Sol: Kalahari Savanna, Northwest South Africa

10/06/2149

Gusts of wind flared up the last lingering coals in Shella's small campfire. Sporadic to start, then more insistent, carrying with it a deeper chill and a looming threat of rain. Across the horizon, ominous, dark clouds blackened out the stars. Shella drifted off to sleep a while earlier, aided by cheap wine coolers scattered around her sleeping mat. Alcohol was a familiar companion for her grief, the key to sweet oblivion, allowing her tears a chance to dry upon her cheeks.

Shella was an orphan now, overwhelmed with sorrow and loss. She wanted nothing to do with anyone or anything. Isolating herself on the outskirts of the greater Kalahari desert seemed like the perfect fit for her state of mind. A lonely, bleak landscape to mirror her own feelings.

In such haste to achieve emptiness, Shella had taken the drinks and some leftovers out of the fridge along with an ATV out of the garage. She did not otherwise properly pack and supply for an outing in the bush at the start of the rainy season. Her only shelter was a camouflage tarp tied to the roll-hoop of her stolen ATV and a couple of Bushwillow trees.

Recently flowered with greenish-yellow four-petaled blooms, the trees offered additional shade and a welcome flash of color in the sun during the day. At present their leaves and seed pods made a noisy, rattling sound in the wind that harmonized with the surging pitter-patter of heavy raindrops on parched earth and sand. Yet as the rain began to fall in ernest her small minimalist camp left much to be desired for shelter. The snap of the tarp in the wind and the discordant rattle of rain drops battering against the plastic finally woke her. Groggy. Weary. Blinking and shivering.

There would be search parties looking for her by now. Trackers with dogs, drones and whisper-quiet ultralite bush planes. The same tech they used to find endangered animals could be put to use finding people too. Yet with this weather, all such efforts would be next to pointless. Especially in the dark.

Storms moved fast over the savanna. Even if she wanted to head back now, Shella's home was twenty miles east in the small town of Hotazel. However, now that her mother had died, home was the last place she wanted to be.

Fifty miles southeast was the larger town of Kathu, where her mother, Sara, had met Shella's father, Taylor. Also known as the Iron Ore Capital of the northern cape province, Kathu neighbored the huge Sishen Industrial Mining Complex that processed metals, minerals and diamonds from the entire region.

Taylor was responsible for much of that. In recent decades he amassed a fortune stripping resources from the southern African continent, using them in manufacturing and shipping those goods and/or raw materials off world. His enterprise was so successful he began investing profits in other mines on several worlds in the Outer Veil and the Outer Rim, negotiating contracts with larger corporate interstellar powers such as Weyland Yutani and member corporations of the CSC.

Shella grew up while her father was developing his industrial empire, helped along by Sara's elder brother Roger, who was one of Weyland Yutani's assistant executive vice presidents. A well respected and decent man, Roger initially helped arrange business negotiations between Roodt Industries and The Company. Taylor's children, which included Shella and her two brothers, Adam and Sam, thought fondly of him as an uncle.

Shella traveled everywhere with her father. He used to call her 'his little flea.' Sparing no expense, Shella received a top grade private education through tutors. By age eleven she was fluent in four languages. Near the same time, trouble with her parents marriage became a real stress within the family. Sara fell ill and before long Taylor was unfaithful to her. Within a year they divorced. Taylor remarried to a Chinese woman in Hong Kong and moved his children there with him to start fresh.

At this point, business deals with Weyland Yutani started to go sour as the influence of his new in laws pressured him to favor dealings with the CSC. For the same reason, his move to Hong Kong was viewed to be suspicious.

It seemed he sought to keep the watchful eyes of the ICC out of his business. Shella started to see less and less of her father and acted out, associating with a bad crowd. Most of her formative teenage years were a rash of run-in's with local authorities, substance-abuse and stints in private rehab clinics. Unfortunately things got worse before they ever got better.

Before long the ICC opened an ongoing investigation into her fathers businesses. ICC Agents worked undercover within the Hong Kong underworld gathering evidence against him and his local business associates. These agents reported indirectly to Roger. At a certain point, it became clear that Taylor's businesses were being targeted for a hostile takeover by certain elements within the CSC affiliated with the Triad.

Either out of pity, or a sense of kindness for Taylor's children, Roger personally warned Taylor offering him one last chance to disentangle himself from criminal elements and save his businesses. It would not be painless or without cost. First he must accept a preliminary summary judgment by the ICC and a large fine. This would freeze his assets and require him to step down as president and CEO. In the long run however, so long as he cooperated, he could still earn from the profits and avoid prison.

Taylor did not take Roger up on that offer. It seemed he still held unto quite a lot of animosity with prior family drama and the divorce with his ex wife. Instead of heeding his advice, Taylor told Roger to go to hell. Next he went about hastily changing his own business contracts and beefing up his private security, tipping off the Triad that he was aware of their plans in the process. It didn't take them long to ascertain the reasons behind his sudden panic. They decided to make an example of him.

