Sergeant Helmi Alpassi submitted to the security scan at the entrance to Captain Night’s hangar stoically.
It’d be pretty fucking hypocritical of me to complain about getting checked for chips and jacks, after all.
She was less resigned to leaving her sidearm in the security locker there, but that was procedure they insisted on back at Pilot Roth’s hangars too and she had no reasonable justification to refuse.
And it wasn’t as if she was appreciably less deadly without her weapon as with it.
Still, options are nice things to have.
Pilot Roth, of course, had no weapon to turn over. She passed through the checkpoint with a polite, if slightly absent-minded, smile for the marines, accepted back the small parcel she had brought with her, and headed for the docking umbilical. An ensign was waiting at the top to escort them through the Utopian Ideal’s corridors, and not, this time, to the officer’s mess or the office of either Captain Night or Commander Invelen, but into an unfamiliar part of the ship where the occasional open door revealed scientific equipment and terminals that looked as if they’d be at home in the most up-to-date research facilities in the Cluster.
The ensign stopped. “Dr Toin’s lab is just along here, sir,” he said.
“Thank you very much,” Pilot said warmly. “Helmi, why don’t you wait here while I – ”
“No,” Helmi said.
“I’m quite sure,” Pilot said, in the dry tone she used when she thought she was being a woman of the world, “that I’m not in any danger from one research scientist, Helmi.”
One research scientist with spirits’ know what going on in her head after two years collared like a dog in a kennel. Helmi considered giving Pilot a brief explanation of what a person could do in the mindless panic of post-traumatic anxiety, illustrated with a couple of colorful examples from her own personal barracks-room experience, then looked at Pilot’s soft blue eyes and settled for: “No.”
Pilot sighed. “Fine. Just don’t scare her, Helmi. I don’t think she’s had a very good time of it.”
Helmi nodded. I won’t scare her.
If she doesn’t scare me.
That seemed, to Helmi, to be about fair.
She expected the door to lead to another sterile grey laboratory with banks of monitors and machines, but her first impression of the room beyond it was color. Reds and pinks, golden tones shading into orange, spilling around the room in shapes that seemed vaguely familiar from long-ago classes, strings of numbers and symbols that swooped and spun and had Helmi’s heart-rate ticking up a little in the half-second before she identified holoprojection and cut in the optical filters that damped it down to a pastel blur.
At the center of that blur was the object of Pilot’s visit, clear and sharp now in contrast to the haze in her dark blue insignia-less uniform. ID confirmation spooled across Helmi’s retinas as her internal neocom made a facial recognition match, Dr Nolikka Toin, Corporation: Ishukone, Rank: Restricted, Posting: Restricted, Age: 37, Hair: Brown, Eyes: N/A, Height: 178 cm, Weight: 50 kg.
That last Helmi assessed as being out of date, as Nolikka turned at the sound of footfalls and the holoprojection stilled. Incarceration will do that to a person.
Do other things, too.
Still, the woman didn’t seem about to fly off the handle, tense though she was, and so Helmi moved aside and let Pilot through the door after her.
“Hello,” Pilot said, her soft Gallente accent softer than usual. “Dr Toin? My name’s Cia, Cia Roth. I’m, well. Ami’s sister, among other things. I brought you – I brought you some things.”
“Ms Roth. Sir,” Nolikka said, her voice clear but without any weight to it, a voice, Helmi thought, neither used to giving orders nor having to raise itself to be heard. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to ‘sir’, me,” Pilot said. “I’m not – in your chain of command, is that the term?”
“Yes, Ms Roth.” The scientist didn’t relax from her at ease posture, not as straight-backed as Helmi would have liked to see from anyone under her command but not bad. For a techie.
Pilot set the bag down on the nearest bench. “I’ll put them – I’ll just put them here, shall I? It’s just some – some things I’d want, if I were …” She paused. “Um. Just some things.”
Nolikka looked a little baffled, as well, Helmi thought, she might. Perhaps it was the done thing in the Federation to give scented soaps and handcream to people recently escaped from slave labor factories. I’m sorry about your illegal imprisonment and abuse. Have some lavender water!
Helmi wouldn’t know.
“And this is, um. My friend Helmi,” Pilot said.
“Hello,” Helmi said neutrally.
“Sir,” Nolikka said.
“Do you have everything you need?” Pilot asked.
“Yes, Ms Roth. Thank you.”
“Do you mind if I … ” Pilot pulled a stool out from under the nearest bench, and perched herself upon it, even as she went on, “Do you mind if I sit down? It’s a long walk from the lock to back here.”
“No, Ms Roth, I don’t mind.”
Which was, Helmi judged, a lie. A good one, told with a straight face, and no betraying flicker to the voice, but a lie nonetheless, polite courtesy from a woman who wanted nothing more than for them to leave her in peace.
But Pilot hears what she wants to hear.
“How are you holding up?” Pilot asked.
“I’m well, thank you, Ms Roth.” Nolikka’s voice was inflexionless.
Pilot toyed a little with the bag on the bench. “I remember, for me … it was such a relief that it was over. I couldn’t feel anything else through the relief for a while. And when I did, it seemed so … inappropriate.” She smiled, as if Nolikka could see her. “It was over, it was past, I’d been fine. So why … ?”
There was a small silence, and then the scientist asked softly, “For you?”
Pilot shrugged. “It was different, for me. Not so long. Not for … the same reasons. I’m not pretending to know how you feel. But …” She toyed with the bag again. “After, the first thing I wanted, well, after I slept for about twenty hours, was to be clean. A bath with bubbles, and nice soap, and all the things that … just weren’t part of what had happened. I thought you might …”
“Thank you,” Nolikka said, and this time Helmi thought she meant it.
