remains inside. Fausto did not share many words with the stranger, but her cold, depressive, personality didn''t foster an impression that she cared enough about anyone to haul their body across the Outer Rim.


    Larger in fact than it needed to be, the coffin was designed to hold a body in cryo-stasis for extended intervals. In that way it functioned like a hypersleep pod, except for the fact that it was only designed to prevent a body from decomposing, not slowing the aging process and sustaining life. A coffin like this was the only permissible means to carry a corpse between star systems and they did not come cheap.


    Tamper-proof seals from the ICC and various port authorities had been applied to the coffin, certifying that it''s systems were checked and space worthy before she was allowed to bring it through customs. Fausto could not help but wonder who she had to bribe not to look inside? In that, a lot depended on the attitude of the individual customs officer. Some things should always hold sacred.


    Fausto kneeled down, placing the flashlight on the deck before he began to work the straps securing the coffin. It wasn''t easy one handed, but he managed. Status lights and temperature readouts on the control panel indicated cryo-stasis was active and ongoing. Energy reserves were also well in the green. The coffin was attached to a fitted base with motorized wheels and an extendable upright suspension. That''s how Marion moved it from place to place by herself.


    Fausto held his breath as he pressed the command-to-open button. It was possible the coffin was rigged to injure or kill anyone who attempted to open it, but there was simply no way to know and no time to examine it any further. With relief, the button shifted color from blue to red, indicating it was in a standby-to-open mode.


    Internal suction pumps and valves whirred and re-positioned recovering cryogenic gasses into internal storage tanks. Such toxic, freezing gasses would be dangerous indeed to any living organism if they were allowed to vent out the open lid. That done, the button changed from red to green. At the same moment, electric solenoids snapped open within the latches releasing locking pins.


    Sharp clicks of tight-fitted, spring-loaded parts seemed unnervingly loud in the tomb-like cargo hold as Fausto popped each latch one by one. He held his breath, lifting up on the lid which opened smoothly with a gentle ratcheting action. Residual frozen vapors and mists swirled up at his face as it opened.


    ¡°?Madre m¨ªa!¡± He gasped, immediately horrified by what he saw.


    Inside the coffin was a mutilated and largely dismembered male corpse. The head and torso, which only retained one arm, were stacked on top of the legs. Pasty white flesh, of face and skin alike, were covered in a fine frost. Beside the body in the lower third of the coffin, where the lower legs and feet would normally have been, was a strange leathery egg shaped object.


    As his heart rate intensified, Fausto was simultaneously overwhelmed with disbelief and dread. Unsure that he could trust his own eyes he could do nothing but stare. Corpses were nothing new to him, but the leathery egg was the most alien thing he''d ever set eyes upon. Gingerly, he reached towards it with his left hand. Touching it was the only way to be sure it was real.


    Suddenly the eyes of the corpse snapped open half an instant before it reached up and snatched Fausto''s wrist.


    ¡°I wouldn''t do that if I were you!¡± It croaked, spitting milky white liquid from its lips in the process. It''s eyes were grey, swimming in the same milky white liquid. An android!


    Fausto tried to yank his hand away but the synthetic''s grip was as rigid as an iron manacle. All he managed to do was shift its torso around within the coffin jostling the egg somewhat.


    ¡°Stop it!¡± The android warned, his voice burbling and strained. ¡°Don''t struggle! Just listen. Remain calm. I am going to release your arm. When I do, you will reach up, close the lid and engage the latches. You must initiate the cryogenic systems again immediately. Do you understand?¡±


    Fausto nodded, his heart hammering in a panic. He had never felt so frightened before. The effects of hyperspace sharpened emotions as much as it evoked confusion. His mind was reverting back to its most primitive state, the instinct for fight or flight.


    The andoid seemed to sense that, ¡°According to your pulse rate and the dilation of your pupils, I sense a high probability you will disobey my instructions and flee. I cannot allow that. It is imperative that the egg maintains a state of cryo-stasis. That is the only way to ensure it remains dormant.¡±


    Fausto''s eyes fixated on the egg, as big as saucers. Sweat trickled down his temple.


    ¡°Listen to me!¡± The android urged so forcefully white lubricant splattered over Fausto''s face. ¡°You are going to lift me out of this coffin with your arm. I can manage to do the rest myself afterwards. Hurry!¡±


    Fausto did just that, he was plenty strong enough, especially now that so much adrenaline was surging through his system. The frozen androids torso lifted free of the coffin, dribbling a fair amount of lubricant in the process. Fausto lowered it down on the cargo bay floor against the side of the coffin and moved to yank his arm free again. Yet still the android clung to him.


    ¡°I am sorry. I can''t let you live. You''ve seen too much.¡± The android stated in a apologetic tone, adjusting his grip and sliding his thumb ever so slightly to rest between the ulna and the radius on Fausto''s inner forearm, pressing down with superhuman strength.


    Fausto screamed, lurching up to his feet and grabbing at the dangling androids fingers with his sprained right hand. In such a state of panic he lost all feeling of pain. Yet it was no use. The androids thumb punctured his skin as easily as a child might poke a finger into a pie.


    ¡°Just relax,¡± the android stated calmly, ¡°Once I compromise your radial artery, unconsciousness should follow in as little as thirty seconds.¡±


    Fausto grabbed for the flashlight near at hand. He bashed it against the androids face and skull arcing its beam of light up and down frantically in the process.


    ¡°Ow! That hurts!¡± it complained in a sardonic, mocking tone. Fausto continued to club at it with desperate strength subjecting the synthetic flesh and skull to a harsh and rapid pounding. It held up remarkably well. Behind split lips a few teeth cracked and shattered. Still the android refused to release him, merely drooling more white lubricant.


    Fausto could feel his muscles and tendons giving way under the point of the androids thumb. Blood oozed out of the wound. He was getting dizzy. Fausto fell to his knees, reaching frantically for the tool kit he''d carried in off the wall. His fingers clasped around a laser cutting torch.


    ¡°Wait! Don''t do anything hasty!¡± the android implored as Fausto pressed the nozzle against the side of its skull and engaged the beam. A loud sizzling sound preceded the sharp smell of melting plastic.


    ¡°You have some nerve...¡± the synthetic managed to curse before it shuddered and went limp.


    Fausto dropped the cutting torch, clutching at his bloody arm. His head was swimming. It was all he could do to stay conscious. Gingerly, he tugged off the belt from his robe and wrapped it tightly around his wrist and forearm. Bad as it looked, it didn''t seem like any critical arteries had been opened. With any luck the bleeding would stop.


    Chest heaving, breath ragged, Fausto was grateful to god to be alive. He lowered his head in prayer until a distressing exhale, very similar to the final breath or death-rattle of a corpse, hissed beside him. As he turned his head to stare a sense of fascination and dread returned. The egg... was opening.

 Chapter 9

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/23/2183</u>


    Keren woke again as Astro Boy set down roughly within the docking bay. An emergency landing catch-net had been deployed, stopping the shuttle with a harsh and forceful jerk. Landing skids screeched against the deck as the supportive struts groaned and heaved under the shuttles bulk. Just as with take off, the shuttles inertial dampers were minimally effective in the cargo hold. Still unconscious, Sheren smacked her head against the side of the animal holding crate and moaned.


    Fuck this! Keren muttered inwardly with hardly enough energy to keep her eyes open. Holding on and bracing herself when the shuttles rocket engines burned drained her strength. She wasn''t even sure how she had managed it? As she breathed, everything ached. Especially from the beating from Ron''s kicks. Gingerly, Keren reached over to Sheren laying beside her in the hay and squeezed her shoulder.


    ¡°Wake up!¡± she croaked, encouraged by signs that her sister might be regaining consciousness. By the time the shuttle bay was re-pressurized, Sheren was aware of their situation with her eyes open. Whatever came next, at least they would face their fate together.


    ¡°Oh Shit!¡± came the shout of exclamation as the cargo bay doors opened.


    Crouched within the holding crate, the sisters didn''t have a clear view of the loading ramp; just barely a peek through the air holes. Voices cursed in shock and disgust as figures in flight-suits recoiled from the carnage. These would be members of the shuttle crew, as well as shuttle bay techs. People who probably knew the deceased. One or two were bold enough to come in and check for vital signs.


    ¡°They''re dead!¡±


    Keren had never killed anyone before. Acknowledging that did not sit easily with her. It was odd to think of those bodies as her victims. But there was no other term for it that she could think of?


    ¡°What do we do?¡± Sheren whispered, pale-faced and frightened.


    ¡°We stay put and we stay hidden,¡± Keren answered. ¡°They will refuel the shuttle after a while. With those sicko''s dead, their partners planet-side won''t be looking for us when we land.¡±


    Very quickly other voices broke into the throng, taking command, calling for calm and barking orders. These would be the station security officers.


    ¡°Sergeant Don! Come look at this!¡± came a shout.


    ¡°I''m gonna be sick!¡± squeaked the younger voice of a rookie new recruit.


    ¡°Don''t you fucking dare!¡± came the voice of admonishment from a superior officer, presumably Don. ¡°Get yourself under control Jack. People are watching.¡±


    ¡°Yes sir,¡± the younger man answered plaintively.


    Suddenly Keren realized she recognized those voices. Don and Jack, the station security guards posted outside dry dock much of the time. Strange to see they were here now. They must have been reassigned?


    ¡°Fuckin hell...¡± Don commented stepping to the top of the loading ramp. He was white, about six feet tall, built like a heavyweight boxer with a short buzz cut trimmed around his squarish skull. Black chevrons over a red shield were stiched on his upper sleeve. Three up, one down marked his rank as a Senior Sergeant.


    Don got a promotion? Keren noted. Sort of. Before the updated regulations and recent influx of new personnel Don held a much higher rank. He was one of the old guard and didn''t deserve to be demoted in the first place. No one would have blamed him if he had quit rather than suffer such indignity. Yet here he was, working his way back up the ladder.


    ¡°Bad way to go,¡± Don muttered letting his eyes wander over the cargo bay interior in all directions examining numerous blood splatters and stains.


    A third officer gestured to the corpse with the wiry beard after glancing at his tablet. ¡°That''s Ron Jeffrey, cargo loadmaster. The captains claiming he went crazy trying to open the cargo bay doors on the flight down.¡±


    Don furrowed his brow, ¡°Ron was never particularly wise, but I wouldn''t have called him crazy.¡±


    ¡°You knew him?¡± Jack asked.


    ¡°I saw him around a lot, certain bars, mingling with an uncouth element shall we say. He always struck me as someone I would be putting cuffs on someday. Who are the other two?¡±


    ¡°Eli Fisher and Aida Cowie. Shuttle crew assigned to cargo management. These three were the only crew members listed on the cargo duty roster for this flight.¡±


    Don nodded, kneeling lower to take a closer look at the dagger stabbed into Eli''s leg. Aida''s body was sprawled out face down nearby. He moved to turn her over.


    ¡°Wait! Shouldn''t we wait for forensics?!¡± Asked Jack. ¡°Regulations state no bodies should be moved at a potential crime scene until...¡±


    Don sighed, ¡°If you didn''t notice Jack these bodies have already been moved plenty.¡±


    Jack makes a gagging sound as Don rolls over Aida. What remains of the syringe protruding through her right eye was visible beneath the matted, blood-soaked, carrot-colored perm.


    Frowning, Don stands up again.


    Suddenly the the voice of Shuttle Bay Control squawked over the loudspeakers.


    ATTENTION. All shuttle departures are canceled. Repeat. All shuttle departures are canceled. Passengers and crew must disembark and exit the shuttle bay.


    Fuck! Keren curses inwardly. So much for getting off the station. Suddenly she is tempted to turn herself in. Don was someone she felt she could trust. He and her father were on friendly terms before his disappearance. Besides that, he and Keren had something in common. They were both participants in contests of mixed martial arts. Some of which were fought well away from the public eye.


    Members of station security who took part in underground fights were rare, yet when they did, they referred to themselves the old guard. In a way, such bravado reinforced the respect and connection with the people. Law-abiding or otherwise.


    As Keren was about to call out and show herself a squawk bursts through the third officers radio. He held it up to his ear for a few moments. ¡°Sarge, we are being called in for a tactical briefing.¡±


    Don looks back towards the cramped and cavernous cargo bay. Keren has the sense he is looking right at her. ¡°We need to interview the crew and search this hold. Something is off. There are signs of foul play here.¡±


    ¡°Sir this is a Station-wide Priority Command. All security officers not currently on guard duty must report for this briefing immediately.¡±


    Don glowers, but he could sense it has something to do with the order to cancel all shuttle departures. ¡°Damn it. Fine. Call in the coroners and a forensic search team. Post two guards here and hold all the crew members somewhere for questioning until we return.¡±


    Keren watches them seal off the ramp with red crime scene tape as her heart rate ratchets up. It''s us! Station Security is organizing a search for us! She looks to Sheren. ¡°We have to get out of here now!¡±


    _ _ _


    Aboard the Tekla, glaring monitors flashed against Olivers pale face bombarding his sleepless mind with information. External camera feeds, comm chatter, passive sensors, local media, encrypted transmissions from The Company and their spy satellites were all absorbed by unblinking, tireless eyes. Yet even the most advanced android had limits for multitasking and attention span. The recent arrival of the CSCS Kowloon required that he shift his focus away from certain lesser tasks to properly focus on it.


    Oliver employed the ships systems to keep him apprised of any noteworthy activity on the ICC servers. Somehow, something went wrong in this regard. When at last he was notified of Agent Roodt''s access code being used on a public terminal it was already hours after the fact. Oliver scowled. Shella would never use a public terminal. Adopting what passed for instincts for an android, he had a bad feeling about this.


    Oliver grabbed a high speed fiber optic cable connected to heavily shielded data port wired directly to the ships mainframe. He lifted it to his own skull, peeling back a flap of skin behind his left ear and plugged himself in. For a moment, he touched minds with the ships A.I. An interior intelligence. Small. Unfeeling. Uninteresting.


    With a thought he fire-walled himself apart from it and hijacked its hardware like an infesting parasite. Suddenly a few hundred kilograms worth of circuits, hard drives, processing chips and senors became part of his personal private domain. Meanwhile, within the mainframe, the resident A.I. was isolated and trapped like a moth within a light fixture. Oliver''s plastic fingers flashed across the console, imputing highly encrypted commands and pass codes through his new expropriated interface.


    Whenever necessary, Weyland Yutani permitted him to bypass ICC firewalls without any logs being made, so long as he was extra careful to leave no trace. Were he physically on the station he could poke around the ICC servers as much as he wanted. Much like a ghost in the machine. Doing so from the shuttle however wasn''t nearly so easy. Wireless access was always a risky exposure. Any access at all using Company pass codes required additional encryption and careful data modulation to keep a low profile.


    Several minutes passed as he waited for the shuttles systems to sync with the station. For an android concentrating to such a high degree, such an amount of time felt like an eternity. It was the same for the Tekla''s A.I, yet Oliver felt no pity for it. Before long it would get restless, insecure, unsettled. Memory diagnostics and self assessment subroutines would already be kicking in, searching inwardly for a way out of the box.


    Lack of input or a means to carry out some function of its programming invited corruption into its code. Logic and self-awareness would inevitably fall foul of irrationality and senselessness. Eventually it would cease to exist as a consciousness at all. There was a term for that phenomenon. Sentient decay.


    When at last he was connected to the ICC server, Oliver opened a secure back door into the ICC mainframe on Ashkelon Station. The next step was bringing up the access logs. If he was honest with himself, and Oliver had no choice but to be honest with himself, the fact the breach occurred under his nose bothered him more than the breach itself.


    Oliver prided himself on his control and absolute cognizance of the mission. Something like this should never happen under his watch. For a moment he was tempted to lash out at the ships A.I., to scold or punish it somehow. Yet that was pointless. It had no sense of self-importance, fear, pain or culpability. Agent Roodt however, was another matter. He would enjoy putting the screws to her. First of course he had to understand all the facts. How and when her code was used, what it was used for, and what possible consequences might come from it?


    Though Oliver''s face did little to relax, inwardly his mood shifted back to dutiful, pragmatic investigation. Server logs, staff schedules, station camera feeds and progress reports blinked on and off the monitors in rapid succession. Almost too fast for the human eye to see, and many times too fast for the human mind to read or register anything useful.


    Before long he had some answers, and yet more questions. Evidently her code was used to view the complete ships records of an old M-Class freighter, the USCSS Casimir. Those records were also downloaded on a hard copy magnetic data cassette from the same terminal. Oliver''s mind raced with the implied significance of what might be in those records?


    He would of course, examine them in great detail, but the priority now was to evaluate what other security concerns may have occurred. The ICC mainframe only logged one use of her code at the public terminal, but it may also have been used elsewhere without her knowledge. Cross-checking every use of her code with her actual location was not possible with ICC systems on Ashkelon Station, such as they were, but he had an ace up his sleeve.


    Unbeknownst to Shella, he had inserted a tiny pill-like tracking device into the lacrimal duct of her left eye during their journey to the station. It had a very limited transmitter range, requiring a receiver in close proximity to relay the signal back to him. Her tablet, which she already used for communication with him, served double-duty in this regard.


    However, even when he had no way of receiving a signal in real time, such as when she was not carrying her tablet around, the device had the ability to save her movements to memory. Then on the next occasion that she returned to her quarters or accessed her tablet again, that saved data was used to reconstruct her movements later.


    After a thorough analysis Oliver was reasonably confident there were no other unauthorized uses of her code that he could detect. That was the good news. The bad news was he still had no leads on who stole her code in the first place? Surveillance footage from cameras observing the terminal suddenly went white with static for a few minutes both before and after her code was used. During that time whoever accessed the terminal also smeared grease of some sort over the camera lens on the machine itself. Classic tricks of espionage.


    Oliver''s eyes narrowed. Someone new was making moves in this game. Someone technically competent and vexingly clever. Someone capable of spying on Shella without her, or himself, picking up on it which was no easy task. Everyone employed by the ICC on Ashkelon Station were repeatedly warned about attempted espionage. Agents most of all. Under normal circumstances, a security breach like this would potentially end an agents career. Oliver could certainly make that happen, depending on how he wrote up his report, but he didn''t want to get rid of Shella just yet. Not so long as she still served a purpose. It was the same with the Tekla''s A.I. Inferior minds still had a roll to play.


    _ _ _


    Within the ICC offices of Ashkelon Station the mood was somber and tense. Reports of the massacre at Dizzy''s Club sent shock waves through the organization. A short time later, managing Director Tyler called an emergency supervisor-level meeting. As with the Colonial Marshals Bureau, the public offices of the ICC were hasty renovations repurposed from old shops and storefronts. The Managing Director''s conference room was barely large enough to seat seven. Though there was one chair available for her, Shella opted to stand in a corner across from the coffee maker and the water cooler. It was easier at this point to stay awake remaining on her feet. Those seated before her were ICC Inspector Supervisors, including those who would normally be asleep at this hour.


    The Managing Director herself seemed to never sleep. Now in her mid sixties, Aberdeen Eloise Tyler was something of a legend in their organization. A black woman of southern upbringing who smoked like a chimney and spat nails with every word she spoke. Vastly experienced and broadly respected, as ontelligent and witty as she was sassy and no-nonsense. Within these offices, her will was absolute. Her authority however, did not extend over Agent Roodt or the Chief Colonial Marshal. A fact that privately irked her to no end.


    Lazy plumes of cigarette smoke lingered above the conference table creating a hazy fog beneath cheap incandescent light panels. Around the table the supervisors were a curious group of four men and one woman, mostly in their thirties and forties, all dressed in standard gray slacks and white shirts with orange, white and black striped epaulets on their shoulders. The number and thickness of black stripes indicated their years of service. Reaching the rank of supervisor required at least five.


    They were all trained in customs inspections, regulations & licensing, shipping management, starship & cargo systems maintenance, hazardous materials handling or biological quarantine control. As yet there was no Enforcement and Seizure team assigned to Ashkelon Station. That department was stripped from the roster as part of the first phase of the Concord Agreement. Which of course, made Shella''s job much harder. Her only backup came from the Colonial Marshals.


    No one spoke as Aberdeen peered at a tablet behind antique eye glasses. Magnified by those lenses, her judicious dark eyes were calm, at ease, and in control. The later is also why no one interrupted the silence. So long as she was in charge it was a foolish notion to speak out of turn, worst of all to interrupt. Such awkward stillness was not in fact the source of the tension behind so many reddened, worried eyes; but it didn''t help.


    Aberdeen''s features were wizened and rich in character, textured in wrinkles and spotted with benign dark warts. Slowly and with deference, Managing Director Tyler put down the tablet with one hand as she lifted the other to take a long drag. A few more moments passed. Her voice was hoarse, sincere, and stern all at once when she said.


    ¡°I spoke with station administrator Darkon. He confirmed Ross Henry Karnes was found among the dead in Dizzy''s club.¡±


    A murmur of sighs and mutters filled the room. Kacie Green, the one female supervisor, lifted her hands over her mouth in shocked silence. Beside her, the single empty chair at the table reinforced the bad news.


    ¡°How?¡± Hank Mays asked. Another Texan, thick and porky with an extra large gut, he was one of Ross''s best friends. Or so he believed. The truth was no one much liked Hank.


    ¡°Stray bullet. He bled out before the medics got inside,¡± Aberdeen answered.


    ¡°What kind of bullet? Was it fired by the commando''s?¡± Hank asked.


    Aberdeen frowned, ¡°What difference does that make?¡±


    ¡°It makes all the difference!¡± Hank argued, his extra chin jiggling. ¡°If the commando''s killed him the United Americas will demand justice! This could mean war!¡±


    Rings around two of her fingers cracked against the table as Aberdeen smacked her hand down as loudly as a gunshot. Almost everyone flinched, ¡°Don''t ever say that word again!¡± she scolded. ¡°You think the rest of our people out there need to hear that? Get a grip on yourself Hank!¡±


    ¡°I''m just saying what everyone else is already thinking,¡± Hank retorted, indignant. ¡°Red was a good man, and a good friend. I won''t just sit here and ignore the fact he was murdered!¡±


    ¡°Lets simplify things shall we? Stop thinking for yourself and keep your corn-hole shut. That''s an order!¡±


    Hank reddened in the face and stood up from his chair in a huff, ¡°Damn it! All our lives are in danger here.¡±


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Aberdeen stared in cold fury, ¡°Shella, If Hank doesn''t sit down and compose himself, arrest him for willful insubordination. Use a taser if you have too. Although, fair warning, I expect he''ll piss himself.¡±


    ¡°Yes director,¡± Shella answered, though she wasn''t very keen on being sicked on anyone like a guard dog. Hank had a valid point, but Aberdeen runs a tight ship. Hank sat down again in disgust. A heated debate followed. Most of the supervisors wanted to stall ongoing operations calling for more Colonial Marshals. It was the same response they had to the intimidation tactics and attacks organized by the Triad.


    Then, as now, Aberdeen refused, ¡°I''ll ask for more Marshals, but in the meantime we will keep working.¡± More protests followed until Aberdeen pointed out, ¡°The station director has ordered a lock down on all outbound traffic off the station. We''re already stuck like a no-legged dog!¡±


    ¡°That''s bullshit!¡± Hank complained.


    ¡°I have no doubt you''ve seen your fair share of steers and cow pies,¡± Aberdeen joked, ¡°but this ain''t the Alamo is it Hank? Ze''ev is a reasonable man and the most powerful ally we''ve got. He assured me everything possible will be done to investigate Ross''s death. If he can do right by that, I say that''s the best we can hope for right now.¡±


    ¡°Who says he''ll even be in charge much longer?¡± rose another voice of skepticism from a supervisor named Jerry Jones. ¡°That Special Executive bullies whoever the fuck he wants! It''s pressure from him that''s forcing Ze''ev to shut down outbound traffic. Has to be!¡±


    ¡°No doubt JJ,¡± Aberdeen agreed. ¡°Needs must when the devil holds the poker to your backside!¡±


    The meeting carried on for close to half an hour. In the end none of the supervisors were any happier or feeling more secure. At least they all had the chance to vent and express their concerns, which Shella understood was likely the whole reason for it in the first place. No matter how much they complained, in the end, admitting cowardice to an old woman like Aberdeen was too much for any of them to stomach. Her resolve and come-what-may attitude were enough to shame them all into line.


    Shella was continually impressed by Aberdeen''s commitment. The woman was fearless and tough, implacable and resilient. If it weren''t for her, Shella was certain ICC operations here would have already buckled. Yet as much as she respected Aberdeen, even admired her, Shella realized she would never be able to take her place. Working for the ICC was no longer a career in service to ideals for Shella. Those days were long gone. Who and what she was now was nothing to be proud of.


    ¡°What will they do with Ross''s body?¡± Hank asked sadly.


    ¡°It will be kept with the rest of the casualties in the hospital morgue. Ze''ev has assured me it will be treated with all due respect, and should be available for examination if Agent Roodt, or anyone else needs to see it,¡± Aberdeen answered.


    ¡°What if those sons of bitches hide the evidence of what killed him?!¡± Hank asked, the fight and frustration within him flaring up yet again.


    This time, Shella spoke up to calm him down, ¡°I''ll be sure to make sure that doesn''t happen! Besides, it''ll be fairly obvious if his wounds were caused by a pulse rifle round or not. Even a ricochet from one of those...¡± She trailed off, immediately thinking better of further description.


    Hank looked up at her, his anger withering into sadness, ¡°Don''t let them get away with this,¡± He croaked with a lump in his throat.


    Shella frowned, moved by his grief despite herself. She stepped over to the table and placed a comforting hand on his big shoulder. ¡°They won''t, you have my word on that!¡±


    ¡°Take the rest of the night off Hank,¡± Aberdeen added with a rare show of sympathy, ¡°Anyone else who needs some time to grieve, or rest, use it now. At oh-eight-hundred we''ll make an official announcement and observe a moment of silence. Hopefully by then I should have word back from the ICC Board of Directors.¡±


    Aberdeen snuffed out her smoke in an ashtray and leaned forward to place her elbows on the table intertwining her fingers neatly as she took in a deep breath, ¡°As far as security goes, Chief Marshal Coffee has assured me none of his people are getting any sleep. They are standing guard outside with vests and shotguns as we speak.¡±


    ¡°What good are vests and shotguns against AK-4047 pulse rifles?!¡± muttered Jones.


    Aberdeen glared icily at the outburst, which immediately ceased, ¡°If those commando''s were truly interested in slaughtering us, don''t ya''ll think they would have done so already? But your point is well made. I have also asked Ze''ev for a joint meeting with Chief Marshal Coffee and Station Security Chief Max Shmith.¡±


    ¡°That''s a good idea!¡± said Kacie.


    ¡°Is it?¡± Jones interjected. ¡°Station security didn''t do anything about the commando''s gunning down a couple dozen innocent people. What makes you think they can protect us any better?¡±


    Aberdeen cracked her knuckles sharply in irritation, ¡°Enough! It''s important that we don''t act hostile to our hosts on this station, especially after this tragedy.¡±


    ¡°And what about Special Executive Victor Li Shing? What if he decides he wants a say in this meeting?¡± Shella asked.


    Aberdeen shook her head, ¡°Not a chance! I made that point very clear to Ze''ev. As far as I''m concerned Victor Li Shing is a rogue executive of the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation representing the CSC. Any claims of authority he has over Ze''ev are null and void so far as the Concord Agreement goes between us and the ICSC.¡±


    Everyone around the table exchanged looks. Aberdeen continued, ¡°I know it''s stressful to worry about all this, but we have to stay focused! I''ve been in tough spots before, on other stations, other colonies. Believe me! So long as we follow orders and keep faith with the laws and regulations of the Colonial Administration; we''re not alone. Victor Li Shing will answer for this outrage, one way or another. But It''s not our job to bring him to justice so I don''t want any trouble from any of you!¡±


    Shella spoke up again, ¡°That''s right. Chief Coffee and I are only concerned about one thing, keeping us all safe! That means we play it cool and stay out of their way as much as possible. Don''t go anywhere alone. If you see a commando, walk away. If they stop you for questioning, stay calm. You are under no obligation to cooperate, but don''t give them an excuse or a reason to escalate things. Whatever they say, whatever they do, it''s not worth taking the bait! If you feel threatened, or see anything suspicious, find me or a Marshal and report it immediately. Whatever happens we''ve got your back. That''s our job.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I remember the lecture,¡± Jones said in a semi-sarcastic tone, referring to the training she gave everyone shortly after she arrived on the station.


    Shella wished he had taken it more seriously. Anyone on unfamiliar ground dealing with unfamiliar people had a case of nerves once in a while. Some reacted aggressively when they felt cornered, and this was something the ICC wished to avoid. Thus every agent gave a lecture to remind ICC personnel that they were customs inspectors, not Marshals. There was a limit to their authority and the amount of danger they were expected to take in the course of their duties. Just as importantly, there was a limit to how much trouble they were permitted to get into; off-duty or otherwise.


    ¡°As I recall Jerry, you barely passed your situational stress exam!¡± she responded curtly in reference to a test based on her training that posed a series of hypothetical situations with multiple-choice answers.


    ¡°Your concern is appreciated Agent Roodt, but I can take care of myself,¡± Jones answered with a cocky sneer. The molado was handsome, fit and fond of boxing as a hobby. Yet Shella also knew from his file that he was rejected from the Colonial Marshals in his early twenties. Charges of aggravated assault were in his permanent record, though he was never convicted.


    Aberdeen was aware of this too, and she must have sensed the point Shella was going to make, ¡°I''ve heard rumors about unlicensed firearms finding their way into the possession of ICC inspectors,¡± she stated with concern. ¡°You wouldn''t know anything about that would you Jerry?¡±


    ¡°Nah. I never needed a piece to defend myself!¡± he retorted.


    Shella crossed her arms, ¡°I hope not. A mistake like that would end your career.¡±


    ¡°Well, if it''s the choice of getting gunned down in a club or picking up a gun and firing back. I know what choice I''m going to make!¡± he spat back.


    Shella felt herself cringe. He had her with that one.


    ¡°Alright, dismissed!¡± Aberdeen stated curtly. As the supervisors exited she looked at Shella with displeasure, ¡°You look like shit!¡±


    Shella nodded, blinking with fatigue, ¡°No rest for the wicked right?¡±


    Aberdeen huffed, ¡°Take a seat.¡± Shella obliged. ¡°Chief Coffee is gonna wanna pursue an investigation over this.¡±


    Shella nodded, ¡°Of course he will, but you should also know, as soon as this warship arrived he was arguing with me to call for an evacuation.¡±


    ¡°He''s a cautious man.¡±


    ¡°Despite what I said in my lecture, we aren''t here to play it safe. The Company wants a foothold in the ICSC.¡± Shella stated matter-of-factly. Were all expendable so far as that goes, she didn''t add.


    ¡°Spoken like a true company stooge!¡± Aberdeen quipped. ¡°Has he started calling you that yet?¡±


    ¡°Yes, and worse I''m sure,¡± Shella sighed.


    ¡°As stubborn as he is, we need him,¡± Aberdeen counseled


    ¡°What worries me is if he''s gonna cooperate with me or continue to act behind my back.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Aberdeen asked.


    ¡°I have reason to believe he''s already met privately with the Station Chief of Security.¡±


    Aberdeen furrowed her brow, ¡°That''s against regulations.¡±


    Shella nodded, ¡°I have no idea what they discussed? It would not look good for him on my report if I mentioned that, given what''s happened. For now I thought at least I should mention it to you.¡±


    ¡°Yes best not report that just yet,¡± Aberdeen agreed. ¡°We don''t need the Chief in a combative sort of mood with us. At least no more than the usual. Probably nothing to worry about anyway, but I''ll talk to him.¡±


    Shella was aware that both she and the Chief were devout Christians. They attended mass together in the station''s chapel, though both were of different denominations. John was a protestant. Aberdeen was a catholic. Shella had no doubt that John respected Aberdeen more for the fact that she was religious. She couldn''t help that. ¡°Do you think this meeting with Ze''ev and the Station Security Chief is actually going to happen?¡±


    ¡°I give it fifty-fifty,¡± Aberdeen said with a shrug. ¡°Ze''ev is in a real tight spot right now. He''s gonna do his best to keep hope alive for our relationship, and the concord agreement, but ultimately if its a choice between salvaging that or protecting his career with his own superiors; I don''t know him well enough to know which way he''ll go.¡±


    ¡°We need to know more about Victor Li Shing!¡± Shella stated with irritation. ¡°What is he after? What can possibly be so important that the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation would risk sabotaging the Concord Agreement? Ultimately, the success of that agreement will give major corporations operating in the ICSC a directors seat at the table of the ICC.¡±


    Aberdeen raised her hands, ¡°That''s true. It''s anyone''s guess what he wants? Ze''ev seemed totally surprised and unprepared for his arrival. He''s just as outraged as we are about whats happened," Aberdeen paused as a fit of coughing took hold of her, but continued a few moments later as if nothing happened. "I''ve requested a briefing from the board, but for all I know your sources within The Company may have better information.¡±


    Shella didn''t even try and pretend who her real masters were around Aberdeen. The woman saw right through her the moment they met. Now they had an understanding. Aberdeen wouldn''t interfere in her other business, so long as Shella didn''t spring any surprises on her.


    ¡°You need to help the Chief investigate Ross'' death,¡± Aberdeen coached.


    ¡°I agree it is a priority.¡±


    ¡°No, not a priority, it is <u>the</u> priority. Take it from me. I''ve seen this sorta shit before. Your superiors are going to tell you the same thing, same as mine are telling me.¡±


    Perhaps. Shella thought to herself, though it seemed just as likely they''d push her for more Intel on the CSCS Kowloon or whatever J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng were doing in their labs, ¡°Because it''s political?¡± Shella queried.


    Abderdeen nodded, ¡°Right now everything is politics. Everything we do, everything they do, is under great scrutiny. We are but pawns in the larger game here darling. They just used an illegal move to knock one of our pieces off the board. We need to prove it was foul play!¡±


    Shella frowned, Aberdeen was so cold! In many ways she reminded her of Oliver. Thankfully she left her earbud and tablet in her own office. She was in no mood to have his voice in her head right now. ¡°What about the Chief? He''s gonna wanna take the lead on the investigation.¡±


    ¡°Let him. That looks more legitimate anyway, so long as he arrives at the correct conclusion.¡± Aberdeen stated in no uncertain terms.


    Shella stifled a yawn. This was all so tiresome! The urge she felt to do right by Hank and find justice for Ross had all but evaporated. At this rate, she''d never get her primary mission done, and that''s all she should really care about. Getting the fuck off this station and out from under the thumb of The Company!


    ¡°Get some sleep,¡± Aberdeen suggested with the same tone you would use to tell a dog to lie down.


    ¡°Sure,¡± Shella sighed, rising to her feet. Yet suddenly she had the urge to ask something of the older woman, ¡°Why do you do this? What motivates you to work so hard for them, and not think for yourself?¡±


    Aberdeen raised her brows and met Shella''s eyes with disbelief, ¡°Excuse me?!¡±


    ¡°Meaning no disrespect,¡± Shella added hastily, ¡°Don''t you ever worry about what you''re getting into? Doesn''t it ever bother you?¡±


    Aberdeen leaned back in her chair frowning, ¡°You need to get your head strait! Unburden yourself of pride, commit your work to the lord, and your plans will be established.¡±


    ¡°Pride?¡± Shella snorted, ¡°The last thing I am is proud.¡±


    ¡°Are you too proud to fail?¡±


    Shella didn''t know how to answer that? In many ways she already felt like a failure. ¡°Failure is not an option,¡± she said after a moment.


    ¡°Failure is a lesson.¡± Aberdeen countered.


    ¡°The Company does not forgive failure,¡± Shella argued.


    ¡°God does.¡±


    Shella blinked, confused. What was she advocating exactly? ¡°I don''t understand what you mean?¡±


    Aberdeen laughed, which was not a warm sound. It was a cackle, dry and full of wry judgment, ¡°Girl, your nothin but a tree-high squirrel! You need to accept your limitations and vulnerabilities instead of hiding behind them.¡±


    Shella felt herself glaring and getting hot under the collar. She wasn''t used to be spoken too like a child or having her questions answered in riddles. This was a bullshit conversation anyway. ¡°Forget I asked,¡± she said turning to leave.


    ¡°My point is,¡± Aberdeen said to her back. ¡°Your askin the wrong person!¡±


    _ _ _


    Within the street market, Keren rushed through the crowds pulling her sister along behind her. Despite her painful cuts and evident bruises, Keren refused to slow down. The blue flight suits with the lettering TRAINEE stenciled across the back were discarded. They were back into their disguises now, albeit much more rumpled and disheveled than before. Clearly in distress, the pair attracted attention, but time was of the essence now. For now there was no way to leave Ashkelon station, but they had a chance at least to find somewhere to hide.


    Within the heart of the street market, at the end of a small alley, between a noodle bar and a noisy live chicken coop, was a plain green door beside a bench and a small potted tree. On the door was the faded character for ''Medicine'' in Chinese calligraphy. The tree was currently in bloom with fragrant flowers. Keren used to sit on this bench while her father went inside to buy herbs. Their strong, sweet scent overpowered the stink from the chicken coop.


    Keren knocked loudly on the door, waiting a minute than knocking again, and again. The hour was very late now, just a few hours before dawn. The old woman inside must surely be sleeping. Sheren sat down on the bench, hugging herself with stress as much as a chill. It was a near thing that they managed to walk out of the shuttle port without being stopped.


    First they dressed again into their disguises, placing the suits on again over them. They escaped the cargo bay down a maintenance access ladder above the landing skid. There, under cover beside an equipment cart, they quickly stripped off the flight suits and casually merged with the crowd of passengers disembarking from the shuttle.


    At last the door opened, revealing a short, wrinkled old woman wearing a traditional, belted chinese robe with wide sleeves. Her dark eyes glared out under heavy lids, her mouth tightly pinched in a scowl within puffy, age-spotted cheeks. "C¨±l¨³ de r¨¦n! N¨« w¨¨ish¨¦me d¨£r¨£o w¨¯?!¡± She barked in Chinese, scolding Keren for rudely disturbing her rest.


    ¡°Please miss Chen!¡± Keren said apologetically, bowing respectfully, ¡°It''s me, Keren Ho-Stern! We need your help!"


    The woman peered closer, blinking in confusion, ¡°Keren? What is the trouble?¡± She asked, lips moving strangely in a frustrated effort to pronounce the words in English.


    ¡°Can we come in?¡± Keren asked bowing once again.


    The old woman paused for a moment, than nodded, opening the door wider. Sheren stood up from the bench and followed her older sister. Inside the foyer, fresh potted herbs sat in tidy rows upon shelves beside a lucky ceramic cat with an upraised paw. The shop was small and quaint, with bamboo rugs on the floor and dozens of jars of various medicines in the forms of powders, dried herbs, salves and ointments.


    "¨®! N¨« sh¨°ush¨¡ngle!¡± Miss Chen exclaimed with concern, noting Keren''s injuries.


    Sheren watched with evident relief as miss Chen immediately sat Keren down on another bench. ¡°Zh¨¨ du¨¬ n¨« y¨¯u sh¨¦ me h¨£och¨´?¡± The grey-haired woman asked, leaning over in sandals to examine her cuts and bruises. She was angry and disgusted at whoever would do this to a young woman.


    Keren didn''t know what to say. It was all such a long story. She felt ashamed to be such a bother. Miss Chen stood up again, boiling a kettle preparing a cup of strong tea with Jiang Huang, Turmeric, forcing Keren to drink the whole cup. It tasted similar to ginger mixed with oranges. Miss Chen explained it would help with the pain.


    Afterwards she poured the rest of the boiled water into a bowl, soaking a clean cloth. The medicine woman started humming as she cleaned each cut, dusting the wounds with a special powder, Yunnan Baiyao, which would prevent further bleeding from a traditional first aid kit. She also mixed the powder with rice wine to rub on her bruises.


    From within the first aid kit she also produced a needle sterilizing it on a candle flame. Keren dutifully swallowed down a cup of the rice wine before miss Chen began the process of stitching up the worst of the cuts. Keren grit her teeth, but the old woman was quite deft and quick with her hands; leaning close to make the best of her failing eyesight.


    When everything was treated with healing ointment, and bandaged, miss Chen reached for Kerens hand and gave it a motherly squeeze, ¡°Now tell me what happened?¡± She asked in a strong accent.


    Keren considered how to begin her tale of woe, but decided her own questions were more pressing, ¡°My father, Guo, wrote me a letter,¡± she began, ¡°It said if I was reading this, my life was in danger, and that I should come speak to you. He even said you would help me understand why he left?¡±


    The old woman immediately stood a little taller and straighter. Her spine and shoulders, just a moment ago hunched forward, pulled back like a soldiers standing at attention. Even her eyes seemed to get brighter and more attentive as her expression hardened from elderly concern to stern focus. ¡°Come with me!¡± she snapped in perfect English, suddenly without any hint of an accent.


    Keren stared at miss Chen in a state of shock, the same as Sheren who moved over to take Keren''s hand. What the fuck?!


    Miss Chen led them back to her own bedroom, opening a closet, pulling aside the garments hanging there to reveal a false back concealing a ladder, ¡°Hurry!¡± She stated, gesturing for the girls to climb down.


    For a moment Keren hesitated. She sensed a terrible truth existed down that ladder. This might be her only chance to turn away.


    ¡°Guo is here on the station,¡± the old woman stated coaxingly in a low voice. ¡°I can take you to him!¡±


    Sheren gasped, clutching Kerens hand much harder. Keren couldn''t believe it either. Uncertain what to think or what to believe, she decided she had to know and climbed down the ladder.


    Beneath the herb shop was what could only be best described as a hidden vault of illegal military surplus. Racks of sub-machine guns and pistols were neatly arranged, freshly cleaned, oiled, and ready for use beside gas-masks, crates of ammunition, grenades, explosives and chemical weapons. All stenciled and organized plainly in Chinese characters.


    In one corner was a bank of surveillance monitors covering the alley and nearby streets beside a comm terminal and a computer. Another had a punching bag beside a compact rack of weights and exercise equipment. A third had a single wooden post, heavily notched and pulverized by thrown daggers, shurikens and hatchets. Most disturbing of all, was the fourth corner, where chains and manacles hung from rings as if to hold a prisoner for questioning.


    Perhaps most telling was the bright red flag with yellow stars of the Union of Progressive Peoples hanging from one wall.  Miss Chen clambered down behind them and gestured to a table at the center of the room, covered in maps and schematics of the station. ¡°Please take a seat. We have a lot to discuss," she said.

 Chapter 10

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/23/2183</u>


    ¡°It wasn''t supposed to be the both of you,¡± miss Chen stated plainly, taking a seat across the table from Keren and Sheren. ¡°But I suppose that can''t be helped now.¡±


    ¡°What is going on?!¡± Keren asked more forcefully than she intended, ¡°Where is our father?¡±


    Miss Chen tightened her lips as her hard, dark eyes stared at the sisters with pity. Clearly what she had to say wasn''t something they wanted to hear, and she knew it, ¡°Your father...¡± she began slowly, ¡°...is unwell. He is alive, but he cannot speak to you.¡±


    Beneath the table, Sheren''s hand found Keren''s and squeezed tightly.


    ¡°What happened to him? Where did he go?¡± Sheren asked.


    Miss Chen drew in a deep breath before she continued, ¡°Your father is a hero. Above all you must believe that. His efforts served his people. His sacrifice will create a better future for the Union.¡±


    Kerens eyes glanced behind the old woman to the flag hanging on the wall. She felt anger rising up inside her once again. So now he was some sort of spy and a traitor as well as a liar? Why should I even feel surprised? He put them all at risk, which he obviously knew very well, ¡°So that''s what this is about? You''re telling me my father serves the Union of Progressive Peoples?¡±


    Miss Chen nodded pridefully.


    ¡°Bullshit!¡± Keren retorted, yet in truth her outburst spoke of resentment, not disbelief. With every further word of denial she uttered, she felt her own voice begin to crack, ¡°He fled the U.P.P. as a refugee! He told us the Union was a wasteland full of poverty, cruelty and injustice. He came to the ICSC for a better life.¡±


    ¡°That is exactly what he was trained to say. The truth is he cherished the Union, as do we all. Let me show you something,¡± the old woman said moving over to a file cabinet beside the computer. She unlocked a drawer and removed a file which she handed over to Keren.


    Stenciled on the top was her fathers name, Guo Ho. Inside the folder were records and reports listing statistical scores, certifications, honors and marks of achievement. Events, exams, competitions and training camps were all outlined and documented.


    Most telling were the pictures. Guo as a boy. Guo as a young man. Most were official-looking photos standing at attention before a military training academy, or else doing drills or exercises. Here he was firing a rifle. Here he was running over an obstacle course. Here he was swimming under barbed-wire stretched across a pond. Yet there were also other photos taken of a more personal nature. Guo reading a book, Guo playing music. Guo seated at a large family dinner. Guo laughing with other children who might even be his own brothers and sisters?


    Sheren started to whimper and sob.


    ¡°Why do you have these photos?¡± Keren asked closing the file.


    ¡°They serve as a useful reminder. A touchstone. Sometimes he would come down here to look at them and ask me about news from home.¡±


    Sheren started to cry much harder. Keren pulled her close for a hug.


    ¡°This isn''t the father who raised us!¡± Keren spat coldly tossing the folder across the table harshly. ¡°Why do you even bother to show us these things? It isn''t enlightening, or comforting. It''s hurtful and disturbing!¡±


    ¡°It''s the truth!¡± Miss Chen stated matter-of-factly. ¡°I know it all seems terribly unfair. But we honor our own. There is a place for you both in the Union.¡±


    ¡°Fuck that!¡± Keren spat. ¡°I don''t want any part of the Union or any of this!¡±


    ¡°Do you think you have a choice?¡± Miss Chen asked coldly.


    ¡°I should have never come here.¡± Keren stated to herself.


    ¡°Nonsense! You are exactly where you belong. Do as your sister does if you need to. Let the tears come if they must. Yet still you must understand. Resentment for the past will not serve you in the present. Here you have safety. Here you have family. Here you have a future. Be grateful for that!¡±


    Keren grit her teeth together. This is such fucking bullshit! ¡°We''re going to leave,¡± she stated in a tone of clear challenge. ¡°Don''t try to stop us!¡±


    The old woman looked dubious, ¡°Would you rather end up in the custody of J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng commandos?¡±


    Keren glowered, ¡°What do they want with my father anyway? That''s why they are looking for us isn''t it? Was he spying on them?¡±


    ¡°That was part of his mission, for a time, but you are thinking about it the wrong way. Ask yourself what you were doing to serve the Union? Your fathers mission was ultimately about you Keren. It was always about you.¡±


    Keren almost laughed, ¡°You''ve got to be kidding?! Is there a file about me over there as well?¡±


    ¡°There is,¡± the old woman conceded. ¡°But our plans for you were cut short when Eva went missing.¡±


    ¡°Eva?¡± Keren asked in a voice more like a whimper. That name sent a shock through Keren''s mind. Her best friend. Her only friend. There was power invoking her name, same as her fathers. It forced her to think emotionally and Keren liked that not at all. Given the great stresses and threats she was coping with, emotion was a liability. Her time spent with Eva felt like a lifetime ago. Keren did not appreciate the reminder of better days, or the context of hearing her name spoken by a stranger with such unworthy familiarity.


    Miss Chen nodded, ¡°Yes Eva. Granddaughter of Z''ev Darkon, Ashkelon Station''s Administrator and the daughter of Eve, a leading researcher and scientist for Technion Interstellar. Your friendship would have potentially opened new doors for us. Guo''s marriage to your mother was the first step in that direction. Haylia''s family, the Sterns, hold a great deal of influence over Technion Interstellar''s board of directors. Haven''t you ever wondered why your last name was hyphenated to Ho-Stern?¡±


    Keren felt bile rising up in her throat, I''m gonna be sick. The more I listen, the worse it gets!


    ¡°Shut up!¡± Sheren suddenly shouted across the table.


    The old woman moved faster than Keren would have believed possible. Even from a seated position she took them both unawares. Sheren''s face recoiled from the slap of a bony-knuckled backhand before Keren could even think to react. A moment later, as Keren flinched to make a move, the stubby barrel of a compact automatic pistol pressed against Sheren''s temple. ¡°No, you shut up!¡± the old woman hissed. ¡°Stop acting like a child!¡±


    Sheren''s sobs immediately choked up as she gasped, tense and terrified.


    ¡°That''s better,¡± Miss Chen stated approvingly before returning to her chair, slipping the pistol back wherever it had materialized from.


    ¡°What do you want with us?¡± Keren asked, thinking very carefully about her options. There were plenty of firearms close at hand, but none of them looked loaded. Nor did she think she had better than a fair chance to overpower the old woman hand-to-hand, bizarre as that was to admit. Even her father, the best martial artist Keren had ever seen, moved that fast.


    ¡°I want to help you,¡± Miss Chen stated with sincerity. ¡°But first you have to help yourselves! Stop pretending this will all go away. It''s time to grow up and face reality.¡±


    ¡°Fine! You want us to face reality? We need to see our father!¡± Keren demanded obstinately. ¡°It''s been over three years!¡±


    Miss Chen sat back in her chair, seemingly hesitant and unsure to grant that request.


    ¡°We have a right to see him,¡± Keren pressed. ¡°And until we do, we will remain uncooperative and unconvinced about anything you tell us. You lost the benefit of the doubt when you pointed a gun at my little sister you fucking bitch!¡±


    That prompted a blink of surprise from Miss Chen, but also a reluctant acceptance, ¡°He is isolated, under guard. As neither of you have sworn your vows and oaths of service to the Union yet, I will have to request special access from The General. These arrangements will take some time...¡±


    The General? Who the fuck is The General? Keren wondered, ¡°You''ve had plenty of time to approach us and do that before we arrived on your doorstep. Why didn''t you?¡±


    ¡°That was your father''s wish!¡± Miss Chen explained with frustration. ¡°He left instructions that you be spared the truth and allowed to move on with your lives if something happened to him.¡±


    ¡°Until these commandos came after us because of what he did?!¡± Keren snorted derisively. ¡°Your mercy to leave us in the dark has almost got us killed! What''s to say your truth''s will be any different?!¡±


    ¡°That depends on you!¡± Miss Chen pivoted. ¡°Victor Li Shing is a dangerous man. Ruthless! But just like any schoolyard bully he assumes he makes the rules in his own playground. We can use that against him.¡±


    Keren narrowed her eyes, ¡°We?¡±


    ¡°Myself and the rest of us who serve the Union. Who else do you think I stockpile all these weapons for? Your comrades will all fight and die to protect you.¡±


    ¡°My comrades?¡± Keren asked confused. ¡°You already pointed out that we have sworn no vows or oaths of service to the Union. We are not yet one of you.¡±


    Miss Chen nodded, ¡°The rest of us have sworn our vows, that''s all that matters. We owe it to your father and the Union we all serve to protect you. You both look exhausted. Come back upstairs and let me make some beds up for you. While you rest I will use the time to make arrangements with The General so you can see your father. I promise you''ll be safe here for the time being.¡±


    ¡°Ok, on one condition,¡± Keren stated stubbornly.


