Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382

07/22/2183

Chief Colonial Marshal John Coffee rubbed his black hands together angrily stalking around his office. At forty five years old, John perfected the unique scowl of a demoralized career law officer. He bore it now, stoically with a deep cleft in the middle of his chin and a darkly furrowed, ponderous brow. John was six foot four inches tall with a full build. His hair was black as coal, densely textured and uniformly trimmed to about a half-inch length.

A short stack of reports related to the recent attacks against his people littered his desk, all stamped [Official Use Only], [On Loan] and [Classified] by ICSC security. These reports are barely worth the paper they are printed on, he mused with disgust as the knock he expected for over an hour finally rapped against his door.

“Enter!” John growled before Max Shmith, Chief Security Officer of Ashkelon Station appeared in the threshold. Max was fair-skinned of stocky, medium build with plain features and tanned weathered skin burned by long years in the harsh winds and sand of GL-382. He had a high hairline of very short sun-bleached brown hair streaked with grey buzzed tight across his temples. Though close in age to Max, John’s skin was baby smooth, unblemished by wrinkles. Max saw him thus as an ‘indoor animal’; tamed and sheltered and something less of a man.

“You asked to see me John?” Max asked plainly, observing the foul mood of the larger man. John had six inches and forty pounds on him.

“Please sit,” John said curtly, offering nothing in the way of polite small-talk. Max obliged tugging off the jacket of his neatly pressed ICSC security officer’s uniform. The cut and fabric was both military and modern with lightweight panels of body armor embedded across the breasts, kidneys and back. A flexible kevlar weave was also sewn within the inner layer as useful defense against bladed weapons.

Along the length of the shoulders were red epulets featuring four black bars of rank. Instead of buttons the jacket used snaps hidden along the inner seam. Four silver starbursts ran along each stiff collar. The red-over-black flag of the ICSC was embossed and printed on the left breast with the word CHIEF simarly embossed in bright red bold letters across the back.

John’s attire was comparatively old-fashioned. Colonial Marshals wore plain pleated dark grey slacks, a long sleeved blue/grey shirt with golden pins of the eight-pointed Marshals badge on each collar and a plain black tie. His uniform shirt only bore three bars of rank in gold across blue epaulets. Marshals wore polished leather shoes with a plain matching belt. Max wore black combat boots and a tactical belt.

Max draped his jacket across the back of the chair neatly before he sat down. Underneath his uniformed shirt was plainer, though it carried all the same markings of rank. Tucked in a shoulder holster on his left side was the new standard issue Type 7X7 automatic pistol. John could not help to notice it, modeled with a distinctive silver/grey plastic-polymer shell over a lightweight alloy frame.

The sidearm used a unique 7mm case-less ammunition which was electrically fired. Various specialty ammo, such as ‘electro-shock’ stun rounds that disabled the nervous system, ‘tracer-bug’ rounds that embedded tracking chips into living tissue, ‘splat rounds’ that marked the target with chemical dyes, and ‘light-armor-piercing’ rounds useful against body-armor were all recently developed for this new ICSC sidearm; among yet other classified types.

The gun featured a palm-ID scanner preventing unauthorized use. It was even rumored these new pistols had a special mode for fully-automatic fire, best used with an attachable shoulder stock, forward grip and extended clips.

Briefings from the Bureau gave detailed descriptions of ICSC counterparts' gear and firearms, but John wasn't impressed. New Tech Junk was his usual opinion of such things. He kept his .357 service-revolver and gun belt in his top drawer with a small backup automatic on his ankle. It had been a while since he had to use them in the line of duty but he was a crack-shot with both.

“We need to talk about these reports,” John said frostily. “You don’t honestly expect me to be satisfied with these do you?”

Max stiffened, immediately on the defensive, “These reports were my idea. We normally don’t share any details about ongoing investigations.”

“Funny you should say that,” John said leaning forward to glare at Max, palms on his desk. “Details are exactly what’s missing from these reports! All the names of the suspected perps are REDACTED, along with most of their statements. All I learned from reading these is you questioned a dozen suspects, arrested four, and have ‘charges pending judicial sentencing’. I can learn the same SHIT from the station-wide news bulletin!”

Max frowned and started to redden in the face but John was just getting started.

“I actually learned MORE about these cowardly attacks from every other source at my disposal! One detail in particular really irked me Max, any idea what that might be?”

Max looked tense and unhappy, saying nothing.

“Rumor is these attacks were sponsored by a group called the Red Triad,” John finished.

