Ursarker E. Creed Station, Level Three
"Welcome to Ursarker E. Creed Station. As named after the late Lord Castellan of Cadia."
Bright light from a laser scanner flowed across Dio Harazi's body. Standing erect and eyes forward, Dio let the revolving catwalk carry him and the other disembarking passengers up to the arrivals lounge. Red-eyed UEC security officers took his greatcoat and travel bag and fed them inside a scanner. Dio placed his watch and belt in a tray and stepped through a tall gate and scooped his jacket and bag from the trough they lay in. A UEC officer plucked Dio's watch from the tray.
"Contraband!" A baton flicked at Dio. "Move along."
How many get the same treatment coming through here? Dio fed his belt through the loops on his trousers and tucked his shirt back in. Transparent booths housing public service units stood in a line on the far side of the lounge. Dio laid a piece of paper on a PSU's housing and unfolded it. A single Imperial Throne clinked in to the machine. Seven, eight, four, three… Dio tapped out an eleven-digit number and hit the call button. The receiver nestled against his ear. A tone crooned.
"Poraszka's Housekeeping Services. How can I help?"
Dio laid his thumb and forefinger on the note's corners. "I require a full deep-clean of Room 1328 at Asheyla Bentos Hotel, immediately."
"Certainly, sir. Would you like the standard or the deluxe package?"
"Standard."
"Very well. You can expect us within the hour."
"Thank you." Dio hung the receiver on its hook and picked up his bag. His hand closed around the note, folded it, and tore it in half, quarters, eighths, and sixteenths. The scraps fluttered through a narrow chute diving inside a bin.
Refuse wagons chugged along the smooth, paved avenues of UEC's third level, their sweepers whirring. Well-to-do citizens in clean clothes strolled the pavements. Church spires dotted almost every rooftop. A colossal cathedral dominated the skyline. So long it was, Dio could not see where it ended. Far above, the underbelly of level two was vaulted, very much like a church ceiling. Stained glass windows shielded the station's interior from the system's star. Dio looked down at his bare wrist.
"Paper, mister?" A newsboy in oversized, adult clothing perched upon a tower of newspapers built in the style of a giant throne. "Eight Thrones, only eight Thrones, mister. UEC Inquisitor. Latest articles. Sector-wide manhunt for Trianda Five murderer!"
Three weeks and it's still on the front page. Warp-dilation must be really screwing with time. Dio slid an Inquisitor off a stack. The killer, as yet unidentified, left Zun Enlai, 31, in a critical condition after ruthlessly assaulting him and two other males in a sub-hive shanty. Mr Enlai is the son of Tadeusz Enlai, the Lord High Judge of Sector Remigius.
"Eight Thrones, mister!"
Dio laid a single Throne on his thumbnail and flicked it up at the newsboy. He left the paper on the stack.
"Oooh!" The newsboy toppled from his throne and fell on all-fours. Dio switched his bag to his other shoulder and continued on. The one guy who had to pick on you that night, Semarek. Somebody's son and heir. Dio scratched the maturing stubble on his jaw. Vermin, but at the end of the day still the son of an imperial judge.
Green lions, carved from stone, reared on either side of wide steps climbing to a colonnade curving in front of the hotel's façade. Great domes rose from the slanted rooftop one-hundred and fifty feet above square the columns loomed over. Is this it? Dio closed his flapping collar around his throat. Or is everything a church here?
Glazed glass sat in thick, oak doors glimmering with gold plate. A doorman in a bright orange doublet and puffy trousers bowed at Dio. A pale grey mask devoid of any feature minus two eyeholes obscured his face. "Good day, sir. Allow me." The doorman swept one of the doors inward. Dio's shoes trod maroon carpets. Huge, spiked chandeliers hung from the cavernous ceiling where giant, rotating fans cast long shadows across the entrance hall.
"Good day, sir." A concierge in lurid orange and yellow spread his arms behind a long, polished counter. A similar mask covered his face, only a closed mouth and a nose were moulded on it. Wide, unblinking eyes fixed on Dio. "Welcome to Asheyla Bentos Hotel. We trust your jump here was a pleasant one?"
"Room 1328." Dio cast a glance at wide staircases climbing up and away from the empty ground floor.
"Sir." The concierge pivoted and drew a keycard from a rack behind him. "May I ask how long you wish to stay with us?"
"Three nights."
"Certainly, sir." The concierge picked at the fingertips on his white glove and peeled it off. A draw slid open beneath the counter. "That will be two-hundred and sixty-seven Imperial Thrones. We also take Banquille, the Trivedi Aureus, Rako, and Kinjaal."
"Will you take a cheque?"
"Cheque is fine." The concierge set a golden pen in a holder on top of the counter. Dio scratched out a fresh cheque and tore it from his book.
"We hope you enjoy your stay, sir." Gloved fingers held the keycard out.
Why the masks? Dio approached a line of lifts on a landing overlooking the ground floor and thumbed the call button. Damp patches stained his shirt. Warmth rode his nape. The lift doors parted with a ding. Dio hurried inside and jabbed the Up button. Both hands clutched his bag's strap tightly.
"Constructed—" Dio jumped. His hand slapped over his heart. "—in just fourteen standard months under the supervision of Archmagos Domina Asheyla Bentos who kindly blessed the building with her name. Asheyla Bentos Hotel stands at the heart of Ursarker Edgar Creed Station, as named after the late Lord Castellan of Cadia. We ask you to offer prayer to our dearly departed lord castellan during your stay in our state rooms, and pay respects to our God-Emperor; the light that guides us all in this young millennium."
Ding. Dio stepped through the parting doors and trod maroon carpets lining the column-flanked corridor. Tall statues of Adeptus Mechanicus acolytes occupied curving alcoves on one side, and bulky Adeptus Astartes the other. Maroon banners, hanging from the ceiling alongside more spiked chandeliers, brushed the floor. Twenty-four, twenty-six, twenty-eight. Dio laid the keycard on a scanner embedded in the wall beside 1328's door. The brass handle clicked and swung downward.
Four slim posts surrounded a double-bed facing a set of floor-to-ceiling windows commanding a view of the whole district, right the way to the stained-glass windows and the vacuum beyond. Wooden chests of drawers and cupboards were polished to a shine. Taps inside a bathroom gleamed. Dio laid his bag on a leather armchair and draped his jacket over the back. Pale bedcovers, printed in a floral pattern, squished beneath his backside. Spreading his knees, Dio laid his forearms on them and closed his fists. A pendulum, trapped inside a glass casing, swung. A soft ticking reached Dio's ears.
Knocks rang out. "Hellooo! Housekeeping." Dio rose and unlocked the door. Outside stood an elderly woman in a blue apron and wearing a beret atop her grey head.
"Madam, are you…?"
