A pair of marines garbed in ceremonial combat armour flanked the shuttle pilot, who sized up Hartwell with dissatisfaction. She nodded tightly to him from beneath her peaked cap then doffed it and stowed it under an arm. Her black hair shone with an oily gleam and was scraped back into a severe bun. "Captain," she said, bowing stiffly. It suddenly occurred to Hartwell that she faintly resembled the recently resurrected shark he'd seen on a documentary on the ecology of Old Earth. Her face was all angular planes and jutting edges, and Hartwell idly wondered if she'd ever been on a swimming team. Her hydrodynamics must be off the charts.
"Who is this man, captain?" She asked. "I see no pips. Why is he here?"
Alexandre looked between them with an apologetic air. "Ah. Yes. This is Hartwell. Follows me around like a lost stray, Solaris bless him," she said, as though this were an adequate answer. One of the woman's pencil thin eyebrows arched alarmingly, and Hartwell fancied it rising up, up, up across her domed forehead – to be lost forever to the neat hairline. She caught his vacant gaze, and watched him icily. She sniffed, petite nostrils flaring delicately. Hartwell supressed the urge to gulp, and nervously held out a hand. It was shaken, but the woman's loose, noncommittal grip and flickering stare of distaste made him feel awkward and defensive. Who was this woman, anyway? He felt himself beginning to frown, then panicked as his face knotted in an expression midway between mild irritation and exaggerated graciousness. It was a struggle, but he reasserted control. Best not to piss off a senior pilot flying under Vice Admiral Greyson, even if she was of low rank. After a long while she shrugged, stepped aside, and motioned the pair to the airlock. As they boarded, one of the marines, a towering Rockman, placed a club-like hand on Hartwell's shoulder and stared at him threateningly through eyes as deep and blue as a sapphire. "Me not like you." It rumbled. "Just so's we clear."
"Crysta- uh - perfectly!" Hartwell squeaked. He feared it might crush his head in one craggy fist if he evoked the memory of its long lost ancestors.
There was a silence. "This is good." The hand retreated and Hartwell joined his captain in the shuttle.
The other marine chuckled and punched the Rock playfully on the arm. "Now, Tri, that was unnecessary," the pilot said as she applied a dollop of alcohol gel to her hands from a small clear bottle and rubbed between each finger with clinical precision. "Triko sorry not sorry," the Rockman replied, managing, somehow, to appear smaller despite its impressive bulk. "Ape of name Hartwell make unhappy face at Helga. Triko think Helga is best earthman. Perchance of Triko to rough up Hartwell for making of the funny?" Each phrase came with glacial slowness, and reverberated through Helga's spine. She fought to supress a grin, knowing that the alien would see it as an affirmation. "No Tri, I'm afraid …" No, best to speak more literally. "I order you to leave Hartwell alone, he is with the captain and she obviously likes him. Just as you like me."
"But Triko is of the thinking that Helga not like Hartwell."
"That is not the point. You can't beat someone up just because you dislike them."
Triko rocked sadly on his feet. "Okay boss."
As she boarded and settled into the pilot's chair, Helga heard Triko grumble morosely behind her like a spoiled infant.
She smiled, then initiated the undocking sequence.
The shuttle detached from the Full Monty and manoeuvred to a suitable distance, borne on cones of nitrogen gas. Hartwell watched Orlando 66475's pitted surface spin away from the shuttle from the small viewing screen mounted in their passenger compartment. He'd found a way to sync it up to the shuttle's sensor arrays, and now he and Alexandre could see what the crew could from the control centre. They caught one last fleeting glimpse of the Monty, now half obscured by the chartered planetoid, before the shuttle's primary drive flared to life and they accelerated toward the distant fleet. As it turned out, the quarters only had one single bunk. After Alexandre had lost a best of three round of Rocket Laser Shields, Hartwell had been delegated to the uncomfortable looking armchair anyway. Being a captain certainly had its advantages.
"Well, I'm off to take a sponge bath," Alexandre exclaimed suddenly. "Gotta freshen up!" She stood up from her perch on the edge of the bunk and shook out her hair. "No peeking." Hartwell only nodded. His mouth was suddenly too dry for words. While she was gone, he lay back onto the bunk's soft mattress and decided to tap into the stereo system. After scrolling through several free channels screaming anti-establishment rhetoric into the void, he finally found a local music broadcaster transmitting Funkier Than Light's new hit single: 'Republic of Rhapsody' to anybody who cared to listen. Hartwell leant back, lulled into a light and dreamless sleep. "Beyond the walls of atmosphere, life is defined" crooned Fizzig Sparklez from the speakers. "I think of the ladies when I'm in a space state of mind," he lilted. "A sexy leg is quite the bootleg. Yeah, in a space state of mind," he mewled. Gradually, the syncopated melody, a term used liberally here, faded out with the echoing chorus.
