Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382

07/23/2183

Within the control room of space dock operations center, Spacer lifted his snout off his paws and barked as a line on the docking status monitor started blinking once again. Vijay Champa pursed his lips, annoyed with the hound, glancing up from his workstation to read USCSS CASIMIR -7643039(04)-[SCHEDULED ARRIVAL]: NO CONTACT indicating that communications had not yet been established with that particular vessel.

Vijay pressed the acknowledge button on his terminal again, indicating to the computer that he was aware of the issue and still watching the monitor. Then he leaned back in his chair and swiveled his head over his shoulder.

“Elsie! Still nothing from this ship,” Vijay grumbled pointing to the screen.

“What ship is it?”

"The Casimir, an old M-Class Bison freighter. It popped up on our scopes almost thirty minutes ago but hasn't answered any of our standard hails."

“Hmm...” Elsie murmured, remembering that Storen had asked her to let him know when that ship arrived as a personal favor. “Anything about it indicate it's in distress?”

“Other than the fact it hasn't answered any hails?” Vijay stated repressing a yawn and reaching for a lukewarm cup of coffee.

“Smat ass!” Elsie scolded him.

Vijay rolled his eyes and pulled a heavy tome off his workstation unto his lap. “Well these ICC regs state that any ship that hasn't answered hails...”

Elsie sighed, “Alright. Alright. What are we supposed to do about it?”

“We have to send a rescue shuttle out there. Both to establish contact with it and board it if necessary to ascertain the health and status of its crew.”

Elsie frowned. “Ships that dock here tend to value their privacy. If we start boarding ships that come near the station because of these ICC regs we'll make a lot of crews unhappy.”

Vijay shrugged. “Well what do they expect? This is what we're supposed to do from now on. As it is a lot of crews are already unhappy. Our docking schedule is completely fucked thanks to the Special Executive's lock down order. If the Casimir doesn't intend to dock it would be nice to confirm that sooner rather than later. I'd much rather give their spot on the schedule to another ship that needs it.”

“Fair enough. How long until they are in range of a rescue shuttle?”

Vijay punched a few buttons. “At high-burn a rescue shuttle could reach it in less than thirty minutes, if we launch one now. We'll have to flag it as a ship in distress anyway if we wait much longer than that. At present course and speed the Casimir will eventually drift close enough to the station to put other ships in danger.”

Elsie looked doubtful, “If there is any risk of a potential collision the ships own A.I. should alter course automatically.”

Vijay snorted, “Didn't I mention that ship is old? Given its lengthy repair history I wouldn't be surprised by any malfunctions. In any case ICC regs are written to presume any ship which isn't communicating should be treated as adrift with no power or ability to maneuver.”

“Is there any indication it has no power or inability to maneuver?”

“It has enough power for the transponder and running lights at the very least. Its heat signature appears to be at a nominal level indicating their reactor is still online. They should have gravity and full use of their systems.”

Elsie frowned, “Well, if we do launch a rescue shuttle and there's no good reason for it, see too it that the cost is added to their bill!”

Vijay shook his head, “That's not in the regs.”

Elsie snickered, “Unless the ICC is good enough to cover the added expenses of these regs themselves, it soon will be! Open a channel to the central command center. We need their approval to launch a rescue shuttle. Get word to Storen as well, he asked to be notified of this particular ships arrival.”

_ _ _

Around the metal work bench that served as a makeshift table in Ducks Bar, Wade, Reese, Storen and Ze'ev continued to discuss the Casimir and the rescue of the Ho-Stern sisters. Any covenant between near-strangers towards borderline criminal activity was an awkward and uneasy conversation.

This feeling eased somewhat as another round of drinks and a fresh pot of coffee was brought forth by their server, Fawzi, who smiled and nodded towards Ze'ev, “On the house!”

Storen momentarily plucked his cigar from his mouth to say, “Good-man!” gesturing with a thumbs up.

“Decent!” added Wade.

“Todah Rabah,” Ze'ev stated in Hebrew. reaching over to squeeze the youths' arm appreciatively.

Reese gave Fawzi a single jerk of his chin, which coming from him actually displayed a considerable amount of gratitude.

After Fawzi left them alone again Wade picked the moment to change the subject of conversation as Ze'ev kindly started filling cups with coffee, “Storen, which trade school did you attend for spacecraft repair?”

“I never went to a trade school,” Storen replied with a quick shake of his head. “I learned on the job as a ships-apprentice, same as you did.”

Wade cocked his head, “Really? I wouldn't have figured. How long?”

“Twelve years.”

“Damn! That's a long haul. How many ships did you crew with?”

“Just one. The Jeanne Baret.”

“What kind of ship was that?” Reese asked, puffing away on the cigar Storen gave him. He had to admit it was a good one. A very good one.

“She was a salvage tug and rescue tender. Almost four hundred meters long with a crew of twelve,” Storen answered.

Wade whistled, “Big-Mutha!”

Storen nodded, “A ship like that takes benefits from being roomy. More space for salvaged goods, rescued crew, and plenty of extra fuel and supplies.”

“Whereabouts did you operate?” Wade asked.

“Everywhere you would expect, and some regions so remote you've probably never heard of em.”