"Poraszka's Housekeeping—yes, young man." The woman fitted a pair of spectacles attached to a chain. "Unless I mistook…" She swooped at the room number plaque screwed to the door. Enlarged eyes narrowed.
"I spoke with a man over the public. I thought he might send a—"
"—Who, a man? I assure you I am well-taught and dutiful in my profession—please!" The woman pushed a cart overflowing with cleaning chemicals, gloves, masks, and rags in to the room. Dio held the door open and laid himself flat against the wall.
"Madam, I may have made a mistake."
"Then it will have been a very costly mistake." The woman kneeled behind her cart. Two panels flipped out on either side. Storage cases, stacked atop one another, occupied the compartment. The woman heaved both out and laid them on the bed. Latches popped and lids opened. Dio pushed the door shut and set the lock. A tingle danced up his arms.
Handguns occupied the foam-lined interiors; laspistols in one case and slugthrowers in the other. Among the laspistols was a long-muzzled, olive-grey Accatran, a snub-nosed, polymer Vorena in dark earth, a shouldered-braced, bright red Menetti, and a tri-barrelled Justice lascaster.
"If I need things quiet?" Dio's gaze left the laspistols and settled on the slugthrowers.
The woman closed the lid of the container holding the laspistols and moved the other over. "You will want the thirty-two." A wrinkled finger pointed at a skinny, metallic stub pistol with a flared, wooden grip and a tiny magazine protruding at an angle in front of the narrow trigger. "Five rounds. Just over three pounds loaded. Threaded muzzle for the suppressor. Bear in mind, the sound of the action running will be louder than the muzzle report."
"Anything quieter?"
"A two-two would be the quietest, whilst also maintaining just enough lethality at bad-breath distance. Just enough."
"Show me the two-two."
"Young man, I know a professional from a country mile away. You do not fully understand what you are getting yourself in to, do you?"
"Getting myself in to…? Madam, I have been in this for twenty-three years. It's not a thing I will ever be out of."
"Very well." The woman dug her fingernails around a foam layer in the case and lifted it and the slugthrowers on to the bedcovers. Beneath the top layer sat a short-barrelled stub revolver, a chromed Moses with tangent sights, and a narrowed-bodied, integrally-suppressed automatic in a parkerized finish. "Terran-made. Calibre two-two and just over three pounds loaded. Ten-round magazine. Fixed barrel. The suppressor and the baffle system slide over it and screw in place, so deep pockets are a must should you wish to conceal-carry."
"May I?"
"Of course." The woman retreated from the bed and brought a roll of lime-green wool and needles from her cart and carried them over to an armchair by the windows.
Heavy thing. Dio cradled the Terran in his open palm. God-Emperor, that's at least a foot long. A little bit more, maybe. "And the report?"
"Inside a building, it can be mistaken for a door slamming." The woman's needles clacked. "Out on the street, imagine a stapler piercing paper."
Too unbalanced, too long. Dio laid the Terran back in the indent in the foam. His hand closed around the .32s grip. The suppressor twisted along the threads smoothly and without a squeak, bringing the weapon's length to around ten inches. Dio held the .32 by his side then raised his right arm and pointed it at a mirror. Better balance. No need for the sights if it's at arm's length.
"I'll take the thirty-two." Dio unscrewed the suppressor and laid it and the weapon on the bedcovers. "Five rounds."
"Very well." The woman carried her knitting over to the cart. "Two-hundred and forty Thrones for the thirty-two and suppressor. Eight Thrones per round of ammunition. Fourteen for disposal." A sealed jug covered in orange chemical signs thudded on the floor.
"Acid?"
"Once you are done, dispose of the weapon and additional parts in a plastic container—plastic, I should stress."
"May I borrow a pen?" Dio took his chequebook from his jacket and flipped the leather cover open. The woman took a pen from a pocket in her apron and passed it over.
"Your only option for clean disposal is this." The woman's foot tapped the acid. "Do not attempt to leave the station with the weapon in your possession. Do not flush it in to space. It will be found and traced back to me. Do you understand?"
"Yes, madam." Dio tore off the cheque and exchanged it for the ammunition. The woman sealed the cheque in an airtight bag and took a bright pink rag and a bottle of surface cleaner from the cart.
"Poraszka's services are included. Most would rather vacate for the duration."
"Thank you, madam." Dio scooped his jacket up and thrust his arms through the sleeves. The .32 and its suppressor clinked in Dio's right jacket pocket. His five cartridges tipped in to the left. He left the old lady humming gently to herself.
Herriman Heights, UEC Level Five
Filtered sunlight peeped through holes peppering the drawn curtains. Water dribbled from a full sponge scraping up and down in the room's tiny sink. A pillow swallowed my throbbing head. Bedsprings dug in to my shoulder and thigh. "…Lusia?" I rolled off my side.
"I'm here, James." Lusia, her boilersuit's sleeves rolled up to her elbows, dunked my blood-stained sweater in the sink. "How are you feeling?"
"I've had worse mornings." I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead. "You seen my flask?"
"Water, James, lots of it today." Lusia's elbow pumped up and down. "Anyway, it's half three in the afternoon. You slept a whole day—well, almost."
"Awww, can't drink the water." My hand slithered down my lump-covered face. "Can't be drinking the water here."
"Ah, no worries." Lusia flung a grin over her shoulder. "I've got you some bottled."
"Mmm, pipe?"
"Your pipe was broken." Lusia lifted the sodden sweater from the sink and wrung it out. "I'm really sorry about it. It's a comfort thing, I know."
"You didn't… You didn't stay the night, did ya?" I picked dust from my eyelashes.
"I've been in and out." Lusia fed a coat hanger through the sweater's neck and hung it on a metal hook in the wall. "Yesterday evening, morning, lunchbreak."
"Some lunchbreak you get." I pawed at a mug on a bedside table and sipped lukewarm water. "Don't be catching flak on account o' taking care o' me. I'm a tough old dog."
Lusia rounded the foot of the bed and crouched beside me. Loose strands curled around her pink ears. Rosy cheeks bulged. "Don't ever call yourself a dog, James. You're a good poet. They are ignorant, fearful bigots without a shred of humanity left. We know better." Lusia's hand opened. The halves of my pipe sat in her palm. "Say, if someone were to…"
My dry lips stretched. Cuts twinged. "You're too good for this millennium."
Lusia's fingers closed around my shoulder and squeezed. Soft lips settled on my cheek. "I have to go back to work."
"Nearby?"
"Lavanya's Court, up on level four. Rest. I'll see you tonight." Lusia rolled down her sleeves. Boards creaked beneath her shoes. Cotton rustled and leather creaked. I lay eyes closed and motionless. The door scraped shut and the latch snicked in place. Footsteps outside faded away.
Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty. I swung upright. Bottled water, clustered inside plastic film, stood in a group of six on a cardboard tray. Biscuits, cereal, a carton of fruit juice, tinned meat and vegetables piled on the room's single, crooked table. Too good for this millennium indeed. Barefoot, I picked up my teeth-marked notebook from the table. Good poet… I flicked the cover open and swept through the pages until I found a blank side. A blunted pencil nub scratched away at the paper. This one is for you.
Chains clanked. Unoiled pulleys squeaked and rattled. Holes peppered the mesh screens separating me and the rest of the lift's passengers from a drop down the endless shafts linking UEC's seven levels. UEC cap shadowing my eyes, I kept my hands in my pockets and my eyes fixed on broken mesh prongs, curled outwards around a foot-wide gap. Cold, dry air ruffled my raised collar.
UECPS. Bright orange letters covered the back of a dark khaki jacket a slim woman standing in front of me wore. A dirty, blonde ponytail stuck out of the cap covering her head. Susannah Senf. My mind rolled back the years. Wonder how the old girl's doing. I took my hand from my pocket and scratched the thick hair exploding from my jaw. Cadia stands. Should probably write a poem about that someday.
The lift rolled up to a narrower part of the shaft cutting out the outside light. My eyes travelled down to the letters on the woman's jacket. Postal service? A hub like that would have the address of every hab on the station, the owners too. Construction lights glared through the mesh. Printed on the ferrocrete walls outside the slowing lift were giant, blocky letters – UEC Level 4. The floor shuddered. Vibrations shot up my legs. The mesh gates clanked back and the woman in the khaki jacket crossed the gap with a smattering of the lift's passengers. I wandered out of the lift and trotted through the UEC personnel and civilians streaming along curving, ferrocrete tunnels after the woman.
"Lovely." I hopped up steep stairs and drew level with the woman. A pointy-chinned, heart-shaped face turned. Grey eyes flicked over me then fell to the steps.
"No change." The woman slipped a handbag off the shoulder nearest me and looped it over her other shoulder.
"Oh. Were I seeking a handout, I'd climb much higher than this. Some poor, rich fella with a Throne or two to spare for a down-on-his-luck applicant."
"Applicant…? Ah, my jacket."
"Ah-ha, quick one! Sadly, long overdue an interview with UECPS, I am. On account of the sworn dedication of UEC's security forces."
"Oh, God-Emperor, I can see. They don't hold back, do they?"
"Mmm, the fuzzy bristles can only hide so many lumps. Were I to lose it, I'd be rolling backwards through puberty."
"Oh, ha-ha!" The woman's lips split. At the top of the stairs, a circular fountain occupied a plaza dominated on three sides by triumphal arches. Jets poured from the hands of bulky Space Marines and trickled down the tiers. A few people tossed Thrones in.
"Lovely—"
"—Jenni."
"Jenni." My flat palms mated. "I must see my appointment with your people through, but I am unsure of the direction to the central hub. It's only my fourth day on the station, and my first free from the cells. Would you help me?"
"Okay. I'm not starting for another hour and a bit but I'll show you to the distribution centre. There, that's dedication."
"Heh—yeah. I wasn't serious."
"Ahah, I know a sarky quip when it flies by. We're not all bureaucrats and bores."
"Hmph." Swollen skin on my cheeks stretched. Shadows beneath one of the arches rolled over us.
"Have you worked in a distribution centre before?"
"I have not."
"Ah, so U-SEC didn't roll you up for damaging a package then."
"Oh, on. No, no, no. I offered a pair of recruits some advice—veteran's knowledge. Sadly, their bright, young minds were more inclined to follow the conditioning hammered in than a bit of brutal honesty."
"You served? Astra Militarum?"
"I did. Oh, and Astra Militarum's only come around in the last ten years or so. Imperial Guard, to give their formal title. Most just called it the Crotch."
"Eeehh—" Jenni's hand flew to her mouth. The corners of her eyes crinkled. "Wow! That's—err—that's a…"
"Term of endearment. So, anyway I joined the Navy—"
"—Hahaha!" Jenni ran a finger beneath her eyelid. "Sorry, sorry. Go on."
"I was a sub-lieutenant on corvette patrols. Did my twenty-eight months aboard the corvette Campanula, Mustered out honourably about a year and a half ago. Took up work as a private investigator in the Remigius Sector. Now I'm here."
"And what do they call the Imperial Navy?"
"Ohh, that's lost knowledge, I'm afraid."
"And you?"
"Arpad. Arpad Kinslow." I stuck my hand out and cracked a smile. "Pleasure."
"Pleasure indeed." Jenni grasped my hand and shook.
A warehouse on the artificial horizon grew taller and taller the nearer we drew. A bright gold Aquila clasping a gaping skull spread its wing across the sloping roof. Nestled in its shadow was a high-walled compound filled with office blocks stacked on top of one another. A holographic sign loomed above a fifty-foot-high set of gates. UEC Postal Service Distribution Facility.
"Round here." Jenni led me past the gates to a swivelling gate outside a security hut standing on stout legs. Jenni dug a pass from her handbag and tapped it against a sensor. The gate clanged and Jenni pushed the bars around. "Oh, Iban…" Jenni paused by an open window. "There's an applicant outside. Bit overdue his appointment. Would you mind buzzing him through?"
Come on, lovely, do your thing. My hands clenched inside my pockets.
"Iban, he served. Navy, he says. Corvette patrols. Honest work, it's all he's after."
Clang. My shoulder pushed the gate inward. "Sir." I kept my head lowered and tipped the brim of my cap at the window on the way past. "Thank you," I muttered to Jenni on a climb up a set of covered stairs leading through the wall.
"Thank Iban. He's just helping a fellow veteran out."
Diamond-patterned, switch-backed ramps rumbled beneath our feet on the descent to the compound. Articulated haulers, their rear hatches open, protruded from open doors in the warehouse. UECPS personnel packed a long boardroom with windows facing out on to the compound. Jenni gave them a wave and entered an office block opposite. "Arpad?"
"Ta." I took the door's weight and eased it shut. Creamy yellow walls ran past a tiny office filled with shelving, a cogitator, and a very rotund man with a monocle grafted in to his right eye socket.
"Afternoon, Bartosz." Jenni tapped a knuckle on the office window. A rotating fan caught wispy hairs in its stream and blasted them back over the man's domed crown.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Hehne." Bartosz's monocle found me and the lense dilated.
"I have an Arpad Kinslow here for an interview. Could you pass it on to Personnel?"
"All department managers are currently in the boardroom. They may not be out until end-of-shift."
"Bartosz, please pass it on to personnel. You've only got to look at him to understand the ordeal he's been through these past couple of days. He's a veteran. Don't turn him away."
"Hmm…" Bartosz's fingers drummed his keyboard. "No previous record of appointment exists."
"'Cause it's first-come, first-serve," I said. "I'll have been replaced by another applicant at short notice. You can thank U-SEC for that."
"Please, have a seat, sir."