“But not,” Pilot said with a little wry twist to her lips, “Not what you were wanting?”
“I don’t want for anything, here,” Nolikka said. “But thank you.”
Pilot looked around. “Silver said you’ve been doing some exceptional research.” Nolikka looked slightly baffled, and Pilot went on, “Captain Night. He said your work is extraordinary.”
A faint hint of color in the scientist’s cheeks, then. “He’s too generous. I am quite out of the loop on latest developments.”
“I’m sure you’ll catch up,” Pilot said, studying her. “Have you thought about what you’ll do? When this is over?”
“When this is over,” Nolikka said blankly.
“Will you go back to Ishukone? Do you have family there?”
“I have a sister,” Nolikka said, and paused. “Go back to Ishukone? Of course.”
“Of course,” Pilot said gently. “Besides your sister?” At the other woman’s expression of incomprehension, she prompted, “Someone special? You’d like to see again?”
The answer came with the speed of pre-prepared fiction. “No. No-one like that.”
“I see,” Pilot said softly.
From the expression on that pretty Gallente face, Helmi thought that Pilot did see, even if what she saw was not what she'd been looking for.
And for once, heard what she didn’t want to hear, too.
Showing posts with label Helmi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Helmi. Show all posts
Friday, May 27, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Flash Flood
((co-written with Stitcher))
Helmi Alpassi knew that she'd originally been tapped to train into Pilot Roth's personal security detail because Sarge had known she could keep her head when it mattered.
Had known it from the first moment they met, after all.
And if there ever was a moment not to panic, Alpassi, this is fucking it.
"Pilot, Lieutenant Etay," she said calmly, "if you'd come to the front of the house with me now, the shuttle is on approach."
Charles Etay was carrying one of the babies in a safety-capsule. Amieta Invelen had the other. Helmi couldn't tell which was which and really didn't give a shit, so long as the total number of babies equalled two and they were each in the most expensive and sophisticated piece of protective child-transport equipment available in the Cluster. Helmi had picked those capsules herself, after a lot of research.
Finding out they were tested by dropping them out of a second story window with an actual child in them had sealed the deal.
Still, she would have preferred them to be carried by her people, would have preferred all the civilians to be hoisted up and hauled at speed to the assembly point, really.
If speed had been an issue, Pilot's feet wouldn't have touched the ground. But the shuttle won't be here for another three minutes anyway.
And Pilot was prone to panic. Helmi knew that part of her job description was making sure Pilot felt safe, as well as was safe.
So she let Etay carry one of the twins. And she didn't take Pilot's elbow to hurry her along, even when Pilot paused and said something about flowers and the nursery.
"I'll make sure they're packed," Invelen said reassuringly, and Pilot started moving again. Helmi scanned the sky, looking for spikey sansha shapes, saw none, saw ...
The sky.
It was wrong in a gut-wrenching way, the familiar off-black interstellar dust clouds of New Eden as seen from Debreth at sunset shifted towards an ugly yellow-green, like a gathering storm of forces Helmi didn't want to guess at. The Intel suddenly went from an intellectual threat to a real and immediate one. Adrenaline pulsed her implants to a higher pitch, burning copper on her tongue.
And on the horizon, burning rain. Five stars, moving as stars shouldn't, glowing like a banked furnace in the fading light as they twisted and writhed, shedding speed. Almost hidden behind the wind, the banging of the air as it raged impotently against this supersonic violation swept across the valley, echoing like a distant battle.
Nothing so clean and wholesome as thunder and lightning rode on the winds of this storm.
And the floods it brought were not the kind Debreth was build to withstand.
Implants on her retinas read the friendly, so that's fucking something IFF broadcasts from the falling constellation as it shed the last of its speed in one low looping bank over the river and swept in towards the estate.
A surface-to-orbit shuttle painted in the livery of Re-Awakened Technologies Inc settled in the wide avenue as three of the remaining ships – angular Caldari gunships bristling with weapons - screamed overhead, their hulls bearing a blue starburst on bare gunmetal. The fifth, much larger ship settled in to a relative stop above the Roth estate and the grounds thrummed with the subsonic rumbling of immense graviton pads keeping the staging platform aloft. A percussive blast rattled the windows as explosive bolts blew along its flanks and four humanoid giants, armoured and massive, dropped from the flanks of the the thirty meters to the ground and landed in a blast of pneumatic gas. Within a second their guns and sensors were tracking the skies as they fanned out, covering the grounds.
Only a moment behind them were the ropes, ten of them, and before those ropes had even finished uncoiling to the ground, the first of the troopers was on it, her arrestor hook buzzing harshly as it slowed her descent. She hit the ground and rolled, moving aside with only a heartbeat to spare before the next trooper, and the next after him hit the deck, rolled and bustled to cover, each claiming three drones from the swarm that swept from the dropship's bays. Almost-white painted ceramic hardsuits, each with that blue starburst splash and a mirrored visor covering the face, Kaalakiota assault rifles. Airtight, nanite-proof, damn near bulletproof, but still light and clean-lined enough to allow the soldiers to move with grace and ease in Debreth's low gravity.
The flurry of activity swept towards the little knot of people on the lawn, parted around them, and left them untouched, except for the wind whipping their hair.
One of the troopers, the first one out, jogged towards them, heading unerringly for Pilot Roth. No rank insignia, Helmi noted, just a blue sunburst, and the words Hakatain Dynasty Holdings and A. Sihayha. I.D. confirmation spooled across her retinas and Helmi stopped the instinctive reach for her sidearm before it was more than a flicker of muscles as Captain Hakatain's personal bodyguard tapped the side of her helmet to clear the faceshield, saw a corresponding flicker in the other woman's eyes.
"Captain Roth," the woman said. "Chief Aato Sihahya. Captain Hakatain sends his regards."