“Who was in command?” Reese wondered out loud, his curiosity warming up.

Storen reached for his second shot of whiskey as he answered, “Captain Tolga. A real son-of-a-bitch!” Storen lifted his shot glass and threw it back in one gulp, slapping the glass back on the table with a grunt.

Ze'ev ignored his second shot of vodka for now and sipped on coffee instead trying to keep up his energy as much as his optimism, “You haven't spoke much about Captain Tolga?”

Storen shook his head with weary memories, “He's a man I'd rather forget! Turkish mostly, but also Iranian. His partners ran operations out of Istanbul. However, the Jeanne Baret was too large and ungainly for full-gravity atmospheric landings so we kept a warehouse and resupply base on Luna instead.”

“Who did you contract with?” Wade inquired.

Storen shrugged, “Whoever could afford us. Our crew was one of the best there was at deep space repair, rescue and salvage.” Storen paused to scratch at his beard, deep in retrospection. “Searching for lost-ships is a gamble of diminishing-returns. At a certain point you have to give up the hunt or your own operating costs will sink you. Captain Tolga said the best strategy is to charge as much as you can up front as any increase in budget increases the odds of success.”

“Ever contract with The Company?" Reese questioned watching Storen's response carefully.

“Sure did,” Storen admitted. “Weyland Yutani have very deep pockets. We tried to capitalize on that, same as you did until you lost the Casimir.”

Reese fixed Storen with a hard, flinty-stare. Storen looked away and pretended not to notice. He just kept talking.

“Originally the Jeanne Baret was owned and constructed by the French for a bid at contract for a deep space auxilliary ship for the Three World Empire's Royal Navy. It wasn't a bad design, yet for whatever reason it didn't get the nod at the end of those trials.

Captain Tolga and his partners had the right connections to buy it wholesale since Turkey is a member of the Three World Empire. However, its position sharing a border with Iran became an issue as Iran is a long-held territory of the Union of Progressive Peoples. Captain Tolga had the gall to claim citizenship in both countries which got us into all sorts of legal and regulatory quagmires.

Technically he couldn't hold dual citizenship of course, not legally. That sort of thing goes against certain treaties, but so much of the UPP ignores those treaties he was effectively telling the truth. Captain Tolga kept as many friends on the Iranian side of the border as he had on the Turkish side. He even hired Turkish and Iranian crewmen in equal numbers. That created a lot of problems all on its own,” Storen muttered.

“You don't look Turkish?” Wade pointed out.

Storen smirked, “I'm French-Canadian.”

Chuckles were had all around the table.

“I grew up on the coasts of Newfoundland while my father worked on automated fishing trawlers and huge container ships,” Storen explained.

“How'd you end up on the Jeanne Baret" Wade asked.

“That's another story for another day,” Storen stated with half-a-grimace. Thinking back on that seemed to age him even further. His eyes went out of focus, and when he spoke next there was a haunted tone to his words, “I'll always regret leaving the oceans. Nothing has ever felt so good as the salt spray of the sea, pulling nets off the Grand Banks as waves roll against the hull,”

“You were a fisherman?” Wade questioned incredulously not quite willing to believe it. Much of the oceans were too polluted to fish, especially those around the Grand Banks where so much oil and natural gas deposits were drilled out from under the sea floor.

Storen started singing softly,

“I was a Bayman like my father was before

Can't make a living as a Bayman anymore

There ain't much future for a man who works the sea

But there ain't no island left for Islanders like me”

“Ok, damn it, you got me!” Wade cursed across the table.

Storen flashed a rare grin, “I'm Norwegian actually, but what I said about my father at least is true.”

At that moment something stuck in the back of Wade's mind returned to the present focus of his thoughts, “Hey Reese, what are we gonna do about getting the other crew off the Casimir?” Wade stated, reminding his captain that particular issue was still unresolved.

Reese responded so quickly and so sharply with the words, “Fuck-em!”, that Ze'ev flinched and spilled his coffee. The vicious tone of voice sent chills down his spine. Such avarice! Ze'ev thought, What sort of past provokes a man as imposing as Reese to be so spiteful?

Storen cleared his throat, which was still burning after that second shot of whiskey, “I know that's none of my business, but I would avoid doing anything rash if I were you.”

Reese's hard, flinty-stare returned, “You've got some nerve talking to me like that after what you pulled.”

Storen held up his hands. All feelings of joviality seemed to whisk away from the table, “Easy big-fella! We're all on the same team.”

“Nah. The way I see it, Ze'ev is the only man here I owe any favor's with. You and me ain't square yet,” Reese argued in a disagreeable tone.

“How about that cigar? Seems like that's a fair-apology to me?” Storen stated raising his eyebrows entreatingly.

Reese coughed a contemptuous snort, “You first offered me this cigar when I was laid up at the hospital with broken ribs. Remember that? As I recall you were pretending to give a shit about how heroic I was, which is pretty fucking low from someone who just broke into my quarters.”

Storen exhaled in a slow apology, “Fair enough. When you put it that way, I can't argue that was a low thing to do. What can I do to put this behind us?”

Reese pondered that, savoring the cigar for another moment before he said, “A case of these would go a long way towards forgiveness on my part.”