Max sighed, at last at the limit of his own self-restraint. “Surely you’ve heard of the Triads before?” he quizzed with an undertone of sarcasm.

“I have had briefings. Every Marshal does,” John answered coolly. “They are a coordinated criminal syndicate operating above the law within the ICSC, serving as corporate assassins, thugs and information brokers.”

“Ok then,” Max said spreading his hands.

“Ok WHAT?!” John roared.

“We’ll get nowhere investigating the Triad. Our laws…”

“Actually I’ve been studying up on your laws,” John cut in. “I haven’t found anything dictating that members of a Triad cannot be questioned or arrested.”

Max squirmed, near the end of his patience, “It’s not as simple as that!”

John was still vexed but his tone was calmer now, “So educate me?”

Max took in a measured breath, “I respect that you want justice for your people. I am doing all that I can. The reason these reports are redacted is the same reason going after the Triad is so difficult. Everything goes through the corporate lawyers for approval. What they let me put in a report or follow through with as a plan of action is all measured against risk-management, cost-effectiveness and complicated policies. My hands are tied with red tape.”

John took a moment to mull this over. It was more or less the explanation he expected. Ashkelon station was a joint project funded by the Jĭngtì Lóng Corporation and Technion Interstellar, two of the largest founding members of the Central Space Consortium. The Jĭngtì Lóng Corporation was primarily a weapons developer with further interests in extra solar colonization, exploration and various other technical and financial enterprises. By reputation they were the most aggressive and best-armed of the founding members of the CSC. Corporate espionage, sabotage, assassinations and other acts of destabilization against business rivals were common tactics. Criminal organizations, such as the Triads, were used in secret to maintain a pretense of deniability.

John’s concern at this moment was exactly this possibility but he needed hard evidence and some idea for a motive before he could report it to his superiors. Suspicions and rumors wouldn't be enough to warrant an evacuation. There was too much political pressure for this venture to succeed. Damn the politics! John groaned inwardly.

“Do you have any evidence that the Red Triad are behind the attacks?” John asked watching Max intently.

Max answered carefully, “Look, John, I came here as a show of respect. Chief-to-chief. Believe it or not your safety, like everyone else on this station, is my responsibility. I understand why you are so insistent but frankly I am at the end of my patience with pestering and complaints. If you want me to level with you, I need to know you will hear my advice; lawman-to-lawman.”

John resisted the urge to scoff at the mans nerve. This was still progress towards cooperation and he shouldn’t throw it back in his face, “Alright, Max, I am listening. One chief-to-another.”

“I don’t believe the Triad acted directly in the attack. If they had, your people would be in body-bags.”

“That’s comforting,” John remarked. “So what was their involvement then?”

“The witnesses and the evidence I have indicate the suspects were merely, encouraged, by the Triad.”

“Encouragement is just another word for conspiracy where I’m from.”

Max smirked ruefully, “But it’s harder to prove isn’t it? So far as I could gather from our interrogations and investigations into the suspects’ financials, no direct bribes were made and no direct orders were given.”

“What about their guns, bombs and acts of sabotage?!” John asked.

“We have no laws against firearms in the ICSC,” Max answered matter-of-factly. “Anyone who can afford a permit can own one. Not everyone on the station who carries a gun took a shot at your people have they? As for the bombs and acts of sabotage, we take that very seriously indeed. Anyone who threatens the integrity of the space station in such a callous and careless way will be punished severely.”

“So what happens to them? What’s the bottom line?”

“They will get their due process. The bottom line is there will be steep fines. Those convicted will have to settle that debt one way or another. We don’t waste resources with simple incarceration in the ICSC. Those fit for hard-labor will serve out sentences in a prison-camp; like the one we have down on Temple. Elsewise they may be assigned duties elsewhere as befits their age, training and experience. Judges will determine the best punishment to recoup the costs on our society. This is how the scales of justice are balanced in the ICSC.”

“Sounds rosy!” John grunted.

“It isn’t!” Max argued. “I worked as a guard at Temple’s prison camp for sixteen years. It’s no picnic.”

“So why attack us in the first place? Why suffer the consequences if the punishments are so harsh as you’ve describe?” John wondered aloud pulling out his chair. All his pacing, shouting and posturing had finally started to tire him out. “We are no threat to you. Ultimately we have no authority to imprison your people.”

Max shrugged, “For some of em it’s personal. Marshals make a lot of enemies and everyone out here hates the ICC.”