Within hours, Taylor and one of her brothers were gunned down in public. With luck Roger managed to get Shella and her surviving brother Sam out of Hong Kong before they met the same fate. Both returned to South Africa to live with their mother, which had not lasted much longer than a year. Sara's death came shortly after Shella's fifteenth birthday, which was only a few short weeks ago.

Shella rubbed at her eyes and frowned. The shock of the sudden storm forced her to return to the present and take stock of the situation. It was going to be a rough night. Arid areas of northwest South Africa received over ninety percent of their annual rains within seven months. However, a hundred years of global warming led to inconsistent rain and wind patterns. Storms like this were unpredictable and increasingly severe.

Climate change also created conditions of consistent drought. Rapid evaporation of rivers and watering holes stressed agriculture, local wildlife and the overall ecological sustainability of this forlorn landscape to the limit. Huge herds of roaming antelope, elephants, water buffalo and zebra would likely never be seen again.

Healthy groups of animals were now kept captive on protected reserves. Out here among the grasses, shrubs and rocky soil of the Kalahari savanna, bones and scattered remains were everywhere. Shella had seen nearly as many desiccated carcasses, picked clean by half-starved jackals, hyenas, vultures and buzzards as actual living animals.

Shella knew she had to fashion a better shelter somehow. The only option that really made sense was pulling the tarp back over, up and across the roll hoop of the ATV itself. If she tied the corners of the tarp to the brush guards, or the wheels on each corner, it should serve well enough as a makeshift tent. Of course it would not be comfortable. There would be no room to lay down.

The prospect of hunching over in a small plastic seat for hours on end within a buffeting windstorm did not appeal to her, yet she understood she had to act quickly. Groaning she crawled out from underneath the blankets, dressed in khaki cargo pants and a hooded sweatshirt. Her boots were nearby somewhere. She reached and groped for them, unable to see her own hands in the pitch darkness of the storm.

She had no way to spot the lions approach, much less hear it as it stalked towards her. An old lioness familiar with old tricks; using the storm to cover its approach. It pounced upon Shella's back with complete surprise, driving the air from her lungs so she couldn't even scream. Instinctively the great cat went for the neck first hoping to sever her spine.

Shella's nerves were aflame with pain as sharp fangs pierced into her flesh, punching through muscle and scraping across vertebrae. She knew she was going to die as her own hot blood drenched her clothes. Hungrily the hunter bit down again and again, crushing her beneath its weight. Yet somehow the bite strength seemed to falter, never quite achieving the grip it needed to break her neck. Whether that was from weakness, or simple confusion with the thick garment of her hood balled up around her shoulders, Shella had no way of knowing.

Several moments passed as Shella squirmed and struggled, frantic to escape as much as to breath. For as long as she was pinned down there was no hope. She felt one of her boots beside her. Gripping the laces in her fingers she swung it blindly like a flail with all her strength. It should have been a futile gesture, but the heavy heel of the rugged footwear seemed to connect with a satisfying hit. Perhaps directly against the eye?

The lioness roared in pain and pulled back, allowing Shella the opportunity to suck in a desperate breath and start to crawl away towards the ATV. Suddenly her vision was blinded by a powerful searchlight as some sort of vehicle drew close. The lioness growled in fury. Shella rolled over to see the beast for the first time, its muzzle and much of its skull matted with blood. Her blood?

No not entirely. She glimpsed raw bone, sinew and obliterated muscle where one of its cheeks should have been. The poor animal was in pain, wheezing and slobbering through the hole in the side of its face.

_ _ _

Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382

07/23/2183

BwEEEEP

Shella woke with a start, drenched in a cold sweat as her door chime went off. Sensing her distress, Sylvester meowed with sympathy. Shella breathed deeply and struggled to regain her bearings. The digital clock by her bedside indicated it was zero-six-hundred, just a few hours after the meeting with Aberdeen.

Sighing with an elevated heart rate she rose from her bed still wearing socks and yesterdays rumpled clothes. Unconsciously, she reached back to feel the tender scars on the back of her neck. Goddamn fucking nightmare is always the same!

Sylvester watched with anxious golden eyes as Shella stepped towards the door. Her eyes ached with fatigue as much as suppressed tears. Whomever had the nerve to disturb her rest was about to get an earful! Yet when she opened the door, Chief Marshal John Coffee stood before the threshold; as grim and serious as always.

“Agent Roodt. Can we talk?” John asked in his characteristic deep booming voice.

This was unexpected. Shella blinked and reached up to rub at her eyes, frustration overshadowed by concern, “What's wrong?” she asked by reflex.

“Nothing immediate. This isn't an official sort of visit. But it's important. May I come in?”

