Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382

07/23/2183

Alan Warshauer (chief station officer) was full of outraged, restless energy. Hardly anyone in the central command center had slept since the massacre at Dizzy's Club. Alan in particular had been pacing, almost nonstop, until the voice of Elsie Macgill (manager of dry dock) broke over the intercom channel, “Central Command, do you read?”

Alan responded immediately, “Elsie, it's Alan. Go ahead.”

“We have a problem down here. An approaching freighter is not responding to hails.”

“What's its name and registration number?”

“USCSS Casimir, registration number 7643039(04).”

“Got it! Tracking now,” stated one of the command staff at their terminal. “M-Class, Bison, scheduled inbound from Torin Prime. At present course and speed its about thirty minutes out from the outer docking lanes.”

“We see the same down here,” Elsie confirmed. “ICC regs state we should launch a rescue shuttle immediately to ascertain the status of the crew. Yet so far as I know we're still under a station lock down order? So it's your call Alan.”

“Standby,” Alan said gesturing to his staff to mute the channel. Immediately another member of the command staff reported, “The Ranger is on watch right now.”

Commander Widmer's boat. That's good, Alan thought. Of the four rescue shuttles berthed on Ashkelon Station, the Ranger had the most seasoned crew.

At this moment there were four CSC naval commando's in the central command center. The most senior of which was a lieutenant by the name of Zhang who immediately shook his head and barked, “No shuttles!”

Alan clenched his jaw, realizing at this moment he'd been hoping for a chance like this to challenge Victor's lock down order. Locking eyes with the commando he said, “This is a potential emergency situation! Your lock down order has no bearing on standard rescue operations.”

The commando stepped closer to Alan, looming over him by about six inches saying again, “No shuttles!”

Alan started to get red in the face, “You are out of line! I am the acting officer in command of this station. The safety of everyone here is my responsibility. I won't ignore an M-Class freighter on a course towards us drifting out of control.”

“We can handle it,” the officer replied with a cock-sure smile. “Boarding ships is what we do best.”

Alan did not look away. Instead he posed another question to his staff, “Who is the owner of that freighter?”

“It's registered to Captain Yago under an ICC commercial captains license. The vessel itself is leased by Weyland Yutani.”

“According to my reckoning, under the terms of the Concord Agreement, the CSC has no authority to board a Weyland Yutani vessel in ICSC space. Am I right about that?” Alan pressed his staff.

“Correct. Not unless there is clear evidence of a threat or wrongdoing by the vessel in question and there are no ICC rescue vessels available. However in this case, our rescue shuttles are authorized by the ICC to perform rescue duties on their behalf until which time they have their own shuttle's berthed on this station.”

Burgeoning uncertainty flared up in the commando as he broke eye contact with Alan and glared at the staff. Lippy civilians quoting regulations at him daring to challenge his authority chafed his ego something fierce.

In that moment Alan turned his back on him and gestured to un-mute the channel with space dock control. “Ok Elsie, on my orders the Ranger will launch shortly to intercept the Casimir.”

“Roger that. We'll keep tabs from down here,” Elsie acknowledged before the channel closed again.

Suddenly, Zhang reached over and pulled Alan around roughly by the shoulder, “We're not done here! Before you launch that shuttle I strongly suggest you confirm that regulation with the ICC. Otherwise I'll remove you from command right now!”

Alan stared up at Zhang, gnashing his teeth. I'd love to clean your clock asshole! “Fine. Open a channel to the ICC. This is the chief station officer speaking. I have a potential emergency situation here. Request advisement?”

“Go ahead Chief?” answered the op's officer on duty in ICC control.

“We have an inbound freighter approaching the outer docking lanes which offers no response to hails. ICC regs state that we should launch a rescue shuttle immediately. I am ready to give that order, but I am requesting confirmation of the regulation first. Can you oblige me?”

“Standby Chief,” the ops officer stated muting that channel before hitting the intercom switch to managing director Tyler's office. “Director Tyler?”

“Speaking!” she responded brusquely.

“Ma'am. The station's chief operations officer intends to launch a rescue shuttle to intercept an incoming freighter which hasn't responded to hails. He's asking to confirm our regulations in this regard?”

Thank god he's asking! Tyler thought gratefully. “Patch him into this channel directly,” she ordered with a snap. A moment later she said, “Alan, this is Managing Director Tyler. Do not launch any rescue shuttles.”