John almost laughed, “So I’ve noticed. You know if I was going by the book an ICC Agent would be here with us right now, but I figured you might be less forthcoming if I followed standard protocol. That’s why I asked you to come by so late, after-hours.”

Max smiled, “I think we can both agree it’s better if we keep this simple. Chief-to-chief, off-the-record and after-hours is best for now.”

“You said earlier you had some advice for me? Off-the-record.”

Max leaned forward looking John directly in the eyes, “This was just a poke, a prod to see how quickly the snake coils up and rattles its tail. The Triad wants you to be nervous and wary, off-balance and jumpy. You may not be an actual threat but they still think of your presence as a challenge to their territory. They would like nothing better than to chase you off with a few random acts of violence.”

John folded his hands. As he leaned back the old office chair squeaked loudly. Nothing about this makeshift headquarters was well kept up to his usual standards. The whole enterprise of placing a Colonial Marshals Bureau Office on Ashkelon Station felt rushed and poorly managed. These offices were hastily renovated from a rundown shop close to the spaceport. He’d actually had to put down rat-traps!

“Ok I get the message, but there has to be a point made that the Triads can’t prompt attacks against my people with impunity! Surely your corporate lawyers understand they have more to lose if the Triads succeed in chasing us off.“

“They certainly do. Ignore what you see with the protests and public outcry. The ICSC is not a free democracy. Public opinion does not sway policy anymore than the rash and willful acts of the Triads.”

“Sounds like the Triads are trying to play both sides? They stir up public disorder just as much as they serve as corporate lapdogs.”

“The Triads serve themselves. They take money from anyone who pays them but their first priority is to protect their own interests. Towards that end they use anyone and any means at their disposal. Drunks, addicts, the broke and the desperate are their usual surrogates. They get them under their thumb with drugs, threats, blackmail or worse.”

John was starting to relax; he could sense Max was a reasonable man in a difficult position, same as he. That wasn’t to say he was satisfied with the situation, not at all, but in order to make the best of it he had to gather information and plan his next move.

“Can I interest you in a drink?” John asked pulling out a bottom drawer of his desk. Inside was a bottle of Jameson and two glasses.

“Please!” Max agreed.

“You say you worked as a guard on Temple’s prison camp? Is that how you came to be so familiar with the Triad?”

“Yes in large part,” Max said taking hold of the offered glass. “I was a guard for twelve years and deputy-warden for four years after that. You come to learn a lot about the prisoners and their past. Not all of em deserve to be there.”

“That’s an interesting point. Do you feel you are in a better position here to help them avoid making the same mistakes?”

Max looked conflicted, “Yes and no. I do what I can, but this job is not what I imagined it would be. Whatever efficacy I gained by rank and authority I have lost in other ways. I can’t set my own agenda, nor focus on any one thing at once. At times I feel spread thin and overwhelmed. I’m sure you can relate?”

John’s scowl returned for a moment as he took a sip of the Irish whiskey, “Indeed I can. But let’s imagine for a minute that we are our own masters. How do we keep the peace?”

“Well first of all, the problem isn’t with the peace-keepers is it? No one on my payroll wants any harm come to your people, and I am sure your feel the same about mine. The issue we have is the perception that you and the ICC are here to make things worse for us. So long as they believe that, my people will also see us as failing in our job to keep them safe. That’s why residents here have lashed out against you. They feel obligated to take up arms in defense of their own livelihoods. The Triad takes advantage of that attitude.”

“I don’t disagree. What do you suggest?”

“Let’s have our men and women start patroling together. People should see us working together to keep the peace, not just separate-but-equal the way it is now. If your deputies can make a good impression helping an ICSC security officer, that is the best deterrent against violence against your people. Wouldn’t you agree?”

John frowned thoughtfully, “I don’t have nearly so many men and women as you do. Even if my superiors agree to this I won’t order one of my deputies’ to risk their life on patrol for the sake of public relations. That being said, one or two may be willing to volunteer for this as a special-assignment. That I can live with.”

“Ok then, let’s leave it at that for now,” Max said rising handing back his empty glass. ”Let me know what your superiors say. I will do likewise.”

John stood and extended his hand. Max accepted it.

“Thank you for coming by. I think we can do well working together.”

“I hope so,” Max said sincerely turning to take his leave. As he reached the door and slipped on his uniform jacket John called out to him.

“Max. I have some advice for you too. Off-the-record.”

“Oh?” Max asked.

“I better not hear any more talk of the Red Triad going after my people. Setup a meeting with those sons-of-bitches and I’m happy to tell em myself!”