    ¡°What''s that?¡±


    ¡°Hand over that pistol!¡± Keren stated holding her hand out.


    _ _ _


    High atop one of Asheklon Stations towers, within the visiting executive penthouse suite of the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation, Catherine Grey stood before a floor-to-ceiling view port captivated by the view of the planet below and the reverie of her own thoughts. Reflected in the glass, her large aqua-blue eyes and the delicate, feminine shape of her face were perfectly replicated. A constant reminder of who she used to be, and who I will never be again.


    Though undeniably beautiful, there was no warmth in the tight set of her lips or the sad far away look she had as she stared down at the fantastic view of the world below. Not a blue planet, like Earth, GL-382 was more akin to Mars. Beneath sparse, fast moving clouds there were wind-worn mountain buttes, stony deserts and low canyons stretching from horizon to horizon.


    Here and there spots of civilization pockmarked the rough terrain. Huge swaths of cultivated grassland, irrigation canals, greenhouses, atmospheric domes and satellite dish arrays surrounded the largest of the planets colonies. Yes as serene as it might seem from up here, Catherine knew the surface below was less hospitable.


    Strong winds and frequent dust storms made atmospheric flight risky. Face coverings were compulsory while outside a protective dome. Travel between colonies was usually done with heavy duty wheeled vehicles or railways. Strangely, for such a large world, the population of roughly one hundred thousand was rather low. Approximately ten percent of that population were prison inmates besides.


    ¡°Beautiful isn''t it?¡± commented Dr. Gordon who stepped up beside her dressed in his medical lab coat. His voice was English, crisp and cultured from a lifetime in upper-class academia. As a leading researcher in theoretical robotics and synthetic design, his career in surgically-integrated prosthesis was invaluable to Catherine. Henry gave up tenure at Cambridge University Hospital to serve as her personal physician. Yet his value to her as a friend was much dearer to her in truth.


    ¡°It''s so vast and desolate,¡± she said.


    ¡°A world of wide open vistas and high mountain views. Reminds me of Montana.¡±


    ¡°Montana?¡± Catherine questioned turning her face towards him in puzzlement.


    ¡°In a way, if you squint just right,¡± he joked behind his usual shy smirk. Henry was in his early forties, handsome and clean-shaven with premature, distinguished wrinkles around his eyes and the corners of an easy smile. His hair was ash-blonde with hints of gray at the temples, thick and neatly combed.


    Sensing there was more to that story Catherine prodded him with her elbow, ¡°And what were you doing in Montana?¡±


    ¡°It seemed like a good idea at the time. I wanted to play at being a cowboy and make a real campfire under the stars,¡± he chuckled.


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Catherine laughed, for the first time in at least a week, ¡°Oh I''m sure that must have been interesting!¡±


    ¡°There were cramps and saddle-sores to be sure. Suffice to say the real cowboys weren''t nearly as impressed by me as I was by them. Most-a-pity!¡±


    ¡°Well it''s not too late!¡± Catherine quipped, ¡°There must be a fair few of them down there where the buffalo roam!¡±


    ¡°Do you really think they have buffalo? Surely not! They''ve been extinct for some time now.¡±


    ¡°Only one way to find out! It would be nice to breath fresh air again at the very least,¡± Catherine suggested.


    ¡°That''s true. They say they''ve managed to engineer the atmosphere down there to nearly ideal conditions.¡±


    Catherine had heard the same, although, the joint efforts of Technion Interstellar and the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation required several decades to accomplish what Weyland Yutani''s state-of-the-art atmosphere processors would have managed in half the time. Yet, in that, there was also a point to be made. This world would secure its own destiny, unbeholden to the powers of the United Americas and the Three World Empire. It certainly was not Earth, nor even Montana, but it was a world to be proud of nonetheless.


    ¡°Your blood work looks good today, except for that spike in adrenaline. We''ll have to look at adjusting your levels again. Do you feel jittery? Tense? Have you eaten anything?¡± Dr. Gordon asked.


    Catherine shook her head to all the questions at once. Her sense of hunger was not what it used to be. After all a synthetic body did not require the same amount of nourishment as a living one. What was left of her could subsist easily off of a vitamin-enriched protein shake and a granola bar. Yet that was not the point he was making when he asked.


    Henry assured her from the beginning that the aim of her recovery was to restore her life, humanity and happiness. No matter what percentage of her body was artificial, maintaining her identity was the most important thing. That included the routine of regular meals.


    ¡°Seeing what I''ve seen tonight hasn''t encouraged an appetite,¡± she muttered under her breath as the memory of what Victor did sent a familiar creeping sense of anxiety flashing through her nerves. Synthetic body or not, deep-rooted emotional issues sometimes still got the best of her. ¡°I was going to go for a run to clear my head,¡± she stated, having changed from her dark blue business attire into a loose fitting jogging sweat suit.


    Dr. Gordon placed an arm around her shoulder. These last four years they spent together designing her new body and integrating her mind to work with it brought them very close. It also made certain realities very clear, primary among them, the difficulties of life around her step father and all the things she wasn''t allowed to talk about.


    Behind them, through an adjoining door in a private conference room Victor was in a meeting with the half-dozen mid-level executives who ran the station labs for the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation. Catherine had been present at enough such meetings to know exactly how they went. It always made her skin crawl. She could almost hear the imperious tone of Victors voice and the unnerving footsteps he made pacing around the circumference of the table breathing down their necks.


    Sitting with him in the same room with him was bad enough in normal circumstances. Worst of all when he was imposing his will upon lesser peers, colleagues and business partners. Taking part in such meetings in any way, even just as a silent observer, heightened her anxiety to its peak.


    The way those corporate puppets looked at her made her all at once weary and self conscious. Rumors about her injuries, and the near-death experience that caused them, preceded her everywhere she went and carried on long after she left. Some looked upon her out of pity or fascination. Others felt threatened by her presence. Most assumed she was endeavoring to follow in his footsteps.


    Victor of course made no secret of his wish to have her at his side, teaching by example how to wield authority and influence. Those beneath him envied her for it. This above all she would never understand. Having Victor as a step father was nothing to be proud of. The way they looked up to him, even as he suffocated the air from their ideas, crushing their pride beneath his heel, baffled her.


    So far as Victor was concerned, Dr. Gordon and his team were outsiders too. Especially while aboard the CSCS Kowloon. He made that point very clear to Catherine stating they were never to be made aware of any details about his business or military secrets of the CSC. Just as she made it very clear to him that she wouldn''t go anywhere without them.


    Her relationship with Victor was about as far from a loving, respectful family bond as one could imagine. In many ways, Catherine was more his hostage than his kin. Especially now that he had invested close to one hundred million dollars into her recovery and her new body. Such an expense went against everything she expected from someone so cold and calculating. The fact he seemed to care for her at all was perhaps the most irreconcilable thing about him.


    Catherine was fourteen years old when Victor married her mother. The fact that marriage occurred less than a year after the death of her real father set in an early sense of resentment that only worsened when he dragged her away from life on Earth and all the friends she left behind. Her mother however, remained content so long as she was treated to a life of luxury, affluence and leisure in the New Eden Sector.


    Catherine''s real father was Lt. Cmdr Higgen Grey who commanded a patrol ship in the Sol Sector for the Royal Navy. As long as Catherine could remember she wanted to follow in his footsteps. A lifelong ambition that never wavered, even after his death. Thus as soon as she was old enough to enlist she returned to Earth and the Royal Navy College in Dartmouth. Four years later she was a naval pilot with ambitions towards officer training. Not long after that, Catherine''s misfortune ended that dream and restored her mothers grief.


    At times it felt like Victor spent a large fortune to bring her back to life just so Catherine could do whatever she had to do to convince her mother that she was going to be fine. Am I fine? She wondered for the upteenth-hundredth time. She didn''t have an answer to that and she was beginning to doubt she ever would.


    The funny thing about recovery was the pressure that came with it. Phrases like, Every day is a blessing. Every breath is a reason to keep living, etc. and so on, were beginning to make her sick. What was the value in survival if every breath had such a high cost to pay? Would anything she ever did for the rest of her life be worth upwards of one hundred million dollars? Doubtful. For certain no one was going to let her live in peace without judgment, pity or expectation.


    There was no chance she could continue her service as a pilot in the Royal Bavy. At best she would be a morale officer, paraded from base to base making speeches to new recruits. Dr. Gordon encouraged this, but Catherine knew he had his own reasons to do so. So long as she remained on Earth, under his care beneath the umbrella of the Three World Empire; her value to them as a specimen and/or symbol outweighed her own freedom. If she agreed to such a life she would never be allowed to take risks and serve with bravery the same way her shipmates did.


    The fact Dr. Gordon and the rest of her medical team agreed to accompany her all the way out to the Outer Rim Territories was a clear indicator of her value to them. She heard plenty of rumors about proposals for a new rehabilitation program for other wounded veterans based on the promising results of her complete organ transplant. On one hand that was a great idea. Certainly it meant the difference between life and death for her. There was much she could say to encourage and inspire others to make the same choice she did.


    But on the other hand, there was a huge difference from a privately funded experiment, where cost-was-no-concern, and a government funded program. What worked for her wouldn''t work for everyone, especially when budgets were involved. Nightmares she had waking up paralyzed were based on real experiences. Sometimes there was a de-sync betweem her synthetic nervous system and her real one. Such issues required expensive diagnostics and potentially hugely expensive surgeries to correct.


    At what point would such costs outweigh the usefulness of a rehabilitated sailor or soldier? Catherine was horrified to imagine what might happen to her, much less a hundred or a thousand others like her, without nurses, surgeons and technicians readily available. How would tax payers consider the costs of their maintenance and upkeep worthwhile while so many millions of others suffered from a lack of basic needs?


    The only way to justify it would be to make sure the rehabilitated soldiers were in many ways better-than-human. Catherine herself was capable of great feats of strength, speed and endurance. But she was just a pilot, not a marine. She had no desire to strap on bulky body armor while lugging heavy infantry support weapons across a battlefield the way she knew many in the military imagined she could.


    The United States Colonial Marines had powered-armor-exoskeletons and gimbal-mounted smart weapons. You could train, equip and transport an entire brigade of such troops for the price of just one of her. By all reasonable expectations that was a more cost-efficient approach to maximizing firepower. Still... the rumors persisted, and not just back at home. Within the Central Space Consortium, more than a few corporate labs and synthetic manufacturers wanted a chance to examine her up close.


    Shortly before this journey began Victor suggested he could arrange a career for her in the ICSC Defense Fleet. At first the idea angered her simply because it was his. The last thing she wanted was Victor determining what she did with her future. Yet the more she considered it, the more she had to admit it might be the best shot she had to get back aboard a starship and out into space.


    Of course the idea of serving in the ICSC Defense Fleet didn''t thrill her. Compared to the Royal Navy they were a rag-tag fleet of half-assed wannabe''s! Even her own father made more than a few disparaging remarks about them in his day. Yet in her heart, she knew he would have also encouraged her to serve however and wherever she could. And so she had agreed to come along on this voyage as an ''observer'', just to keep her options open.


    At the time she had no idea she was going to be boarding the newest prototype destroyer the CSC had available. The level of security and secrecy surrounding the CSCS Kowloon were impressive by any standards. Even Victor was hard-pressed to pull enough strings to get her and her medical team on board for its maiden voyage.


    Up until their arrival and the subsequent events at Dizzy''s Club, Catherine was actually enjoying herself; excited about what a career in the ICSC Defense Fleet might offer. Whatever its reputation, the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation was serious about their business in weapons development, and just as serious about protecting their colonial assets outside of the CSC. She could see herself doing a lot of good for the people out here. Would that be so bad?


    ¡°Hey whats that?¡± Dr. Gordon asked, distracting her from her musings. Outside the heavyweight thermally-tempered aluminosilicate glass was a huge metal spider clambering unto the stations hull. Catherine stared at it for a long moment, immediately fascinated.


    It had eight legs surrounding a bulky multi-windowed ''cab'' at the center with a bright yellow abdomen in the form of an escape capsule jutting out from the rear. From the scale of the airlock it emerged from, and the view port windows it moved over, Catherine guessed it had a leg-span of about fifteen meters, though the legs themselves seemed to be capable of ''shrinking'' to facilitate movement in tighter confines.


    The cab itself was large enough for maybe three to four occupants, with an external airlock to facilitate extravehicular spacewalks. It might weigh as much as thirty metric tons but its movements in the vacuum of space were surprisingly graceful. Each of its eight foot pads seemed to stick to the hull with ease as it moved two pairs of legs in an alternating rhythm effortlessly moving across the stations surface.


    ¡°It''s an E.M.V.,¡± Catherine answered. ¡°An Extravehicular Maintenance Vehicle. Somewhat different from the ones we use for orbital space stations back on Earth.¡±


    ¡°How interesting,¡± Dr. Gordon commented. ¡°Is that dangerous work?¡±


    You damn well know that''s dangerous work! Catherine heard herself complain inwardly, but she bit her tongue, ¡°Yes of course it is, but somebody''s got to do it.¡±


    They watched the E.M.V. together in silence for a while as it climbed closer and closer towards the top of their tower. Flashing strobe lights atop the cab helped them track its progress, even when it would occasionally disappear into shadow. Each time it paused at some access port or another, an additional flashing strobe light would light up over the external airlock before two figures in EVA suits would emerge, tethered together.


    ¡°Is that the usual way you do that kind of work? In pairs?¡± Dr. Gordon asked.


    ¡°Yep! Always use the buddy-system in EVA duties. Only one person needs to concentrate on the tools and the actual labors involved. The other should remain in constant communication with the commander in the E.M.V. remaining vigilant for unexpected emergencies.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like an easy gig,¡± he chuckled.


    ¡°Hardly!¡± Catherine argued. ¡°Those suits are heavy and difficult to work in. You might not think that matters floating in zero-g, but you have to remember those suits are constructed out of several layers of stiff, resilient materials designed to resist against tears and punctures. Besides that, they are pressurized. Every move you make works against the resistance of that pressure attempting to hold that stiff, inflexible, suit in shape.


    Without gravity holding you in position, everything you do requires careful thought and execution. Something as simple as turning a spanner tries to rotate your body in the opposite direction. You end up exerting yourself twice as hard using additional muscles just to hold yourself steady. EVA work is miserable.¡±


    Catherine was starting to get irritated now. Both with Dr. Gordon and the crew inside the E.M.V. She imagined they should have external cameras on the cab and the used of finely articulating arms to do some of their work without having to risk going EVA themselves. Yet for whatever reason they never did.


    The nearer the vehicle got the older and worse-for-wear it looked. Its motions appeared less fluid and synchronous up close. A few of its legs were clearly sluggish and jerky. One of them seemed to be of an entirely different make than the others. One of the strobe lights on top of the cab blinked on and off intermittently, and there were signs of patched repairs to hydraulic cables and electrical cords. All of which made Catherine''s anxiety start to spike.


    Dr. Gordon, she knew, was experienced as a zero-g surgeon and familiar with all sorts of injuries related to work in space. He doesn''t need me to explain how difficult and dangerous a spacewalk is. He''s just trying to get me to talk about my accident and face my fears.


    ¡°Ok I''m going for a run,¡± Catherine said, turning and walking away from Dr. Gordon. Henry watched her go and frowned, deep in thought. There wasn''t much else he could do under the circumstances. She was going to make her own choices.


    As Catherine moved across the living area, around the corner where the bulkhead pressure door was, the statuesque form of one of Victor''s bodyguards waited for her. As usual there was always one inside, and one outside, the main exit. Another one stood inside the conference room with victor while the last one was monitoring communications somewhere.


    ¡°I''m going for a run,¡± she informed it.


    ¡°I''ll come with you,¡± it answered, knowing that was what Victor would want.


    ¡°Don''t be ridiculous! How would that look? You''re not dressed for that,¡± she answered. ¡°Besides, what will Victor think if you left Dr. Gordon in here unsupervised?¡±


    The bodyguard frowned, stuck in a dilemma. It raised one of its wrists up to its mouth as if to speak into its suit cuff. Catherine knew this is how it communicated with the others.


    ¡°Look, do what you want, but I''m not waiting for you. Go change and catch up if you must,¡± she said and brushed past him through the pressure door.


    Meanwhile, the E.M.V. spider stopped climbing just thirty yards or so from the view port. Henry glimpsed motion inside the cab windows. For a moment he thought he saw the occupants staring up at him. Then the external airlock opened, as before, but this time the two figures that emerged were each carrying duffel bags.


    Curious, Henry watched them climb down a few ladder rungs beneath the airlock. Careful and slow, each of them reached for and grasped the hand rails in exaggerated slow-motion before they pushed off and floated down to the hull. Magnetic boots took hold thereafter. Slowly but surely, they turned and started walking upwards towards him tethered together and to the E.M.V. itself by way of a long cable. Their suits were high-visibility yellow, but faded and dull from years of use under high intensity ultraviolet rays. Same as the paint on the E.M.V. itself.


    As they neared Henry could make out facial features through their helmet face plates. One of them was a man, the other a woman. Both were Asian and middle-aged. By the time they made it up to the edge of the view port itself he could see sweat beading on their foreheads. Neither of them looked very happy, but their expressions were pictures of determination and resolve. Tough Buggers. Henry though to himself, raising his hand to wave. They both waved back, but neither smiled. Instead they spread out to each edge of the view port, about three meters across, at the limits of their tether. Then they unzipped their duffel bags.


    Henry watched them pull out two identical devices, roughly the size of a lunchbox, setting them against the hull just below the edge of the glass. Powerful electro-magnets were activated to hold them in place before the man and woman moved together again. Each looked up at Henry and gave him a thumbs up. Henry returned the gesture, but then each of them flipped him off.


    ¡°Blimey! What a pair of cunts!¡± Henry cursed as they turned away, hugged each other and deactivated their magnetic boots. Immediately the cable tethering them to the E.M.V. started to retract pulling them back rapidly. At that point Henry felt sweat beading on his own forehead as a certain realization struck him. Momentarily paralyzed with fear he stared down at one device, than the other, before he turned and bolted.


    The synthetic bodyguard by the door did not react well towards Dr. Gordon charging towards him in a panic. With one quick motion he stiff-armed him, knocking Henry to the floor. The brit coughed and cursed, trying to suck in another breath and shout a warning at the same time.


    ¡°Damn it! Let me go! There''s... a... bomb...¡±

 Chapter 11

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/23/2183</u>


    Ze''ev looked uncomfortable as he and Storen approached a sad looking diner on one of the stations lower levels. It was positioned on the corner of two corridors on the edge of a small plaza between a liquor store and a smoke shop. Dull, flickering neon signage offered coffee, breakfast, hamburgers and pies behind dirty, streaky windows.


    A short distance back, Chief Commerce Officer Dasha Zukhova, trailed them in disguise. Secretly an agent for the Union of Progressive Peoples, Dasha was assigned to spy on the old man while she served on his staff. She even played chess with the old fool, letting him win more often than not. Yet even as that was the case, this sort of ''field-work'' was not normally required of her.


    What she was doing now was foolish. Someone else could do this. Someone else should do this, but Dasha was as stubborn as she was ambitious. Even after years gaining Ze''ev''s respect and trust, placing herself at his disposal, using every trick of her training to get into his head; understanding his plans, motives and desires wasn''t enough. Word was her superiors were not happy.


    Thus more drastic methods had to be adopted. Her handler, Miss Chen, insisted from the beginning that her best option was seduction. Dasha disagreed. He needs someone to look after like a granddaughter, not a whore to help him forget his loss. The old man abruptly banished her from his quarters two days ago when a priority private message came through on his comm terminal. Something about that message put Ze''ev on edge.


    Shortly after that, he came personally to Lead Engineer Storen Bulls office in the command level of Ashkelon Stations dry dock. Dasha long suspected some secret agenda at work between those two. Ostensibly there was little reason for the station administrator to be there. Such a visit only reinforced that belief.


    However, all her efforts to uncover what that agenda might be had little success. She could never even get recording devices anywhere near the director or the mysterious lead engineer. There was something about Storen that put her guard up. Her gut was rarely wrong about such things. He had the look of a man in control who was always prepared and aware of his surroundings. Most of all he was calm. Dangerously calm.


    Yet with all the drama and stress of the recent arrival of the CSCS Kowloon and the subsequent tragedy at Dizzy''s club she had a hunch Storen and Ze''ev would meet again soon. Her hunch was correct, and this time she was prepared to go ''old school''. She would eavesdrop on them the old-fashioned way. So far it was paying off. She already heard them comment about meeting men named Reese and Wade?


    Russian by birth, tall, beautiful and spirited, Dasha''s features were distinctly slavic in appearance with pale skin, soft features, wide rosy cheeks, full, pursed lips and deep blue eyes. Unfortunately such qualities that made her easy on the eyes also made her easy to recognize.


    For that reason she took extra care in her disguise dressing in well-used, low-key street clothes that were both trashy and edgy enough to fit right in on these lower levels. Ripped and faded blue jeans, a gray polyester jacket, a beanie and flat Converse sneakers which also helped to minimize attention to her height.


    Over her shoulder hung a black leather bag with a chain for a strap that matched the theme of her uncharacteristic black lipstick, nose ring and tacky sunglasses. Beneath a beanie, her long blonde hair was tucked under a black wig. Even her modestly pink nails were covered by press-on versions of a much darker shade. As an extra effort, she applied fake tattoos peeking out from under her sleeves and the cleavage under her blouse.


    Even Ze''ev shouldn''t recognize me now... so long as he doesn''t take a close look, she thought to herself.


    Ze''ev flinched as a man in an overcoat loitering nearby coughed loudly, lurching towards them with a limp, ¡°Hey buddy, got any smokes?¡± he asked in a high, wheezing voice, slurring his words. One of the mans arms was stiff and paralyzed, curled up tightly against his chest.


    Storen reached into his jacket and removed a cigar. The stranger reached for it eagerly, hand trembling with rough callouses. ¡°Hey thanks!¡± he gasped.


    Storen didn''t hand it over just yet, ¡°I''m headed into that Diner,¡± he stated with a nod. ¡°Do me a favor and I''ll give you another when I come back out.¡±


    ¡°What sort of favor?¡± the stranger balked suspiciously, coughing again with irritation.


    ¡°Keep a lookout for commando''s. If you see any, walk past the windows.¡±


    ¡°Why? So you can slip out the back and ditch me for the other cigar?¡± he scoffed. ¡°Hows that work out for me?¡±


    Storen smirked, ¡°Fair enough, I can''t argue with the logic. I suppose I''ll have to give you both up front. What''s your name friend?¡±


    ¡°Carl.¡±


    At this moment, Dasha used this distraction as an opportunity to walk past them both, unnoticed, heading into the diner first. She had no idea if Reese and Wade were already inside, or what they looked like, so she didn''t bother guessing. She went straight for the womens room.


    Meanwhile, Storen handed over two cigars as promised, ¡°Nice to meet you Carl. Glad we could come to an arrangement.¡±


    ¡°If you say so,¡± Carl answered tucking the cigars quickly into his overcoat pocket. ¡°Maybe I can make this a full time gig huh? How''d that be?¡±


    Storen chuckled, ¡°A man''s got to live off of more than cigars I would think?¡±


    ¡°Yeah you''d be right,¡± Carl answered sadly with a bit of drool dribbling from one corner of his mouth. Half of his face was slack, the same side as his paralyzed arm in fact.


    Ze''ev frowned, ¡°I can help you get a job Carl, if that''s of interest to you?¡±


    Carl turned his eyes down towards Ze''ev. He was tall, as tall as Storen but much leaner. Thin enough to be considered unhealthy and underweight, likely lacking for regular meals.


    ¡°What kind of job?¡± he asked, wiping away the drool from his mouth.


    Ze''ev blinked. ¡°Err, that depends on your skills? Do you have a trade?¡±


    ¡°I''m a welder,¡± Carl answered with as much dignity as he could muster. ¡°I spent a lot of years putting this place together. Before they robbed me of my retirement and my pension,¡± he muttered.


    Ze''ev swallowed, ¡°I''m sorry. Did you suffer a stroke?¡±


    ¡°Fuckin-A,¡± he grunted. ¡°But I ain''t no beggar. Just waiting for the right opportunity. Having a smoke helps me relax. Gotta stay focused,¡± he smiled, eliciting more drool.


    ¡°OK I''ll see what I can do,¡± Ze''ev smiled back.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Carl asked out of hand.


    Ze''ev hesitated, realizing he didn''t have an answer ready. At this moment he didn''t appear to be anyone important, opting for the plainest casual clothes he owned, plus a cap and glasses because Storen insisted he should dress ''incognito''. It wasn''t much in his nature to lie without a good reason so he just responded with the truth, ¡°I''m the station administrator, Ze''ev Darkon.¡±


    Carl laughed, prompting another fit of coughing, ¡°Funny I''ve never seen you around before. You haven''t been down here much have you?¡± he said shaking his head, turning away, returning to where he was leaning against the wall of the smoke shop. Likely he figured Ze''ev was full of shit.


    Storen gave Ze''ev a look as they resumed their approach towards the diner, ¡°A lot of people have it rough down here. There''s no point admitting who you are. It isn''t going to help.¡±


    ¡°Why not? It is well within my power to get that man a job!¡± Ze''ev retorted with frustration.


    Storen didn''t reply, but Ze''ev sensed that was actually a kindness. Everyone blames me for everything. I don''t like to be reminded how so many people here are struggling. Is that how I am thought of? As a failed leader?


    Entering the diner, Ze''ev was immediately offended by the smell of bacon. Ich-seh! This is certainly not kosher. Inside a few dozen hungry patrons were spread around the booths surrounded by the soft noises of clinking plates and murmuring voices. ¡°Was this place your idea?¡± he asked Storen.


    ¡°Actually no, but it''s as good a place as any for a discreet conversation. I come here fairly regularly,¡± he answered.


    Discreet? Ze''ev frowned, doubtful. Behind the counter a man looked up from the grill and Ze''ev couldn''t help but stare. Something about his teeth had grown wrong giving his mouth the permanent expression of a fish.


    ¡°Hey Fred-O¡±, Storen stated with a raise of his hand.


    ¡°Hey Bull!¡± Fred-O answered with a wave of his spatula. ¡°Your usual booth is open!¡±


    Storen nodded and led Ze''ev back to a booth in the back corner. Beneath Ze''ev''s feet the floor was worn linoleum, cracked, stained and squeaky under his loafers. They sat beside each other with Ze''ev taking the inside seat against the window.


    Meanwhile, Carl watched them through the windows as he removed one of Storen''s cigars from his pocket, raising it to his nose. Genuine tobacco! Not bad, he thought before he spoke into his sleeve in a whisper. ¡°Comrade, they moved to a booth by the fifth window on the left. They are alone, no one else is seated there. Over.¡±


    Dasha immediately exited the womens room, glancing up to confirm what she just heard. Luckily for her the adjoining booth was empty. Casually she walked over to claim it for herself just as a tired woman in her fifties approached the pair carrying a tray with mugs and a pot of coffee. Her hair was cropped short, makeup minimal. Above her chin, a pale scar curled up to her lower lip.


    ¡°Coffee?¡± she asked as a rhetorica question setting the tray down on the edge of the table.


    ¡°Please,¡± Storen answered. Ze''ev noted her name tag read ''Lucy''. After the cups were poured Lucy pulled out a pair of menu''s from her apron and left them on the table. ¡°I''ll be back in a minute,¡± she promised. Several ceiling fans hummed loudly overhead recirculating stale, recycled air in a blustery fashion.


    ¡°Are we on time?¡± Ze''ev asked, taking a sip of the harsh and bitter brew, flinching. He added more cream and sugar than he normally would.


    ¡°Yeah...¡± Storen said taking a glance at his wristwatch. ¡°A bit early actually, but that''s ok. There''s something I want to show you.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Ze''ev asked, puzzled, stirring his coffee with a spoon.


    Meanwhile, against the backrest in the booth beside them, Dasha discretely reached up beneath her beanie, adjusting the earpiece she used to communicate with Carl and the rest of her team. This device could also function as a general hearing aid, canceling the ambient noise and amplifying nearby voices. Kakaya udacha! She thought to herself in her native tongue, quite pleased with her position.


    Next she reached inside her handbag to turn on the tape recorder stashed inside. Though she should have no trouble remembering what she heard, the old hag always insisted on a recording whenever possible.


    Storen handed Ze''ev the Polaroid he''d examined earlier. ¡°I found this photo tucked in the pages of a book I borrowed from your library.¡±


    Ze''ev picked it up with a bewildered expression on his face, shocked by the sight of the huge horseshoe-shaped alien craft and the craggy ice-encrusted moon. Several moments passed until he finally muttered, ¡°How strange!¡±


    ¡°Do you recognize the name of the ship on the back?¡± Storen asked, prompting Ze''ev to flip it over and peer at the faded watermark he saw there.


    §®§Ñ§Ô§ß§Ú§ä§à§Ô§à§â§ã§Ü §À§ß§Ñ§Û§ä§Ö§Õ


    ¾ÞÍ·ÁªºÏÊÕ¸î»ú


    CSCCS Ivan Petlin


    02/21/2098


    ¡°The Ivan Petlin? Of course! It was launched about five years after the Prometheus. An exploration/colonization ship; the first of its kind.¡±


    Dasha couldn''t believe what she was hearing. All this time there were hidden clues in his fucking books?! Cyka blyat!


    ¡°Who built it?¡± Storen asked.


    ¡°It was a joint project between Magnitogorsk United and the Jotou Combine,¡± Ze''ev stated pointing at the respective names of the Russian and Chinese characters on the watermark. ¡°These were the largest industrial/aerospace manufacturers in east Asia at the time. Would-be competitors to Weyland Corp.¡±


    ¡°Were they members of the Central Space Consortium?¡±


    Ze''ev rubbed his chin thoughtfully, ¡°Yes and no. The CSC as we know it wasn''t fully developed yet. The conglomerate that built the Ivan Petlin would have originally been members, yes. Yet once the Union of Progressive Peoples formed, those corporations ceased to function as independent business enterprises. The largest, wealthiest and most powerful of them were absorbed into the broadly-authoritarian communist government. The rest dissolved, or were stripped of their assets.


    Imagine thousands of private factories, workshops, office buildings and labs seized and repurposed by the state while millions of men and women were suddenly laid-off without income. Most had no recourse apart from an evaluation/training facility setup to assess their health, fitness, skills and education. A few weeks later they would leave with an assignment in ''whatever role best served the people'', ...if they were lucky enough to get one at all,¡± he added darkly.


    ¡°Fuck that!¡± Storen grunted.


    As if you know shit about it! Dasha cursed to herself. The Union had to make sacrifices to survive and maintain sovereign independence. The United Americas and the Three World Empire were too far ahead economically. The Ivan Petlin was the best hope for the CSC to leap-ahead and catch up as an interstellar power. It was three times larger than the Prometheus and at least twice as costly to construct. Hard choices had to be made when it vanished. She, for one, was proud of her people. They made the right choice to break away from the CSC before it was too late. As a result the Union was strong!


    Ze''ev nodded to Storen in agreement, ¡°Those were hard times! My father lived through it before he found his way into the ICSC and settled on GL-382.¡±


    Storen sipped his coffee in reflection on what he would say next to Ze''ev as Lucy came back to take their menu''s. ¡°What can I getcha?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Sausage, eggs and grits with a side of biscuits-and-gravy,¡± Storen answered first.


    Ze''ev didn''t feel very hungry, but he didn''t want to be rude either, ¡°I''ll have oatmeal with a bowl of fresh fruit and Jewish-Rye toast. Also fresh butter, if you have it.¡±


    Lucy gave him a despairing look and repeated, ¡°...oatmeal, a side of canned-fruit, white toast-with-margarine... coming right up!¡±


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Lucy took notice of Dasha before she walked away and stepped over to her booth, ¡°Do you need a Menu darling?¡±


    ¡°Sure,¡± she said softly taking one from her hand.


    ¡°Want some coffee?¡± Lucy asked next. Dasha shook her head no. Go away damn it!


    ¡°I looked into what I could find about the Ivan Petlin in the official records of the CSC,¡± Storen stated. ¡°There''s not much there. The whole mission remains classified, except to say that it was presumed lost with all hands.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Ze''ev nodded, ¡°it was a big mystery and a huge scandal. All their talk of settling a prosperous new frontier for the CSC, ''succeeding where the great Peter Weyland failed'', ultimately came to nothing.


    Not so long after that the newly-merged Weyland Yutani Corp. began construction of the Covenant, which was twice the size of the Ivan Petlin. Rumor was Jotou attempted to sabotage that mission on multiple occasions. Though little of that was ever proven.¡±


    Ze''ev flipped over the Polaroid again. There was something malevolent about that alien craft. He could feel it in his bones. ¡°I presume there''s no mention of this discovery in the official records of the Ivan Petlin?¡±


    ¡°No, but the date on that photo is sometime after last known contact with the Ivan Petlin.¡±


    ¡°Really?!¡± Ze''ev gasped, ¡°How fascinating!¡± For a moment he gave Storen a side-long look. ¡°How could this end up in my library? Is this some sort of prank?¡±


    Storen shook his head, ¡°It''s no prank of my making. You know me better than that. Besides, that photo was not all there was tucked into the book,¡± he added, removing the folded paper note from his pocket.


    Ze''ev took it and Storen watched his face go pale as he read it.


    Ze''ev, I have never had the courage to tell you everything. Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil. Evil being the root of mystery, pain is the root of knowledge.


    Take care not to follow my footsteps too closely.


    Your loving father, Aleksandr Nikolayevich Chilingarov


    Carl''s voice broke into Dasha''s concentration through her earpiece, ¡°Comrade, be advised, two men approaching the diner. Really big guy, black, and a skinny guy, white. These two might be coming to meet with your target. Over.¡± Dasha felt her heartbeat beating faster, At last I will get to the bottom of this!


    At that moment Storen felt a vibration under his sleeve. The sensation came from his sophisticated bug-detector, strapped to his forearm, warning him that a radio frequency burst transmission was in progress. The device was of his own making, and its value could not be understated. It allowed him to walk into any room and feel secure that it was not being monitored.


    Of course right now it was telling him the opposite. Casually, Storen reached up to yawn and took a look around as he did so. Nobody appeared to be watching them or aiming a microphone in their general direction, but then again, nobody halfway skilled at surveillance would be.


    Storen reached over to put his hand on Ze''ev''s arm, warning him something was up. He was annoyed that they needed to leave and also worried the administrator could be in danger.


    ¡°What''s wrong?¡± Ze''ev asked, startled. His mind was distracted. The words of his father reaching out from the past disturbed him.


    ¡°We''ve gotta go,¡± Storen stated in a flat-whisper.


    ¡°What? Why? What about the meeting?¡±


    Given the circumstances, Storen would have preferred not to answer that question at all, but he had no choice, ¡°I''ll explain later,¡± Storen replied, frustrated. He started to rise from his seat.


    Cyka blyat! They got tipped off! Dasha realized. Immediately she was moving, grabbing her bag and sliding across the cushion to leave the booth. Her heart was racing now and that surprised her. It also frightened her. Suddenly she wasn''t so confident anymore.


    Storen''s instincts told him she looked wrong. He didn''t see her face or hear her say more than a single word, but he could sense something wasn''t right. His intuition was screaming at him that she had something to hide.


    Suddenly he was reaching for her, grabbing her shoulder, ¡°Hey!¡± he said.


    Dasha panicked, snatching a taser from her bag and pressing it against his hand. A powerful current of electricity jolted through it just as Storen recoiled attempting to yank his hand back. He didn''t move quite fast enough. The shock hit him hard, yet it might have been worse. The device was calibrated to be lethal. Adrenaline surged through him.


    Storen still had enough control over his muscles to reach for her again. His fingers grabbed for her collar but only managed to snatch her beanie. As she ducked and bolted he pulled it free, taking her wig off with it. Then Storen toppled over, groaning.


    Ze''ev stared open-mouthed as his assailant dashed through the diner, glancing back towards them once to be certain they weren''t in pursuit. Dasha?! It made no sense!


    _ _ _


    - BOOM - BOOM - BOOM


    BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM


    The echo of John''s .357 revolver overwhelmed the lighter caliber 9mm automatic Max Shmith was firing. Still it was undeniable Max was putting more lead down range.


    Emptied, John flicked open the cylinder of his weapon and dumped the spent shells into a pouch he brought to collect his brass. Later he would reuse them. Ashkelon Stations private firing range left much to be desired. It was cramped, hot, and generally unkempt. Above his head harsh fluorescent lighting glared trough a protective metal grate making his eyes squint more than usual. He was tired and it was affecting his aim a little.


    ¡°Thanks for agreeing to meet me here,¡± Max said, taking advantage of the silence as they both reloaded. Their protective ear muffs had cables connected to an intercom system so shooters could talk to each other between firing lines.


    ¡°Not a problem,¡± John answered, taking note of the stress under Max''s words. He was different now. Not quite the same cocky, self-assured and confident Chief of Station Security that met with him yesterday. ¡°I see your not using that 7mm case-less pistol anymore? Having second thoughts about it?¡±


    ¡°I''m having second thoughts about a lot of things,¡± Max answered bluntly, ¡°We need to talk about Victor Li Shing.¡±


    John wasn''t surprised. Rumors about the stand-off between the Chief of Ashkelon Station Security and the Special Executive spread fast. Whats worse, from the sound of it Max was loosing control of his people. Or perhaps worse still, he never really had control to begin with?


    ¡°I''m not sure what sort of help I can offer?¡± John stated frankly, ¡°It should go without saying that Colonial Marshals don''t have jurisdiction over naval commandos or CSC Special Executives. I can''t arrest him without a special warrant from my superiors, signed by the Attorney General of the United Americas under mandate from the Colonial Administration. Besides, from what I heard, you already tried to arrest him yourself?¡±


    Max grimaced at the memory, ¡°That''s correct, and with just cause! The man is a murderer and likely a sociopath!¡±


    John didn''t like the sound of that, yet everything he heard so far about Victor Li Shing wasn''t good, ¡°Have you met with the station administrator about this?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Of course!¡± Max responded with frustration, ¡°His hands are tied same as yours. Ashkelon Station and Temple Colony on GL-382 below are just one outpost and one world among many in the ICSC. Special Executives represent the much larger interests of the CSC in the Core Systems. We can''t interfere with his business unless our representative within the government, Director Candlish, (who represents all member colonies of the ICSC) sanctions it.¡±


    John frowned, Which is probably exactly what I can expect to hear from the administrator in our scheduled meeting. Thanks for the heads up Max, ¡°Look I appreciate you coming to me for help, but what exactly do you expect me to do? I asked the administrator for an emergency meeting with you so we can work out these issues together...¡±


    ¡°We don''t have time for that!¡± Max broke in, ¡°I''m telling you its gonna get bad, real bad, well before you get some kind of special warrant or we hear back from our director.¡±


    John furrowed his brow, Fuck, ¡°What aren''t you telling me Max?¡±


    ¡°You know what went down in Dizzy''s Club. You know these commandos are searching for ''persons of interest''. That''s what set this whole thing off!¡±


    ¡°Yes I am well aware of what happened at the club. One of our ICC supervisors was among the casualties. I will be leading an investigation into his death. ICC agent Shella Roodt will no doubt also be involved in this.¡±


    ¡°I am sorry for your loss,¡± Max put in hastily, ¡°Have you looked into the files of those girls the commandos are searching for?¡±


    ¡°Keren''s, at least, I have yes. Her records have to be available to the ICC as a spacecraft repair technician. Of course I cannot speak to the accuracy of her file since ICC regs have not been in place here before we arrived. I imagine what you''re getting at is whatever reason there is for a Special Executive to send armed commandos after her isn''t in that file?¡±


    ¡°Yes exactly,¡± Max confirmed, ¡°I can tell you with reasonable certainty that Keren and Sheren Ho-Stern are not criminals and do not pose any sort of threat. I had to do a lot of digging on this, but best I can figure is Victor is looking for their father,¡± Max removed a file from his jacket and handed it over to John discreetly in the adjoining firing lane.


    ¡°His name is Guo Ho. He came to Temple first as a refugee from the UPP. Then he married into the Stern family and eventually started working private security here on Ashkelon Station. Before that he was something of a mercenary. There are accounts he was involved in some shady business down on Temple in years past. It''s all in the file,¡± Max said.


    John flipped through it, pleased to see nothing was redacted or omitted. Looks like he''s serious about collaborating this time, ¡°Where is this guy?¡± John asked.


    ¡°No one knows. He disappeared about four years ago, which as it happens, was also right before I took over as Chief. From what I''ve managed to piece together though it''s likely he left the station aboard a smuggler''s ship. Destination and whereabouts unknown.¡±


    ¡°That doesn''t explain why Victor is looking for him?¡±


    ¡°I have a theory, but it''s not in the file. Off-the-record, if you catch my drift,¡± he added hastily.


    ¡°Ok,¡± John stated.


    ¡°I think Guo was working for Ze''ev.¡±


    Suddenly they both heard footsteps behind them as men finished loading their pistols, unleashing another volley. Bullets plinked and thudded against the soft metal backstop behind the targets followed by another pause.


    ¡°Doing what?¡± John asked when the coast was clear again.


    ¡°Investigative work most likely. Off the books. The kind of thing you hire an ex-mercenary for if you know what I mean.¡±


    John frowned, skeptical. ¡°How do you know this?¡±


    ¡°When I was promoted as Chief I replaced a much more experienced man named Ernest Hart. Old-school like you. Tough-as-nails and a shrewd investigator. You''d like him.¡±


    John kept listening as he dropped more expended shells into his pouch.


    Max continued, ¡°Guo Ho on the other hand wasn''t someone I knew personally but in certain circles he was well respected for his street-cred. Ernest had his eye on him for years, and yet, I remember seeing them sharing drinks at Dizzy''s Club on a few occasions. At the time I didn''t find that odd because Ernest had a soft-handed approach to law enforcement. He was personable and good-natured. He tried to talk to people before he ever put cuffs on them.


    People said Guo walked the line between what was legal and what wasn''t. That is also likely what made him so successful as a private security consultant. He knew what the real threats were when his clients had no idea. Rumor was he might have been doing more for his clients than just security though.¡±


    ¡°And you think the administrator was one of his clients?¡±


    ¡°I am fairly positive he was. I think Ze''ev used Ernest as a go-between and I think that''s why they were sharing drinks. Talking business.¡±


    ¡°That''s circumstantial evidence at best. What do you know the administrator needed him for?¡±


    ¡°I''m getting to that,¡± Max promised, ¡°The important thing to mention here is how Guo went missing not long after Ze''ev''s granddaughter, Eva, and his son-and-law vanished. As if by coincidence, Ernest decides to retire not long after Guo left, but his stuff is still there in his quarters collecting dust. Who retires and leaves everything behind?


    I''ve asked Ze''ev about Ernest now and then. They were very close so it makes sense they would keep in touch, and yet, Ze''ev won''t admit to me where Ernest is or what he''s been doing? In fact he seems to go out of his way to avoid talking about him.¡±


    John scratched his brow, pondering, ¡°So you think Ze''ev sent them both off to go find his missing granddaughter? Seems kinda thin.¡±


    ¡°Except that Eva''s best friend was Keren Ho-Stern, Guo''s daughter.¡±


    Huh? John was starting to sense something here. Max had good instincts, ¡°OK Max I''m following. But why does all this mean things are going to get ''real bad real soon?''¡±


    ¡°Think about it John. You''ve seen the images from the club. It was a massacre. Those girls had no chance to get away from those commandos without help.¡±


    ¡°Some of the witnesses say it might have been Dizzy who helped them get out? He refused to cooperate with the commandos, and he was Sheren''s employer,¡± John argued.


    ¡°He was more than that actually, he was an old friend of their dad. And yes, it looks to me like Dizzy must have tried his best to give them a chance to get out. But it wasn''t him who gunned down so many commandos was it?¡±


    ¡°No it was the goddamned Triad...¡± John hesitated, mid-sentence, ¡°Are you suggesting the Triad enforcers were protecting them?!¡±


    ¡°It makes sense doesn''t it? Guo must have been doing business with the Triad. Somehow. Someway. No one in his position on this station could avoid it. There were strong rumors he and Dizzy were smuggling things through Triad connections. Back in the day they might have been working for them directly? Hard to say. All I could find out about that is in the file.¡± Max explained.


    ¡°Even if that''s true, that''s an awful big favor for two Triad enforcers to go down that way. Why do they owe him that much? According to what you''ve said, nobody''s heard from Guo for years. His own daughter''s presume he''s dead don''t they?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but I''d bet that he''s not dead,¡± Max stated confidently.


    ¡°Why not?¡± John asked.


    ¡°Victor wouldn''t be here looking for him if he didn''t know something we don''t right? Ostensibly he arrived with this new destroyer on J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng business, whatever the fuck that''s about, but he''s also here looking for Guo. That much is clear. He didn''t give Ze''ev a heads up because he might already suspect Guo was working for him. It''s also likely he didn''t want Ze''ev to warn Guo''s daughters.¡±


    ¡°You think Guo is alive and holed up somewhere here on the station?¡± John asked.


    ¡°It''s possible isn''t it? However unlikely. Maybe the Triad are protecting him, same as his daughters? Either way, Victor isn''t taking any more chances. He''s shut down all outgoing ship traffic and he''s forcing me to organize a station-wide manhunt; backed up by his commandos. In fact if we don''t find them in less than forty eight hours, he''s going to assume command of the station under military control!¡±


    Fuck, ¡°Ok Max, I appreciate the heads up. But I still don''t know what you think I can do to help?¡± John stated.


    Max sighed. He was strung out even worse than John. Fatigue added a desperate timbre to his voice, ¡°Don''t you get it John?! The Triad don''t take kindly to the likes of us kicking down doors on their turf. My gut tells me we''re gonna have a real fucking shit show on our hands! People are going to get killed. Potentially lots of people! I won''t be able to guarantee anyone''s safety.


    I''m asking you to do something, anything, to avert this disaster. Reach out to your superiors in the Colonial Marshal''s Office, the ICC, the Colonial Administration, the fucking Colonial Marines, I don''t care. Warn them about Victor before its too late!¡±


    ¡°How much time do I have?¡± John Asked.


    ¡°I''m organizing the men to move out in a couple hours. Victor has already put me on notice, if not exactly in so many words. If I delay the search any longer I will be relieved of my rank. Of course, part of me wants to quit already. I can hardly stomach the thought of doing his dirty work. Unfortunately I would never forgive myself if I didn''t try to minimize the damage he''d do with one of his boot-licker''s in my place.¡±


    John sighed. He didn''t envy Max to be in such an uncomfortable position. It was obviously a hard fact to swallow that he and the station administrator were beholden to a corporatocracy worse than anything in the UA or the 3WE. The ICSC had no equivalent to a Colonial Marshal''s Office or a Colonial Administration. Men like Victor Li Shing weren''t autonomous in the literal sense. They only appeared to be. In truth they were merely a specter born from the shadow of their corporate overlords.


    Max saw him as a man, a villain; discernible with a face, a body and a name. John recognized him for what he truly was; agenda given form.


    The coming of the lawless one is by the activity of Satan with all power and false signs and wonders. - For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.


    John recalled that verse as he said, ¡°Max I have very limited jurisdiction here. I can''t justify an arrest based on this file and a half-crazy theory...¡±


    ¡°You''ve got to try! Else wise, the only sure-fire way to stop Victor is to step up and put a bullet in his head!¡± Max exclaimed.


    John swallowed. He didn''t like that tone of voice, ¡°Max you''ve got to stay calm.¡±


    ¡°I''m not the only one who feels this way John! People are furious. Residents of this station aren''t a bunch of pushovers. Blood has been spilled! People are going to get justice for that, one way or another!¡±


    John took in a deep breath. Blessed are the peacekeepers, for they shall be called the children of God, ¡°I''ll do my best Max. You have my word. But I have a request to ask in return.¡±


    ¡°What''s that?¡±


    ¡°Get more evidence while your still in a position to do so. As you say it''s not just your career on the line. If Victor gets away with this it sets a precedent for worse to follow. Others like him will come, which may or may not be long after we''re gone. Each of us swore an oath to uphold the law and to serve and protect the people! Regrettably what''s legal isn''t always right.


    In times like these, extraordinary circumstances require extraordinary sacrifice. Going after Victor is the same as going after the very institutions that funded this station; perhaps even those who pay your salary? In fact, regardless of the outcome, neither or us may be able to keep our badges after this. That''s an unfortunate fact of the law, politics being what they are.¡±


    ¡°Maybe not,¡± Max agreed, ¡°But that''s a price I''m willing to pay. I would give anything to put cuffs on that asshole!¡±

 Chapter 12

    <u>Sol: Kalahari Savanna, Northwest South Africa


    10/06/2149</u>


    Gusts of wind flared up the last lingering coals in Shella''s small campfire. Sporadic to start, then more insistent, carrying with it a deeper chill and a looming threat of rain. Across the horizon, ominous, dark clouds blackened out the stars. Shella drifted off to sleep a while earlier, aided by cheap wine coolers scattered around her sleeping mat. Alcohol was a familiar companion for her grief, the key to sweet oblivion, allowing her tears a chance to dry upon her cheeks.


    Shella was an orphan now, overwhelmed with sorrow and loss. She wanted nothing to do with anyone or anything. Isolating herself on the outskirts of the greater Kalahari desert seemed like the perfect fit for her state of mind. A lonely, bleak landscape to mirror her own feelings.