Pilot - surreally, given the circumstances - extended her hand and said with a smile, "I'm very pleased to meet you. I hope you had a safe trip?"
"Safe enough, ma'am," Sihahya said, returning the handshake with a gauntlet that could probably have crushed Pilot's hand flat if she wanted. "With your permission, we'll see to the defence of your estate and the town in your absence."
"With my ... " Pilot's voice trailed off, and Helmi suppressed a sigh. One day she'll learn that she's in charge.
Her mouth was open to translate Pilot-speak into marine, one more part of her job, Pilot Roth appreciates your offer and certainly extends all the permissions you need to carry out the protection of the Roth property and surrounding area, when Pilot surprised her.
"Thank you," Pilot Roth said, quietly but clearly. "That would be appreciated. Please do anything you feel required."
One day turns out to be today, Helmi thought, as Sihahya saluted and re-opaqued her visor with a brief nod to Helmi. Either the the Ancestors are with us, or the world is about to end.
Or both.
"Pilot, we need to be getting you on the shuttle," she said. Invelen was already moving. Helmi herded Pilot and Etay up the ramp as armoured forms set up defensive positions around them, mostly missing the flower-beds.
One baby started wailing, then the other. Pilot tried to comfort them as Invelen secured the capsules but the twins refused to be consoled and their piercing screams were a counterpoint to the rumble of the shuttle engines as it lifted off. Helmi linked her optical implants into the shuttle's external cameras and watched as two of Hakatain's gunships escorted the shuttle into high atmosphere, then stalled into a graceful backwards dive towards Debreth again as the shuttle raced towards its rendezvous with the Feather.
As the gunships shrank to invisibility against the blue-green globe below them, Helmi let the connection fade. Spirits watch over you, she wished the men and women they were leaving behind.
And Ancestors sharpen your aim.
Helmi Alpassi knew that she'd originally been tapped to train into Pilot Roth's personal security detail because Sarge had known she could keep her head when it mattered.
Had known it from the first moment they met, after all.
And if there ever was a moment not to panic, Alpassi, this is fucking it.
"Pilot, Lieutenant Etay," she said calmly, "if you'd come to the front of the house with me now, the shuttle is on approach."
Charles Etay was carrying one of the babies in a safety-capsule. Amieta Invelen had the other. Helmi couldn't tell which was which and really didn't give a shit, so long as the total number of babies equalled two and they were each in the most expensive and sophisticated piece of protective child-transport equipment available in the Cluster. Helmi had picked those capsules herself, after a lot of research.
Finding out they were tested by dropping them out of a second story window with an actual child in them had sealed the deal.
Still, she would have preferred them to be carried by her people, would have preferred all the civilians to be hoisted up and hauled at speed to the assembly point, really.
If speed had been an issue, Pilot's feet wouldn't have touched the ground. But the shuttle won't be here for another three minutes anyway.
And Pilot was prone to panic. Helmi knew that part of her job description was making sure Pilot felt safe, as well as was safe.
So she let Etay carry one of the twins. And she didn't take Pilot's elbow to hurry her along, even when Pilot paused and said something about flowers and the nursery.
"I'll make sure they're packed," Invelen said reassuringly, and Pilot started moving again. Helmi scanned the sky, looking for spikey sansha shapes, saw none, saw ...
The sky.
It was wrong in a gut-wrenching way, the familiar off-black interstellar dust clouds of New Eden as seen from Debreth at sunset shifted towards an ugly yellow-green, like a gathering storm of forces Helmi didn't want to guess at. The Intel suddenly went from an intellectual threat to a real and immediate one. Adrenaline pulsed her implants to a higher pitch, burning copper on her tongue.
And on the horizon, burning rain. Five stars, moving as stars shouldn't, glowing like a banked furnace in the fading light as they twisted and writhed, shedding speed. Almost hidden behind the wind, the banging of the air as it raged impotently against this supersonic violation swept across the valley, echoing like a distant battle.
Nothing so clean and wholesome as thunder and lightning rode on the winds of this storm.
And the floods it brought were not the kind Debreth was build to withstand.
Implants on her retinas read the friendly, so that's fucking something IFF broadcasts from the falling constellation as it shed the last of its speed in one low looping bank over the river and swept in towards the estate.
A surface-to-orbit shuttle painted in the livery of Re-Awakened Technologies Inc settled in the wide avenue as three of the remaining ships – angular Caldari gunships bristling with weapons - screamed overhead, their hulls bearing a blue starburst on bare gunmetal. The fifth, much larger ship settled in to a relative stop above the Roth estate and the grounds thrummed with the subsonic rumbling of immense graviton pads keeping the staging platform aloft. A percussive blast rattled the windows as explosive bolts blew along its flanks and four humanoid giants, armoured and massive, dropped from the flanks of the the thirty meters to the ground and landed in a blast of pneumatic gas. Within a second their guns and sensors were tracking the skies as they fanned out, covering the grounds.
Only a moment behind them were the ropes, ten of them, and before those ropes had even finished uncoiling to the ground, the first of the troopers was on it, her arrestor hook buzzing harshly as it slowed her descent. She hit the ground and rolled, moving aside with only a heartbeat to spare before the next trooper, and the next after him hit the deck, rolled and bustled to cover, each claiming three drones from the swarm that swept from the dropship's bays. Almost-white painted ceramic hardsuits, each with that blue starburst splash and a mirrored visor covering the face, Kaalakiota assault rifles. Airtight, nanite-proof, damn near bulletproof, but still light and clean-lined enough to allow the soldiers to move with grace and ease in Debreth's low gravity.
The flurry of activity swept towards the little knot of people on the lawn, parted around them, and left them untouched, except for the wind whipping their hair.