“A whole case?!” Storen half-laughed. “I don't keep that many on hand. I could part with a box or two. That's the best I can do I'm afraid. But since Wade brought it up, what do you know about the current crew of the Casimir?”

“Cubans right?” Reese answered matter-of-factly.

“That's right,” Storen confirmed. “The captain is a man named Yago. His wife and son are part of the crew as well, but the ship's engineer and his daughter are actually Greek, not Cuban.”

Reese shifted on his steel bar stool, growing agitated. Old rivets, welds and bearings creaked and groaned under his bulk. “So what? Anyone born on Earth acts like they're entitled to more than they deserve. Cubans, Greeks, Turks, Iranians...” Reese waved his hand, "Earther's always have more reasons to bitch about everything,” Reese held up a meaty hand and started ticking off the most common gripes one-by-one, “History, politics, economics, war or religion. Take your pick.

Personally I don't give a shit where they came from cause they ain't no better than us. I asked around and I know that crew does a bit of smuggling on the side, same as we did, cept they aint as good.”

A look of amusement flashed in Storen's blue-grey eyes. “You sure about that?”

“You got a point to make bud?” Reese asked flashing his faux-gold-capped teeth tightly against the cigar. The former captain of the Casimir wasn't one to take mockery lightly.

Storen held up his own cigar between them, “Cuban cigars are exceedingly rare this far from Earth. Yet since we are lucky enough to be smoking these, I thought I should point out that I bought these off of Captain Yago.”

Reese's jaw clenched slightly as he measured another look at Storen, “That's good. Maybe I'll find a case of these on my ship then? Any other deals you've made with him I should be aware of?”

“No. Not really. I'm just another paying customer. My point is this,” Storen continued, “I wouldn't think so harshly of that other crew. They had no part in how you lost the Casimir, right? So why does all this have to get so personal with you? Why can't you talk with Captain Yago the same way were talking? We can work this out. It's just business.”

Reese leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he started wringing his huge meaty hands together while his knuckles popped one by one. His eyes were cold and matter-of-fact with forthright animosity as he said, “Man, if I was taking things personally I'd have already put this cigar out in your fucking eye! You get me?”

Storen didn't scare easy but Reese wasn't just posturing. He knew that in his bones. Wade and Ze'ev both swallowed sharing a look of growing concern. They had to bring down the tension between these two or this would never work.

“I think what Storen is saying...” Ze'ev began but Reese cut him off. "I know what he's saying, but I take care of business my own way. I didn't get that ship playing nice in the first place. It won't be any different getting it back. If Captain Yago wants to talk, I'll make him an offer he can't refuse. Same goes if he doesn't!"

_ _ _

Isaac Pere Shashua reached for a pack of cigarettes almost automatically as the tingle of a yawn formed in his chest. He was in his late twenties, lean and handsome with thick black hair, neatly parted and swept back over his ears. His lightly-tanned olive-hued skin and soft brown eyes were both Israeli and Spanish, specifically Catalan. Across his nose he wore plain, corrective eye glasses with thick frames.

Dressed in a sports coat, dark brown slacks and a long sleeve white cotton shirt Isaac could pass for ex middle-management, a poor working lawyer, a struggling salesman or an unemployed executive assistant. In actual fact he was a journalist. Smoking was one of a few bad habits propagated by that profession. Perhaps the easiest to fall into. It wasn't the craving for the cigarette that Isaac felt so much as it was a fixation on the ritual of lighting up. Having something to focus on when there was nothing else to do was a useful trick for staying focused.

Ashkelon Station was big news now and as the only journalist assigned by The Colonial Independent newspaper Isaac had his work cut out for him. Around him, the bustle and flow of the crowded space port promenade surged like a surf of background noise luring his eyelids to droop as he leaned against an interior wall. It had been days since he got a full nights rest.

At a glance Isaac looked like just another insignificant bystander. Neither his slacks, nor his shirt were freshly pressed, pleated, or otherwise absolved of wrinkles. The laced genuine-leather loafers on his feet were badly scuffed with worn soles while his coat was also worse for wear with loose threads and patches.

Isaac dressed this way on purpose. Easier to observe without being seen when he looked like just another working stiff. Successful journalists relied on getting close to people and events that were newsworthy as much as possible. Sleeping and taking time for proper meals or exercise did not factor much into that. Especially now. The arrival of Victor Li Shing and the recent bloodshed perpetrated by his commando's had every reporter on the station working overtime. Besides, given how large Ashkelon Station was, being in the right place at the right time could be as much a matter of luck as it was careful planning.

The Colonial Independent was an impecunious, 'grass-roots', news outfit. Even at the best of times it wasn't capable of covering everything going on in the Outer Rim. The bulk of its staff were volunteers and almost all of its funding came by way of private donors. What it did to set itself apart was deep investigative journalism; analyzing events and scrutinizing issues to their base facts, proving the truth of claims and allegations that no other news organization would dare to print.

Editorial-authenticity, candor and integrity are what prompted Isaac to be a journalist in the first place. Stories of tragedy, triumph, disaster, discovery, political scandals, legal battles and more captivated his desire to get educated and make a difference. More than a few double-dealing corporations, corrupt politicians, bloodthirsty mercenaries or heavy-handed colonial governors had their schemes scuttled by an expose by The Colonial Independent.

