18 - Further Than Far
The Wreath; Lower East Hept
Udeav Minor
Colonial Space
Morning
Dalia and her two best mimicked the leisurely idiot's pace one could expect among Lylat's lowest bidders. Not too leisurely, though; they had a schedule to keep.
It had been soul-crushing work clambering through these dimly-lit, cream-colored, plastic-lined maintenance hallways, and they'd had their noses held against the grindstone all morning.
It could have been worse. Timo's scribbled diagrams and as-built drawings had been correct at every juncture. Whoever his sources were, they had been thorough, and everything had transpired just as they had rehearsed. And we rehearsed, exhaustively.
Dalia recognized their position. Last four-way on this level. Right turn. Two hundred meters further. Now, two more doors down on the right hand side.
There was a buzzing hum as the disguised scouts were about to turn
"Wait!" She hissed back to the two scouts, holding her hand out to block her comrades from moving any further. They froze, left-legs synced midair for a moment before assuming what looked like a lackadaisical break.
A second later, an eclectic trio of security automaton's floated past the intersection, scanning for irregularities. Two virtual surveillance drones projected from a quad-legged security bot. There was a single living escort trailing them as well, a Venomian-descended Vikrman. The leashed, organic dragweight burden to his synthetic superiors.
Dalia watched them cautiously and held her breath. They'd passed too many hurdles to get caught up by an errant visual inspection or gene sampling, and a single intelligent question on their identity might arouse suspicion on these lonely levels. A high risk event with low likelihood, as queries of that quality were rarely asked by Vikrmen.
Still, Dalia considered her way forward.
The most well-surveilled parts of the Wreath had thus far focused around obvious and easy-to-reach structural hinge points. Obvious targets, such as the central structural pillars in each hept that ran down to the seafloor, or the generator bay's, were fortified like military installations. Double the guards, drones, cameras, gene-coded locks and access points.
To make matters worse, those areas had been hopelessly overengineered. Even if Dalia could get inside, there wasn't enough explosive in Ketumat's arsenal to leave anything other than a disappointing dent in them.
But, Timo and his sources had been more clever. Less-challenging targets with similar repercussions; three-hept's worth of ballast tanks.
The Wreath was anchored to the seafloor, but it required massive amounts of ballast adjustment to keep the mid-sections and topside from ripping up its own roots in the Northern Sea's chaotic current. The VI's math didn't lie, there was a certain vibratic resonance required to keep the structure from shaking itself loose from its seabed footings. And, while the implosion of one or even three ballast sections wasn't that big of a deal; the loss of three specific hept's at the same time-to-implosion might change that math considerably.
If the outcome was optimistic, the plan was to use bursting water pressure differential to uproot the structure out of some of its concrete and steel footings in one precisely timed traumatic incident.
'Optimistic' wasn't Dalia's expected outcome. Timo's strategy seemed more an educated gamble than based in sound science. A risky wager matching the hubris-tinged overconfidence of Vikr's engineers.
She didn't understand the numbers and figures presented, but Timo had run various VI-assisted simulations and had seen interesting results. Interesting enough to accept the considerable risks of failure. It was possible that the carefully-timed series of implosions might not destroy anything. But, it would be a strike directly at Armstrong Vikr's heart; with all eyes watching.
Best case for us? We make this eyesore unsafe to inhabit for a few months. Worst case? The Wreath remains standing firm, but Vikr's reputation for taming the colonies would be tarnished.
As for Dalia; her motivation wasn't nearly as astropolitically complex. She was willing to die just to give Vikr a bloody nose, and the others clearly had been similarly selective in their sacrificial choice.
The humming disappeared, and all three scouts exhaled in unitary relief.
The scout's isolated moment of peace came to an end as Vikr's cavalry marched on by. Dalia's trio followed distantly.
Keep moving. Second to last stop of the day.
It didn't take much longer. East Hept's ballast maintenance corridor was just ahead, five-hundred meters below sea-level. They'd done a similar service on north hept's three hours ago. South had been the first, three hours before that. When they arrived, the entrance was the same as the last two: An eight-by-eight meter sealing bulkhead in front of them labeled, 'LS Ballast Access'.
Like the last two, Dalia's forged identity card wouldn't register on this level. An old clone of Zeouna's virtual lockpick would have to do the trick. The copy still had teeth, it seemed, as the alerts Dalia had silenced were still holding nearly eight hours later.
Without delay she slid her fingers across the surface of the door's access panel. It instantly shone green, and the watertight door hissed and whined open to Dalia's sudden fright.
Anomaly. They weren't the first on in through the bulkhead it seemed, and instead of a settled, dusty silence the scout's heard shuffling and voices.
"-don't know why they insisted on having us sit here," a shrill one whined from beyond the egress point.
The trio played it cool, maintaining their sloven cosplay as they crept into the antechamber.
After a quick glance, Dalia noticed this space was like the others had been; minimalist red floor-lighting, wrought-iron beams, bare silicate wiring and foam-fireproofing. Two more watertight bulkheads led to a web of ballast chamber inspection tunnels, the left bank and right bank.