One of the troopers, the first one out, jogged towards them, heading unerringly for Pilot Roth. No rank insignia, Helmi noted, just a blue sunburst, and the words Hakatain Dynasty Holdings and A. Sihayha. I.D. confirmation spooled across her retinas and Helmi stopped the instinctive reach for her sidearm before it was more than a flicker of muscles as Captain Hakatain's personal bodyguard tapped the side of her helmet to clear the faceshield, saw a corresponding flicker in the other woman's eyes.
"Captain Roth," the woman said. "Chief Aato Sihahya. Captain Hakatain sends his regards."
Pilot - surreally, given the circumstances - extended her hand and said with a smile, "I'm very pleased to meet you. I hope you had a safe trip?"
"Safe enough, ma'am," Sihahya said, returning the handshake with a gauntlet that could probably have crushed Pilot's hand flat if she wanted. "With your permission, we'll see to the defence of your estate and the town in your absence."
"With my ... " Pilot's voice trailed off, and Helmi suppressed a sigh. One day she'll learn that she's in charge.
Her mouth was open to translate Pilot-speak into marine, one more part of her job, Pilot Roth appreciates your offer and certainly extends all the permissions you need to carry out the protection of the Roth property and surrounding area, when Pilot surprised her.
"Thank you," Pilot Roth said, quietly but clearly. "That would be appreciated. Please do anything you feel required."
One day turns out to be today, Helmi thought, as Sihahya saluted and re-opaqued her visor with a brief nod to Helmi. Either the the Ancestors are with us, or the world is about to end.
Or both.
"Pilot, we need to be getting you on the shuttle," she said. Invelen was already moving. Helmi herded Pilot and Etay up the ramp as armoured forms set up defensive positions around them, mostly missing the flower-beds.
One baby started wailing, then the other. Pilot tried to comfort them as Invelen secured the capsules but the twins refused to be consoled and their piercing screams were a counterpoint to the rumble of the shuttle engines as it lifted off. Helmi linked her optical implants into the shuttle's external cameras and watched as two of Hakatain's gunships escorted the shuttle into high atmosphere, then stalled into a graceful backwards dive towards Debreth again as the shuttle raced towards its rendezvous with the Feather.
As the gunships shrank to invisibility against the blue-green globe below them, Helmi let the connection fade. Spirits watch over you, she wished the men and women they were leaving behind.
And Ancestors sharpen your aim.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Impossible Situations
You did your job.
Right, left, right-right, the heavy dummy jerking and rocking with each blow despite the weights at its base.
You were in an impossible situation.
Elbow, knee, fist. Left hook, right jab, right again and a kick. Sweat burned her eyes, her breath coming short and fast as she pushed past her implants' ability to compensate, a blur of movement an untrained eye would have trouble tracking. Hell, even a trained, unaugmented one.
Helmi is very well trained and she's packed full up to her back teeth with some of the best wiring money can buy.
All of it so there'll never be a situation that's impossible when it comes to Pilot's safety.
No matter what Pilot's sister says.
There's good enough, and not good enough, and a gap in between wide as the space between the stars, but no situation is impossible, if you're good enough, if you train hard enough, if you get it right.
Helmi got it wrong, there's no question of that.
Got herself good and dead, for one thing. Clear sign of a fuck-up.
Let Pilot get hurt. A little, Invelen had said. Before I realized.
The dummy jerks and dances, the casing beginning to split. Helmi hits it again, and again, leaving smears of blood despite the wraps over her knuckles. Her arms ache, her vision blurs, the bruises on her elbows and forearms and knees and shins are bad enough now for their dull warning ache to get past the pain suppression implant with each impact.
There's a limit, that's what Pilot's sister had said, making excuses Helmi didn't need made, offering forgiveness she hadn't asked for. There wasn't anything else you could have done.
But Helmi's not interested in forgiveness, and she's never been any better with limits than she is with excuses. Not as a cadet, not in basic, not when Pilot's people hauled her off her crippled transport and the first face she saw as the marines snapped open their helmets was Sarge's.
You again, he'd said, even though they'd only met the once.
Me again.
Home Guard and Peace and Order, court-martial offence for either of them. Sergeant and Private on the same crew, same result. Lines that don't get crossed.
But Helmi and Sarge cross a lot of lines these days. After all, they live in a world where you come back to work two days after a bullet shatters your skull or a steel hand snaps your neck. That's a pretty big fucking line, right there.
Death used to be a limit.
Not any more.
Sarge forgave her for killing him. Helmi's still working on forgiving him for his forgiveness.
Not your fault, Alpassi, he'd said. Nothing you could have done.
But Helmi's not interested in excuses.
There's always something you can do.
If you try hard enough, work long enough.
No situation is impossible.
Not even mine.
Right, left, right-right, the heavy dummy jerking and rocking with each blow despite the weights at its base.
You were in an impossible situation.
Elbow, knee, fist. Left hook, right jab, right again and a kick. Sweat burned her eyes, her breath coming short and fast as she pushed past her implants' ability to compensate, a blur of movement an untrained eye would have trouble tracking. Hell, even a trained, unaugmented one.
Helmi is very well trained and she's packed full up to her back teeth with some of the best wiring money can buy.
All of it so there'll never be a situation that's impossible when it comes to Pilot's safety.
No matter what Pilot's sister says.
There's good enough, and not good enough, and a gap in between wide as the space between the stars, but no situation is impossible, if you're good enough, if you train hard enough, if you get it right.
Helmi got it wrong, there's no question of that.
Got herself good and dead, for one thing. Clear sign of a fuck-up.
Let Pilot get hurt. A little, Invelen had said. Before I realized.