Out here on the fringes of civilization, lives were balanced on the risks shaped by current events. A good story from his paper went a long way to define those risks and Isaac was eager to have his say in what people needed to know. Colonists in this sector had every reason to debate the worth of the concord agreement between the rapidly expanding colonial government of the ICSC and the huge interstellar regulatory entity that was the ICC.

However, since his arrival on the station two months ago, Isaac realized the real story of Ashkelon Station wasn't the concord agreement at all. It was the tug-of-war between the CSC and the government of the ICSC for control of its destiny. Mega Corporations like Technion Interstellar and Jĭngtì Lóng had jointly financed the station. They also had rights to the lions share of land and resources on GL-382 below. They did not technically govern the colony world, or the station itself, but they had the means, wealth and influence to dictate its future regardless.

The arrival of Victor Li Shing and his commando's seemed to indicate the Central Space Consortium was making a point. The ICSC might administer the station, but the CSC owned it and they had the power to seize control of it at any time. Isaac believed any rationale for sending a Special Executive and three warships to Ashkelon Station must have something to do with protecting their interests.

The trouble was figuring out exactly what those interests were? Everything to do with CSC corporate labs on Ashkelon Station were shrouded in secrecy. The Colonial Constitution of the ICSC allowed for an independent and protected press, but the CSC made no such allowances. Trespassing anywhere on CSC property, publishing internal memo's, private documents or other intellectual property was strictly off-limits with heavy legal consequences.

In the early days of the ICSC, The Colonial Independent pushed those limits daring to conduct interviews with anonymous whistle-blowers. Subsequent and ongoing legal battles with CSC corporate lawyers soon bankrupted the paper. It only survived off the generously deep pockets of its private donors who used the paper to spotlight the evils of illegal activity and corruption employed to exploit colonists of the Outer Rim.

Officially, the paper's policy regarding the CSC was:

'Consult with our legal team before attempting any interviews or investigations involving member corporations of the CSC and their subsidiaries. Private information, activity, or property of the CSC must be handled with the upmost discretion and professionalism. Records of findings and/or observations related to CSC member corporations must likewise be kept confidential.'

In other words, Tread very, very, carefully.

Unofficially, journalists were encouraged to take as many risks as necessary to gain information for a story. So long as that information was critical to the success and reputation of the paper the legal team had their back. In that sense the fine line between risk and reward was only worth it when the rewards were worth the risk. Right now Isaac was acting on a tip that a meeting of mid-level lab executives and Victor Li Shing was presently taking place at the top of the tower far above the spaceport level.

CSC executives almost never spoke to the press, but Isaac had a hunch that not every Jĭngtì Lóng executive on the station was thrilled with Victor Li Shing. All he had to do was find one willing to speak up about how it felt to have the mans shoe on the back of their neck. Even 'off the record', a statement like that would corroborate other vile rumors he'd already heard from other employees.

Of course, Isaac's personal press credential wasn't enough to gain access to the Jĭngtì Lóng executive penthouse without an official invitation. Waiting here, hoping to catch someone from the meeting using the lift to exit on this level was the only idea he had on such short notice. So far it wasn't panning out and the urge to yawn was almost overwhelming.

Isaac placed a cigarette between his lips, lifting up an electric lighter as the shudder of an explosion suddenly rattled the deck. In his surprise, he almost almost dropped the lighter and spit out the cigarette. What in the fuck?!

At first he didn't understand what was happening until people started pointing to the panoramic view ports above and alongside the spaceport perimeter walkway.

“Look at that!”

“Oh my god! Are those people floating in vacuum without a suit?!”

“Isn't that the Jĭngtì Lóng penthouse?!”

Within moments, flashing red strobes and warnings from Executor declared an alarm and a state of emergency. Despite this, crowds in the area clustered closer together to look up and get a better view of the disaster-in-progress.

Jesus! What happened?! Isaac was about to join the crowd to take a look for himself when a young woman who had just exited the lift dressed in loose-fitting jogging sweats whirled around and starting pounding on the lift controls. She had her hood up so Isaac only glimpsed her face for an instant, but that was enough. Isaac had an uncanny memory for faces.

Isn't that Victor's daughter?! he thought, pausing to stare at her back as she smashed and shattered the lift controls in the effort to command the doors open again. It has to be her he realized, only a synthetic could do that kind of damage so easily!

Isaac watched her hang her head low as she gave up forcing the door controls to obey, hugging herself and shaking. Evidently all at once overwhelmed with anxiety, dread and despair. Isaac knit his eyebrows together thoughtfully, trying to understand what she was feeling? Was it Victor she was so worried about? Was it even possible for her to cry?

Isaac didn't know everything about her, he never expected to see her in the flesh, …so to speak, but he had read nearly every account of her remarkable recovery and transformation into the first human/synthetic cyborg. Her story was well documented in the CSC media. Catherine herself had never agreed to personal interviews, but there was enough information out there to know she was not related to Victor by blood.

