Chapter 70: Chapter 18: Deadly Complications

Dash drew Betsy in the blink of an eye and fired a shot right into the gut of the double-crossing contact across from him in the deserted warehouse.

Having turned his imaginary foe’s torso into smoldering mush amid the shadow-draped rows of cargo containers, he stuffed the weapon back into his toolbelt—specially lined to hide contents from scanners. This was easier said than done while sealed within a dockworker’s uniform.

“Let’s not jinx ourselves. My followers are going to kill me if I have to cancel yet another appearance,” Gaius said, moving his arms and legs through what appeared to be minute dance moves. He, along with Wesley and Milia, wore the same disguise as Dash. The uniforms provided a cover story should they encounter another crew on a late-night shift, and with the environment masks, anonymity from any warehouse surveillance.

“We’ll be done in a few minutes. Then you can go play with your fan club,” Dash said as Gaius spun around on one foot. “What are you doing anyway?”

“Rehearsing. I need to make a grand entrance. It’s part of my appeal.”

They stood in one of the many crisscrossing throughways, surrounded by containers of varying size, shape, color, and contents stacked amongst support columns. Dim light strips lined the throughways, providing some semblance of structure. The neat rows of lights were interrupted at random by occasional sloppily placed containers.

Nearby, something impacted against the ground. The crew jolted upright, and whirled in the direction of the disturbance. Dash scanned the nearby containers, heart thumping against his rib cage. But then he spotted a rolling bot enter a nearby intersection, a pallet of cylinders stacked on it.

The crew turned away from the bot, the tension easing from their postures.

Wesley rubbed the sleeves of his uniform. The medtech stepped closer to Dash, who wondered if the kid was chilly, nervous, or both. “Captain, you assured us this delivery was supposed to be a simple, and very safe, task.”

“It is,” Dash said. He glanced down to where their payday sat in a sealed, scanner-insulated certified package stuffed into a backpack. “Fletcher needed me to take care of this special delivery for him. It’s for a trusted repeat client. There’s nothing to worry about.” His fingers discretely traced the handle of his pistol, as if vowing to never have a repeat of Terminus. The delivery job still felt a little odd to Dash. But the cred would give them the momentum to get back to a profitable freelance cargo operation.

“Understood, Captain,” Wesley said, and shifted like he wanted to say something else.

“Speak your mind,” Dash said. 

“With your permission, I’d like to attend the protest after our business is concluded. There are volunteer positions open for medical and security personnel.”

“You don’t need my permission. You’re free to do whatever you want on leave,” Dash said. The protest had come about as backlash against the Commonwealth’s increasingly heavy-handed policies enacted since the destruction of Auturia. He agreed with most of the movement’s concerns, but would never attend an event. It wasn’t his type of scene.

Gaius completed his routine and placed a hand on Wesley’s shoulder. “I think you should come out with me. You can be my wingman. I mean that literally. I’ll create a Galaxy Battles account for you and invite you to my ace squadron. You’ll be able to level up a lot faster that way.” He leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “And my followers are quite passionate, so there’s a very good chance you could be my wingman figuratively too.” He stepped away, nodding at the medtech.

“You’re encouraging me to engage in casual coitus?” Wesley asked.

Gaius looked to Dash and Milia. “Am I the weird one here?”

Dash turned his head to his new first mate. “Maybe you better go supervise.”

“I don’t need supervision,” Gaius huffed. He leaned close to Milia. “But I’ll extend my offer to participate.”

She ignored him, and focused on Dash. “I think that’s a good idea. I planned to check up on the ops crew anyways.”

Gaius held his arms out and turned away, shoulders drooping as he sulked.

Dash smiled beneath the mask. The pilot would be basking in his digital glory soon enough, forgetting all about his real-life party-pooping crew.

A secureComm notification appeared on Dash’s PD. He opened it using the key provided by Fletcher. “Contacts are almost here.”

“What about you, Cap?” Gaius said to Dash.

“No,” Dash answered.

“No to what?”

“Everything you plan on asking me.”

Wesley shifted nervously. “Can we focus on the task at hand, please?”

