CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Horizon crew were speechless. Ranna sat slumped against the rear doors with Tugg, puffing away on a cigar whilst staring at the ceiling with a contemplative gaze. El was preoccupied with the navigation charts on the Holo-display, trying to figure out where they could lay low and wait for the gathered naval forces to disperse.

There was always some fresh crisis to draw their attention. A war brewing between rival factions or a newly discovered material to monopolize, the navy never stayed put for long. Any opportunity to tighten their stranglehold on the galaxy would trump Kaligan's retrieval.

Soran shot up from his bench, coughing to draw attention to himself. No one so much as flinched. Again he coughed, louder and less subtly than before. Ranna returned from his daydream, and even Tugg craned what little neck he possessed in curiosity.

“It's my turn,” Soran said to Ranna, keeping his eyes wide to avoid nervous blinking.

“What?”

“You said after Kaligan we would search for Lanic. It's my turn.”

Ranna maintained his confused expression. He had no idea what the boy meant and assumed he'd taken a few too many bumps to the head during their mission.

“What’s Lanic?” Said Ranna, scratching the side of his nose and picking at his teeth, clearly uninterested in the reply. He was still mired in the predicament of what to do with Kaligan. Palming him off onto Veng had been very clearly removed from the table, and parties interested in the severed head of a Pirate-Lord were few and far between.

“He's my friend!” Soran replied aggressively, a scowl of frustration pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“After Kaligan we will find information on your friend. That's what you said and I’m holding you to it.” The boy stood his ground. Almost four days had passed since he had been plucked from the Horizon and he wasn't about to give up on Lanic. Not ever.

“Okay okay, relax kid. I'm a man of my word, mostly. So if I said I'd do it, then I'll do it. Valaterra was the one-stop shop for information but, luckily for you, the Dahlia is close by. I just happen to know a guy who specializes in the whereabouts of ‘people of interest’.” Ranna said rubbing his fingers together as if he had just hit the jackpot.

“Good” Soran replied, maintaining his tough-guy facade. He knew that without some persuading Ranna would never have volunteered to help in the first place.

Over his short stay as the crews captive, he had learned that their captain was a selfish man, preoccupied with his own goings-on and apathetic to most everything else. Soran had also witnessed another side to the man. A nocturnal, timid side that would appear only when it thought no one was looking. Although reticent to describe it as kind, he knew that appealing to Ranna's word was something that not even the self-centered Captain could deny.

The boy returned to his bench, proud that he stood up for himself and, in all honesty, shocked that his bravado had gone unquestioned. If he was going to survive in their word, acting in a manner that felt unnatural would need to become second nature. Having lived in the relative safety of the Hyacinth for his entire life, being flung into the chaos of the outside had forced a choice upon him. Would he linger in the grasp of inaction, unable to protect himself or anyone else? Or would he break free from its hold and embrace the uncertainty, tackling the chaos head-on in a constant dance of adaptation.

The tinny chime of the navigation system grabbed everyone's attention.

“Looks like we're close,” said El, tinkering with the console.

“Going through the main gate isn't an option. Take us down and look for an open maintenance tunnel.” Ranna replied, sitting next to her and analyzing the Dahlia’s schematics for himself.

The Dahlia was one of the Hyacinth's sister stations and was designed to be almost identical. Affixed to a similar-sized asteroid, the only major differences were the name and those that called it home. A reputation for being more tolerant of pirates stigmatized the Dahlia. The station staff choosing to turn a blind eye to most all illicit goings-on. If any 'questionable' goods were to scuttle their way through the station's seedy thoroughfares they would be dutifully ignored, for a price that is. The Navy, being fully aware of this fact, had decided not to intervene for the time being. When it came to enforcing the law, the profit generated by the station was substantial enough to warrant a little leniency on their part. As long as the money continued to flow they would steer clear and the Dahlia would remain a hub of felonious enterprise. This lack of Naval intervention made the station the perfect hideout. Caution was still advisable as all docked vessels would be subject to scans. A record of their visit would doubtless be flagged by the station's systems and was something to be avoided at any cost.

After vigilantly stalking the lower sections of the station for the better part of an hour, the Horizon discovered an open maintenance tunnel. Stations would periodically open the tunnels to expel waste and cycle out pollutants built up by the Nano-Diesel. Today was their lucky day.