"Moving stuff, eh Ricardo?"
"Yeh. Philosophical. So, what have we lined up next?"
"Well Ricardo, we got us some 'Zero g hanky panky' by the Space Opera and then an exciting interview with Groon McMoom himself!" There was a pause while the speaker made a contented sound and then exhaled languorously. "Wowee! That's the stuff!" There was a click and the speakers fell silent.
Hartwell smiled and turned in his sleep. In his mind's eye, Alexandre stood over him and tucked him beneath a blanket.
"Pleasant forty winks?" Alexandre asked. She was sitting in the armchair opposite the bed, legs crossed, flicking through a fashion magazine on her hand terminal. Hartwell sat up groggily, then experienced a moment of panic as his limbs tangled in a thin duvet that he didn't remember using. "We're about to dock with the Parboiled-Prana," she said, watching him grapple with the inert textile and seemingly lose. Hartwell appeared to come to his senses, escaped the blanket's clutches, and yawned. Freed from the bunk's harness, he began to drift upwards in the microgravity. "Modern music, huh? More like auricular sleep medication." He became apologetic. "Hey, sorry for taking the bed …" He pushed off from the bunk and engaged the mag boots – landing with a light clomp.
"Nah. I wouldn't have used it anyway, not after spending so much time fixing my hair - ha-ha." That's when Hartwell noticed the captain's idea of 'freshening up' was closer to complete cosmetic reinvention. She looked striking with her long amber hair in a half updo, with what looked to be only meagre smatterings of makeup to complement the contours of her face. "The admiral won't approve, of course," she said, as Hartwell fought the urge to stare. "But hey, last I heard an ex was serving as a senior Helmsman in Greyson's fleet and I thought: too good an opportunity to pass! Make the bugger regret what he's missing." She appeared to detect Hartwell's discomfort at this prospect and was about to tell him that the flame between them had long died, and would remain dead, and that he had nothing to worry about on that score, and that even the chances of encountering him were infinitesimally small, when an alert pinged through from the control centre. The shuttle shook slightly as it married the Prana's docking mechanisms, and the cabin vibrated as the little ship was drawn into the behemoth's gut. There was a knock at the cabin doors, and Alexandre opened them remotely with her terminal. The pilot stood to attention behind them and saluted when she saw Alexandre. "Please," the captain said, "do away with the formalities if you prefer."
"No, I don't. I would advise you to observe them aboard Greyson's ship." Fat lot of fun she is, Hartwell thought.
"Please, follow me to the nearest lift – which will deliver you to deck thirteen and Greyson's own private quarters. Your 'lost stray' will have to remain here aboard the Samson, Greyson only requested your audience. I could get him a holo-vid to watch. There might even be popcorn." Hartwell bristled, and before he could speak Alexandre filled the tense silence. "Thank you very much for your … hospitality. Hartwell will remain here, then. Could you please give us a moment?"
The woman bowed stiffly. "Of course, ma'am. Though be brief – the Admiral does not like to wait." Then she turned to Hartwell. The cabin doors whirred shut behind her retreating back.
"No luck strutting around with your ex then," Hartwell said, trying to make light but sounding infantile and jealous even to himself. "Sorry … I didn't mean …"
"No. No, of course not …"
"You look lovely, by the way …"
"Thanks …"
"So-o-o."
She smiled tightly at him. "Thanks for tagging along. Well, shouldn't keep the Scourge of the Stars waiting."
Marie Greyson's quarters aboard the Prana were neatly minimalist, with carefully cultivated house-plants trying admirably to lend a homely air that didn't quite land through the space-efficient austerity. Alexandre ran her hands through a particularly luscious fern as her terminal admitted her within the Admiral's private space, enjoying the feathery sensation on her palm and the back of her hand. Presumably, they were specifically culture to grow well in microgravity. Alexandre's own mother had been involved in spaceborne agriculture. Before she'd died in the epidemic that had all but wiped out the colony. Alexandre was lucky to be alive. The quarters were located near the outer hull, and through the reinforced viewport, which currently had its shutters open, she could see a cruiser and pair of destroyers rehearsing formation. It was mindboggling how the Prana's sheer bulk reduced these sizeable warships to mere flotsam on the astral sea. "Impressive, aren't they?" Alexandre resisted the urge to wheel around, and instead retreated a step, turned unhurriedly and knelt on one knee – bowing low. "Vice Admiral Greyson. It is a rare honour, ma'am."