Shella hesitated, confused. Not an official sort of visit? What did that mean exactly? she never imagined John stopping by for some sort of casual chat? Besides, she was not entirely sure she wanted him to come in.

Though she respected him as a colleague, Shella had the distinct impression John judged her quite a lot. This feeling put a great deal of strain on their working relationship. Imagining that he might find yet more reasons to dislike and disapprove of her based on how she kept her quarters made her immediately uncomfortable. On the other hand, she recognized those feelings for what they were. Unimportant, petty bullshit.

“You've got some nerve!” she snapped, eliciting a puzzled and dismayed expression from the Chief, “You woke me up and you didn't even bring Coffee? You'd think a man named after the stuff would know better!” she muttered, gesturing for him to come inside. She was in a mood and there was no point trying to hide it. I won't hold back on him this time. Let the man come in here and face me on my own turf. If he has the balls, she thought.

Shella's quarters were cramped, but no more than most on a space station. With no separate bedroom her bed was tucked into an alcove past the spartan kitchen and bathroom. A sofa and a vid-screen were adjacent to the door on the left. On the right was a small dining area with a view to open space through an exterior porthole. Flooring was thinly carpeted by the bed, bathroom and the sofa; whereas the dining area and kitchen used synthetic plastic tiles printed to imitate hardwood.

Lighting came by way of light bars above the kitchen, bathroom and dining areas. She kept the levels generally dim and her decorations sparse. This was not home and Shella was not the sort to pretend otherwise, “Please sit,” she said, gesturing to the sofa closing the pressure door behind him. As he brushed passed her, she detected the faint smell of gunpowder. He's been firing his weapon!

John did as he was bid. The sofa was springy and cheaply made. His big frame immediately sunk deep and flattened the cushion. As Shella moved to her refrigerator John glanced around discreetly. The first thing he noticed was the bizarre horizontal log-like object on pedestals erected in the center of her dining area. Two hand-holds, like rungs on a ladder, were affixed to the top.

“Whats this?” John asked.

“It's called a pommel horse. It's used for gymnastics. Can I get you something?”

Shella was tempted to pour herself a stiff drink. An old habit whenever traumatic memories made an unwelcome return. However, much as she honestly didn't care about his opinions, she did not want to give the Chief the impression she was an alcoholic. The stalwart professional in her wouldn't allow it.

“No thanks,” John answered, noting an odd receiver dish aimed at the porthole window behind the pommel horse.

Shella poured herself a glass of water as Sylvester hopped off the bed and padded over to take a closer gander at their guest. John smiled as the cat rubbed up against his leg, purring.

“Sylvester likes company,” Shella explained.

“Nice to have a pet,” John stated, leaning over to scratch the animal behind the ears.

“What can I do for you chief?” Shella asked in a voice that was half a sigh and half a growl.

John regarded her awkwardly. Clearly he wasn't used to such casual informality, especially with her. The fact she looked so distressed didn't escape his notice either. Nevertheless he pressed on, “I wanted to speak to you about our situation and get a feel for what you think about it?”

Shella raised a brow, “That's all in my report isn't it?”

“Sure, but that's not what I'm getting at. Those are facts, observations and recommendations based on on what we should do by the book. I'm interested in other options and possibilities. Imagine what you might do if you were in charge with the authority to authorize any plan of action you wanted? Those are the ideas I want to hear.”

Shella exhaled with a puzzled look, Wtf is this about? “I'm not sure I understand the point of that Chief? What's the use in discussing such an unrealistic, hypothetical scenario?”

“Humor me please,” John asked with a voice like thunder.

Even when he's asking nicely it still comes off like he's barking orders! Shella was in no mood for this, ”To be frank John, I'd rather get a few more z's than bullshit about what we won't, or can't do.”

Shella's tablet blinked on suddenly on an an adjacent counter top where she'd left it. A message scrolled across the screen.

- HUMOR HIM! -

Shella groaned inwardly and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Thanks a lot John! Now you've got the asshole synthetic's interest piqued. I have no choice now but to endure this bullshit conversation.

Shortly before she passed out Oliver was scolding her about a breach of security involving her personal access code. Apparently it was used without her knowledge to access specific records in the ICC database? Oliver couldn't determine exactly who stole her code, and Shella herself had no idea how it had been compromised; but it certainly didn't look good on her record.

Depending on how Oliver reported the breach there were several ICC policies and reprimands on the books that might easily sink her career. He had, of course, quoted them all with perfect memory. Synthetics were always assholes like that.

Afterwards they argued for a short while. Yet no matter how furious she became the argument was only going to end one way. She had to agree to let him take charge of an investigation into that breach and assist him in any way he saw fit. Or else.

It was a lose-lose scenario for her. On top of everything else, this change of priorities was going to stretch her patience and stamina to the limit. Shella loathed Oliver's voice, his expectations, and above all his patronizing disposition. The feeling of being under his thumb in anyway made her skin crawl.