Still, her emotions looked real enough, even from a distance. She's much more than a robot, Isaac decided as he pushed himself off the wall, eager to approach her. His gut said speaking to her would be more illuminating than just gaping up at the explosion far above. Every available external camera feed on the station was already being brought to bear on that.

Besides, standard station safety protocols for a hull breach of this magnitude was to isolate nearby sections of the station and clear people away from the danger as soon as possible. Station Tech's and Security personnel would work in unison to herd away crowds from any areas with flashing red strobes. Of course, as a precaution, they would suit up first. Nevertheless, typical response time for this sort of emergency was as quick as humanly possible. They trained for this with regular drills because the urgency of such an emergency could not be overstated.

Isaac managed a few hasty steps towards Catherine before she abruptly turned away from the lifts and pushed her way through the growing crowd headed deeper into the station, away from the space port.

“Hey!” shouted a concerned and frightened voice behind him.

Shit, I completely forgot about Susie! Isaac realized glancing back over his shoulder. Sue Dechellis had just emerged from the public restroom behind him, a frazzled look of near panic clear in her expression. She was close to ten years older than him, small and squat enough to have dwarfism in her genetics. The most accurate term to describe her looks was butch.

Her garb was plain utility coveralls, heavy-soled boots and a long-sleeve collared shirt with its cuffs rolled up around her elbows. Even her haircut was short enough to be mistaken for a mans from most angles.

Isaac jerked his arm in a gesture for her to follow as he pressed on after Catherine. Sue pumped her legs rushing to catch up with him. Isaac wasn't even running, only walking briskly, yet she had to sprint to close the distance with such short legs.

“What the fuck is going on?!” she huffed as she moved up beside him, raising her voice to be heard over the crowd.

“Some sort of hull-breach up at the J.L. penthouse!” Issac answered.

“Jesus!” Sue exclaimed, “that can't be good.”

“Definitely not,” Isaac agreed, adding grimly, “Looks like people were sucked into the vacuum.”

“Shit! Do you think one of em might have been Victor?!”

“I don't know. It's a long way up and I didn't see it happen for myself,” Isaac answered.

Sue stopped talking for a minute as they hurried away from the space port down a side corridor. Sue occasionally ducked back into Isaac's tracks the same way a young child might, dodging people she couldn't push or maneuver her way past. Finally she asked, “Where are we going?”

“We're following the woman in the hoodie-sweatshirt,” Isaac answered gesturing towards Catherine about twenty yards further down the hall. She was hurrying along purposefully, arms still crossed in a self-embrace, head down. Her stride was rapid enough to keep them both breathing hard in the effort to keep pace.

“Who's that?” Sue asked, in between panting breaths.

“Victor's daughter,” Isaac answered.

“Really?!” Sue gasped, darting her head side to side between people trying to get a better look at her. “What's she doing?”

“No idea,” Isaac admitted. “She got off the lift at nearly the same moment the explosion occurred. She tried to go back up, but Executor immediately locked down the lifts. Safety protocols probably.”

"We can track her with the drone?!" Sue asked excitedly.

Isaac considered it but quickly dismissed the idea. “No, not yet. I don't want to risk using it unless we need too. We don't want to loose another one so soon.”

“Those fuckers!” Sue affirmed bitterly, angry at the memory of the previous incident he just mentioned. Drone-work was her favorite part of her job as Isaac's investigative assistant. The small, flying, hovering machine was an invaluable tool to snap photo's and record events from a 'birds-eye' perspective. It was also especially useful for snooping around as its advanced directional microphones were capable of eavesdropping from a fair distance.

For these reasons, and many others, most civilians weren't allowed to own drones. Those who did paid hefty fee's and licensing costs. Wealthy private businesses used them on a limited basis; typically within strict boundaries of their own property. Other than station tech's and station security, only the media had permission to use drones in public areas.

The Colonial Independent couldn't afford to license as many drones as most other media organizations did. Sue was lucky she didn't loose her job over the loss of their last one. Surprisingly, Isaac took the blame for that himself. He even offered to pay for it out of his own salary. Sue ever expected such kindness from anyone on her behalf.

Good jobs were hard to find on Ashkelon Station so Sue was quite surprised to be selected as Isaac's investigative assistant. There were dozens of other applicants he could have chosen who had more experience than she did in the field of journalism. When she asked him why he chose her he'd answered, You've got as much to prove as I do. We're in this together. Let's show them we're the best team for the job. After that she asked him to call her Susie, a nickname normally reserved only for family and close friends.

“She's headed to Duck's!” Sue stated recognizing where she was leading them.

At that moment, Isaac was very happy to have Sue by his side. Ducks Bar was one of the most popular blue-collar bars on Ashkelon Station. Its owner, Joe 'Duck' Dechellis also happened to be Susie's uncle.

_ _ _

“Get your weapons out!” the E.M.V. operator grunted as the yellow-painted vehicular-spider approached the shattered view port of the Jĭngtì Lóng executive penthouse. Above them a cloud of evacuated debris, quickly-cooling human corpses and a thousand shards of heavyweight thermally-tempered glass spread into the void.