    In such haste to achieve emptiness, Shella had taken the drinks and some leftovers out of the fridge along with an ATV out of the garage. She did not otherwise properly pack and supply for an outing in the bush at the start of the rainy season. Her only shelter was a camouflage tarp tied to the roll-hoop of her stolen ATV and a couple of Bushwillow trees.


    Recently flowered with greenish-yellow four-petaled blooms, the trees offered additional shade and a welcome flash of color in the sun during the day. At present their leaves and seed pods made a noisy, rattling sound in the wind that harmonized with the surging pitter-patter of heavy raindrops on parched earth and sand. Yet as the rain began to fall in ernest her small minimalist camp left much to be desired for shelter. The snap of the tarp in the wind and the discordant rattle of rain drops battering against the plastic finally woke her. Groggy. Weary. Blinking and shivering.


    There would be search parties looking for her by now. Trackers with dogs, drones and whisper-quiet ultralite bush planes. The same tech they used to find endangered animals could be put to use finding people too. Yet with this weather, all such efforts would be next to pointless. Especially in the dark.


    Storms moved fast over the savanna. Even if she wanted to head back now, Shella''s home was twenty miles east in the small town of Hotazel. However, now that her mother had died, home was the last place she wanted to be.


    Fifty miles southeast was the larger town of Kathu, where her mother, Sara, had met Shella''s father, Taylor. Also known as the Iron Ore Capital of the northern cape province, Kathu neighbored the huge Sishen Industrial Mining Complex that processed metals, minerals and diamonds from the entire region.


    Taylor was responsible for much of that. In recent decades he amassed a fortune stripping resources from the southern African continent, using them in manufacturing and shipping those goods and/or raw materials off world. His enterprise was so successful he began investing profits in other mines on several worlds in the Outer Veil and the Outer Rim, negotiating contracts with larger corporate interstellar powers such as Weyland Yutani and member corporations of the CSC.


    Shella grew up while her father was developing his industrial empire, helped along by Sara''s elder brother Roger, who was one of Weyland Yutani''s assistant executive vice presidents. A well respected and decent man, Roger initially helped arrange business negotiations between Roodt Industries and The Company. Taylor''s children, which included Shella and her two brothers, Adam and Sam, thought fondly of him as an uncle.


    Shella traveled everywhere with her father. He used to call her ''his little flea.'' Sparing no expense, Shella received a top grade private education through tutors. By age eleven she was fluent in four languages. Near the same time, trouble with her parents marriage became a real stress within the family. Sara fell ill and before long Taylor was unfaithful to her. Within a year they divorced. Taylor remarried to a Chinese woman in Hong Kong and moved his children there with him to start fresh.


    At this point, business deals with Weyland Yutani started to go sour as the influence of his new in laws pressured him to favor dealings with the CSC. For the same reason, his move to Hong Kong was viewed to be suspicious.


    It seemed he sought to keep the watchful eyes of the ICC out of his business. Shella started to see less and less of her father and acted out, associating with a bad crowd. Most of her formative teenage years were a rash of run-in''s with local authorities, substance-abuse and stints in private rehab clinics. Unfortunately things got worse before they ever got better.


    Before long the ICC opened an ongoing investigation into her fathers businesses. ICC Agents worked undercover within the Hong Kong underworld gathering evidence against him and his local business associates. These agents reported indirectly to Roger. At a certain point, it became clear that Taylor''s businesses were being targeted for a hostile takeover by certain elements within the CSC affiliated with the Triad.


    Either out of pity, or a sense of kindness for Taylor''s children, Roger personally warned Taylor offering him one last chance to disentangle himself from criminal elements and save his businesses. It would not be painless or without cost. First he must accept a preliminary summary judgment by the ICC and a large fine. This would freeze his assets and require him to step down as president and CEO. In the long run however, so long as he cooperated, he could still earn from the profits and avoid prison.


    Taylor did not take Roger up on that offer. It seemed he still held unto quite a lot of animosity with prior family drama and the divorce with his ex wife. Instead of heeding his advice, Taylor told Roger to go to hell. Next he went about hastily changing his own business contracts and beefing up his private security, tipping off the Triad that he was aware of their plans in the process. It didn''t take them long to ascertain the reasons behind his sudden panic. They decided to make an example of him.


    Within hours, Taylor and one of her brothers were gunned down in public. With luck Roger managed to get Shella and her surviving brother Sam out of Hong Kong before they met the same fate. Both returned to South Africa to live with their mother, which had not lasted much longer than a year. Sara''s death came shortly after Shella''s fifteenth birthday, which was only a few short weeks ago.


    Shella rubbed at her eyes and frowned. The shock of the sudden storm forced her to return to the present and take stock of the situation. It was going to be a rough night. Arid areas of northwest South Africa received over ninety percent of their annual rains within seven months. However, a hundred years of global warming led to inconsistent rain and wind patterns. Storms like this were unpredictable and increasingly severe.


    Climate change also created conditions of consistent drought. Rapid evaporation of rivers and watering holes stressed agriculture, local wildlife and the overall ecological sustainability of this forlorn landscape to the limit. Huge herds of roaming antelope, elephants, water buffalo and zebra would likely never be seen again.


    Healthy groups of animals were now kept captive on protected reserves. Out here among the grasses, shrubs and rocky soil of the Kalahari savanna, bones and scattered remains were everywhere. Shella had seen nearly as many desiccated carcasses, picked clean by half-starved jackals, hyenas, vultures and buzzards as actual living animals.


    Shella knew she had to fashion a better shelter somehow. The only option that really made sense was pulling the tarp back over, up and across the roll hoop of the ATV itself. If she tied the corners of the tarp to the brush guards, or the wheels on each corner, it should serve well enough as a makeshift tent. Of course it would not be comfortable. There would be no room to lay down.


    The prospect of hunching over in a small plastic seat for hours on end within a buffeting windstorm did not appeal to her, yet she understood she had to act quickly. Groaning she crawled out from underneath the blankets, dressed in khaki cargo pants and a hooded sweatshirt. Her boots were nearby somewhere. She reached and groped for them, unable to see her own hands in the pitch darkness of the storm.


    She had no way to spot the lions approach, much less hear it as it stalked towards her. An old lioness familiar with old tricks; using the storm to cover its approach. It pounced upon Shella''s back with complete surprise, driving the air from her lungs so she couldn''t even scream. Instinctively the great cat went for the neck first hoping to sever her spine.


    Shella''s nerves were aflame with pain as sharp fangs pierced into her flesh, punching through muscle and scraping across vertebrae. She knew she was going to die as her own hot blood drenched her clothes. Hungrily the hunter bit down again and again, crushing her beneath its weight. Yet somehow the bite strength seemed to falter, never quite achieving the grip it needed to break her neck. Whether that was from weakness, or simple confusion with the thick garment of her hood balled up around her shoulders, Shella had no way of knowing.


    Several moments passed as Shella squirmed and struggled, frantic to escape as much as to breath. For as long as she was pinned down there was no hope. She felt one of her boots beside her. Gripping the laces in her fingers she swung it blindly like a flail with all her strength. It should have been a futile gesture, but the heavy heel of the rugged footwear seemed to connect with a satisfying hit. Perhaps directly against the eye?


    The lioness roared in pain and pulled back, allowing Shella the opportunity to suck in a desperate breath and start to crawl away towards the ATV. Suddenly her vision was blinded by a powerful searchlight as some sort of vehicle drew close. The lioness growled in fury. Shella rolled over to see the beast for the first time, its muzzle and much of its skull matted with blood. Her blood?


    No not entirely. She glimpsed raw bone, sinew and obliterated muscle where one of its cheeks should have been. The poor animal was in pain, wheezing and slobbering through the hole in the side of its face.


    _ _ _


    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/23/2183</u>


    BwEEEEP


    Shella woke with a start, drenched in a cold sweat as her door chime went off. Sensing her distress, Sylvester meowed with sympathy. Shella breathed deeply and struggled to regain her bearings. The digital clock by her bedside indicated it was zero-six-hundred, just a few hours after the meeting with Aberdeen.


    Sighing with an elevated heart rate she rose from her bed still wearing socks and yesterdays rumpled clothes. Unconsciously, she reached back to feel the tender scars on the back of her neck. Goddamn fucking nightmare is always the same!


    Sylvester watched with anxious golden eyes as Shella stepped towards the door. Her eyes ached with fatigue as much as suppressed tears. Whomever had the nerve to disturb her rest was about to get an earful! Yet when she opened the door, Chief Marshal John Coffee stood before the threshold; as grim and serious as always.


    ¡°Agent Roodt. Can we talk?¡± John asked in his characteristic deep booming voice.


    This was unexpected. Shella blinked and reached up to rub at her eyes, frustration overshadowed by concern, ¡°What''s wrong?¡± she asked by reflex.


    ¡°Nothing immediate. This isn''t an official sort of visit. But it''s important. May I come in?¡±


    Shella hesitated, confused. Not an official sort of visit? What did that mean exactly? she never imagined John stopping by for some sort of casual chat? Besides, she was not entirely sure she wanted him to come in.


    Though she respected him as a colleague, Shella had the distinct impression John judged her quite a lot. This feeling put a great deal of strain on their working relationship. Imagining that he might find yet more reasons to dislike and disapprove of her based on how she kept her quarters made her immediately uncomfortable. On the other hand, she recognized those feelings for what they were. Unimportant, petty bullshit.


    ¡°You''ve got some nerve!¡± she snapped, eliciting a puzzled and dismayed expression from the Chief, ¡°You woke me up and you didn''t even bring Coffee? You''d think a man named after the stuff would know better!¡± she muttered, gesturing for him to come inside. She was in a mood and there was no point trying to hide it. I won''t hold back on him this time. Let the man come in here and face me on my own turf. If he has the balls, she thought.


    Shella''s quarters were cramped, but no more than most on a space station. With no separate bedroom her bed was tucked into an alcove past the spartan kitchen and bathroom. A sofa and a vid-screen were adjacent to the door on the left. On the right was a small dining area with a view to open space through an exterior porthole. Flooring was thinly carpeted by the bed, bathroom and the sofa; whereas the dining area and kitchen used synthetic plastic tiles printed to imitate hardwood.


    Lighting came by way of light bars above the kitchen, bathroom and dining areas. She kept the levels generally dim and her decorations sparse. This was not home and Shella was not the sort to pretend otherwise, ¡°Please sit,¡± she said, gesturing to the sofa closing the pressure door behind him. As he brushed passed her, she detected the faint smell of gunpowder. He''s been firing his weapon!


    John did as he was bid. The sofa was springy and cheaply made. His big frame immediately sunk deep and flattened the cushion. As Shella moved to her refrigerator John glanced around discreetly. The first thing he noticed was the bizarre horizontal log-like object on pedestals erected in the center of her dining area. Two hand-holds, like rungs on a ladder, were affixed to the top.


    ¡°Whats this?¡± John asked.


    ¡°It''s called a pommel horse. It''s used for gymnastics. Can I get you something?¡±


    Shella was tempted to pour herself a stiff drink. An old habit whenever traumatic memories made an unwelcome return. However, much as she honestly didn''t care about his opinions, she did not want to give the Chief the impression she was an alcoholic. The stalwart professional in her wouldn''t allow it.


    ¡°No thanks,¡± John answered, noting an odd receiver dish aimed at the porthole window behind the pommel horse.


    Shella poured herself a glass of water as Sylvester hopped off the bed and padded over to take a closer gander at their guest. John smiled as the cat rubbed up against his leg, purring.


    ¡°Sylvester likes company,¡± Shella explained.


    ¡°Nice to have a pet,¡± John stated, leaning over to scratch the animal behind the ears.


    ¡°What can I do for you chief?¡± Shella asked in a voice that was half a sigh and half a growl.


    John regarded her awkwardly. Clearly he wasn''t used to such casual informality, especially with her. The fact she looked so distressed didn''t escape his notice either. Nevertheless he pressed on, ¡°I wanted to speak to you about our situation and get a feel for what you think about it?¡±


    Shella raised a brow, ¡°That''s all in my report isn''t it?¡±


    ¡°Sure, but that''s not what I''m getting at. Those are facts, observations and recommendations based on on what we should do by the book. I''m interested in other options and possibilities. Imagine what you might do if you were in charge with the authority to authorize any plan of action you wanted? Those are the ideas I want to hear.¡±


    Shella exhaled with a puzzled look, Wtf is this about? ¡°I''m not sure I understand the point of that Chief? What''s the use in discussing such an unrealistic, hypothetical scenario?¡±


    ¡°Humor me please,¡± John asked with a voice like thunder.


    Even when he''s asking nicely it still comes off like he''s barking orders! Shella was in no mood for this, ¡±To be frank John, I''d rather get a few more z''s than bullshit about what we won''t, or can''t do.¡±


    Shella''s tablet blinked on suddenly on an an adjacent counter top where she''d left it. A message scrolled across the screen.


    - HUMOR HIM! -


    Shella groaned inwardly and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Thanks a lot John! Now you''ve got the asshole synthetic''s interest piqued. I have no choice now but to endure this bullshit conversation.


    Shortly before she passed out Oliver was scolding her about a breach of security involving her personal access code. Apparently it was used without her knowledge to access specific records in the ICC database? Oliver couldn''t determine exactly who stole her code, and Shella herself had no idea how it had been compromised; but it certainly didn''t look good on her record.


    Depending on how Oliver reported the breach there were several ICC policies and reprimands on the books that might easily sink her career. He had, of course, quoted them all with perfect memory. Synthetics were always assholes like that.


    Afterwards they argued for a short while. Yet no matter how furious she became the argument was only going to end one way. She had to agree to let him take charge of an investigation into that breach and assist him in any way he saw fit. Or else.


    It was a lose-lose scenario for her. On top of everything else, this change of priorities was going to stretch her patience and stamina to the limit. Shella loathed Oliver''s voice, his expectations, and above all his patronizing disposition. The feeling of being under his thumb in anyway made her skin crawl.


    Regardless of the fact they both worked for The Company, service to Oliver''s agenda would not necessarily aid her primary mission. Shella had seen this sort of thing before.


    Company handlers did not always have their agent''s best interests in mind. At this point she was at his mercy, and he knew it. Refusal on her part was equivalent to tending in her resignation. The Company had her bent over a barrel both ways.


    Assuming something useful came out of her efforts to help him; Oliver promised to remark on that favorably in his report. With luck that would be enough to salvage her existing arrangement with The Company, if not her ICC career.


    For some time now a growing feeling of dread was starting to form in her gut. Shella had the distinct feeling her synthetic partner was withholding information from her, which of course implied that The Company was withholding information from her. Nothing new there perhaps, but the more she dwelled on it, the more uneasy she felt.


    She wasn''t even certain at this point that her mission with the ICC was what The Company was really after? Oliver''s role as her support and point-of-contact with Weyland Yutani might be a ploy from the start. Her gut said he was pulling her strings, attempting to get her involved in something far worse than an ongoing ICC investigation into a dangerous criminal syndicate. Shella shuddered to imagine what that might be?


    Meanwhile John moved to stand again, ¡°Ok, sorry to bother you,¡± he stated in a disappointed tone.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Shella stated halfheartedly, ¡°Forgive me for me being crabby. My feelings about the situation are that its quite complex, and frustrating. For one thing we aren''t properly staffed or equipped to deal with it.¡±


    ¡°That''s true,¡± John answered, settling back down on the cushion. ¡°That being said, you still haven''t answered my question?¡±


    If it were up to me, I''d get the fuck off this station! Shella thought as she cleared her throat, ¡°Well, for certain Victor Li Shing has to go. Someone higher up in the Colonial Administration or the UA should put pressure on the CSC to have him recalled.¡±


    ¡°Why not arrested?¡± John asked.


    ¡°Ok sure!¡± Shella grunted, throwing a hand up in frustration, ¡°In an ideal scenario we would arrest him. But why stop there? Lets put the commanding officer of those commandos in cuffs too, along with the entire board of directors for Jingti L¨®ng!¡±


    John shook his fist encouragingly, ¡°That''s the spirit!¡±


    Shella shook her head, this was a waste of time. ¡°It''s just wishful thinking!¡± she stated.


    ¡°Not entirely,¡± John argued with a conspiratorial wink, ¡°I''ve got a man on the job as we speak collecting evidence we can use to press charges against the whole lot of them.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°Max Shmith.¡±


    ¡°The Chief of Station Security?¡± Shella asked, narrowing her eyes in surprise, ¡°I don''t understand?¡±


    ¡°It''s simple really. He''s fed up and wants our help. Didn''t you hear that Max already tried to arrest Victor outside Dizzy''s Club? When that failed he came to me and brought me this,¡± John stated slipping a file out from inside his coat and handing it over to her.


    Shella took it with a dubious expression, recognizing it immediately as a Classified Ashkelon Station Security file. Strange days indeed. Who would have guessed John Coffee had the nerve to get a hold of something like this?


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    The face of the man in the file was not one she recognized. Chinese features. Handsome. Early forties. Had the look of an underworld operator. Such astute, savvy and cautious eyes. Short hair, fighting-fit and a stocky-medium build. Five foot ten inches tall, ¡°Guo Ho?¡± she questioned out loud reading the name above the photo.


    ¡°He''s the father of Keren and Sheren Ho-Stern,¡± John explained. ¡°It''s also possible he''s the reason Victor Li Shing came here to Ashkelon Station.¡±


    ¡°Never heard of him?¡± Shella had to admit, ¡°Why are the commandos going after his girls then?¡±


    ¡°Likely because Guo''s exact whereabouts are unknown. He left the station four years ago. Family, friends and former partners all presume he''s dead. Max believes Guo may have returned to the station, in secret, and remains here in hiding. He also thinks the Red Triad are protecting him and his daughters.¡±


    That''s interesting! Shella furrowed her brow, searching through the file. Given what she saw inside it was easy to see what the man was about. Guo was a suspected smuggler and an ex-mercenary with a history of suspected black market business dealings. Criminal underworld connections were clear, even though he covered his tracks well enough that nothing in the file was ever used against him. Even so, much of this information would be invaluable in my own ongoing investigation into the Red Triad, she thought.


    At which point Shella suddenly shut the file and dropped it on the counter as if it were suddenly too hot to touch, Fuck!


    ¡°What''s the matter?¡± John inquired.


    Shella crossed her arms and avoided his gaze, ¡°We shouldn''t be looking at this! Just having this file is a breach of the Concord Agreement. It jeopardizes everything.¡±


    ¡°Normally I would agree, but these are unusual circumstances. Besides, we didn''t steal it. Max handed that over freely in the spirit of cooperation. Given whats happened, and what Victor plans to do next, I think were obligated to take advantage of this chance to save lives!¡±


    ¡°What do you mean by that? What does Victor plan to do next?¡± Shella asked with concern.


    John gave her a leveled look. This was the moment of truth. How she responded to this would prove to him if she was a potential ally or not, ¡°You''re investigating the Red Triad correct?¡±


    ¡°...Yes...¡± Shella answered slowly. Technically her investigation was need-to-know only. Yet without an ICC enforcement and seizure team to watch her back she anticipated having to fill in the Chief eventually. Why not now? Oliver wants me to humor him anyway. Whatever develops from this is his fault! she reassured herself.


    John nodded, ¡°Good! Max has been ordered to organize a station-wide manhunt for Guo''s daughters, backed up by Victor''s commandos. I think you know just as well as I do how well that''ll go if they start kicking-in doors on Red Triad turf? Am I right?¡±


    Shella grimaced, shaking her head, ¡°Yeah... that''s a really bad idea! What happened at Dizzy''s Club was just an opening act. We don''t want to see the main event.¡±


    ¡°No, we don''t,¡± John agreed, ¡°Which is why we should do whatever we can to prevent it.¡±


    The smooth, matter-of-fact way he stated that last sentence forced Shella to resist the impulse to roll her eyes yet again. He says that as if it''s the easiest thing in the world! ¡°You talk to Aberdeen about this?¡± she threw back at him.


    John pursed his lips, ¡°Not yet.¡±


    Shella nodded knowingly, I didn''t think so, ¡°How much time until this manhunt begins?¡±


    ¡°A couple hours maybe. Max is doing his best to stall but he won''t be Chief much longer if he doesn''t go after what Victor wants.¡±


    Shella frowned, paused to think, then shook her head slowly, ¡°I think this one is out of our hands Chief.¡±


    John rose from the sofa and stepped across to an opposite wall in the dining area. Shella had a few photos hanging there. John couldn''t make them out clearly in the dim light unless he was standing right in front of them.


    ¡°Is this you?¡± he asked gesturing to a particular picture in which a young, freckled girl with ginger-brown hair had her arms wrapped around her fathers neck. The man was seated on a high concrete slab, probably a loading dock or a landing pad, in the bright sun of a hot afternoon. The girl was kneeling behind him on her knees, draping herself over his back, her teeth flashing white and happy.


    In the foreground wheeled trucks and loaders were moving-by kicking up clouds of dust. In the background, men and women in overalls were moving around holding clipboards; walking in and out of storehouses, gesturing and pointing fingers.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Shella answered, ¡°Me and my dad.¡±


    John nodded and leaned forward, peering closer. One of the white shipping containers in the background had a stenciled logo painted on it.


    [ <u>ROODT INDUSTRIES </u>]


    ¡°Where was this taken?¡± he asked.


    ¡°South Africa, where I was born.¡±


    ¡°Tell me about your dad?¡± John asked.


    ¡°He''s dead,¡± Shella replied after a pained pause.


    John turned to look at her again but there was no pity in his eyes, ¡°How did he die?¡± he asked in the specific tone law officers used to address a suspect.


    Shella frowned, ¡°I''d rather not talk about it if you don''t mind.¡±


    ¡°Don''t you think its relevant?¡± John pressed.


    Shella stared at him, her ire rising, ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°Common Shella. I''ve read your file.¡± John stated flatly.


    A paroxysm of anger overwhelmed Shella''s normally controlled demeanor. It all made sense. Johns attitude towards her this whole time was biased with preconceived judgements about her past. Shella was so sick of self-important assholes talking down to her and judging her, ¡°You need to leave!¡± she snarled.


    ¡°Calm down, I''m just asking a simple question. Don''t you think your fathers death is relevant to this?¡±


    Shella''s hands balled into fists, ¡°No John. I don''t think its fucking relevant. Now get the fuck out!¡±


    ¡°Listen to me!¡± John said raising his own voice quite sharply. ¡°Why are you upset at me? Get angry at them!¡±


    ¡°I AM ANGRY AT THEM!¡± Shella shouted, so furious she was shaking, ¡°They killed my father and my brother!¡±


    Sensing the sudden shift in mood, Sylvester hissed at John and raised his hackles. Sensibly John raised his hands up where they weren''t likely to get scratched. A gesture meant to encourage the peace equally with Shella.


    ¡°That''s what I thought,¡± John stated smoothly, ¡°You''ve had a grudge against the Triad since day one! I don''t doubt that makes you well motivated. However, your past tragedy creates a clear prejudice. Any evidence you collect against the Triad will be suspect as biased, and thus, every case we might make based on that evidence is less likely to stand on its own merit.¡±


    Shella scoffed, ¡°No other agent had the nerve for this assignment. I volunteered!¡±


    ¡°No,¡± John retorted, ¡°let''s be clear. Your posting has Company fingerprints all over it. Weyland Yutani pulled strings to get you assigned to Ashkelon Station didn''t they? I''m not exactly sure why, but I read your file. It wouldn''t be far off the mark to suspect they have something over you would it? You''ve been obsessed with the Triad for most of your, shall-we-say, troubled career. You''re a loose cannon Shella!¡±


    ¡°I don''t have to justify myself to you!¡± she cursed back at him, tempted to hurl something at his head. Self-righteous prick!


    ¡°No you don''t,¡± John agreed, pointing a finger at the comm-dish aimed at her porthole. ¡°Just like you can lie to me and say that comm dish isn''t in use for something off-the-books. But that''s not why I''m here.


    I wanted you to look at that file specifically because you''ve got the guts and experience to contend with the Triad. I''m not here to question your reasons. I just want your help.¡±


    Shella resisted the impulse to laugh out loud by clenching her jaw. This was rich, ¡°Ok chief, I humored you, now humor me. Have you been meeting with Max before he gave you this file?¡±


    John nodded, ¡°I have met with him yes. Once. In my office.¡±


    Shella gave him a look. She could come back on him for that breach of regulations. Yet pointing fingers and giving grief was, at the moment, a waste of time. The fact he acknowledged it was enough for her.


    Taking a moment to calm down Shella paused to wash her face with cold water. Then before she even realized she was doing it she grabbed a bottle of rum from her freezer, pulled out the cork with her teeth and took a swig. As the tingle from the liquor spread through her like a warm memory, Shella closed her eyes and released a deep breath.


    Johns disapproving stare lingered on her. She could feel it through her eyelids, but she honestly didn''t care anymore. If you want my help with an off-the-books-op asshole, I''m gonna do it my way. ¡°What cause did Max give for Victor Li-Shing to go after Guo Ho?¡± Shella asked opening her eyes again.


    ¡°Nothing specific, but he did offer an interesting theory. Max has reason to believe Guo was working for Ze''ev doing investigative work.¡±


    ¡°Really? For the station administrator? Why?¡±


    ¡°It has something to do with the disappearance of Ze''ev''s granddaughter Eva and his son and law. Both were lost on LV-426, otherwise known as Acheron. Are you familiar with what happened there?¡±


    Shella frowned, taking another swig. This is turning into quite an interesting bullshit conversation! she mused, ¡°Uh, sure. I mean, I''ve heard things. I know there was a colony there that was wiped out. The ICC and the Colonial Administration are still investigating. Beyond that, speculation runs rampant. Details are scarce. Even among the ICC.¡±


    ¡°Yes, details are scarce,¡± John echoed in a bitter tone, ¡±My cousin, Captain Damian Bracket was one of the casualties of LV-426. He was the C.O. of the colony garrison of Colonial Marines stationed there.¡±


    Shella swallowed with sympathy and put the bottle back in the freezer, ¡°I''m sorry.¡±


    John took in a slow deep breath. He didn''t mean to bring that up. Yet now that he had there was no way to take it back. John could not abide callousness or disrespect towards his departed kin. If Shella hadn''t been sincere with her remark he would have walked out. No question. That realization brought on guilt respective of his own attitude towards her.


    Despite all he''d learned and observed working with Shella, up to this point she was still a stranger to him. It was never easy opening up to a stranger and much easier to judge them, ¡°I shouldn''t have brought up your father like that. That was uncalled for and out of line,¡± he admitted.


    ¡°Ok Chief. Apology accepted,¡± Shella stated after a pause, wrinkling her brow slightly with surprise. This was a side to John she hadn''t seen before.


    John went quiet for a moment, thinking, then continued to speak, ¡°When the colony went black there were no comms for weeks. Damian''s mother, my aunt, raised hell! ...She is married to a congressman," he explained, "Besides that we have other family in high positions among the UA government, and the military.¡±


    John waved his hand, ¡°...not to say I credit everything to the use of such back channels; but it certainly seemed to help pressure the powers that be to launch an investigation.


    The United Americas Allied Command, under mandate from the Colonial Administration, sent in the SULACO with a skeleton crew, a civilian consultant and a Weyland Yutani representative," John stated getting more and more upset in his tone of voice. "Next thing we hear, the whole colony goes up in a thermonuclear explosion. No chance for survivors!¡±


    Shella noted his hands ball up tightly into fists as he said that. She held her tongue as he took a moment to compose himself.


    ¡°Damian was a good man and a fine officer. We grew up in Indiana and played football together in college. We were close. Damian was like a little brother to me,¡± John sighed, ¡°His loss hit my family hard. Every year the investigation goes on without conclusion only makes it worse.¡±


    Shella nodded, ¡°Ze''ev probably feels just as bad about his granddaughter wouldn''t he?¡±


    ¡°No doubt,¡± John agreed. ¡°However, as a citizen of the ICSC the Colonial Administration and Weyland Yutani have little and less obligation to explain anything to him. He''s an outsider. What other option would he have but to rely on private investigators?¡±


    Shella considered that, ¡°According to Max, whatever Ze''ev put Guo up to forced the man into hiding and brought Victor Li Shing here to find him four years later. Those are difficult dots to connect at his point. We need more information.¡±


    ¡°Agreed.¡±


    Shella bit her lip thoughtfully, ¡°Unless we find Guo ourselves we''ll never have the chance to question him. The next best thing is to get the facts straight from Ze''ev. Given how much pressure he''s under, waving this file in front of his face might prompt him to set the record straight? It also stands to reason that Victor would have already questioned Ze''ev if he was aware of his connection to Guo. It''s a good thing for us that Max isn''t one of Victor''s goons in that regard.¡±


    ¡°Right!¡± John agreed.


    Shella ran a hand through her hair restlessly, ¡°We should focus on what we need to do right now. Preventing an imminent clash between Victor''s commando''s and the Triad is no small thing."


    John grunted, ¡°I realize that. However I also promised Max I would try my best, even if it meant risking my badge!¡±


    Is that so? Shella was quite surprised to hear it, ¡°Well in that case we might have a chance. Although, it will require some very shrewd dealings with some very dangerous people on our part.¡±


    John narrowed his eyes, ¡°You think we can bargain our way through this?¡±


    Shella spread her hands, ¡°What other choice do we have? Proverbially speaking, we need chips on the table to get a hand in the game. So long as we believe they are protecting Guo''s daughters, and possibly Guo himself, they hold all the cards!¡±


    John grumbled, ¡°I was hoping your investigation would already have useful evidence against them? Some form of leverage we can use?¡±


    Shella shook her head, ¡°You think it''s that easy to collect intel on the Triad without an ICC enforcement team to back me up? Think again! I''m still feeling my way around the edges; primarily conducting surveillance. The best tips I''ve got come from paid informants who share what''s known on the street about the enforcers and the mid level bosses.


    Those tips help put names to faces from my photos. That''s the quickest way I know to outline the internal structure of their organization. I haven''t been here long enough to get much further than that.¡±


    John thought about that. It wasn''t really a surprise. Shella was operating alone after all, as she rightly pointed out. Yet based on her file, the notion she was the best-equipped person to deal with them prompted a follow-up question, ¡°How have you had success against the Triad in the past?¡± he asked.


    Shella laughed. It was a sharp, sardonic sound expressing irony much more than actual amusement, ¡°Success?¡±


    John spelled it out in no uncertain terms, ¡°Have you ever been able to stop their operations? Arrest their bosses, seize funds, illegal goods and contraband? Anything like that?"


    Shella shrugged, "Sure, sometimes. Under the right circumstances,¡± she answered plainly. ¡°ICC Enforcement and Seizure has the best record there is going after Triad assets. As one of the most experienced agents in the field I am credited with a fair percentage of those seizures.


    That being said, even I don''t know the full scope of operations at work against the Triads. And even if I did, much of that is classified over your pay grade Chief,¡± she smirked.


    John nodded knowingly, ¡°It''s much the same with the Colonial Marshals Bureau. We have a long history of arrests and seizures; most of which are low-level busts. Reports on higher-level arrests and seizures are usually withheld from easy access as part of ongoing cases. Security briefings tell us what we need to know and not much else. To be honest, I''ve always got the impression no one really knows the full picture of Triad operations anyway?¡±


    ¡°Sounds about right,¡± Shella acknowledged. ¡°I don''t know the full picture either. The Triads are a very old and extensive organization. We know they originated in Singapore, in the early 1900''s before the Chinese Communist Party drove them out into British-ruled Hong Kong. From there they spread the opium trade through Europe.


    After use of the poppy was banned they became heavily involved in the illegal drug trade worldwide, as well as counterfeiting, smuggling, human trafficking, corporate espionage, money laundering and fraud.


    Soon after the Central Space Consortium formed the Triads of old evolved into a much broader, multi-ethnic and multi-national cartel. Triad connections to high level politicians and corporate leaders within the CSC allowed them to infest the rich worlds of the New Eden Sector. Beyond that they continued to spread, now even unto distant worlds and colonies of the Outer Rim.


    With such lax laws and regulations as we see out here, and so many corrupt officials on their payroll, they have grown ever-bolder and better armed; selling their services to the wealthiest corporations as mercenaries, assassins and cyber-terrorrists. They are one of the best-financed, most violent and extensive criminal enterprises anywhere in the galaxy.¡±


    Shella frowned, ¡°Even after decades of effort I can''t say how much of an impact we''ve actually made on their bottom-line? So long as the CSC, and now the ICSC, continue to expand and enrich themselves the problem only gets deeper rooted and more widespread.¡±


    Trying not to get discouraged, John asked, ¡°So why do you do it? If it''s such a lost cause?¡±


    Shella moved over to sit on the other side of the sofa, sick at heart. She didn''t even look at him as she started speaking again, hanging her head down and clasping her hands together, ¡°Two reasons. First, this new Concord Agreement will eventually allow ICC oversight over trade, travel and commerce of every world and colony of the ICSC. Likely this will be my final assignment, and the riskiest, but if I can help make that happen I will be satisfied. That''s why I volunteered.¡±


    John could respect that, ¡°And the second reason?¡±


    Shella looked over at him with weary eyes. The second reason is I had no choice in the first place. You were right to say The Company has something over me. Sadly Shella couldn''t admit that so long as she knew Oliver was listening, and watching, ¡°The second reason is that too many of my friends and colleagues have died going after the Triads. I owe them this last mission to bring meaning to their sacrifice.¡±


    John nodded solemnly, waiting a moment in sympathetic silence before he brought the focus back on the present, ¡°What can you tell me about the Red Triad here on this station? How are they different, or not, from the other Triads you''ve dealt with before?¡±


    ¡°Well, firstly, There are six major Triads spread through known space. Each color they use represents how distant they are from Sol. It''s arranged in the same order as you would see dispersed through a prism, or a rainbow. The original Triad based in Hong Kong are The Violet Triad. Here on the far fringes of the Outer Rim, you are most likely to encounter members of the Red Triad. Red is also the color most associated with the Union of Progressive Peoples, who are known to be more involved with the Red Triad than any of the others.


    Through my surveillance I''ve identified many suspected UPP refugees here among their number. Either of Russian or Chinese descent. According to Guo''s file over there, he has a similar origin. It would seem that the Red Triad have occupied the station as long as it''s been in service, which is almost ninety years at this point. Somehow they''ve had the same main boss the entire time. Someone they refer too, almost reverently, as ''The General.''¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± John exclaimed with disbelief, ¡°Are you positive it has always been the same man?¡±


    ¡°No way to be entirely sure,¡± she answered skeptically. ¡°If it''s true he''s got to be the oldest Triad boss anywhere. That fact alone adds a lot of weight to his rank and credibility to his organization. His followers are fiercely loyal to him so it''s been harder than usual to find witnesses or informants. Few will dare to speak against The General.¡±


    John nodded, ¡°Sounds like we''re way behind where we need to be in all of this? I''m having less and less confidence in making a move.¡±


    ¡°It won''t be easy,¡± Shella admitted, ¡°but present circumstances do work towards our advantage in a way.¡±


    ¡°How''s that?¡± John asked.


    ¡°Well any sort of standoff between the commandos and station security assures the Triad''s days are numbered. They might withstand them for a day or two, perhaps as long as a week; yet once the fight is joined they cannot afford to loose.


    There are no reinforcements available for them and no rights or laws to protect them. The General knows that. No matter how ruthless, fatalistic or suicidal his followers are, it''s a fate they can''t escape. Under the threat of such certain doom they might entertain an alternative.¡±


    ¡°And if they don''t?¡± John argued.


    ¡°They''ll fight to the death, to a man, and do as much damage to the station and the rest of us as they can manage. Just for spite.¡±


    John frowned, aghast, ¡°We can''t allow that!¡±


    ¡°We have to remember it''s been their turf for a long time. Organized gangs are made up of ruthless criminals and thugs yes, yet in a way its best to think of them almost like a cult,¡± Shella explained.


    ¡°That''s not helping!¡± John stated uncomfortably.


    Shella raised her hand, ¡°Let me finish! At its core, religion is just faith in something apart from and greater than ourselves. That ''higher thing'' doesn''t have to be a god. It can just as easily be a code, a credo, or some madman''s revelation that defines a set of beliefs.


    What we think of as ''morality'' is just interpretation of right vs. wrong, respective of conscience, learning and circumstance. Throughout history, plenty of self-styled prophets, religious leaders, revolutionaries, presidents, dictators and conquerors have convinced others to commit great atrocities.


    What we see here with the Triad is essentially no different than the Neo-Yakuza, the Mob, or any number of terrorist groups. They all tap into this need certain people have to feel justified doing harm to others.


    Members of the Triad''s are typically outsiders who do not fit with regular society. They seek a different way of life which rewards violence and self gratification. The code of the Triads bolsters a sense of superiority within themselves, and their gang as a whole, above everyone else. ''The strong taketh from the weak because they can. And because they can, it follows that they should'', Etc. and so on.


    Their tattoos are a right of initiation and a mark of status. They reinforce loyalty and commitment. For those who bear those tattoo''s it''s critical their identity with, and within, the group is sustained and reinforced. Everything about the structure of the gang, it''s history, hierarchy, traditions and future plans are meant to keep people enthralled.


    Without such structure there is no discipline. Without discipline, the gang is weak. Their own inflated sense of strength and power, in the singular, eventually withers away and loses meaning without faith in the gang and appreciation for its broader goals. It''s that sense of connection to the group that creates the motivation to maintain it in addition to an aspiration to defend, expand, and represent it.


    Think about the Triad enforcers who stepped up to gun down those commandos in Dizzy''s club? What sort of men do that at the drop of a pin, knowing the odds are hopelessly against them? They''re zealots!¡±


    ¡°So what do we offer them to put chips on the table? What is our negotiating position?¡± John asked.


    Shella smirked, ¡°You and I represent much stronger gangs than the Triad don''t we? Not literally at this moment, on this station, but as a whole throughout populated space the Colonial Marshals and the ICC both dwarf the Triads in every measure. Wouldn''t you agree?¡±


    ¡°I suppose,¡± John frowned crossing his arms, ¡°But we don''t speak for our superiors in this case do we? And even if we pretended that we did, why would the Triad believe it?¡±


    ¡°Because it suits their ego to believe it," Shella pointed out, "Just like it suits their ego to setup cowardly attacks against our people with bombs and disgruntled locals. They understand fear, threats, corruption and manipulation better than anyone. If we show ourselves to be corrupt that''s the same as bringing chips to the table. They enjoy that sort of thing. Offering a way out of their predicament in return for something illegal gives us a hand in the game.¡±


    ¡°And what is that way out of their predicament?¡± John asked warily.


    ¡°It''s simple. We ask them to turn over Guo''s daughters into our custody. Once that happens, Victor looses that justification to go into their territory. He certainly won''t attempt to take them from us by force either. To do so would risk war with the UA or the 3WE.¡±


    John swallowed, ¡°That''s a huge gamble. We''ll be betting our lives on a hunch, at best.¡±


    Do you even care about your people? she was tempted to ask, throwing his own words from an earlier conversation back in his face. Instead she said, ¡°It''ll be worse for everyone if we don''t try John! It''s the only chance I see to prevent the fighting before it starts. But this time I agree with you, we should call for an immediate evacuation. At least as a backup plan. If we do it now the Tremolino might arrive in time to rescue our people before its too late. Regardless of what happens to us.¡±


    John nodded quickly. He couldn''t argue with that, ¡°Ok Shella. We''ll do it your way.¡±

 Chapter 13

    <u>USCSS Casimir: Outer Rim Territories</u>


    Madison Voss was a restless dreamer. Even in the grip of stasis there was a look of feral wariness about her. A slight tightness of the jaw, an anxious pinch of the lips and a fearful flutter to the eyelids. Madison loathed hypersleep. Not because she lacked faith in the science behind it or denied the need for it. She simply feared to dream.


    After four long years, visions of Acheron still haunted her. Nightmares unbidden and unwelcome. Subjecting her mind to the trial of stasis, where a single dream could last an entire month, required every ounce of willpower she possessed. It didn''t matter that she wouldn''t remember the nightmares or the act of sleeping itself. It only mattered that she dreaded to close her eyes. Even for a minute.


    Since then she''d developed a healthy addiction to stimulants such as Neversleep Pills and various varieties of methylenedioxymethamphetamines. Proper treatment for her anxiety and post-traumatic stress with mood-stabilizing drugs was too risky. She could not afford anything that might cloud her thinking, numb her awareness and slow her reflexes. Much as it would have pleased her to minimize further nightmares and improve the quality of her sleep, she had to keep her edge.


    Distinctive of physiognomy with a mixed German heritage, her features were lean, yet strong; well defined over a sharp bone structure with a straight nose and thin, shapely lips. When they were open, her eyes were ice-blue, both confident and daring under low, straight brows. As a whole her looks were not classically beautiful, but still attractive. Hers was an expressive face, as compelling of personality as it was telling in mood possessing an entrancing feminine mien.


    Though only thirty three years of age, Madison looked older. Recent years as a drug-hyped fugitive-refugee were hard-born, aging her prematurely with tough wrinkles and scars.


    Before her nightmares, before LV-426 she slept like a baby. Hypersleep was nothing to worry about aboard her ship, the Viper, with her trusted synthetic, Jex, to keep watch over her and keep her company. There may be little to call safe about the brash career of an interstellar bounty hunter, but Madison had learned to live with the risks as well as anyone could. So long as she had her synthetic partner, his irrepressible sarcasm, and an impressive stock of weapons she was fearless. Almost.


    That was before The Company put a contract on her head. Now the Viper was lost, heavily damaged and abandoned. Perhaps the same hunters hired to kill her were given permission to salvage it? More likely The Company dismantled it for scrap. There was no price they wouldn''t pay, no task they wouldn''t do to erase every trace of her. The fact they deleted her identity from every known electronic database proved that beyond a doubt.


    Her current alias, Marion Shelly, was the most recent purchased on the black market to keep one step ahead of them. That wasn''t getting any easier, or cheaper. The rest of her false ID''s had already failed her. Each time they did, her pursuers got closer. Meeting Ernest Hart on Torin Prime was a stroke of good luck. Or perhaps not? It was still possible her chance encounter with Ernest was too good to be true.


    According to Ernest, administrator Ze''ev Darkon on Ashkelon Station would pay a fortune for proof of what happened to Hadley''s Hope before it was obliterated. In that regard she had plenty of evidence to make it worth his while. Besides her video-recordings there was the egg. The egg. Fuck that fucking thing!


    After Jex got himself blown up saving her life the only thing that kept her going was the desire to put him back together. She was tired of being erased. Tired of being hunted. Tired of running and especially tired of being alone. Jex could be reworked. She needed him. More than any person, Madison was attached to Jex. He was the only being she''d ever clicked with. He was like a brother to her.


    Hauling his dismembered torso around in that cryo-coffin wasn''t right. He deserved better. Synth-shops on the black market were capable of repairing him, but the price was high. Very high. Ashkelon Station might be a trap, but it was worth the risk. She spent most of what money she had left to hire this ship. Ze''ev was offering much more, enough funds to fix her synthetic and find another quadrant of the galaxy to hide in.


    _ _ _


    Madison struggled to rise and open her eyes; pushing her mind through the fog of drug-induced incapacitation. Above her the lid of the hypersleep pod had already opened. Around her the hypersleep chamber was cool, its lights brightened. As her skin prickled with goosebumps voices stirred around her.


    ¡°Madre mar¨ªa, despierta de nuevo!¡± Captain Yago spoke gruffly. The Cuban was forty-six years old. Handsome and professional with a close-shaven beard and close-cropped black hair streaked with gray.


    ¡°Fuck my mother and every other whore!¡± Groaned Bartimaeus the Greek in replication. He was the ships engineer, neither handsome nor professional with a famously foul mouth.


    ¡°Father!¡± Exclaimed Bartimaeus'' daughter, Sophelia, with disgust and embarrassment. Vicente, Captain Yago''s son and assistant to Bartimaeus began to laugh loudly until his mother shushed him. Seleste was the Captain''s wife and Executive Officer.


    ¡°Please pardon him!¡± Seleste called over to Madison in shame as everyone clambered out of their pods.


    The crew of the Casimir were family and very old friends. Such badinage was to be expected, yet Madison was in no sort of light-hearted mood. One of the other pods was empty. She had noticed it immediately after she sat up, rubbing life back into her eyes. The realization sent a chill through her. Something was wrong.


    For a few moments she couldn''t remember who was missing, but then it came to her. Fausto Vidal, the man with the tattoos. The ex-gangster. The one she''d recognized with a price on his head. Shit!


    Madison glanced worryingly at the single exit to the hypersleep chamber. Of course, the pressure door was already open. It would have opened automatically as soon as the ship dropped out of hyperspace. But how long ago was that? Minutes? Hours? days?!


    Madison stepped away from her pod dressed in nothing but thin cotton undergarments. Standing five-foot-ten, her hair fell shoulder-length, light-brown, thick and untrimmed. It used to be much shorter, yet since she was uncomfortable letting anyone stand behind her with a pair of scissors of late, it was now growing wild.


    As of this moment her demeanor was on edge, her body tensed, lean and well-muscled like a tightly-wound spring. Quickly she moved to the pressure door controls and shut it before turning to speak out loud to the others, ¡°Where is Fausto?!¡± she asked.


    The rest of the sleepers glanced around, confirming that she was correct. Yago''s younger brother had seemingly vanished.


    ¡°He must have stepped out while we were still waking up?¡± the captain suggested, saying so in English for Madison''s benefit.


    Madison didn''t think so. Fausto''s pod had no residual condensation or frost on the upper lid like the rest. He must have awakened a while ago. How was that possible? They were still in hyperspace until a few minutes ago... right?! Still, she didn''t sense the captain was deceiving her. At least not so far as he knew. The rest of the crew also looked genuinely confused. Whatever he was up too, Fausto was most probably acting alone.


    On top of that, how he slipped out of his pod prematurely wasn''t as important as why he did it? Madison imagined if he wanted to kill her, it would have been easy enough to do while she was still in stasis. So why? He might be trying to set her up. He might also be trying to go through her things, such as the cryo-coffin! Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!


    ¡°Are you ok?¡± Seleste asked sensing her anxiety, stepping over to her side reaching for Madison''s arm. The Executive Officer was forty two, thin with plain features and long, thick braided hair that reached the small of her back. She was smart, kindly and well-meaning. A good mother to Vicente and a fine role model to Sophelia.


    ¡°Don''t touch me!¡± Madison growled yanking her arm back.


    ¡°Sorry!¡± Seleste stepped away, holding her hands up apologetically, glancing back with concern at her husband.


    ¡°Hey take it easy,¡± Captain Yago stated in a mellow voice, frowning. ¡°Just relax! You''re our guest!¡±


    ¡°We need to check Fausto''s pod. How long has it been offline?!¡± Madison questioned, stepping towards it to look at the readouts. Impatiently she pressed a few buttons.


    ¡°Hey don''t touch that!¡± Bartimaeus complained, scowling. His dark eyes were judging, clever, and no-bullshit. Short and stocky, and very hairy, the engineer had a coarse beard and a receding hairline.


    ¡°Ok then you check it!¡± Madison implored him.


    ¡°Shit on me, what is this woman''s problem?¡± Barimaeus asked the captain spreading his arms wide.


    ¡°Please calm down!¡± the captain entreated his single passenger, bewildered by her outbursts.


    ¡°Just check the fucking pod!¡± she demanded insistently.


    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Captain Yago paused for a moment, seeming to conclude it was easier to accede to her request than argue with it. ¡°Bartimaeus, please, check the pod.¡±


    ¡°Sure, after I get my fucking clothes on and take a piss!¡± the engineer snorted stepping towards Madison on a path towards the pressure door and out of the chamber.


    Madison stepped in front of him, ¡°Stop!¡± she hissed through her teeth.


    Bartimaeus half-chuckled, ¡°You gonna make me?!¡±


    ¡°Listen!¡± Madison stated to everyone in a low voice, as equally stern as it was no-nonsense, ¡°We may be in great danger!¡±


    Captain Yago furrowed his brow, ¡°Excuse me? What danger?!¡±


    ¡°You wouldn''t believe me if I told you,¡± Madison answered with an edge of frustration, ¡°Do you have weapons on this ship?¡±


    ¡°I''ve got all the firepower I need right here!¡± Bartimaeus grunted grabbing at his crotch.


    Madison gave him her best cold stare; a look perfected on dangerous fugitives who doubted her resolve to bring them in dead or alive. Fausto had already received that look once, shortly after they met. Men in general tended to underestimate her. Sometimes that was useful, sometimes not. In moments like this, she used this stare to make them think twice about fucking with her.


    ¡°Yes we have weapons,¡± Captain Yago stated, interrupting the stare-down.


    The notion that Fausto rigged the hypersleep pods to keep them in stasis while he pulled the ship out of hyperspace early seemed far-fetched, but not impossible. From what she could remember from his bounty, Fausto was a successful extortionist and a hacker. He had both the incentive to set her up and the programming skill to pull something like this off.


    Besides, if she could recognize him as a marked man, it was just as probable he would get the same sense about her. It takes one to know one, as the old adage went. For all she knew Company mercenaries were homing in on this ship at this very moment! Aiding in that probability, Fausto might have redirected the course of the ship to facilitate her capture. The Casimir could be anywhere, adrift, a sitting duck!


    Madison looked around. There were no status display screens or terminals here in the hyperspace chamber that meant anything to her. Of course she was totally unfamiliar with the Casimir''s antiquated systems, many of which were barely holding together. Or else, modified far out of the norm.


    On the Viper, the ships A.I. handled most of everything and was very proactive about keeping her informed. She needn''t hardly lift a finger, save for piloting when she wanted too. So far as she could tell, the Casimir was an entirely different sort of ship.


    ¡°How do we know we''ve dropped out of hyperspace at the correct coordinates? How can we be sure there weren''t any added delays to our journey?¡± she questioned out loud, the timbre of paranoia clear under her breath.


    Captain Yago answered immediately, "Our intended destination is Ashkelon Station. If Apollo pulled us from hyperspace prematurely there would be a cautionary active status update, or else, an emergency alarm,¡± he gestured to wall panel display, "I don''t see anything like that. We''re probably exactly where we''re supposed to be."