El took the ship in, following the fetid pipes to an expansive docking port. It had once been purposed as a boarding station for a now-defunct tram system. The Horizon docked on the abandoned tracks, nestling between the shells of dust-soaked tram carts still haunted the rails. The crew emerged into the dusty decay, protected by the clear film mask of their suits. Decades of abandonment were evident. The floors and walls were checkered by missing tiles that would have once filled the area with a pristine mirrored shine. Light fixtures sat empty, and the metal entrance gates hung open like the broken wings of a bird, pinned in place by piles of rubble. Raucous discourse from the levels above ricocheted its way through the network of defunct piping; The nefarious scheming petering out into little more than a hum by the time it reached the hunters. Proceeding through the haunting landscape, Soran noticed something which filled him with the warmth of nostalgia. It was a poster from back when the space station project first launched. Back when the Navy was encouraging the drifter colonies to settle on their new beacons of civilization. An outreached hand holding a stem, attached to a brilliant flower in bloom. ‘A new life awaits’ emblazoned in golden type beneath the image.

“Some life,” scoffed Soran. His sarcastic tone brought to the surface an element of frustration that had been growing within him since he could remember. The station's denizens were barely able to scrape by. Monotonous labor was assigned to them upon arrival for which a meager ration of credit slates would be doled out as compensation each month. No one thrived on these rust buckets and most died just as poor as when they'd arrived, leaving behind a mountain of debt to their ill-equipt families. At least they were safe. It was the only thought that gave them solace. It was a reason not to return to the colonies, to trade their safety for autonomy. The stations gave them protection from the horror show that had become of a once prosperous and plentiful galaxy. Soran hadn't decided whether the sacrifice of his freedom was worth what protection the Navy could provide. After all, Malig had waltzed onto the Hyacinth and almost killed him; the event illustrating just how protected he really was. Despite this close encounter, witnessing the barbarity that lay beyond the Hyacinth for himself had him questioning the true value of his freedom.

A rough shake stirred the boy back into the breezy hub of interconnected tunnels.

“Eyes open,” Ranna said as the four of them piled into a cargo elevator. Ascending to the main deck, Soran felt a smile creep onto his face. This was it. He was going to save Lanic.

Remaining inconspicuous was the name of the game on the Dahlia. Although the Navy's presence was lacking, they had eyes and ears everywhere. There was no telling who was on the government payroll, so keeping their faces hidden was mandatory. There were plenty of species that found the atmosphere of the station inhospitable so seeing residents and visitors maintaining their space-ware was not uncommon.

Lock-bolts clamped into place and the elevator came to an abrupt stop. The wire cage screeched open, a painful reminder of its underutilization. Soran was greeted with the familiar layout he had grown accustomed to on the Hyacinth. The Dhalia however was a loathsome simulacrum of the place he remembered. The noise and stench seemed to be locked in an eternal struggle to overpower one another; the amalgamation concocting a repulsive, airborne stew. Bar’s, hideouts, bunkers, and various stalls selling every form of contraband imaginable were stacked on top of each other; huge towers propped up by questionably constructed scaffolding. The entire area crawled with pirates and other such undesirables. Bounty hunters, mercenaries, and plain old criminals mingled amongst one another in a sea of villainy. Every square inch was blanketed in the flags representing the various Pirate-Lords. Invisible lines had carved the Dahlia into lawless heavens for those loyal to one Lord or another. Unsurprisingly, rivalries between the clans were inevitable. Each group vying to impose their rule on the others, jostling to expand their spheres of influence and profit. The golden toothed jaw flew high on one of the taller towers. Soran tensed as they strolled past, knowing what the crew would do to them if they learned of the cargo currently stowed away on the Horizon.

Ranna danced through the bustling crowds, head down in an attempt to remain unnoticed. Tugg, however, couldn't help but stand out; His wide frame and towering silhouette drawing a fair bit of interest. Due to the Accran's reluctance to leave their home planet of Accrakos, seeing one in the flesh was a rare sight for most but all were aware of their prowess in battle. Any pirate crew would pay a tidy sum to have an Accra fight alongside them.

After passing through the main concourse without incident, they proceeded to the lower decks and descended several sets of stairs until reaching a grandiose vault door. Over a dozen locks of various designs embellished a thick steel rim, which fanned out in a series of braided rings. Ranna flicked open a panel in the center of the door and pressed his face close to the identification panel. A think green line slithered across his eyes and over the bridge of his nose. Upon identity confirmation, a silken voice purred through the panel's speaker.