As they neared the central hub, the scouts saw they were joined by a party of three. Each was seated around an aluminum shipping-crate, three toolboxes as improvised seats.
Two of Armstrong's finest; a large canid male and a smaller female in the same blue overalls. The other, a rodent KEI mercenary, sans blood red armor. The former two had holstered sidearms, but the rat had a charged-and-ready laser carbine sitting loose on his lap as he clocked Dalia directly.
One thing became immediately clear to Dalia: this was not a maintenance team.
Dalia shifted, looking for any sign their cover had been blown. There were cards on the table. Possibly heirloom. Printed cards on paper! They'd been here awhile, it looks like.
Dalia acknowledged them with a curt nod and endeavored to move past them.
"What's this?," the gray-furred rodent challenged, beckoning the entering scouts to him.
Dalia halted. A meter away from a completed mission. A short hop past the watertight portal and it all would have been done.
"Stop. Chill. Wait up a second," the KEI hunter said. He looked like a shrewd little thing. Frankly, he was just a little thing to Dalia.
The two Vikrmen weren't nearly as interested, and kept themselves busy deliberating over their current hands, to Dalia's satisfaction.
"Ballast audit?" The rat asked, head askew.
"Yes," Dalia answered bluntly.
The smaller of the Vikrmen, the husky canid with deep blue eyes, dropped her cards on the table, clearly frustrated with her assignment.
"I don't get it, Dez. I appreciate the overtime, but it's just fuckin' water!"
"Third audit this morning," the rat shot back inquisitively. His beady, red eyes traversing the scouts. "Pattern-rec VI's going mad about it."
The larger canid grinned, laughed and shook his head.
"That's why that thing sent us here?" The despondent Vikrman languished. "I swear we need to mute those things."
"They ain't ever caught shit."
Dez, KEI's rat, stood, scurrying over the last mound of suspicion held in his eyes before querying Dalia's team.
"Who's clearance?"
"What's the job number?"
Dalia didn't blink, she just let the corporate word-salad flow.
"It's just a standard prevention checklist. Weekly inspections," Dalia improvised calmly.
To both Dez's credit and detriment, he confidently approached Dalia without his weapon. He was either entirely overconfident, or a complete idiot, or both, Dalia reasoned. He squinted, trying to make sense of the grizzled 'maintenance staff' in front of him.
She expected further questions, but the rodent's scowl suddenly lifted as the other boot dropped.
"I'm just messin' with ya'," he said daintily, with two curt laughs in punctuation.
"I don't actually give a shit."
Dalia's breath returned, as she nodded and resumed her task briskly.
"One last question, though."
"You." He said, singling out Dalia's canid colleague, Onkita.
"Your ID popped hot when you came through the door. Daggs, is it?
Dalia trembled, scrambling her mind to seek the closest improvised weapon she could leverage.
A flash of yellow light filled her peripheral vision, nearly blinding her, as several amber orbs traversed the Scout's three. Virtual Assistants on identification routines.
It's simple. If they've found Daggs' body, we're dead.
"He isn't scheduled to work today."
Dalia played along, facing off with her portside assistant. Onkita, who was very much feminine, did not reveal anything other than a shame-ridden, embarrassed grin.
"Are you saying she's not authorized?" Dalia playacted, relieved that the sentries weren't working a missing persons case yet.
"What I'm saying, sister," Dez said, his scowl returning to his face. "If you and your little posse are gonna' claim overtime to jerk each other off or some other bullshit, you need to be sneakier about it. Daggs using Daggs' badge only."
He ran through the virtual display on his PDA, likely looking for a corresponding job number for the scout triad before him. Best he not find one.
"And what would you call what you're doing?" Dalia challenged boldly, stepping forward from her team. "Is gambling with regs part of the standard contract? Or is that a new byline?"
A sudden vertical tension in the rodent's posture indicated he'd suddenly soured on bureaucracy. Predictable. He was going to roll the die on what KEI did best: Kill, Extort, Insult.
"I was just going to write you up," He warned, the dice roll clearly favoring extortion, this time.
Dez walked even closer to the scouts. Dalia observed his vacant weapon on the improvised table as he approached Dalia, who tilted her head quizzically.
"I would prefer you didn't," Dalia insisted.
He motioned for her to assume the position of a search. Dalia wasn't surprised, they even treated their own like shit.
"Arm's out," he ordered. Though a considerable amount of centimeters shorter, the rat began to pat her down. Harshly.
The others did nothing. Vikr and Ketumati alike. Though, as the rat's greasy palms pounded away at her body, she slowly glanced back at her scouts.
"That's all this had to be. A write up. But, you made things difficult."
"Maybe you could be a good sport. Help fund our next few hands," Dez hinted, feeling up the cargo pockets on her left leg.
"Raise our stake. Maybe improve our luck," he continued, moving down her right leg. He had been close to her blade, and would surely catch it on his way up.
