Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382

07/22/2183

Once they reached a crawl way exit near the street market, Keren paused to look back at Sheren. Sheren lifted a palm to shield her eyes from the bright beam of the headlight as Keren spoke.

“We won't be able to walk around looking like this,” Keren stated taking note of the bloody state of Sheren's uniform. Keren had smears of blood across her face and through her hair. She also had no shoes on. “We need to clean up and disguise our appearance first thing.” Sheren nodded as Keren handed over the wad of bills. “Hold this! If we get separated, don't waste time. Go directly for the shuttle understood?”

“Yes,” Sheren said with evident fatigue.

“One more thing, avoid drawing attention. Keep your head covered. We don't know if security is under orders to arrest us or not. It is best to avoid them and any security cameras as best we can.”

“Right, I get it.” Sheren acknowledged.

Keren reached up and opened the crawl way trap door. Exiting the hatch from inside was easy. For safety reasons there was no lock on the inner latch. Getting back inside was more tricky. Each crawl way door had an electronic ID key lock. Only authorized station maintenance/repair technicians could access the crawl ways using their ID badge. As a spacecraft technician Keren did not have one. Once they crawled out they would not be able to get back in. Leaving the trap door open or jamming the lock mechanism somehow was tempting, but pointless. A silent alarm would soon alert station security to investigate if the hatch was not shut and allowed it lock itself again.

Some clever thieves and smugglers were known to create fake ID keys to get inside the crawl ways, but this trick wasn't guaranteed to work. All entries and exits were logged by Executor and cross-checked against maintenance schedules and repair orders. Personnel with no known reasons to be in the crawl ways were flagged and security was alerted.

Keren jerked open the latch and pushed up on the heavy hatch. It squeaked loudly on old hinges. The ambient lighting and sounds of the street market above were unmistakable. Keren paused to peek her head out at the floor level before committing to lifting her feet up the rungs of the short ladder. Even at this late hour, the market was always crowded. From her vantage point at the end of a small, shadowed alleyway between two shops she watched people milling around. Like usual. So far so good, she thought clambering out.

“Just a minute!” She spoke down to Sheren handing down the headlight to her again. Sticky, filthy residue clung to her bare feet as she moved towards the end of the narrow alley. Despite being one of the largest open areas on the whole station, everything in the street market was crowded and built small. Only the ceiling was high enough to be obscured from sight, hazy in smoke from dozens of grills and old fashioned cooking woks. Smoke from the market was vented out into space rather than clogging the air filters and attempting to recycle it. A small price to pay for the advantages of business done the old way.

Suddenly the voice of executor made an announcement over the loud speakers.

…Attention. Emergency! Fire at Dizzy's Club. Attention. Emergency! Fire at Dizzy's Club.

The message repeated four times before it stopped. Executor did not continue with instructions for evacuation and the Emergency warning lights flared yellow, indicating it was a localized event, not likely to cause widespread damage or endanger the whole station. If it was more serious the flashers would change to orange, or worst of all, red.

Keren wasn't sure why what just happened was only being reported as a fire, it was far worse! Gunfire and mass casualties warranted a red alarm. Executor should be instructing everyone to return to their quarters, lock their doors and leave the corridors empty for security personnel to search and secure the entire level. Nothing about this made sense. It made her fists clench in anger. The only positive to this false-alarm, although Keren refused to think of anything related to this tragedy as a positive, was that they usually didn't shut any security doors or close the shuttle ports for a yellow alarm. The way should still be clear.

Cautiously, Keren slunk up to the edge of the alleyway and took a peek around. Lighting around the market was subdued, made up of strings of paper lamps hanging from the rooftops and across the streets. On the street corners were taller, brighter, modern street lamps, upon which fire extinguishers, communications terminals and surveillance cameras were placed. Other than that, the rest of the structures were highly old fashioned. Here it was still possible to buy live goats, chickens, pigs, and other exotic animals. GL-382 was best known for its thriving livestock trade. Ashkelon Station sold a fair percentage of those animals right here in the market.