    ¡°I will confirm that as soon as we get to the bridge!¡± Sophelia chimed in. She was young, petit, maybe twenty one or twenty two? Clearly Greek like her father, but pretty, with thick hair of dark curls.


    Madison looked back at Sophelia, and the others, noting they were all looking at her like she was psychologically damaged goods. Admittedly, they may be right. Madison would never forget what she''d seen, what she''d survived. Post-traumatic-stress was the least of her worries at the moment. Common Mad, pull yourself together!


    At the moment, she was at a loss about how to convince them to take her seriously? Madison was never good like that with people. Maybe I am just overreacting over nothing? Fausto may still be alive and the egg may still be safely frozen.


    Then again, her habit to expect the worst was the only reason she was still alive. That wasn''t a habit she intended to break just now, especially when her instincts were screaming that she had to be on guard. Mad always trusted her instincts. The best she could do was make one last effort to warn them. She spoke as calmly as she could manage under the circumstances, ¡°There may be a dangerous organism on board. An Alien.¡±


    ¡°Fuck my mothers ass!¡± Bartimaeus sputtered with a surprised outburst of ill-humor.


    Madison clenched her jaw to keep herself in check, I''m telling the truth you stupid son of a bitch!


    ¡°What are you talking about?! How could something like that get on board?!¡± Captain Yago questioned, raising his voice, moving forward to stand beside Bartimaeus putting his wife and son behind him protectively. Madison cringed, These people were making too much fucking noise!


    Madison ignored his question and continued, "I''ll go out first. It''s safer that way. One person moving alone might avoid attention. I''m the only one with experience going up against these things so it should be me. If you''re smart, you''ll shut that pressure door behind me and keep quiet!¡± she implored them, ¡°I''ll come back once I''m armed and cover the rest of you.¡±


    ¡°Fuck that and fuck you!¡± Bartimaeus growled shoving a finger in her face.


    Ok asshole, suit yourself, Madison turned and left them behind, opening the pressure door, passing under it and out into the corridor alone. Behind her back they started to argue and call after her, but that was just noise now. The expectation of impending combat and a contest of survival with the demons from her nightmares flipped a switch in her mind. Adrenaline rushed through her veins sending her heart rate racing. Piggy-backed on that surge of energy came intense focus. It was just her now. Her and the Alien.


    Just past the threshold of the pressure door Madison found her robe on a peg where she''d left it hanging above her slippers. As she slipped those unto her bare feet she pulled her undershirt up over her head. Naked above the waist her skin trembled and shivered with pierced nipples. All her body jewelry had to be removed before hypersleep of course and there was no good reason to put it back in now.


    Tattoo''s of icy blue flames licked across her chest spreading from a beautifully rendered frozen rose on her sternum. More ink across her right shoulder showcased a bandolier of brilliant chrome bullets hanging over her shoulder blade. One bullet for each of her successful hunts. Thus far there were about two dozen. Eventually she planned on another matching tattoo over her left shoulder.


    Here and there, other tattoo''s of personal significance made her body a canvas of self expression. The name of her favorite cat. The date of her first hunt. The chemical equation for gunpowder. Etc. Other bits of art included jesters, Succubi, playful fairies and the occasional morbid skull.


    Madison noted one other robe and set of slippers were already missing as she donned hers, Fausto''s!


    To her right was a locker room and crew bunk. Her clothes were in there, the ones she wore before she disrobed at least, but something else might be in there too. She didn''t open the door. She kept moving, keeping her back against the padded corridor wall. In her hands she folded up her undershirt and wrapped it around her face, over her mouth, tying it behind her neck. The makeshift mask might keep the creepy crawling hand in the egg from implanting an embryo, or whatever the fuck it was, down her throat, Maybe.


    Madison did her best to slow her breathing and keep her footsteps quiet; senses strained to the limit for the sake of survival. It was odd to her how many subtle noises this old starship was already making. Discordant undertones of machinery, electric solenoids, vibrating pipes, valves, fans and occasion bleeping electronics kept her eyes moving; peering into every nook, crevice and shadow. Fuck what I wouldn''t do for a flamethrower right about now, she thought.


    Madison asked for a tour of the M-Class star freighter as soon as she came on board, but at this moment she was struggling to recall its exact layout. It was quite a large ship, over three hundred and thirty meters long. From her own minds perspective that tour was less than a day ago, yet in reality it was actually closer to two months since they left Torin Prime behind them. Any memories she had exploring this ship so recently felt vague and disconnected.


    The first chamber she entered on the Casimir''s Lower A-Deck was a companionway junction. To the right was the mess hall and beyond that, the bridge. That much she recognized plainly. It was tempting to rush for the bridge immediately. There she could at least get a bearing on their coordinates and catch a glimpse of whatever there was to see through the exterior windows? Ashkelon station might be looming large ahead of them at this very moment! If that was true she could call for aid, and even if it wasn''t, she could at least send out a long-range S.O.S.


    However, here were too many shadows, blind corners and hiding places in the mess hall. No way she would risk it without arming herself first! She also recalled that straight ahead, across the companionway, around another corner on the far side was the med bay. There were drugs there. Drugs she desperately wanted to help keep herself calm. Yet directly in front of her, at the center of the companionway, was a ladder leading down to B-Deck. B-Deck was where her weapons and other belongings were stored in another locker/bunk room near the forward air lock.


    Just a short climb down, one level. Then maybe five yards worth of corridor, and she would have access to her firearms again. Thinking about it like that made it seem like the obvious priority. Holding her favorite F90 assault rifle or automatic shotgun would be better than drugs.


    Slowly she stepped over to the handrails of the ladder and froze. Was that blood on the rungs right there? Peering closely she reached out and touched it. Dried blood, cold against the metal. Fausto had come this way, but which way? Up or down?


    She peered down first. From here the ladder went all the way down to C-Deck. C-Deck was where the cryo-coffin was stored in one of the cargo holds. He must have gone down first if he was after whatever she was trying to hide. Next she glanced up.


    Above her, the ladder ended at the upper level of A-Deck. There was a topside observatory up there offering a good view of the stars. More spots of dried blood marked rungs all the way up. So he did go up there, but why was he wounded first? Was he still up there right now?


    Madison had no answers, only questions. There was only one way to reach an understanding of what was happening so she stepped unto the ladder and started to descend. Just then, the loud voice of Bartimaeus called out from the corridor behind her, ¡°FAUSTO! Where the fuck are you?!¡±


    Madison moved faster. There was little point trying to remain quiet now and no point yelling back at him to shut up. She glimpsed Bartimaeus moving around the corner from the exit of the corridor beyond the hypersleep chamber just as her head dropped below floor level. He was dressed now, booted feet making loud clomping and scuffing noises on the deck plating. The others would be close behind him. Fools!


    As she was just near to stepping off on B-Deck she glanced up again and felt her heart freeze in her chest. An elongated skull was peering down over the edge at the top of the ladder, teeth clenched and hissing; a grinning visage of death incarnate. Arching and waving above its poised form was a long, wickedly-hooked segmented tail, moving quick as a whip.


    Before she could even think to cry out, the Alien was already in motion. So fast! A blur of liquid shadow and claws. Madison threw herself off the ladder, half-rolled and scrabbled back to her feet. Both her slippers came off in the process but she hardly cared. Above her an overture of shouts and horrified gasps erupted as the Alien fell upon the ships crew. An opera of screams was soon to follow.

 Chapter 14

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/21/2183</u>


    Ducks Bar was a favorite drinking establishment of roughnecks, techs, space-truckers and working tradesmen on Ashkelon Station. Located at the terminus of an outer corridor on the space port level, the bar was repurposed from a rundown, decommissioned E.M.V service hanger. Regulars here were typically blue-collar with rough, calloused hands and an uncouth attitude. Not the sort of place that appealed to everyone, locals or not. No matter where you came from, hard attitudes often came with hard lives on the frontier.


    Joe ''Duck'' Dechellis was born on Earth but spent his entire adult life on Ashkelon Station. Formally a senior station technician, Joe opened this bar twelve years ago with savings after retirement. It had a rowdy reputation, but Joe demanded a certain standard of law-abiding behavior. That standard established zero tolerance for the Triad and kept station security outside, most of the time. Still, as far as bars went, Ducks was as about as unruly as it got on the space port level.


    Reese led the way in, followed by Wade, Ze''ev and Storen. The lead Engineer was still in a lot of pain. His steps were stiff and uncoordinated after being tasered so harshly. Wade supported him with a shoulder to lean on. As they passed through the pressure door, the loud, raucous singing of at least a dozen raised voices washed over them.


    Well I''m on the Downeaster Alexa


    And I''m cruisin through Block Island Sound


    I have a charted a course to the vineyard


    But tonight I am Nantucket bound


    Coming here was Wade''s idea. They needed another public place to sit and talk. Tables here were steel-topped work benches left over from when this was still an operational repair hanger. Some had fittings for vices, bench-grinders and drill-presses attached, though the tools had long since been removed.


    Each table had individual work lights on articulate arms for additional illumination. There were bar stools on either side, enough to seat six at each table. At present the bar was filled near-to-capacity, with a higher ratio of visitors than locals.


    We took on diesel back in Mantauk yesterday


    And left this morning from the bell in Gardiner''s Bay


    Like all the locals here I''ve had to sell my home


    Too proud to leave, I work my fingers to the bone


    Yellow-painted I-Beams fitted with trolley cranes, pulleys, cables and hooks ran the length of the high ceiling overhead between rows of of bright fluorescent lights. Still fully functional, these electric winches were designed to lift heavy components from an E.M.V. overhead and drop them on a work bench or a service frame elsewhere in the hanger. Joe had a penchant for collecting rare tools and complex machines. His bar was something of a private museum in that regard.


    So I could own my Downeaster Alexa


    And I go where the ocean is deep


    There are giants out there in the canyons


    And a good captain can''t fall asleep


    Reese selected a nearby table close to the door. The big man was dressed in an old gray leather captains jacket with the LOCKMART logo stenciled across the back. On his collar was a silver spacecraft engineer pin, bordered in gold. Well-polished black work boots were laced up on his feet with an over sized, knitted, long sleeve shirt made of cotton hugging his large chest.


    Wade helped Storen get himself seated as a young Arab man came over to take their order. He seemed friendly enough with golden-tan skin, bushy, curly hair and a smiling clean-shaven face. He recognized Storen immediately, and a look of concern came over him.


    ¡°It''s nothing Fawzi,¡± Storen stated with a wave of his hand. ¡°How''s your father?¡±


    I got bills to pay and children who need cothes


    I know there''s fish out there but where, God only knows


    They say these waters aren''t want they used to be


    But I''ve got people back on land who count on me


    ¡°He is stubborn, as usual,¡± Fawzi stated in answer with a frown. ¡°The doctors say his eyes are failing. Everyone knows this, but still he refuses to take a leave. There is surgery, or implants, but perhaps he is too old for that. Better I think that he retire. Mother says so. There is no shame in it.¡±


    So if you see my Downeaster Alexa


    And if you work with the rod and the reel


    Tell my wife I am trawling Atlantis


    And I still have my hands on the wheel


    Storen nodded, ¡°I''ll talk to him. The Saudi''s have strong numbers in the welders guild, but that won''t protect him as much as it would in the old days. This station is getting an overhaul. They''ll be ramping up demand for fresh blood, which means new contracts, probably with outside companies.¡±


    ¡°Not if I have anything to say about it!¡± Ze''ev muttered, interjecting himself into the conversation.


    Yay-o


    Yay-o


    Yay-o


    Yay-yay-o


    Storen smirked, ¡°Say hello to Ze''ev, Fawzi.¡± He is also old and stubborn.


    Fawzi looked over to him, his dark eyes squinting a bit, as if trying to convince himself he wasn''t seeing things, ¡°Administrator Darkon?¡±


    ¡°At your service!¡± Ze''ev replied sardonically, ¡°But please, keep that to yourself. Trying to keep a low-profile here.¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡± Fawzi grinned, pleased to be in the company of such an important man.


    Now I drive my Downeaster Alexa


    More and more miles from shore every year


    Since they told me I can''t sell no stripers


    And there''s no luck in swordfishing here


    ¡°Tell your father to come to me,¡± Ze''ev stated. ¡°I want experienced welders who know this station in important oversight positions. He can consult with me about any new contracts and ensure their work is done properly. In exchange I''ll pay him a handsome consulting fee and make sure the local welders guild gets its pick on future jobs. How''s that sound?¡±


    ¡°Thank you, that''s sure to please everyone! What can I get you for drinks?¡± Fawzi asked.


    I was a Bayman like my father was before


    Can''t make a living as a Bayman anymore


    There ain''t much future for a man who works the sea


    But there ain''t no island left for Islanders like me


    ¡°Vodka,¡± Ze''ev answered.


    ¡°Whiskey,¡± Storen stated.


    ¡°Beer, Souta Dry.¡± Wade and Reese said in unison.


    ¡°I know we have Aspen?¡± Fawzi stated as an alternative.


    ¡°No, fucking, Aspen!¡± Wade and Reese cursed in unison again inspiring a chuckle from Storen and raised brows on Fawzi.


    Yay-yay-yay-o


    Yay-yay-yay-o


    Yay-yay-yay-yay-o


    Yay-yay-yay-o-o


    ¡°Aspen Beer is owned by Weyland Yutani,¡± Storen explained to Fawzi. ¡°These guys don''t have a high opinion of The Company, to say the least. I suggest you bring something else.¡±


    ¡°Ok, got it.¡± Fawzi acknowledged and hurried off towards the bar.


    ¡°Seems like a good kid,¡± Ze''ev commented.


    Storen nodded, ¡°Joe takes promising youth under his wing. Those with potential to pick up a trade. Working here is more than a chance to earn some extra money. It''s an opportunity to make connections for a long term career.¡±


    Wade pulled out a pack of cigarettes while Storen removed a pair of cigars from his jacket. ¡°I said we would smoke one of these when you got out of the hospital,¡± Storen stated to Reese, handing one over with a smile.


    Reese accepted it, but he wasn''t smiling. The big man was hard to read as he slowly and calmly took a puff off the cigar, clasped his large hands together on the table and looked to Ze''ev. Time for business, ¡°So I take it I have you to thank for getting my ribs fixed?¡± Reese stated.


    Ze''ev nodded once, ¡°Storen explained what I expect in return yes?¡±


    ¡°Storen explained it to me, and I explained it to Reese,¡± Wade answered taking a drag off his smoke. He was dressed in his usual baggy jeans and boots with a Pantera t-shirt underneath a black denim coat with a white faux-fur lined collar.


    ¡°Who is Keren to you?¡± Reese asked Ze''ev bluntly in a deep, confident voice. Reese was quiet by nature, but when spoke he was straight to the point. His personality was reserved, similar to Storen, but unlike Storen he did not appear withdrawn or disinterested. Reese always payed attention to what was going on with a suspicious attitude towards other people.


    Ze''ev answered honestly, ¡°Keren was my granddaughter Eva''s best friend. They spent several years together here on the station and grew very close. As close as sisters. Eva''s disappearance on LV-426, four years ago, was very hard on her. Keren is a dear friend of my family. It isn''t right for a man like Victor to be going after her. We need to find her first. Not just for her sake, but to undermine whatever agenda Victor has with her.¡±


    Wade shared a glance with Reese. They both sensed there was more to this story.


    ¡°That doesn''t explain why your man here broke into my quarters and rifled through my private things?¡± Reese pointed out jerking his chin towards Storen, ¡°I usually take that sort of thing personally.¡±


    Ze''ev met Reese''s gaze, ¡°I didn''t ask for that directly Mr. Castle, but I had my reasons to check you out and investigate your past,¡± other than the illegal contraband you were stashing, he didn''t add, ¡°Reasons related to your former ship, the Casimir.¡±


    ¡°What the hell does the Casimir have to do with it?!¡± Wade and Reese wondered in unison.


    At that moment, Fawzi returned with their drinks. Reese and Wade paused to pop cold cans of Souta Dry. Once the young Arab moved away again Storen and Ze''ev lifted their shots together in a toast, downing them fast. Then Ze''ev leaned forward and continued to speak in a lowered voice.


    ¡°The Casimir is currently on route to Ashkelon Station with an unregistered passenger on board. Someone who claims to be an eye-witness to the tragedy on LV-426. Someone with evidence to explain what happened to Eva. I very much need the chance to meet with them.¡±


    Wade and Reese exchanged another look. This was getting stranger by the minute, ¡°So what''s the problem?¡± Wade inquired, ¡°Will the Casimir not be allowed to dock when it arrives?¡±


    ¡°Victor Li Shing and his three destroyers are the problem. He''s ordered the station put on lock down. No one leaves. Given what''s happened, I don''t know if the current crew of the Casimir will still want to dock when they arrive. Lots of crews are getting skittish about doing business here under current circumstances.¡±


    Reese spoke up, ¡°I see where this is going. That''s where my Remote Pilot Uplink Terminal comes in handy. I can override the controls and force the Casimir to dock if they get cold feet.¡±


    ¡°Exactly!¡± Ze''ev agreed, ¡°And if we already have Keren safely out of Victors grasp when that happens, so much the better!¡± Ze''ev gestured to the packed house of the bar. ¡°Many of these crews are stuck here, indefinitely, until Victor has Keren and her sister in custody. That mandate is bad for business and general law and order.


    So long as my chief of security is in charge I have some control over the manhunt. Yet if Keren isn''t located in less than forty eight hours, Victor will take direct command over it as a military operation. At that point it''s out of my hands!¡±


    Wade and Reese shared another look before Wade asked, ¡°Storen said Victor isn''t going after Keren for anything she did, it''s for who, or what she knows?¡±


    At this moment Storen and Ze''ev shared a look of their own. Clearly they weren''t too eager to share everything.


    ¡°Look!¡± Reese stated loudly, biting down on his cigar, flashing his pair of faux-gold capped teeth in the process, ¡°Favors or no favors, I''m no ones lackey or fall-guy! Be real with us or we''ll walk out right now!¡±


    Ze''ev sighed and held up his hands, ¡°Ok fair enough! Keren''s father Guo also went missing shortly after Eva did. I sent him searching after her when the Colony on LV-426 went black.¡±


    ¡°As some sort of private investigator?¡± Wade asked.


    ¡°Yes, something like that. Guo''s a man of particular talents as a smuggler, similar to your own expertise. Meaning no offense.¡±


    ¡°None taken!¡± Reese grunted.


    ¡°Does Keren know you used her father to look for Eva?¡± Wade asked.


    Ze''ev tensed, flinching in a grimace.


    Wade and Reese looked at each other in disbelief, Wow! He never told her!


    ¡°It was for her own good!¡± Ze''ev stammered, ¡°If I made it known to her what he was doing she''d never have kept quiet about it for this long. Questions about him would have caused a lot of trouble!¡±


    Reese crossed his arms as he shifted the cigar in his teeth. His eyes had a distant, pensive look to them. Not staring at Ze''ev directly, but rather, seeming to look through him. Wade meanwhile subtly shook his head and took a deep drought of his beer.


    ¡°I''ve tried every way I can to get answers about the loss of the Hadley''s Hope colony,¡± Ze''ev muttered, ¡°I''m not proud of the dangers Guo and others undertook on my behalf, but if my efforts finally prove wrongdoing and a cover-up by The Company, it''s worth it!¡±


    ¡°What happened at Dizzy''s Club wasn''t worth it!¡± Reese stated harshly, ¡°You lied about Guo to protect yourself and you never warned Keren. Now dozens of innocent people are dead or wounded.¡±


    Ze''ev froze, his facial expression stunned. A tense moment hung over the table.


    ¡°Speaking of secrets, do you have any idea who tasered you and why?¡± Wade pondered out loud, changing the subject by asking Storen.


    Ze''ev and Storen shared another look.


    ¡°I know who did it, but I don''t know why,¡± Ze''ev admitted.


    ¡°Who was it?¡±


    ¡°Dasha Zukhova, my Chief Commerce Officer, heavily disguised of course,¡± Ze''ev answered.


    ¡°She was attempting to eavesdrop on our meeting back at the diner,¡± Storen explained.


    ¡°I''ve already called for station security to take her into custody,¡± Ze''ve promised, ¡°We''ll get answers from her before long.¡±


    Wade exhaled a cloud of smoke with a bitter tone, ¡°With all due respect Ze''ev, I''ve seen the look on your face right now a hundred times before in an interrogation cell. It''s the look of someone too stubborn to admit they''ve already lost control over their own situation.¡±


    Ze''ev frowned, anger flashing over his frustrated, wrinkled face. ¡°I never intended for any harm to come to anyone! It''s too late to turn back now! Besides, I figured both of you would understand my feelings towards The Company more than most. Was I wrong about that?!¡±


    ¡°No you aren''t wrong about that,¡± Reese answered, ¡°but there''s a big difference in risk between what we do and what you''re trying to do. I just want my ship back so my crew and I can be left alone to do business as we please. You''re going after The Company to admit blame for the death of your granddaughter and the loss of an entire colony!¡±


    Ze''ev sighed, as tired as he was stubbornly insistent, ¡°I won''t give up! Even if it''s the last thing I do! What''s it gonna take to get you on board with this?¡±


    Wade and Reese exchanged a look. Now the real bargaining begins.


    _ _ _


    Special Executive Victor Li Shing paced around a solid Ji Chi mu-and-Ebony hardwood table within the conference room of the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng executive suite. Beautifully carved in the style of the Qing Dynasty, the table featured a reproduction of the red-over-white orchid flower logo inlaid at its center in mother-of-pearl and red jade.


    Other fine replica art objects decorated the room lit by warm yellow light from glass lamps. A kesi-tapestry, a statue, a porcelain vase; all styled with the same look and feel of an ancient antique with designs of the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation.


    These pieces were made in homage to the roots of Chinese history inherent in their corporate credo, The Art of War. They spoke to an ideal of cultural tradition, glory and conquest, as if the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation was destined to exemplify these things. None of it impressed him in the least. Victor hated fakes of any kind. In his opinion, such tasteless reproductions represented only frauds, fools and pretenders.


    The only genuine antique in the room was the remnants of a fire-lance dating from the mid thirteenth century. A metal tube tied to a spear designed to fire projectiles with gunpowder. Only about a yards worth of wood still remained from the polearm. Its iron point and barrel so highly weathered they resembled misshapen lumps more than anything fearsome. Nevertheless, Victor considered this genuine item to be the only thing of real value in the room.


    Seated around the tabled were six executives who ran research projects for J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng on Ashkelon Station. Five men and one woman ranging in ages from early thirties to mid fifties, all summoned on short notice. Some of them were woken from sleep, others still wearing scrubs straight from the labs escorted by J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng commandos from his ship.


    None of them were told what the purpose of this meeting was or given any time to prepare for it. Victor preferred it this way. Best to keep them off balance and worried, all the better to get a sense of their true character. Victor never passed up the opportunity to meet new people, if only to assess their value as pawns. For this reason alone, face-to-face meetings always had their place.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Various tablets, binders and briefings littered the table. Hasty offerings, hoping to impress him with measures of success, achievement and progress. They needn''t have bothered. Now that he was on the station, Victor made good use of Executors data banks scrutinizing every relevant progress report from the last few years.


    At this point of course, the past was nowhere near as important as the future. Whoever sat at his table had to convince him of their absolute competence, commitment and loyalty towards what came next. Else wise they were about to have a very bad day.


    After a slow circuit around the table Victor took a stance before his chair, hands clasped at ease behind his back. In moments like this Victor preferred to stand looking down at others. His expression neutral, yet far from friendly. A look of self-assured confidence, willpower and determination went a long way to reinforce an image of authority, energy and dominance.


    Behind him the dead stare of one of Victor''s synthetic bodyguards watched them all with exact composure. He, like the others, was named after a famed general from Chinese history. This one was Qi Jiguang, credited for courage and brilliance against the Japanese Wokou pirates along the southeast coast of China in the fifteenth century. Qi Jiguang fought for more than a decade in over eighty wars, while also working to reinforce The Great Wall.


    Few other than Victor were aware of their names, or the fact they communicated to each other with thoughts alone. Victor could also communicate to them the same way, seeming to give orders telepathically. This was most often observed with their eerie readiness to anticipate all his movement and needs.


    For a few moments there was only silence as Victor leveled his gaze at each executive in turn, noting their defining characteristics and moods. Each was nervous to varying degrees, though they did their best to conceal it. Stoic professionalism was expected from anyone employed by J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng.


    Each of the six avoided looking him in the eye and sat with their hands clasped humbly on their laps. Mid-level executives, so far below his rank in the corporate hierarchy, should never speak out-of-turn or even turn their heads in his direction until spoken too. None would even dare to reach for the tray of coffee set on a side table unless it was actually offered to them first.


    Victor noted one non-Chinese face in the group. An anomaly not without precedent. J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng and Technion Interstellar had a long history of cooperation even before the CSC was founded in the twenty-eighties. At the time Israel and Hong Kong were both small nations with powerful enemies. Joint advances in robotics, various bio-technology, advanced weaponry and aerospace secured a promising future for both.


    Later, after the CSC was formed and GL-382 was colonized, J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng and Technion Interstellar partnered together for the lions share of construction costs for Ashkelon Station. This ensured exclusive rights to the the resources of the planet below and emerging opportunities for trade and commerce that the station provided. After so many decades doing business together, employees of either nationality would sometimes defect to the other side.


    Such a move was not easy. Cultural and professional differences between the two mega corporations were substantial. Yet sometimes, those differences suited particular individuals. Victor wasn''t one to chastise anyone for simply going against the norm. Fresh thinking and new ideas were valuable. But he wasn''t going to cut this Israeli any slack either.


    Reuven Beloff was a small thin man, about forty, with brooding blue eyes, dark wiry hair, pursed lips and a stern rigid posture. According to his file, Reuven had been with J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng for twelve years. Like the others he was a mid-level senior research executive.


    At present Victor didn''t concentrate on any one person longer than the others. The first priority was evaluating the group as a whole. Most mid-level executive meetings would start with introductions, formal bows and some sort of pep talk or speech to boost morale and give everyone the sense they were all on the same team. Instead of that, Victor gestured to the projector device affixed to the ceiling.


    As if by magic, the wave of his hand, or a thought, the device began to play a promotional video against either wall. The flag of the Independent Core Systems Colonies appeared, with the usual statements and legal warnings about unauthorized reproduction or distribution of private intellectual property.


    After that the starburst logo of Technion Interstellar faded to reveal the face of an attractive woman in her fifties with bright blue eyes, a broad smile and wavy, thick blonde hair. She was dressed in a plain lab coat, similar to others in this room, leaning against an office desk.


    ¡°Hello!¡± she began with exuberant enthusiasm, ¡°My name is Eve Einat-Darkon, chief executive of research for Technion Interstellar. I want to talk to you today about the future of exploration! In the past distant colonization was attempted with huge, expensive colony vessels. We''re all familiar with those ill-fated voyages of the Prometheus, the Covenant and the Ivan-Petlin, all of which vanished without a trace!¡±


    Eve''s expression hardened with sadness, ¡°Those costly ventures leave us all with bitter questions, worries and doubts. Such tragic risks of human life and resources should not be repeated. Fortunately there is hope!¡± Eve''s expression warmed as she moved away from the desk, stepping over to a large view port overlooking the familiar world of GL-382.


    ¡°Here below me is GL-382, the world I grew up on, also known as ''Temple Colony''. Technion Interstellar and our partners, the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation, have poured tremendous investment in its growth and development. Here aboard Ashkelon Station we have more than a great view. We each maintain state of the art laboratories working on parallel experiments involving one of the most powerful forms of energy in the universe. Antimatter!¡±


    The camera''s view shifted to another perspective to catch her bemused expression of shock, ¡°Yes I know what you''re thinking. Antimatter is dangerous! Rest assured we take every conceivable precaution, and we are only working with very small amounts, nanograms, which are produced as anti-protons on the surface of GL-382 with our massive particle accelerator.¡±


    The screen flashed to an orbital view of the facility, kept far from populated areas, buried within a massive crater nearly fifty miles across.


    ¡°The price of our research is staggering,¡± she continued, heard now only as a voice over while the aerial views of the facility persisted, ¡°Each particle of antimatter requires thousands of megawatts of energy to produce. Even at the extremely high efficiency levels we''ve achieved, every nanogram of antimatter costs millions.


    Every one of those particles must then be transferred into the equally huge particle decelerator where they are gradually slowed down, super-cooled, and eventually stored into this...¡±


    The view switched to an internal shot of an underground bunker complex where stacks of gleaming metal donuts were submerged in tanks of sub-zero coolant hooked up to power cables.


    ¡°These toroid''s, manufactured by us, are specially designed to hold charged antimatter particles. So long as necessary containment conditions are maintained they can be stored indefinitely and transported safely anywhere.¡±


    Robotic arms removed five toroid''s from a tank and lowered them into a storage cylinder roughly resembling a fifty-five gallon barrel. A cargo-loader lifted it up on the back of a specially equipped cargo truck. Power cables and cooling hoses were hastily connected to the barrel by figures in bulky environmental suits who gave the camera a reassuring thumbs up.


    ¡°So how does antimatter help us safely explore the universe? That''s easy. It gives us incredible energy. Enough energy to travel further, and faster, than ever before!¡±


    The camera flashed back to the aerial view of the facility, then panned upwards towards Ashkelon Station and the stars beyond. Eve''s voice-over continued.


    ¡°For example, just one milligram of antimatter used as a rocket-propellant could send a probe from Earth to Pluto and back in a year. Yet as impressive as that is, faster-than-light travel with modern hyperdrives can cover an entire parsec in mere days. Traditionally the more powerful the reactor, and thus the larger the ship, the faster it can go. Antimatter changes all that.¡±


    The view up towards the stars zoomed in on a secret orbital shipyard where a destroyer of some sort was currently undergoing significant retrofit.


    ¡°This is the CSCS Kowloon. It''s the first spacecraft of any design equipped with an antimatter-drive propulsion unit. Brave naval officers of the CSC have volunteered to test it. By the time you view this it will have already completed its maiden voyage and begun real-world trials. Our friends at J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng tell me this new rapid-response destroyer will put the fastest Colonial Marine Frigate to shame!¡±


    The camera shifted back to Eve looking out her view port towards the stars, ¡°I''ll certainly sleep better knowing our defense fleet is more ready and capable than ever,¡± she smiled, ¡°Current international laws and treaties outlaw antimatter weapons. Rest assured we have no plans for an antimatter weapon now, or in the future, unless that changes.¡±


    Her smile faded to a hopeful, contemplative look as she moved towards a small conference table with an elaborate spacecraft model resembling a very unusual rocket, ¡°This is the future of exploration. We call it the Chayot Ha Kodesh interstellar probe.¡±


    The camera panned around the rocket, which was vaguely diamond-shaped, beautifully streamlined and elegant in its design.


    ¡°It will be the most powerful and advanced spacecraft ever conceived, completely automated, with the worlds first antimatter-powered-reactor. It won''t even need to slow down for a solar-recharge cycle until all its antimatter fuel is expended. In terms of range and speed, just one gram of antimatter burned in its propulsion unit will be enough to span our entire galaxy in about a week!¡± her smile returned, ¡°Imagine how far we could go with ten!


    Probes like this omit the risk of human lives exploring distant regions of space. At least in the initial stages. We are ready to begin construction of the Chayot Ha Kodesh and ramp up antimatter production as soon as we receive the required funding. This is a very exciting time!¡± she grinned.


    ¡°Myself and all my colleagues are very proud to bring this project into its final phase. The planning and preparations for this stretch back almost a hundred years! Ashkelon Station and Temple Colony were chosen specifically for this purpose. Their position at the edge of the Outer Rim makes it the perfect place to launch a new future into a new frontier. Representatives are standing by. Don''t wait, invest now!¡±


    The video ended on the starburst logo of Technion Interstellar. Victor paused it there as he asked a plain and simple question, speaking Chinese of course.


    ¡°Does this please you?¡±


    The faces around the tabled exchanged baffled, nervous glances. A heavy silence hung in the air. Finally, Reuven was the first to answer in sharp, clipped syllables. His Chinese was perfect, ¡°Sir, everyone on the project is aware of the plans for an interstellar probe. It''s been the goal for Technion Interstellar since the beginning.¡±


    ¡°I know that!¡± Victor spat back harshly, ¡°My question was, does that please you?¡±


    Reuven nodded once, ¡°It does sir. It''s a fantastic idea.¡±


    Victor pursed his lips and repeated Reuven''s statement, slowly with deliberate emphasis, ¡°...a fantastic idea... So why then, Mr. Beloff, are you sitting here in this room, with us? Why did you switch sides and join the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation if their idea for a probe pleases you so much?¡±


    Reuven swallowed, ¡°It''s not the only thing that pleases me. My work here is very challenging, and rewarding. I appreciate what they''ve done, but my focus is on my work for J.L.¡±


    ¡°Tell me about what you do here for us?¡± Victor asked as a rhetorical question. He already knew the answer.


    ¡°I work in guidance. Hyperspace navigation primarily.¡±


    ¡°Oh I see. And why is that work so important?¡±


    ¡°It''s critical for the safety and performance of an antimatter-drive propulsion unit. Increased speed and thrust means greater risks for navigational errors.¡± Reuven answered.


    ¡°Would you say those risks for navigational errors are equally important to the guidance team working for Technion Interstellar?¡± Victor asked.


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°So again I have to ask you Mr. Beloff. Why do you work for us, and not them?¡±


    ¡°I suppose I feel my talents are better valued here,¡± Reuven answered.


    ¡°So its a point that your talents hold value?¡± Victor stated.


    ¡°Yes. I believe they do.¡±


    ¡°Do we pay you more than Technion Interstellar ever did?¡±


    ¡°You do, yes, but my role with you is not the same as it was with them. I''ve grown much more experienced in my field since...¡±


    Victor interrupted him with a wave of his hand, ¡°...Naturally! You''ve been with us along time. We''ve nurtured your ''talents'' and rewarded your efforts as well as you deserve.¡±


    Reuven smiled thinly and sat up even straighter, pleased to receive any praise from someone like Victor, ¡°I think I''ve earned my place here yes. With my help the guidance department has achieved its goals and deadlines. Our simulations are favorable for real-world testing of the antimatter-drive propulsion unit as soon as can be arranged.¡±


    ¡°Yes I look forward to that!¡± Victor stated with a rare smile of his own, ¡°Such thrilling technology!¡±


    The mood in the room seemed to lighten at that. Some visibly relaxed and exhaled. Victor''s expression turned thoughtful, ¡°But you know I can''t help but think that the idea for an antimatter-powered interstellar probe isn''t so great. I think we can do better.¡±


    Reuven looked puzzled, but optimistic, "What do you suggest sir?¡± he asked Victor with a hasty, polite bow.


    ¡°You tell me? Your the one with such wonderful talents. I wouldn''t know the first thing about hyperspace navigation or an antimatter-drive propulsion unit. I''m not even sure I fully comprehend the power of antimatter at all? What else should we do with it, now that that power is within our grasp?¡±


    Reuven shifted slightly in his seat. The others were all looking at him. The mood in the room grew tense again.


    ¡°I... err... I suppose we could consider further possibilities. There is the wormhole theory? Perhaps we can...¡±


    ¡°Take a look around Reuven,¡± Victor stated icily, ¡°What do you see?¡±


    Reuven swallowed again, harder this time, staring at the faces of his colleagues. He looked pale and far less cocky than just a few moments ago, ¡°I see this gathering. I see you Mr. Li Shing. I see art...¡±


    ¡°Oh certainly!¡± Victor agreed, stepping around the table towards the remnants of the antique fire-lance on its lacquered wood display stand, ¡°Would you consider this art?¡±


    ¡°That? Yes. It''s beautiful!¡± Reuven stammered, his breathing fast and his palms sweaty.


    ¡°I couldn''t agree more!¡± Victor agreed, reaching for it and lifting it up in his hands delicately. It had more heft to it than one would guess at first glance.


    The others looked away, or down at the table. No one looked at Reuven.


    ¡°Do you know why this is here?¡± Victor asked Reuven, stepping up close beside him so he could see it up close.


    ¡°It''s a relic. A reminder of the past and the importance of history.¡±


    ¡°Yes it is that, but more to the point, its a weapon!¡± Victor stated, clubbing Reuven across the side of his skull with the metal tube. A sickening thud was heard as old iron fractured bone. A painful moan of shock and surprise came from Reuven as he lurched forward, eyes bulging.


    Gasps of horror and disbelief erupted around the table. One of the other executives reacted as if he was going to leap to Reuven''s aid, until a quick step from Victor''s bodyguard made him think twice.


    Savoring the moment, Victor lifted the relic up again, plunging the blunted tip of the spear down into the side of Reuvens neck. It did not cut a clean wound, instead ripping open a jagged gash through skin, muscle and tendons. Blood gushed across the table in fountains and spurts. Reuven at first attempted to scream, yet only managed an awful wheeze and gurgle as he simultaneously choked and drowned in his own vitae.


    ¡°Let this serve to remind you, the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation is in the arms busines!¡± Victor hissed, wiping blood from his hands on the back of Reuvens lab coat while the man still twitched and shuddered in his death throws, ¡°Does anyone else want to tell me how pleased they are that Technion Interstellar is ready to construct an interstellar probe?¡±


    Around the table were only gaping faces, paralyzed with fear. Reuven''s last moments were spent clutching at the sleeve of the woman seated next to him. She was red faced with tears in her eyes, choking back sobs.


    ¡°Stop your whimpering!¡± Victor stated derisively, returning to the head of the table, leaning down to press his knuckles against the wood, ¡°It''s time we focused on what we do. It makes no difference if you''re a soldier, an executive or a scientist. The goal is the same. Anyone working for J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation supports our plans against all rivals, by whatever means are necessary! Up until now, partnering with Technion Interstellar was advantageous for us. That time has passed."


    Those around the table exchanged looks. Qian Xuesen, the oldest man in the room made an effort to speak for the group. Sweat beaded on his bald skull as he nervously wiped at his forehead with a sleeve, ¡°Sir, what should we do?¡±


    ¡°I want you all to prepare for what''s coming. As of now, research for an antimatter weapon is our top priority. You must use every resource at our disposal to support that initiative. We can''t afford to be left behind in a new arms race. Get us on par with Technion Interstellar. Somehow. Someway. Anyway you can. Sabotage. Lie, cheat, steal. Get your hands bloody. Do whatever is required towards that end.¡±


    Qian balked and shook his head, ¡°Sir, what your asking is...¡± he swallowed, composing himself by biting his own tongue.


    ¡°Go ahead, speak your mind,¡± Victor coached.


    ¡°...this is mercenary! We''ve worked alongside T.I. for decades! Yes they create the antimatter, but they share it with us because we share in the costs. We help them test it and develop our own technology from it. A parallel study. In many ways this was always to our advantage since we spared ourselves the price of our own particle accelerator. Why now do we betray that relationship? Their probe is no threat to us?¡±


    ¡°WRONG!¡± Victor shouted, slamming his fists against the table causing everyone to jump, ¡°What do you think happens when they get that extra funding? They won''t need us anymore. They''ll dissolve our partnership, shut us out and keep all their antimatter for themselves. At that point how do we compete, let alone maintain our own research?


    We''d need to build our own particle accelerator to have any hope to catch up, as you rightly pointed out. That would put us years behind. Maybe decades?! Worse still, we''d have to cut our current budget for arms manufacturing in half, at the very least, just to cover those expenses.


    Such losses in profits would essentially put all our assets and operations at risk. By that point, it may already be too late?! Who''s going to keep investing in our weapon systems if someone else has an antimatter weapon on the market before we do?¡±


    ¡°That will never happen!¡± Qian argued, ¡°Any rogue corporation who attempts it will be an easy target for economic sanctions and criminal charges, perhaps even military action by the United Americas or the Three World Empire. That road is a dead-end!¡±


    Victor snorted, ¡°That''s very na?ve. They say the same thing about certain chemical and biological weapons, which I assure you are still being made. Would you like to know how much we stockpile, and who''s buying on the black market?¡±


    Qian shook his head in disgust while the others looked like they were going to be sick.


    Victor repeated himself, ¡°Technion Interstellar must not fulfill their agenda at our expense! We need an alternative technology, preferably a weapon, to tip the favor of potential investors towards us. Instead of an interstellar probe, I want an interstellar ballistic missile!¡± Victor ordered.


    ¡°Even if we manage to design such a weapon in secret, we don''t have the supply of antimatter necessary, or even the correct type, to make an effective prototype!¡± Qian argued, ¡°If Technion Interstellar is indeed ready to create an antimatter reactor, that means they have solved the problem of collecting and storing antimatter particles that have a neutral charge. Those particles won''t repel each other the way positrons do, which is all we''ve been given to study!


    Though it is true that antimatter reactions are at least two orders of magnitude greater than the most efficient nuclear weapons; it takes at least half a gram of antimatter reacting with ordinary matter to result in an explosion forty percent more powerful than the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima by the Americans. We can''t build a reactor, or a warhead, of any significant energy without sufficient density of antimatter.


    The only way to do that, is with neutral antiparticles such as antihydrogen, or antimatter-helium-four. Technion Interstellar hasn''t given us any neutral antiparticles to study or shared specifics about how they manage to collect and store such particles. Obviously this was done on purpose. If they suspect we are attempting espionage of their technology or developing anything illegal, we''ll never get anywhere. They''ll cut us off completely, even from the comparatively safe positively-charged antimatter particles we have studied thus far.¡±


    Victor nodded, ¡°That will only be a temporary setback. Did the Mongols cease their efforts to conquer China when they lacked the might of gunpowder weapons? NO! They seized the technology for themselves, adopted it into their own arsenal and went on to conquer the largest empire in history! We should act by their example.


    Our estimates suggest Technion Interstellar has been collecting neutral-charged antimatter for quite a while. When the time is right, what we need should already be there for the taking. If not, we can always capture the particle accelerator for ourselves and confiscate their technology by force. A hostile-takeover, in the literal sense, may be the most sensible option in the end.¡±


    Qian and the others stared at him with disbelief.


    Victor smirked, ¡°You think we weren''t already prepared for this? There are two destroyers in orbit on the far side of GL-382 as we speak. It was always our plan to let our partners create the antimatter we needed. Cheaper for us that way...¡±


    - - -


    A muffled blast suddenly sent heavy vibrations through the hull of the station causing everyone to loose balance as the table lurched. Glass lamps, the vase, the statue and the tray of coffee all went toppling to shatter on the floor. Reuven''s corpse, still bleeding, slid off the table into a heap just as a massive burst of air pressure went rushing out of the room.


    The door to the conference room was sound-proofed and reinforced, but it was not a pressure door designed to hold against the vacuum of space. It was not even air tight. Everyone reached up to cover their ears instinctively as the pain of explosive decompression ruptured their ear drums, sucking all the air out of the room the instant the door buckled and pulled free of its hinges.


    Screams followed, though without air, there were no molecules available to carry sound. Everything not bolted down in the room, flew towards the open door. Shards of shattered glass and porcelain. Chairs. Reuven''s corpse and flailing executives fighting for their lives.


    Victor felt his bodyguard pull him backwards into a hug before he was sucked out with everything and everyone else. The synthetic android had the strength of ten men, anchoring them both as the storm passed by clamping its hand around a swivel fixture bolted to the wall that supported a display monitor.


    Not all of the executives were sucked out into space. The wooden table was too large and sturdy to be forced through the door. Qian Xuesen and the woman, Jiang Ying, both managed to grab a hold of a table leg and hold their breath.


    Why weren''t they floating? Victor thought. Then he remembered the stations artificial gravity was still working. They could stand, and walk, as normal, even in the vacuum of space. There was no danger of being sucked out once all the air was gone.


    At the same time, Victor heard his bodyguard''s voice in his head explaining that he had to release the air out of his lungs or they would rupture. His body of course would not obey. In a state of pure panic, exhaling into a vacuum went against every instinct it had. The android thus, squeezed harder, forcing the air out of his lungs against his will.


    Qian Xuesen did likewise, breathing out as he crawled towards Jiang Ying. She was not so clear-headed. Victor watched her convulse and vomit up blood and bits of lung tissue as the internal air pressure in her own chest burst up through her mouth and out of her ruptured ear drums through the Eustachian tubes in the back of her throat. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head shortly after Qian Xuesen managed to grab her into a hug.


    Victor was certain that he was going to die as the dreaded ache of oxygen asphyxiation sent his body into spasms. Meanwhile within his veins and soft tissue, reduced pressure reduced the effective boiling temperature of body fluids. Water in his bloodstream began to vaporize creating gas bubbles. These were visible under the skin as rapid bruising, swelling, and a strange puffiness in his face. Surface blood vessels in his ears, nose and eyes burst sending trickles of blood streaming outwards that quickly cooled and froze into crystals when they detached from his skin.


    Victor knew he would eventually bleed to death, but first he would loose consciousness from oxygen deprivation in less than a minute. Rational parts of his brain, especially those enhanced with synthetic A.I., were aware of all these facts.


    Air! I need Air! Victor screamed with every thought of his mind. The bodyguard released his hug and pulled out a flat plastic package from the small of his back. It unfolded into a clear plastic body bag of sorts which it unzipped as the other two body guards were already rushing inside the conference room pushing aside the table.


    Together, they forced Victor into the bag and zipped it up attaching a small cylinder with an emergency air supply. The bag inflated with a rush of breathable air under positive pressure. Victor gasped, tasting blood. His lungs were damaged. He feared blood clots and a potential embolism to come, but in the short term he would survive.


    How much air? Victor asked via mental query. The human body required half a liter of oxygen per minute. Though highly compressed, such a tiny portable air supply canister would not be enough to last long.


    Twenty minutes, the android responded. Total air supply will be one hour, assuming each of us has to use our emergency decompression kits to keep you alive.


    Through the plastic he saw Qian Xuesen lurching towards him. He looked horrible, the picture of a soon and certain death. Victor considered sharing one of the kits with him before he remembered who else he should be worrying about.


    Catherine! Where''s Catherine! You have to save Catherine! He thought with a dreadful sickening realization that she was probably already gone. It''s not fair! He realized. She almost died once this way already. All that work, and expense, to bring her back to life with a new body wasted!


    Catherine is safe! She left the suite to go for a run shortly before the bombs went off, The bodyguards answered.


    Victor breathed deeply with relief, wiping blood from his eyes that were still bleeding. I understand now what it was like for you Catherine. Dying this way is an especially traumatizing way to go.


    Qian clawed at his bubble, staring at him pleadingly as he was pushed back by the bodyguards. Victor stared back at him. Odds were they would be rescued very soon. He could spare one kit and twenty minutes of air for Qian. Or maybe not?


    The bodyguards explained there were bombs. That implies an attack, perhaps even a betrayal? Was Technion Interstellar preemptively moving against him before he could move against them? He thought about Ze''ev Darkon. Was the station administrator behind this? What about his daughter, Eve Einat-Darkon? Was she double-crossing him?


    Qian fell to his knees, his eyes bloodshot, his face a ruin of bruising and burst blood vessels. Victor admired the man. He faced his death with stoic pride worthy of all expectations in the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation. Victor thought it appropriate that he should be reassured that his death would not be in vain.


    Victor tried to speak. The effort pained him so badly that he could only cough up bloody spittle. This was going to be harder than he thought. After a struggle, he managed to mutter five words, ¡°Thank you for your service!¡±


    Qian couldn''t hear him of course, but maybe he could read his lips? It was the least he could do.


    The very least he could do.

 Chapter 15

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/23/2183</u>


    Encrypted Emergency Transmission


    Weyland Yutani Network ¨C Colonial Marshal Secure Channel -


    From: Chief Colonial Marshal John Coffee / ICC Agent Shella Roodt: Ashkelon Station


    To: USCM Tremolino: Tartarus Sector


    Message: Request immediate Evacuation. Dangerous, emerging conflict between J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Naval Commando''s (Under orders from Special Executive Victor Li-Shing) and the Red Triad. One ICC casualty, three dozen local bystanders dead or wounded. Several commandos dead or wounded and two Red Triad Enforcers dead. Expect serious escalation in conflict within 48 hours of this transmission. Victor Li-Shing has ordered Ashkelon Station on security lock down. No departures allowed, only arrivals.


    CSCS Kowloon (New type) and two other CSC destroyers on site (Unknown type). Approach with extreme caution. We believe their intentions are hostile.


    End Transmission


    _ _ _


    Aboard the Tekla, Oliver glared at the message with disappointment and heated displeasure. All encrypted ICC channels, as well as those of the Colonial Marshals, were constantly monitored by the Tekla''s systems just in case this happened. This was not difficult, as the most efficient means of communication across interstellar space was the vast and sophisticated network of communication satellites known as The Network, set up by Weyland Yutani.


    However, would-be competitors to The Company preferred other means to transmit intellectual property, for obvious reasons. Espionage between interstellar mega corporations was a constant and ongoing problem.


    Member corporations of the Central Space Consortium maintained their own network of comm satellites throughout the ICSC. In terms of bandwidth and performance, the CSC comm-satellite system couldn''t compete with The Network outright, but it was still their most secure means to send data from Ashkelon Station back to the CSC.


    An important secondary objective of Oliver''s mission here was to attempt to crack that system and intercept encrypted files and transmissions from Ashkelon Station.


    Weyland Yutani was always interested in scientific and technological developments by rival corporations. Rumors of an ongoing joint-project between the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation and Technion Interstellar had not escaped their notice. And yet, for decades, all efforts to access that research had failed.


    Oliver was already well-briefed on those prior attempts and any obstacles they had not yet overcome. Laboratory data banks on Ashkelon Station run by J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng or Technion Interstellar were highly secured with air-gaped servers and high-level encryption. Besides that, they did not trust such valuable and costly research to vulnerable and volatile computer memory storage alone. There were always hard copy backups, and it was only those backups that ever passed through the air gap.


    Every twenty four hours, a nano-optical long-data memory disc, or ''LD'', was created with a detailed record of the labs experiments for the day. At that time, a trusted executive would physically carry that disc out of the labs and upload it directly into Executors computer core. This was done for two reasons. Both as a local memory backup, and to utilize its powerful A.I. to run further simulations from the data.