Max nodded, Not such a tamed animal after all.

___

Wade Barrett listlessly flicked ashes off his cigarette into a half-eaten carton of chow mein. The spacecraft engineers-assistant was sitting sideways on the couch, one leg stretched out on the other armrest, the other folded over it. His fingers were thin, rough, stained and textured with scars and fresh cuts. His right elbow rested atop the seat back, hand dangling down from the sleeve of his engineering jumpsuit.

Wade was twenty eight years old and quite lanky. His appearance was generally shabby and unkempt with remnants of stubble on a rather naive and youthful looking face. Wade didn't bother cutting his hair, just pulled it all back into a shaggy knot tied with a cord. His wardrobe never fit quite right either hanging loosely about his limbs. Even the laces on his scuffed steel toed boots weren’t strung through the eyelets properly. Wade didn’t care. His entire persona was bored and world-weary.

“You ever gonna light that fucking thing?” he asked his former captain seated across the low table.

“When the time is right,” Reese Castle answered in a deep, confident voice biting down on his cigar briefly with emphasis on the last ‘t’. Between his lips a pair of faux-gold capped teeth flashed briefly within his brown face. Around his mouth and along his broad jaw a low-trimmed beard peppered with grey squared off his broad jaw.

His hairline was high, cut low above a broad forehead. Though his hair was still black his eyebrows were streaked with grey. Reese was forty two, but in most ways looked healthier than Wade. Everything about him looked neat and in order. On his collar was the silver spacecraft engineer pin, bordered in gold, indicating his high level of experience and expertise.

Wade was Reese’s personal assistant-tech and former crew mate. The unlikely pair had been business partners for so long it just made sense to keep them working together here on the station. Besides that, nether one of em got along so well with anyone else. Reese generally scared the shit out of people and Wade never shut up.

“And when will that be?” Wade responded lazily echoing the mood inside their shared quarters. In the corner, a flickering vid-screen played an old movie.

“When we get the Casimir back,” Reese answered with a tone that was half mischief and half certainty.

Wade snorted, “Yeah sure. You’ll chew that thing to dust before that happens.”

“Is that so? Let me show you something,” Reese remarked placing his cigar on the edge of the table before rising slowly from his recliner. At his full height Reese was a bear of a man with arms like a power loader. His engineering jumpsuit had to be custom-tailored to fit his great frame. No one ever saw him as a pushover no matter how calm and quiet he seemed to be. Wade knew him better than most, perhaps best. One thing he knew for certain was Reese never had to back down from anyone, or anything.

After standing Reese reached down and flipped the cushion off his recliner unzipping it. Something the size of a small briefcase was stuffed inside wrapped in a pillow case. Wade’s interest was piqued as he straightened up into a normal seating position. From within the pillow Reese removed a military-grade weather-proofed armored laptop.

“Holy shit is that what I think it is?” Wade asked staring.

“It is,” Reese said pushing aside old food and empty beer cans to make room for the Portable Remote Pilot Uplink Terminal. Together they shared a smile as Reese picked up his cigar and replaced the cushion back on his recliner.

“Fuck yeah!” Wade said reaching over to flip the lid open on smooth aluminum-alloy hinges. Besides the water/scratch resistant display screen was a miniature keyboard mimicking a standard piloting console, complete with a piloting joystick. “How did you find one of these?"

"I bartered for it with someone in the Triad."

"I’m sure it didn’t come cheap, even for a former captain,” Wade added with a smirk.

“Who you calling ‘former’ captain?!.” Reese said with a huff placing his cigar into his jumpsuit pocket before flicking off a bottle cap off another beer effortlessly with just his thumb. “I’ve still got a commercial captains license. Updated and paid in full.”

Wade shook his head skeptically, “How did you manage that after what The Company did?”

“The Company can go fuck itself!” Reese grunted angrily. He’d never forgive them for repossessing his beloved ship. “Why do you think we came out here? A commercial captains license comes cheap in the fringes of the ICSC. Men with our experience hauling cargo for The Company are in high demand, despite a few blemishes are on our ICC record.”

Wade stubbed out his smoke and popped his knuckles, something he always did when he was actually excited, “So how do we make this thing work? Doesn’t it require a direct connection with an uplink tower?”

Reese nodded, “I’m still working on that problem but I’ve already coded it for the Apollo AI on the Casimir. Once it arrives and were patched into an uplink I can direct Apollo from the station.”

Wade frowned, “What about the current crew? Can’t those assholes override it? What if they’ve changed the access codes? It’s been almost a year.”