“Ranna! Nice to see you old friend. You know the deal.” A slot opened underneath the scanning apparatus and Ranna reluctantly inserted two credit slates which contained more cash than he was comfortable parting with. The locks began to deactivate one by one. Some were sliding bolts, others clasps. The largest of them were mag-locks, one affixed to either side. A whirring chorus of machinery filled the air as the circular door spun inward anticlockwise and ascended to reveal the cramped bazaar inside.

Countless trinkets, weapons, and jars, filled with indescribable lifeforms. Row upon row of congested shelving framed the domed hovel. Surrounded by its impressive collection sat Ranna’s acquaintance, the key to Soran's reunion with Lanic.

The boy had never seen a creature quite like the one staring back at him. Like most beings in the galaxy, it occupied a humanoid form, though it was clear that its evolutionary path had not long diverted from a serpentine ancestry. A fleshy hood rose from its neck, ending just above the holes where ears would be expected. Layers of rusty scales coated the being's face, obscuring a fanged smile in rose-tinted shadow. It sat with a taloned foot perched on its knee, its long barbed tail lay draped along the ground. Soran looked down and saw a plump, violet Caterpillar curled up on the alien's lap. It generated a gargled purr as its masters' scaled fingers caressed its pimpled flesh.

The alien rose gracefully from its antique stool, offering a hand of greeting to the hunters. It matched Ranna in height but was far leaner than the stocky Captain. As it walked to greet them its hood receded into its plated neck and a pair of flaxen, crescent moon eyes came into clear view.

“Been a while, hasn't it Ranna.” The words shuddering along the length of a forked tongue, hidden behind perpetually pursed lips. The sound of its voice had El and Soran exchanging uneasy glances.

“Etch. You know I'd stop by more often, but my face has a habit of starting fights in these parts,” Ranna said, holding up his forearm and slamming it against that of his reptilian friend.

“I assume you're not here to check on my health?” Etch asked, eager to dispatch with the pleasantries. He knew that Ranna was not one for showing his face unless he needed something.

“I’m interested in the location of a ship and was wondering if you might be of assistance.”

“And which ship might that be?” Etch inquired.

Ranna paused before he answered, knowing the implications of what he was about to say.

“The Bassalark.”

The tone of the room changed once those words were uttered. Etch’s expression shifting from intrigue to concern.

“Well, pointless to ask why. I’m sure you are well aware of what awaits you on this path.” Etch replied, relaxing back onto his stool and activating his console. Three holographic rings surrounded him and he began to cycle through digital representations of what appeared to be all known vessel's in the galaxy.

Soran wondered how someone outside the galactic government came to possess such intricate knowledge of the galaxy's space-faring traffic, though he had learned better than to ask.

“This what you're looking for?” Etch asked, expanding the image of the Raven black ship, her sculpted hull no less grotesque even at a miniature scale. The screaming faces of burning bodies decorated the vessel's hull, a design choice that would have shocked Soran in the past. However, after his encounter with the demon in command, he could think of no finer representation of its Lord.

“Last seen in crossing through the Vadic bridge. Looks like Malig was on his way to the Naval HQ. I wonder why?” Etch said, continuing to fondle his pudgy larval friend.

“Malig is currently at his majesty's pleasure. Most likely deep in the bowels of the Hive by now,” Ranna replied with raised eyebrows. Suddenly, a rattle on the vault door drew everyone's attention and the shuffle of boots could be heard outside. Ranna turned back to Etch, a furious glare burned onto his face.

“This had better be a joke.”

“Things have changed old friend.” Etch typed in a command to his console and four images were projected onto the domed ceiling. Wanted posters, one for each of them.

The bounties were astronomical.

Stares of disbelief overtook the hunters, baffled at their naive waltz into such an obvious trap. Ranna slammed his fist into the locking mechanism. The multitude of latches and bolts jolted back into position, securing the hunters inside.

“Millions Ranna, millions of credits. You would have done the same. After all, it's how guys like us operate.” Etch said as the voices of Naval officers could be heard preparing to breach the door. Ranna locked eyes with his former friend, unable to take the moral high ground. The scale of their bounties rivaled that of the Pirate-Lords themselves. Ranna had to admit, there was little he wouldn't do to acquire such an immense fortune.

The hunters huddled together, preparing themselves for what was about to burst through the door. They were cornered with nowhere to go. With each successive thud, the vault steel that protected them grew weaker and any grains of hope that remained were slowly slipping away.