The dummy jerks and dances, the casing beginning to split. Helmi hits it again, and again, leaving smears of blood despite the wraps over her knuckles. Her arms ache, her vision blurs, the bruises on her elbows and forearms and knees and shins are bad enough now for their dull warning ache to get past the pain suppression implant with each impact.
There's a limit, that's what Pilot's sister had said, making excuses Helmi didn't need made, offering forgiveness she hadn't asked for. There wasn't anything else you could have done.
But Helmi's not interested in forgiveness, and she's never been any better with limits than she is with excuses. Not as a cadet, not in basic, not when Pilot's people hauled her off her crippled transport and the first face she saw as the marines snapped open their helmets was Sarge's.
You again, he'd said, even though they'd only met the once.
Me again.
Home Guard and Peace and Order, court-martial offence for either of them. Sergeant and Private on the same crew, same result. Lines that don't get crossed.
But Helmi and Sarge cross a lot of lines these days. After all, they live in a world where you come back to work two days after a bullet shatters your skull or a steel hand snaps your neck. That's a pretty big fucking line, right there.
Death used to be a limit.
Not any more.
Sarge forgave her for killing him. Helmi's still working on forgiving him for his forgiveness.
Not your fault, Alpassi, he'd said. Nothing you could have done.
But Helmi's not interested in excuses.
There's always something you can do.
If you try hard enough, work long enough.
No situation is impossible.
Not even mine.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Not Quite The End of The Universe
The station smelt.
Even in the hangar, Cia could taste the tang in the air: oil and grease, metal glowing under the heat of welding torches, something unrecognizable cooking at a food stall nearby.
Out in the corridors, the smells were stronger. A sickly blend of perfumes drifting from a gaggle of girls clattering and chattering past with their gazes sliding over the off-shift deckhands and dockhands slouching towards the bars and clubs on Recreation Row; a warm wave of fetid stench from the waste-cans as they were dragged through the access alleys; the thick simmer of spices poured over food protein to give it some illusion of flavor.
There was no reason the station cyclers should be weaker in Syndicate than in Heimatar. No reason at all, Cia told herself.
The station still smelt.
She swallowed hard and tried to ignore it. "Anything, M'ser Burke?"
Tanith Burke, dressed in a faded jacket with the shoulder patch that marked him as a Mordu's veteran, shook his head. "Couldn't find anyone who said they'd seen her."
"But that's just Mordu's Legion, isn't it?" Cia asked. "I mean, Ami was with the, the ... 'Bunnies'. Did you ask them?"
"It's not," Burke said, "Quite so simple."
"That's not a good enough answer, M'ser Burke." Cia turned on her heel so fast her head spun and she had to stop for a moment.
"Maybe we should go back to the hangar," Helmi said quietly.
"I'm not going anywhere until we find - " A gust of air carried the smell of sweat and onions and beer from a couple wandering past with their arms entwined and Cia stopped, gagging.
"They're not going to be faster with watching over you at the same time," Helmi said.
"You mean I'm in the way," Cia said. "Am I in the way, M'ser Burke?"
"I wouldn't put it precisely that way," Burke said.
"Well, how would you put it?" Cia felt her eyes sting with tears and blinked hard. "She's my sister, M'ser Burke, my sister and I can't just sit around and - " A sob escaped, despite her best efforts, and she covered her face with her hands.
"Perhaps you should get some rest," Burke suggested. "We are professionals, Captain Roth. Do you know the old saying about the man who buys a dog and barks himself?"
Wiping her eyes, Cia shook her head. "But I think I take your point. I'm sorry, Tanith. I didn't mean to shout at you."
"I'm sure it's been a very trying time for you," Burke said noncomittally.
Cia sighed. "Do you think you'll find her soon?"
"We know she's on this station," Burke said. "But things aren't quite as straightforward here as you might be used to. People are very wary of strangers, especially strangers asking questions." He offered his arm, and when Cia took it, tactfully turned her in the direction of the hangars. "It may take some time to build up the neccessary contacts and trust."
"How much time?"
"I won't mislead you, Captain. Months, rather than weeks."
"Oh."
They walked in silence a moment, and then Burke cleared his throat. "Of course, there is an alternative."
"Oh?"
"You could hire the local knowledge. In the person of a local operative, of some description. Of course, that would mean expanding the group of people aware of the situation, by one, at least."
"Oh," Cia said. "I don't want to ... but, months?"
"At least, Captain."
"Oh." She looked up at him. "Do you think that's what I should do? Hire someone?"
"I do," Burke said.
"Oh. Then, will you find someone for me to hire?"
They reached the hangar entrance and Burke stopped. "I'll look into it, Captain."
"Quickly, please," Cia said, having to blink back tears again. "I don't ... I don't like it here." She made herself smile, made her voice light. "It smells terrible. Like ..." Welded metal and cheap perfume, bulk spices and liquor and sweat. "Like the end of the universe."
One of Burke's eyebrows went up at that. "Sydnicate is not quite the end of the universe, Captain," he said. "There is still Solitude. And the Outer Ring."
"Well," Cia said. "We'd better hurry, then. I don't think - " She bit her lip. "I don't think it's a good idea."
To let her get any further away.
Even in the hangar, Cia could taste the tang in the air: oil and grease, metal glowing under the heat of welding torches, something unrecognizable cooking at a food stall nearby.
Out in the corridors, the smells were stronger. A sickly blend of perfumes drifting from a gaggle of girls clattering and chattering past with their gazes sliding over the off-shift deckhands and dockhands slouching towards the bars and clubs on Recreation Row; a warm wave of fetid stench from the waste-cans as they were dragged through the access alleys; the thick simmer of spices poured over food protein to give it some illusion of flavor.
There was no reason the station cyclers should be weaker in Syndicate than in Heimatar. No reason at all, Cia told herself.
The station still smelt.