“Relax. There’s no negotiation this time,” Dash said. He looked at the backpack, then at the medtech. “In fact, this is the perfect opportunity for you to participate.” Dash handed the backpack to Wesley. “You’re in charge of this.”

“But I don’t know what to do,” Wesley said. He stood like “Professor Dash” had just dropped a pop quiz on him.

“You literally hand the bag over when captain tells you,” Milia said, and motioned with her hands.

“Oh,” Wesley said sheepishly. “I suppose that is simple enough.”

---

Overhead, the ring habitat glistened in the night sky, a sliver of Praxa’s curvature visible to one side. Crisscrossing streaks of light—throughways, transport lanes, and tram routes—cut fierce lines against the inky blackness of deep space. An occasional smear of gray—a government skiff or a pleasure yacht—floated through Praxa Prime’s open center. The freighters and ferries were kept to strict docking lanes on the outer shell, so as to not pollute the magnificent view. Power brought privilege, a seemingly universal truth as inescapable as a black hole.

Cutter sat on a bench with his team, listening to the tranquil bubbling of a nearby stream. He breathed the brisk night air and lost himself in the view—living in the moment, the calm before the storm. Though the stream was an artificial creation inside the massive construct that was the station, it felt real enough. So much so, the memories of nights camping planetside with his father bubbled to the surface. The glow of the fire, the whisper of the wind—

“Don’t forget about our bet,” Bloek said to Parr, interrupting Cutter’s tranquility.

The recovery agents were in a holding pattern until their mystery lead sent out a location update for his scheduled Galaxy Battles live event. Bloek had been monitoring the event hub in case any new leads presented themselves. Though it yielded nothing actionable—yet—it confirmed that this Wing Commander SexySlyOnYourSix did indeed have a rabid following on GalaxyNet. This allayed Cutter’s minor fear that the event was somehow an elaborate ruse to throw the agents off the trail of the freighter crew.

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With nothing else to do but wait, Cutter took advantage of the habitat’s beauty. Praxa Prime wasn’t the largest one he’d seen—sporting a population of almost half a million—but it was his favorite. The habitat’s builders had aspired to incorporate natural elements into every square meter they could manage. Lush garden walls and sweeping walkways lined the throughways, blending the habitat’s structural elements into a natural setting. Each block was a mixture of storefronts, businesses, lodging, and residences in an attempt to balance population and function. At that hour, most business and commercial interests were closed, the facades glowing beneath security lighting. The restaurants, dispensaries, and pubs, on the contrary, were bright and lively.

Cutter had chosen a secondary throughway for the reduced pedestrian traffic. Better to enjoy the surroundings. The areas near the imminent anti-Commonwealth protest held a noticeable security presence; loitering drones hovered overhead, while bots and sentient security teams patrolled the grounds. It appeared the administration was attempting to balance their commitment to personal freedoms with the safety of the larger community. One of the broad appeals of an independent state like Praxa Prime. How much pressure it could withstand had yet to be seen.

A pair of young women passed by. Their outfits cycled through slogans for the protest, their gaits energized by the power of youthful optimism. Parr snickered, eyeing them hungrily. He said to Bloek, “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten about all the cred you’ll owe me once this ridiculous chase dead-ends.”

“If you don’t like my plan, then you can go chase the Tegado down Cova Straits like you wanted to,” Cutter said, longing for the solitary trickle of the stream.

Parr shook his head. “I want to be here to see the look on Bloek’s face when I win. It could end up being the only cred I get out of this whole thing.”

“They’re not going to cancel the contract,” Cutter said. The Envoy had been increasingly hostile as time went on and the target remained on the loose. He could technically cancel the contract for non-performance, as he insinuated in his last message to the agents. It came through shortly after departing Terminus. The agents listened on the Pursuit’s bridge as the disembodied voice berated their lack of progress. Parr fumed while Bloek played with that blade of his, calculating eyes lost in thought. Cutter locked his ego away and dispassionately listened to the words. It was all talk; the more powerful the client, the more they were used to throwing their creds and weight around and getting results fast. Slippery little medtechs skirting between freighters were not amenable with such tactics.

But the bluster gave Cutter no pause for concern. The noise would be washed from memory—like a leaf along the stream—once the target was brought in and the contract payment awarded.

