23rd June 2182
Cara Strang hated Omega. She watched it grow larger in the main cockpit viewport and was struck by how much it reminded her of the old Purple Striped Jellyfish she had once seen in London Zoo, when she was a wee girl, after her father had moved them from the Highlands. She shivered; the jellyfish had looked harmless enough, but the keeper had told them tales of the giant jellyfish, whose stings could kill a man.
Much like Omega, she mused. When she had first come to the station, four years ago, one of the few pieces of advice that bastard Dures Malarian had given her was to watch her back. A brief smile flickered across her face; he should have followed his own advice.
Omega had originally been built on a large Eezo-rich asteroid by corporations hundreds of years ago, when humanity was still stumbling around their own planet, and had been taken over by successive warlords and criminals since the Eezo stopped flowing as the mining rush stripped the interior bare.
Cara's hands danced over the holo-controls, blipping the cold gas thrusters to avoid one of the larger pieces of debris from that mining operation that floated around the station like bees around a hive.
She drummed her fingers on the armrest of the pilot's seat, impatient. She had requested landing clearance nearly 20 minutes ago, and the batarian that had talked to her was as brusque and unwilling to help as any of the others she had met. She doubted she'd be landing any time soon; she was not that important to Aria T'Loak, though when she had been a resident of the station those years ago she had helped Aria deal with an embarrassing problem. Idly, she wondered if Aria remembered her; asari were meant to have good memories, and Aria's seemed to be better than most.
Ostensibly she was a freelance gun for hire, which accounted for her personal spaceship, but this was merely a cover, and one that her employers had gone to great lengths to set up. Her target was on the station, according to the intelligence file she'd read before she left, and was apparently making no effort to hide his position.
Numpty, she thought as her ship passed another asteroid. For a Batarian State Intelligence Officer he did himself no favours. She supposed it was a batarian thing; their desire to seem superior to any other species was almost as great as their desire to remove humanity from the galactic stage. Not on my watch though, she thought with a grim smile.
"Mistress?" The synthesised plumy English tones of Arthur, the adaptive Virtual Intelligence that was her constant companion and shipboard computer system, snapped her out of her revere. The console next to her changed from displaying engine readouts to show a small orange ball; Arthur's avatar.
"Aye?" Asked Cara with a sigh. Despite her years of education away from the old country, she still retained her Scots accent: a fact that she took great pride in.
"I've just been contacted by our employers. Apparently Mister Pa-Je is making enquiries into their warehouse on Omega. Our employer recommends stepping up proceedings and ensuring that the operation remains viable."
"Is that right?" Cara steepled her fingers, resting her nose on the tips of her index fingers. This was a wee bit of a twist, she thought; Pa-Je was usually not so careless as to get involved with actual fieldwork. "Have you replied yet?"
"Not yet mistress."
"Right. Tell them that it will remain viable. Incidentally, have you seen the freighter to our portside aft that's doing its level best to look inconspicuous?"
"Reply sent. And yes, I have noticed the freighter. The MSV Carrington, a Kowloon-class vessel, apparently delivering dried goods to one of the human restaurant complexes."
"Did you hack Omega's computers for that?"
"No, the freighter's computers. I was careful mistress."
"Good. I'd hate to abort this one because my ship got too inquisitive." She took a deep breath, almost feeling the smug satisfaction radiating from Arthur's avatar. "Go on then, what else did you find out?"
"The Carrington's transit logs were quite detailed. Before coming to Omega, it stopped off at Arcturus Station, and the Alliance Intelligence facility orbiting Tarsius."
"Interesting. What d'you reckon then; drop-off or pick up?" Cara glanced at the real-time vid footage the rear hull-mounted camera pod was feeding her main screens. On the surface of it, the Carrington seemed to be a normal vessel, but this was Alliance Intelligence; they tried to be discrete. Bless them; thought Cara, they're trying at least. I wonder why they're here?
"PSV S-gale, this is Omega Control," growled the speaker, interrupting her train of thought. Cara winced at the batarian's mangled pronunciation of her beloved language. "You have clearance to dock in Hanger Bay Twelve, Pad Nine. A representative will meet you there to arrange docking fees."
"This is PSV Sgàil," said Cara, tartly correcting the pronunciation. "Roger that. Many thanks. Out."
She severed the connection with a wave of her hand, and set about bringing the small craft into the hanger bay. The holographic Heads-Up Display responded to the haptic interface sensors implanted in her fingertips, displaying her optimum course. She tapped a few controls on the display, watching the concentric orange circles line up. The display flashed to tell her she was on course.
"Arthur, bring us in. I'm going to have a wash," she said, hitting the release button on her restraints and hitting the button on the side of the pilot's chair. Immediately it swung around, away from the view of the rapidly approaching station.
She walked quickly out of the small cockpit into the narrow steel-coloured corridor that ran the length of the ship, heading towards the small head at the starboard aft, her composite-soled boots loud on the metal deck. She waved open the door and stepped inside the small room, hearing the door slide closed behind her. She leaned over the sink, hands gripping the metal rim and let out a sigh. Time to get my game face on, she thought, inhaling a deep lungful of heavily scrubbed air, a vague hint of tea tree oil working over her sinuses.