"Maybe, l don't find an unregistered PDA on you. Maybe, I won't send you back on the next shuttle back to lovely Port Katherine."
"And trust me. You won't enjoy the Fortunan summer, let me tell you."
Dez looked up at the cat to see if she understood, but Dalia had already moved on, and was preoccupied studying the two inattentive canids beyond him.
"Well, what do you say?" He asked, again.
"I guess-" The scout's leader started, seemingly pausing to collect her words.
Dalia finally looked down on him at the exact moment his fingertips caressed and nudged at the hilt of her knife.
A smile crossed her face as she peered down at the rodent. Dez froze, not understanding how serious she was being.
"-I guess I'll just need a place to stuff what's left of you when I'm done with you a lot."
She laughed, amused. He laughed, too, nervously.
Dez's snicker only lasted a mere moment before she closed her right arm over his head and neck. She squeezed, tucked him closer to her chest level and then pulled rearward.
Inertia did the rest. The snap of Dez's spinal column was like a starting gun to the other scouts, who instantly rushed past Dalia to end the lives of the other sentries.
No one needed a command. Like clockwork they sprang, just as Dalia let Dez fall to the floor.
Onkita, the wild dog on Dalia's right overpowered the tiny canid technician before her, grappling her down to the floor. It was a familiar routine for her. Vikr's dog had immediately reached for her supervisor's weapon in vain, barely scratching at it with her nails. The rifle fell off the seat and slammed onto the plastic cladded floor.
In a brutal response, Onkita brushed the offending arm further upward and leapt over her enemy's stomach for an armlock. It worked, and Dalia watched in silent approval as Onk dislocated the smaller dog's arm.
What happened next was unavoidable, and far more heavy for the Scout's leader to muster approval for. Onk wrapped a concealed garotte around her throat. The fibre sunk through fur and flesh, vice-like in its application. Vikr's dog never again touched the grip of her own blaster pistol. Wordlessly, Onk tightened until she felt the warmth of blood on her hands.
Dalia looked away. Their second victim wouldn't suffer long.
Tuck, the black canid mutt, a lesser killer in Dalia's eyes, had managed much the same. Though, he was still grunting and struggling on the floor with the larger man. The Vikrman was losing, progressively, but he was fighting the whole way down. It was still the end game, and Tuck grasped Vikrman's shirt collars and bashed his head against the floor as he gasped for air. Dalia ended that struggle with several sharp kicks to the Vikrman's head.
Tuck nodded breathlessly in thanks as his chest sank and rose in wild arcs. They stopped and listened. The dust settled, and the scouts finally went to work.
"Weapons," Dalia grunted.
Dalia's two scouts took the Vikrman's blaster pistols; stuffing them into their waistbands.
The spoils of war. Dalia pilfered Dez's blaster carbine off the floor. She adjusted its nylon sling and swung it around her shoulder, the short rifle's barrel pointed downward as it slammed against her back.
"Bodies." Dalia said, two-finger pointing at Vikr's pitiable refuse on the floor.
Eyes up. Two minutes on. Onk and Tuck nodded, dragging away their victims by their blood-stained collars. The ballast tanks didn't have much in the way of concealment but the aft electrical closet would have to do.
Isolation. Dalia thought, remembering her role to play. Dalia swept her wrist PDA awake and selected a file from the floating menu. With a whirr, her tablet printed a virtual memory stick with the necessary containment routines. Dalia grasped the still hot datadrive between her thumb and index finger and placed it into the bay's data input-output port.
She smiled. Even from beyond the grave, Rao Zeouna's automated blessing granted them at least another hour of peace. A dummy repeater on the network echoing a false baseline of normal network activity while keeping any local alarms silenced. It would even produce minor false alarms or issues, assuming that was the usual.
They were so close to the end, it only figured that things were going too well to be true.
Dalia turned her attention to more pressing matters as she noticed a hastily dropped pair of technicians' tool bags by the right-most ballast hatch. The distant echoes of fleeing bootsteps down the walkway.
Runners.
Her two best returned, huffing madly from the calisthenics routine they'd completed twice already. But, there was no time to celebrate.
"Tuck! Take the upper charges!"
"Onk?" Dalia barked, meeting the wild dog's russet-brown eyes. Dalia pointed to the access ladder, "Down you go."
"To spec andschedule. I'll meet you both back here in ten."
The two let their boots slamming on the steel ladders declare their acknowledgement.
Dalia swiveled the dead KEI hunter's laser carbine to the low-ready and checked its charge. Fresh, and one-hundred shots ready for the taking. There was only one way out for the witnesses. They had trapped themselves like fish swimming to the bottom of a barrel.
Dalia wouldn't even need to run.
The Wreath; Hept East Two
Udeav Minor
Colonial Space
Morning
"You lost?"
Timoteus balked at first. The offending Vikrman, a tannish-brown lizard in a black emblazoned security vest, stood his proud, pointless vigil between the service threshold of Bay East-two and East-three.