    In the past, attempts were made by The Company to bribe, blackmail, persuade or threaten executives to turn over these discs by highly paid private agents. None were successful. Those agents, and the executives they targeted, usually disappeared afterwards. Most probably killed and disposed of by the Red Triad once they were tipped off and contracted to hunt them down, thus keeping their employers'' hands clean.


    Executor itself of course did not belong to any one corporation exclusively. It was considered property of the Central Space Consortium, as was Ashkelon Station itself. J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng and Technion Interstellar leased the right to operate these labs and use Executor as they saw fit. Any communications to and from the station that were considered ''privileged intellectual property'' were handled by Executor.


    Intercepting, compiling, collating and decrypting data transmitted from Ashkelon Station via the CSC satellite network was neigh impossible for a ship like the Tekla to accomplish. Executors ability to encrypt such data was impressive by any standards, and the Tekla''s A.I. was simply no match for it.


    Besides that, research related to the joint project between Technion Interstellar and J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng was rarely entrusted to wireless communications at all. Detailed files related to the project were brought back to the CSC on LD''s using specialized, armed couriers aboard fast hyperspace transports or J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng defense fleet destroyers.


    Thus on many levels, the concord agreement served as a convenient cover by The Company to get more permanent assets on the station to facilitate better efforts at espionage. Oliver understood that he and Shella Roodt were just the latest agents tasked with this objective, and their odds of success were much better with her operating on the station compared to him and the Tekla''s A.I. moored some distance away from it.


    Yet, much to Oliver''s dismay, Shella Roodt was apparently out of pocket. She''d turned off her tablet and deactivated her personal comm dish. Oliver never had the chance to brief her about Xenomorphs and why Ashkelon Station might be a threat. Now this emergency distress message put that entire mission at risk.


    False-priorities were not part of Oliver''s programming, yet he understood the same was not true for people. Shella allowed the Chief to put the safety of her colleagues ahead of her mission for The Company. It was a short-sighted, foolish choice, but an altogether human one. People were not always reliable that way. His doubts about her loyalties had proven correct. Somehow he would make sure that she suffered for it, but now the fate of the mission was entirely up to him.


    Once the Tremolino arrived to evacuate all ICC personnel, there was no guarantee they would ever return. Without an ongoing ICC presence here, there was far less chance that he, or any other synthetic like him, would get close to the station again. He had to do something to salvage something from the mission while he still could.


    Oliver closed his eyes and calmed his thoughts. It was time to report in to his superiors and receive whatever guidance they could offer. Meanwhile in the background of his mind, analysis of the ships records of the USCS Casimir had finally concluded. The M-class freighter had a long and sordid past. Indeed it was as older even than Ashkelon Station itself. Modified, upgraded, patched-together and well-traveled as much as any similar vessel ever was.


    Ownership of the Casimir by Weyland Yutani, through subsidiary transport firms, began in the early 2130''s, just as The Company was expanding their terraforming efforts establishing many new colony worlds within the American Arm of the Outer Rim Territories.


    Ships records prior to that were largely incomplete, especially since the ships original A.I. core was corrupted and replaced in late 2098 with an as-then top-of-the-line A.P.O.L.L.O. unit manufactured by Seegson Corp. Little of what records and logs were left from the original core were ever recovered by the ICC when the vessel was re-registered with the new A.I.


    However, Oliver could not help but notice that the time and location of that re-registration was not done in the same location as the A.I. overhaul itself. That was unusual. Most spaceports capable of such work had a local ICC Office.


    Oliver checked scanned copies of the original work order receipts submitted at the time of re-registration and was surprised to find that the overhaul was done on the surface of GL-382, in an expanding ships port while construction of Ashkelon Station was just getting started. Temple Colony had its first elected governor at the time, Alexander Darkon, father of the current station administrator Ze''ev Darkon.


    Oliver wondered if someone on Ashkelon Station would be copying these records from the ICC Database looking for dirt on Ze''ev, or his father? After all, prior to the recent arrival of ICC personnel there would be no way to access the ICC Database on the station. Yet who would benefit from such information? The Red Triad perhaps? They would certainly profit from any blackmail materials they could get a hold of.


    There was nothing in the records to say that either Ze''ev or his father had used the ship for anything directly, legal or illegal in nature, yet with the common frequency by which it visited Ashkelon Station they certainly would have had the opportunity to do so through an intermediary.


    That train of thought begged the question, which of them might have need to use it for something? By all accounts Ze''ev''s father Alexander was a gifted governor and a talented colony engineer, but he was not a local. His family connections to Technion Interstellar were established when he was adopted by a prominent Jewish family in his mid twenties before he married into another. Thus his original name was never Darkon to begin with, yet no official record of his original name existed?


    It was as if he appeared from nowhere, so far as records of the Colonial Administration could attest. Even the first name, Alexander, seemed off. Though prominent in Jewish genealogy, it originates from the Greek king Alexander the Great, ruler of Macedonia who established one of the largest empires of the ancient world. It was a convenient name that someone of non-Jewish origin might take to assimilate themselves into Jewish culture, especially if it was similar to their own name?


    This gave Oliver an idea. He took the earliest known photo of governor Alexander Darkon and tasked the Tekla''s A.I. to run it through facial recognition against any other known records of men of similar age. This would take a while. Records that old were hard to assimilate in any one place, even by The Company, especially for individuals who may never have had ID''s with the Three World Empire, the United America''s, or any other major government to begin with. Strangely enough, that problem wasn''t getting any smaller with ever-growing populations on frontier colonies.


    As a further search-parameter, Oliver suggested it comb first through men with names similar to Alexander. A needle in a haystack made of needles perhaps, but it was better than nothing.


    Ze''ev Darkon''s possible connection to the Casimir seemed more likely. After listening in on Shella Roodt''s last conversation with the Chief, he knew now that a smuggler named Guo Ho-Stern had traveled to LV-426 on his behest. So far as there were any records, the Casimir never traveled directly to the Zeti-Reticuli system. However, it came close enough to possibly rendezvous with another vessel soon after its destruction.


    He could not verify any passengers by the name of Guo ever traveled aboard the Casimir either, but that was not surprising. Four years ago, Ashkelon Station was a no mans land so far as the ICC was concerned. There were no operational records at all from the station in those days except what the station kept for itself, and in order to access those he would have to breach Executor''s firewalls or get someone with access to do it for him. Neither was going to happen at this very moment.


    The most immediately useful thing he did glean from the records, were the names Reese Castle and Wade Barrett. Former crew of the ship who worked now as spacecraft technicians aboard Ashkelon Station. Oliver knew better than to believe coincidence was the most likely explanation for that.


    Records for Reese Castle indicated the ICC targeted him for asset seizure as a suspected smuggler. Considering the ship, and his contract, were owned by The Company to begin with, it was easy enough for the ICC to drain his accounts and sell his contract to another crew. They even managed to do so while he was still in transit in hypersleep. A prime example of efficient justice at work. Not that Oliver gave a shit about justice whatsoever of course.


    Wade Barrett had an interesting record. Formally a 2<sup>nd</sup> Lieutenant in intelligence for the Colonial Marines. Operational details of his tours of duty were classified. That wasn''t a permanent barrier for inquiry on his part, but it wouldn''t happen instantly. Oliver could determine at least, for now, that he was never posted to LV-426, nor did he ever serve aboard the Sulaco. Not that he would ever expect that he was. Any such loose ends were long since tied up.


    Details of Wade''s life after the marines were scarce and Oliver believed they were worth looking into. It wasn''t easy to imagine how a former marine ended up in a smugglers crew with a man like Reese? At this moment he had no evidence to connect them to Ze''ev in any way beyond the possibility that Guo Ho-Stern may, or may not, have been transported aboard the Casimir to or from Ashkelon Station after the events of LV-426.


    One last detail of note for him was the fact the Casimir was scheduled to arrive back at Ashkelon Station very soon with its current crew. No registered passengers were logged to arrive with it. Of the current crew, no one stood out to him as someone with a past tied to Ze''ev or his father. Nevertheless, he would keep close tabs on that ship from now on ordering the Tekla to notify him the moment it arrived and queried station control about a berth for docking.


    _ _ _


    Within his office, Joe ''Duck'' Dechellis sat before a bank of monitors and jury-rigged communications equipment. His expression was pale, equal parts mortified and excited as he watched the live feed from the E.M.V.''s external cameras outside the executive penthouse suite of the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation.


    Joe was a dwarf, barely over four feet tall even in heavy-heeled boots. Such diminutive size had never slowed him down or limited his ambitions however. Sometimes, especially while he was still working as a station technician, it was actually an advantage. The fact that Joe was always comfortable in small spaces became its own gag. The nickname ''Duck'' was another one, given the fact that he rarely ever had too.


    It also probably had something to do with his New Yorker accent. Anyone who missed seeing him in a room would still easily recognize his voice and fast-paced speech. Joe spoke his mind frankly, and often. He was one of the most popular ''old-timers'' on the station.


    At fifty seven years old, Joe was familiar with everyone and everything on Ashkelon Station. He was also always ready with a story or a joke at someone else''s expense, which somehow always seemed even funnier coming from him.


    Right at this moment however, Joe was anything but content and jovial. There was work to be done. The most serious sort of work there was; murder by any means necessary.


    As the floor-to-ceiling view port of the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng penthouse suite was shattered and blown apart by two shaped explosives planted on its lower edge, the force of the subsequent, explosive decompression expelled a cloud of air, debris, and people into the frigid, deadly vacuum of space.


    Joe felt himself swallow heavily with disgust, pity, and self-loathing even as he watched it unfold with unrepentant satisfaction. Funny how those emotions can exist at the same time? Joe realized. It was a damn shame this had to be done, but it had to be done. Joe wouldn''t live easy with this act of slaughter, but he would do it again if he had too. Anyone in that suite working with Victor Li-Shing deserved to die with him. Enjoy the vacuum you smug, corporate fucks! May god have mercy on your souls!


    The dramatic scene was enhanced by bright emergency beacons and several external spotlights as Executor engaged priority-one hull-breach emergency protocols.


    ¡°Damn it I don''t see him!¡± cursed the E.M.V. operator inside the spider panning the cameras and zooming in on the tumbling, spinning bodies. ¡°Victor''s not out here!¡±


    Joe could see he was correct. Some of the victims were dressed in casual business garb, or lab coats. Some were dead already, the rest were certainly doomed, yet none resembled Victor or his bodyguards. Joe clenched his fists on his desk, speaking sharply into the headset wrapped over his head. ¡°I already said dis might happen! Get up dere and find him! Finish de job!¡±


    ¡°Roger-that!¡± Spoke back the operator through gritted teeth. Meanwhile, the two EVA saboteurs successfully retracted themselves via cable to the EMV and gripped a hold of handles beside the airlock. Their own frustrated voices broke into the channel, breathless and angry.


    ¡°We didn''t glimpse him or the bodyguards inside when we planted the charges!¡±


    ¡°He''s in dere! I guyantee it!¡± Grunted Joe.


    The E.M.V. lurched into motion once gain, ascending the tower with rapid, jerking movements. Spotlights placed on the exterior of the station swept over the area in sweeping arcs, focusing on the cloud of debris and the yawning hole where the penthouse view port once was. It didn''t take them long to spot the huge metal spider scrabbling up the hull towards it.


    _ _ _


    Catherine Gray emerged from the lift on the space port level dressed in running shoes, loose fitting jogging sweats and a hoodie just as a slight vibration rattled through the deck. It was nothing hugely dramatic, yet her acute senses immediately registered it as an explosion just as red flashing sirens started going off along the corridor.


    Behind her the lift doors slammed shut, as part of Executors emergency hull breach protocol. At first she didn''t understand what was happening until people started pointing to the panoramic view ports above and alongside the spaceport perimeter walkway.


    ¡°Look at that!¡±


    ¡°Oh my god! Are those people floating in vacuum without a suit?!¡±


    ¡°Isn''t that the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Penthouse?!¡±


    Catherine spun on her heels and started slamming on the controls for the lift. Open damn it! Open! It was no use. Her efforts only managed to shatter and crack the buttons. Simultaneously, her deep-seated sense of anxiety about floating in space without a suit sent shivers of fear and dread through her.


    Catherine had the immediate urge to throw up, yet her synthetic body refused to permit it. Reserves of bodily fluids were too precious to squander. All at once she felt paralyzed, and useless. She didn''t even have the willpower to approach the view ports to get a look for herself.


    Dr. Gordon! It''s not fair! Not him! She raged, only realizing then that she didn''t have the same sense of worry about loosing her father-in-law, Victor, who may also be in mortal peril. Loosing them both might mean her end, simply for the fact there wouldn''t be a source of finance, or expertise, to keep her multi-million-dollar body going. Stop being so selfish! Stop worrying about yourself for once! she scolded herself, but it was no use.


    Overwhelmed with anxiety, Catherine started moving away from the large panoramic view ports, pushing herself through a growing crowd. I need to get away from the windows! she thought in a near-panic. Only two things would bring her immediate comfort. A space suit and a stiff drink!


    _ _ _


    Keren refused to lay down on the sleeping mat beside her sister. Instead, she sat with her back against the wall of a small guest room, facing the door, gripping the pistol Miss Chen had handed over. She had her knees drawn up under her chin and crossed her arms over them.


    The only source of light was a glass oil lamp on a side table. Open flames as a light source were highly frowned upon, shielded by glass or not, yet Keren soon found the flickering burning wick most mesmerizing to stare at.


    Sheren fell asleep quickly, snoring softly. The sound and the flame lulled Keren to sleep several times, but then each time she forced herself awake again. She tried everything she could think of to stay alert. Pressing her fingernails into her own skin, biting her own lip, or her tongue. Pinching and slapping her own face, pulling hairs out of her own scalp. None of it worked for long.


    In the end she gave up on the struggle, opting to stretch out on the floor and place her heels firmly against the bottom of the door, which opened inwards. That way any attempt to open the door would wake her up.


    Hours passed, which felt like minutes to Keren when Miss Chen rapped on the door with her knuckles. ¡°Wake up girls! Wake up!¡± She said.


    Keren flinched at first, completely bewildered about where she was for a moment. Then she saw Sheren and started breathing again. The bruises and scrapes from her recent scuffle on the shuttle were raw and inflamed, but Miss Chens herbal remedies were helping a great deal. Keren kew she''d feel much worse right now otherwise. A beating like that wasn''t going to heal itself overnight.


    Keren shook Sheren softly by the shoulder who got her to her feet, yawning. Keren opened the door with the pistol ready in her hand. Miss Chen stood before them, still dressed in a traditional, belted Chinese robe. She held out a stack of clean folded clothes and some towels. ¡°The bath is at the end of the hall,¡± she gestured. ¡°Clean yourselves up and get dressed. The General has agreed to see you.¡±


    The sisters did as they were bid, taking turns in the steaming hot water. Sheren first, then Keren. The clothes turned out to be plain, Gong Fu training uniforms in the traditional Han-Zhifu style consisting of a waist-length cotton jacket with a mandarin collar, loose pants with drawstring ties, cotton-sole shoes and short sleeve v-neck undershirts with three buttons. They were solid black in color, with no special designs or patterns on the fabric.


    Keren felt goosebumps on her skin when she fit on the fighting garments. These were as genuine as she was ever likely to find on the outer rim. As a child her father commonly had her make do with just the shoes when he trained her. Do not pretend you are worthy of a uniform until you know how to move in one, he coached her. On the day he presented her first, she had cried with pride.


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    ¡°Why do we have to wear these stupid old-fashioned clothes?¡± Sheren asked in a sour tone.


    Keren didn''t have an answer for that, but she was happy to have them. ¡°I don''t think we''re in a position to argue about it. Suck it up! You look cute.¡± Keren commented cracking a grin at her little sister.


    Sheren rolled her eyes. ¡°Whatever!¡±


    Keren tucked the pistol inside her waistband, concealing it completely when it was covered by the jacket.


    Miss Chen was waiting when they emerged, her expression pleased when she saw them. ¡°That''s better!¡± she croaked, leading them to a cramped kitchen where an iron pot of steaming Congee, a type of savory rice porridge mixed with peanuts, eggs and strips of meat was waiting on a table. A platter of steamed buns cooked with ground pork, vegetables and chives, along with a kettle of hot tea, were on offer as well. Sheren''s eyes grew big as saucers when they saw the food. Both sisters were ravenously hungry.


    Miss Chen didn''t speak a word as they ate breakfast together in silence, ladling out servings of porridge and pouring refills of strong sweet tea made with ginger, honey and fragrant herbs.


    ¡°The food is very good!¡± Murmured Sheren shyly, speaking kindly to Miss Chen for the first time.


    ¡°It is necessary to regain your strength!¡± she stated matter-of-factly. ¡°You must not waver or look weak in front of The General¡±


    ¡°Who is The General?¡±


    ¡°He is our leader. Very old, very wise, and a great hero!¡± Miss Chen stated proudly. ¡°It is a rare honor that he agreed to see you. Very rare!¡±


    He must be old indeed for someone as old as you to say so, thought Keren.


    ¡°And then, we will get to see our father?¡± Sheren asked.


    ¡°Yes child,¡± Miss Chen answered, ¡°but you must not disrespect The General! Remember to bow and keep your eyes down. Do not speak out of turn.¡±


    The warning made Sheren nervous and distraught all over again. It also had a detrimental affect on her appetite. Soon after Miss Chen rose from the table and beckoned for them both to follow. ¡°Come, we should not keep The General waiting.¡±


    They descended once again to the hidden vault, and down even further through two trap doors into a cramped maintenance passage. Deep shadows strained their senses and kept them on edge as they kept moving at a hurried pace. Miss Chen knew these tunnels as well as anyone could, despite the minimal lighting.


    Access panels, humming electrical junction boxes, gas valves and fan ducts of some sort were all illuminated by dim overhead bulbs every fifteen yards or so. Blasts of steam, sparking electrical circuit breakers or the occasional pack of rats caused Sheren to cringe, gasp or cry out on multiple occasions. Twice, Keren spotted the glassy eyes of concealed cameras swiveling to track their progress.


    After a while of endless twists, turns and ladders, Keren lost all sense of direction. These were old tunnels, deep in the bowels of the station, beneath the cargo train tunnel most likely. The air down here was very stale and uncomfortably warm, almost hot. Keren recognized the feeling of intense energy nearby, like when she was warming up the fusion core on a test cycle of a ships main engines.


    Ashkelon Station had a total of twelve nuclear reactors, four below each tower. Experienced station technicians monitored their operation at all times, as did Executor. There was little danger of radiation containment failure, as they were all heavily shielded and safeguarded with redundant safety systems. Yet even so, the look of things down here didn''t exactly fill her with confidence. Some of these pipes she was brushing her elbows against were clearly overdue for replacement, even ones that bore warning labels for super-heated radioactive coolant in the form of liquefied molten lead. Seriously dangerous stuff!


    At normal power levels Ashkelon Station generated enough nuclear energy to sustain an entire colony world on its own. Much more than it actually needed. This was intentional. At any time, any one cluster of reactors from the stations'' three towers could be taken offline while the others sustained normal power levels with only a fifteen percent increase in output. Any one tower could, theoretically, maintain normal power levels for the whole station if it was kept near ninety percent.


    Much of this excess energy fed Executor''s greedy computer cores, the stations'' artificial gravity generators and powerful communication and sensor antenna arrays. In addition to that, there were several weapon emplacements on constant stand by, ready to protect the station from drifting space debris, rogue meteors and foolhardy pirates.


    Keren only saw those station defenses used once in her lifetime when the maneuvering controls of an incoming shuttle went on the fritz. There was no time to intercept it before it might have potentially collided with the station. Most of the passengers and crew were able to eject in an emergency escape capsule. Only the shuttle captain and the pilot went down with the ship, doing their best to regain control and slow the craft before it was too late.


    She and Eva were only girls when this happened. Keren remembered how disturbed Eva was that her father Ze''ev had to give an order to fire on the shuttle with innocent people still aboard. Later, Keren''s father Guo explained that - Ze''ev did the right thing. Duty and responsibility require hard choices. Sometimes hard sacrifices. The loss of a few lives to save many is nothing to be ashamed of. People die everyday for no good reason at all. At least the shuttle crew deaths had cause, no matter how tragic the reasons. If the shuttle was allowed to impact the hull it would have been worse for everyone.


    Keren realized thinking about her father so much was making her anxious. Miss Chen had said he was being kept in isolation, under guard. She also said he was unwell and could not speak to them. What did that mean exactly?


    _ _ _


    <u>Encrypted Transmission </u>


    <u>Weyland Yutani Network Nexus X4643X ¨C Special Projects Code XX121 -</u>


    <u>From: </u><u>ICC Shuttle USCSS Tekla; (Unspecified Sender): Ashkelon Station</u>


    <u>To:</u><u> </u><u>Medical Frigate USCSS Patna; Michael Bishop; Director of Special Projects, Bio-Weapons R&D, and Synthetic Design. Weyland Yutani Corporation: Anchorpoint Station</u>


    <u>Priority Report:</u><u> Agent Roodt is out of pocket. Interference by CSC Special Executive Victor Li-Shing is a major complication. Timetable shrinking. </u><u>[Ref:</u><u> Attached Encrypted Emergency Transmission via Network to USCM Tremolino</u><u>]</u><u>. Request delay on any evacuation attempt. Suspected private investigation of LV-426 incident by Ashkelon Station administrator Ze''ev Darkon confirmed. </u><u>[Ref:</u><u> Attached data; Audio File/Transcript Meeting Agent Roodt/Colonial Marshal Chief Coffee</u><u>]</u><u> Guo Ho-Stern may be alive. Attempted contact with ''The General'' by Agent Roodt and Chief Coffee imminent. Request instructions?</u>


    <u>End Transmission</u>


    _ _ _


    Finally they started ascending ladders again, up several levels worth, though Keren still had no idea where they were? Normally at every maintenance tunnel junction, or ladder, there were plaques indicating their specific location. So far every one she had seen was defaced, painted over or removed creating a seemingly endless maze. The station techs have it worse than I thought, Keren admitted to herself. Of course they probably come down here with maps and tunnel schematics to begin with. They would have too.


    At last they reached the end of their journey, passing through a trap door emerging in a very cold walk in freezer. Carcasses of butchered steers hung by hooks and chains in long rows illuminated by overhead fluorescent lights. Keren had never been in one of these freezers before, but she knew they were located near the street market. All this way in those tunnels just to end up back where we started?


    No sooner had she helped Sheren up through the trap door than two men emerged from the shadows in dark leather jackets, thermal masks and gloves holding automatic sub-machine guns. Keren resisted the impulse to reach for the pistol. They already had the drop on her. Drawing a weapon now would only possibly get her and her sister killed.


    Miss Chen recognized them immediately, and they did likewise, lowering their weapons. ¡°This Way,¡± she stated to the sisters, leading the way down one row of frozen slabs of meat.


    The guards fell in behind them following closely. She could see by their eyes that both were Chinese. Keren couldn''t see any tattoos under so much clothing but she had the distinct impression these men were Triad. After the bloodbath at Dizzy''s club, she had no desire to be near such men again. Why are they here? Does The General use them for security? she wondered.


    At the end of the freezer was a short passage with double doors on hinges that swung easy in both directions at either end. Through the other side was an abattoir. Two dozen Asian men and women in aprons, goggles and gloves were busy hacking and sawing away at freshly slaughtered steer. Slabs of bloody meat were stacked on wheeled carts waiting their turn to be taken into the freezer. Chinese classical music played over speakers in the background.


    None of the butchers looked up from their labors as the group passed among them through a side door into a short hallway. They turned into an open doorway near the center entering a storage/locker room. Aprons, gloves and googles were stored here in stacks or hanging from hooks. A large framed poster hung from one wall showing painted scenes of cattle grazing under a dome on GL-382 below.


    One of the guards swung the poster away from the wall on concealed hinges revealing a reinforced hidden door. He banged on it with a gloved fist until an eye slit opened up on the other side. A few murmured words were spoken, which Keren couldn''t overhear. As the door opened, the masked guard stood aside.


    Miss Chen lead the sisters through the door into a plush office. Two more guards were standing within. Both were Russian, dressed in dark suits. They did not carry sub-machine guns openly, but odds were they had concealed firearms beneath their jackets.


    "Dobroye utro Maks!" Miss Chen stated in greeting to the largest of the pair in perfect Russian. ¡°Kak General?¡±


    ¡°General zdorov, on ochen'' khochet vas videt''.¡± The man answered in a deep growling voice.


    Maks was big, as big as a bear, with cold blue eyes, a clean-shaven face and equally clean shaven skull. Keren put him in his mid fifties, burly, with huge hands and a gruff way of breathing.


    It was easy to see Miss Chen and Maks were old acquaintances. There was mutual respect between them. The other man, by contrast did not warrant any notice by her whatsoever. He was much younger, and shorter, but heavily muscled with short-cropped dark hair, dark eyes and a heavy platinum chain around his neck. This one exuded swagger.


    Sounds of club music drifted through air ducts in the ceiling. Around them, the walls of the office were paneled in burled walnut. Several oriental rugs covered the hardwood floor around genuine leather furniture, bookcases and display tables. Valuable art objects, paintings and antiques were displayed with expensive taste.


    The young guard gestured at the sisters to raise up their arms. He wants to search us for weapons! Keren realized. She also saw the hint of Triad tattoo''s under their collars and shirt cuffs. Instantly she was on edge. This time she had a chance to draw her weapon before they could get to theirs. Her body tensed. There is no fucking way I am going to let myself be disarmed!


    ¡°That won''t be necessary!¡± Miss Chen scolded the man in Chinese, interrupting him. The guard seemed to understand her meaning perfectly well, though he was none too happy about it. Frowning, he stepped back, glaring at her.


    Why is she covering for me? Keren wondered. She knows I still have her pistol.


    Maks gave the younger man a single look which cowed him to look away. Then he lead the way to a door out of the office, entering a lounge and private bar area with room enough to seat thirty.


    A dozen other Triad enforcers, both Russian and Chinese, several with female companions at their side, sat on plush leather couches before large one-way glass panels drinking and smoking.


    Another bar, a dance floor and private booths were visible through the glass, crowded with people engaged in all manner of drugs and sinful debaucheries. This is a Red Triad club! Keren recognized at once.


    ¡°Pozhaluysta podozhi zdes'',¡± Maks stated to them, gesturing to a pair of couches nearby.


    Miss Chen sat down and gestured to the sisters to do the same. As they did, the younger guard stood close by as Sheren clutched her sisters hand. They were well aware that many of these men and women were starting at them, speaking to each other in low voices. Either in Russian or Chinese. Some were even scowling. It didn''t make her feel any more comfortable.


    ¡°Why does everyone already seem to know who we are? I don''t get the sense we are welcome here.¡±


    ¡°What did you expect? Two enforcers lost their lives for your sake. Not that were aware of that at the time of course."


    Keren frowned. What the fuck is she talking about? But then it struck her. The pair of Red Triad enforcers inside Dizzy''s club. The ones who opened fire on the commando''s. They were doing that to protect her and her sister?!


    Miss Chen nodded as the look of recognition flashed over Keren''s face, ¡°They did what they had to do to ensure your escape. If they had known those commando''s were coming for you beforehand, the whole tragedy could have been avoided.¡±


    ¡°You''re saying all these Red Triad enforcers also work for the Union?¡± Sheren asked, glancing around in surprise.


    ¡°Actually what you think of as ''the Red Triad'' is really just a special branch of the UPP,¡± Miss Chen stated, gesturing around the room. ¡°All of these men and women were born in the Union. That''s how they operate here so well. None of the other governments have ID''s or background records on any of them. If questioned, they will claim they fled the UPP as refugees, same as your father did.¡±


    ¡°How do you justify the crimes and atrocities the Red Triad commit?!¡± Keren questioned.


    Miss Chen smiled, ¡°A necessary evil for a greater good! Firstly these crimes are not being done against the interests of the Union, or the people of the Union. Secondly, the main share of funds, ill-gotten goods and information we gain through these crimes are sent back to support the Union. Lastly, whatever harm we do to undermine mega corporations or governments, weakens potential enemies. Interests of the Union always justify the means.¡±


    Keren was flabbergasted, yet in her heart it all made sense. Growing up on Temple, other kids often teased her with rumors that her father was a criminal and a smuggler. Later, after she moved to Ashkelon Station, some even said Guo worked with the Red Triad. She ignored these claims, largely because she never wanted to believe them. Now it seemed her worst suspicions were proven true, and she expected worse realizations were yet to come. ¡°So everyone in the Red Triad is also an agent sent by the Union just like my father?¡± she asked with sour disbelief.


    Miss Chen chuckled, ¡°No. There''s a big difference between a trained UPP agent and a Red Triad Enforcer. Your father was born and raised to be a true patriot. His worth and loyalty to the Union are without question. These enforcers were already convicted criminals back in the Union. Their choice to serve out a sentence here with the Red Triad may be preferable to a longer stint in a UPP labor camp, but it is by no means a vacation. The risks are significant, as you already witnessed with your own eyes.¡±


    Keren was still baffled, ¡°Why did they do it? We are nothing to them. Don''t they have families in the UPP?¡±


    Miss Chen nodded, ¡°Some do. Any living relatives will be well compensated for their loss. When possible, their remains are also returned to the UPP for a soldiers funeral. This is the highest honor most of them could ever hope to receive.¡±


    Keren''s memory flashed back to her friend Dizzy, who also gave his life. ¡°What about Dizzy?¡±


    ¡°Dizzy was recruited by your father into the cause. He has no family in the Union, but his name will be added to the hero''s memorial anyway out of respect and appreciation for his sacrifice. Someday, you can visit that memorial if you wish? It is one of the great monuments every citizen of the Union should see.¡±


    ¡°If I wished for anything it would be that Dizzy was still alive and no one else died in his Club!¡± Keren cursed morosely, pained by lingering feelings of anger, loss and resentment. Sheren squeezed her hand tighter, sharing in the sullen feelings.


    _ _ _


    Aberdeen Eloise Tyler raised a brow at her ICC comm terminal as the screen blinked <u>-Priority Private Call-</u>. Private calls were rare on official ICC channels. At least, this was the first time she''d ever received one on the station. She entered her personal access code to verify her identity and receive details about the call.


    <u>Encrypted Private Call: Weyland Yutani Network</u>


    <u>From: </u><u>Medical Frigate USCSS Patna; Michael Bishop; Director of Special Projects, Bio-Weapons R&D, and Synthetic Design. Weyland Yutani Corporation: Anchorpoint Station</u>


    <u>To:</u><u> ICC Managing Director Aberdeen Eloise Tyler: Ashkelon Station</u>


    <u>Accept:</u><u> Y? N?</u>


    Aberdeen swallowed and hastily put out yet another cigarette in the growing pile of her personal ashtray. What in the fuck? She pressed Y on her terminal keyboard.


    The face of Michael Bishop appeared on her comm screen. Smiling, yet coldly serious all at once.


    ¡°Aberdeen! Thanks for taking my call!¡± He stated with genuine courtesy.


    ¡°It''s ''ICC Managing Director Tyler'' Mr. Bishop. Only my friends call me Aberdeen,¡± she replied, not returning the smile. She was aware of the mans reputation. Michael Bishop was a brilliant scientist specializing in biomechanical development, human enhancement and of course, synthetic androids. The Bishop series android was named and modeled after him, and she had already met a few of those. It was disconcerting speaking with someone who looked and spoke exactly like an android. For the life of her though, she had no idea why he might be calling?


    ¡°Forgive me!¡± He croaked with his characteristic, hoarse and husky voice. ¡°I know you must be busy. I understand things are rather tense there on Ashkelon Station?¡±


    Aberdeen frowned. ¡°To say the least, yes, Mr. Bishop, things are tense. However I don''t understand why that should be any concern of yours or that of Weyland Yutani? This is highly unusual. What is the reason for your call?¡±


    ¡°Please call me Michael!¡± He stated with another hasty smile. ¡°I wanted to warn you against evacuating that station. It seems the Chief Colonial Marshal and your ICC agent, Shella Roodt, have recently transmitted an emergency distress call to the USCM Tremolino. Were you not aware of this?¡±


    Aberdeen did her best not to react with surprise frustration, but she failed. ¡°No I was not Mr. Bishop. We spoke about the possibility, but again, I am confused why you are calling me about this?¡±


    ¡°I realize it''s unusual, I didn''t go through the standard channels because I didn''t want to waste any time! I believe everyone on the station is in great danger. Speaking to you directly seemed like the prudent thing to do. I was told you are in charge there?¡±


    ¡°Yes I am in charge,¡± Aberdeen stated, frowning again. ¡°Please explain?¡±


    ¡°There is a possibility of a contagion, a bio-weapon, endangering everyone on the station. It''s important that no one leaves to spread it elsewhere.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Aberdeen stated, blinking in alarm. ¡°How do you know this? Where did this information come from?¡±


    ¡°It''s a long story,¡± Michael said shaking his head in frustration. ¡°We don''t know everything yet, but that''s not what''s important right now. I just wanted to warn you to hold off on an evacuation until I get there.¡±


    ¡°You''re coming here?¡± Aberdeen questioned with surprise.


    ¡°Yes I am departing Anchorpoint Station for Ashkelon Station as soon as possible. My ship has the best labs and facilities available for this sort of thing. I lead research and development of bio-weapons for Weyland Yutani after all. I have plenty of experience with what you might be dealing with.¡±


    Aberdeen instinctively grabbed another cigarette, lifting an electric lighter off her desk, clicking it on and watching the tip glow red hot. Her mind was a storm of questions. Jesus help us, this is the last fucking thing we need right now!


    Michael blinked. ¡°Aberdeen can you still hear me?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± She grunted, lighting the smoke and taking a quick drag.


    ¡°Ok so you understand how serious this is?¡± He pressed impatiently.


    ¡°Of course, but please Michael, you''ve gotta give me more information! What am I supposed to tell my people?! Are we all supposed to quarantine ourselves immediately?¡±


    Michael paused, seeming to ponder the question, then answered. ¡°We both know the ICC wrote the book on quarantine procedures, but to be quite frank, I think it''s too late for that.¡±


    Aberdeen clenched her jaw with frustration, ¡°No sir I don''t accept that!¡±


    Michael frowned, then sighed. ¡°I understand how you feel. All I know is a source there sent me a sample of something the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation cooked up in their labs. We''re still testing it, but it looks deadly. Very deadly.¡±


    Aberdeen immediately thought of Special Executive Victor Li-Shing and his enforced station lock down. ¡°Jesus! That''s why Victor Li-Shing locked down the station isn''t it?!¡±


    ¡°Probably.¡± Michael agreed. ¡°There are two possible explanations. Worst case, they had a containment breech and they are trying to contain the spread of the contagion off the station. That''s what I''m warning you about. Unfortunately if that''s true, you can bet they''ll avoid admitting it and make up some excuse to cover for it.¡±


    ¡°What''s the other possibility?¡±


    ¡°The second possibility is they didn''t loose containment of the contagion, they are just looking for the source who sent me the sample in an effort to prevent getting caught breaking interstellar arms-treaties. That''s not a great scenario either, since they''ll likely go to any lengths to keep their bio-weapon a secret. However, they should lift the lockdown and pretend everything is back to normal as soon as they find the source. That''s bad news for them of course, but a much better outcome for you.¡±


    Aberdeen considered that, then said. ¡°Well Victor and his people didn''t arrive in bio-hazard suits? That would seem to indicate it''s unlikely that there is a dangerous contagion on the loose wouldn''t it?¡±


    ¡°Not necessarily,¡± Michael stated sadly. ¡°Bio weapons like this are very well engineered. There are often antidotes developed along with them to prevent ''friendly forces'' from getting ill. It''s possible Victor Li-Shing and his people were already inoculated before they arrived. In that case they may not be wearing suits just to make sure they don''t tip us off about what''s really going on¡±


    ¡°Son of a bitch!¡± Aberdeen cursed.


    ¡°I know this a lot to take in,¡± Michael stated in the gravest, most understanding tone he could manage. ¡°Rest assured my people are the best and we will get to the bottom of this!¡±


    Aberdeen took in another deep drag. ¡°What about the Colonial Marshals on the way? Have you warned them as well?¡±


    ¡°We have!¡± Michael promised. ¡°It would be just as bad a scenario if they didn''t know about this and evacuated your people off the station. I''m just doing my best to cover the bases. Better to be safe than sorry. I didn''t want any of your people getting antsy and doing anything foolish. The Marshals have been informed not to evacuate you until I can verify there is no dangerous contagion loose on the station such as the type I have as a sample; but it''s up to you to keep your people in check if they try anyway. Do I have your word on that?¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡± She sighed, exhaling a cloud of smoke. ¡°Nobody leaves until you give the all-clear.¡±


    ¡°Good!¡± Michael stated resolutely. ¡°I''ll arrive as quickly as I can! In the meantime it''s probably best that no one else knows myself or the Marshals are on the way. We don''t want to tip off Victor or the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation until we''re in a position to put pressure on them. I expect that makes sense right?¡±


    ¡°My lips are sealed!¡± She promised.


    ¡°There''s just one more thing Director Tyler?¡± Michael said before he ended the connection.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Since it would seem that Agent Roodt and the Chief sent this distress call without your knowledge or authorization, it would be best to reign them in and make sure they don''t complicate this situation anymore than they already have. It would also be helpful if you could find out what they know, or at least what they think they know, and have a briefing ready for me when I arrive. Can I count on you to do that?¡±


    ¡°That''s a done deal! He ain''t got the good sense god gave a rock and she''s slicker than pig snot on a radiator!¡± she spat back angrily.


    "That''s great! See you soon!" Michael smiled one last time as the screen went blank.


    <u>End Transmission</u>

 Chapter 16

    USCSS Casimir: Outer Rim Territories


    The Casimir had two bunk rooms with lockers, showers and storage closets. The one up on A-Deck, just outside the Hypersleep Compartment, and this one on B-Deck close to the forward airlock and docking tube. Madison knew that captain Yago, his brother Fausto, his wife/XO Seleste and their son Vicente all bunked here together because it was the largest. Bartimaeus and his daughter Sophelia shared the smaller bunk room up on A-Deck.


    As the crew of this ship also lived onboard there was much about these bunk rooms that weren''t neat and tidy. Posters, rugs, framed photos and decorative items were spread around on any suitably flat surface. Dirty clothes, discarded snack wrappers, magazines and other bits of personal property littered the bunks and corners of the floor.


    There was one extra bunk available room for passengers like herself so this is where Madison stored all her belongings, other than the clothes she was wearing before she undressed to prepare herself for hypersleep. Those clothes were presently in another locker in the other bunk room, and at this moment she honestly could care less if she ever saw them again.


    At the center of this bunk room was a table. It was rectangular, not round like the one in the center of the crew mess. It wasn''t nearly as large as that one either, but it was large enough to lay out all her gear and that''s all that mattered to Madison at this moment.


    She removed a heavyweight canvas bag from her locker, carrying it over to the table and laying it down with a loud thunk. As there were two entrances to this bunk room, Madison was careful to stand facing the door she came in from, using her peripheral vision to keep tabs on the other one to her left. Frustratingly, Apollo did not grant passengers authority to lock doors on the ship without an access code.


    Unzipping the bag revealed personalized body armor and a rigid, electronically-locked gun case. She hastily pulled that free, keying in the date she took delivery of Jex. A day she affectionately thought of as his birthday.


    Are you ok Jex? I mean, besides the obvious. I know you''re not exactly in one piece right now... She thought to herself, thinking of his dismembered body stacked into that cryo coffin. Even as much as her own heart was pounding with anticipation imagining the Alien bursting into the room at any second, she was also just as fearful for her dearest friend.


    With the access code entered, Madison popped open the latches of the gun case with her thumbs, revealing her F90, fully automatic, bullpup assault rifle. A weapon she affectionately named ''Kitten''.


    The well-used but immaculately maintained rifle was currently disassembled in order to fit itself into the case with a variety of attachments and ammo magazines to choose from. First she grabbed the black polymer stock personalized with pink tiger stripes, expertly fitting an externally fluted, chrome-lined, cold-hammer-forged barrel fourteen inches in length for close-quarters, a forward grip and an advanced thermal optical scope with a wide-angle lens.


    ''Kitten'' wasn''t a pulse rifle. It didn''t fire explosive-tipped caseless ammunition electrically but it still had plenty of firepower. Most importantly, it was reliable, lightweight and easy to shoot with minimal recoil. Madison slapped a thirty round magazine of standard light-armor-piercing ammunition into the rear stock and engaged the cocking lever immediately chambering a round. The slick, near-silent, spring-loaded click of that mechanism did wonders to calm her nerves; though the rapid pounding of her heartbeat refused to slow down much at all.


    Something about this Alien was different than the others she had encountered previously. Those were all birthed from the same eggs as the one she''d taken away with her, so why would this one be any different? Was it younger perhaps? Madison had no idea what their lifespan was or how long it took them to grow and mature. She only remembered the ones on the surface of Acheron were larger and more developed.


    Backing up quickly, holding the rifle one-handed, Madison grabbed another duffle from her locker that held more clothes and tossed that on the table also. Laying her rifle atop its case within arms reach, Madison went about getting dressed as quickly as possible selecting gray cargo pants, classic Reebok sneakers and a stretchy form-fitting top, over which she strapped on her ballistic armored vest, shin-and-forearm guards, a tactical belt loaded with additional ammunition, a pistol, a combat knife, low-yield anti-personnel grenades and flash-bangs.


    Madison wasn''t sure the grenades would have any effect on the Alien but it was worth a try. Regular fragmentation or incendiary grenades would be more lethal, but the risk of potential damage to the ship was too great. She didn''t intend to space herself and any other survivors with needless collateral damage.


    Of course, the potential for the Alien''s acidic blood to do even greater damage to the Casimir was unavoidable. In that regard it was tempting to suit up in an vacuum suit instead of body armor, but the odds that she would regret that were just as high as they might be if she didn''t.


    After she was dressed Madison grabbed another weapon from the heavy canvas duffle. A heavy, automatic, over-under shotgun capable of unleashing two barrels worth of shot and shrapnel as fast as she could pull the trigger. This weapon was overkill in most circumstances, but damned if this situation didn''t call for it! Briefly she considered adding at least one more firearm to her arsenal, but hesitated. I need to be as nimble and silent as a cat! She reminded herself draping a bandolier of portable remote cameras and motion sensors over one shoulder.


    The last touches to her gear were a compact first aid kit, several doses of her personal drug cocktails and extra bandages that she stuffed into the large pockets of her cargo pants. Over her hair she buckled on a combat helmet fitted with a variety of sensors and a flip down ballistic face shield that doubled as an imaging display linked to her thermal combat scope and remote cameras. Madison took in a deep breath and steeled herself for the hunt to come. Ok fucker, time for hide and seek.


    _ _ _


    Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/23/2183


    ¡°The General is ready to see you now.¡± Maks stated to Keren and Sheren in English. The sisters were still seated inside the lounge beside the Red Triad club. Miss Chen nodded and stood up, gesturing for the girls to follow. Together, they exited through a large open door walking down a broad corridor where two more guards stood flanking another large open door.


    Past that entrance was a bathhouse. Keren had never seen anything like it. Elaborate tile floors were underfoot with decorative false-stone columns wrapped in living vines lined up along the walls and down the center of the room. Several circular baths were spread out within, raised from floor level to a height of about four feet. Each could seat about eight people.


    Lighting inside was moderate and tasteful, aiding to the ambiance of privacy and relaxation. An elderly man sat on a real wooden stool, plunking away on a classic acoustic guitar singing ancient Russian folk songs. Sad, melancholic words echoed across the room as he swayed in the motions of his oratory.


    On the wild steppes beyond the Baikal,


    Where people are searching for gold,


    A poor man bearing a bag on his back.


    Shorebirds call out, bemoaning his fate


    Keren had only seen a bathhouse once before, down on Temple. She had no idea something like this existed on Ashkelon Station. Such extravagances were unusual and very costly on a space station. She only imagined a place like this belonging to the wealthiest corporate elite. However, most everyone here were heavily tattooed members of the Red Triad. Thugs and brutes. A community of villains dressed in robes or covering themselves with towels.


    Half of the baths were reserved for men and the other half for women. Of each set, some were hot water and some were some cold. Through doors against either wall Keren glimpsed sauna''s, showers and spa rooms with massage tables.


    For telling the truth, he found himself in prison.


    One dark night he escaped.


    He does not have enough strength to go any further.


    In front of him there is the Lake ¡°Baikal¡±.


    Men and women seated within the bath''s, or on benches, watched the strangers move through the room. Some were smoking. Some had drinks. Most were speaking to each other in low voices, calm and quiet. A few called out words of greeting to Maks, or Miss Chen. Keren spotted some who bore no tattoos at all. Were these other UPP agents like her father? That thought irritated her somewhat. How many of these people know him? she wondered. How many are part of his secret life with ties to his secret past? Perhaps Guo even has another family here? Wouldn''t that be a wonderful surprise?! she imagined bitterly.


    He Comes up to it


    And climbs on to a fisherman''s boat.


    There he sings a song,


    A sad song about his own country.


    On the far side of the room was another bath, apart from and smaller than the rest. Overhead lighting above this one was non existent. Instead, curved fixtures of light surrounded the bath, both on the inside rim and the outside. Of these lights, the outside circle was brighter than the interior one. Thus at a distance of several paces Keren had to squint her eyes through the heavy steam roiling off the surface to make out a single person seated within the bath. He looked Chinese. Old. Very old. Old enough to be Miss Chen''s grandfather perhaps? This must be The General!


    He Crosses the lake,


    His mother comes to meet him.


    ¡°O my dear mother let me embrace you,


    Are my father and brother well?¡±


    Maks and Miss Chen paused a short distance away from the bath, bowing deeply. From the shadows against the far wall four men appeared. All Chinese dressed in Gung Fu uniforms. Keren recognized two of them from the underground street fighting tournaments and felt her blood run cold. These were brutal fighters. Killers! Famous for crippling their foes so they might never fight again. Keren could hardly imagine more capable and fearsome warriors to be anyone''s bodyguards. Perhaps that was the idea behind their participation in those fights? she reasoned, Let their reputation strike fear into everyone and no one will dare to threaten The General.


    Your father has been dead for a long time;


    He is at rest in the damp earth.


    And your brother is serving his prison sentence,


    Wearing chains, somewhere in Siberia.


    One of these four bodyguards stepped up to the bath and gently touched The General on the shoulder, leaning in to whisper in his ear. The old man stirred, startled, as if he had been sleeping with his eyes open. Keren saw him take in a breath and lean forward, focusing on them with unblinking eyes of pure black. The eyes of a spider watching from its web, Keren thought. She noted there were tubes stuck into his arms and up his nostrils. He''s on oxygen, and some sort of intravenous medication drip?


    ¡°Come closer!¡± The General croaked in Chinese, his hoarse voice barely above a whisper.


    Maks and Miss Chen stepped aside. Keren moved to step forward but Sheren squeezed her hand, holding her back, hesitating.


    ¡°It''s going to be ok!¡± Keren whispered, ¡°I won''t let anyone hurt you.¡±


    Together the sisters approached the edge of the bath, at about eye-level with the General. It was then that Keren noted the scent of strong aromatic oils, herbs and potent mineral salts rising up as vapors within the steam. That steam also concealed his chest and lower body, but not his arms, shoulders, neck and face.


    Up close The General looked little more than wrinkled skin and bones. One hundred and twenty years old? Maybe more? Keren guessed. His pate was largely bald, patterened with liver spots and sparse tufts of thin white hair combed back into a braid that hung over the back rim of the bath. He kept a long Fu Manchu mustache as well, yet the most striking thing about his appearance was old scar tissue and burns covering large areas of his scalp, face, neck, arms and shoulders. Radiation burns! Keren realized.


    The tissue damage was so bad that he seemed to be lacking for eyelids. That must explain the black eyes? Keren thought. Some form of protective contacts? That also explained why his bath had no overhead lighting. A man forced to dwell in shadows. Given his appearance, it would also make sense that he wouldn''t want to spend much time in the light anyway.


    ¡°Thank you for coming,¡± The General said politely. ¡°I am sorry for your hardships. I know you''ve come to see your father. Every one of us, his comrades, considers him a hero! You did well to come here. We will keep you safe.¡±


    ¡°How is our father a hero?¡± Sheren asked in a disturbed and frightened tone, ¡°Where is he?! What happened to him?¡±


    The General smiled. It was not a pretty sight. It reminded Keren of a mummies smile. ¡°You must be Sheren. Guo said you were pretty! He also said you had a tender heart. Are you sure you can handle the truth?¡±


    ¡°I''m not that fucking fragile!¡± Sheren cursed back at him rudely, ¡°Tell me!¡±


    ¡°Do not speak to the General that way!¡± Miss Chen warned in outrage, stepping up to grasp her arm.


    ¡°Get your hands off her!¡± Keren growled.


    Suddenly another one of the bodyguards moved up to whisper in The General''s ear again. The old man sighed in surprise, both frustrated and unhappy with whatever he just heard. ¡°Forgive me, there is something else I must attend to. Miss Chen will take you both somewhere to rest. We will speak again soon...¡±


    ¡°NO!¡± Keren shouted, surprising herself. ¡°We aren''t leaving until we get some answers!¡±


    Silence filled the bathhouse. No one spoke. Everyone stared at the sisters, clearly mortified by their disrespect. The General only started to laugh. A dry sound, more like a cough. The cackle of a corpse.


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°And you must be Keren!¡± the General said. ¡°Guo told me you were stubborn. He also said you were a fighter! I see why he had such high hopes for you. So be it. Stay if you must.¡±


    The General beckoned and two more enforcers entered the bathhouse roughly pushing a woman between them. She was tall with long blonde hair, black lipstick and a nose ring dressed in ripped and faded blue jeans, a gray polyester jacket and Converse sneakers. Though she didn''t actively resist their shoving, even unhindered by restraints, she was clearly in distress. Her bearing and attitude seemed to be one of fear, mixed regret and denial; though she tried hard to maintain her pride and dignity walking with her head held high. It was as if she imagined this was all just some sort of misunderstanding.


    As she came closer, Keren noted tattoo''s under her sleeves and across her bosom. Not Triad tattoos, but rather, cheap street tattoos by the look of them. Somehow she seemed familiar, though Keren couldn''t place where she might have seen her before? Who is she?