The husband and wife grabbed Rexim RXF-M5 EVA pistols from an equipment case and holstered them to their utility belts. These laser-weapons were somewhat bulky and difficult to aim as they were originally designed as portable laser-welders. The focus and damage of the beam generally lost effectiveness the further you were from the target. In terms of range and stopping power they were the rough-equivalent of a 9MM pistol. Still, laser weapons were far easier to handle and safer to use in zero-g than a normal firearm.

“Gravity appears to be holding inside,” the operator stated reading the E.M.V.'s Instruments as the spider's cab drew level with the penthouse. Behind him, the faces of the husband and wife were drenched with sweat and sick with dread as they stared within the twisted and charred exterior frame of that floor-to-ceiling viewport they just blew to pieces.

Inside was mostly darkness, broken up by emergency lights built into the frame of the interior pressure-door, strobing red, and the angling beams of distant spot-lights playing over the spiders cab from the stations' other towers behind them.

The voice of Joe Dechellis crackled again through the spiders comms, “Hurry up and get in dere! Make sure dat son-of-a-bitch is dead!”

The husband and wife swallowed and looked to each other, hesitating. Planting explosives on the hull of the station was one thing. Using the shattered view port as a makeshift breaching entrance was quite another.

“There's no way that bastard survived!” the husband muttered, “but his bodyguards probably did. They'll be dangerous.”

The operator swiveled in his pilot seat, glaring, “You heard Joe! We don't have time for this!”

“Darling, let's go.” the wife stated, giving her husbands hand a squeeze. “We said we'd do whatever had to be done to avenge our son. This is our only chance for justice.”

The man sighed, squeezing his wife's hand back firmly. Together placed another explosive charge in their duffle bags slinging the straps over their shoulders. It wasn't part of the plan to damage the station further, but it may not be possible to rely on their laser pistols alone to finish the job.

The flashing strobe on the cabs' airlock outer door turned on the moment it was ready to open. Husband and wife emerged again in their EVA suits, shielding their eyes from the distant glare of powerful spotlights.

“WATCH OUT!” the E.M.V. operator cried out just as one of Victor's bodyguards stepped from behind the wall beside the open view port and lifted its submachine gun.

Bullet's peppered the cab at the same instant the husband spun and shoved his wife back inside the airlock. Pushing her caused him to loose his balance in zero-g. One round hit him in the right forearm, another in the right leg. Three more impacted his life support equipment pack and a final glancing shot off the side of his face-plate created a large crack. Helplessly, he floated up and away from the E.M.V., limbs flailing.

“BASTARD!” Yelled the operator, grabbing the E.M.V. controls jerking the smaller set of forward manipulator arms beneath the cab into life. The bodyguard stepped back, out of reach, firing another burst at the operator through the cab windows.

A spate of teflon-tipped projectiles struck the glass in an abrupt staccato, forcing the operator to wince and duck by reflex. The glass held, but a dozen different starburst cracks formed on its surface. Those cracks reached towards each other, spider-webbing the glass, obscuring the operators vision.

“FUCK!” The operator cursed, hitting a red button for the emergency solar radiation/micro meteor shields. Heavy panels of thick alloy plates layered over lead-impregnated composites snapped shut over the windows. It'll take a lot more than a submachine gun to penetrate these mother-fucker!

Meanwhile, the husband began to spin out of control floating just out of reach of the E.M.V. as the bullet holes in his suit acted like micro-maneuvering jets. Alarms and flashing warnings blared inside his helmet. His heart rate spiked and he began to hyperventilate as the damaged life support unit on his back stopped regulating his air mixture properly.

“NO!” screamed the wife, grabbing for the tether connecting her suit to her husbands and pulling him back towards the E.M.V. air lock with all her strength.

Blinded now except for external cameras, the operator swiveled a forward manipulator arm arm towards the bodyguard. Even at full extension it was at least ten feet out of reach, but he wasn't actually trying to grab it with hydraulic clamps he was aiming at it with a targeting reticle.

“My turn!” the operator hissed, switching on the E.M.V.'s powerful external flood lights at the same instant he fired a high-tensile harpoon cable directly at the bodyguards center mass. The cable shot out with tremendous speed and force, designed to penetrate and anchor itself to a ships hull.

It passed through the bodyguard almost as if it wasn't there... right in the upper abdomen below where the ribs would be in any normal person. White lubricant sprayed out in all directions from the exit wound as the cable continued it's unerring trajectory, puncturing one of the interior walls half an instant later.

“BULLSEYE!” the operator cried out with a whoop pumping his fist.

_ _ _

Victor Li Shing grimaced in surly disbelief as his bodyguard was harpooned. Frustrated as he was with his current predicament, this wasn't the first assassination attempt against him. The expectation that rivals and enemies would make attempts against his life was something he accepted, even anticipated. Yet this time was different. These assailants weren't rivals, enemies, or even professional killers. These were just regular people.

He could tell that much observing them through the eyes of his bodyguard who was run through like bait strung out on a fishing line. How they managed to do that was a shock that irritated him greatly. The gall! The hubris! The disrespect! A challenge against him was the same as a challenge to the might of the Jĭngtì Lóng Corporation itself. What mad fools they were to attempt such a thing!