Searching from face to face and person to person Keren did not see any signs of trouble waiting for her among the crowds. The market stirred with hundreds of people purveying wares from dozens of small shops, same as usual. The alarm raised a few eyebrows, she heard mentions and comments about it but for now it was business as usual. Karen was pleased to see there was a public restroom across the street from the alley and a few clothing shops close by. They would need to hurry, the shuttle port was still a bit of a walk on the far side of the market. She returned to the hatch and gestured for Sheren to come up.

As they shut the hatch behind her an An LCD readout on the hatch keypad flashed, SWIPE ID, SWIPE ID, SWIPE ID, repeating as a red light blinked. Nothing we can do about that, Keren thought. So long as they were away from here before any security teams showed up they would avoid any trouble.

Given that Sheren's clothes were much bloodier than hers, Keren opted to remove her jacket and place it around Sheren's shoulders before they exited the alleyway. Together they stepped across the street, shoulder-to-shoulder, Kerens arm around her younger sister. They looked beat up, exhausted and pissed off, but at least they had each other to lean on. That was enough to deter curious bystanders from stepping over to ask questions.

Once inside the restroom they wasted no time scrubbing blood from their hands, faces and hair. The gruesome chore was done in grim silence. This was not a moment of sisterly bonding they wanted to remember. That done, they each retreated to a separate stall for a few minutes to themselves. Sheren found the photo and the folded paper in Keren's jacket pocket. She couldn't help but take a peek.

The photo was at least twenty years old, taken shortly after Dizzy first opened his club. Guo and Dizzy had their arms wrapped over each others shoulders, grinning broadly, holding beers. They were never officially business partners, but they might as well have been. Guo watched over the place and helped with security. He even moonlighted as a bartender on occasion.

The folded paper was written in his own hand, but in traditional chinese characters or Hanzi. Sheren was taught to speak, read and write Chinese, same as Keren, but she was never so disciplined as her older sister to take it seriously. Her eyes squinted as she wracked her brain to remember what the characters meant. The stress of everything else on her mind did not make it easier, but she managed.

Dear daughter,

If you are reading this, your life is in danger. I wish I was there to protect you but I know you can fend for yourself. Speak to the old woman in the market and you will understand why I left without saying a word. Make up your own mind about what you want to do next, but I ask that you give your sister and your mother the same chance I did. Do not tell them anything, for if you do, they will never be safe again.

Love, Guo

Sheren felt tears falling unto the page as she started sobbing again. What the hell was wrong with her father?! Only now did she know for a fact that he left on purpose. That realization broke her heart. He might be alive, even now, but so what? He abandoned his family. Everything fell apart after he disappeared. Regardless of the fact they were already divorced, their mother grieved so strongly she ended up in a hospital. When it was clear she was not getting well the debts piled up and they lost their family home. Now she and Keren worked as hard as possible on Ashkelon Station just to make sure their mother received the care she needed back on Temple. Whatever Guo's reasons were for leaving, there was no justification for the suffering brought to this family. Sheren bit her lip. She would never forgive him.

“Sheren?” we need to go. Keren said tapping gently against her stall.

Sheren sniffled, crumpling the page in her fist angrily before dropping it into the toilet, flushing it without hesitation. Keren didn't need to read that bullshit anymore than she did. The last thing Sheren wanted was for Keren to go run off looking for answers about their father. They needed each other now, more than ever!

Sheren placed the photo back in the jacket pocket before she opened the stall and faced her sister again, wiping away her tears to avoid looking in her eyes. Keren sensed something was wrong, but under the circumstances what wasn't wrong? Sheren lurched forward and gave her sister a desperate, clinging hug. “I won't leave Ashkelon without you!” she cried.

Keren frowned. They didn't have time for this, “You have too, but it's ok. I will come after you soon, I promise!”

Sheren pulled back, her eyes red and unhappy, “You're just like dad! You think you keep everyone else safe by running away. I don't see why I should care about promises from either one of you!”

Keren stared, confused, “What are you talking about Sheren?”

_ _ _

“BASTARDS!”

“MURDERERS!”

“KILLERS!”

Outraged shouts and exclamations echoed through the corridor as the survivors of Dizzy's Club bellowed at the commando's who quickly retreated back to the lines of their reinforcements. At the same time, fire crews dressed in protective, shimmering, fire resistant suits rushed through them towards the doors carrying packs of fire-fighting equipment. Medics dispersed likewise, offering first aid and oxygen to the wounded and anyone suffering from smoke inhalation.