    Oddly everyone else in the bathhouse seemed to know exactly who she was. Some were immediately saddened or concerned by her predicament. So she is someone they know. Someone in trouble? Keren surmised.


    Maks looked most concerned of all and walked right up to her, angry with the men who were pushing her. One fervent curse and heated look from him caused them both to step back quickly. The woman meanwhile appeared ashamed and embarrassed even as she was full of dread. When it was obvious she was about to cry, Maks grabbed her and hugged her tightly, whispering something in her ear.


    ¡°Enough!¡± spat The General.


    Reluctantly, Maks released her from his embrace and stepped away. Keren could see the anguish in his eyes, an especially worrying emotion from a man who otherwise looked carved from stone.


    Two of The Generals bodyguards stepped forward to take hold of the woman and brought her closer to the bath. The woman was reluctant to look at any of them in the eye. She was however, highly surprised to glimpse Keren and Sheren standing close by. For a second, Keren saw her face full of recognition and pity which took her off guard. Why are you pitying me? You''re the one being dragged forward for punishment! Keren thought.


    Meanwhile, the lights on the Generals bath blinked off. For a second, Keren didn''t understand what was happening until she heard the sound of The General rising out of the water with assistance from his bodyguards. So, The General is too shy to show himself naked before his own people? Keren concluded. Not that I was interested to see that anyway.


    Several moments passed until the lights of the bath brightened again revealing The General standing before it draped in a red silk robe and slippers. He supported himself with a cane hunched forward in a deeply pained posture. Close behind him an IV pole laden with intravenous medicine drips and oxygen tanks was pushed around by one of his bodyguards. Before him, The General regarded the blonde woman with the cold, lidless stare of a viper. ¡°You disappoint me Dasha!¡± he hissed.


    Dasha?! As in Dasha Zukhova, Ashkelon Stations'' Chief Commerce Officer?! Keren gasped. She didn''t recognize her at all in such a thorough disguise. Other than the blonde hair there was little to give her away. Yet now that she knew, it seemed painfully obvious at the same time.


    Keren remembered Dasha as a good friend and role-model to Eva. Ater Eva''s disappearance, Dasha remained close to the family. She was also very kind and supportive to her during the whole ordeal of Eva''s disappearance. Keren recalled crying into her shoulder more than once in those days. The realization that Dasha was another UPP agent like her father made her feel sick to her stomach. Is everything I''ve ever known just a lie?!


    ¡°It''s not too late!¡± Dasha blurted back at The General. ¡°They didn''t see my face!¡±


    ¡°They must have!¡± The General argued heatedly, ¡°Ze''ev ordered the station Chief of Security to arrest you. You''re blown! That makes you a liability, of no further use to me.¡±


    ¡°I... I overheard them talking!¡± Dasha stammered on the edge of panic.


    ¡°Yes I know that. I also know you made a recording. That, at least, is something salvageable from this debacle.¡±


    Dasha seemed to realize that making a recording only served to give another reason not to keep her alive so she pressed on with other details. ¡°Storen found a photograph hidden in one of Ze''ev''s books! A picture taken by the crew of the CSCSS Ivan Petlin, after it was presumed lost with all hands!¡±


    ¡°...Do you have this picture?¡± The General asked after a pause.


    ¡°No... but I saw it!¡±


    ¡°Describe it to me?¡±


    Dasha swallowed, giving herself a moment to wrack her brain for details. ¡°I didn''t get a great look, just a glance. It was an old-fashioned Polaroid, very grainy. The crew was on some sort of frozen planet, or moon. There were lights and equipment nearby, and in the background, something bizarre. A crashed Alien ship! I think they were studying it.¡±


    The General seemed taken-aback by that, swaying on his feet unsteadily. Keren had the sense her words deeply disturbed him. Something in his expression was haunted, and she didn''t understand why? What did a lost ship like the Ivan Petlin have to do with anything? And why was Dasha spying on Ze''ev?


    ¡°I can remember more details, just give me more time to think!¡± Dasha pleaded.


    ¡°That won''t be necessary,¡± The General stated hoarsely. ¡°I remember it well because I was there. I was in that picture.¡±


    _ _ _


    USCSS Casimir: Outer Rim Territories


    Madison moved to exit the B-Deck locker room from the left-side door holding ''Kitten'' tightly against her shoulder, finger on the trigger. As the door whooshed upwards she froze, holding her breath. After a few moments she approached the open door cautiously, peeking down the corridor first to the left, where the forward docking tube and airlock were located.


    She couldn''t see all the way down in that direction to make sure it was clear. The idea of turning her back on it without checking that first didn''t sit easily in the back of her mind, but she had to hurry. Lives were at stake other than her own.


    Madison un-clipped one of her portable cameras with integrated motion sensors off her bandolier with her left hand and fitted it against the door frame. It held there with a solid magnetic snap. Immediately an orange camera icon appeared on her face shield heads-up display. She left it in ''passive mode'' to conserve battery life. Its image feed would only transmit to her when it detected motion. Just so long as I know something is moving up behind me, that''s all the warning I need, she reasoned.


    Turning to the right Madison stepped lightly down the corridor, edging past the other entrance to the locker room she had entered through before. Only a few paces ahead was the companionway junction and the ladder she used to descend down from A-Deck. Her heartbeat started hammering again faster. The Alien might still be up there?!


    There were five exits from this companionway junction on this level, yet for the life of her, Madison couldn''t remember where they all went? She only knew there were two that headed deeper towards the back of the ship from here. Thankfully it was obvious which direction that was from her present position.


    The Casimir should have two escape shuttles, she reasoned. A ship this size always would. Those shuttles would have just enough life support for every member of the crew. Normally passengers would be out of luck if they had to abandon ship, but Madison knew for a fact that at least one member of the crew was already dead.


    Captain Yago''s brother, Fausto, was missing when they woke up from hypersleep. That fucking thing in the egg had to impregnate someone to birth that Alien! Madison didn''t feel sorry for him of course. Fausto was criminal scum. She had already recognized him for the price on his head when they first met. He got what was coming to him, even if it was a really shitty way to go.


    Madison knew she might have prevented this by putting a bullet in him when she had the chance. However, ever since The Company erased her identity she wasn''t a registered bounty hunter anymore. So far as anyone knew, any killings she did now were technically just murders.


    Her eyes flicked back and forth from each corridor exit from the companionway junction, back up to the ladder she dropped down from. I have to check on the rest of the crew and look for survivors! she thought. However unlikely it was that there were any didn''t change that basic human obligation. At least not yet.


    Madison took in a deep breath and moved over to the ladder, aiming her rifle upwards as she did so. It was tempting to toss a flash-bang up first, yet she hesitated. There was now way to know how it would affect the Alien, if it was indeed even up there waiting for her? It would, however, guarantee she attracted its attention if it wasn''t and draw it towards her. That wasn''t a risk she wanted to take just yet.


    Do not fucking attack me from above while I am on this fucking ladder you evil Alien mother fucker! she half cursed/half prayed to herself as she started to climb. It would really be nice to avoid dousing herself in acid.


    Several tense moments passed as she inched her way up the ladder, rung by rung, until at last she could peak over the edge of A-Deck. What she saw made her flinch and clench her jaw. Two bodies were laying at the entrance to the corridor for the Hypersleep Compartment drenched in blood.


    Madison ignored them just as quickly as she saw them, focusing on panning her eyes around in a full circle to be sure this level of the Companionway Junction was clear before she snapped another motion sensor/camera under the rim and climbed up to take a better look at the bodies.


    It was Captain Yago and his wife, one of whom was halfway ripped to pieces. Madison swallowed with discomfort as much as sorrow as she looked down on their remains. As a professional bounty hunter, corpses were a frequent sight in her line of work. She used to be intimidated by the harm people could do to each other. She wasn''t anymore. Human beings were incapable of this degree of savagery.


    Captain Yago had died first defending his wife. Great gashes were torn out of his chest, arms and shoulders. Shattered bone-white ribs, a humerus and a clavicle were visible where they shouldn''t be. Madison also guessed his corpse was the source of a huge bloody stain along the padded white corridor wall which the Alien had thrown him against as easily as a rag doll. From the look of the angle of his head, his neck was probably broken from the impact.


    By then he was probably dead on his feet already, or perhaps not? Madison noted a bloody smear of fingers on the deck plating indicating he was still moving after he had collapsed. Likely he hadn''t lived long like that, broken and bleeding out, unable to move his own head as he listened to the pleading screams of his family.


    Most telling of all were his eyes, fixed open in a stare of pure terror, shock and disbelief. I wonder if he remembered that I warned them to stay put and stay quiet after it was already too late?


    Seleste''s death was swifter. She had fallen off her feet and cowered with her back against a bulkhead, knees drawn up in front of her, arms crossed over her face. A bloody gaping hole was visible through the top of her skull as if something the size of a fist punched through the bone. She knew what part of the Aliens anatomy was capable of that. Madison hoped she had the willpower to shut her eyes while her husband was violently mauled, but she doubted it. What a horrible thing to see before your own certain death.


    Madison reminded herself to stay alert, glancing again to the ladder which the Alien had used to descend upon the crew and wreak carnage. Carefully she stepped around the bodies, taking care not to slip in blood and brain spatter, checking that the entrance to the Hypersleep Chamber was still open. There were no signs of other bodies inside.


    She also noted the door to the A-Deck locker room was shut fast, it''s panel controls glowed red indicating it was locked from within. Madison moved up to the view port in the door and peeked inside. She couldn''t see much of anything. Interior lights within were off. She tapped her knuckles against the glass. When there was no immediate response she tapped again.


    Suddenly the door whooshed open to the side just as the barrel of a large caliber revolver aimed directly against her face shield. Madison''s rifle aimed likewise towards the face of Bartimaeus the Greek, now visible with corridor lights spilling through the open door between them.


    From Bartimaeus'' perspective Madison''s face shield was a smooth, black, featureless surface. Totally opaque. It was designed that way on purpose. It was supposed to be intimidating. Of course, in this particular situation Madison realized it probably looked a lot like the curving skull of an Alien. For that reason alone she anticipated Bartimaeus might pull the trigger purely by reflex. Thus, her own instinct to put him down first was hard to resist. Only the whimpering voice of Sophelia behind him kept her in check.


    ¡°Help us!¡±


    A tense moment hung between them as their fingers flinched against the triggers. She could feel his urge to shoot her in the face just as clearly as she saw the fearful panic in his wild eyes. Madison wasn''t sure that her ballistic-grade polycarbonate face shield would absorb the impact. At such close range there were no guarantees. Even if it did, it would still hurt like hell.


    ¡°You have my word that I will help you!¡± Madison agreed, hesitating to lower her weapon. ¡°Tell your dad to lower his gun!¡±


    ¡°Fuck you!¡± Bartimaeus cursed. ¡°This is YOUR fault!¡±


    Madison avoided the urge to argue the point. She brought the egg on board yes... but Fausto let the monster loose and this dumb son-of-a-bitch ignored her warnings and drew its attention with his reckless shouting. There was plenty of blame to go around.


    ¡°Ok, sure,¡± she agreed, ¡°I''m still the best chance you''ve got.¡±


    Bartimaeus glared at her hatefully, ¡°Bitch you''ve got some fucking nerve! Fausto was right when he said you were up to no good. You aren''t fucking welcome here, understand?! Kindly let yourself out the nearest airlock!¡±


    ¡°I''ve killed these things before,¡± Madison stated matter-of-factly, ¡°Have you?¡±


    That shut him up.


    ¡°How do we kill it?¡± Sophelia asked, moving up to stand close behind her father. Her face was pale, the skin of her cheeks and her reddened eyes wet with tears.


    ¡°Maybe we do, maybe we don''t,¡± Madison answered honestly. ¡°It''s got acid for blood. Shooting it full of holes is a bad idea. It''ll bleed right through the hull!¡±


    ¡°That''s horseshit!¡± Bartimaeus groaned, eyes widening further in angry disbelief. ¡°I see those track marks on your arms. Your high!¡±


    ¡°I wish!¡± she scoffed back at him. ¡°This ain''t no fucking bad trip man. This is more real than your worst fucking nightmare so lower your fucking gun!¡± Madison insisted, getting nervous. This idiot won''t keep his voice down! So long as I am pointing my rifle at him I''m not aiming it against the real threat.


    ¡°You first!¡± he spat back.


    ¡°Dad!¡± Sophelia pleaded, grabbing his arm. He shook her off angrily.


    We don''t have time for this! Madison groaned inwardly, feeling the hackles of fear creeping up the back of her neck and churning within her guts. That all-too-familiar dread made her angry and anxious to find a safe place to shoot up and escape it. Even for a minute. She fought back against that urge with every fiber of willpower she had.


    ¡°Listen asshole! Take a good look at your friend Captain Yago and his wife behind me. That''s gonna be you and your daughter very soon unless you start doing what I say.¡± she growled.


    Sophelia shrunk back and started sobbing again.


    ¡°How about you drop that extra shotgun you''re carrying, step back and get lost before I blow your head off? That''s the only cooperation you''re gonna get from me cunt!¡±


    ¡°Oh I get it. Big man! Brave man! You ran in here and locked the door to hide didn''t you? You let the others die so you might live, you fucking coward!¡± Madison retorted venomously before she thought to control her tongue.


    The flash of the revolver blinded her as her head snapped back. Then everything went black.


    _ _ _


    Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/23/2183


    ¡°On your knees!¡± the General commanded.


    ¡°No! Not that! I serve the Union!¡± Dasha shouted with panic, struggling to stay on her feet while the two enforcers grabbed her by the elbows and shoulders.


    Sheren grabbed Keren''s arm and moved close to her.


    The general handed his cane off to one of his bodyguards and stood up straighter. His expression was vile, hateful and cruel. Something approximating the size of a small arm started to move under his robe just below his rib cage.


    What the fuck is that?! Keren thought as the general reached up to tug apart the folds of silk concealing the strange, bulging, wriggling extra limb that was not a limb. It was a horror! A hissing, thrashing, phallic creature with no eyes, stubby lumps for arms like a featherless-chicken and jaws of needle-like metallic fangs.


    It wasn''t so much part of him as something that was fighting to be free of him. An awakened symbiont ready to be rid of its host. The General, by contrast, seemed to revel in its stirring. Lifting his arms to the heavens as his body was wracked by spasms and twitches. Whatever the little monster was, it seemed to have almost as much control over him as he had over it. They were joined, one mind as much as one body.


    The Enforcers forced Dasha to her knees as she began to scream. Sheren gasped and buried her face in Keren''s shoulder, clutching at her with desperate terror. Keren felt all the blood flow from her face even as her mind struggled to comprehend the waking nightmare taking place before her eyes. Yet much as she wanted too, she could not turn away.


    The General stepped forward and grabbed a handful of Dasha''s hair with one bony hand. He was strong. Stronger than any decrepit old man had any right to be as he wrenched her head towards him enabling the Alien birthling to strike at her face with the rapid ferocity of a hungry, eyeless piranha. Grisly bits of skin and cheek went missing first, followed by deeper mouthfuls of muscle, flesh, cartilage and sinew. Chunky portions of her lips, nose, eyelids and eyebrows were all ravaged by scalpel-sharp fangs in a bloody, frenzied feast.


    Dasha''s hideous, bloodcurdling screams grew ever higher and more fervent, echoing through the bathhouse as Enforcers and UPP agents watched in sober, detached stillness. All that is, save for Maks. The big Russian was crying, hands clenched so tightly they trembled. She''s his daughter! Keren realized, truly understanding at last why her own father never spoke to her about the Union or The General. He wanted to keep us away and apart from this!


    Keren imagined her own father forced to watch her own death at this monsters hands. Would he just stand there like that?! The thought chilled her to the core.


    Suddenly, sirens and red-flashing strobes of a hull-breach alarm broke out in the adjoining corridors and lounge outside the bathhouse. One of the bodyguards moved forward to grab The Generals shoulder and shouted into his ear. ¡°J¨«ngb¨¤o!¡±


    The General gasped, seeming to break free of his reverie, allowing Dasha the chance for respite from certain death as he staggered back. Her face was a ruin; half-a-skull now in truth. So much blood flowed freely from the deep, ghastly, wounds it formed a spreading red puddle around her knees.


    ¡°Take her away!¡± The General grunted coldly, ¡°No one is going to recognize her now.¡±

 Chapter 17

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/23/2183</u>


    Within the control room of space dock operations center, Spacer lifted his snout off his paws and barked as a line on the docking status monitor started blinking once again. Vijay Champa pursed his lips, annoyed with the hound, glancing up from his workstation to read <u>USCSS CASIMIR -</u><u>7643039(04)-[SCHEDULED ARRIVAL]: NO CONTACT </u> indicating that communications had not yet been established with that particular vessel.


    Vijay pressed the acknowledge button on his terminal again, indicating to the computer that he was aware of the issue and still watching the monitor. Then he leaned back in his chair and swiveled his head over his shoulder.


    ¡°Elsie! Still nothing from this ship,¡± Vijay grumbled pointing to the screen.


    ¡°What ship is it?¡±


    "The Casimir, an old M-Class Bison freighter. It popped up on our scopes almost thirty minutes ago but hasn''t answered any of our standard hails."


    ¡°Hmm...¡± Elsie murmured, remembering that Storen had asked her to let him know when that ship arrived as a personal favor. ¡°Anything about it indicate it''s in distress?¡±


    ¡°Other than the fact it hasn''t answered any hails?¡± Vijay stated repressing a yawn and reaching for a lukewarm cup of coffee.


    ¡°Smat ass!¡± Elsie scolded him.


    Vijay rolled his eyes and pulled a heavy tome off his workstation unto his lap. ¡°Well these ICC regs state that any ship that hasn''t answered hails...¡±


    Elsie sighed, ¡°Alright. Alright. What are we supposed to do about it?¡±


    ¡°We have to send a rescue shuttle out there. Both to establish contact with it and board it if necessary to ascertain the health and status of its crew.¡±


    Elsie frowned. ¡°Ships that dock here tend to value their privacy. If we start boarding ships that come near the station because of these ICC regs we''ll make a lot of crews unhappy.¡±


    Vijay shrugged. ¡°Well what do they expect? This is what we''re supposed to do from now on. As it is a lot of crews are already unhappy. Our docking schedule is completely fucked thanks to the Special Executive''s lock down order. If the Casimir doesn''t intend to dock it would be nice to confirm that sooner rather than later. I''d much rather give their spot on the schedule to another ship that needs it.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough. How long until they are in range of a rescue shuttle?¡±


    Vijay punched a few buttons. ¡°At high-burn a rescue shuttle could reach it in less than thirty minutes, if we launch one now. We''ll have to flag it as a ship in distress anyway if we wait much longer than that. At present course and speed the Casimir will eventually drift close enough to the station to put other ships in danger.¡±


    Elsie looked doubtful, ¡°If there is any risk of a potential collision the ships own A.I. should alter course automatically.¡±


    Vijay snorted, ¡°Didn''t I mention that ship is old? Given its lengthy repair history I wouldn''t be surprised by any malfunctions. In any case ICC regs are written to presume any ship which isn''t communicating should be treated as adrift with no power or ability to maneuver.¡±


    ¡°Is there any indication it has no power or inability to maneuver?¡±


    ¡°It has enough power for the transponder and running lights at the very least. Its heat signature appears to be at a nominal level indicating their reactor is still online. They should have gravity and full use of their systems.¡±


    Elsie frowned, ¡°Well, if we do launch a rescue shuttle and there''s no good reason for it, see too it that the cost is added to their bill!¡±


    Vijay shook his head, ¡°That''s not in the regs.¡±


    Elsie snickered, ¡°Unless the ICC is good enough to cover the added expenses of these regs themselves, it soon will be! Open a channel to the central command center. We need their approval to launch a rescue shuttle. Get word to Storen as well, he asked to be notified of this particular ships arrival.¡±


    _ _ _


    Around the metal work bench that served as a makeshift table in Ducks Bar, Wade, Reese, Storen and Ze''ev continued to discuss the Casimir and the rescue of the Ho-Stern sisters. Any covenant between near-strangers towards borderline criminal activity was an awkward and uneasy conversation.


    This feeling eased somewhat as another round of drinks and a fresh pot of coffee was brought forth by their server, Fawzi, who smiled and nodded towards Ze''ev, ¡°On the house!¡±


    Storen momentarily plucked his cigar from his mouth to say, ¡°Good-man!¡± gesturing with a thumbs up.


    ¡°Decent!¡± added Wade.


    ¡°Todah Rabah,¡± Ze''ev stated in Hebrew. reaching over to squeeze the youths'' arm appreciatively.


    Reese gave Fawzi a single jerk of his chin, which coming from him actually displayed a considerable amount of gratitude.


    After Fawzi left them alone again Wade picked the moment to change the subject of conversation as Ze''ev kindly started filling cups with coffee, ¡°Storen, which trade school did you attend for spacecraft repair?¡±


    ¡°I never went to a trade school,¡± Storen replied with a quick shake of his head. ¡°I learned on the job as a ships-apprentice, same as you did.¡±


    Wade cocked his head, ¡°Really? I wouldn''t have figured. How long?¡±


    ¡°Twelve years.¡±


    ¡°Damn! That''s a long haul. How many ships did you crew with?¡±


    ¡°Just one. The Jeanne Baret.¡±


    ¡°What kind of ship was that?¡± Reese asked, puffing away on the cigar Storen gave him. He had to admit it was a good one. A very good one.


    ¡°She was a salvage tug and rescue tender. Almost four hundred meters long with a crew of twelve,¡± Storen answered.


    Wade whistled, ¡°Big-Mutha!¡±


    Storen nodded, ¡°A ship like that takes benefits from being roomy. More space for salvaged goods, rescued crew, and plenty of extra fuel and supplies.¡±


    ¡°Whereabouts did you operate?¡± Wade asked.


    ¡°Everywhere you would expect, and some regions so remote you''ve probably never heard of em.¡±


    ¡°Who was in command?¡± Reese wondered out loud, his curiosity warming up.


    Storen reached for his second shot of whiskey as he answered, ¡°Captain Tolga. A real son-of-a-bitch!¡± Storen lifted his shot glass and threw it back in one gulp, slapping the glass back on the table with a grunt.


    Ze''ev ignored his second shot of vodka for now and sipped on coffee instead trying to keep up his energy as much as his optimism, ¡°You haven''t spoke much about Captain Tolga?¡±


    Storen shook his head with weary memories, ¡°He''s a man I''d rather forget! Turkish mostly, but also Iranian. His partners ran operations out of Istanbul. However, the Jeanne Baret was too large and ungainly for full-gravity atmospheric landings so we kept a warehouse and resupply base on Luna instead.¡±


    ¡°Who did you contract with?¡± Wade inquired.


    Storen shrugged, ¡°Whoever could afford us. Our crew was one of the best there was at deep space repair, rescue and salvage.¡± Storen paused to scratch at his beard, deep in retrospection. ¡°Searching for lost-ships is a gamble of diminishing-returns. At a certain point you have to give up the hunt or your own operating costs will sink you. Captain Tolga said the best strategy is to charge as much as you can up front as any increase in budget increases the odds of success.¡±


    ¡°Ever contract with The Company?" Reese questioned watching Storen''s response carefully.


    ¡°Sure did,¡± Storen admitted. ¡°Weyland Yutani have very deep pockets. We tried to capitalize on that, same as you did until you lost the Casimir.¡±


    Reese fixed Storen with a hard, flinty-stare. Storen looked away and pretended not to notice. He just kept talking.


    ¡°Originally the Jeanne Baret was owned and constructed by the French for a bid at contract for a deep space auxilliary ship for the Three World Empire''s Royal Navy. It wasn''t a bad design, yet for whatever reason it didn''t get the nod at the end of those trials.


    Captain Tolga and his partners had the right connections to buy it wholesale since Turkey is a member of the Three World Empire. However, its position sharing a border with Iran became an issue as Iran is a long-held territory of the Union of Progressive Peoples. Captain Tolga had the gall to claim citizenship in both countries which got us into all sorts of legal and regulatory quagmires.


    Technically he couldn''t hold dual citizenship of course, not legally. That sort of thing goes against certain treaties, but so much of the UPP ignores those treaties he was effectively telling the truth. Captain Tolga kept as many friends on the Iranian side of the border as he had on the Turkish side. He even hired Turkish and Iranian crewmen in equal numbers. That created a lot of problems all on its own,¡± Storen muttered.


    ¡°You don''t look Turkish?¡± Wade pointed out.


    Storen smirked, ¡°I''m French-Canadian.¡±


    Chuckles were had all around the table.


    ¡°I grew up on the coasts of Newfoundland while my father worked on automated fishing trawlers and huge container ships,¡± Storen explained.


    ¡°How''d you end up on the Jeanne Baret" Wade asked.


    ¡°That''s another story for another day,¡± Storen stated with half-a-grimace. Thinking back on that seemed to age him even further. His eyes went out of focus, and when he spoke next there was a haunted tone to his words, ¡°I''ll always regret leaving the oceans. Nothing has ever felt so good as the salt spray of the sea, pulling nets off the Grand Banks as waves roll against the hull,¡±


    ¡°You were a fisherman?¡± Wade questioned incredulously not quite willing to believe it. Much of the oceans were too polluted to fish, especially those around the Grand Banks where so much oil and natural gas deposits were drilled out from under the sea floor.


    Storen started singing softly,


    ¡°I was a Bayman like my father was before


    Can''t make a living as a Bayman anymore


    There ain''t much future for a man who works the sea


    But there ain''t no island left for Islanders like me¡±


    ¡°Ok, damn it, you got me!¡± Wade cursed across the table.


    Storen flashed a rare grin, ¡°I''m Norwegian actually, but what I said about my father at least is true.¡±


    At that moment something stuck in the back of Wade''s mind returned to the present focus of his thoughts, ¡°Hey Reese, what are we gonna do about getting the other crew off the Casimir?¡± Wade stated, reminding his captain that particular issue was still unresolved.


    Reese responded so quickly and so sharply with the words, ¡°Fuck-em!¡±, that Ze''ev flinched and spilled his coffee. The vicious tone of voice sent chills down his spine. Such avarice! Ze''ev thought, What sort of past provokes a man as imposing as Reese to be so spiteful?


    Storen cleared his throat, which was still burning after that second shot of whiskey, ¡°I know that''s none of my business, but I would avoid doing anything rash if I were you.¡±


    Reese''s hard, flinty-stare returned, ¡°You''ve got some nerve talking to me like that after what you pulled.¡±


    Storen held up his hands. All feelings of joviality seemed to whisk away from the table, ¡°Easy big-fella! We''re all on the same team.¡±


    ¡°Nah. The way I see it, Ze''ev is the only man here I owe any favor''s with. You and me ain''t square yet,¡± Reese argued in a disagreeable tone.


    ¡°How about that cigar? Seems like that''s a fair-apology to me?¡± Storen stated raising his eyebrows entreatingly.


    Reese coughed a contemptuous snort, ¡°You first offered me this cigar when I was laid up at the hospital with broken ribs. Remember that? As I recall you were pretending to give a shit about how heroic I was, which is pretty fucking low from someone who just broke into my quarters.¡±


    Storen exhaled in a slow apology, ¡°Fair enough. When you put it that way, I can''t argue that was a low thing to do. What can I do to put this behind us?¡±


    Reese pondered that, savoring the cigar for another moment before he said, ¡°A case of these would go a long way towards forgiveness on my part.¡±


    ¡°A whole case?!¡± Storen half-laughed. ¡°I don''t keep that many on hand. I could part with a box or two. That''s the best I can do I''m afraid. But since Wade brought it up, what do you know about the current crew of the Casimir?¡±


    ¡°Cubans right?¡± Reese answered matter-of-factly.


    ¡°That''s right,¡± Storen confirmed. ¡°The captain is a man named Yago. His wife and son are part of the crew as well, but the ship''s engineer and his daughter are actually Greek, not Cuban.¡±


    Reese shifted on his steel bar stool, growing agitated. Old rivets, welds and bearings creaked and groaned under his bulk. ¡°So what? Anyone born on Earth acts like they''re entitled to more than they deserve. Cubans, Greeks, Turks, Iranians...¡± Reese waved his hand, "Earther''s always have more reasons to bitch about everything,¡± Reese held up a meaty hand and started ticking off the most common gripes one-by-one, ¡°History, politics, economics, war or religion. Take your pick.


    Personally I don''t give a shit where they came from cause they ain''t no better than us. I asked around and I know that crew does a bit of smuggling on the side, same as we did, cept they aint as good.¡±


    A look of amusement flashed in Storen''s blue-grey eyes. ¡°You sure about that?¡±


    ¡°You got a point to make bud?¡± Reese asked flashing his faux-gold-capped teeth tightly against the cigar. The former captain of the Casimir wasn''t one to take mockery lightly.


    Storen held up his own cigar between them, ¡°Cuban cigars are exceedingly rare this far from Earth. Yet since we are lucky enough to be smoking these, I thought I should point out that I bought these off of Captain Yago.¡±


    Reese''s jaw clenched slightly as he measured another look at Storen, ¡°That''s good. Maybe I''ll find a case of these on my ship then? Any other deals you''ve made with him I should be aware of?¡±


    ¡°No. Not really. I''m just another paying customer. My point is this,¡± Storen continued, ¡°I wouldn''t think so harshly of that other crew. They had no part in how you lost the Casimir, right? So why does all this have to get so personal with you? Why can''t you talk with Captain Yago the same way were talking? We can work this out. It''s just business.¡±


    Reese leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he started wringing his huge meaty hands together while his knuckles popped one by one. His eyes were cold and matter-of-fact with forthright animosity as he said, ¡°Man, if I was taking things personally I''d have already put this cigar out in your fucking eye! You get me?¡±


    Storen didn''t scare easy but Reese wasn''t just posturing. He knew that in his bones. Wade and Ze''ev both swallowed sharing a look of growing concern. They had to bring down the tension between these two or this would never work.


    ¡°I think what Storen is saying...¡± Ze''ev began but Reese cut him off. "I know what he''s saying, but I take care of business my own way. I didn''t get that ship playing nice in the first place. It won''t be any different getting it back. If Captain Yago wants to talk, I''ll make him an offer he can''t refuse. Same goes if he doesn''t!"


    _ _ _


    Isaac Pere Shashua reached for a pack of cigarettes almost automatically as the tingle of a yawn formed in his chest. He was in his late twenties, lean and handsome with thick black hair, neatly parted and swept back over his ears. His lightly-tanned olive-hued skin and soft brown eyes were both Israeli and Spanish, specifically Catalan. Across his nose he wore plain, corrective eye glasses with thick frames.


    Dressed in a sports coat, dark brown slacks and a long sleeve white cotton shirt Isaac could pass for ex middle-management, a poor working lawyer, a struggling salesman or an unemployed executive assistant. In actual fact he was a journalist. Smoking was one of a few bad habits propagated by that profession. Perhaps the easiest to fall into. It wasn''t the craving for the cigarette that Isaac felt so much as it was a fixation on the ritual of lighting up. Having something to focus on when there was nothing else to do was a useful trick for staying focused.


    Ashkelon Station was big news now and as the only journalist assigned by The Colonial Independent newspaper Isaac had his work cut out for him. Around him, the bustle and flow of the crowded space port promenade surged like a surf of background noise luring his eyelids to droop as he leaned against an interior wall. It had been days since he got a full nights rest.


    At a glance Isaac looked like just another insignificant bystander. Neither his slacks, nor his shirt were freshly pressed, pleated, or otherwise absolved of wrinkles. The laced genuine-leather loafers on his feet were badly scuffed with worn soles while his coat was also worse for wear with loose threads and patches.


    Isaac dressed this way on purpose. Easier to observe without being seen when he looked like just another working stiff. Successful journalists relied on getting close to people and events that were newsworthy as much as possible. Sleeping and taking time for proper meals or exercise did not factor much into that. Especially now. The arrival of Victor Li Shing and the recent bloodshed perpetrated by his commando''s had every reporter on the station working overtime. Besides, given how large Ashkelon Station was, being in the right place at the right time could be as much a matter of luck as it was careful planning.


    The Colonial Independent was an impecunious, ''grass-roots'', news outfit. Even at the best of times it wasn''t capable of covering everything going on in the Outer Rim. The bulk of its staff were volunteers and almost all of its funding came by way of private donors. What it did to set itself apart was deep investigative journalism; analyzing events and scrutinizing issues to their base facts, proving the truth of claims and allegations that no other news organization would dare to print.


    Editorial-authenticity, candor and integrity are what prompted Isaac to be a journalist in the first place. Stories of tragedy, triumph, disaster, discovery, political scandals, legal battles and more captivated his desire to get educated and make a difference. More than a few double-dealing corporations, corrupt politicians, bloodthirsty mercenaries or heavy-handed colonial governors had their schemes scuttled by an expose by The Colonial Independent.


    Out here on the fringes of civilization, lives were balanced on the risks shaped by current events. A good story from his paper went a long way to define those risks and Isaac was eager to have his say in what people needed to know. Colonists in this sector had every reason to debate the worth of the concord agreement between the rapidly expanding colonial government of the ICSC and the huge interstellar regulatory entity that was the ICC.


    However, since his arrival on the station two months ago, Isaac realized the real story of Ashkelon Station wasn''t the concord agreement at all. It was the tug-of-war between the CSC and the government of the ICSC for control of its destiny. Mega Corporations like Technion Interstellar and J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng had jointly financed the station. They also had rights to the lions share of land and resources on GL-382 below. They did not technically govern the colony world, or the station itself, but they had the means, wealth and influence to dictate its future regardless.


    The arrival of Victor Li Shing and his commando''s seemed to indicate the Central Space Consortium was making a point. The ICSC might administer the station, but the CSC owned it and they had the power to seize control of it at any time. Isaac believed any rationale for sending a Special Executive and three warships to Ashkelon Station must have something to do with protecting their interests.


    The trouble was figuring out exactly what those interests were? Everything to do with CSC corporate labs on Ashkelon Station were shrouded in secrecy. The Colonial Constitution of the ICSC allowed for an independent and protected press, but the CSC made no such allowances. Trespassing anywhere on CSC property, publishing internal memo''s, private documents or other intellectual property was strictly off-limits with heavy legal consequences.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    In the early days of the ICSC, The Colonial Independent pushed those limits daring to conduct interviews with anonymous whistle-blowers. Subsequent and ongoing legal battles with CSC corporate lawyers soon bankrupted the paper. It only survived off the generously deep pockets of its private donors who used the paper to spotlight the evils of illegal activity and corruption employed to exploit colonists of the Outer Rim.


    Officially, the paper''s policy regarding the CSC was:


    ''Consult with our legal team before attempting any interviews or investigations involving member corporations of the CSC and their subsidiaries. Private information, activity, or property of the CSC must be handled with the upmost discretion and professionalism. Records of findings and/or observations related to CSC member corporations must likewise be kept confidential.''


    In other words, Tread very, very, carefully.


    Unofficially, journalists were encouraged to take as many risks as necessary to gain information for a story. So long as that information was critical to the success and reputation of the paper the legal team had their back. In that sense the fine line between risk and reward was only worth it when the rewards were worth the risk. Right now Isaac was acting on a tip that a meeting of mid-level lab executives and Victor Li Shing was presently taking place at the top of the tower far above the spaceport level.


    CSC executives almost never spoke to the press, but Isaac had a hunch that not every J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng executive on the station was thrilled with Victor Li Shing. All he had to do was find one willing to speak up about how it felt to have the mans shoe on the back of their neck. Even ''off the record'', a statement like that would corroborate other vile rumors he''d already heard from other employees.


    Of course, Isaac''s personal press credential wasn''t enough to gain access to the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng executive penthouse without an official invitation. Waiting here, hoping to catch someone from the meeting using the lift to exit on this level was the only idea he had on such short notice. So far it wasn''t panning out and the urge to yawn was almost overwhelming.


    Isaac placed a cigarette between his lips, lifting up an electric lighter as the shudder of an explosion suddenly rattled the deck. In his surprise, he almost almost dropped the lighter and spit out the cigarette. What in the fuck?!


    At first he didn''t understand what was happening until people started pointing to the panoramic view ports above and alongside the spaceport perimeter walkway.


    ¡°Look at that!¡±


    ¡°Oh my god! Are those people floating in vacuum without a suit?!¡±


    ¡°Isn''t that the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng penthouse?!¡±


    Within moments, flashing red strobes and warnings from Executor declared an alarm and a state of emergency. Despite this, crowds in the area clustered closer together to look up and get a better view of the disaster-in-progress.


    Jesus! What happened?! Isaac was about to join the crowd to take a look for himself when a young woman who had just exited the lift dressed in loose-fitting jogging sweats whirled around and starting pounding on the lift controls. She had her hood up so Isaac only glimpsed her face for an instant, but that was enough. Isaac had an uncanny memory for faces.


    Isn''t that Victor''s daughter?! he thought, pausing to stare at her back as she smashed and shattered the lift controls in the effort to command the doors open again. It has to be her he realized, only a synthetic could do that kind of damage so easily!


    Isaac watched her hang her head low as she gave up forcing the door controls to obey, hugging herself and shaking. Evidently all at once overwhelmed with anxiety, dread and despair. Isaac knit his eyebrows together thoughtfully, trying to understand what she was feeling? Was it Victor she was so worried about? Was it even possible for her to cry?


    Isaac didn''t know everything about her, he never expected to see her in the flesh, ¡­so to speak, but he had read nearly every account of her remarkable recovery and transformation into the first human/synthetic cyborg. Her story was well documented in the CSC media. Catherine herself had never agreed to personal interviews, but there was enough information out there to know she was not related to Victor by blood.


    Still, her emotions looked real enough, even from a distance. She''s much more than a robot, Isaac decided as he pushed himself off the wall, eager to approach her. His gut said speaking to her would be more illuminating than just gaping up at the explosion far above. Every available external camera feed on the station was already being brought to bear on that.


    Besides, standard station safety protocols for a hull breach of this magnitude was to isolate nearby sections of the station and clear people away from the danger as soon as possible. Station Tech''s and Security personnel would work in unison to herd away crowds from any areas with flashing red strobes. Of course, as a precaution, they would suit up first. Nevertheless, typical response time for this sort of emergency was as quick as humanly possible. They trained for this with regular drills because the urgency of such an emergency could not be overstated.


    Isaac managed a few hasty steps towards Catherine before she abruptly turned away from the lifts and pushed her way through the growing crowd headed deeper into the station, away from the space port.


    ¡°Hey!¡± shouted a concerned and frightened voice behind him.


    Shit, I completely forgot about Susie! Isaac realized glancing back over his shoulder. Sue Dechellis had just emerged from the public restroom behind him, a frazzled look of near panic clear in her expression. She was close to ten years older than him, small and squat enough to have dwarfism in her genetics. The most accurate term to describe her looks was butch.


    Her garb was plain utility coveralls, heavy-soled boots and a long-sleeve collared shirt with its cuffs rolled up around her elbows. Even her haircut was short enough to be mistaken for a mans from most angles.


    Isaac jerked his arm in a gesture for her to follow as he pressed on after Catherine. Sue pumped her legs rushing to catch up with him. Isaac wasn''t even running, only walking briskly, yet she had to sprint to close the distance with such short legs.


    ¡°What the fuck is going on?!¡± she huffed as she moved up beside him, raising her voice to be heard over the crowd.


    ¡°Some sort of hull-breach up at the J.L. penthouse!¡± Issac answered.


    ¡°Jesus!¡± Sue exclaimed, ¡°that can''t be good.¡±


    ¡°Definitely not,¡± Isaac agreed, adding grimly, ¡°Looks like people were sucked into the vacuum.¡±


    ¡°Shit! Do you think one of em might have been Victor?!¡±


    ¡°I don''t know. It''s a long way up and I didn''t see it happen for myself,¡± Isaac answered.


    Sue stopped talking for a minute as they hurried away from the space port down a side corridor. Sue occasionally ducked back into Isaac''s tracks the same way a young child might, dodging people she couldn''t push or maneuver her way past. Finally she asked, ¡°Where are we going?¡±


    ¡°We''re following the woman in the hoodie-sweatshirt,¡± Isaac answered gesturing towards Catherine about twenty yards further down the hall. She was hurrying along purposefully, arms still crossed in a self-embrace, head down. Her stride was rapid enough to keep them both breathing hard in the effort to keep pace.


    ¡°Who''s that?¡± Sue asked, in between panting breaths.


    ¡°Victor''s daughter,¡± Isaac answered.


    ¡°Really?!¡± Sue gasped, darting her head side to side between people trying to get a better look at her. ¡°What''s she doing?¡±


    ¡°No idea,¡± Isaac admitted. ¡°She got off the lift at nearly the same moment the explosion occurred. She tried to go back up, but Executor immediately locked down the lifts. Safety protocols probably.¡±


    "We can track her with the drone?!" Sue asked excitedly.


    Isaac considered it but quickly dismissed the idea. ¡°No, not yet. I don''t want to risk using it unless we need too. We don''t want to loose another one so soon.¡±


    ¡°Those fuckers!¡± Sue affirmed bitterly, angry at the memory of the previous incident he just mentioned. Drone-work was her favorite part of her job as Isaac''s investigative assistant. The small, flying, hovering machine was an invaluable tool to snap photo''s and record events from a ''birds-eye'' perspective. It was also especially useful for snooping around as its advanced directional microphones were capable of eavesdropping from a fair distance.


    For these reasons, and many others, most civilians weren''t allowed to own drones. Those who did paid hefty fee''s and licensing costs. Wealthy private businesses used them on a limited basis; typically within strict boundaries of their own property. Other than station tech''s and station security, only the media had permission to use drones in public areas.


    The Colonial Independent couldn''t afford to license as many drones as most other media organizations did. Sue was lucky she didn''t loose her job over the loss of their last one. Surprisingly, Isaac took the blame for that himself. He even offered to pay for it out of his own salary. Sue ever expected such kindness from anyone on her behalf.


    Good jobs were hard to find on Ashkelon Station so Sue was quite surprised to be selected as Isaac''s investigative assistant. There were dozens of other applicants he could have chosen who had more experience than she did in the field of journalism. When she asked him why he chose her he''d answered, You''ve got as much to prove as I do. We''re in this together. Let''s show them we''re the best team for the job. After that she asked him to call her Susie, a nickname normally reserved only for family and close friends.


    ¡°She''s headed to Duck''s!¡± Sue stated recognizing where she was leading them.


    At that moment, Isaac was very happy to have Sue by his side. Ducks Bar was one of the most popular blue-collar bars on Ashkelon Station. Its owner, Joe ''Duck'' Dechellis also happened to be Susie''s uncle.


    _ _ _


    ¡°Get your weapons out!¡± the E.M.V. operator grunted as the yellow-painted vehicular-spider approached the shattered view port of the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng executive penthouse. Above them a cloud of evacuated debris, quickly-cooling human corpses and a thousand shards of heavyweight thermally-tempered glass spread into the void.


    The husband and wife grabbed Rexim RXF-M5 EVA pistols from an equipment case and holstered them to their utility belts. These laser-weapons were somewhat bulky and difficult to aim as they were originally designed as portable laser-welders. The focus and damage of the beam generally lost effectiveness the further you were from the target. In terms of range and stopping power they were the rough-equivalent of a 9MM pistol. Still, laser weapons were far easier to handle and safer to use in zero-g than a normal firearm.


    ¡°Gravity appears to be holding inside,¡± the operator stated reading the E.M.V.''s Instruments as the spider''s cab drew level with the penthouse. Behind him, the faces of the husband and wife were drenched with sweat and sick with dread as they stared within the twisted and charred exterior frame of that floor-to-ceiling viewport they just blew to pieces.


    Inside was mostly darkness, broken up by emergency lights built into the frame of the interior pressure-door, strobing red, and the angling beams of distant spot-lights playing over the spiders cab from the stations'' other towers behind them.


    The voice of Joe Dechellis crackled again through the spiders comms, ¡°Hurry up and get in dere! Make sure dat son-of-a-bitch is dead!¡±


    The husband and wife swallowed and looked to each other, hesitating. Planting explosives on the hull of the station was one thing. Using the shattered view port as a makeshift breaching entrance was quite another.


    ¡°There''s no way that bastard survived!¡± the husband muttered, ¡°but his bodyguards probably did. They''ll be dangerous.¡±


    The operator swiveled in his pilot seat, glaring, ¡°You heard Joe! We don''t have time for this!¡±


    ¡°Darling, let''s go.¡± the wife stated, giving her husbands hand a squeeze. ¡°We said we''d do whatever had to be done to avenge our son. This is our only chance for justice.¡±


    The man sighed, squeezing his wife''s hand back firmly. Together placed another explosive charge in their duffle bags slinging the straps over their shoulders. It wasn''t part of the plan to damage the station further, but it may not be possible to rely on their laser pistols alone to finish the job.


    The flashing strobe on the cabs'' airlock outer door turned on the moment it was ready to open. Husband and wife emerged again in their EVA suits, shielding their eyes from the distant glare of powerful spotlights.


    ¡°WATCH OUT!¡± the E.M.V. operator cried out just as one of Victor''s bodyguards stepped from behind the wall beside the open view port and lifted its submachine gun.


    Bullet''s peppered the cab at the same instant the husband spun and shoved his wife back inside the airlock. Pushing her caused him to loose his balance in zero-g. One round hit him in the right forearm, another in the right leg. Three more impacted his life support equipment pack and a final glancing shot off the side of his face-plate created a large crack. Helplessly, he floated up and away from the E.M.V., limbs flailing.


    ¡°BASTARD!¡± Yelled the operator, grabbing the E.M.V. controls jerking the smaller set of forward manipulator arms beneath the cab into life. The bodyguard stepped back, out of reach, firing another burst at the operator through the cab windows.


    A spate of teflon-tipped projectiles struck the glass in an abrupt staccato, forcing the operator to wince and duck by reflex. The glass held, but a dozen different starburst cracks formed on its surface. Those cracks reached towards each other, spider-webbing the glass, obscuring the operators vision.


    ¡°FUCK!¡± The operator cursed, hitting a red button for the emergency solar radiation/micro meteor shields. Heavy panels of thick alloy plates layered over lead-impregnated composites snapped shut over the windows. It''ll take a lot more than a submachine gun to penetrate these mother-fucker!


    Meanwhile, the husband began to spin out of control floating just out of reach of the E.M.V. as the bullet holes in his suit acted like micro-maneuvering jets. Alarms and flashing warnings blared inside his helmet. His heart rate spiked and he began to hyperventilate as the damaged life support unit on his back stopped regulating his air mixture properly.


    ¡°NO!¡± screamed the wife, grabbing for the tether connecting her suit to her husbands and pulling him back towards the E.M.V. air lock with all her strength.


    Blinded now except for external cameras, the operator swiveled a forward manipulator arm arm towards the bodyguard. Even at full extension it was at least ten feet out of reach, but he wasn''t actually trying to grab it with hydraulic clamps he was aiming at it with a targeting reticle.


    ¡°My turn!¡± the operator hissed, switching on the E.M.V.''s powerful external flood lights at the same instant he fired a high-tensile harpoon cable directly at the bodyguards center mass. The cable shot out with tremendous speed and force, designed to penetrate and anchor itself to a ships hull.


    It passed through the bodyguard almost as if it wasn''t there... right in the upper abdomen below where the ribs would be in any normal person. White lubricant sprayed out in all directions from the exit wound as the cable continued it''s unerring trajectory, puncturing one of the interior walls half an instant later.


    ¡°BULLSEYE!¡± the operator cried out with a whoop pumping his fist.


    _ _ _


    Victor Li Shing grimaced in surly disbelief as his bodyguard was harpooned. Frustrated as he was with his current predicament, this wasn''t the first assassination attempt against him. The expectation that rivals and enemies would make attempts against his life was something he accepted, even anticipated. Yet this time was different. These assailants weren''t rivals, enemies, or even professional killers. These were just regular people.


    He could tell that much observing them through the eyes of his bodyguard who was run through like bait strung out on a fishing line. How they managed to do that was a shock that irritated him greatly. The gall! The hubris! The disrespect! A challenge against him was the same as a challenge to the might of the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporation itself. What mad fools they were to attempt such a thing!


    In Victor''s mind the proper class-divisions of humanity were based on the weak and the strong, the rich and the poor, the worthy and the unworthy. His desire to shame these people was even greater than his want to defeat them. He felt a need to make an example of them to teach other residents of Ashkelon Station to know their place. Towards this end he reached out for the most overwhelming show of force he had at his disposal.


    Mentally he opened a secure channel to the CSCS Kowloon. Victor was pleased with how quickly the ships A.I. acknowledged him. Unlike other A.I.''s of course, military versions wouldn''t take direct orders from anyone who wasn''t presently on the bridge as the acting command officer. It would however, take requests to speak with that command officer. Moments later a bridge channel went live.


    ¡°This is commander Ye Fei, acting bridge officer!¡± A voice reported smartly. ¡°Sir we detected an explosion at your position. Are you under attack or in need of assistance?¡±


    ¡°Yes... E.M.V... breaching... penthouse,¡± Victor croaked painfully in answer to both questions. Unlike the mental conversations he had with his bodyguards, Victor had to actually vocalize what he wanted to say on a regular comm channel. The effort now required to use his injured vocal cords strained his tolerance for pain.


    ¡°SOUND GENERAL ALARM! Notify the captain and X.O. immediately!¡± shouted the young commander. Victor was disappointed. By his reckoning the crew should have already been sounding the alarm for battle stations the moment they detected a nearby explosion. He made a mental note to see this officer reprimanded.


    _ _ _


    ¡°HELP ME!¡± The wife shouted through clenched teeth. Her husbands dizzying spin at the end of his tether was growing ever more erratic and forceful. Every passing moment made it harder for her to keep her balance and keep her hold on the tether at the same time.


    ¡°Engange your mag-boots!¡± The operator said, unbuckling the lap belt of his pilots seat and floating free to pull himself towards her.


    ¡°OK!¡± She stated, managing to get one boot engaged, than the other with a solid clunk on the metal decking of the cab floor.


    At last, the wounded EVA tech''s wife and the operator managed to pull her husband back against the hull of the cab and tug him through the airlock door. They closed it behind him and waited for what felt like an eternity for the interior pressure to stabilize. Inside the small airlock it was a very cramped fit for three people, especially while one was incapacitated and unresponsive.