In Victor's mind the proper class-divisions of humanity were based on the weak and the strong, the rich and the poor, the worthy and the unworthy. His desire to shame these people was even greater than his want to defeat them. He felt a need to make an example of them to teach other residents of Ashkelon Station to know their place. Towards this end he reached out for the most overwhelming show of force he had at his disposal.

Mentally he opened a secure channel to the CSCS Kowloon. Victor was pleased with how quickly the ships A.I. acknowledged him. Unlike other A.I.'s of course, military versions wouldn't take direct orders from anyone who wasn't presently on the bridge as the acting command officer. It would however, take requests to speak with that command officer. Moments later a bridge channel went live.

“This is commander Ye Fei, acting bridge officer!” A voice reported smartly. “Sir we detected an explosion at your position. Are you under attack or in need of assistance?”

“Yes... E.M.V... breaching... penthouse,” Victor croaked painfully in answer to both questions. Unlike the mental conversations he had with his bodyguards, Victor had to actually vocalize what he wanted to say on a regular comm channel. The effort now required to use his injured vocal cords strained his tolerance for pain.

“SOUND GENERAL ALARM! Notify the captain and X.O. immediately!” shouted the young commander. Victor was disappointed. By his reckoning the crew should have already been sounding the alarm for battle stations the moment they detected a nearby explosion. He made a mental note to see this officer reprimanded.

_ _ _

“HELP ME!” The wife shouted through clenched teeth. Her husbands dizzying spin at the end of his tether was growing ever more erratic and forceful. Every passing moment made it harder for her to keep her balance and keep her hold on the tether at the same time.

“Engange your mag-boots!” The operator said, unbuckling the lap belt of his pilots seat and floating free to pull himself towards her.

“OK!” She stated, managing to get one boot engaged, than the other with a solid clunk on the metal decking of the cab floor.

At last, the wounded EVA tech's wife and the operator managed to pull her husband back against the hull of the cab and tug him through the airlock door. They closed it behind him and waited for what felt like an eternity for the interior pressure to stabilize. Inside the small airlock it was a very cramped fit for three people, especially while one was incapacitated and unresponsive.

“Darling!” the wife yelled in panic, hurriedly working to unclasp his helmet as the mans eyes were rolling up into the back of his head.

Once his helmet was off he started to breath in huge gulps of air, still disoriented, but breathing. Blood dribbled from his mouth, ears, and around his eyes. A close call from exposure to vacuum.

“His vital signs are erratic.” The operator stated worriedly. “Lets get him inside!”

Together they half-carried, half-dragged him back into the cramped spiders cab. There was a well stocked first aid cabinet available, along with some other emergency medical equipment, but removing his vacuum suit to treat his wounds wasn't going to be easy. There was so much blood! It seemed to almost pour out of the punctures in his suit. In space, any sort of wound could be fatal as the vacuum greedily sucked at the fluids beneath his skin.

“We can't help him!” The operator stated grimly, grabbing a hold of the woman's shoulders forcing her to look at him. “We don't have time!”

Tears flooded her eyes, but she understood. “Darling wait for me!” she croaked, kneeling down to place a hasty goodbye kiss against his cheek.”

The operator took her husbands duffle bag and grabbed the laser pistol off his utility belt, leading the way once again into the airlock. This time they were more cautious when they emerged into the void and the blinding spotlights; mag boots engaged and pistols held at the ready.

“How the fuck...” The operator muttered with disbelief as he stared through the yawning view port where the grappling cable had struck the wall. The bodyguard was nowhere to be seen, though there was a fair bit of white lubricant coating the cable.

Suddenly a hand reached up under one of the spiders legs to clamp itself around his ankle. He cried out with shock and intense pain as he was pulled off balance. The grip was so strong it overpowered the magnets!

“OH GOD!” The woman shrieked, reaching for him.

'SHOOT IT!” The operator roared, flailing, unable to move his body properly in the bulky vacuum suit to take aim at it himself..

The wife did as she was bid, kneeling down and placing the muzzle of the laser pistol almost directly above the androids wrist. As if sensing what she was about to do it jerked its arm down further, pulling the operator completely off his footing and wrenching his ankle so harshly he screamed. Fearful to miss the android and accidentally shoot him instead she hesitated, leaning over the edge of the spiders leg further to regain her aim and then pulled the trigger.

With a silent sizzle the beam cut into the androids arm. She glimpsed a few faint sparks under blackened synthetic skin. It released its grip almost immediately, but not soon enough. It had already crushed the collar of the operators suit where it attached to the magnetic boot pinching it into his ankle like the machine-jaws of a vice.

Eager for a killing shot she leaned over even further, trying to follow where it pulled back its arm to get a better aim at her foe. Suddenly its hand shot back up managing to grasp the wrist she was holding the pistol with. She pulled the trigger again, in reflex, but in vain. After a moment under the bone-crunching pressure of its grip she felt the weapon float away from her fingertips. Now the android had her securely in its grasp as its next victim. She shrieked again as it pulled her down.

Horrified, she saw the android was clinging to the underside of the E.M.V.'s spiders leg. Evidently it had pulled itself along the cable beneath the cab, hollowing out most of its abdomen in the process as the vacuum pulled at its milky white innards. The winch that fed the cable was out of reach up inside the spider, but the articulating harpoon launcher that fired the cable was exposed and vulnerable.