Alan's preparatory smirk of defiance in the face of the rude commando immediately faltered, replaced with a confused look of frustration, “Say again Director?”

“I say again, do not launch any rescue shuttle's. In fact don't launch anything. Have I made myself clear?”

“But, it's a private vessel owned by Weyland Yutani?” Alan pressed.

“I don't give a shit about that! This is a quarantine issue. Highest priority!”

Alan's confusion increased twice over. “I don't understand? What's on that freighter?”

“Are you hard of hearing up there? I didn't say it had anything to do with the freighter did I?” Aberdeen pointed out sharply.

Alan's confusion increased thrice over, “What's that supposed to mean?!”

“Give me a minute and I will come up and explain it to you. In person, not over an open channel,” Aberdeen stipulated.

“Understood,” Alan grunted back, closing the connection. What the fuck am I supposed to do about this freighter now?

Zhang immediately smirked down at Alan. “So long as it is docked here, any threat to this station is a threat to the CSCS Kowloon. From what I just heard that freighter certainly sounds like a potential threat. I'll have to report this to my captain. We'll see who has the last word about this!”

_ _ _

Shella Roodt toweled herself off while her scalp still tingled with the eucalyptus extract shampoo she used. A guilty pleasure. Eucalyptus trees were plentiful in South Africa, planted in woodlots and plantations as a valuable source of timber, paper, and many other products. However, invasive plant species were also responsible for a sizable percentage of water shortages, taxing the ever-dwindling water supply.

After she slipped on some undergarments, Shella pulled on Khaki pants which filled in quite tight around her hips and muscular thighs. Sylvester sensed her anxious mood, rubbing against her ankle, meowing sympathetically. Shella bent over to give him a pet as she slipped her feet into socks and combat boots.

“I'll be back buddy!” she stated the same way she always did, though this time felt different. Something was wrong. She could feel it in her gut. That feeling persisted as she pulled out a heavy chest from inside her closet marked, [ICC PROPERTY]. Inside was an impressive cache of gear and weapons, some of which she had confiscated from the hands of thugs and Triad enforcers. I can hardly think of a better use for this stuff than the opportunity to use it against them, she thought with satisfaction.

The first thing she grabbed was a close-fitting combat vest. Custom tailored for her petite body, it fit as tightly as a corset around her shapely curves and small waist. Though not bulletproof, merely bullet-resistant, it served just as well as a sports bra and offered good protection against knives and piercing weapons. Triad enforcers were known to favor blades in preference to guns when they could get away with it. Kills were quieter that way, and often bloodier, which better served to intimidate witnesses.

Over her vest she pulled on a plain v-neck cotton t shirt from a hanger, tucking that into her waistband. Next she flexed her fingers into a pair of well-worn finger-less leather street-boxing gloves, wrapping their Velcro straps over the top of her wrists. Sewn into the leather, across the knuckles, were metal caps guaranteed to leave a mark.

A woven combat utility belt was looped into her pants with a variety of small pouches, kits and gadgets. She tucked the belt tang of her holster to one side, pulling the 88 Mod 4 combat pistol out briefly to check the magazine and verify an extra round was already chambered. Tucked into pouches beside the holster were two spare mags and a silencer. Flash-bangs and low-yield anti personnel grenades were the last four items she fixed to the belt.

No less than four knives were fitted unto her person next, including two push-daggers, a wickedly sharp Japanese Tanto and a throwing dagger. The last item she pulled out from the crate wasn't something she acquired in the line of duty. It was a gift held in a wooden box made from genuine African Pearwood. Shella placed the box on her dining table, thinking of the memories it brought back as much as it was something she was ashamed to own.

When she opened it, two custom Heckler & Koch VP70M pistols were revealed, fitted into cream-colored velvet. More compact, but similar in design to her 88 Mod 4 Combat Pistol, these had a shorter barrel offering no room for an under-barrel attachment slide. They were made with a lightweight polymer frame, same as the Mod 4, but their upper slides were nickel-plated and engraved. One of em read 'Good Girl', the other, 'Bad Girl'.