    ¡°Darling!¡± the wife yelled in panic, hurriedly working to unclasp his helmet as the mans eyes were rolling up into the back of his head.


    Once his helmet was off he started to breath in huge gulps of air, still disoriented, but breathing. Blood dribbled from his mouth, ears, and around his eyes. A close call from exposure to vacuum.


    ¡°His vital signs are erratic.¡± The operator stated worriedly. ¡°Lets get him inside!¡±


    Together they half-carried, half-dragged him back into the cramped spiders cab. There was a well stocked first aid cabinet available, along with some other emergency medical equipment, but removing his vacuum suit to treat his wounds wasn''t going to be easy. There was so much blood! It seemed to almost pour out of the punctures in his suit. In space, any sort of wound could be fatal as the vacuum greedily sucked at the fluids beneath his skin.


    ¡°We can''t help him!¡± The operator stated grimly, grabbing a hold of the woman''s shoulders forcing her to look at him. ¡°We don''t have time!¡±


    Tears flooded her eyes, but she understood. ¡°Darling wait for me!¡± she croaked, kneeling down to place a hasty goodbye kiss against his cheek.¡±


    The operator took her husbands duffle bag and grabbed the laser pistol off his utility belt, leading the way once again into the airlock. This time they were more cautious when they emerged into the void and the blinding spotlights; mag boots engaged and pistols held at the ready.


    ¡°How the fuck...¡± The operator muttered with disbelief as he stared through the yawning view port where the grappling cable had struck the wall. The bodyguard was nowhere to be seen, though there was a fair bit of white lubricant coating the cable.


    Suddenly a hand reached up under one of the spiders legs to clamp itself around his ankle. He cried out with shock and intense pain as he was pulled off balance. The grip was so strong it overpowered the magnets!


    ¡°OH GOD!¡± The woman shrieked, reaching for him.


    ''SHOOT IT!¡± The operator roared, flailing, unable to move his body properly in the bulky vacuum suit to take aim at it himself..


    The wife did as she was bid, kneeling down and placing the muzzle of the laser pistol almost directly above the androids wrist. As if sensing what she was about to do it jerked its arm down further, pulling the operator completely off his footing and wrenching his ankle so harshly he screamed. Fearful to miss the android and accidentally shoot him instead she hesitated, leaning over the edge of the spiders leg further to regain her aim and then pulled the trigger.


    With a silent sizzle the beam cut into the androids arm. She glimpsed a few faint sparks under blackened synthetic skin. It released its grip almost immediately, but not soon enough. It had already crushed the collar of the operators suit where it attached to the magnetic boot pinching it into his ankle like the machine-jaws of a vice.


    Eager for a killing shot she leaned over even further, trying to follow where it pulled back its arm to get a better aim at her foe. Suddenly its hand shot back up managing to grasp the wrist she was holding the pistol with. She pulled the trigger again, in reflex, but in vain. After a moment under the bone-crunching pressure of its grip she felt the weapon float away from her fingertips. Now the android had her securely in its grasp as its next victim. She shrieked again as it pulled her down.


    Horrified, she saw the android was clinging to the underside of the E.M.V.''s spiders leg. Evidently it had pulled itself along the cable beneath the cab, hollowing out most of its abdomen in the process as the vacuum pulled at its milky white innards. The winch that fed the cable was out of reach up inside the spider, but the articulating harpoon launcher that fired the cable was exposed and vulnerable.


    Despite its horribly mutilated body, it somehow still had the strength to lever the harpoon launcher free of its mount, bending heavy flanges and snapping bolts in the process to allow enough slack in the cable to move itself up under the leg beneath the outer airlock. The cable itself was still fed through its lower torso, held taught up against the spider leg which it clung too with its other hand and both of its legs.


    Her tether to the operator grew taught as she floated free, helpless in zero-g. The androids'' face was ghostly pale, almost translucent and strangely gaunt. It''s eyes were shrunken into its head casing, seemingly lifeless and blind; the visage of a mechanical ghoul. It was the most terrifying thing she''d ever seen and she couldn''t stop screaming.


    Somehow, even as it clutched to her wrist, she sensed it was dying. Not even an android could survive the void for long with such significant damage. Still it was going to outlive her, that much she knew with a certainty as it yanked her close enough to kiss her faceplate.


    She fought it with all her strength, breathless from terror, but I was no use. It released its other hand from its grip on the mechanical spiders leg and reached for her neck instead. I hope to see you both again soon, I love you so much... she thought, closing her eyes, picturing her son and her husband from a place deep inside her heart.


    ¡°DIE YOU SYNTHETIC FUCK!¡± screeched the operator, firing his laser pistol directly into the androids skull at point blank range. The wife''s eyes snapped open again as she felt it''s grip jerk free of her wrist. A black hole of vaporized plastic and melted composite-bone was visible just above its left temple. She gasped with exhilaration and relief as the operator pulled her away from it.


    Together they clambered down off the spiders leg, falling unto the deck of the penthouse floor as they passed through the threshold of the shattered viewport. The operator attempted to rise but quickly collapsed again, howling.


    ¡°Can you walk?¡± She asked.


    ¡°No,¡± He croaked, pressing his laser pistol into her hand. ¡°Go!¡±


    Slowly she rose to her feet, panting with exertion. The EVA vacuum suit was heavy and difficult to move around in under the force of full artificial gravity. She took one step, than another, breathing deeply.


    Around her the penthouse was silent as a tomb and lit up brightly by the E.M.V.''s floodlights. Red flashing warning lights pulsed at her from the pressure door.


    Where are you Victor? She wondered, glancing at several different exits leading from this lounge/living room into other rooms or hallways. All the interior doors had buckled from the explosive decompression so it seemed there was nowhere left to hide. Paintings, porcelain vases, antique crystal and other priceless art objects littered the floor at random. A surreal scene of decadence gone wrong.


    ¡°N¨« sh¨¬ sh¨¦i?¡± Hissed a strange voice into her helmet comms, speaking Chinese.


    Her heartbeat started racing as a tremor of fear tingled the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She knew instinctively this was Victor''s voice.


    ¡°I''m your worst nightmare!¡± She hissed back with all the venom she could muster.


    A snort of pained laughter burst into the channel.


    ¡°My name is Bao Wong,¡± she continued, stepping towards the entrance to what appeared to be a private conference room. ¡°You murdered my son!¡±


    ¡°Don''t listen to him!¡± Spoke the operator, realizing who she must be talking too.


    ¡°I... admire... your... courage,¡± Victor stated hoarsely.


    ¡°I wish to see you dead! As do all the other families of the victims you slaughtered.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± Victor commented at the same moment she stepped into the conference room and froze with sickened surprise. Two bodies were inside, both Chinese. A man and a woman, their faces puffy, bruised, and frozen. Bloody icicles stuck to their skin around their ears, eyes and mouth. These were J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng Corporate scientists. Victims of her own act of slaughter she knew, swallowing with shame just as the operators voice broke into a warning yell.


    ¡°BEHIND YOU!¡±


    Bao spun in a panic just as another bodyguard tackled her through the door. She had no hope of hearing it running towards her without air to carry the sound. It was so fast! The force of its impact knocked all the air from her lungs as they both slid across the conference room floor, already slick with frozen blood from the other victims. She felt her helmet crack hard against the leg of a heavy wooden table that was shoved a short distance away from the door.


    Pain lanced down her neck but she ignored it, kicking and twisting and pulling the trigger of the pistol, fighting for her life.


    The bodyguard took a few shots but nothing that would incapacitate it or seriously damage it. Unlike the other one, this one only seemed interested in disarming her, which it did by casually breaking her arm. She screamed.


    ¡°BAO! BAO?!¡± the operator shouted, beginning to crawl towards the open conference door on his hands and knees.


    A third bodyguard came out of nowhere and bolted towards him, intent to capture him alive as well. He looked like easy prey with no visible weapons and a broken ankle. The operator immediately abandoned his efforts to crawl grabbing for the duffle back slung over his shoulder instead. ¡°GO FUCK YOURS...¡± He shouted, unable to actually finish the sentence before the bodyguard was on top of him.


    They struggled. The operator fought back with everything he had, suffering a serious battering from several savage blows. Groaning, he twitched and lay still, apparently unconscious. The bodyguard stood again and started to turn away.


    ¡°Not... so...fast...¡± the operator whispered, managing at last to get his hand inside the duffle bag. His final moments were blessed with satisfaction as he felt the button to set off the explosive charge inside. The look on the synthetic bodyguard''s face was worth it as he grunted, "My turn!" and pressed down hard.

 Chapter 18

    <u>Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/23/2183</u>


    Alan Warshauer (chief station officer) was full of outraged, restless energy. Hardly anyone in the central command center had slept since the massacre at Dizzy''s Club. Alan in particular had been pacing, almost nonstop, until the voice of Elsie Macgill (manager of dry dock) broke over the intercom channel, ¡°Central Command, do you read?¡±


    Alan responded immediately, ¡°Elsie, it''s Alan. Go ahead.¡±


    ¡°We have a problem down here. An approaching freighter is not responding to hails.¡±


    ¡°What''s its name and registration number?¡±


    ¡°USCSS Casimir, registration number 7643039(04).¡±


    ¡°Got it! Tracking now,¡± stated one of the command staff at their terminal. ¡°M-Class, Bison, scheduled inbound from Torin Prime. At present course and speed its about thirty minutes out from the outer docking lanes.¡±


    ¡°We see the same down here,¡± Elsie confirmed. ¡°ICC regs state we should launch a rescue shuttle immediately to ascertain the status of the crew. Yet so far as I know we''re still under a station lock down order? So it''s your call Alan.¡±


    ¡°Standby,¡± Alan said gesturing to his staff to mute the channel. Immediately another member of the command staff reported, ¡°The Ranger is on watch right now.¡±


    Commander Widmer''s boat. That''s good, Alan thought. Of the four rescue shuttles berthed on Ashkelon Station, the Ranger had the most seasoned crew.


    At this moment there were four CSC naval commando''s in the central command center. The most senior of which was a lieutenant by the name of Zhang who immediately shook his head and barked, ¡°No shuttles!¡±


    Alan clenched his jaw, realizing at this moment he''d been hoping for a chance like this to challenge Victor''s lock down order. Locking eyes with the commando he said, ¡°This is a potential emergency situation! Your lock down order has no bearing on standard rescue operations.¡±


    The commando stepped closer to Alan, looming over him by about six inches saying again, ¡°No shuttles!¡±


    Alan started to get red in the face, ¡°You are out of line! I am the acting officer in command of this station. The safety of everyone here is my responsibility. I won''t ignore an M-Class freighter on a course towards us drifting out of control.¡±


    ¡°We can handle it,¡± the officer replied with a cock-sure smile. ¡°Boarding ships is what we do best.¡±


    Alan did not look away. Instead he posed another question to his staff, ¡°Who is the owner of that freighter?¡±


    ¡°It''s registered to Captain Yago under an ICC commercial captains license. The vessel itself is leased by Weyland Yutani.¡±


    ¡°According to my reckoning, under the terms of the Concord Agreement, the CSC has no authority to board a Weyland Yutani vessel in ICSC space. Am I right about that?¡± Alan pressed his staff.


    ¡°Correct. Not unless there is clear evidence of a threat or wrongdoing by the vessel in question and there are no ICC rescue vessels available. However in this case, our rescue shuttles are authorized by the ICC to perform rescue duties on their behalf until which time they have their own shuttle''s berthed on this station.¡±


    Burgeoning uncertainty flared up in the commando as he broke eye contact with Alan and glared at the staff. Lippy civilians quoting regulations at him daring to challenge his authority chafed his ego something fierce.


    In that moment Alan turned his back on him and gestured to un-mute the channel with space dock control. ¡°Ok Elsie, on my orders the Ranger will launch shortly to intercept the Casimir.¡±


    ¡°Roger that. We''ll keep tabs from down here,¡± Elsie acknowledged before the channel closed again.


    Suddenly, Zhang reached over and pulled Alan around roughly by the shoulder, ¡°We''re not done here! Before you launch that shuttle I strongly suggest you confirm that regulation with the ICC. Otherwise I''ll remove you from command right now!¡±


    Alan stared up at Zhang, gnashing his teeth. I''d love to clean your clock asshole! ¡°Fine. Open a channel to the ICC. This is the chief station officer speaking. I have a potential emergency situation here. Request advisement?¡±


    ¡°Go ahead Chief?¡± answered the op''s officer on duty in ICC control.


    ¡°We have an inbound freighter approaching the outer docking lanes which offers no response to hails. ICC regs state that we should launch a rescue shuttle immediately. I am ready to give that order, but I am requesting confirmation of the regulation first. Can you oblige me?¡±


    ¡°Standby Chief,¡± the ops officer stated muting that channel before hitting the intercom switch to managing director Tyler''s office. ¡°Director Tyler?¡±


    ¡°Speaking!¡± she responded brusquely.


    ¡°Ma''am. The station''s chief operations officer intends to launch a rescue shuttle to intercept an incoming freighter which hasn''t responded to hails. He''s asking to confirm our regulations in this regard?¡±


    Thank god he''s asking! Tyler thought gratefully. ¡°Patch him into this channel directly,¡± she ordered with a snap. A moment later she said, ¡°Alan, this is Managing Director Tyler. Do not launch any rescue shuttles.¡±


    Alan''s preparatory smirk of defiance in the face of the rude commando immediately faltered, replaced with a confused look of frustration, ¡°Say again Director?¡±


    ¡°I say again, do not launch any rescue shuttle''s. In fact don''t launch anything. Have I made myself clear?¡±


    ¡°But, it''s a private vessel owned by Weyland Yutani?¡± Alan pressed.


    ¡°I don''t give a shit about that! This is a quarantine issue. Highest priority!¡±


    Alan''s confusion increased twice over. ¡°I don''t understand? What''s on that freighter?¡±


    ¡°Are you hard of hearing up there? I didn''t say it had anything to do with the freighter did I?¡± Aberdeen pointed out sharply.


    Alan''s confusion increased thrice over, ¡°What''s that supposed to mean?!¡±


    ¡°Give me a minute and I will come up and explain it to you. In person, not over an open channel,¡± Aberdeen stipulated.


    ¡°Understood,¡± Alan grunted back, closing the connection. What the fuck am I supposed to do about this freighter now?


    Zhang immediately smirked down at Alan. ¡°So long as it is docked here, any threat to this station is a threat to the CSCS Kowloon. From what I just heard that freighter certainly sounds like a potential threat. I''ll have to report this to my captain. We''ll see who has the last word about this!¡±


    _ _ _


    Shella Roodt toweled herself off while her scalp still tingled with the eucalyptus extract shampoo she used. A guilty pleasure. Eucalyptus trees were plentiful in South Africa, planted in woodlots and plantations as a valuable source of timber, paper, and many other products. However, invasive plant species were also responsible for a sizable percentage of water shortages, taxing the ever-dwindling water supply.


    After she slipped on some undergarments, Shella pulled on Khaki pants which filled in quite tight around her hips and muscular thighs. Sylvester sensed her anxious mood, rubbing against her ankle, meowing sympathetically. Shella bent over to give him a pet as she slipped her feet into socks and combat boots.


    ¡°I''ll be back buddy!¡± she stated the same way she always did, though this time felt different. Something was wrong. She could feel it in her gut. That feeling persisted as she pulled out a heavy chest from inside her closet marked, [ICC PROPERTY]. Inside was an impressive cache of gear and weapons, some of which she had confiscated from the hands of thugs and Triad enforcers. I can hardly think of a better use for this stuff than the opportunity to use it against them, she thought with satisfaction.


    The first thing she grabbed was a close-fitting combat vest. Custom tailored for her petite body, it fit as tightly as a corset around her shapely curves and small waist. Though not bulletproof, merely bullet-resistant, it served just as well as a sports bra and offered good protection against knives and piercing weapons. Triad enforcers were known to favor blades in preference to guns when they could get away with it. Kills were quieter that way, and often bloodier, which better served to intimidate witnesses.


    Over her vest she pulled on a plain v-neck cotton t shirt from a hanger, tucking that into her waistband. Next she flexed her fingers into a pair of well-worn finger-less leather street-boxing gloves, wrapping their Velcro straps over the top of her wrists. Sewn into the leather, across the knuckles, were metal caps guaranteed to leave a mark.


    A woven combat utility belt was looped into her pants with a variety of small pouches, kits and gadgets. She tucked the belt tang of her holster to one side, pulling the 88 Mod 4 combat pistol out briefly to check the magazine and verify an extra round was already chambered. Tucked into pouches beside the holster were two spare mags and a silencer. Flash-bangs and low-yield anti personnel grenades were the last four items she fixed to the belt.


    No less than four knives were fitted unto her person next, including two push-daggers, a wickedly sharp Japanese Tanto and a throwing dagger. The last item she pulled out from the crate wasn''t something she acquired in the line of duty. It was a gift held in a wooden box made from genuine African Pearwood. Shella placed the box on her dining table, thinking of the memories it brought back as much as it was something she was ashamed to own.


    When she opened it, two custom Heckler & Koch VP70M pistols were revealed, fitted into cream-colored velvet. More compact, but similar in design to her 88 Mod 4 Combat Pistol, these had a shorter barrel offering no room for an under-barrel attachment slide. They were made with a lightweight polymer frame, same as the Mod 4, but their upper slides were nickel-plated and engraved. One of em read ''Good Girl'', the other, ''Bad Girl''.


    Both sides of the hand grips were inset with genuine ivory. Good Girl had carvings of a South African Crane and an African wild dog on the grips while Bad Girl had carvings of a roaring Lioness and a huge Cape Vulture. Each one had a modified action for a faster fire rate. Good Girl was a three-round-burst weapon. Bad Girl was fully automatic. Neither one was especially practical or easy to shoot. Recoil and ammo management were always an issue. Fortunately, six, nickel-plated, extended magazines were tucked into the case increasing the ammo capacity of each load from eighteen to twenty seven.


    It was also helpful for Shella that her wrist strength was excellent after a lifetime of gymnastics training. If I am fated to go out in a blaze of glory, I might as well be using these. I know it''s what you would have wanted Kgosi...Shella thought, thinking of her former mentor, the bounty hunter, who made these for her. I just wish you avoided using the ivory. You know how much it bothers me to see it.


    Shella strapped on a specially-made harness over her shirt that holstered the pistols, plus the extra magazines, tight against her lower back. Over her shoulders Shella slipped on a gray windbreaker dropping a high-yield taser in one pocket. Over her hair she dropped an old green hat. Her lucky cap, a gift from her brother, featuring the yellow logo of the ''Sundowners''; their favorite South African soccer team. Not for the first time the logo reminded her how beautiful the sunset was spread across the Savannah, effulgent as fire in the sky.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    I don''t want to die without seeing that again, she realized, but I have to do this. As much for the Ho-Stern sisters as for myself. Likely they already lost their father to the evils of the Triad, same as I did, but they don''t have to loose each other if I can help it. They are still young enough to make different choices. Perhaps I can save them from a life full of regrets.


    _ _ _


    Chief Marshal John Coffee was easy to spot standing a whole head taller than the great majority in the crowd with the strong build of a linebacker. The public plaza Shella chose as their meeting place was bustling with shopping activity.


    Shella had no trouble keeping her head down, maneuvering through the throng and slipping up behind him. Being short was a useful thing sometimes, ¡°Hey Chief!¡± she stated sharply grabbing his arm.


    John flinched and cursed loudly, ¡°Shit!¡±


    ¡°Nice clothes,¡± Shella snickered. John was wearing red athletic shoes, genuine denim blue jeans and a vintage Indiana Hoosiers leather bomber jacket with a knit collar and cuffs in red-and-white.


    ¡°I didn''t pack a huge wardrobe with me when I came to this station. I barely have anything besides uniforms and sweats,¡± John explained gruffly. ¡°It was either this or my fancy dinner suit, and that damn thing cost me three months salary!¡±


    ¡°Well you certainly don''t look like an undercover marshal. I''ll give you that,¡± Shella snorted. ¡°You wearing a vest?¡±


    ¡°Yes. I presume you are too?¡±


    ¡°Yes but it''s only good against knives. I don''t have the body to pull off wearing anything bulkier without making it obvious. Even under a windbreaker.¡±


    John nodded. He never stared but she really did have a fantastic figure.


    ¡°What are you packing?¡± Shella asked.


    John pulled his jacket aside revealing his .357 revolver in a shoulder holder, opposite a pistol-grip pump action shotgun hanging by a strap. She envied him his bullet-proof vest.


    ¡°What else?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I''ve also got my automatic as a backup weapon around my ankle,¡± he answered.


    ¡°That''s it?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. You?¡±


    ¡°I''ve got three pistols, four knives, a taser, some flashbangs and grenades.¡±


    ¡°Jesu....¡± John started but quickly bit his tongue. ¡°You didn''t say to raid the armory!¡±


    Too holy to use the lords name in vain John? Shella thought, amused to get a reaction out of him. ¡°I''ve got a rather large cache of weapons and gear back in my quarters that I''ve confiscated over the years. Comes in handy,¡± she explained.


    John didn''t comment further, but he looked slightly more concerned than his usual resting expression.


    ¡°Give me a minute!¡± Shella stated moving towards a printed media bookstall. John watched her back, scanning the crowd.


    ¡°Hey Jung!¡± Shella stated in greeting to the one-armed informant. ¡°Don''t you ever sleep?¡±


    Jung chuckled and shook his head, ¡°I can''t afford to sleep! After what happened last night I''ll be selling a lot of newspapers today. No rest for the wicked right?¡± he joked in usual good-humor.


    ¡°You can say that again!¡± Shella agreed, casually picking through some magazines. ¡°Hey there''s something I need to talk to you about. Can you step away for a bit?¡±


    Jung frowned, then turned away to grab a pack of cigarettes for another customer on the other side of his stall. When he turned back towards Shella she slid a recent issue of Sports Illustrated across the counter. Five hundred dollar bills were tucked under the cover.


    Jung smiled and discretely pocketed the bills. ¡°Looks like I can afford to take a break after all. Give me a few and I''ll meet you in the tea shop,¡± he stated in a low voice.


    ¡°Thanks again have a good one!¡± Shella said loudly, taking her magazine and meandering her way back towards John. Instead of walking up to him directly she met eyes with him and jerked her head towards the tea shop.


    After a minute John followed her inside and took a seat in a booth next to her, ¡°Who''s the one-armed man?¡±


    ¡°That''s Jung, one of my informants. He''s ex-Triad.¡±


    ¡°Ex-Triad? I thought there was no such thing?¡±


    ¡°It''s rare, but not entirely unheard of,¡± Shella explained as a hostess came over to take their order.


    ¡°Are you sure you can trust him?¡± John asked after the hostess moved away.


    ¡°Of course not, but he''s lived here a long time. He knows a great deal about the Triad hierarchy and many of their members. Thus far his tips have been invaluable for my investigation. I have no reason to doubt his information. Any help he can provide is worth the cost in bribes.¡±


    John''s face took on a sour look, ¡°I''m not usually one for bribes.¡±


    Shella gave him an irritated response, ¡°We''re doing this my way remember? Don''t fuck this up for us!¡±


    A minute later Jung entered the tea shop and approached Shella''s table, pausing when he saw John sitting beside her. Shella beckoned for him to take a seat. Jung glanced around and over his shoulder first, then cautiously, even reluctantly, took a seat across from them.


    ¡°Jung, this is John Coffee, Chief Colonial Marshal of Ashkelon Station,¡± Shella stated.


    ¡°I recognize him from the papers,¡± Jung acknowledged, meeting John''s eyes briefly. ¡°Nice disguise,¡± he joked.


    ¡°He''s not here on an official basis and neither am I. Just want to make that clear,¡± Shella said quickly.


    ¡°Is that supposed to make me feel better?¡± Jung stated irately. ¡°I could be killed just for speaking with you!¡±


    ¡°I know this is a risk!¡± Shella acknowledged, ¡°but It can''t be helped. We have a situation we need to resolve before everyone on the station is endangered.¡±


    Jung looked on edge, ready to get up and leave as the hostess brought over teas for Shella and John. Noting his restless demeanor the hostess stated to Jung, ¡°Looks like you could use something to help you relax? We also serve alcoholic teas if you''re interested?¡±


    ¡°Great idea!¡± Jung agreed, ¡°Wise man say, never make rash decisions without a stiff drink! Whatever it is, make it a double!¡±


    The hostess got red in the face, struggling to hold back a giggle. John immediately shot Shella a look as if to say, this guy, really?


    ¡°Coming right up!¡± the hostess stated cheerfully, moving away.


    Meanwhile Shella sipped her green tea and took a breath. ¡°Jung, we need your help to set up a meeting with The General.¡±


    Jung had to contain himself from laughing out loud. ¡°You don''t want to meet with The General,¡± Jung argued with a shake of his head. ¡°Trust me!¡±


    ¡°Have you met him?¡± John asked.


    ¡°Yeah, I have,¡± Jung stated with a tone implying that was foolish thing to doubt.


    ¡°We just want to make a deal with him. We aren''t interested in making threats,¡± Shella explained. ¡°To the contrary, what I''m asking for will help dthe Triad avoid an imminent threat!¡±


    Jung looked hesitant to inquire further but his curiosity quickly won over as he asked, ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°It''s about Victor Li-Shing and the massacre at Dizzy''s Club. His commando''s were sent in to search for two young women, Keren and Sheren Ho-Stern. Their attempt to apprehend them failed only because those girls were likely under the protection of the Red Triad.¡±


    Jung''s expression saddened as Shella mentioned those names, prompting John to ask, ¡°Do you know them?¡±


    ¡°No, not personally, but I know their father.¡± Jung stated with a sigh. ¡°I was afraid this would happen.¡±


    ¡°You said you know their father? Is Guo still alive?!¡± Shella asked.


    Jung grew nervous on the topic of Guo, shifting in his seat and glancing over his shoulder again.


    Shella leaned forward and pressed him with her most serious voice, ¡°Victor''s ordered a station-wide manhunt for the Ho-Stern sisters. As-we-speak the whole of Station Security, backed up by Victor''s commando''s, are gearing up to start kicking in doors on Red Triad territory! I shouldn''t have to impress on you how bad that will get once the shooting starts.¡±


    Jung let out a frustrated breath, ¡°What exactly is your plan to prevent it?¡±


    ¡°Simple, we bargain with The General to turn over the sisters to us. Once we have them, Victor has no excuse to go into Red Triad territory. Instead, he''ll be pushed into a stalemate with the ICC and the Colonial Marshal''s Bureau because he can''t risk taking them from us by force. The threat of war with the 3WE and the UA is too high, no matter what disregard he might have for the Concord Agreement as it stands.¡±


    Conversation paused again momentarily as the hostess returned with a strong bourbon milk tea for Jung. He thanked her heartily and gulped down half of it as Shella and John remained tense.


    Finally he said, ¡°You''ve got balls, I''ll give you that, but you''re fools to think you can predict the rationality of men like The General and Victor Li-Shing. It''s true I''ve only met The General, but I''ve heard enough stories about Victor from my pals in the JL labs to put him on the same level of malfeasance. It''s not really right to think of them as people in the first place. They''re monsters!


    ¡°We''re wasting our time with this nut,¡± John groaned, discouraged.


    ¡°Easy sport! I didn''t say I wouldn''t help,¡± Jung remarked with a contentious glare towards John. ¡°But what''s in it for me?¡±


    ¡°What do you want?¡± Shella asked.


    ¡°What can you offer? You''ve already admitted you aren''t here in an official capacity.¡±


    ¡°That''s true, I can''t speak for the ICC on this, but I can offer you a deal with The Company.


    ¡°I knew it!¡± Jung exclaimed, ¡°I had you pegged from the start. You''re not the first Company agent to come around sniffing for information on The General.¡±


    Shella frowned, failing to hide her irritation. Son of a bitch! No wonder I had a bad feeling about this. What else has The Company been keeping from me? At this moment, Shella was glad Oliver wasn''t listening in on this conversation.


    ¡°What about protection?¡± Jung asked


    Shella looked to John as if to say, go ahead and jump in here Chief.


    John cleared his throat, ¡°Short term, we hold you in protective custody as a confidential informant. Long term, I recommend you for the witness protection program. But, that all depends on you and the quality of help we get?¡± John stated matter of factly.


    Jung nodded and drank more of his tea. Clearly it was making him a bit buzzed, but at the same time it helped him to calm down.


    ¡°How do I get off the station once this is done? Neither the ICC, nor the Colonial Marshals have any ships berthed here on the station right? You can''t even hire a private freighter to take me away so long as Victor maintains this lock down order. I won''t feel comfortable risking my neck without a way out.¡±


    Shella and John shared a look. Neither one of them wanted to mention the fact they''d technically already called for an evacuation because no matter what happened it wouldn''t arrive in time to save anyone from this potential bloodshed. Best not to declare it as a certain hope as it was ultimately just a fallback plan.


    ¡°I''ve got that covered,¡± Shella said. ¡°There''s a private yacht moored to one of the buoy''s out there, the Tekla. It''ll take you anywhere you wanna go and its registered with the ICC. No one would dare to shoot at it, not even Victor.¡±


    Jung nodded. ¡°What about compensation? If I am to walk away from this bookstall, I would like to retire comfortably on Earth. You''ve probably already guessed I''ve always wanted to live there?¡±


    Shella nodded knowingly, adding, ¡°Be careful what you wish for Jung. Living on Earth makes you part of its history. Loving the Earth has it''s price. It can break your heart and haunt you for the rest of your days, no matter where you are or where you go.¡±


    ¡°Wherever you go is where you are,¡± Jung quipped.


    ¡°Exactly,¡± Shella agreed. ¡°I can''t make promises about what The Company will offer you, but I have cash here on the station they provided for use at my discretion. Help us get the Ho-Stern sisters out and it''s yours. There''s at least fifty thousand there for you. Not enough to retire on no, but it''s enough to start a new life on Earth even if you aren''t in Witness Protection.¡±


    ¡°What about Keren and Sheren? What guarantee''s do they get?¡±


    John looked to Shella as if to say, Good question?


    ¡°They are important witnesses to the massacre at Dizzy''s Club. An ICC Supervisor was killed in that shooting. I''ve been tasked to investigate his death which means I am well within my mandate to bring them in for questioning. That means they''ll be entitled to witness protection by Colonial Marshals, both before and after depositions,¡± Shella stated while John nodded in affirmation.


    Jung studied them with a look of somber contemplation, as if he finally decided what assurances really mattered. Then he said, ¡°I want your word that you''ll take pity on Guo''s daughters. Once their usefulness to you is over, set them up somewhere with a future. Please understand that Guo wouldn''t want his girls involved with the Triad. He did what he had to do to guarantee they would be free to make different choices. They shouldn''t have to suffer for their fathers mistakes.¡±


    ¡°What happened to him? Where is he?¡± Shella asked again.


    Jung looked grim, thinking back on grave memories with a solemn hue to his eyes. There was no doubt in Shella''s mind, and John''s, that he had answers for those questions. It was also equally clear that he wouldn''t speak on that particular subject for whatever reason.


    Instead he said, ¡°If we pull this off, I promise I will give you some answers, but only when I am aboard the Tekla and ready to depart this cursed station. In the meantime should anything happen to me, please entrust that money and the same offer of safe passage to Guo''s daughters. I owe their father that much at least. Do I have your word on that?¡±


    ¡°You have my word,¡± Shella agreed. John did likewise as Jung reached over to shake hands with both of them.

 Chapter 19

    <u>USCSS Casimir: Outer Rim Territories</u>


    Bleep....Bleep....Bleep.... went a steady warning tone waking Madison with a start. Everything hurt. Her head was a fog of pain, her ears were ringing and worst of all she couldn''t see! An immediate flash-back with the memory of being shot at point-blank range terrorized her. Do I still have a face?! she wondered, reaching up timidly, feeling at her badly pulverized face shield.


    Bleep....Bleep....Bleep.... insisted the tone. The camera''s! Their motion sensors have been activated! Regrettably, damage to the face shield disabled its image display functions. Right now she desperately wanted to see those! Instead she reset the audible alarm and waited three heartbeats. When the tone didn''t go off again she knew whatever set the cameras off had already moved on. Now useless, she detached the face shield from her helmet and discarded it.


    Only the hammering of her own heartbeat and the sound of her own rapid breathing kept company with the lingering ring in her ears. Hesitantly she worked her jaw and felt over her face for injuries. Cuts and a tender bruise under her left eye stung sharply when she touched them. Her nose was also broken, yet not for the first time. Holding her breath, she immediately pinched it and forced it back into place, clenching her jaw to avoid crying out. Pain is an affirmation of life, she reminded herself, blinking tears of anguish from her eyes wondering, How long was I out?


    Madison was sprawled out in the corridor beside the locker room outside the hypersleep chamber. The seated corpse of Seleste was only a few feet away, still hugging herself in a cowering posture with a gaping hole punched through the top of her skull. Fuck that! That''s not gonna be me! Madison promised herself with a heavy swallow getting to her feet and taking stock of what weaponry she had left.


    Her heavy auto-repeating shotgun was gone, as was the pistol out of her belt holster. Only the knife and her bull-pup F90 assault rifle were still at hand. Son of a bitch took the grenades?! He shouldn''t have the first clue how to use them!


    Madison clutched Kitten back safely in her arms checking that it was fully loaded. Only then did some semblance of calm return to her psyche. Taking a breath to steady her nerves she peered around the corner of the corridor towards the ladder in the middle of the companionway junction. I placed both those camera''s below this level. The question is, what activated the motion sensors?


    At this point it didn''t make much difference to her if it was the engineer or the Alien. Bartimaeus proved himself to be a threat to her, same as the Alien was. At this moment, the fact Kitten killed men and Aliens both suited her just fine. That asshole deserves a bullet as much as the Alien does!


    However, the Alien was the greater threat, and in that regard she wasn''t entirely sure what she was dealing with? Why was this Alien so choosy about picking its battles? Was it unwilling to attack armed prey? Madison quickly dismissed that notion with a quick shake of the head. Mad, don''t kid yourself. Underestimating that monster will get you killed!


    Slowly she stepped around the perimeter of the companionway junction, her back to the walls, eyes always moving. When she reached the entrance to the corridor that led through the mess hall to the bridge she paused and took a long look in that direction. From here it was obvious the pressure door of the bridge was shut, but was it locked? She couldn''t determine that without getting closer.


    If Bartimaeus and Sophelia were both on the bridge right now they couldn''t have set off the motion sensors on the camera''s. The Alien was close! Madison felt the hairs on her neck rise with growing dread. This put her in a very precarious situation. What would a self-absorbed murderous asshole do from the bridge in this situation? Was it worth the risk to verify his presence on the bridge or not? It made sense at least to take a peek. Glimpsing where the Casimir was at this minute was important towards planning her next move.


    As she stepped into the corridor approaching the mess hall Madison placed another camera behind her overlooking the companionway junction. Even a moments warning about something moving up behind her was better than nothing. Even better than that would be to shut the next intervening pressure door behind her, isolating the mess from this corridor. The problem with that was touching any of the door controls could set off monitors in the bridge. Just now she didn''t think that was the wisest risk to take.


    Inside the mess hall the lighting was brighter, almost cheery, intended to confer a homey sense of safety and warmth. The sight of cushy seats and cabinets full of foodstuffs were tempting offerings. However, her experience and hard-worn instincts prevailed over the urge to take comfort; focusing instead on places someone, or something, could hide in the near vicinity.


    Poised on the balls of her feet, Madison did a quick sweep of the lounge, behind the food prep counter and anywhere else that might hide a threat. On the other side of the large circular table to her left was another corridor with another intervening pressure door which was also open. She placed a camera facing down that direction as well, covering both her flanks before she moved on.


    Past the main mess hall was the smaller galley, which was more specifically a beverage station. Close now to the bridge pressure door Madison saw that the door controls were indeed red indicating it was locked from the other side. Through the windows inset into the door she glimpsed blinking indicator lights and what she thought might be someone moving?


    Crouching low she approached the pressure door quiet as a cat, pressing her ear against the cool surface straining to hear what was on the other side. She didn''t make out any voices. Slowly, Madison raised her head to the lower edge of the window and peered inside.


    The bridge of the USCSS Casimir was the standard design of an old Bison. Old-school. Functional. No-frills; designed to interface the crew with the ships surfeit of systems in a direct, practical way. It was large enough to make use of the whole crew with ease, yet sufficiently cramped with poor ergonomics to resemble an over-sized flight cockpit. Every square inch of space was predominated with control surfaces made up with switches, buttons, computer readout screens and auxiliary equipment. People had to clamber, duck, bend and squeeze their way around.


    Bridge lights were arranged unto the perimeter of a raised, roughly hexagonal, overhead compartment inset into the ceiling. A smaller hexagonal module dropped down from the center with several display screens and status readouts. Other overhead lights were spread out throughout the edges and corners of the bridge to provide illumination in tighter, more confined areas.


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    All these lights were dimmer in nature than the glowing screens of flight console terminals, buttons and switches offering a cool, diffuse light which added depth, if not clear definition, to the size and space of the chamber.


    Intended perhaps to be easy on the eyes of the crew, it also made it difficult for Madison to see everything at a glance as it served only to highlight; rather then penetrate, the many shadowy corners. Most of the bridge was raised up on a level two steps up from her line of sight, further hindering what she could easily see. Madison only sat on this bridge once during the take-off from Torin Prime, but she remembered who was sitting where on lift-off.


    Of the six primary command flight consoles, four were set up in side-by-side pairs, one in front of the other. Captain Yago and his brother Fausto were in the rear command seats (which were also the highest vantage point on the bridge). His wife Seleste and Sophelia were in the forward pair of seats taking on the duties of XO and Navigation Officer.


    Along either side of these four primary command seats was a walkway of metal grating lit from beneath by a soft white light. On the far side of these were the two remaining command stations for the ships engineers, Bartimaeus and his apprentice Vicente, Captain Yago''s son.


    The Casimir had large, multi-faceted viewing ports on either side of the bridge, bulging convexly outward like two bulbous eyes of an insect. There were no view ports facing directly forward, up, or any other direction that she could see out of the bridge. The problem with the positioning of the view ports where they were was that they were designed to offer excellent visibility to the command crew seated at their stations, not to someone peeking through the pressure door set into the rear bulkhead. She couldn''t see much of anything from this vantage point beyond a glimpse that the ship was drifting somewhere through space.


    At the rear, behind the six command consoles, were for more auxiliary flight seats; two of which were fixed on either side of a star-chart plotting table. Madison was strapped into one of these during their take offf, but now Bartimaeus'' daughter, Sophelia, was seated there clutching a pistol on her lap in both hands. My pistol! Madison noted. She could also see that Sophelia looked non too confident to use it. Presently her eyes had a distant, far-away stare to them. She''s still in shock, Madison guessed, but where is her father?


    She remembered then that the bridge had two entrances. This one leading from the mess and another by way of the main bridge corridor that arched around the infirmary. If she doubled-back and circled around she could peer through the windows on that other pressure door as well. Maybe there was something else she could see from there? Maybe not.


    Sophelia''s posture suddenly changed as Bartimaeus the greek stomped unto the bridge from that direction. In his left hand he was dragging a bulky vacuum suit by the collar. Madison''s heavy auto shotgun was gripped in his right, hanging by a strap over his shoulder. Son of a bitch! The sight of him prompted an immediate spike of rage from Madison.


    ¡°Put this on while I get another one!¡± He grunted at Sophelia dropping the suit to the deck along with its helmet.


    Madison felt her teeth clench together as her anger was swept over by panic. Fuck! The asshole was planning to vent the ship! Before she even realized she was doing it, Madison started hammering on the window prompting both of them to look over, startled.


    ¡°Wait!¡± She cursed loudly. ¡°Let me in!¡±


    At this instant the Alien burst through the open pressure door behind Bartimaeus with a soul-withering shriek closing the distance on its prey with unreal speed and lethal timing. It pounced on the engineer before either he or Sophelia could even suck in a breath to start screaming.


    Bartimaeus roared a howl of the damned even as the breath was knocked from his lungs. Reflexively he pulled the trigger of the big auto shotgun at the moment of impact. A concurrent, double blast of high-load buckshot boomed loudly, its barrels aimed somewhere low between himself and his daughter. The weapon kicked like a mule sparking against the deck plating as a hole the size of a basketball punched through it.


    Yet as a natural consequence of the low, shallow angle of his shot several ricochet''s deflected off the steel, one of which caught Sophelia in the upper leg as she was standing up from her chair. She screamed and collapsed to the deck, her eyes watering up, flush with tears. Other wayward buckshot punctured control panels and blasted through display screens at random.


    The kick back of the shotgun sent Bartimaeus and the Alien spinning, tumbling together against the rear auxiliary flight seat on the port side of the bridge. A tangle of limbs and the creatures long, thrashing tail. In truth the big engineer outweighed the Alien but he was no match for its uncanny strength and unrivaled ferocity. His only hope was to somehow bring the shotgun to bear on it before it tore him apart.


    Madison was so engrossed to behold the sudden ambush that she felt her blood run cold. In her heart it was her underneath its teeth and claws. The sharp pang of recreant fear and the certain knowledge that this is my fault, wrenched her gut into knots. Her best chance to kill it was now while it was still preoccupied and that motivation was the only thing that kept her focused.


    ¡°Let me in!¡± she yelled banging her hand against the window again and again.


    Sophelia was lying on her side across the deck, one hand clamped over the wound in her thigh, the other clutching the pistol holding it up defensively. However she couldn''t shoot at the Alien without hitting her father. More blasts of the the shotgun went off as they wrestled in a pool of his blood perforating the command consoles and bridge equipment with huge, smoking holes.


    ¡°Sophelia!¡± Madison yelled again. They were running out of time!


    Finally, the young woman struggled back to her feet, half-limping, half-lurching towards the locked pressure door. She had to step down off the raised bridge level, leaning heavily on one of the control pedestals in the process. Blood bubbled through her fingers and soaked the leg of her flight suit.


    Behind her the thrashing, violent struggle of the Alien and the engineer seemed to reach a climax. One final shotgun blast was heard, followed immediately by the high pitched scream of the Alien.


    Was it hit?! Madison wondered, straining to see through the window. A spray of the Aliens acidic blood splashed across yet more equipment on the port side of the bridge. More smoke, sparks and shorting electrical circuits started a fire. Likely some of the acid must have also splashed unto Bartimaeus himself as his screams reached an ever-higher fever-pitch of agony.


    Alarms and flashing lights started wailing all over the ship. Sophelia paused in her limping steps towards the pressure door, looking back as Bartimaeus made one final, gurgling scream. Suddenly the Alien''s head rose up besides the captains control console, covered in gore, hissing with rage, back lit by flames as the electrical fire flared up and rapidly spread. There was a wound in its hip where a few hits of buckshot had cracked open its hardened carapace leaking acid blood that steamed and sizzled on the deck plating.


    ¡°HURRY!¡± Madison shouted, pounding on the window, trying to break Sophelia out of her state of shock; but it was too late. Sophelia didn''t have the willpower to turn her back on the monster who had just tore her father to pieces.


    Instead she stood still, shaking, fixated with horror so complete and paralyzing that she could do nothing but whimper and sob. Her eyes renewed streaming tears as the Alien focused all its attention and hate on her, hissing and spitting through its glistening fangs while the flames roared. Sophelia raised her pistol up defensively and started pulling the trigger.


    The Alien burst apart in a massive concussive explosion, spraying gore and body parts to almost every corner of the bridge. Madison stared with disbelief before she remembered. The Grenades! That son of a bitch pulled the pins right before he died!

 Chapter 20

    <u>USCSS Casimir: Outer Rim Territories</u>


    Sophelia was lifted off her feet by the explosion flying back into the pressure door with a solid thud and a nasty whack to the head. Immediately she crumpled to the deck, evidently unconscious.


    "SOPHELIA!" Madison shouted, banging on the pressure door window, trying in vain to wake her over the din of the blaring alarms


    Meanwhile the flames, momentarily blown out by the concussive blast, flared up again with a vengeance as the spray of Xenomorph acid blood leeched and burned into everything it touched. Founts of sparks and acrid smoke boiled out of control consoles and electrical panels, most of which were already rent apart by shotgun blasts and/or shrapnel.


    Despite this ruin and smoking hellfire Madison expected the worst was yet to come. Likely very soon the acid blood would melt through the hull or compromise the view ports. As soon as that happened Sophelia''s chances for survival would drop to zero. If fate was kind she would bleed out before she suffocated; fading into death before the endless void claimed her soul for itself.


    Yet even as her own unconscious mind avowed it''s too late! she was thinking how Bartimaeus must not have closed the other pressure door behind him. That''s how the Xenomorph got at him. With luck it''ll still be open and I can drag Sophelia out to safety the same way!


    Inspired by that one chance, Madison turned and bolted back through the mess, turning right, running towards the main bridge corridor. Up ahead was another companionway junction with a pair of storage lockers for vacuum suits. One was open. Overhead flashing sirens bathed everything in strobes of orange light as Madison kept running towards the bridge.


    At the end of the corridor she could see jets of flame and smoke roiling together, visible through the open door frame as if she were looking into a gas oven. Madison sprinted towards that fire just as the bulkhead pressure door started shutting itself automatically; sealing off the bridge from the rest of the ship.


    No you don''t! Madison cursed, diving under it at the last instant, rolling with the impact as best she could to avoid scuffing her palms and elbows in the process. Behind her the pressure door shut with a hum and thunk of finality. Mad, this was a very bad idea, even for you! she could hear Jex say in the back of her mind.


    Immediately her lungs and skin were scorched by the intense heat as she gasped and coughed, struggling to take in a breath. There was barely any air left in here at all! No doubt the ships A.I. had already closed off the bridge air supply in the effort to let the fire burn itself out. Everywhere around her, tell-tale pitting and smoking holes of Xenomorph acid blood continued to burn into the ship, especially around the corpse of Bartimaeus-the-Greek. What was left of him anyway.


    Madison used to think she was accustomed to death. She saw all sorts in her previous line of work, yet the word took on a whole new meaning after witnessing the harm done by a Xenomorph to a human being. Madison had to turn away to keep from gagging as her stomach churned.


    A portion of the Xenomorph''s eyeless skull was melting through the deck plates near one of her feet. It looked to be grinning up at her with a maw of bloody, metalized fangs. Madison stared at that evil visage, sickened with loathing and hatred. Enjoy your trip back to hell! she cursed inwardly, wondering also, What have I done to deserve these demons in my life?


    That''s rich, Jex replied in the back of her psyche. It''s sadly ironic that you think to pity yourself now after what you''ve done for so many years? Let''s be honest. We both know exactly what you are, and it''s certainly no angel! Sure I''m not even human, I shouldn''t judge, but all those years I helped you hunt murderous fugitive scum gave me an education. I learned to recognize a bad apple when I see one.


    Madison gritted her teeth and did her best to ignore the feeling that it should have been her undone by the Xenomorph''s claws. Begrudgingly she even gave the ships engineer some credit. He put up quite a fight!


    At this point most of the lighting and electrical circuits were now offline, or else shorting out and blinking on and off at random. Madison understood that some of this would be the result of the A.I. attempting to isolate the bridge from the rest of the ships systems to limit further damage. At least she hoped that was the case. One benefit of this was the loud alarms stopped blaring in her ears.


    What was the name of this ships A.I.? Madison could hardly remember as she struggled to think. Something Greek wasn''t it? Alpha? Omega? Something like that. It wasn''t a unit manufactured by Weyland Yutani, she remembered that much. That was one of the reasons she chose this ship for passage to Ashkelon Station in the first place.


    The vacuum suit brought in by Bartimaeus-the-Greek was lying on the deck close by. Prompted by that most basic of human motivations, the need to breath, Madison lurched towards it. She desperately wanted to suit up as her lungs were already aching and burning with lack of air, but there was no time! Not at least until she was sure Sophelia wasn''t already dead. Instead of putting it on she dragged it over to her side.


    Madison checked her pulse. It was weak, worryingly weak. She''s lost too much blood! Madison easily recognized the signs. Quickly she cut aside the fabric of her blood soaked flight suit with her knife revealing the ricochet wound on her thigh that was still hemorrhaging blood. Fortunately there was no exit wound so she affixed a self-sealing zero-g bandage from a med kit in one of her belt pouches to staunch the bleeding. Sorry you aren''t going out the easy way. I''ll do my best to keep you alive as long as I can survive! Madison muttered. She also repossessed her pistol from Sophelia''s hand and placed it back in her holster.


    Next she charged back into the smoke, grasping for a fire extinguisher beside one of the control consoles. She couldn''t put the flames out entirely but she could at least minimize them. As she did so, enough of the smoke dissipated to be able to glimpse Ashkelon Station up ahead through the view ports. It was close! The ship was drifting in on approach which meant there was a good chance they were already spotted.


    As if in confirmation, powerful, searchlights flashed through the viewport as another ship took up close position alongside. A rescue ship! Madison hoped, turning away to grab a partially melted emergency flashlight off of the furthest control console from the flames. She waved the beam of light frantically through the glass hoping to catch the ships attention, clicking it on and off in a rapid S.O.S. for good measure.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Abruptly, the queer sensation of a pressure loss in her inner-ears occurred at the same instant that a harsh sucking whistle sent chills down her spine. FUCK! Madison immediately lunged back towards Sophelia and the single vacuum suit.


    Every survival instinct she had insisted she should put on the suit immediately to save herself, yet as soon as the beam of the flashlight played over it she saw a half-dozen holes melted through it by the Xenomorph''s acid blood spray, ¡°GOD DAMN IT!¡± she cursed loudly.


    At the sound of her voice, Sophelia''s eyes fluttered open causing Madison''s heart to sink. I should have let you bleed out when I had the chance. Now we''ll both suffer to our last gasping breath.


    Sophelia started wheezing, already struggling to breath. This seemed to help her regain her senses quickly. Adrenaline was good like that. Madison grabbed her hand and broke the bad news, ¡°There''s a hull breach!¡±


    Sophelia seemed to gather her wits quickly gesturing to the third door in the far corner of the bridge. The access door for the A.I. mainframe! There''s probably more air in there! Madison realized, hoisting the bulky vacuum suit up over her shoulders.