Regardless of the fact they both worked for The Company, service to Oliver's agenda would not necessarily aid her primary mission. Shella had seen this sort of thing before.

Company handlers did not always have their agent's best interests in mind. At this point she was at his mercy, and he knew it. Refusal on her part was equivalent to tending in her resignation. The Company had her bent over a barrel both ways.

Assuming something useful came out of her efforts to help him; Oliver promised to remark on that favorably in his report. With luck that would be enough to salvage her existing arrangement with The Company, if not her ICC career.

For some time now a growing feeling of dread was starting to form in her gut. Shella had the distinct feeling her synthetic partner was withholding information from her, which of course implied that The Company was withholding information from her. Nothing new there perhaps, but the more she dwelled on it, the more uneasy she felt.

She wasn't even certain at this point that her mission with the ICC was what The Company was really after? Oliver's role as her support and point-of-contact with Weyland Yutani might be a ploy from the start. Her gut said he was pulling her strings, attempting to get her involved in something far worse than an ongoing ICC investigation into a dangerous criminal syndicate. Shella shuddered to imagine what that might be?

Meanwhile John moved to stand again, “Ok, sorry to bother you,” he stated in a disappointed tone.

“Wait!” Shella stated halfheartedly, “Forgive me for me being crabby. My feelings about the situation are that its quite complex, and frustrating. For one thing we aren't properly staffed or equipped to deal with it.”

“That's true,” John answered, settling back down on the cushion. “That being said, you still haven't answered my question?”

If it were up to me, I'd get the fuck off this station! Shella thought as she cleared her throat, “Well, for certain Victor Li Shing has to go. Someone higher up in the Colonial Administration or the UA should put pressure on the CSC to have him recalled.”

“Why not arrested?” John asked.

“Ok sure!” Shella grunted, throwing a hand up in frustration, “In an ideal scenario we would arrest him. But why stop there? Lets put the commanding officer of those commandos in cuffs too, along with the entire board of directors for Jingti Lóng!”

John shook his fist encouragingly, “That's the spirit!”

Shella shook her head, this was a waste of time. “It's just wishful thinking!” she stated.

“Not entirely,” John argued with a conspiratorial wink, “I've got a man on the job as we speak collecting evidence we can use to press charges against the whole lot of them.”

“Who?”

“Max Shmith.”

“The Chief of Station Security?” Shella asked, narrowing her eyes in surprise, “I don't understand?”

“It's simple really. He's fed up and wants our help. Didn't you hear that Max already tried to arrest Victor outside Dizzy's Club? When that failed he came to me and brought me this,” John stated slipping a file out from inside his coat and handing it over to her.

Shella took it with a dubious expression, recognizing it immediately as a Classified Ashkelon Station Security file. Strange days indeed. Who would have guessed John Coffee had the nerve to get a hold of something like this?

The face of the man in the file was not one she recognized. Chinese features. Handsome. Early forties. Had the look of an underworld operator. Such astute, savvy and cautious eyes. Short hair, fighting-fit and a stocky-medium build. Five foot ten inches tall, “Guo Ho?” she questioned out loud reading the name above the photo.

“He's the father of Keren and Sheren Ho-Stern,” John explained. “It's also possible he's the reason Victor Li Shing came here to Ashkelon Station.”

“Never heard of him?” Shella had to admit, “Why are the commandos going after his girls then?”

“Likely because Guo's exact whereabouts are unknown. He left the station four years ago. Family, friends and former partners all presume he's dead. Max believes Guo may have returned to the station, in secret, and remains here in hiding. He also thinks the Red Triad are protecting him and his daughters.”

That's interesting! Shella furrowed her brow, searching through the file. Given what she saw inside it was easy to see what the man was about. Guo was a suspected smuggler and an ex-mercenary with a history of suspected black market business dealings. Criminal underworld connections were clear, even though he covered his tracks well enough that nothing in the file was ever used against him. Even so, much of this information would be invaluable in my own ongoing investigation into the Red Triad, she thought.

At which point Shella suddenly shut the file and dropped it on the counter as if it were suddenly too hot to touch, Fuck!

“What's the matter?” John inquired.

Shella crossed her arms and avoided his gaze, “We shouldn't be looking at this! Just having this file is a breach of the Concord Agreement. It jeopardizes everything.”

“Normally I would agree, but these are unusual circumstances. Besides, we didn't steal it. Max handed that over freely in the spirit of cooperation. Given whats happened, and what Victor plans to do next, I think were obligated to take advantage of this chance to save lives!”

“What do you mean by that? What does Victor plan to do next?” Shella asked with concern.

John gave her a leveled look. This was the moment of truth. How she responded to this would prove to him if she was a potential ally or not, “You're investigating the Red Triad correct?”