"Good luck, Arpad. I'll wave if I catch sight of you in the warehouse." Jenni beamed at me.
"Thanks, Jenni." I caught Jenni's eye then broke away and sat down on padded seating arranged in view of Bartosz's office. Jenni headed off down a very long corridor and disappeared through a door. Mrs Hehne. Of course, there'd be a mister, wouldn't there? I ran my hand down my lips and chin. Ah, well. I'm here now.
My knees cracked. "The toilets?"
"End of the corridor on the left." Bartosz's eyes – organic and artificial – stayed locked to his screen.
"Ta." I strolled past sealed, windowless doors lining the corridor. Employee of the Month. Coloured pins held a certificate to a bulletin board, marked with a name I'd never heard of. One Mrs Jenni Hehne, thank you. Stairs led up to a covered bridge spanning the office blocks. Picts of former CEOs hung from the walls, each named and dated. Spiked leaves jutted from sagging stems coiling from square pots. My eyes roved the ceiling. Round skylights bulged. Wires ran down the wall to a small, clear box containing a fire alarm. I laid my finger on the glass and headed along to the first office door on my left. Anybody there? I peeped through a circular window at empty cogitator booths then carried on.
A rectangular, hooded camera swivelled on its arm in a corner. A circular lense settled on the mouth of the bridge I hid in. Seven, eight, nine, ten. I darted around the corner and flattened my belly in the camera's blind spot and waited for it to complete its rotation. Eight, nine, ten. Further down the corridor, a plaque glinted on an office door. Kisun Gisca, Distribution Facility Director. Inside,a single cogitator spread its bulk on a wide desk surrounding a high-backed, leather chair. I tugged my sleeve over my hand and shoved the door handle down. Didn't even lock the door.
Thick files clustered on shelves on both walls. A floor-to-ceiling window looked down on a walled area. A holo-pict of a thick-thighed, knock-kneed woman grinned toothily at me. Someone's made you happy at least. I rapped on the cogitator's space bar. A green screen blinked on, showing the distribution director's inbox. Wow, didn't even leave it locked. I tabbed out of Kisun Gisca's mailbox and switched the view to a database called P-Desk. Okay, run search… Harazi. A blank table filled the screen. I backspaced then typed in the name Calla. Calla Harazi? That won't be her surname, surely.
Purchase Order: 8x Scaros Crystal decanter/tumbler glasses. Recipient: Calla Ordenzia, 44 Hadira Gardens, UEC . I ripped a piece of green notepaper from a stack and scribbled the address on it. Note tucked in my pocket, I let myself out and shut the door. Belly squished in beneath the camera, I counted to ten then scurried around the corner and crossed the bridge. Back on the long, ground floor corridor, I pushed a door in and entered a room filled with blue lockers. Jackets, civilian and postal, piled over one another on wall hooks. I dragged a dark khaki UECPS jacket off a hook and put it on beneath my dark UEC jacket.
Head sunken, I strolled past Bartosz's office and out in to the compound and up the switchback ramps. Feet clunking on the steps, I wandered over to the security office and knocked on the window frame.
"Not interested in warehouse work then?" Iban climbed off a stool and unlocked his door.
"They wouldn't see me. No patience for tardiness."
"Ah, sorry." Iban brought out a yellow scanner and held it up to my chest. "Raise your arms, please." The scanner beeped just beneath my navel. "Would you mind…?"
"Belt." I unzipped my jacket. The postal jacket's zip nestled just inside.
"Pockets?"
"Thrones, flask." I produced my empty flask and loose Thrones.
"Okay, go on." Iban returned to his hut and buzzed me out.
"Thank you, sir." I gave Iban a thumbs-up and pushed through the gate. Mrs Jenni Hehne, DFD Kisun Gisca, and the UEC Postal Service. The Roaneks thank you for your cooperation.
Streetlights sparkled in their glass casings. Wide domes and pointed spires dotted the rooftops of level 3's residential district. Splayed, bronze aquilae loomed on walls. Candles surrounded AdMech statues standing on wide plinths. No sewage, no flies, no patrols. I wandered up the broad boulevard leading to Hadira Gardens. It's a whole other world up here. Treetops bustled above a high, stone wall lined with stepped buttresses. Two hooded Adeptus Mechanicus statues flanked the front gate of number forty-four. Is that gold? I tapped a fingernail on the statue. Someone's living well.
An intercom beeped on the gate arch. "…Hello?"
"UECPS! Is that Mrs Ordenzia speaking?"
"Yes, speaking. Just leave it by the gate. I'll come get it."
"Signature required, ma'am."
"Oh. Hang on."
That's her. I backed away from the intercom and smoothed down my postal jacket. I whipped out my flask and held it up to my face. Ah, well. Guess she gets to meet the real me. The gate rolled open. I placed my back to the widening gap and thrust my hands in my pockets. Light shoes slapped on the driveway. "Have my glasses arrived? I was waiting on a shipment of eight."
"I suspect they'll be here very soon." I turned to face a dark-haired, woman with an oval-shaped face in her thirties, wearing a loose, house jacket and flapping slippers. Black paint lined her large eyes. A bob-cut bounced. "…Ma'am?"
Your delivery…?" Mrs Ordenzia spread her arms then dropped them to her sides. "Oh, oh, not again."
"Again, w—what?" I flung a look at the hedge-choked driveway behind Mrs Ordenzia. "Ma'am, I am here on behalf of—"
"—The man who ruined my mother's life." Mrs Odenzia's lips thinned. Her folded arms rested against her chest. "You are not the first poor bastard he's sent here. Did he give you the full story? A wayward daughter absconding with his money?" Her lips twisted in to a smirk. "Did they not even wait for you to contact me before laying in to you? Or was it U-SEC—Hah! You poor thing."
"Mr Harazi is—"
"—He's a lying old man. You have no idea how many he sent to me to die."
"Mrs Ordenzia, you must move if you wish to be free of your father."
"He is not my father! And who are you to advise Mrs Roan Ordenzia?" Mrs Ordenzia's eyes ran me up and down. "Just another thug. Gets by on blood and fractures alone."
"Private investigator, ma'am."
"Eurgh, whatever." Mrs Ordenzia slapped a button on the inside of the arch. "If you run now, it's the old man's people. Hang around any longer out here, I'm calling U-SEC." The gate edged inwards. "Choose. Who do you think will treat you better?"
My eyes fixed on the moving gate. The old man's people. I threw a look down both ends of the street. The intercom crackled. "I'll give you a minute's head start. How does it feel to be unlucky?"
My soles smacked the road surface. Arms flailing, I ripped the postal jacket off and dumped it in a bin. A switchback path broke off from the main street, leading down in to denser alleys between hab gardens. I vaulted the railing. Stone rushed up to me and slammed in to my feet. Bins banged and toppled over beneath my weight on the second switchback. Dio. Dio was at the house. I tore between tall garden fences, held my bobbing arm up to my face, and pinched the shoulders of my chrono. 18:09. Lusia will be there soon.