Special Executive Victor Li Shing, the man in the black suit stepped towards one of the wounded commando's who staggered towards him. “Zhōngwèi zài nǎlǐ? Lǐ?” he asked in Chinese, seemingly taking note of the absence of their commander.

The man coughed, attempting to stand straight to attention as he stammered a hasty, hurried answer to the question, speaking Chinese. At the same time, further shouts and incensed yells from the wounded civilians broke out as ICSC security approached. Both alarmed and confused, some of them had their sidearms drawn, staring at the commando's with apprehension and disgust. These were the local officers of course, the ones who thought of Ashkelon as their home.

“Look at this! Security wants to arrest the commando's!” Wade said with surprise, taking note of their manner and approach.

“Not gonna happen,” Reese said softly through clenched teeth. “Just watch!”

Wade focused again on the executive who looked to be quite unhappy with the commando, the same one who broke Reese's ribs in fact. The exec listened intently, hands clasped behind his back. Once or twice he interrupted to ask another question, curtly in tone as if he were addressing a slave. The soldier bowed his head and spoke words of regret and excuses. One didn't need to speak the language to understand its undertones.

When the executive looked to have heard enough he held his hand out and barked a command. The commando froze, suddenly nervous and fearful. He stammered more words, almost begging. The executive struck the man with a slap, so harsh and sudden everyone stared. The commando had fear in his eyes, but he raised his chin to stand at attention once more before shakily handing over his pulse rifle.

“What the fuck...” Wade spoke under his breath as the executive hefted the weapon and took a couple steps back. There's no fucking way he'll do it! he thought to himself, too appalled to look away.

“HALT! NO ONE SHOOTS!” a shout rang out as the stations chief of security came on the scene.

Wade noted the way the survivors seemed to relax and stand more emboldened. Genuine authority and help had finally arrived. Someone sensible, at last, to stop further bloodshed.

Unconcerned, the executive calmly racked the rifle and slowly raised it to his shoulder. His target swallowed and went pale as innocent survivors stared in disbelief. Voices cut off abruptly with surprise.

“I SAID HALT!” the security chief repeated prompting two of the four executive bodyguards to turn around protectively and face him. The smoothness and discipline of their reactions were perfectly in sync, like two puppets pulled by the same strings.

Maddeningly obtuse, Victor continued to ignore the order, shifting his footing a bit while hugging the stock tighter against his shoulder, anticipating recoil while raising the barrel to take careful aim. A few commando's standing nearby took hasty steps back. Catherine quickly turned head away and cringed.

“THIS IS YOUR LAST WARN...” The security chief started to say an instant before Victor squeezed the trigger. TATATTATATTATAKK! Was the pulse rifles abrupt and deafening report. The young commando was blasted backwards against the corridors far wall in a mess of blood and body parts. Steam and sparks erupted from a ruptured conduit punctured by the burst of light-armor-piercing ammunition.

The executive did not react to the kill in any visible way. His face was a mask of placid self-entitlement and arrogance. For a moment he regarded the mess the rifle had made the way someone stares at a cockroach freshly smashed on the floor, but that was all. Profound looks of shock and outrage leveled by the survivors beside resentful glares of loathing from other commandos did not phase him one bit. He simply handed off the rifle to another and turned at last to regard the stations chief of security with an air of business-like detachment.

“I'm sorry did you say something?” Victor asked with deadpan sarcasm reaching up to wiggle a finger inside his ear. The gesture was merely a pantomime. Implanted audio processing chips had already dulled the rifles harmful noise inside his brain.

Max was dumbfounded beyond reason but he had to snap out of it. The damage was done and he had to react. This executive believed he answered to no one and would not be easily reasoned with. Flashbacks of his early years on Temple as a rookie prison guard reminded him how hardened murderers expressed the same casual disregard for authority. There was no easy way to tangle horns with someone like this. Killers only respected other killers.

“I am Max Shmith, security chief for this space station. From what I see, a near-massacre has taken place here! Whoever you are, you have just committed murder in cold blood! I intend to see you arrested!”