“...Yes...” Shella answered slowly. Technically her investigation was need-to-know only. Yet without an ICC enforcement and seizure team to watch her back she anticipated having to fill in the Chief eventually. Why not now? Oliver wants me to humor him anyway. Whatever develops from this is his fault! she reassured herself.

John nodded, “Good! Max has been ordered to organize a station-wide manhunt for Guo's daughters, backed up by Victor's commandos. I think you know just as well as I do how well that'll go if they start kicking-in doors on Red Triad turf? Am I right?”

Shella grimaced, shaking her head, “Yeah... that's a really bad idea! What happened at Dizzy's Club was just an opening act. We don't want to see the main event.”

“No, we don't,” John agreed, “Which is why we should do whatever we can to prevent it.”

The smooth, matter-of-fact way he stated that last sentence forced Shella to resist the impulse to roll her eyes yet again. He says that as if it's the easiest thing in the world! “You talk to Aberdeen about this?” she threw back at him.

John pursed his lips, “Not yet.”

Shella nodded knowingly, I didn't think so, “How much time until this manhunt begins?”

“A couple hours maybe. Max is doing his best to stall but he won't be Chief much longer if he doesn't go after what Victor wants.”

Shella frowned, paused to think, then shook her head slowly, “I think this one is out of our hands Chief.”

John rose from the sofa and stepped across to an opposite wall in the dining area. Shella had a few photos hanging there. John couldn't make them out clearly in the dim light unless he was standing right in front of them.

“Is this you?” he asked gesturing to a particular picture in which a young, freckled girl with ginger-brown hair had her arms wrapped around her fathers neck. The man was seated on a high concrete slab, probably a loading dock or a landing pad, in the bright sun of a hot afternoon. The girl was kneeling behind him on her knees, draping herself over his back, her teeth flashing white and happy.

In the foreground wheeled trucks and loaders were moving-by kicking up clouds of dust. In the background, men and women in overalls were moving around holding clipboards; walking in and out of storehouses, gesturing and pointing fingers.

“Yeah,” Shella answered, “Me and my dad.”

John nodded and leaned forward, peering closer. One of the white shipping containers in the background had a stenciled logo painted on it.

[ ROODT INDUSTRIES ]

“Where was this taken?” he asked.

“South Africa, where I was born.”

“Tell me about your dad?” John asked.

“He's dead,” Shella replied after a pained pause.

John turned to look at her again but there was no pity in his eyes, “How did he die?” he asked in the specific tone law officers used to address a suspect.

Shella frowned, “I'd rather not talk about it if you don't mind.”

“Don't you think its relevant?” John pressed.

Shella stared at him, her ire rising, “Excuse me?”

“Common Shella. I've read your file.” John stated flatly.

A paroxysm of anger overwhelmed Shella's normally controlled demeanor. It all made sense. Johns attitude towards her this whole time was biased with preconceived judgements about her past. Shella was so sick of self-important assholes talking down to her and judging her, “You need to leave!” she snarled.

“Calm down, I'm just asking a simple question. Don't you think your fathers death is relevant to this?”

Shella's hands balled into fists, “No John. I don't think its fucking relevant. Now get the fuck out!”

“Listen to me!” John said raising his own voice quite sharply. “Why are you upset at me? Get angry at them!”

“I AM ANGRY AT THEM!” Shella shouted, so furious she was shaking, “They killed my father and my brother!”

Sensing the sudden shift in mood, Sylvester hissed at John and raised his hackles. Sensibly John raised his hands up where they weren't likely to get scratched. A gesture meant to encourage the peace equally with Shella.

“That's what I thought,” John stated smoothly, “You've had a grudge against the Triad since day one! I don't doubt that makes you well motivated. However, your past tragedy creates a clear prejudice. Any evidence you collect against the Triad will be suspect as biased, and thus, every case we might make based on that evidence is less likely to stand on its own merit.”

Shella scoffed, “No other agent had the nerve for this assignment. I volunteered!”

“No,” John retorted, “let's be clear. Your posting has Company fingerprints all over it. Weyland Yutani pulled strings to get you assigned to Ashkelon Station didn't they? I'm not exactly sure why, but I read your file. It wouldn't be far off the mark to suspect they have something over you would it? You've been obsessed with the Triad for most of your, shall-we-say, troubled career. You're a loose cannon Shella!”

“I don't have to justify myself to you!” she cursed back at him, tempted to hurl something at his head. Self-righteous prick!

“No you don't,” John agreed, pointing a finger at the comm-dish aimed at her porthole. “Just like you can lie to me and say that comm dish isn't in use for something off-the-books. But that's not why I'm here.

I wanted you to look at that file specifically because you've got the guts and experience to contend with the Triad. I'm not here to question your reasons. I just want your help.”

Shella resisted the impulse to laugh out loud by clenching her jaw. This was rich, “Ok chief, I humored you, now humor me. Have you been meeting with Max before he gave you this file?”