Fifty minutes later, I tacked on to a queue running away from the wide, stone chamber housing the station's lift shafts. Red warning signs glared at me from the floor and fold-out barricades funnelled the queue in to a single file. UEC-SEC checked citizen's IDs and swept a cordless scanner over their bodies. Feet shuffled nearer the chokepoint. Did Calla blow the whistle or not? A prickle danced up my neck. A half-mechanical bloodhound, sitting beside its handler, growled at a civilian in slip-on shoes and a brown robe four space ahead of me.
Cyrano Semirechye's name and faced hovered beneath the faceless U-SEC officer. Slanted eye-slits glowed red. "Turn. Raise your arms." Distorted words crackled from the officer's vocaliser. The scanner waved behind my back. Beep, beep, beep. The bloodhound's mouth peeled away from his teeth. A growl surfaced. "Turn your pockets out."
I turned out my empty hip flask and held it up. "Empty."
"Contraband!" A glove swiped the flask. "Move along!" The scanner swung at me.
Bluffing all along. They weren't looking for anyone in particular. I curled a finger inside my collar and wafted my warm shirt. God-Emperor, I'd take the underhive any day. Mr Harazi might take issue with that. Gates rattled shut behind me and the packed lift began its descent. He had my gun, so why not be finished there and then? I tucked my hands in my armpits and leaned my shoulder the mesh. A hit on a Roanek must have Igal Harazi's blessing. I sucked a cheek in.
Deep shadows loomed in the alleys around Herriman Heights. Weak bulbs flickered in smoky glass casings. The front door's hinges squeaked. I flung a look in the corners of the hall and sauntered up to the counter. Thirty Thrones pattered the scratched surface. "Men. Five, maybe six of them arrived in the last hour?" The owner's fat hand twitched. I laid my palm on the money. "Yes, or no?" The owner's chins wobbled. His eyes darted to the stairs. A vein bulged in his brow. "You didn't see me. I was not here."
I spun and made for the door. Out on the street, I backed in to the shadows in an alley and hunched over and thrust my hands in my pockets. Come on, Lusia. Where are you? My hand closed around the empty space where my pipe and flask nestled. A tightness gripped my lungs. I doubled over and clamped an arm around my thumping chest. Clacks approached the alley. Bags swung from a woman's arms.
"Lusia!"
"James…?" Lusia's brisk pace slackened. "What are you doing out here?"
"Here, quick!"
"I brought us dinner." Lusia trotted over. "Wondered if you'd—"
"—Men I work with are here to kill me." I dove at one of the shopping bags Lusia carried and took it from her. "Your place—come on!"
The other bag fell from Lusia's fingers. "…Shit, James. Shit."
"Lusia, it's your place or nothing. My bag, my money, all of it's upstairs."
"Then go get it."
"Lusia, pick up the bag." I hooked my fingers through the flimsy handles and thrust it at her. "Now, Lusia!"
One hand around Lusia's arm, I dragged her along the dark streets. "I can never apologise enough for dragging you in to this. If I could, I would take back that signature in a second."
"Hindsight. Beautiful thing, isn't it?" Lusia wrenched her arm from my grasp. "Yeah, I'm not gonna ask. Best I don't know what you're knee-deep in."
"I find people. Sometimes they want to be found, sometimes they don't."
"And I found you, just like those men did."
"Yeah, a lot quicker than I expected." I paused at a pathway branching off in four directions. "Shit, which way?"
"I'm up on four."
"Okay, four is good. Lead on."
Bronzed statues of hooded AdMech towered on either side of a sealed gate. Spikes curved from the bars. A skull, half-human, half-mechanical, screamed at me from inside the double-layered cog surrounding it. I set Lusia's bag on the street and rubbed my sore arm. My shoulder joint ached. "What do you think?"
"Hmm? Oh, nothing. Admittance is free—it's a temple, for Throne's sake!" Lusia rang a knocker. Her other bag sat beside her. "Can you imagine a place of worship charging you for entry! Heh—scumbags."
"Aww…" I rolled my shoulder. "Places I've been to do exactly that."
"Places you've found people?"
"Mmm…" My brow wrinkled. "Trying to find myself."
"If you need spiritual guidance, we can help."
"Ahh, it'll take more than an anointment to…" I chewed my lower lip. "…Fix right my wrongs."
Chains screeched and the gates clanked inwards. Lusia smiled and picked up her bag. "Come."
A square fountain topped with a bloated, segmented monstrosity reared above the water. My eyes fell on the long halberd the thing held. Lusia tipped a Throne in. "Throne for them?"
"…Yeah." I dug out my last Throne and tossed it in.
"You've met him before."
I hitched the shopping bag over my shoulder and followed Lusia up stone steps climbing to a landing circuiting the courtyard. Candles flickered in tiny holes in the walls, casting the faintest glow across the shiny, black walls. The smooth surface whispered beneath my fingertips. Obsidian?
"I suppose the reason for your leave of absence can offer an explanation himself."
"Magos!" Lusia's bag thumped on the landing. A woman in AdMech robes stepped through an open door in front of Lusia. Frizzled, grey hair covered her head.
"Madam Magos, my gratitude for your hospitality." I took my cap off and offered her my hand. "James."
"Magos Deliria Kinnaird." Magos Kinnaird swept around Lusia. A wide sleeve peeled away from a wrinkled hand. "You are most welcome here, James."
"And I am most fortunate to be acquainted with Andalusia. I had no knowledge of her presence aboard UEC, Madam Magos. An unexpected reunion, albeit a happy one."
"James and I were at Cadia together, Magos. I seek to return a favour, hence my reasons for absence here and there."
"Ahh, old flames."
"Ermph…" Lusia's hand flew to her forehead. Colour darkened her cheeks. "Acquaintances."
"Well, James, you may call me Deliria." Deliria jiggled my arm. "I have yet to meet a Cadia veteran. Such a tragedy to end the millennium on."
"Yeah." A lump bobbed in my throat. I caught Lusia's eye. Help me.
"Magos, am I permitted to host?"
"You may use the junior's dining room, once they have supped."
"Many thanks, Magos."
Cardboard cartons clustered between Lusia and me. Bright shafts glared down on the empty hall. I slurped from a tin mug and frowned at the little bits clinging to the inside.
"It's a temple, James." Grey noodles dangled from Lusia's chops.
My mug clinked on the table. "I'll find where you keep the booze."
"Tssss!" Noodles landed on the table. "You will absolutely not."
"Marsay, an old love of mine. Carried me home to bed, many a restless night." I dug my sticks in to the spiced synth-meat.
"Mmm, ale…?"