This is the right place, Timo wolf looked beyond the reptile, recalling the bay's layout rhythmically.
Timoteus didn't like lizards. Their body language was strangely plastic, and made their intentions hard to read. Between lack of hair and a total lapse of imagination in their minds, Timo didn't understand if the cold-blooded creature was being sardonic or not. He didn't really care to know; he did not like lizards at all.
"Me?" The wolf finally scoffed, eyebrows raised in instinctive disbelief that this Venomian center would dare question the Kyhban's profound sense of direction. Pride had nearly nearly broken Timo's carefully constructed persona again. And again, Fitzgerald would recover it for him.
"Nah' chief, we were up in ring three getting a new badge. Go ahead," the grey and white striped felid insisted, his urbane Set-City accent slathering a supreme confidence across his words.
"Take a look."
The Venomian's bug eyes settled their gaze back onto the wolf. Both eyes this time.
Reluctantly, Timo flashed his physically-printed green badge with double red-lines through the bottom half. 'V1 Privileged,' it read.
His nostrils flared, but the guard's nerves broke first and the lizard waved them through without any further resistance. Timo thanked Fitzgerald wordlessly with a nod.
The duo had been slowly winding their way topside through a typical security route; a routine that had been culminating for the last six-hours. The patrol routes security staff took were monitored; and repercussions for deviating from them were severe.
It wasn't a pointless diversion. Timo had given himself the highest-risk tasks.
Firstly, visiting one of East Hept's security centers. An insurance policy for Dalia's team. Should they have been identified, Timoteus and Fitzy would have brought down hell. Buying the subterranean scouts some time at a trade of their own lives. Fortunately, things ended up going well, and Timo sat in the back of the operations room; his thumb planted firmly on the serrated hammer of his ancient pistol.
Second; Timo wanted to hand deliver a final gift topside. The wolf gripped it in his jacket pocket, astounded that it might actually make it. A datadrive with a personalized message for the Centers.
Yuki was likely already atop, checking in with the event staff to prepare the way for Timo. It was risky to be alone, but she would be the first to depart once her duties were complete.
And so, Timoteus, adorned in a navy-blue guard's uniform and a one-size-fits-all security vest, would be joining her within the hour. The similarly dressed Fitzgerald would return to his route, linking up with Dalia's team within the hour. Extraction. And then? Kaboom.
It was all coming to an end now.
Timo would be the final executor of the plan. The public face. The trigger-man. Timo gulped. Whether the result was mass bloodletting or disappointment, the consequences would fall on him and him alone. The icy lockup in his chest grew, his breaths narrowed.
Fitzgerald led on, and they continued on well past the entry control. It took a couple minutes of walking before they'd even entered the massive steel and concrete cavern before them; the mid-deck docking bay in East-Three.
East-three would be more aptly described as "Rackspace'' given the tightly packed conditions the stored vessels found themselves in. Floors of ships practically stuffed end-to-end on a continuous slab of concrete. Like toys on shelves. Timo didn't fly, but even he could fathom that no living pilot would be comfortable with the claustrophobic parking arrangement here.
They didn't need to be. While East Hept's docking bays did receive vessels and deliveries the old fashioned ways, most commercial ships were registered and their crews disembarked just prior to being 'rendered' by a bank of transfer device pads. Even a megalith such as the Wreath had limited space, and it probably made it easier to sort delivery locations.
The only colors visible from floor to ceiling were merely utilitarian. Red lines to the lower docking bay, blue to mid-level and green to the upper levels. There was much rust, too; the briny sea-air gutted most of the I-beams around the scant loading docks for the less wealthy.
It wasn't all drab. You could smoke here, mercifully. Given the sheer amount of locals employed to build the damned thing, the Centers probably risked a popular uprising if they insisted otherwise. Timo happily obliged as he puffed away on a freshly rolled dart to calm the nerves.
Timecheck: 1300 Udeav. Dalia's team was likely already culminating around their last ballast tank; if not already at bedrock. Hammer and chisel. Ahead of schedule.
Zeouna's nameless sources for this hept had been absolutely precise about the lower deck's thoroughfares. Every service conduit and crevasse had been correctly noted down to the serial number. Zeouna's closely guarded her secrets; but this was something else entirely. Someone had taken months, maybe even years, to compile the blueprints for this place!
Who? A question for another night, assuming we get one.
It was now two hours before the main event. As expected, the thoroughfare was packed with Vikrmen, service staff and attending media in various customs and inspection lines. Any vendor large enough not to have been transferred off had an army of loading bots removing their imported foodstuffs off Timo's right.
It was all atypical foot traffic, which was good for the two scouts. The rowdy congregation around the shiprack security office would keep cautious eyes off the new, grizzled-looking animals on deck. Thousands of new faces meant that the patchwork of pattern analysis VI's ever-present in the Hept's would struggle to sort out the overwhelming access irregularities; if the anomaly detection were even switched on at all.