John nodded, “I have met with him yes. Once. In my office.”

Shella gave him a look. She could come back on him for that breach of regulations. Yet pointing fingers and giving grief was, at the moment, a waste of time. The fact he acknowledged it was enough for her.

Taking a moment to calm down Shella paused to wash her face with cold water. Then before she even realized she was doing it she grabbed a bottle of rum from her freezer, pulled out the cork with her teeth and took a swig. As the tingle from the liquor spread through her like a warm memory, Shella closed her eyes and released a deep breath.

Johns disapproving stare lingered on her. She could feel it through her eyelids, but she honestly didn't care anymore. If you want my help with an off-the-books-op asshole, I'm gonna do it my way. “What cause did Max give for Victor Li-Shing to go after Guo Ho?” Shella asked opening her eyes again.

“Nothing specific, but he did offer an interesting theory. Max has reason to believe Guo was working for Ze'ev doing investigative work.”

“Really? For the station administrator? Why?”

“It has something to do with the disappearance of Ze'ev's granddaughter Eva and his son and law. Both were lost on LV-426, otherwise known as Acheron. Are you familiar with what happened there?”

Shella frowned, taking another swig. This is turning into quite an interesting bullshit conversation! she mused, “Uh, sure. I mean, I've heard things. I know there was a colony there that was wiped out. The ICC and the Colonial Administration are still investigating. Beyond that, speculation runs rampant. Details are scarce. Even among the ICC.”

“Yes, details are scarce,” John echoed in a bitter tone, ”My cousin, Captain Damian Bracket was one of the casualties of LV-426. He was the C.O. of the colony garrison of Colonial Marines stationed there.”

Shella swallowed with sympathy and put the bottle back in the freezer, “I'm sorry.”

John took in a slow deep breath. He didn't mean to bring that up. Yet now that he had there was no way to take it back. John could not abide callousness or disrespect towards his departed kin. If Shella hadn't been sincere with her remark he would have walked out. No question. That realization brought on guilt respective of his own attitude towards her.

Despite all he'd learned and observed working with Shella, up to this point she was still a stranger to him. It was never easy opening up to a stranger and much easier to judge them, “I shouldn't have brought up your father like that. That was uncalled for and out of line,” he admitted.

“Ok Chief. Apology accepted,” Shella stated after a pause, wrinkling her brow slightly with surprise. This was a side to John she hadn't seen before.

John went quiet for a moment, thinking, then continued to speak, “When the colony went black there were no comms for weeks. Damian's mother, my aunt, raised hell! ...She is married to a congressman," he explained, "Besides that we have other family in high positions among the UA government, and the military.”

John waved his hand, “...not to say I credit everything to the use of such back channels; but it certainly seemed to help pressure the powers that be to launch an investigation.

The United Americas Allied Command, under mandate from the Colonial Administration, sent in the SULACO with a skeleton crew, a civilian consultant and a Weyland Yutani representative," John stated getting more and more upset in his tone of voice. "Next thing we hear, the whole colony goes up in a thermonuclear explosion. No chance for survivors!”

Shella noted his hands ball up tightly into fists as he said that. She held her tongue as he took a moment to compose himself.

“Damian was a good man and a fine officer. We grew up in Indiana and played football together in college. We were close. Damian was like a little brother to me,” John sighed, “His loss hit my family hard. Every year the investigation goes on without conclusion only makes it worse.”

Shella nodded, “Ze'ev probably feels just as bad about his granddaughter wouldn't he?”

“No doubt,” John agreed. “However, as a citizen of the ICSC the Colonial Administration and Weyland Yutani have little and less obligation to explain anything to him. He's an outsider. What other option would he have but to rely on private investigators?”

Shella considered that, “According to Max, whatever Ze'ev put Guo up to forced the man into hiding and brought Victor Li Shing here to find him four years later. Those are difficult dots to connect at his point. We need more information.”

“Agreed.”

Shella bit her lip thoughtfully, “Unless we find Guo ourselves we'll never have the chance to question him. The next best thing is to get the facts straight from Ze'ev. Given how much pressure he's under, waving this file in front of his face might prompt him to set the record straight? It also stands to reason that Victor would have already questioned Ze'ev if he was aware of his connection to Guo. It's a good thing for us that Max isn't one of Victor's goons in that regard.”

“Right!” John agreed.

Shella ran a hand through her hair restlessly, “We should focus on what we need to do right now. Preventing an imminent clash between Victor's commando's and the Triad is no small thing."

John grunted, “I realize that. However I also promised Max I would try my best, even if it meant risking my badge!”

Is that so? Shella was quite surprised to hear it, “Well in that case we might have a chance. Although, it will require some very shrewd dealings with some very dangerous people on our part.”

John narrowed his eyes, “You think we can bargain our way through this?”