She swallowed hard and tried to ignore it. "Anything, M'ser Burke?"
Tanith Burke, dressed in a faded jacket with the shoulder patch that marked him as a Mordu's veteran, shook his head. "Couldn't find anyone who said they'd seen her."
"But that's just Mordu's Legion, isn't it?" Cia asked. "I mean, Ami was with the, the ... 'Bunnies'. Did you ask them?"
"It's not," Burke said, "Quite so simple."
"That's not a good enough answer, M'ser Burke." Cia turned on her heel so fast her head spun and she had to stop for a moment.
"Maybe we should go back to the hangar," Helmi said quietly.
"I'm not going anywhere until we find - " A gust of air carried the smell of sweat and onions and beer from a couple wandering past with their arms entwined and Cia stopped, gagging.
"They're not going to be faster with watching over you at the same time," Helmi said.
"You mean I'm in the way," Cia said. "Am I in the way, M'ser Burke?"
"I wouldn't put it precisely that way," Burke said.
"Well, how would you put it?" Cia felt her eyes sting with tears and blinked hard. "She's my sister, M'ser Burke, my sister and I can't just sit around and - " A sob escaped, despite her best efforts, and she covered her face with her hands.
"Perhaps you should get some rest," Burke suggested. "We are professionals, Captain Roth. Do you know the old saying about the man who buys a dog and barks himself?"
Wiping her eyes, Cia shook her head. "But I think I take your point. I'm sorry, Tanith. I didn't mean to shout at you."
"I'm sure it's been a very trying time for you," Burke said noncomittally.
Cia sighed. "Do you think you'll find her soon?"
"We know she's on this station," Burke said. "But things aren't quite as straightforward here as you might be used to. People are very wary of strangers, especially strangers asking questions." He offered his arm, and when Cia took it, tactfully turned her in the direction of the hangars. "It may take some time to build up the neccessary contacts and trust."
"How much time?"
"I won't mislead you, Captain. Months, rather than weeks."
"Oh."
They walked in silence a moment, and then Burke cleared his throat. "Of course, there is an alternative."
"Oh?"
"You could hire the local knowledge. In the person of a local operative, of some description. Of course, that would mean expanding the group of people aware of the situation, by one, at least."
"Oh," Cia said. "I don't want to ... but, months?"
"At least, Captain."
"Oh." She looked up at him. "Do you think that's what I should do? Hire someone?"
"I do," Burke said.
"Oh. Then, will you find someone for me to hire?"
They reached the hangar entrance and Burke stopped. "I'll look into it, Captain."
"Quickly, please," Cia said, having to blink back tears again. "I don't ... I don't like it here." She made herself smile, made her voice light. "It smells terrible. Like ..." Welded metal and cheap perfume, bulk spices and liquor and sweat. "Like the end of the universe."
One of Burke's eyebrows went up at that. "Sydnicate is not quite the end of the universe, Captain," he said. "There is still Solitude. And the Outer Ring."
"Well," Cia said. "We'd better hurry, then. I don't think - " She bit her lip. "I don't think it's a good idea."
To let her get any further away.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Conversations on the Fortune's Fist: Seventeen
"L-looks l-like y-y ... b-bit of tr-trouble, Alpassi."
Helmi laced her hands behind her head and stared at the ceiling of the brig.
"On y-y feet when I speak t-to y-y!" Fisk snapped.
The tone grabbed hold of ingrained reflexes and yanked. Helmi found herself on her feet, back straight, without thinking about it.
Sir! was on her lips, but she managed to bite it back, made herself slouch. "Not my boss anymore, Sarge. Need to stop acting like it."
He gave her a cold, level stare through the grill. "Y-y not y-y b-boss either, Alpassi. St-stop acting like y-y are."
"Yeah, well." She met his gaze unflinchingly. "If I was I wouldn't be in here, would I?"
Fisk sighed. "Y-y ... really. Went t-too far. This t-time."
"I did? Fuck that. And fuck the XO, and fuck you while I'm at it. She's standing outside that door with a medic and the ship locked down so no-one can get on to help and she left Pilot in there for fuck knows how long because she didn't have the guts to open the door." Helmi hit the grill with the flat of her hand, hard enough to bounce it. "Pilot could've died, Sarge, would have, if there weren't some people with sense in her corporation."
"Y-y always ... d-did have. A fl-flair for the ... dr-dramatic."
"I saw her." Helmi hit the grill again.
Fisk shook his head. "So the ex-ex-XO wouldn't open a d-door, so y-y p-p-p ... held a g-g-gun on her?"
"No. I was going to melt out the locking circuits."
"Bullshit." Fisk took a step closer to the grill and hooked his fingers through it. Helmi knew that he was more than capable of ripping it clear out of its housing. "Lockdown means t-tapes, Alpassi."
"So, tapes. Then you know I didn't point it at the XO."
He flexed his fingers, made the grill groan in protest. "Y-y m-m .... could just fool P-p with th-that. She d-doesn't know pr-pr ... training. N-n m-m, though. Y-y had your r-right foot p-p ... straight at her. Ready."
Helmi glared at him. "Well. She opened the fucking door for Atamahara and Invelen. Didn't she."
"Y-y are in a d-deep p-p ... d-ditch. Of shit, Alpassi."
"So talk to the XO." Helmi hooked her fingers through the grill by his, almost close enough to touch. "Talk to Pilot, make it right. They'll listen to you."
"Don't know that I should," Fisk said. "This t-time."
"Fuck you! Fuck you, Sarge, I did exactly what I was supposed to! Exactly what you knew I'd do when you wanted me in this job!"