Despite its horribly mutilated body, it somehow still had the strength to lever the harpoon launcher free of its mount, bending heavy flanges and snapping bolts in the process to allow enough slack in the cable to move itself up under the leg beneath the outer airlock. The cable itself was still fed through its lower torso, held taught up against the spider leg which it clung too with its other hand and both of its legs.

Her tether to the operator grew taught as she floated free, helpless in zero-g. The androids' face was ghostly pale, almost translucent and strangely gaunt. It's eyes were shrunken into its head casing, seemingly lifeless and blind; the visage of a mechanical ghoul. It was the most terrifying thing she'd ever seen and she couldn't stop screaming.

Somehow, even as it clutched to her wrist, she sensed it was dying. Not even an android could survive the void for long with such significant damage. Still it was going to outlive her, that much she knew with a certainty as it yanked her close enough to kiss her faceplate.

She fought it with all her strength, breathless from terror, but I was no use. It released its other hand from its grip on the mechanical spiders leg and reached for her neck instead. I hope to see you both again soon, I love you so much... she thought, closing her eyes, picturing her son and her husband from a place deep inside her heart.

“DIE YOU SYNTHETIC FUCK!” screeched the operator, firing his laser pistol directly into the androids skull at point blank range. The wife's eyes snapped open again as she felt it's grip jerk free of her wrist. A black hole of vaporized plastic and melted composite-bone was visible just above its left temple. She gasped with exhilaration and relief as the operator pulled her away from it.

Together they clambered down off the spiders leg, falling unto the deck of the penthouse floor as they passed through the threshold of the shattered viewport. The operator attempted to rise but quickly collapsed again, howling.

“Can you walk?” She asked.

“No,” He croaked, pressing his laser pistol into her hand. “Go!”

Slowly she rose to her feet, panting with exertion. The EVA vacuum suit was heavy and difficult to move around in under the force of full artificial gravity. She took one step, than another, breathing deeply.

Around her the penthouse was silent as a tomb and lit up brightly by the E.M.V.'s floodlights. Red flashing warning lights pulsed at her from the pressure door.

Where are you Victor? She wondered, glancing at several different exits leading from this lounge/living room into other rooms or hallways. All the interior doors had buckled from the explosive decompression so it seemed there was nowhere left to hide. Paintings, porcelain vases, antique crystal and other priceless art objects littered the floor at random. A surreal scene of decadence gone wrong.

“Nǐ shì shéi?” Hissed a strange voice into her helmet comms, speaking Chinese.

Her heartbeat started racing as a tremor of fear tingled the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She knew instinctively this was Victor's voice.

“I'm your worst nightmare!” She hissed back with all the venom she could muster.

A snort of pained laughter burst into the channel.

“My name is Bao Wong,” she continued, stepping towards the entrance to what appeared to be a private conference room. “You murdered my son!”

“Don't listen to him!” Spoke the operator, realizing who she must be talking too.

“I... admire... your... courage,” Victor stated hoarsely.

“I wish to see you dead! As do all the other families of the victims you slaughtered.”

“I see,” Victor commented at the same moment she stepped into the conference room and froze with sickened surprise. Two bodies were inside, both Chinese. A man and a woman, their faces puffy, bruised, and frozen. Bloody icicles stuck to their skin around their ears, eyes and mouth. These were Jĭngtì Lóng Corporate scientists. Victims of her own act of slaughter she knew, swallowing with shame just as the operators voice broke into a warning yell.

“BEHIND YOU!”

Bao spun in a panic just as another bodyguard tackled her through the door. She had no hope of hearing it running towards her without air to carry the sound. It was so fast! The force of its impact knocked all the air from her lungs as they both slid across the conference room floor, already slick with frozen blood from the other victims. She felt her helmet crack hard against the leg of a heavy wooden table that was shoved a short distance away from the door.

Pain lanced down her neck but she ignored it, kicking and twisting and pulling the trigger of the pistol, fighting for her life.

The bodyguard took a few shots but nothing that would incapacitate it or seriously damage it. Unlike the other one, this one only seemed interested in disarming her, which it did by casually breaking her arm. She screamed.

“BAO! BAO?!” the operator shouted, beginning to crawl towards the open conference door on his hands and knees.

A third bodyguard came out of nowhere and bolted towards him, intent to capture him alive as well. He looked like easy prey with no visible weapons and a broken ankle. The operator immediately abandoned his efforts to crawl grabbing for the duffle back slung over his shoulder instead. “GO FUCK YOURS...” He shouted, unable to actually finish the sentence before the bodyguard was on top of him.

They struggled. The operator fought back with everything he had, suffering a serious battering from several savage blows. Groaning, he twitched and lay still, apparently unconscious. The bodyguard stood again and started to turn away.

“Not... so...fast...” the operator whispered, managing at last to get his hand inside the duffle bag. His final moments were blessed with satisfaction as he felt the button to set off the explosive charge inside. The look on the synthetic bodyguard's face was worth it as he grunted, "My turn!" and pressed down hard.