Both sides of the hand grips were inset with genuine ivory. Good Girl had carvings of a South African Crane and an African wild dog on the grips while Bad Girl had carvings of a roaring Lioness and a huge Cape Vulture. Each one had a modified action for a faster fire rate. Good Girl was a three-round-burst weapon. Bad Girl was fully automatic. Neither one was especially practical or easy to shoot. Recoil and ammo management were always an issue. Fortunately, six, nickel-plated, extended magazines were tucked into the case increasing the ammo capacity of each load from eighteen to twenty seven.

It was also helpful for Shella that her wrist strength was excellent after a lifetime of gymnastics training. If I am fated to go out in a blaze of glory, I might as well be using these. I know it's what you would have wanted Kgosi...Shella thought, thinking of her former mentor, the bounty hunter, who made these for her. I just wish you avoided using the ivory. You know how much it bothers me to see it.

Shella strapped on a specially-made harness over her shirt that holstered the pistols, plus the extra magazines, tight against her lower back. Over her shoulders Shella slipped on a gray windbreaker dropping a high-yield taser in one pocket. Over her hair she dropped an old green hat. Her lucky cap, a gift from her brother, featuring the yellow logo of the 'Sundowners'; their favorite South African soccer team. Not for the first time the logo reminded her how beautiful the sunset was spread across the Savannah, effulgent as fire in the sky.

I don't want to die without seeing that again, she realized, but I have to do this. As much for the Ho-Stern sisters as for myself. Likely they already lost their father to the evils of the Triad, same as I did, but they don't have to loose each other if I can help it. They are still young enough to make different choices. Perhaps I can save them from a life full of regrets.

_ _ _

Chief Marshal John Coffee was easy to spot standing a whole head taller than the great majority in the crowd with the strong build of a linebacker. The public plaza Shella chose as their meeting place was bustling with shopping activity.

Shella had no trouble keeping her head down, maneuvering through the throng and slipping up behind him. Being short was a useful thing sometimes, “Hey Chief!” she stated sharply grabbing his arm.

John flinched and cursed loudly, “Shit!”

“Nice clothes,” Shella snickered. John was wearing red athletic shoes, genuine denim blue jeans and a vintage Indiana Hoosiers leather bomber jacket with a knit collar and cuffs in red-and-white.

“I didn't pack a huge wardrobe with me when I came to this station. I barely have anything besides uniforms and sweats,” John explained gruffly. “It was either this or my fancy dinner suit, and that damn thing cost me three months salary!”

“Well you certainly don't look like an undercover marshal. I'll give you that,” Shella snorted. “You wearing a vest?”

“Yes. I presume you are too?”

“Yes but it's only good against knives. I don't have the body to pull off wearing anything bulkier without making it obvious. Even under a windbreaker.”

John nodded. He never stared but she really did have a fantastic figure.

“What are you packing?” Shella asked.

John pulled his jacket aside revealing his .357 revolver in a shoulder holder, opposite a pistol-grip pump action shotgun hanging by a strap. She envied him his bullet-proof vest.

“What else?” she asked.

“I've also got my automatic as a backup weapon around my ankle,” he answered.

“That's it?”

“Yeah. You?”

“I've got three pistols, four knives, a taser, some flashbangs and grenades.”

“Jesu....” John started but quickly bit his tongue. “You didn't say to raid the armory!”

Too holy to use the lords name in vain John? Shella thought, amused to get a reaction out of him. “I've got a rather large cache of weapons and gear back in my quarters that I've confiscated over the years. Comes in handy,” she explained.

John didn't comment further, but he looked slightly more concerned than his usual resting expression.

“Give me a minute!” Shella stated moving towards a printed media bookstall. John watched her back, scanning the crowd.

“Hey Jung!” Shella stated in greeting to the one-armed informant. “Don't you ever sleep?”

Jung chuckled and shook his head, “I can't afford to sleep! After what happened last night I'll be selling a lot of newspapers today. No rest for the wicked right?” he joked in usual good-humor.

“You can say that again!” Shella agreed, casually picking through some magazines. “Hey there's something I need to talk to you about. Can you step away for a bit?”

Jung frowned, then turned away to grab a pack of cigarettes for another customer on the other side of his stall. When he turned back towards Shella she slid a recent issue of Sports Illustrated across the counter. Five hundred dollar bills were tucked under the cover.

Jung smiled and discretely pocketed the bills. “Looks like I can afford to take a break after all. Give me a few and I'll meet you in the tea shop,” he stated in a low voice.