She dialled the tap to cold and let the water trickle over her hands before she splashed some on her face, letting the shock wake her up. Climate control's all well and good, she mused as she towelled her face dry, but it doesn't half make you sleepy.
The ship lurched suddenly with a brief thump, making Cara's heart miss a beat. Her eyes grew wide; what had Arthur hit?
"Mistress, we have docked successfully," came Arthur's clipped tones over the recessed speaker above the sink.
"So I felt," said Cara sarcastically, scowling at the discrete speaker grille. She felt another lurch, and instinctively grabbed the sides of the sink again. "Now what?"
"The landing pad is being lifted into position to allow airlock use. Nothing to worry about I assure you."
"Aye right," muttered Cara, sliding the towel over the rail nearby.
"What was that mistress?"
"Nothing Arthur," chuckled Cara: even an adaptive VI could be remarkably human at times. "Have you had any other messages?"
"Nothing mistress. I feel it prudent to inform you that the Carrington's flight trajectory took it towards the docking bay above our own."
"I see." Cara pursed her lips thoughtfully. Were they onto her? If so, her employer would be very upset if they caught her.
She waved the door open and entered the main corridor once again. It only took a few steps before she was in front of the inner airlock door on the starboard side of the ship. The holographic door release vanished, replaced by Arthur's avatar. She turned away from him and tapped a hidden button on the bulkhead opposite the door. The panel clicked and slid back to reveal her small armoury. She folded her arms, drumming a staccato beat on her bare arms. Decisions, decisions, she thought, eyes flicking over the array of weapons in her miniature armoury. All of the weapons were legitimate, and expected on small, freelance vessels, but Cara took no chances; she had executed a Salarian pirate captain with his own pistol last year because he had casually left his weapons on display, and had no desire to suffer the same fate.
She settled on the Rosenkov Materials Karpov VIII pistol and an Armax Arsenal Avalanche VII shotgun. She hit the recessed button on each, collapsing them to their carrying sizes, and clipped them to the mag-lock strips on her belt.
She plucked her omni-tool from the peg above her head and slid it over her left wrist, securing the clasp to activate it. Her omni-tool looked like a thick black metal link bracelet, though in this case the links were compartments for a microprocessor computer, a 3D holo-display projector, and a comprehensive sensor suite, amongst other things. She liked her current tool, an Ariake Technologies Logic Arrest VI; it could store all manner of data, reproduce any voice pitch perfectly, relay the latest news from Arthur's shipboard scanning suite, and was home to some of the most advanced hacking programs in the galaxy.
Cara pulled a thick zip-up vest from a hanger and shrugged into it. Made of black fabric and kinetic padding, the vest looked very casual, but featured ablative ceramic plates behind the outer fabric, and a weapons harness and kinetic barrier generator on the back. She zipped it up halfway, leaving her breastbone exposed. She liked the look; it was almost as if she didn't care about enemy fire. However, the barrier generator was one of the best available, and if that did not stop enemy fire then it was doubtful that anything could.
Finally, she slid the small earpiece into her right ear, the proximity activating the sound-powered sub-dermal throat microphone she had been implanted with.
"Comms check Arthur," sub-vocalised Cara, her voice only audible to her through her earpiece.
"Loud and clear mistress," said Arthur in her ear. "The docking tube has mag-locked to the side of the Sgàil, and there are two mercenaries approaching the other end. We seem to have landed in an area controlled by the Blue Suns Mercenary Group."
"Oh right. Well, I'll play nice," said Cara, grinning wolfishly.
"Please do mistress; it would be a shame to attract undue attention."
"I'll see you in a bit."
Cara hit the button beside Arthur's avatar, and the inner airlock door slid open. She stepped inside the cramped airlock and let the door close behind her. She felt the hiss of the air pressure equalising, and swallowed to stop her ears from popping. The outer door clicked once and slid to the right, exposing the long, featureless passage of metal and lumo-strips that led to the main transit hub of this tentacle of Omega. At the end of the tube stood a pair of Blue Suns mercenaries, their white and blue paintwork a high contrast to the drab surroundings.
Taking a deep breath, the fetid smell of overly-recycled air and too many people living in cramped surroundings making her regret it, Cara walked towards them, boots lightly thumping on the deep grey floor plates. Her eyes took in the mid-range Batarian State Arms assault rifles the pair carried in a relaxed grip, and the mirrored visors that hid their features. There was no disguising their body language though; they knew they ran this part of Omega, and their cocky swagger showed it.
"Going somewhere princess?" Called one of them, his voice resonating with the peculiar flanged harmonics that the turians were noted for.
"To Afterlife," said Cara, looking up at the turian, whose bulky helmet hid any trace of his colony markings.
"Not without paying some docking fees," said the turian's companion, a human, with a leer that showed nicotine-stained teeth filed to knife points. The man was bulky, his armour chipped and well-worn. Something about his stance triggered Cara's warning senses. She could not put her finger on it, but he did not seem like any other human mercenary she had come across. His helmet moved fractionally. Cara's skin crawled; she could feel his gaze like a search light, looking her up and down.