Hiding in plain sight, Timo noticed an anomaly all on his own. Someone had skipped a line and was making a scene.
A small gathering of security officers and loading crews had amassed by the minimalist the security booth. Some of the assembled staff were gawking. Other members of both Vikr and non-Vikr crews chattered amongst themselves as they pretended not to look.
Having sensed an opportunity, Fitzy grinned back at the young Rao.
What's he thinking? Timo studied the group as he approached, maintaining the posture and facial features of a dullard. An open-mouthed gait, half-burnt cigarette hanging askew from his lips.
"No!" the voice at the center of the throng insisted with a sense of self-importance that belied royalty.
"Wrong! I already told you, I didn't transfer my ship! I won't transfer it! It has never been and never will be transferred!"
The deck's Virtual Assistant running the desk tried to alleviate his temper tantrums, but it appeared the stubborn bastard had been talking in circles for more than a few minutes.
"I need a way back. Right?" Fitzy asked Timo quietly with a whisper, ears raised in what was certainly a cat's non-verbal call to action.
He did. And, an excuse to access rackspace would cut at least a half-hour of extra scrutiny from his journey according to his maps. Escorting this center had become their fastest and safest way to complete his vision. So, Timo observed patiently.
"Pick up. In person, yeah?" The self-appointed noble's voice confirmed semi-calmly, before quickly blowing his lid again.
"This isn't some shitty shuttlecraft! You think I'd want to leave my ship's filehash in your network?"
A short male vulpes; carnation red fur with a white puff atop his scalp and snout. Pompous looking, and clearly one that abhorred the value of pauses in his communication.
He dressed the part, as well. He wore a silk shirt hued in a deep indigo with a sparse crimson red leaf print. The cleanest pair of Khaki joggers Timo had ever seen hung around their blue-blooded 'guest's' waist. They didn't have a single speck of dirt or rust spot on them. And, they fit him snugly; the way a smooth-handed set-city boy might have imagined they should. Princely. No offense to Fitzy.
But, first appearances could be deceiving. Timoteus' wandering eye was surprised by a hexagonal instrument dangling off a vacant belt loop on his hip. It took Timo a moment to fully recognize its shape. A personal shielding device. Top-of-the-line, too. Space Dynamics Reflexus Three.
Timo raised an eyebrow. Half-impressed, but fully jealous at the short fox's defensive kit. This man was a Center's Center, clearly, but not one without some expensive surprises.
A klaxon sounded briefly indicating a new vessel had arrived in the inspection bay. It was at about this moment that the bourgeois vulpes began to notice Timoteus as well, visually singling him out of the other workers lollygagging around. His occasional glances lingered just a little too long on Timo.
Fitzgerald elbowed his leader forward, and the red vulpes that had been eyeing him casually suddenly took more direct notice of the imposingly-framed wolf in security gear. The diminutive debutant ceased his arguing immediately as he held his breath for a moment and looked up.
It was only a quick moment, as the short fox's stature resumed its natural resting bluster. His green eyes traversed the wolf from foot to face, back again, and then finally rested squarely in Timo's own.
"Finally," he said, one hand dropping to his hip.
"Are you the one bringing me to my ship?"
He had a steaming cup of coffee hoisted in his right hand. The steamed scent of which was starting to waft out the half-opened lid. It drove an already caffeine-exhausted Timo mad.
"The Two," Timo said deadpan, indicating to Fitzy with an eyebrow raised.
"And you are?"
The vulpes squinted, his ego bruised harshly at the question. Someone among the gathered deck crew laughed under their breath. Others in the line resumed their normal activities, not wanting to involve themselves in the resulting shitstorm. Whoever he was, he was obnoxiously self-important.
"I'm sorry, lot of delays this morning, sir, deck crew is overwhelmed," Fitzgerald said, once again covering for his leader's lack of social graces. "We've had an exhausting morning."
The short fox inhaled deeply, returning to a semblance of self control.
"I'm James."
James had said it hand-to-chest, with the inherited haughtiness of a prince royale. The all-too-classic case of a Center extracting his worshipful tithe from his Colonial inferior. Timo seethed beneath his facade of stability. Though, he didn't immediately respond with anything other than a frustrated nod.
That's when Timo noticed that there was another standout behind him. Beyond James' right shoulder, leaning against a steel I-beam. A reflection of Timo's positioning.
Another Vulpes, though this one in a lighter tan color and with frizzled brown hair hanging naturally around her ears and down her back. She was only a couple centimeters shorter than Timo, maybe around one-point-eight meters tall. Tight black denim, a green flight jacket with cream-white puffs for epaulets; insulated. She had the same eyes as the man calling himself James, both only in hue and colouration. She looked through Timo; her irises holding the stillness of a killer diagnosing him back.
The wolf looked to James' security for some sort of introduction. She merely nodded and grunted in return; a reasonably curt response that Timo respected for its bluntness.
Between these awkward introductions, Fitzgerald had leisurely crept toward the security booth and swiped a digital credential at the VI's workstation, which applied a temporary access tag to the cat's virtual keychain.