"Ale! Rum, Lusia. What they used to feed us aboard ship. Two and a half fluid ounces, twice a week. Nothing gentler to sooth the soul."
"We do offer services tailored for troubled souls, guides to spirituality and the like."
"You rehearsed the sales' pitch then."
"No—Hahaha!" Sticky sauce clung to Lusia's chin.
"I know you're trying to sell me something."
"I am not!" Lusia laid her hands on the table and thrust her head forwards.
"Heh." I sucked sauce from my fingers. "Every. Single. Button."
"Scum. Wholly undeserving sanctuary."
"May this piece I wrote belay that condemnation." I dug in to my jacket's inside pocket and brought out my notebook. "All I have left. No gun, no money, no Marsay, no pipe."
"I may be able to help with that—the pipe, I mean." The corners of Lusia's lips curled upwards. She laid her elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her palm.
"I never had a tongue for titles, so this must be left to the imagination." I flipped to the newest page. "Crimson robes, steel resolve. Your shroud conceals a heart of gold. Always sunny, never down. A face ne'er friend to a frown. Kind-hearted, human, through-and-through. Always there when I needed you. A star would die, should the AdMech lose her. Thanks for everything, Andalusia."
Big, brown eyes sparkled. Lusia nudged cartons aside and slid her hand across the table. Black fingernails glittered. Her fingers ran over mine. Her thumb caressed the veins in my hand. I set my book down, reached across, and parted Lusia's hand from her chin. Her lips parted and she sucked in air. Cupping Lusia's jaw, I brought my thumb over her cheek.
"James."
"A favour? Would you…?"
"Yes."
"Could you answer questions convincingly and without pause for thought?"
"I will." Lusia's fingertips ran down my wrist. "Tell me everything—everything."
UEC Level Four,
Thirteen Hours Later…
Smoke burned Dio Harazi's lungs. Ankles crossed, he leaned against an archway. Ash spilled from his cigarette. "Dio." A voice buzzed in his earpiece. "Dio, you there?"
"Yeah, go ahead." Dio tapped his cigarette. Ash fell over the edge of the stone wall.
"Observation Four here. I'm on our level looking down at a courtyard outside a freehouse named Challinor's Arms. There's a guy sitting at a table. Description matches the target."
"Okay…" Dio took one last drag and dropped his cigarette over the wall and trotted down the steps. "Is he on his own?"
"Affirm. He's sat there the last half hour writing in a book."
"Why didn't you tell me immediately?" A woman walking a child threw a look at Dio striding down the street.
"Positive identification was difficult. The target is unremarkable."
"Has he seen you?" Dio's pace rose to a jog. His finger pushed his earpiece deeper in his ear.
"Negative. I've got O3 in position, other side of the courtyard watching the exits. Just say the word."
"Hold, hold." Heads turned towards Dio. The .32 and its suppressor bounced in his jacket pockets. His five cartridges rattled. "Just observe!" Dio snapped in a hushed voice. He bound his flapping jacket halves together and checked his pace.
"Paper, mister?" A paperboy skipped in front of Dio. "Eight Thrones, only eight Thrones, mister. UEC Inquisitor. Latest articles. Trianda Five murderer named as Seerko Semarek. Last seen on UEC!"
"Gimme that." Dio dropped ten Thrones on the ground and swiped the proffered paper. When was this dated? Today! Seerko, that can't be right. Dio rolled the paper up and wedged it in his jacket pocket beside the .32's suppressor. "Has the target made any contact with anyone else? Spoken, signalled, looked at?"
"Negative. Just scribbling on his page."
Dio's hand slipped in his pocket and brought the .32 out. He lined the suppressor with the .32's threaded muzzle and screwed it on. I can do this. Slick palm gripping the .32, Dio moved past O3, perched on a bench by the courtyard's entrance, and wound through the benches to Semarek's one, right in the centre. O4 watched him from the balcony above.
"We're reading poetry, this afternoon." Thick hair stood up straight on Semarek's crown. Dark blond bristles protruded unevenly along his jaw and stuck out over his lips. Purple and yellow lumps discoloured his cheeks and forehead. A red cut crossed the thick bridge of his nose. Two harsh lines deepened between his eyebrows. "Something I came up with at Hollerman's." Semarek thrust a hand at the bench opposite him. Dio lifted his legs over and sat down. "In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody, but unbowed." Semarek swept through the scribblings in his notebook. "Took a fine brandy to come up with that one. Alas, I find myself without a bedfellow. My Old Marsay, deserted me, she has."
"Murderer."
"Now, you'd know all about that, growing up with the 'Neks." Semarek pinched his nostrils and sniffed.
"That's where it all started—Hollerman's."
Swollen lips peeled away from uneven teeth. "Then they should've bought guns if they'd wanted to finish it there, those vermin."
"Those vermin…" Dio's eyes flicked around at the freehouse's nearby denizens. "All of us are vermin in the hive. We are all in it. No-one can involve the authorities, that lands everyone in it. Why did he have to be a judge's son, Semarek?"
"I'm not the one calling a hit on a 'Nek. You know exactly who put it down—that's on the old man."
"What the fuck were you thinking? A judge's son!"
"I'm thinking it's one less embarrassment for Daddy to deny." Semarek flipped his book shut. "How is Daddy? Is he angry at me for that?"
"Worse." Dio dipped his head and scraped his fingernails through the stubble. "He's worse. I'm thinking one of these days he's going to make me—"
"—One of these days? Dio, this is that day. Today, you decide whether to pull that trigger, not him. He's a lying, bitter old man, and he will never be grateful for what you do for him. You are his replacement. Carry out his will, and you'll be no different than the liars, grifters, thieves, murderers, cheats, slavers, and rapists crawling beneath Trianda's surface." Dio's eyes dropped to the table. "Look at me, Dio."
"You have done this. These things?"
"Most of them. One time or another in the Guard, the Navy, after." Ugly blue circled the skin swelling over Semarek's right eye. "I am old, Dio. Can't yet see thirty on the horizon but I—I feel the years on my bones and all the wrongs in my heart poisoning me. What a wonder, a clean conscience must feel like. Peaceful slumber, free of violent awakening. I can only pray you do not mirror my sins and throw your life away."
Dio's pistol touched his thigh. "Help me."
"Harsh truths. It's all I can give you, my friend." Semarek slipped his book inside his jacket's inner pocket. "I'll leave this in the lady's hands."
"Lady?" A shadow fell on the table. Thick hair fell down the shoulders of a dark, leather jacket a beautiful, olive-skinned woman wore. Wide, brown eyes crinkled at the corners. Dio's dry tongue froze. "I know you. Yet, I do not."
"Dio." The woman slipped a handbag from her shoulder and took the space Semarek had left.
"Ma'am." Semarek nodded at the woman and dropped a hand on Dio's shoulder. "Let's lose the surveillance, yeah?"