"Seen what you want to see?" Cara asked, her grey-blue eyes boring into his visor.
"Not quite." His features twisted again. "But I'll see it soon enough."
"Mistress, contact rear!" Called Arthur over her earpiece, his voice oddly distorted.
Cara whirled round, automatically dropping into a defensive crouch. She saw a brief flickering in front of her eyes before the cloaking device dropped, white-blue light arcing over the batarian mercenary's armour.
Without thinking, she moved in the desired physical mnemonic, her Eezo nodules flaring as she formed a dark energy biotic field and threw him back several feet. The batarian landed with a clatter of armour. The purple-white light of the dark energy field rippled over her body like a . She turned back to face the pair who had initially accosted her.
"Son of a bitch," spluttered the human, raising his assault rifle. Out of the corner of her eye, Cara saw his turian companion following suit.
She slid into another series of mnemonics, lifting the pair of them and throwing them away. They hit the ground and lay still. Cara let out a breath, forcing her racing heart to slow down. The biotic field that surrounded her dissipated.
So much for sneaking in undetected, she thought. She walked past the comatose mercenaries, eyes flicking around the bare metal of the access corridor, taking in the patches of rust on several panels, and the pool of foul-smelling light green fluid that had formed below a hydraulics pipe. There was no one else around. Probably scared away by the Blue Suns, she mused. She doubted she was the first person to be treated to their 'welcome', but they might think twice in future.
At the end of the corridor she slapped the glowing green door release and was rewarded with the hiss of hydraulics. The airlock door slid apart with the grind of metal on metal, revealing the broad walkway that served as the main artery for this part of Omega.
In front of her, up a set of broad steps, stood the converted hanger that served as the main markets, the flickering orange holo-sign above the entrance doors advertising weapons, mods and all manner of foodstuffs. Even at this early hour patrons shuffled to and fro, some armed with exotic-looking variations on firearms, clutching bags and cases stuffed with their purchases. She saw a pair of Blue Suns, a turian and a batarian, lounging idly by the door and swept a glance over them. They did not seem to be disturbed by her presence, so the team that had greeted her in the docking bay must not been in contact with the ones inside. Stupid, she thought; if you were going to run a racket like that, you'd want to make sure you could get backup fairly quickly.
To her left sat a taxi rank, a fleet of unmanned X3M skycars waiting for their next passengers. She saw several human gang types lurking around them, all Mohawks and bad piercings, the pseudo-leather jackets a little too worn to be anything but gang colours, such as they were.
She was still taking in the gang types out of the corner of her eye as she walked towards the market, when she felt someone coming towards her from her right. She flicked her eyes over to see a man, roughly her age, weaving his way through the crowd, his gait suggesting that he had hit the salarian ale a little too hard. His clothes, that unflatteringly cut drab brown jacket and trousers that most off-world humans tended to wear, were rumpled and stained, and his eyes were bloodshot. She pursed her lips; his face seemed to match that of the contact she was due to meet. She turned to her right and casually walked towards the hab-blocks, hoping to get a better look at him.
As she got nearer, she noted that he had stopped and was swaying, eyes glazed over. Maybe it was not salarian ale, but something stronger, she decided. Red sand maybe? It seemed to be all the rage with drug users. Biotic capabilities without the problems that most proper biotics had, be it occasional migranes or latent paranoia, to name but 2 side effects. Idiots, she thought; biotics are not just something to be messed around with, they're the next step in humanity's evolution.
The man stumbled towards her. Cara's combat alertness shifted up a gear, her hands automatically moving to be prepared to deliver a nerve jab or summon a biotic slap that would send him away.
"Spare some credits?" The man slurred, his half-vacant eyes flicking over her. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of his breath, a potent mixture of halitosis and stale alcohol. She blinked to get rid of the unbidden tears that had gathered in her eyes, barely catching the almost imperceptible wink that he gave her.
She almost smiled, but her professional sensibilities clamped down on the thought. It was an old trick, but everyone ignored the drunkard, which made it the perfect cover. She glanced at his right temple, noting the small tattoo of a fist holding a lightning bolt. That decided it: he was definitely the contact.
"How's twenty?" She asked, pulling a pair of coins from her vest pocket, holding them towards him in her left hand.
"That'll do," he slurred, roughly snatching them from her. Cara felt a small scrape on her wrist under her omni-tool, but it did not worry her. The drunkard stumbled off, pocketing the change. Cara shook her head and carried on walking.
Without looking, she slid the tiny scrap of folded paper from under her omni-tool and looked at it. In small, dark ink it read:
263 Hircon Towers. Guest has friends.
She pocketed the piece of paper and carried on walking, mentally decoding the message. Clearly Pa-Je was at this Hircon Towers, and had an escort of some kind. She doubted that he was staying at 263, that was merely her meeting point. She carried on walking for a couple more minutes, before turning back and heading towards the taxi rank. Time to get on with the job.