"Captain Alexandre, you may rise. Before we begin, are you in need of refreshment?"
"A café au lait, please, ma'am."
"Capital." The Admiral stood back and her fingers danced across a well concealed pad in the wall. "Let us be seated, then."
The table was mahogany, likely genuine, and curved in the middle like an oblong peanut shell. On either side of the table, within its small alcove, were a pair of padded benches integrated into the walls. At its centre, a money plant created a little dappled shade on the rich wood with its discus-shaped leaves. "So, captain," the admiral said after a finely polished steward set down their drinks: a café au lait for the captain, and a ginger ale for the Vice Admiral. The beverages were packaged in artistically stylized plastic pouches. "There is much to discuss, though I can see in your eyes that you have a question before we begin."
"Yes," Alexandre replied, "I understand that the series of redeployments is in response to 'subversive elements,' but why summon the Monty? The fleet here seems sufficient to quell this little insurgency, even in light of mantis incursion. What's going on?"
The Admiral leant back. "I'll be blunt, captain. We're stretched thin - a fragile membrane that grows more permeable with very passing day. Do you recognise these markings?" The Admiral touched her hand terminal to a sensor underneath the table and a hidden projector created a series of flickering images. They were crude and unalike in all but one respect: the purple ink and haphazard depictions of tentacled bio-forms. "Ah. The Void Krake Syndicate."
Greyson nodded appreciatively. "Indeed. They've stepped up various activities in the sector – particularly people smuggling and narcotic distribution. But they've also got branches contracted to participate in this 'little insurgency' as you called it. Truth is, we're losing ground. This 'human alliance', as they've now openly branded themselves, has garnered massive support from the more disillusioned members of the populace. Treacherous, anti-fed sentiment is rife out here, and they have powerful friends as a result."
"I see. So you need ships like the Monty for policing. Light skirmishes, interception – that sort of thing?"
"You assume correctly, captain."
"That being the case, you've got the right ship. But this isn't why I'm here personally aboard the Prana, is it?"
"No. Tell me, you were aboard Zavier station during the Arachnid Incident five months ago – I've read the files. Were you aware of a close-quarters engagement in the station's vicinity?"
"No. When I escaped, there wasn't a ship around for thousands of klicks – not that my shuttle had military grade sensors. The jump beacon was hot, though. Perhaps we just missed them."
"Well, captain, an escort registered to Ophelion Prime, captained by one Ambrose Hammersmith, was close to the station on its rounds and approached to investigate. The station's docking mechanisms are disabled, likely sabotage, so the escort dispatches an elite team of highly trained marines to clear out the Xenos."
Alexandre nodded. "Hartwell, my companion, mentioned seeing a destroyed exosuit bearing Ophelian livery."
"The Wicked Curveball, Hammersmith's ship, is then assaulted by an advanced vessel now known to have been operating alongside the human alliance. Presumably the enemy captain intended to capture the vessel and its data cores, but she managed to resist. However, Ophelian space is reeling right now. Those transporters you may have seen on arrival? They've been ferrying refugees from Ophelion for weeks. My guess is they somehow captured a high ranking officer, maybe even Hammersmith himself, and mined them extensively for intel on ship deployments, station locations, garrisons, the lot. They managed to take some pretty key infrastructure out of the equation with precision strikes. Meanwhile, the Curveball never returned."
"So you want us to look for it?"
"Not exactly. We've already contracted other vessels of the Monty's calibre but so far our searches our drawing blanks. It's crucial that those data banks don't fall into the wrong hands, captain. You will be used for hit and run assaults, but keep eyes and ears open for the Curveball all the same."
"Yes ma'am. And the giant spiders? Do you think they were planted?"
"It seems more than likely. We isolated a few specimens, and they didn't match anything in the archives – likely gene-edited." Greyson took a long sip and sighed contentedly. "Another thing, captain. Watch out for Void Krake ships. They're snuffling around like pigs – trying to get their grubby mittens over the Curveball and her secrets. They must not succeed."