“Thanks again have a good one!” Shella said loudly, taking her magazine and meandering her way back towards John. Instead of walking up to him directly she met eyes with him and jerked her head towards the tea shop.

After a minute John followed her inside and took a seat in a booth next to her, “Who's the one-armed man?”

“That's Jung, one of my informants. He's ex-Triad.”

“Ex-Triad? I thought there was no such thing?”

“It's rare, but not entirely unheard of,” Shella explained as a hostess came over to take their order.

“Are you sure you can trust him?” John asked after the hostess moved away.

“Of course not, but he's lived here a long time. He knows a great deal about the Triad hierarchy and many of their members. Thus far his tips have been invaluable for my investigation. I have no reason to doubt his information. Any help he can provide is worth the cost in bribes.”

John's face took on a sour look, “I'm not usually one for bribes.”

Shella gave him an irritated response, “We're doing this my way remember? Don't fuck this up for us!”

A minute later Jung entered the tea shop and approached Shella's table, pausing when he saw John sitting beside her. Shella beckoned for him to take a seat. Jung glanced around and over his shoulder first, then cautiously, even reluctantly, took a seat across from them.

“Jung, this is John Coffee, Chief Colonial Marshal of Ashkelon Station,” Shella stated.

“I recognize him from the papers,” Jung acknowledged, meeting John's eyes briefly. “Nice disguise,” he joked.

“He's not here on an official basis and neither am I. Just want to make that clear,” Shella said quickly.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Jung stated irately. “I could be killed just for speaking with you!”

“I know this is a risk!” Shella acknowledged, “but It can't be helped. We have a situation we need to resolve before everyone on the station is endangered.”

Jung looked on edge, ready to get up and leave as the hostess brought over teas for Shella and John. Noting his restless demeanor the hostess stated to Jung, “Looks like you could use something to help you relax? We also serve alcoholic teas if you're interested?”

“Great idea!” Jung agreed, “Wise man say, never make rash decisions without a stiff drink! Whatever it is, make it a double!”

The hostess got red in the face, struggling to hold back a giggle. John immediately shot Shella a look as if to say, this guy, really?

“Coming right up!” the hostess stated cheerfully, moving away.

Meanwhile Shella sipped her green tea and took a breath. “Jung, we need your help to set up a meeting with The General.”

Jung had to contain himself from laughing out loud. “You don't want to meet with The General,” Jung argued with a shake of his head. “Trust me!”

“Have you met him?” John asked.

“Yeah, I have,” Jung stated with a tone implying that was foolish thing to doubt.

“We just want to make a deal with him. We aren't interested in making threats,” Shella explained. “To the contrary, what I'm asking for will help dthe Triad avoid an imminent threat!”

Jung looked hesitant to inquire further but his curiosity quickly won over as he asked, “What do you mean?”

“It's about Victor Li-Shing and the massacre at Dizzy's Club. His commando's were sent in to search for two young women, Keren and Sheren Ho-Stern. Their attempt to apprehend them failed only because those girls were likely under the protection of the Red Triad.”

Jung's expression saddened as Shella mentioned those names, prompting John to ask, “Do you know them?”

“No, not personally, but I know their father.” Jung stated with a sigh. “I was afraid this would happen.”

“You said you know their father? Is Guo still alive?!” Shella asked.

Jung grew nervous on the topic of Guo, shifting in his seat and glancing over his shoulder again.

Shella leaned forward and pressed him with her most serious voice, “Victor's ordered a station-wide manhunt for the Ho-Stern sisters. As-we-speak the whole of Station Security, backed up by Victor's commando's, are gearing up to start kicking in doors on Red Triad territory! I shouldn't have to impress on you how bad that will get once the shooting starts.”

Jung let out a frustrated breath, “What exactly is your plan to prevent it?”

“Simple, we bargain with The General to turn over the sisters to us. Once we have them, Victor has no excuse to go into Red Triad territory. Instead, he'll be pushed into a stalemate with the ICC and the Colonial Marshal's Bureau because he can't risk taking them from us by force. The threat of war with the 3WE and the UA is too high, no matter what disregard he might have for the Concord Agreement as it stands.”

Conversation paused again momentarily as the hostess returned with a strong bourbon milk tea for Jung. He thanked her heartily and gulped down half of it as Shella and John remained tense.