Parr grimaced, holding up a fist. “If that sniveling little Envoy talked like that to me in person, I’d slam his head against the wall.”

“At the very least,” Bloek agreed.

“That’s why I do the talking,” Cutter said.

A pair of cleaning bots emerged from a maintenance station tucked in between two apartment buildings. Caution lights blinked on their top-mounted optics housing as they began to sweep the throughway. Somehow, the most advanced sentient beings in the galaxy had yet to figure out how to get everyone to throw their trash away in a waste bin.

“Sure you don’t want to join in on the bet?” Bloek said to Cutter.

“I’m sure,” Cutter said.

Another group of protesters passed. Parr watched them with unabashed intensity. “Lot of fine young stock here. Maybe I’ll open up shop once we’re done with the contract.”

“That’ll be the only way they pay any attention to you,” Bloek teased.

Parr laughed. “Even if that were true, you think I’d care?”

“We do this right and bring the target in, then you can go out tonight and sample the nightlife yourself,” Cutter said.

Parr glanced at Cutter, a disturbing hunger in the stocky man’s eyes. “You can count on that.”

---

The heavy thud of a closing door echoed throughout the warehouse. 

Dash cringed, worried the sound would reach anyone lurking in the farthest reaches of the sprawling structure. 

Footsteps sounded in the darkness. He moved to the front of the group. His hand rested casually on his toolbelt, Betsy’s grip a hair’s width away.

A pair of shadow-draped figures stepped into the throughway ten meters ahead of them. They wore the same standard dockworker uniforms as Dash and his crew. The shorter one took the lead, while his lanky companion lagged a step behind.

They stopped several strides short of Dash, saying nothing. For a moment, Dash thought they were legitimate dock workers and the encounter was about to get really awkward.

“Are you here at the request of our mutual friend?” the short one said, their voice surprisingly deep.

“Mr. Arturo sends his regards,” Dash said, using Fletcher’s code name—that of his favorite cigar brand. The contacts loosened their posture.

“We’ll need to verify the package before payment is delivered.”

“Of course,” Dash said, and nodded at Wesley. The medtech stepped forward, fumbling with the clasp. Gaius sighed loud enough for Dash to hear. Wesley adjusted his grip and opened the backpack enough to reveal the package within. 

The short one scanned the certified, tamper-proof seal with his datapad and nodded. “That’s what we’re looking for. If you’d kindly send me your preferred account, I will deposit the payment.”

“Gladly,” Dash said, and tapped on his datapad as a round ripped through the air so close to his head the scorching heat radiated through the mask. The shot struck something behind him, just as a second shot came from behind and hit the short sentient square in the face.

Dash moved on pure instinct, pushing Wesley to the nearest cover before scrambling after him. They hit waist-high containers and flipped ungracefully over the top. Milia, somehow having a pistol in hand, had already yanked Gaius into cover as the warehouse erupted into chaos. 

Gunfire filled the throughways with a deadly light show as bits of metal and plastic rained upon them. Wesley clutched the backpack in one hand, grabbing Dash’s shoulder with the other. His frantic shouts were drowned out by the deafening roar.

“Stay down!” Dash shouted over the noise. Betsy had instinctively appeared in his hand. He peeked the gun around the edge of their cover and used the guncam to get his bearings. The bodies of the two contacts lay nearby. He caught glimpses of a shadow-draped shooter moments before a burst of fire homed in on his hand. This garnered attention from the opposing party, and more fire peppered their cover, chewing through the contents of the containers.

They were pinned down on both sides, assailants shooting from cover high and low. If they didn’t move in the next few seconds, they were dead. Recognizing the same, Milia waved at Dash and pointed to the shadow of a narrow gap in the wall of stacked containers a few meters away. It was barely wide enough to slip through, but it was their only chance. He needed to suppress the shooter zeroed in on them first.

Dash repositioned himself along the container on his back, then peeked Betsy over the top. He spotted the muzzle flash halfway up a wall of stacked containers almost ten meters away, and squeezed the trigger as the shooter opened fire. Betsy’s guided munition struck the silhouette in the waist. 

Then the warehouse exploded.

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