Dio lowered his head and murmured in to his hand. "O3, O4, privacy."
"G'lad." Semarek's eyes settled on the .32 Dio held against his thigh. He gave him a pat on the shoulder and wandered away.
"Dio Harazi." The smiling woman laid her arms on the table and leaned forwards.
"Yes." Dio's lips trembled. "Calla?"
"Brother." Calla's hands took Dio's.
"Sister. Father never… He never…"
"We are not instruments of Dewan Harazi's will, brother. By all the powers, do not let him ruin your life like he did my mother's. Grow beyond the Roaneks."
Dio's eyes fell. He withdrew his shaking hand from Calla's fingers and found the .32's suppressor. "I don't know what I can do." He gripped the slim cylinder and twisted. "Whatever you did, I don't have it in me. They're my family."
"Dio. Dio." Calla opened her hand and laid it, palm-upwards, on the table. Dio slipped the .32 and the suppressor in his jacket pockets and took Calla's hand. "Family is what you make. Mister Semarek is right. You're no killer."
"You have to be, down there in the hive. There's not a problem that cannot be solved with a gun."
"Well, I respectfully disagree, brother. Any sensible-thinking person with an ounce of logic—"
"—Logic…? Do you think the Roaneks have ever considered the reasonable course of action down there?"
"Any intelligent, logical thinker would abandon all and start afresh. Answer me honestly, Dio. What lucrative prospects can the Roaneks guarantee you?"
"Money, respect."
"All they guarantee, will be the manner of your death. Please, God-Emperor, do not give them the pleasure of murdering my brother. Leave the sector, seek honest work." Calla set her handbag on the table and brought out a thick envelope. "The first outbound flight. Be on it. Let it take you anywhere in Imperial space." Calla picked up Dio's hand and moved the envelope beneath it. "With all my love."
"Won't you come with me?"
"This is my home. I will pray, day and night, that you find yours." Calla leaned across the table and planted a kiss on Dio's cheek. "Goodbye, brother."
Sunken-eyed, Dio slipped the envelope inside his jacket and turned his back on Calla. In the shadows beneath the balcony, Semarek sat at an empty table. "The gun." He widened the neck on a brown, paper bag and passed it across to Dio. Steel grated against steel.
"They know your name." Dio squeezed the bag shut and rolled the neck up. He dug out the rolled newspaper and tossed it on the table.
"One of them." Semarek drew the bag off the table. "If you're ever asked, tell 'em Semarek's dead." His good eye winked. Dio stuck his hands in his pockets and trudged out of the courtyard. He did not look at where his feet carried him.
Blunt lead scratched upon paper. Head cocked, I licked a finger and swiped back a page. "They're putting guns in children's hands, now?" Andalusia dumped her handbag on my table and flung a leg over the bench.
"That's no child, Mrs Ordenzia. If you're old enough to aim and fire a gun, you're a soldier. Doesn't take a man to kill."
"He was a child there. Confused, frightened, only willing to trust in the authority of a gun."
"It's how he's been raised. A man and a gun for every problem." I poked the chewed end of my pencil at Lusia. "You reached him better than I could Kollek and Jerusha."
"Who are…?"
"Ohhh, the recruits I met on the flight." I ground my pencil in to my temple. "I told you I couldn't see another spark vanish." My fingers ran up Lusia's leather sleeve. "You were perfect there. I only wish Calla Ordenzia had your courage."
"I don't—I don't wanna know." Lusia pried my hand off and raised her palm. "Don't make me lie again. To a child, to anyone." Wet eyes locked with mine. "Promise me, no more deception."
"You agreed to this. We rid ourselves—"
"—Rid yourself."
"Rid ourselves of the Roaneks. Now, I must be rid of UEC before the authority makes an obituary of me. I do not ask for sanctuary. Your temple is sacred and cannot be further endangered by my presence."
Lusia's shoulders sagged. Air poured from her nostrils. "You thrive on it, don't you? Being vilified by all. You'd just rather play the renegade than embrace any kind of normalcy in your life."
"U-SEC made a victim of me—a veteran!" I smacked my palm against my chest. "If the Imperium cannot leave me in peace, God-Emperor help them all!"
"Can I…?" Lusia flicked her index and her middle finger at my notebook. I swivelled it and handed it over. "Pencil?" The chewed end wiggled in Lusia's right hand. "Be there at the time specified. Don't give a name, just follow my colleague's instructions." She tore the page off and folded it. "Don't follow me."
Handbag swinging, Lusia strode out of the courtyard without a backward glance. It had to be done, lovely. They'd never have left me alone. I unrolled the paper bag and spread the mouth. Thirty-two automatic, sound suppressor. Proper assassin's weapon. I popped the magazine out and worked the charging handle. A brass cartridge fell from the chamber. Five rounds. I replaced the cartridge and loaded the magazine. Make something of this opportunity, Dio. Don't squander it like I did.
Cracks zig-zagged across the ferrocrete pillar I sat against, cracks so wide my index finger found comfortable entry. Just like the hive. Layers and layers built on top of one another. How long until it all comes crashing down? Vibrations buzzed in my numb buttocks. Wind howled towards me. A single headlight blazed on the curving prow of a steam locomotive dragging passenger cars. Screeching past the platform, the locomotive roared on. Its train clanked and rattled behind it.
"Hey—hey!" A hooded techpriest loomed over me.
"Gonna tell on me for loitering?" I grinned up at the mask protruding from beneath the hood.
"Our mutual friend sent me."
"She's a darling, that one." I got up and rolled my ankles. "Hope you're treating her with respect; that lady's fire."
"Please follow me, sir." The techpriest led me down a staircase and in to a network of maintenance corridors filled with bare wires, leaky vents, and all manner of rattles, groans, and whirs. The techpriest laid his palm on a screen outside a chamber. A green beam rode down his brown skin. "In here, sir."
"Don't call me sir."
"Very well." The techpriest ducked through a sliding bulkhead door in to a changing area filled with benches and lockers.
"Call me nothing."
"Okay, Nothing, if you'd like to pick a suit, I will help you get fitted."
"Ah-ha-ha…" I knocked a knuckle on the transparent casing holding EVA suits. "You know her well then."
"A sister, an equal." The techpriest tapped a code out on a ten-digit pad. "A friend."
"Seems like she's rubbed off on you." The cover slid back from the hanging suits. "May I?"
"Please."
Scales clinked together on my arms. Magnets in my thick-soled boots held me to the deck. Gone-off cheese wafted up from inside my suit. "They—er—they get a lot of work done in these rigs…?" I rubbed my gantlet on the inside of a face-shield obscuring my helmet's clear canopy.
"All extra-vehicular activity must be conducted with the appropriate protective posture." The techpriest took my helmet and lowered it on to my head.
"Yeah—er—what about you?" Seals engaged around the rim.