"I n-n ... d-didn't. Want y-y to g-g-go waving your ... sidearm. At the - "
Helmi pulled herself right up to the grill. "You fucking picked me to try out for this job because you knew I'd do it if it came down to it, and don't you fucking lie to me, Sarge. Who else wiped those mails out of my box, huh, while I was nothing more than patterns in the buffer waiting to be woken up? Yeah, that's right. You cleaned out my files but you couldn't get at my mother's. I know, Sarge. I read what I wrote."
He looked at her. "Alpassi. Hel. N-n ... d-didn't want y-y to know."
"Well, I do." She let go of the grill and stepped back.
"Kn-know it wasn't y-y. Was the ... chip. N-n ... y-y ... fault. P-p ... chose. Y-y anyway, d-didn't I?"
"You didn't pick me anyway, Sarge. You picked me because. I killed you to keep her safe, and that's what you wanted, wasn't it? The TCMCs can make you believe things but they can't make you act against your nature. You wanted me in this job because you know what I'll do."
"And wh-what's that?"
"Anything." She gave him a level stare. "So get me the fuck out of here so I can do it."
"Alpassi. Hel. I n-n ... wanted ..."
"Well, neither did fucking I. But we've got it, don't we? So fuck off out of my face and sort this shit the fuck out!"
Fisk looked at her a moment longer while she held her breath before he nodded, and turned for the door.
It wasn't until his footsteps had faded down the hall that Helmi realized.
First order I ever gave him.
She closed her eyes.
Well, shit, Alpassi.
It's not like you didn't know.
Helmi laced her hands behind her head and stared at the ceiling of the brig.
"On y-y feet when I speak t-to y-y!" Fisk snapped.
The tone grabbed hold of ingrained reflexes and yanked. Helmi found herself on her feet, back straight, without thinking about it.
Sir! was on her lips, but she managed to bite it back, made herself slouch. "Not my boss anymore, Sarge. Need to stop acting like it."
He gave her a cold, level stare through the grill. "Y-y not y-y b-boss either, Alpassi. St-stop acting like y-y are."
"Yeah, well." She met his gaze unflinchingly. "If I was I wouldn't be in here, would I?"
Fisk sighed. "Y-y ... really. Went t-too far. This t-time."
"I did? Fuck that. And fuck the XO, and fuck you while I'm at it. She's standing outside that door with a medic and the ship locked down so no-one can get on to help and she left Pilot in there for fuck knows how long because she didn't have the guts to open the door." Helmi hit the grill with the flat of her hand, hard enough to bounce it. "Pilot could've died, Sarge, would have, if there weren't some people with sense in her corporation."
"Y-y always ... d-did have. A fl-flair for the ... dr-dramatic."
"I saw her." Helmi hit the grill again.
Fisk shook his head. "So the ex-ex-XO wouldn't open a d-door, so y-y p-p-p ... held a g-g-gun on her?"
"No. I was going to melt out the locking circuits."
"Bullshit." Fisk took a step closer to the grill and hooked his fingers through it. Helmi knew that he was more than capable of ripping it clear out of its housing. "Lockdown means t-tapes, Alpassi."
"So, tapes. Then you know I didn't point it at the XO."
He flexed his fingers, made the grill groan in protest. "Y-y m-m .... could just fool P-p with th-that. She d-doesn't know pr-pr ... training. N-n m-m, though. Y-y had your r-right foot p-p ... straight at her. Ready."
Helmi glared at him. "Well. She opened the fucking door for Atamahara and Invelen. Didn't she."
"Y-y are in a d-deep p-p ... d-ditch. Of shit, Alpassi."
"So talk to the XO." Helmi hooked her fingers through the grill by his, almost close enough to touch. "Talk to Pilot, make it right. They'll listen to you."
"Don't know that I should," Fisk said. "This t-time."
"Fuck you! Fuck you, Sarge, I did exactly what I was supposed to! Exactly what you knew I'd do when you wanted me in this job!"
"I n-n ... d-didn't. Want y-y to g-g-go waving your ... sidearm. At the - "
Helmi pulled herself right up to the grill. "You fucking picked me to try out for this job because you knew I'd do it if it came down to it, and don't you fucking lie to me, Sarge. Who else wiped those mails out of my box, huh, while I was nothing more than patterns in the buffer waiting to be woken up? Yeah, that's right. You cleaned out my files but you couldn't get at my mother's. I know, Sarge. I read what I wrote."
He looked at her. "Alpassi. Hel. N-n ... d-didn't want y-y to know."
"Well, I do." She let go of the grill and stepped back.
"Kn-know it wasn't y-y. Was the ... chip. N-n ... y-y ... fault. P-p ... chose. Y-y anyway, d-didn't I?"
"You didn't pick me anyway, Sarge. You picked me because. I killed you to keep her safe, and that's what you wanted, wasn't it? The TCMCs can make you believe things but they can't make you act against your nature. You wanted me in this job because you know what I'll do."
"And wh-what's that?"
"Anything." She gave him a level stare. "So get me the fuck out of here so I can do it."
"Alpassi. Hel. I n-n ... wanted ..."
"Well, neither did fucking I. But we've got it, don't we? So fuck off out of my face and sort this shit the fuck out!"
Fisk looked at her a moment longer while she held her breath before he nodded, and turned for the door.
It wasn't until his footsteps had faded down the hall that Helmi realized.
First order I ever gave him.
She closed her eyes.
Well, shit, Alpassi.
It's not like you didn't know.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Looks
The two of them looked nothing alike.
Oh, a vague similarity in coloring, maybe, until a closer look showed that Helmi's hair was fairer, without the wiry kink that always showed in Fisk's no matter how close he cropped it.