Shella spread her hands, “What other choice do we have? Proverbially speaking, we need chips on the table to get a hand in the game. So long as we believe they are protecting Guo's daughters, and possibly Guo himself, they hold all the cards!”

John grumbled, “I was hoping your investigation would already have useful evidence against them? Some form of leverage we can use?”

Shella shook her head, “You think it's that easy to collect intel on the Triad without an ICC enforcement team to back me up? Think again! I'm still feeling my way around the edges; primarily conducting surveillance. The best tips I've got come from paid informants who share what's known on the street about the enforcers and the mid level bosses.

Those tips help put names to faces from my photos. That's the quickest way I know to outline the internal structure of their organization. I haven't been here long enough to get much further than that.”

John thought about that. It wasn't really a surprise. Shella was operating alone after all, as she rightly pointed out. Yet based on her file, the notion she was the best-equipped person to deal with them prompted a follow-up question, “How have you had success against the Triad in the past?” he asked.

Shella laughed. It was a sharp, sardonic sound expressing irony much more than actual amusement, “Success?”

John spelled it out in no uncertain terms, “Have you ever been able to stop their operations? Arrest their bosses, seize funds, illegal goods and contraband? Anything like that?"

Shella shrugged, "Sure, sometimes. Under the right circumstances,” she answered plainly. “ICC Enforcement and Seizure has the best record there is going after Triad assets. As one of the most experienced agents in the field I am credited with a fair percentage of those seizures.

That being said, even I don't know the full scope of operations at work against the Triads. And even if I did, much of that is classified over your pay grade Chief,” she smirked.

John nodded knowingly, “It's much the same with the Colonial Marshals Bureau. We have a long history of arrests and seizures; most of which are low-level busts. Reports on higher-level arrests and seizures are usually withheld from easy access as part of ongoing cases. Security briefings tell us what we need to know and not much else. To be honest, I've always got the impression no one really knows the full picture of Triad operations anyway?”

“Sounds about right,” Shella acknowledged. “I don't know the full picture either. The Triads are a very old and extensive organization. We know they originated in Singapore, in the early 1900's before the Chinese Communist Party drove them out into British-ruled Hong Kong. From there they spread the opium trade through Europe.

After use of the poppy was banned they became heavily involved in the illegal drug trade worldwide, as well as counterfeiting, smuggling, human trafficking, corporate espionage, money laundering and fraud.

Soon after the Central Space Consortium formed the Triads of old evolved into a much broader, multi-ethnic and multi-national cartel. Triad connections to high level politicians and corporate leaders within the CSC allowed them to infest the rich worlds of the New Eden Sector. Beyond that they continued to spread, now even unto distant worlds and colonies of the Outer Rim.

With such lax laws and regulations as we see out here, and so many corrupt officials on their payroll, they have grown ever-bolder and better armed; selling their services to the wealthiest corporations as mercenaries, assassins and cyber-terrorrists. They are one of the best-financed, most violent and extensive criminal enterprises anywhere in the galaxy.”

Shella frowned, “Even after decades of effort I can't say how much of an impact we've actually made on their bottom-line? So long as the CSC, and now the ICSC, continue to expand and enrich themselves the problem only gets deeper rooted and more widespread.”

Trying not to get discouraged, John asked, “So why do you do it? If it's such a lost cause?”

Shella moved over to sit on the other side of the sofa, sick at heart. She didn't even look at him as she started speaking again, hanging her head down and clasping her hands together, “Two reasons. First, this new Concord Agreement will eventually allow ICC oversight over trade, travel and commerce of every world and colony of the ICSC. Likely this will be my final assignment, and the riskiest, but if I can help make that happen I will be satisfied. That's why I volunteered.”

John could respect that, “And the second reason?”

Shella looked over at him with weary eyes. The second reason is I had no choice in the first place. You were right to say The Company has something over me. Sadly Shella couldn't admit that so long as she knew Oliver was listening, and watching, “The second reason is that too many of my friends and colleagues have died going after the Triads. I owe them this last mission to bring meaning to their sacrifice.”

John nodded solemnly, waiting a moment in sympathetic silence before he brought the focus back on the present, “What can you tell me about the Red Triad here on this station? How are they different, or not, from the other Triads you've dealt with before?”

“Well, firstly, There are six major Triads spread through known space. Each color they use represents how distant they are from Sol. It's arranged in the same order as you would see dispersed through a prism, or a rainbow. The original Triad based in Hong Kong are The Violet Triad. Here on the far fringes of the Outer Rim, you are most likely to encounter members of the Red Triad. Red is also the color most associated with the Union of Progressive Peoples, who are known to be more involved with the Red Triad than any of the others.

Through my surveillance I've identified many suspected UPP refugees here among their number. Either of Russian or Chinese descent. According to Guo's file over there, he has a similar origin. It would seem that the Red Triad have occupied the station as long as it's been in service, which is almost ninety years at this point. Somehow they've had the same main boss the entire time. Someone they refer too, almost reverently, as 'The General.'”