"Pad two-twelve," Fitzy interjected, squinting as he read off the floating lightform. "It's a long walk. We should probably get goin'."
"Can I trust you to make it back alone?" The green-eyed woman asked James.
Not security, then. Family? There was something about the taller fox's voice that made Timo's spine tingle. Something about her. Familiar, to say the least.
"Depends," James replied. "Can I trust you not to make me post bail before the day ends?"
The harsher vulpes said something witty that Timo didn't care to pick up on, before concluding with an exasperated, "I'll see you later."
She studied Timoteus coldly one last moment before swiveling back to the aft liftway.
With no additional fanfare, the handful of remaining Vikr technicians made way as the trio walked toward the ship racks.
Rao Timoteus took the front, feeling a pair of green eyes boring a hole straight through the back of his head. Fitzy took the opportunity to walk side-by-side with James; the grey-striped cat had the gift of gab, afterall.
A few moments and a dozen meters later; Fitzgerald grinned widely as the security token did its job. A single, time-gated entrance directly into Timo's third phase. The further they got, the more likely survival looked.
"So, what brings you out here?" Fitzgerald small-talked casually as they entered the access corridor to the rackspace vault. Timo's mouth hung agape as they exited.
The chamber was massive. A great hall holding all of a kingdom's wealth. Fitzy didn't seem to be so obviously affected, his thin white-tipped tail swinging melodically while unknowingly twirling the access badge in circles by its lanyard.
"I've been asking myself the same question."
Fitzy let the silence dwell. Knowing full well that this center couldn't help himself but fill the gap. Timo, for his part, simply wished everyone had kept their mouths shut.
"My sister's problems," James further explained, sparks of frustration struck in the last word.
Well. That confirms it then. Brother and sister. Timo connected. Media. Etcetera. Here for the unveiling.
"Oh." Fitzgerald stuttered, fishing for more. "That's interesting. What do you two do, exactly, again?"
Timoteus was unsure of Fitzy's purpose, but his instinctual sociality wasn't usually wrong. The racks rattled alive, as a network of repulsor drones moved, lifted and trafficked vessels out of the way. James' own, whatever and wherever it was, was hopefully stored nearby.
"You must have a really good reason not to want to transport your ship."
"Transfer," James corrected.
Regardless of his reasons, James didn't answer the question. He ambled on ahead to the loading platform's observation deck, as if he didn't feel he needed to heed an inferior's request.
Instead, he leaned over the edge of the gunmetal gray fencing separating him from seventy-meters of plummet.
Udeav's sun was starting to poke through the open portions of the outer superstructure. A beam of warm, orange light filled the landing. It illuminated the trio as if they had been chosen by the gods themselves. James lingered, wordlessly contemplating the banal collection of ships clamped on the monumental racks before him. A Class-one light freighter here, a ferry shuttle there.
Timo dropped the dimwit act. Fitzy dropped his patience.
"Or, are transfer pads not personal enough for you?" Fitz smart-mouthed, rudely. Timo grunted in disapproval.
James snickered mischievously. Turning to the two as the morning's glory lit up his face.
"And miss out on his charm?" The fox replied, fearlessly nodding his head towards the much larger Timoteus.
"I'm an entertainer," James explained, not liking the resulting silence.
"Some people probably find you entertaining, I assume," Timo finally replied in an understated insult.
"They might even pay you for it," Fitzy added.
"Yeah? Call this courtesy, then," James shot back, a sneer-tipped riposte. Truly fearless.
After the dust settled, James turned and leaned his bottom against the low-railing, facing two scouts. His white-tipped tail swung upward over the top as the sunbeams brought out his terracotta fur's natural sparkle. He lifted his chin and gestured toward the dart hanging off Timo's mouth; now firmly burnt out.
A request. Timo leaned against the fencing, and double tapped the sentimental aluminum tin in his breast pocket. The metallic tip-tap's resonance an offer.
James smiled warmly as the taller wolf removed the tin, opened it and picked the worst-rolled dart he could find. He offered it toward the vulpes, who plucked it from his fingers and inspected it.
"We really should-"
Timo held his hand to silence Fitzy, reached into his back pocket and revealed an utterly primeval looking steel lighter. He held it forward and lit up.
The prometheul flames flickered, igniting the dart's respective ends. James lifted the tobacco-laden gift and nodded in thanks, their wordless transaction complete.
We're early. I'm shaking. We're winning. What's the harm?
It was the first time the fox had looked up at him in a way that didn't make Timo want to throttle him to death
What if this is my last sunrise?
Timo allowed himself a moment of selfishness and took the first puff, blowing his smoke downward grey-painted deck cladding. James, arms grasping the railing outstretched and eyes closed, blew his smoke upward as the rush of nicotine swirled through his brain.
Fitzgerald, not wanting to break bread, took to the traffic drone's VI interface nestled mere meters around the corner they'd passed. He remained, swiping away at diagrams and charts; fruitlessly attempting to speed up the reclamation process.