"My colleague forbade me from accompanying you. I can only show you the door. You must pass through alone."
"W—w—w—wait." I brought my open hands up to my face. "You mean outside?"
The techpriest flipped a flexi-cover away from a cogitator keypad wrapped around his arm. "All your information will be displayed on your suit's heads-up display. I am just transferring my colleague's package now."
"Err, wouldn't you see it?"
"Encrypted on her end, sir. I am just the messenger."
"Told you not to call me sir."
The techpriest in tow, I clomped through the corridors and up to a sealed bulkhead door labelled 14-A. "Through here?"
"Yes." The techpriest relayed a code on the door lock. A red light blinked beside the pad. "All airlocks are decompressed by default so we're waiting for this light here to turn green."
"What's your name, son?"
"Marco." The light turned green. "Please." Angled edges split and slid outwards. I entered a circular chamber with showerheads hanging from the ceiling. "You will want to review that data on the way up."
"Roger." I raised a thumb. "Marco."
"Standby." The inner doors rolled towards one another.
"Okay…" I turned to face the outer doors. Fog spread across the inside of my helmet. Deep, red emergency lighting blasted my eyes. Air rushed past my rooted body. A bright crack appeared in the outer doors. I swiped the shutters down on my visor. "Oh, my God…"
Sunlight sparkled behind the curvature of a purple planet covered in swirling, violet clouds. If only you could see this. I patted a dust-covered cogitator bolted to my breastplate. A spinning, yellow widget blinked on and off. Follow shaft up to comms array. Airlock 2 code: 774113.
Comms array? I thudded over to slashed, double yellow lines on the floor, warning me I was about to step out in to nothing. Oh, Lusia. Couldn't do it the easy way, could we? I kneeled and took hold of a set of rungs climbing down from the airlock to the station's exterior. I can do this. My boots clamped on to the hull. I wrenched a foot up, pivoted my body, and stomped through the ruts, dips, vents, and sloping surfaces covering UEC's shell. A narrow lift shaft, no wider than my finger, climbed straight up from the station to the microscopic communication array.
A/X-19A Zurvan Interceptor, Deep Space
Moses automatic in her hand, Setsiba Galah-Shah locked eyes with Izuru.
"I had a friend; James Larn."
"I had a friend; Renisia Ruuni." Cracks slapped Izuru's ears. Setsiba turned the gun to her head and pressed it against her skin.
"Don't do it. Setsiba, Setsiba—NO!" Izuru's head lurched forwards. Fog clouded the inside of the Zurvan's canopy. "Setsiba…?" Izuru's jaw wobbled. Warm fingers pattered the dead screens surrounding her. "James." Izuru bit down on a knuckle. Short, shaky gasps escaped her lips.
Empty ready meal packets and water rations littered the Zurvan's bunk area. A shiny insulation blanket dangled over the edge of Izuru's bunk. A warm, musky stench hung in the air. Izuru flung open lockers. Used ration boxes tumbled out and bounced on the deck. Foil cracked beneath her bare feet. A transparent tube fell on to the bunk. Izuru dived at it and twisted the cap off. "No…" She shook the tube. "No, no, no, no." Izuru tumbled back on to the deck and hugged her knees and rocked. "James." She gritted her teeth and sunk her chin in to her breast. "Help me."
The bulkhead against Izuru's back rattled. Thuds on the Zurvan's hull rang in her ears. Not more meteors. Izuru grabbed a clean wipe from an open box and scrambled back to the pilot's chair. Come on, damn you! The chair edged up in to the cockpit. Batteries can't be charging properly. Izuru lunged at the canopy and worked the wipe over the panes. Gods, it's pitch-black out there. She flicked the Zurvan's power banks on and off. The heads-up display faded in. Come on, give me light. White light from the Zurvan's chin and wing-mounted floodlights cast weak beams in to the darkness. Where are the stars? Izuru circled the inside of her forearm over the canopy. Oh, Isha…
A flat wall, all black, faced the Zurvan. Farath-Mure. Izuru's eyes followed the face up until it and the void became one. There's no end to it. She flicked the Zurvan's primary power switch on and off. Vaul, give me something. Light flew back at the Zurvan from between widening cracks in a teeth-filled mouth. A maw, many hundreds of feet wide, gaped at the Zurvan. It's a crusher. Izuru seized the control stick and pulled the trigger. No!
Craggy, steel teeth passed overhead. Torn-up wreckage floating in a green murk struck the Zurvan and scraped along the hull. Useless. Izuru slumped in her seat and clapped a hand to her forehead. They'll have atmosphere, at least. Something to breath.
Deep in the fog, floodlights blinked on above an observation suite. Silhouettes stood at the long window observing the incoming Zurvan. Humans? Izuru flashed the Zurvan's lights. She sucked in her dry lips and reached for the lever controlling the undercarriage. Ah, no. That's not going to work. Izuru lowered the seat and kicked rubbish off her sweat-stained pressure suit lying splayed on the deck. A dull clung shook the Zurvan. Izuru zipped up and laced her boots. Maybe if I… She jammed her helmet down on her head and wiggled it in place. Just an Imperial Navy pilot on a classified mission gone awry. A gold card lay on the deck beneath a foil packet. Fighting may be out of the question. Izuru picked the Emergency Override Device up. Bargaining, on the other hand… Izuru drew her suit's zip down and tucked the EOD between her breasts.
Strapped tight in her seat, Izuru flung the Zurvan's power switches on and off. Without power, the landing struts remained undeployed forcing the Zurvan to rest belly-down. Shadows glided from the fog filling the human hangar bay. Humans in saggy pressure suits and opaque safety hoods bore fire extinguishers, axes, plasma cutters, and long hoses over. One kneeled by the canopy and signalled to Izuru; forefinger and thumb made and O. Okay, Izuru replied. She crossed two fingers at forty-five-degree angles. Power, I require power.
The human waved another bearing a portable generator over. Can you raise the canopy?
No. Izuru shook her head then crossed her fingers. Charge batteries first. Many silhouettes occupied the observation suite above the Zurvan. Izuru eyed the axes and plasma cutters the other humans carried. Gods, help me.
Green light filled the Zurvan's cockpit. Power, power, power. Izuru flicked the display on and twisted the ignition. Power at 4%. Please standby. A fist thumped the canopy. Shit! Izuru smacked the display. The axe-wielders stood ready behind their colleague. Okay, okay. Izuru dug her fingers around the canopy's manual release and pulled. The sliding section jerked upwards and slid back on its rails. "I am an Imperial Navy pi—" A mask crashed in to Izuru's face. "MMMPH!" Her vision swum. She lunged at the human's mask and dug her fingers in to the throat. Head spinning, eyes rolling, Izuru swayed and fell back in to the cockpit. Her head lolled and settled on her shoulder. Hands grasped her shoulders and pulled her limp body from the cockpit.