“Really?” John exclaimed with disbelief, “Are you positive it has always been the same man?”

“No way to be entirely sure,” she answered skeptically. “If it's true he's got to be the oldest Triad boss anywhere. That fact alone adds a lot of weight to his rank and credibility to his organization. His followers are fiercely loyal to him so it's been harder than usual to find witnesses or informants. Few will dare to speak against The General.”

John nodded, “Sounds like we're way behind where we need to be in all of this? I'm having less and less confidence in making a move.”

“It won't be easy,” Shella admitted, “but present circumstances do work towards our advantage in a way.”

“How's that?” John asked.

“Well any sort of standoff between the commandos and station security assures the Triad's days are numbered. They might withstand them for a day or two, perhaps as long as a week; yet once the fight is joined they cannot afford to loose.

There are no reinforcements available for them and no rights or laws to protect them. The General knows that. No matter how ruthless, fatalistic or suicidal his followers are, it's a fate they can't escape. Under the threat of such certain doom they might entertain an alternative.”

“And if they don't?” John argued.

“They'll fight to the death, to a man, and do as much damage to the station and the rest of us as they can manage. Just for spite.”

John frowned, aghast, “We can't allow that!”

“We have to remember it's been their turf for a long time. Organized gangs are made up of ruthless criminals and thugs yes, yet in a way its best to think of them almost like a cult,” Shella explained.

“That's not helping!” John stated uncomfortably.

Shella raised her hand, “Let me finish! At its core, religion is just faith in something apart from and greater than ourselves. That 'higher thing' doesn't have to be a god. It can just as easily be a code, a credo, or some madman's revelation that defines a set of beliefs.

What we think of as 'morality' is just interpretation of right vs. wrong, respective of conscience, learning and circumstance. Throughout history, plenty of self-styled prophets, religious leaders, revolutionaries, presidents, dictators and conquerors have convinced others to commit great atrocities.

What we see here with the Triad is essentially no different than the Neo-Yakuza, the Mob, or any number of terrorist groups. They all tap into this need certain people have to feel justified doing harm to others.

Members of the Triad's are typically outsiders who do not fit with regular society. They seek a different way of life which rewards violence and self gratification. The code of the Triads bolsters a sense of superiority within themselves, and their gang as a whole, above everyone else. 'The strong taketh from the weak because they can. And because they can, it follows that they should', Etc. and so on.

Their tattoos are a right of initiation and a mark of status. They reinforce loyalty and commitment. For those who bear those tattoo's it's critical their identity with, and within, the group is sustained and reinforced. Everything about the structure of the gang, it's history, hierarchy, traditions and future plans are meant to keep people enthralled.

Without such structure there is no discipline. Without discipline, the gang is weak. Their own inflated sense of strength and power, in the singular, eventually withers away and loses meaning without faith in the gang and appreciation for its broader goals. It's that sense of connection to the group that creates the motivation to maintain it in addition to an aspiration to defend, expand, and represent it.

Think about the Triad enforcers who stepped up to gun down those commandos in Dizzy's club? What sort of men do that at the drop of a pin, knowing the odds are hopelessly against them? They're zealots!”

“So what do we offer them to put chips on the table? What is our negotiating position?” John asked.

Shella smirked, “You and I represent much stronger gangs than the Triad don't we? Not literally at this moment, on this station, but as a whole throughout populated space the Colonial Marshals and the ICC both dwarf the Triads in every measure. Wouldn't you agree?”

“I suppose,” John frowned crossing his arms, “But we don't speak for our superiors in this case do we? And even if we pretended that we did, why would the Triad believe it?”

“Because it suits their ego to believe it," Shella pointed out, "Just like it suits their ego to setup cowardly attacks against our people with bombs and disgruntled locals. They understand fear, threats, corruption and manipulation better than anyone. If we show ourselves to be corrupt that's the same as bringing chips to the table. They enjoy that sort of thing. Offering a way out of their predicament in return for something illegal gives us a hand in the game.”

“And what is that way out of their predicament?” John asked warily.

“It's simple. We ask them to turn over Guo's daughters into our custody. Once that happens, Victor looses that justification to go into their territory. He certainly won't attempt to take them from us by force either. To do so would risk war with the UA or the 3WE.”

John swallowed, “That's a huge gamble. We'll be betting our lives on a hunch, at best.”

Do you even care about your people? she was tempted to ask, throwing his own words from an earlier conversation back in his face. Instead she said, “It'll be worse for everyone if we don't try John! It's the only chance I see to prevent the fighting before it starts. But this time I agree with you, we should call for an immediate evacuation. At least as a backup plan. If we do it now the Tremolino might arrive in time to rescue our people before its too late. Regardless of what happens to us.”

John nodded quickly. He couldn't argue with that, “Ok Shella. We'll do it your way.”