Finally he said, “You've got balls, I'll give you that, but you're fools to think you can predict the rationality of men like The General and Victor Li-Shing. It's true I've only met The General, but I've heard enough stories about Victor from my pals in the JL labs to put him on the same level of malfeasance. It's not really right to think of them as people in the first place. They're monsters!

“We're wasting our time with this nut,” John groaned, discouraged.

“Easy sport! I didn't say I wouldn't help,” Jung remarked with a contentious glare towards John. “But what's in it for me?”

“What do you want?” Shella asked.

“What can you offer? You've already admitted you aren't here in an official capacity.”

“That's true, I can't speak for the ICC on this, but I can offer you a deal with The Company.

“I knew it!” Jung exclaimed, “I had you pegged from the start. You're not the first Company agent to come around sniffing for information on The General.”

Shella frowned, failing to hide her irritation. Son of a bitch! No wonder I had a bad feeling about this. What else has The Company been keeping from me? At this moment, Shella was glad Oliver wasn't listening in on this conversation.

“What about protection?” Jung asked

Shella looked to John as if to say, go ahead and jump in here Chief.

John cleared his throat, “Short term, we hold you in protective custody as a confidential informant. Long term, I recommend you for the witness protection program. But, that all depends on you and the quality of help we get?” John stated matter of factly.

Jung nodded and drank more of his tea. Clearly it was making him a bit buzzed, but at the same time it helped him to calm down.

“How do I get off the station once this is done? Neither the ICC, nor the Colonial Marshals have any ships berthed here on the station right? You can't even hire a private freighter to take me away so long as Victor maintains this lock down order. I won't feel comfortable risking my neck without a way out.”

Shella and John shared a look. Neither one of them wanted to mention the fact they'd technically already called for an evacuation because no matter what happened it wouldn't arrive in time to save anyone from this potential bloodshed. Best not to declare it as a certain hope as it was ultimately just a fallback plan.

“I've got that covered,” Shella said. “There's a private yacht moored to one of the buoy's out there, the Tekla. It'll take you anywhere you wanna go and its registered with the ICC. No one would dare to shoot at it, not even Victor.”

Jung nodded. “What about compensation? If I am to walk away from this bookstall, I would like to retire comfortably on Earth. You've probably already guessed I've always wanted to live there?”

Shella nodded knowingly, adding, “Be careful what you wish for Jung. Living on Earth makes you part of its history. Loving the Earth has it's price. It can break your heart and haunt you for the rest of your days, no matter where you are or where you go.”

“Wherever you go is where you are,” Jung quipped.

“Exactly,” Shella agreed. “I can't make promises about what The Company will offer you, but I have cash here on the station they provided for use at my discretion. Help us get the Ho-Stern sisters out and it's yours. There's at least fifty thousand there for you. Not enough to retire on no, but it's enough to start a new life on Earth even if you aren't in Witness Protection.”

“What about Keren and Sheren? What guarantee's do they get?”

John looked to Shella as if to say, Good question?

“They are important witnesses to the massacre at Dizzy's Club. An ICC Supervisor was killed in that shooting. I've been tasked to investigate his death which means I am well within my mandate to bring them in for questioning. That means they'll be entitled to witness protection by Colonial Marshals, both before and after depositions,” Shella stated while John nodded in affirmation.

Jung studied them with a look of somber contemplation, as if he finally decided what assurances really mattered. Then he said, “I want your word that you'll take pity on Guo's daughters. Once their usefulness to you is over, set them up somewhere with a future. Please understand that Guo wouldn't want his girls involved with the Triad. He did what he had to do to guarantee they would be free to make different choices. They shouldn't have to suffer for their fathers mistakes.”

“What happened to him? Where is he?” Shella asked again.

Jung looked grim, thinking back on grave memories with a solemn hue to his eyes. There was no doubt in Shella's mind, and John's, that he had answers for those questions. It was also equally clear that he wouldn't speak on that particular subject for whatever reason.

Instead he said, “If we pull this off, I promise I will give you some answers, but only when I am aboard the Tekla and ready to depart this cursed station. In the meantime should anything happen to me, please entrust that money and the same offer of safe passage to Guo's daughters. I owe their father that much at least. Do I have your word on that?”

“You have my word,” Shella agreed. John did likewise as Jung reached over to shake hands with both of them.