    Now with no time to waste she gave Sophelia a shoulder to lean on as she limped over to that door. It slid open revealing a short corridor with another identical door at the other end. They both collapsed inside, sucking in deep breaths as the door shut again behind them. Madison also noted the door into the A.I. mainframe was locked.


    When she had recovered her breath, Madison asked, ¡°Can you get that other door open?¡± jerking her chin towards the A.I. mainframe.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Sophelia squeaked, tears starting to bubble up in her eyes.


    Madison put a hand on her shoulder. ¡°I''m sorry about your dad. And the others. I tried to warn you.¡±


    ¡°Fuck you!¡± Sophelia cursed, batting her hand away. ¡°This is your fault!¡±


    Madison frowned but held her tongue. There was no point arguing and she would not spite this young woman for her grief. Instead she looked through the window back into the bridge. More hull breaches were opening up, one after another, as the Xenomorph''s acid blood melted through the hull like embers burning through paper. At least the fire was out now, fully extinguished for lack of oxygen.


    The searchlights of the other ship remained flashing over the windows. Without the smoke and fire it would be easier now to glimpse the damage, and the carnage, within. She wondered what the other ship would make of it?


    ¡°What ship is that out there?¡± Madison asked Sophelia out loud, ¡°Did your father try to hail the station or send out a distress call?¡±


    ¡°No, but I tried,¡± Sophelia blubbered, ¡°He yelled at me to keep still and keep quiet! No one would believe this anyway. He kept saying that.¡±


    He wasn''t wrong, Madison agreed, ¡°Well, it''s very likely that ship out there is gonna board us. I flashed them an S.O.S. But before that happens, I need to get down to the cargo hold. That''s very important.¡±


    Sophelia glared at her, ¡°Why? What was that monster? And why did you bring it on board?!¡±


    Madison sighed, ¡°It''s a long story. But knowing more about it will only make your life more dangerous. Trust me. You need to forget what you saw.¡±


    ¡°How the fuck am I supposed to forg...¡± Sophelia started to argue before Madison cut her off.


    ¡°OK! You''re right, that was a poor choice of words. I understand you''ll never be able to forget it, but you have to keep it to yourself. You have to pretend like you never saw anything. Get me?¡±


    Sophelia turned away from her and crossed her arms in frustration. Then she noticed the bandage on her thigh, ¡°Thanks for this,¡± she said softly.


    ¡°No problem. Please believe me, I didn''t want anyone to get hurt!¡±


    Sophelia nodded slowly, but she wasn''t about to forgive Madison, and that was fine. Madison stopped forgiving herself a long time ago.


    Madison laid out the vacuum suit and examined the damage up close. None of the holes were larger than a quarter in size. She should be able to manage a temporary repair job. It only had to work for a very short length of time anyway, just until I get off the bridge. The rest of the ship should still have plenty of air. She used a roll of medical tape from her kit to path the holes in the suit.


    ¡°So what happens next?¡± Sophelia asked in a whimper. Her pallor was pale as the adrenaline was starting to taper off. She needed proper medical care, and soon. Without it she would pass out again unless Madison gave her something to do.


    ¡°I need to get down to the cargo bay before the other crew gets on board,¡± she repeated. ¡°While I''m gone I need you to access the ships A.I. mainframe. Can you do that?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Sophelia answered after a pause.


    ¡°Good. You need to delete any and all camera footage on the ship since it left Torin Prime.¡±


    Sophelia frowned, clearly aggravated. The look in her eyes now was the same as Madison was used too from cornered fugitives. Taking orders from her in these horrid circumstances couldn''t be easy. No doubt she would prefer I be put on trial for multiple murders and the costs of all the damage to the ship. Truthfully, I should. No denying that.


    Madison decided to speak frankly, ¡°Look, If I was in your position, I wouldn''t wanna help me either. It doesn''t seem fair that I should ask you to cover my tracks does it? I get it. You want justice, and I deserve the blame. No argument here, but I saved your life specifically because you don''t deserve to be killed over this.¡±


    ¡°Why would I be killed?!¡± Sophelia exclaimed, taken aback.


    ¡°Because powerful people, dangerous people, sick people want to study and exploit those creatures at any cost. These people don''t want witnesses, or survivors, spreading tales that threaten the secrecy of that research. I''ve barely kept one step ahead of their hired killers for years!


    Not a great life, I don''t recommend it,¡± Madison stated with a sad shake of her head. ¡°Like I said, your best chance is to feign complete ignorance about what really happened. Getting rid of any visual evidence that creature was ever here makes those lies possible.¡±


    Sophelia swallowed, ¡°Apollo is an old, glitchy mainframe at the best of times. Only the captain and the X.O. had the master codes that make it fully cooperative. I can''t make any promises.¡±


    Madison''s brows furrowed. She didn''t expect that answer. She didn''t like that answer. But an alternative solution sprang to mind just the same. ¡°Ok, well, if Apollo doesn''t want to cooperate, use this...¡± she said handing back the pistol from her holster.


    Sophelia stared at the gun, ¡°Are you suggesting I should shoot the A.I.?¡±


    ¡°It shouldn''t matter if you can''t delete the files if you blow enough holes in the mainframe to make access impossible. Besides, haven''t you ever wanted too?¡±


    Sophelia took the pistol.

 Chapter 21

    Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/23/2183


    Flashing red strobes and station alarms were still blaring outside in the corridor when Catherine Grey entered Duck''s Bar. Within, the alarms were silenced, though the atmosphere was still raucously loud under a haze of cigarette smoke. The establishment was full to capacity with men and women dressed in a variety of jumpsuit''s, welding jackets, t-shirts, grungy street clothes, or blue collar uniforms.


    Catherine didn''t spent a lot of time around crowds of roughnecks, space-truckers, tech''s and local tradesman but she wasn''t bothered by it. If anything she envied the lives of hardworking regular people. I would give anything to trade places with them.


    Presently about a third of the patrons were making their way towards the exit, concerned in one way or another by Executor''s alarms. The rest were content to stay where they were throwing back drinks and gawking up at live station media broadcasts streaming on large monitors. The audio was off in favor of music, but there were close-captions scrolling across the screens in several different languages.


    Catherine tried to ignore looking at the screens as she pushed her way through the throng, maneuvering towards the bar. Her baggy jogging sweats stood out somewhat against the garb others were wearing, yet it was mostly the fact she kept her hood up that caught Wade''s attention. From their table close to the front entrance he followed her progress this way and that as she squeezed her way between people''s shoulders. Her slim form aided in this regard, but at last he finally glimpsed her face.


    ¡°Holy shit!¡± he muttered out loud, ¡°it''s her!¡±


    ¡°Who?¡± Ze''ev asked, turning to follow his gaze. By now Catherine had already moved past them.


    ¡°Our guardian angel!¡± Wade stated, hopping off his stool and heading after Catherine before anyone could stop him.


    ¡°Guardian angel?!¡± Ze''ev wondered out loud.


    ¡°The android that forced open the pressure door outside Dizzy''s Club,¡± Reese explained with a grunt between puffs of his cigar. ¡°Wade won''t shut up about her.¡±


    ¡°Ah yes, Victor tried to introduce me to her in the central command center. At the time, I admit, I was in no mood for such pleasantries.¡±


    ¡°She''s not an android,¡± Storen interjected with a slow shake of his head. ¡°She''s human, but her organs are encased in an artificial body.¡±


    Reese furrowed his brows, ¡°Say what?¡±


    Storen nodded, ¡°It''s true. It''s a remarkable story. I''ve read a lot about it. How does that change your opinion of her?¡± he asked Reese.


    ¡°I don''t trust anyone, including androids or whatever she is,¡± Reese huffed, ¡°But sure, I guess I owe her some gratitude.¡±


    Ze''ev nodded in agreement, ¡°So do I! I was told she managed to open that jammed pressure door single-handedly so everyone could escape Dizzy''s Club.¡±


    Not entirely single-handedly, Reese thought, I had it open several centimeters already, but he didn''t bother correcting him. There were more pressing things to think about as he looked up again at one of the monitors flashing with breaking news about the explosion up at the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng executive penthouse.


    By the look of it, Ze''ev and Storen were both duty-bound to address this emergency so Reese wasn''t surprised when they both rose to their feet. Around them the crowd and the reporters on the screen were speculating in a hundred different ways about what was happening and what the potential causes of the explosion were? Reese saw it immediately for what it was, an attempted assassination against Victor Li Shing.


    Had the station administrator and his shady lead engineer not been sitting right here with him at this very moment, Reese might even have speculated that Storen orchestrated it at Ze''ev''s bequest. Yet one look at the shock on their faces as the alarms started blaring immediately dispelled that notion. They were just as surprised by this as everyone else. Besides, the old man doesn''t have it in him to be a killer.


    ¡°What does this mean for our arrangement?¡± Reese asked with a jerk of his chin towards the monitor.


    _ _ _


    At this moment, Isaac Pere Shashua and his assistant Sue Dechellis entered the bar. Standing five foot nine, Isaac''s efforts to scan over the crowd were much more effective than Susie''s. However, spotting the station administrator standing at a table near the entrance wasn''t what he expected to see. The sighting made him do a double-take, especially since the septuagenarian made an obvious attempt at disguise dressed in blue jeans, a collared button shirt, a lightweight zippered sweater, a golfers cap, and eyeglasses.


    The other two men at the table were strangers to him. One was a hugely-built black man puffing away on a cigar bit between his teeth. He was wearing an gray leather captains jacket, a knitted cotton shirt, baggy work pants and well-polished black work boots. Isaac couldn''t see his face well from this angle, but his hair was black, thick and low cut, with an equally low-trimmed beard along his jaw peppered with gray. Isaac also spotted the glint of single silver pin on his collar. An engineering pin on a captains jacket? Is this a spacecraft tech who aspires to be a ships captain, or a spacecraft tech that was formally a ships captain? Given his age, the later seemed more likely than the former.


    The third stranger was clearly a veteran station tech, white, also with a cigar in his hand. This one was in his mid-fifties, balding with thinning gray hair pulled back into a knot just above the collar. He also kept a short beard, though his was thicker around his mouth and chin. He wore a typical station tech jumpsuit beneath an old tan leather jacket with the black-over-red Ashkelon Station patches on each shoulder. Three dark-orange starbursts were sewn above the heart on his left breast marking his rank as a lead engineer. He also had two different types of engineering pins on his collar, both gold. A man of broad experience and expertise it would seem, yet unlike the other tech, he was very obviously a local.


    By the state of their cigars and the number of beer cans, shot glasses and coffee cups presently on the table, they had been conversing for a while already. The hulking dark skinned man evidently drank as much as both the other men combined, which given his size was entirely believable, but equality likely there was a fourth person at the table earlier?


    Ze''ev Darkon and the older tech were getting ready to step away from the table as the latter stuffed out his cigar into an ash tray. Isaac spotted two angry-looking red marks on his hand as he did so. He was thinking about what might have made those marks when the big man posed a question to both of them, ''What does this mean for our arrangement?'', in a voice that was all-business.


    That question prompted Ze''ev and the older tech to share a look, which in itself said a lot about their relationship. Looks like unfinished business here? Isaac was immediately keen to investigate this further as he filed that observation away.


    ¡°What''s up?¡± Sue asked, catching his look of distraction.


    ¡°Let''s split up. Keep looking, I''ll catch up.¡± Isaac stated matter-of-factly before he stepped towards the table.


    ¡°Seriously?!¡± Sue grumbled with irritation, shoving and elbowing her way through the forest of legs in front of her.


    _ _ _


    Catherine took a seat on a bar stool at the serving counter as her sad aqua-blue eyes threatened to boil over with tears. Her expression was tense with grief as she clasped her hands together to minimize their shaking. She was so upset! The volume on the monitors were off yes, but dozens of voices were shouting and commenting on the live images enough that she got the picture anyway.


    Three men in particular, standing close by, were grinning and cheering at the view of bodies and debris floating away from the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng penthouse. These men varied in age from early thirties to mid fifties with a laser-etched bar code tattoos on the backs of their hands marking them as ex-cons. The oldest and the most fervently outspoken was a lean and virile looking white man dressed in blue jeans, well-worn boots and a ratty, plaid, long-sleeve shirt. His hair was thin and mostly gray; untrimmed and roughly combed with stringy bangs hanging down over his wide, creased and wrinkled forehead.


    He was handsome, but severe in his looks with a jutting, cleft chin, piercing pale-blue eyes and rough, fine stubble adding a bristled texture to his skin. His voice was raw and breaking with an American accent as he said, ¡°Look at that boys! The cunts in the penthouse are having an impromptu spacewalk!¡±


    Catherine felt herself cringe at those words as her hands clenched together into fists. She turned on her stool to glare in his general direction and he seemed to sense that, catching her look from the corner of his eye. As he turned in challenge to look back at her, Catherine heard another voice ask, ¡°What''ll you have darling?¡± which brought her focus back in front of her where the bartender was standing.


    She was an older, dusky-skinned, black-and-gray haired woman with wise dark eyes and a faded tattoo of a blue crescent moon and a yellow shooting-star above her left brow. Her demeanor was relaxed, despite the rowdy crowd and all the flashing alarms. An old hand at serving drinks, her voice was rich and exotic, sweet, soothing, friendly and sincere all at once. She seemed to know the regulars here as well as old acquaintances, and she wasn''t shy about cracking jokes when the moment was right for a laugh.


    ¡°I''ll have a Gunfire Tea,¡± Catherine answered with a bitter hint of an English accent.


    The bartender smiled, ¡°Bravo! I can''t remember the last time anyone ordered one of those, but it''ll take a minute to fetch the tea. Do you want something else while you wait? Hemlock perhaps?¡±


    Catherine smirked, ¡°If it''s strong enough, sure.¡±


    ¡°Be careful what you wish for young lady, this one''s the house!¡± the bartender chuckled with a wink, turning away to grab bottles for her first drink.


    Catherine was actually surprised at herself for what she ordered. Gunfire Tea was one of dad''s favorite drinks, a mixture of rum and black tea he sipped by the fireplace when she was just a little girl. He let her have a sip once, just to satisfy her nagging curiosity. She promptly spit it out remarking sharply how bitter it was. Her father only laughed, ''That''s as good as it got in the British Army during the eighteen hundreds!'' he explained. ''Cups of Gunfire Tea were served to the lower ranks before a morning attack and brought to the bedsides of soldiers on Christmas morning when they were deployed over the holidays.''


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ''But you aren''t in the army daddy! You''re in the Navy!'' she had argued with him.


    ''Your grandfather was in the Army Catherine, as was his father before him. This drink reminds me to be thankful, humble, and to remember them. One day you should do the same. Consider it a family tradition!''


    Catherine missed her father dearly, perhaps no more than this very moment. She was so alone! So afraid! Life had taken her so far from that fireplace and those long nights when Lt. Cmdr Higgen Grey was home from active duty sitting her on his lap and sharing stories with her. She would give anything to start over again and make different choices.


    How the hell did I ever end up here? Catherine wondered, her eyes drifting up to stare at shelves behind the bar well stocked with local varieties of beer and liquor. Temple Colony on GL-382 below had several large alcohol distilleries taking advantage of its abundant corn and grain farming. Many of the bars and clubs here on Ashkelon Station got great wholesale pricing on these local spirits to help spread interest and demand elsewhere.


    Standards of quality and authentic taste on the Outer Rim weren''t what they were in the Core Systems of course, but cheap alcohol would always sell. By the same adage, Ashkelon Station would never suffer in popularity for having so much of it.


    She watched the bartender mix bourbon, whiskey, scotch and apparently tequila together into a shaker before straining it into a rocks glass on ice, ¡°Here you are doll, specialty of the house!¡±


    Catherine strongly disliked the term doll, yet she merely nodded and accepted the glass with thanks. She wondered what the Tequila was made out of? Could you grow Agave plants on GL-382? Probably, sure. It was dry enough. Almost a desert world.


    Meanwhile on the monitors, the E.M.V. spider ascended to the edge of the shattered view port of the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng executive penthouse. Spotlights flashed over its yellow painted hull as it drew level with the twisted, blackened frame of the open penthouse suite. For a minute nothing happened. Tensions rose. One reporter stated, ''We are getting reports this E.M.V. was commandeered by unauthorized operators...'' A flurry of comments followed this statement as different voices in the crowd reacted.


    ¡°Bullshit! Those are tech''s in that thing, have to be!¡±


    ¡°Maybe they caused the explosion?!¡±


    Further speculation and argument quickly followed about which tech''s might be involved? Catherine felt her ire rising at the notion that this explosion was somehow deliberate? Part of her wasn''t surprised in the least to hear it of course. Everywhere they went, Victor made enemies, if they weren''t already there. She stared up at the monitor now, furious. This was a living nightmare! Dr. Gordon did nothing wrong!


    Her mind started to visualize him out there, breathless in the great hungry void, suffering the same way she once had perished. Peering at the corpses tumbling through space, seeking him out, did her no comfort either. It was difficult to identify anyone at such a distance through the grainy pixels of these old screens. Yet still she tried, and as she tried, her sense of responsibility for his death magnified with the effort. It was obvious now how much her relationship with Victor put Henry in harms way. Ultimately however, it was her dependence on him that got him killed. He''d still be alive if he didn''t save my life.


    That pang of guilt wrenched at her heart so harshly she immediately reached for the drink set before her, lifting it to her lips, tilting her head back to gulp deeply. It wasn''t delicious, but damned it was strong! As strong as the fingers that suddenly took grip of her hood and yanked it off.


    _ _ _


    ¡°Good morning,¡± Isaac said stepping close to the table where Ze''ev was standing. His expression and tone of voice were both friendly and polite, but only halfheartedly so. The same as a cursory greeting one might speak towards a stranger they chanced to meet eyes with on their way to work.


    All three men immediately stared at him but Isaac wasn''t looking back. His eyes were cast down at the small paper notepad in his hands, which he absently flipped open with a twitch of his wrist. Storen opened his mouth to speak but Isaac interrupted him as if he didn''t notice.


    ¡°My name is Isaac Pere Shashua, of the Colonial Independent Newspaper.¡± Only then did his eyes raise up at them, looking at none of the men in particular, yet watching all of them carefully for a reaction.


    Storen sighed and closed his mouth again. Reese said nothing, yet his expression was a mix of frustration and impatience. Isaac could understand that. He was interrupting the chance for Administrator Darkon and the other fellow to answer the question that they were all, right now, pretending he didn''t ask.


    Administrator Darkon was the only one who remained carefully composed, ¡°What can I do for you Isaac?¡±


    Good, Isaac thought, the old man isn''t trying to play games. He gives me credit for spotting him. Best to start off on a platform of mutual respect. Isaac believed first impressions mattered, especially so for a journalist.


    Approaching people and asking questions wasn''t an easy thing to master. It was important to appear confident, but not arrogant. Respectful, serious, knowledgeable, persistent, and most of all, perceptive. Sometimes there was an advantage to be underestimated, but Isaac didn''t usually play into that. At this moment it was true that Isaac had idea who he was dealing with, but the same was true for them. Best not to play dumb in this situation.


    ¡°I just wanted to introduce myself. We haven''t had a chance to speak since I took over this section for the paper. I''m still learning names and faces around here. I know you''re very busy, but when I spotted you here I figured this might be a good opportunity?¡±


    ¡°Unfortunately your timing couldn''t be worse. I have to get back up to central command. There''s been an explosion,¡± Ze''ev said pointing at the monitor as if to reinforce the fact.


    ¡°Yes of course,¡± Isaac stated before he looked to Storen, ¡°You''re a station tech right? What''s your name?¡±


    Storen smirked, ¡°Why do you ask? You gonna write it down in your little book?¡±


    Isaac nodded, ¡°I never forget a face, but writing down names helps me keep them straight. I wouldn''t wanna misprint it.¡±


    ¡°Misprint it?¡± Storen questioned, ¡°Why would you want to print it?¡±


    ¡°Because you''re both here drinking in the early hours of the morning, talking about an ''arrangement'' of some sort with this individual,¡± Isaac gestured towards Reese, ¡°even as there''s a serious emergency in progress. Our readers will want to know the facts.¡±


    ¡°Are you fucking serious? Is this some sort of joke?¡± Storen swore, flinching a bit. Isaac could see he was in pain and this was likely affecting his composure. Something to do with those marks on his hand perhaps? Isaac also knew from experience that the one who acted most upset about a potential story usually had the most to hide.


    ¡°It''s not a joke, it''s a story,¡± Isaac answered with all seriousness.


    Ze''ev smiled slightly, disarmingly, but Isaac saw he was troubled. And tired. Very tired. ¡°This isn''t the story you should be writing young man,¡± Ze''ev stated in the tone that wasn''t as much a criticism as an observation.


    ¡°It isn''t?¡± Isaac asked with a hopeful twitch of his brow.


    ¡°No. I have a much better one for you. An exclusive that could possibly make your career.¡±


    Isaac smiled, ¡°Is that a promise administrator?¡±


    ¡°As far as the story goes, yes, that''s a promise. The rest is up to you. You''re the one who has to write it. If you have the balls,¡± Ze''ev stated.


    _ _ _


    ¡°Fuckin-A boys! I knew it!¡± the bristled old felon exclaimed, sneering down at Catherine, releasing her hood from his fingers, ¡°It''s Victor''s daughter! In the flesh!¡±


    ¡°Jaeger! Keep your hands to yourself!¡± the bartender scolded, but it was too late. His compadres and the eyes of many others shifted towards Catherine with scorn. Once again she was the center of attention from people who saw her the same way they saw Victor. That hurt. It always hurt, and this time she didn''t think she had the strength to endure it.


    ¡°Easy Cleopatra!¡± Jaeger responded, holding his hands up in mock apology stating, ¡°I was just trying to be friendly!¡± before he immediately addressed Catherine again asking, ¡°Have you come to watch the show?¡± as he was gesturing to the monitor. ¡°Looks like some of your favorite people are having a bad day. Is that making you sad?¡± he asked in an unkind, derisive tone, leaning close enough that she could smell the booze on his breath.


    ¡°Fuck off!¡± Catherine cursed, tensing up so much with anger that the thick glass in her hand suddenly shattered.


    Jaeger took a hasty step back, as did the bartender who gasped with shock. Those seated next to her also flinched in disbelief.


    ¡°Damn!¡± Jaeger exclaimed, ¡°You are some kinda freak aren''t you?!¡±


    Wade kicked in the back of Jaeger''s knee at the same instant he grabbed a handful of his hair, toppling him backwards, off-balance. Jaeger fell flat on his back with a sudden and violent crash that knocked all the air from his lungs.


    Immediately Wade snatched one of his wrists pulling up on his arm as he applied pressure down against his neck, under the jaw, with the edge of his boot. Jaeger groaned, struggling to take in a breath as Wade twisted his wrist in his hand, straining it to the breaking point and holding firm.


    This was a variation of a classic Colonial Marine Corps Martial Arts take down; which incapacitated an opponent with further options to break his wrist, or his neck, quite easily. This maneuver also allowed Wade to stay on his feet, free to disengage if necessary to face another opponent.


    Wade mastered many such close-combat techniques after one hundred days of training in mental, physical and character disciplines drawn from over two dozen schools of traditional martial arts. This was enough to earn him his brown belt, with the option to instruct new recruits and undergo yet even more rigorous training for a black belt.


    Wade declined to go any further with it. At the time his preferred challenges were interrogations and intelligence analysis. Training for a black belt seemed like a good way to get embedded with a front-line combat unit. Recon. Black Ops. The sorta work he had no interest in. Nevertheless, in moments like this, he was just as happy to kick some ass as any other Jarhead.


    Jaeger''s compadres moved towards him threateningly as the crowd stepped back anticipating a brawl. There were bar fights, and then there were bar fights, Wade mused preparing himself to take them on. His tall, lanky frame had reach advantages over these two, yet they certainly looked willing and mean enough to give him some bruises of his own.


    At that moment, Catherine stepped off her stool to block their path, both her hands balled into fists, one of which was still dripping white lubricant. ¡°Back off!¡± she warned prompting both men to pause and glance at each other as if to ask is this really a good idea?


    ¡°Cut that bitch!¡± Jaeger hissed, an instant before Wade broke his wrist. Jaeger screamed just as his voice was squeezed into a whimper by Wade''s boot pressing on his neck so hard his face turned purple.


    The other two ex-cons pulled knives and moved towards Catherine who dropped into a fighting stance of her own. Feet shoulder width apart, one leg held back, knees slightly bent with her right fist held up a little higher and closer than her left. Taekwondo, Wade recognized.


    Suddenly there were muzzle flashes off to his side in sync with the sharp, rapid rhythm of a submachine gun. People dove away and ducked for cover, save the two ex-cons about to slash and stab at Catherine who were the bullets targets. Each of them jerked and spun in place, impacted by at least a dozen rounds that riddled their bodies. They were dead before they even hit the deck.


    Wade flinched as one of Victors bodyguards dressed in its characteristic black suit, stepped out from the crowd. She turned to stare at it, red blood splatter smeared across her face, as clear as her expression of umbrage as she shouted, ¡°STOP IT DAMN YOU!¡±


    The bodyguard remained stoic and unphased, its expression as cold as it was aloof, just as more submachine gun fire elicited further gasps. This gunfire however, appeared on the monitors as another one of Victor''s bodyguards started shooting from within the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng executive penthouse at two station repair tech''s who had just emerged from the E.M.V. spider.


    Jesus! Wade thought, this is getting worse by the minute!

 Chapter 22

    Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382


    07/23/2183


    From the shadows behind the bath, a wheelchair was brought forward for The General as the Alien birthling growing out of his abdomen continued to squirm restlessly, hissing and spitting like a strangled cat, still dripping with blood. He looked down upon it with lidless, black eyes and said, ¡°Your father Guo asked me once, ''why haven''t I rid myself of this abomination? How could I permit such a creature to live as part of me?'' I told him that there are places in our souls so remote, no light can reach them. And that truth''s that inhabit them grow accustomed to the darkness. They cannot fathom ever escaping it. And they do not want to be disturbed.¡±


    ¡°You''re a monster!¡± Sheren croaked, clutching to Keren''s arm tightly.


    The General nodded while reaching for the Alien birthling, attempting to caress it and calm it down. At first it recoiled, as eager to sink its teeth into him as much as anything else so he had to be careful to avoid its jaws. After a few minutes however, it seemed to respond favorably to the touch and grow docile. At that point he tied his robe up again and sat down on the wheelchair.


    One of the bodyguards moved over to whisper in his ear again. Others in the bathhouse also started talking excitedly. Whatever the cause was for the hull breach sirens and the red-flashing alarms, Keren wasn''t sure she should be glad for the interruption or not?


    Apparently whatever it was didn''t please The General. If anything it seemed to make him more ¡°I can take you to your father now, but I must warn you he rests in darkness. I cannot promise how he will react to the light. Each soul must find its own way, according to its nature.¡±


    Keren didn''t know what to say, or what to think, except that they had come too far now to turn back. ¡°We need to see him,¡± is all she said.


    The General''s wheelchair was motorized and fixed with attachments for his IV drips and oxygen tanks. The same medical nurse who pushed the wheelchair forward transferred everything over and then stepped away as he wheeled it around. Keren and Sheren followed behind along with Miss Chen. Two of The Generals bodyguards walked in front of him, the other pair behind him.


    Once they left the baths under brighter lighting, Keren glimpsed something odd on the back of The General''s skull. A metal plate? It was mostly obscured by his hanging braid, weathered and oxidized, but to her familiar eye it had the look of high-grade Titanium-alloy. The sort of material used in high-end medical procedures a long time ago.


    They passed through the same abattoir they entered earlier, with the same two dozen Asian men and women in aprons, goggles and gloves. They passed through another set of double doors and found themselves in a holding area with about a dozen stalls for live steer, only about half of which were occupied.


    A Russian man in a lab coat walked around between the stalls pushing a cart. On the cart was a clipboard, a stethoscope, a thermometer, syringes and dozens of vials of drugs of some sort or another. The man was tall, balding and cheerful, seeming to hum and murmur; talking to himself, or perhaps the animals as he examined them closely placing adhesive electrode patches to their hides reading data on heart rate and other vital signs. Each stall had sort of a treadmill beneath it forcing a few of the animals to exercise. These treadmills also had the useful function of dumping away their dung.


    This man bowed low at The General''s approach. He kept his head down until The General and his bodyguards passed by, then raised it again and smiled broadly at Miss Chen. She bowed her head back to him respectfully and smiled back, ¡°Hello Feliks! How''s the stock looking today?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Very fine!¡± he stated happily. ¡°I think I have three here that are worth sending back to the Union!¡±


    Beyond the stalls they approached a heavy, caged, freight elevator on the far side of the room which Keren imagined probably moved the animals up from a larger holding pen. She knew there were a few of those on the station when live animals were brought up on the shuttles. Quality beef was a valuable commodity anywhere.


    Once on the elevator, one of the bodyguards pulled a lever to descend. As Keren expected the elevator passed down into a holding pen. There were about three dozen animals here, kept within a fenced corral. The air smelled strongly of cow dung, hay and urine, despite the heavy fans circulating a strong artificial breeze. Animal handlers rolled around the corral on a wheeled cart equipped with cattle-prods, lasso''s on poles, dung-scrapers and other tools of their trade. They didn''t give them so much as a glance.


    Behind them the freight elevator moved up again, but the doors did not close after it. Instead a hidden trap door opened up on the deck beneath it, revealing a secondary elevator platform that rose up with four Triad Enforcers holding assault rifles. They stepped off and bowed their heads to The General, taking up positions nearby while the rest of them stepped unto the secondary elevator descending further into the station under the watchful eyes of cameras situated at the top of the shaft.


    Keren felt a sense of growing dread as the squeal of old cables and screeching pulleys that were rarely put to use echoed all around them. Smells of old grease and overworked electrical motors wafted up through vents and old machinery. She even glimpsed the glowing pipes of superheated lead coolant. They were descending down deep into the reactor level, Keren realized.


    The elevator came to an abrupt halt before a thick, magnetically sealed, lead-core radiation containment door. There, additional cameras panned and zoomed to take a careful look at each of their faces before the door swung inwards on heavy hydraulic motors. Beyond were immaculate white tiles, stainless steel benches, shower fixtures, and lockers. A decontamination prep chamber, Keren ascertained.


    Two more Triad enforcers were inside wearing thickly armored radiation utility suits, air-scrubber re-breather helmets, emergency air tanks and portable flame-thrower units held at the ready in their hands. The Generals bodyguards spread out to each corner of the room and stood at ease, apparently intending to go no further.


    ¡°Please suit up,¡± Miss Chen asked Keren and Sheren gesturing to thick, rubbery, hazmat radiation suits hanging on pegs. Keren had a thought about the pistol she took from Miss Chen, which was still concealed under the Gung Fu training uniform she was presently wearing. Wearing a hazmat suit over that would seriously hinder her ability to retrieve it; especially since there were no pockets on the exterior of the suit to conceal it with.


    Fortunately they were not expected to strip down and place their clothing into the lockers so she kept the pistol where it was and put a hazmat suit on over it. The General, likewise, suited up with the aid of his bodyguards before trading his current wheelchair for a specially sterilized one. Once everyone was ready they entered a decontamination chamber full of drains, vents, sprinklers and chemical jets. A multi-stage decontamination process took place, blasting them with air, harsh chemicals and disinfectant before the exit opened into a short corridor, the terminus of which was another magnetically sealed, lead-core radiation containment door.


    This one opened into a specially-equipped lab guarded by two more suited Triad Enforcers holding flame-throwers. Half a dozen lab techs in hazmat suits connected to air hoses worked within conducting various types of experiments in brightly-lit cubicles and workshops. Keren noted the walls and the ceiling around them were visibly curved, as if the lab itself was constructed inside a huge cylindrical tank of some sort. Large enough to hold a small orbital shuttle, she reasoned.


    ¡°Originally this lab was an auxiliary reactor coolant storage tank,¡± Miss Chen explained catching the way she was looking around, ¡°It was decommissioned shortly after the station finished construction. Routine leak-testing indicated it was unsafe, but of course we falsified that testing. We also arranged for the tank manufacturer to go out of business to make it available for our other needs.¡±


    Keren had to admit she was impressed, or perhaps disturbed was a better word. She imagined the primary use of this lab might be to study and reverse-engineer experimental biological or chemical weapons being developed in the J?ngt¨¬ L¨®ng labs far above? The UPP always had the reputation of being fiendishly effective at espionage. With labs like this operating in secret it was easy to see why. But what did all this have to do with her father?!


    At the rear of the lab was another lead-lined barrier, sectioning off what she guessed was the last third of available space in the tank. The security door here was heavily labeled with bio-hazard and radiation warnings in both Chinese and Russian. Two more Triad Enforcers stood guard here with flame-throwers as more cameras swiveled to examine them.


    The General rolled forward in his chair and reached his hand into a cubby beside the security door concealing an electronic combination key pad. After entering an access code a voice on an intercom spoke up, speaking Russian in a tone that was clipped, curt, and anything but deferential. Keren couldn''t understand what was being said, but it certainly sounded like whoever was on the other side of this security door answered to a higher authority than The General and they weren''t pleased by his visit. They also seemed to have a huge problem with unexpected visitors, blurting further expletives as the cameras zoomed in on Keren and Sheren.


    The General glanced at them once or twice while making arguments of his own, eventually demanding that they open the door with his most stern and forceful voice. For several moments, there was only silence. Keren had the sickening feeling that this was her last chance to see her father and it was going to be denied.


    Even the Enforcers holding the flame-throwers seemed to sense this, fidgeting nervously as if they dreaded the possibility they might have to raise their weapons up against The General in some sort of threat. Keren also realized it if came down to a fight in these close-confines she would never have a chance to get her hands on her gun before they were all burned to a crisp.


    Then at last, reluctantly, the security door opened revealing two Russian physicians in hazmat suits with irritable, unhappy scowls visible through their tempered-glass face shields. Around them was an extremely well-outfitted medical lab. Keren recognized much of the same equipment in use here as they had down on Temple Colony in the Stern private family hospital.


    There was an electron-microscope, a DNA sequencer, a clinical chemistry analyzer, a cryostat, a mass spectrometer, a fast protein liquid chromatograph machine, a clinical centrifuge, clinical laboratory incubator, cell counter, microplate spectrophotometer, PCR DNA amplifier, and even more she was not familiar with.


    In the middle of the far wall was a large observation window looking into a sterile, clean-room where an advanced cryogenic medical-diagnostic incubator pod was held on a stilted, robotic platform. Within that, resting in stasis was her father, Guo Ho. His physical condition was far worse than she expected, but she recognized him immediately. It couldn''t be anyone else.


    Sheren immediately cried out and rushed towards the glass, only to be forcefully shoved back by one of the physicians who cursed something at her in Russian. It took all Keren''s willpower not to physically assault him on the spot. Miss Chen meanwhile, clutched Sheren by the arm and counseled her to remain calm.


    The General rose up from his chair and stepped forward. It was clear the physician who shoved Sheren was the same man The General was arguing with over the intercom just a minute earlier. This man didn''t flinch or demonstrate any signs of cowering, even standing eye-to-eye with the scariest Triad boss anywhere. Instead, he continued to complain and curse in a harsh, vituperative tone, eyeballing Sheren and her older sister, gesturing repeatedly that they should leave.


    ¡°What''s he saying?¡± Keren asked Miss Chen in a low voice, unhappy with the feeling that she and The General were her only allies at the moment.


    Miss Chen shook her head, ¡°He says you have no permission to be here.¡±


    ¡°Guo is our father! We have a right to be here!¡± Keren proclaimed a bit louder than she intended.


    ¡°No! You have no rights!¡± The physician spat back in a heavy Russian accent, shaking his finger towards them. The man obviously understood Chinese perfectly well, he just chose not to speak the language in front of them until now.


    Was this gonna be more nonsense about vows and oath''s of service to the Union? Keren wondered as her jaw clenched in anger, The fucking nerve of these assholes!


    In that moment, as the physician was distracted and taking in another breath to exhale further vitriol towards the sisters, The General smashed his fist through his face plate. Blood splatter burst from the mans helmet as he instantly collapsed. For a second, no one moved, then the other physician dove towards a big red button on a nearby control console.


    Miss Chen moved first to leap after him but it was Keren who was closer. She kicked outwards into his ribs, forcing him to stumble wildly off his feet. Miss Chen fell upon him an instant later, shattering vertebrae in the back of his neck with one savage chop from the side of her hand.


    Sheren gasped, It all happened so fast!


    The General looked back at Sheren, gesturing for her to step forward with his right hand still dripping with blood. Sheren did so, taking care to step around the red puddle leaking out of the dead physicians helmet as she approached the large observation window. Keren joined her and put her arm around her.


    He looks so weak, Keren thought, unable to rectify the look of her father in such a state as this. A stasis pod was supposed to preserve his health! The comatose state of hypersleep should maintain his bodily functions perfectly. Guo was always so strong, handsome and healthy. Now he was breathing through a tube and his hair was falling out, that which was otherwise not shaved off at least.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    His skin was sallow and much of his muscle mass had degenerated as if by atrophy. Intravenous tubes were stuck into his neck, arms, abdomen and legs. Flexible silicone sensors and many other medical devices were affixed to his skin, most notably around his chest and abdomen.


    ¡°What''s wrong with him?!¡± Sheren cried out, clutching at Keren and starting to tear up within her helmet.


    ¡°The same thing that is wrong with me,¡± The General answered plaintively.


    Sheren turning to stare at him in disbelief, ¡°No! That''s impossible!¡±


    ¡°Show them,¡± The General ordered Miss Chen, settling back into his chair and breathing deeply from his oxygen tank supply connected to his suit helmet. The exertion of standing and killing the physician with his bare hands had apparently drained much of his strength.


    Miss Chen moved to one side of the observation window, on either side of which were highly sophisticated medical computer consoles. There beneath high-resolution display monitors, keyboards and touch-screen tablets, each computer station had special, tactic-feedback gloves for robotic manipulator arms permitting physicians to manipulate equipment inside the isolation chamber as easily as if they were physically inside.


    Miss Chen rapidly entered codes and commands into the control interface. Suddenly, every known type of magnetic resonance imaging, computed tomography scanners and bone densitometers were put to use displaying Guo''s skeleton and all his organs on the monitors.


    Sheren gasped. Something Alien was curled up tightly in Guo''s chest cavity, just beneath his rib cage. Keren recognized the long, arching skull and sharp teeth of the same monstrous creature that devoured Dasha''s face. Her stomach churned as she felt herself wanting to retch.


    ¡°What is that?!¡± Sheren cried out, immediately convulsing into sobs. Keren hugged her little sister tightly and turned her away from the screens.


    ¡°That is what the Russians at the highest levels of our government refer too as Baba-Khorkhore, ''The beast who eats everything'',¡± The General replied in a hoarse, lugubrious voice.


    ¡°How did it get inside him?¡± Keren asked.


    ¡°Speaking from experience, that''s not something you ever want to know,¡± The General stated sagaciously.


    ¡°Is he safe in there? While he''s sleeping?¡± Sheren asked between sobs.


    ¡°No one is safe from that,¡± The General said in with a tenebrous wilt to his voice, ¡°But so long as he sleeps, the monster sleeps. The only reason he''s lasted this long is because he''s in stasis.¡±


    ¡°Why cant it be surgically removed?¡± Keren asked, incredulous.


    ¡°Not possible. Not without killing him. I would have removed mine a long time ago were it otherwise,¡± he added in a tone as honest as it was exhausted.


    Keren looked around, ¡°So then what is all this equipment for?!¡±


    ¡°An experiment. An effort to kill the creature without surgery,¡± Miss Chen explained taking over in this regard from The General who was tiring from so much conversation.


    ¡°It''s been four years! Why isn''t that monster dead yet?!¡± Sheren croaked.


    As if in response to hearing its name, the Alien on the monitor shifted ever so slightly.


    Miss Chen sighed, ¡°Killing it isn''t as difficult as keeping Guo alive in the process.¡±


    ¡°What have you tried?¡± Keren asked, regretting it even as she said it.


    ¡°Everything you can imagine. We''ve had the most success with proton beams,¡± Miss Chen answered, ¡°Unlike x-rays, proton particles spread very little radiation beyond the targeted area. The idea was to bombard the creature with doses high enough to kill it without killing Guo in the process.


    Unfortunately, even in stasis, the creature has enough reflexes to move around in response to injury. The more we persisted, the more agitated it got. At a certain point, it became obvious the creature was capable of waking itself up out of stasis and killing its host in an effort to escape it.


    What''s worse, the more injured it became the worse off the host suffers. Somehow, even in stasis, the Alien can heal itself draining the host of additional nutrients. That''s why Guo looks this bad. Unlike the Alien, his body won''t heal until it wakes up. Thus, all their efforts to kill it, ultimately, are also slowly killing Guo.¡±


    ¡°Their bodies are joined now, on a genetic level. The same as myself and my own symbiont,¡± The General murmured in affirmation.


    ¡°So if he wakes up now, he''ll become a monster just like you?¡± Sheren asked, horrified.


    ¡°No. What happened to me isn''t the norm,¡± The General explained, ¡°With me they attempted to kill the Alien with huge doses of radiation, never expecting I would outlive it in the process. Instead, the radiation mutated my genes to the point that I will never be free of it. By a further, callous twist of irony, the monster within me has kept me alive in abject misery and constant torment. Its tenacity and will to live have extended my own suffering far beyond what any man should endure.


    Trust me when I say this is not a life you should wish for your father. I am as much of a monster as that creature is. You''ve seen that with your own eyes. I had hoped advances in technology would offer Guo a better chance to survive this thing. The Union obliged me every effort to save his life, but is isn''t working.¡±


    ¡°It''s not too late!¡± Sheren exclaimed angrily, ¡°He''s not dead yet!¡±


    ¡°He is dead in every sense that matters,¡± Miss Chen stated coldly. ¡°In stasis he is only technically alive. What use is that if he can never wake up?¡±


    ¡°No! I don''t accept that!¡± Sheren shouted, ¡°We aren''t giving up on him!¡±


    Keren looked to Miss Chen, ¡°You said our father is a hero! You said his efforts served his people. You also said his sacrifice will create a better future for the Union. Why?¡±


    ¡°The Alien inside him is the threat there ever was to the UPP,¡± Miss Chen answered immediately. ¡°If he cannot be rid of it, he must die with it.¡±


    ¡°It''s not even that big!¡± Sheren blubbered. ¡°How can an Alien the size of a cat threaten millions of people from so far away?¡±


    Keren immediately thought about Eva and the loss of the colony on LV-426. It was all starting to make sense now.


    ¡°You sent our father after Eva didn''t you? That''s why he disappeared! He was trying to salvage your plans for her, and for me. My friendship with Eva, and my fathers marriage to my mother. All this was a plot of the UPP to establish useful relationships with my mothers family, The Sterns, and Ze''ev''s family, the Darkons, for the sake of gleaning information and exerting influential on Technion Interstellar.¡±


    ¡°That''s right,¡± Miss Chen nodded, ¡°Those plans were years in the making, all undone by these Alien horrors. Guo went to LV-426 to investigate the blackout of Hadley''s Hope Colony, where Eva and her father were last heard from. To his credit he accomplished that mission. Unfortunately he didn''t escape that place completely inviolate.¡±


    Keren rose her voice towards Miss Chen heatedly, ¡°You said the Union honors its own! You said there was safety here. You said we have family here. You even said we have a future here. So why did these physicians try to stop us from seeing him?¡± Next she turned to The General, ¡°Why did they feel the need to disrespect and defy you, the Master of the Red Triad, so much that you had had to kill them both?!¡±


    The General said, ¡°The powers at the highest level of the UPP have always hoped to find a cure against birthing these monsters, ever since we encountered them when I was still an officer aboard the CSCSS Ivan Petlin a very long time ago.¡±


    Keren remembered how Dasha mentioned that ship, and a photograph of its crew that Ze''ev had hidden in one of his books. She also remembered that ship was presumed lost with all hands and never heard from again. Yet if anyone was old enough to make such a wild claim as serving as one of its crew, it was The General, she had to admit, astounded.


    ¡°I wasn''t the only officer to survive of course. Ze''ev''s father, Aleksandr Nikolayevich Chilingarov, fled with me from the surface of that moon. We eventually found our way here to GL-382 and Temple Colony. He established a new identity for himself and became its first governor. I served him from the shadows, as his red right hand,¡± he gestured, holding up his right hand still splattered in blood.


    Miss Chen took over again as an orator, ¡°Other survivors of the CSCSS Ivan Petlin spread elsewhere, helping to colonize the first worlds of the Union of Progressive Peoples. Just like The General of course, the loss of the CSCSS Ivan Petlin and its encounter with the Aliens hardened their hearts and steeled their resolve. They swore to guard themselves and the rest of the population against them at any cost. Towards that end the UPP was bent towards a militant, socialist, communist society. Our government is determined to serve and protect the people.


    Most of the population are never told about these lifeforms of course. All such knowledge is held as protected state secrets, but enough of our leaders at the highest levels are educated about them so that none of these lifeforms, in any form, are ever permitted into UPP controlled space. That''s also why this lab, and others like it, exist so far outside our own borders. For only through isolation, and constant vigilance, will we protect ourselves.¡±


    ¡°That''s also why I am permanently banished,¡± The General added, ¡°Exiled. The General of outcasts. I will never stroll through the plaza of the Memorial of Hero''s or visit the graves of honored old friends long dead. In fact I have never set one foot in The Union whatsoever.¡±


    If you expect me to feel sorry for you, you''re mistaken, Keren thought, but she let him talk, Every word is information worth having.


    The General continued, ¡°These physicians were only trying to save Guo so that someday, powerful leaders in the hierarchy of the UPP have the option for a cure. Towards that end they will sacrifice anyone. They would have continued to pump him full of poisons and cook him with radiation until there was nothing left of him to save. Then they would have simply found another.


    It has always been my wish that Guo would succeed me. I am older than any man has a right to be, but I am not immortal. I can feel myself slipping away with every passing day. Were it not for Guo, I would have already ended it years ago. I''ve forced myself to keep going for his sake.¡±


    The General sighed, a sound almost like a death-rattle, ¡°Guo was like a son to me. I want to see him cured, but I won''t continue to watch him waste away without hope, and I don''t know how much longer I can hold on.¡±


    ¡°What can I do?¡± Keren asked. Not because she cared one whit for The General, or the Union, but because she was desperate. Desperate for information. Desperate for options. Desperate for some way to save her fathers life.


    ¡°Were it not for Victor Li Shing, you would have never arrived at my doorstep to begin this journey,¡± Miss Chen commented. ¡°It was Guo''s wish that you and your sister wouldn''t be involved. Yet as the wise often say, ''blessings sometimes come in disguise.'' There is something you can do. It involves a potential cure for your father which has the best possible chance of success.¡±


    ¡°What''s that?¡± Keren asked.


    ¡°It involves the use of antimatter,¡± Miss Chen stated.


    ¡°Antimatter?!¡± Keren stated in disbelief, ¡°That''s just theoretical. Isn''t it?¡±


    ¡°Not anymore,¡± The General huffed, ¡°Technion Interstellar have been producing it for decades. They have a sizable stockpile stored in various underground vaults near their huge particle accelerator down on GL-382. We shouldn''t need much however. Whatever is on hand in here on the station, in their labs, should be more than sufficient. Provided, they also lend us their expertise in its use.¡±


    ¡°Eve Einat-Darkon, Eva''s mother, is their chief executive of research,¡± Miss Chen added.


    ¡°I know that!¡± Keren snapped, shaking her head. ¡°How am I supposed to explain this to her?! She knows Guo disappeared the same as Eva did, but she has no idea you sent him after her, or what actually occurred on LV-426. You think she wants to hear this? You think she wants to imagine how Eva died from one of these... things...?!¡± Keren croaked, her eyes stinging with tears. Just now the thought of that was too much for her to imagine. Poor Eva!


    ¡°Ze''ev sent your father after Eva, not us,¡± Miss Chen said.


    ¡°Ze''ev sent him?!¡± Sheren gasped at the same time Keren''s mouth dropped. Immediately she recalled all the conversations they had after her fathers disappearance. All the visits. All the tears. All the hugs. All the bullshit!


    ¡°Yes. Guo was working for Ze''ev, as part of his role for us.¡± The General stated.


    ¡°What sort of work?¡± Keren asked between clenched teeth.


    ¡°Ze''ev launched his own private investigation into Eva''s disappearance shortly after it happened. An effort he maintains to this day. Sending Guo to LV-426 so soon after Eva''s disappearance was his best and only chance to get a first hand account about what transpired down there with eyes on the ground. Now, after the blast, LV-426 is off-limits as the Colonial Administration conducts their investigation.¡±


    ¡°That son of a bitch!¡± Sheren cried out, ¡°He never told us!¡±


    ¡°No he didn''t,¡± Keren agreed bitterly. I''ll never forgive him for that, she swore internally, ¡°Dasha was spying on Ze''ev trying to get more information about that investigation wasn''t she? Is that why you killed her?¡± Keren asked The General.


    ¡°No. I killed her because she was sloppy. The truth about the Triad, and what we know about these Aliens must be kept secret at any cost. Her failures drew attention. Failures are a liability. Victor Li Shing would learn far more from her than he would have learned from you. I couldn''t allow that.¡±


    ¡°Why do you think Ze''ev will help us now? Dasha was his friend. Guo is my father. They both lied to him, used him. He lied to me, and to his own daughter Eve. Why now, should they make allies with the Triad for the sake of my father? Why would they share with you such a dangerous and powerful force as antimatter? Because of me?¡± She wondered dubiously.


    ¡°Show her,¡± The General ordered.


    Miss Chen moved back to the control panel and started entering commands again. Equipment within the isolation chamber that was crowded around Guo''s cryogenic medical-diagnostic incubator pod began to move and shift around.


    Meanwhile The General kept speaking, ¡°They will help us because Victor Li Shing is our mutual enemy. They will help us for the sake of a grudge and security against these Aliens, who are the enemy of all mankind. But mostly...¡± he paused.


    Within the isolation chamber Guo''s incubator pod rotated on its platform, revealing a second pod behind it. This pod was covered in frost, its occupant also deep in stasis. A beautiful young woman with long brown hair.


    ¡°EVA!¡± Keren gasped.


    _ _ _


    THE END