Security personnel phalanx-ed behind Max grew tense. Their hands rested on their pistols or taught against the triggers if they already had them drawn. Some had riot helmets, vests, fixed shoulder-stocks and extended clips. Nevertheless, Reed saw it for what it was, a hopeless standoff prompted by a strong sense of duty and self respect. They rushed in quickly, too quickly. Even though some of the commando's were dazed, wounded, and marginally outnumbered as a whole, the security officers had bad odds against their superior firepower.

The executive shook his head once in a casually dismissive manner, “I understand your confusion security chief, but you are wholly mistaken. These commandos, my associates and I, operate entirely outside your jurisdiction. We are free to disregard any laws or regulations I see fit.”

Max clenched his jaw in a furious effort to keep his tongue in check. Bullshit!

Sensing his anger was on the rise, Victor continued his attempts to mollify Max. “My name is Victor Li Shing. I am a special executive of Jĭngtì Lóng. Executor will verify everything I've just told you.”

Victor Li Shing's identity is verified, as are his special orders. Any attempt to detain or interfere in the business of a special executive is unlawful.

Max could not believe his ears, but it made no real difference. This was utter nonsense! In all his years as a law man he'd never heard of such 'special orders', nor had he ever met a special executive.

“Excuse me Victor, but I don't answer to Executor. My only concern is the health and safety of the good people of Ashkelon Station. I'll ask you once to order your men to lay down their arms peacefully. One way or another, I'm bringing you in.”

If this was a poker game, Max just shoved his stakes all-in. Perhaps anger was getting the best of his judgment this time, but he was in no mood to play games. Victor regarded him with a cool stare, the yellow flashes of the emergency strobes playing across his features. Was he bluffing?

Around him the commando's looked twitchy, on edge. This corridor was a lousy place for close-quarters shooting. No cover, and the security officers had the advantage of position holding them in a crossfire. Of course, all the wounded, the medics and the rest had nowhere to retreat with the bar still in flames. This could get very bloody indeed.

Just as things looked like they were about to go from bad to worse Victor spoke, “Executor, execute special order eleven.”

Suddenly, every handgun held or carried by the security officers beeped in quick succession.

Confirmed. All firearms for security personnel have been disabled.

Max snatched his Type 7X7 automatic pistol from its shoulder holster, his face twisted in a rage. The little green light normally indicating the weapon was functional, but 'safe', with its electronic firing mechanism disabled mocked him. His palm ID reader refused to arm the gun and switch the light to red.

“EXECUTOR! SECURITY OVERRIDE!” he shouted.

Unable to comply.

FUCK YOU!” He roared, throwing his pistol at a nearby monitor. The weapon smashed through the CRT screen in a bright sizzle of sparks and a burst of smoke. Most of the commandos chuckled and smirked. Their stance changed completely. Suddenly they had nothing to worry about. Conversely, the security officers looked ready to shit themselves.

Victor raised a brow, “I trust I have made my point? Do not persist. Do not test me. Do not doubt my resolve.”

Max glared towards the executive as if looks could kill, “This isn't over!” he warned.

Victor stopped looking at Max and started looking around to address his men instead, “This is a military operation entirely outside your jurisdiction. I am free to act under the highest authority granted by the CSC Board of Directors under mandate from the Director of the ICSC. Anyone of you who defies me, even under orders from your chief, will at the minimum face serious criminal charges. Your wages, health-benefits, insurance, pensions, even your credit will be forfeit. Imprisonment and fines will follow...” The executive paused for effect before adding. “...and that is only for those of you who might survive being gunned down where you stand. You have been warned.”

A moment later there was a sound of pistols dropping and clattering on the deck. Not that they were of much use. Max already demonstrated how eager he was to be rid of his. Max swallowed. Times had changed. Many of his people weren't locals from the station anymore. Of course they would be the first to falter under such threats.

Hell, if Victor demanded it, he half-expected to be dragged back in restraints and locked into a cell by his own officers. You already know that though don't you, you son of a bitch?! Max mused. This is all calculated. Theatrics. Better to demoralize us into retreat than preside over another massacre. Shooting up your own commando was an especially nice touch.

“Stand down!” Max ordered in a hollow, defeated voice. He was outplayed and he knew it.