Reese shook his head, “Not possible. I’ve rigged that mainframe up with redundant memory buffers and high level encryption overrides. They can change those codes as many times as they want. My original master codes cannot be erased. For now they sit dormant until I activate them again. The only way to change that is to replace Apollo’s core and most of the ship-board consoles. The company would rather scrap the whole ship than perform an expensive overhaul like that. Besides, they shouldn’t have had any reason to suspect Apollo’s systems have been altered anyway.”

Wade looked thoughtful. The man sometimes had a valid point to make despite his crass personality, “What else can you do with Apollo? We still have to get that other crew off the ship before we steal it back.”

“That’s easy,” Reese said taking a drought from his beer. “I can rig up false alarms, equipment malfunctions, life-support failure… hell, I can probably decompress the whole ship and vent the other crew into space.”

“Whoa!” Wade exclaimed taken aback.

Reese remained icy calm, “It’s not personal, it’s just business.”

“Were not murderers!”

Reese sighed, “Do you really wanna keep living in this shit can? We’ll never make the kind of money we used too while we were hauling freight for Weyland Yutani unless we do whatever it takes to get my ship back.”

“Maybe not, but I won’t be party to killing anyone, I refuse.”

“I’ve seen you do it before old friend,” Reese prodded. “You’ve pulled the trigger many times. Compared to that crazy shit this should be easier.”

A deadly serious look fell over Wade, of stark contrast to his usual casual indifference, “I don’t need to be reminded. That shit… takes a toll.” He said dolefully reaching for another cigarette. “I’m done with death!” He stated with finality.

A static silence formed between them, offset by faint voices off the vid screen and a rattling ventilation fan somewhere overhead in the duct work. Unspoken, the memory of that dangerous obsession which left Wade strung out on drugs and booze on a path to certain self-destruction returned like bile in his throat. The fact Wade kept silent for nearly two minutes was proof enough how bothered he was.

“Look,” Reese said finally. “Your right. I’m an asshole, I apologize. We’re a couple space-truckers who make a little extra on the side. That’s all this partnership is supposed to be about.”

Wade nodded as he lit another smoke seemingly relaxed again and satisfied with the apology, “I hear what you’re saying. We need to get the Casimir back, but we need to do it smart and do it careful. We fuck this up, there are no more second chances for either of us,” he said flatly.

“Well I’m gonna need your skills old friend. You’re a people-person.”

Wade hmphed, “People person... sure. I suppose when compared to an obstinate, introverted ogre like you I'm Frank Sinatra.”

“Fuck you!” Reese retorted, “The Company drained me dry of all my stock investments. I lost everything, including my ship, while still in hypersleep! Can you blame me for being a little grumpy?”

Waded nodded tapping away fresh ashes, “I remember, we both woke up in that nightmare together, but technically you could never prove any wrongdoing. Even after you called for an ICC investigation.”

“That’s because the ICC is owned by the fucking Company.” Reese stated sardonically. “Ever heard the expression ‘asking the fox to guard the hen house?’”

Wade frowned. He knew the difference between facts and beliefs. More importantly, he was trained to identify and isolate the truth behind motives in order to extract information and predict behavior.

Looking at his former captain now reaffirmed how shrewd, stubborn and determined Reese was. He didn’t hold the moral high-ground, and usually didn’t, but business wasn’t about morals. Especially the business of getting back what was his.

Suddenly a station-wide announcement patched through the PA system.

…Attention, unclassified vessel approaching Ashkelon Station. Priority-Alpha docking status. Access to all decks.

“Hmm, wonder what that’s about?” Wade wondered aloud. “Is this gonna fuck up the work schedule again?”

“Probably,” Reese shrugged sipping his beer.

Wade looked at his pile of empty cans with evident self-pity, “Fuck me I’m out.”

“Looks like it,” Reese agreed. “Wanna get outta here?”

“Depends, you buyin?” Wade asked narrowing his eyes.

“I suppose. It’s the least I can do after asking you to murder strangers in cold blood.”

“That’s true!” Wade agreed hopping off the couch heading for his closet. “Let’s go to Dizzy’s!”

Reese groaned, “If you insist. Now I gotta change too.” Reese said putting the Remote Uplink Terminal back in its hiding spot.

Meanwhile, as Wade removed his jumpsuit, a United States Colonial Marines tattoo was visible just below his left shoulder. Not so long ago, Wade Barrett once held the rank of Second Lieutenant as an intel and interrogation specialist.