James and Timo coexisted silently for a full minute before anyone spoke. It would be Timo breaking the silence, this time.
"I thought Centers didn't smoke?"
"We usually don't," James said amiably, "It's the smell, mostly."
James' reply had not acknowledged the incongruent truth that lung cancers were practically curable in Central Lylat. Outcomes in the colonies were considerably different.
"You don't look like you're from Lylat," James observed curtly, flicking some ash away from the mediocre dart. It floated away in the morning wind.
"I appreciate the compliment," Timo demeaned sarcastically, staring a full quarter of a meter downward to meet the Fox's gentle eyes.
"Colony-born?"
"That was an easy guess."
"Kew?"
"A much bolder guess," Timo mocked.
"Hare?" James said, swinging and missing wildly again. "I hear the stone forests are lovely this time of year."
Timo's head tilt, half-cocked smile and resulting silence had left his trojan horse 'entertainment' in incalculable suspense.
"Further?!" James asked in disbelief.
"You were closer the first time," Timo admitted, emitting a long trail of smoke that entered the poking beam of ambient sunlight.
"A small mining rig off the belt of Kybha Two."
"Kybha? That's further than far," James said, his reply oozing with interest.
"What is that? Thirty hours and three gate's jump?"
"If you're lucky."
"I'm guessing you were. Rough space to traverse."
Timo chortled, still half-heartedly debating if he should kill this Center here and now.
The rack-drone carousel shuttered to a halt for a moment as a larger commercial freighter passed their path. Fitzy kept his eyes on it, though there wasn't much for him to do about it.
"So. How'd you end up here?" James asked earnestly.
"We all have sob stories."
"What's yours?"
"I needed to be as far away from the belt as one could get," Timo replied, stone-faced.
"What'd you do?" James asked.
"Short answer? I was born."
As apparent on his red-lit face, James wasn't satisfied with that.
"What's the long answer?"
Timo inhaled a massive drag, producing nearly a centimeter of cigarette ash. Why not? He doesn't seem too bright. Unlikely he'll remember. Less likely it'll even matter.
"Miner's son on the outer belt. He was a crew lead. A hard worker with a bad haul."
"An optimist," Timo confessed. "Made promises he couldn't keep."
The fox crossed his arms before asking the next logical question in sequence.
"What about mom?"
"Well," Timo scoffed, breathing smoke downward again. "She never made any promises."
"Took the first trawler back when the initial veins we scouted ran dry. Didn't even bother taking me back to Lylat with her."
"How old were you?"
"I'm glad she left," the wolf answered without answering.
"The speculators had approved loan after loan. So, Eventually, they wanted to see the rosy results for themselves. Turns out dad had been fudging the numbers."
"So you ran away?" The Vulpes asked thoughtfully anticipating the story.
He'd struck a nerve; Timo's third rail.
"I've never run from anything in my life," Timo nearly growled. "We worked everyday, all night. Two full rotations. We torched and split every asteroid in our tie-off. We didn't stop. The whole crew."
"Why didn't you leave? Sounds like your father made his bed."
"I didn't stay for him. I had a little sister to watch over."
"Had?
"Had."
"Like I said," Timo continued, "Dad couldn't keep his promises. And, he made a lot of them for the wrong people."
"So. One evening, I look out of my bunk's porthole. Harlock-class frigates. Two of them. The ones with magcannon chin turrets. They docked up within the hour, uninvited. The speculators had come to collect what they'd lost."
Timoteus faced out towards the beam of light permeating through the Wreath's outer shell, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gorgeous, open sea beyond it.
"We had nothing to show them, of course," Timo laughed pitifully, he turned back to an enraptured James.
"They didn't like that."
He didn't need to tell this Center any of this, of course. Timo could lie, he could spin a tale. But his mental state was one of triumph; he could afford to gloat to this center. It was intoxicating. For at least another minute, Timoteus didn't need to hide; he didn't need to lie. It felt good to tell someone.
"It's almost funny to me now. What did we think they would do?"
"What happened?" James asked darkly, inattentively allowing his neglected cigarette's ash to bend a full two centimeters downward.
"They sat us down in the canteen. Under guard. Took us to the airlock to search us. One-by-one."
"They took dad first," Timo said sternly.
"Then Sophi," His voice almost cracked.
None of this was new trauma, though a targetless hatred still blazed in Timoteus' heart. And, while it never consumed him like it had others, Timo did realize it's impact on his successes.
"And, since we were all Kybhian trash-"
He didn't know what to say. Timo didn't know what the soft looking fox before him had done to deserve his sordid tale, but he felt safe to say it with him. Maybe it was overconfidence; the id and superego of an emergent success. Timoteus wasn't ashamed of any of it anymore. He drew strength from it; his tragic pride to avenge.
"-Well. You can guess the rest."
James shifted toward the sea, an empathetic mirror. The wolf assumed this level of silence meant the little fox felt pity on him. It sickened Timo, but he understood it to be justifiably genuine.
"Unaccompanied?" James asked, uncharacteristically revealing some knowledge of unpleasant colonial tradition. An orphan, cast out from Lylat but unwelcome even beyond its borders.
"I am no longer a victim of that day. If that's what you're implying."
"I didn't mean that at all," James insisted carefully.
"I just hope you know."
An alarm klaxon sounded in a trill double-sound. It was here. James' ship was floating downward, its mass contained by the invisible tractor-web of four retention drones.
Timo dropped his cigarette when he saw it. A silvery-white fighter craft with swing-wings set to the rear. It was angular, with an unmistakable set of triangular G-Diffusers marked in a rich coat of indigo. Twenty meters in length, ten in beam. Udeav's sun glitzed reflective bronze off the alumiglass canopy, which raised silently in recognition of its rightful owner.
Arwing class. That means this fox is…
"You're not trash," James fucking McCloud affirmed, A fire lit in his eyes as his hand caressed the fold-out ladder on his floating icon of death.
"And, you're more than your past."
James McCloud. Only now did the name perforate Timo's shocked daze. It was unbelievable, really. This guy? A walking, fucking disaster of a son for an animal every colonies-born soul would pay to reincarnate, if only to tear them apart a second time!
"What was your name, again?" James asked, never having asked for it in the first place.
"It's Timoteus," The Wolf admitted to his enemy through gritted teeth.
"I won't forget you, Timoteus. I hope you find everything you're looking for out here."
James climbed the final rungs of his ladder. Timo's blood boiled where he stood, feet frozen to the gantryway.
"Rager going on up-top today," Fitzgerald advised, stepping back into the fray. He'd read his leader's rage cues like a book. "You sure you don't want to stay? It's gonna' be huge. A real jaw-dropper."
The vulpes swung down into his pilot's seat, and fiddled with his control panel as it glowed alive before responding.
"Depends,"James said mid yawn, stretching his arms toward the distant ceiling.
"On?"
McCloud leaned over the polished silver hull, resting the bottom of his muzzle on top of his crossed arms. James made sure to stare directly into Timoteus' grey eyes before qualifying the rest of his answer.
"If you will be celebrating," James declared while eying Timoteus; two green spheres hellbent on seeing more of him.
Timo chuckled and buried his head for a moment pondering the irony of it all. The vulpes had already laced up much of his sentences in sultry undertones, so Timo was not surprised by his carnal display in the slightest.
"It's on the registrar's documentation, by the way," the fox continued.
"What is?"
"Contact deets. My E-net. Phonelink. In case you need a good listener."
The wolf's resulting ironic laugh nearly rolled into a howl. For a second, he forgot to be furious at James for simply existing.
"I'm already spoken for," the wolf declared stoutly.
"You're not a time-limited interest," James replied in velvet-like suaveness.
"Neither is she," Timo furnished with a grin.
"You're not my type anyway."
"What?" The philandering fox asked dismissively, interpreting Timo's words as a tease.
"Male?"
James McCloud had asked it with the cheekiest grin Timo had ever seen, pearl-white incisors gleaming in the morning sun. A negotiation. As if converting the rigid to his formless cravings was an assured outcome.
"Jealous," Timo retaliated, knowing the outcome was anything but assured.
This breathless aristocrat, this center; James McCloud, was impressed into stunned, grinning silence. He could do nothing but lean back into the cockpit as the plasmic engines came alive in a flash of blue. The familiar role of the charming inner system's superior inverted on him; James' confidence in himself was betrayed by a colony-born unaccompanied.
James McCloud whistled as his canopy sealed shut with a buzzing hiss. Timo could see the fox's grin still wide as his head bobbed unshakable amusement before the morning glare blocked his sight.
Timo continued to look on, numb to his surroundings for a moment. Confused. There weren't many alive who knew his truth, and now a godsdamned McCloud did.
Timo gulped, realizing there was still one among them.
"The Butcher," Fitzy said, the same terrifying realization on his mind.
A reaffirming hand wrapped around his shoulder, sharp cat claws poking into his lats.
"Change of plans," Timo said. "We're both going up."
Fitzy nodded in affirmation. He understood that the variables had changed significantly.
"You think she was Ira's desert gal?"
"Jana McCloud. The fucking butcher?" Timo murmured in shock. "We can't risk thinking she's anything but."
"You'll have to be the one to tell Dal, then."
Tell her what? Timo gestured in confusion.
"Tell Dal I'm sorry for the bruising," The cat clarified with a smug grin.
"I'm sure she's just happy to be alive, Fitz."
"Tell her I said, 'First time was free.'"
"And the second time?" a still-perplexed Timo asked.
"She'll know what I mean."
They both smiled. The two warriors shook hands, clasping them together as brothers.
At the same time, the silver-and-blue fighter released from its webbed maglocks and hovered toward the release path as every crawling doubt in his mind asked Rao Timoteus the same question.
Should I have let him go?