Any passing resemblance ended there. Helmi might have been tall for a woman, but Fisk could see straight over the top of her head without trying. She was lean, wiry, stronger than she looked. He was stronger than he looked too, thanks to some of the most expensive custom upgrades in the Cluster, but broad enough across the shoulders to break up a bar fight just by getting to his feet. She might make half his weight, if she was soaking wet and he was wearing the clone that didn't have tempered metal instead of bone, and today he was wearing the body that could twist a man's head off. Helmi knew that if she'd told him why he should come he'd have jumpcloned down, been there right away in the clone that's just a standard body, that can lift as much as a strong man can and no more. That can talk in complete sentences.
Pilot needs to see the Fisk she knows, though. Stammer and all.
They walked in step, two very different figures with the same posture and gait. Straight backs, not too stiff. Ready to salute if an officer passes. Ready, too, for something worse, if it came.
His eyes were blue to her grey, but both their gazes scanned the hangar in the same pattern, noting everything that moves, each patch of cover, sightlines and vantage points.
They both had scars.
His were more obvious.
Hers just might be deeper.
Neither of them said a word aloud, as they strode side-by-side across the hangar deck, but there was a conversation going on all the same. Helmi preferred her implanted comm for privacy's sake. Fisk used his by necessity: some things can't wait five minutes for him to force a sentence out.
What do the doctors say? he asked, voice coming to her mind as intimate as a lover's whisper.
Helmi snorted aloud, replied silently. Fucked if I know. I'm not in the need-to-know loop on that. Try the XO.
Did. I'm not CTO, not even crew. You know what she's like.
Helmi did indeed know what Luisa Kamajeck was like. Well, shit.
He glanced at her. You said to get back here. Fast. Why?
You'll see, when you talk to Pilot.
Fuck that, Alpassi. What's going on?
Doc's gone, Sarge. Chief's dead. Pilot's sick.
Sick?
Real fucking sick. You'll see.
They stopped at the door to the secure container that held Pilot's hab-unit. Helmi punched keys, put her hand on the scanner, led the way inside.
The climate changed to crisp winter as they stepped over the threshold. Helmi could see her breath as she strode up the path to the front door.
Knocking would have been manners, normally. But with things as they were ... making Pilot come to the door would be worse than cruel.
Helmi pushed the door open and stepped inside, feeling Fisk as close behind her as a memory. "Pilot? You there?"
"Helmi? In here."
Helmi followed the voice to the living room. "Got a visitor for you, Pilot."
Pilot was lying on the couch, stockinged feet hanging over the edge, her dark uniform a stark contrast to the cream cushions and the porcelain perfection of her makeup. Pretty as a picture, if I hadn't seen the blisters that makeup covers when she hit the alarm at two this morning because she couldn't stop vomiting long enough to make an ordinary comm call to medical.
Pilot shook her head, carefully. Helmi could see even that slight movement start a trickle of blood where her collar touched her neck. Spirits. Doctors better fix this, and soon, or I'm going to start interpreting 'Personal Protection' a little more fucking broadly. "I don't think so, today, Helmi."
"Yeah, I think so, though, Pilot," Helmi said. "Sarge. Get in here."
Like always, he moved quietly, for such a big man. Helmi only knew he was in the room when Pilot's face changed.
Looked from Pilot to Fisk and saw something else she didn't want to see.
Well, shit, Helmi. It's not like you didn't know.
"I'll leave the two of you to visit," she said, not expecting an answer, not getting one.
Fisk moved aside for her as she headed for the door, the only sign he even knew she was still in the room.
Helmi'd long since calculated the spot in the garden that kept her close enough for an emergency and far enough away to respect Pilot's privacy. She went to stand in it now, hearing the murmur of voices inside, a familiar halting baritone, Pilot's slight Gallente slur, two voices more familiar to her now than her own mother's.
None of the words were distinguishable, and Helmi was careful not to strain to make them out.
Not like I didn't know.
Not like I lost him, to either of them.
Never was mine, was he? And not like I wanted him to be.
Not how most women would count it, that was certain. No fucking roses and lingering looks and dancing under a holographic fucking moon.
He'd broken her ribs. She'd broken his nose, twice.
Neither Pilot nor that hauler he's taken up with can say that.
They had parts of him Helmi'd never wanted.
She had things neither of them were smart enough to know mattered.
She had a sparring partner who'd kill her if she made a mistake, an NCO first through every door they'd taken together.
And one more thing no podder'd understand.
Small room, cheap furnishings, because the hotel manager knows that the teams for the Haadoken Summit take full advantage of the unofficial licence they get for the night following the last day of the competition.
People hollering and running in the halls. Laughter, somewhere.
Four Home Guard team members who just lost to Ishukone again and think maybe a SuVe cadet is just the thing to make them feel like they're at least tougher than someone.
Four Home Guard plus one. Last man down to Ishukone today, half his face purple from the blow that put him on the mat, the one eye that isn't swollen shut blue and cold and steady as the barrel of the gun he's pointing at his team-mates.
Helmi's shirt's torn. She's more than a little drunk.
She's more than a little scared.
The four guys are between her and the door and they aren't moving.
"Cadet! Secure their weapons. Move!"
First time he'd looked at her.
First order he'd given her.
First time she'd realized there was a way to shove fear and shame and everything else down into a box inside her and do her job just as cool and calm as a man who could make Ishukone Watch break a sweat.
Not something a podder would understand, sure as sure not something a sweet-faced Vherokior hauler pilot or a sentimental Gallente could ever comprehend.
Never was roses and moonlight, for me and the Sarge.
Never will be.
He'd broken her ribs. She'd broken his nose, twice.
He might kill her, if she made a mistake.
She had killed him, when someone else had.
They looked nothing alike, except maybe a vague similarity in coloring.
Helmi glanced down at herself, pretty blue shirt hiding the body-armor and the gun.
But me and him both know that looks ...
Looks are deceiving.
Oh, a vague similarity in coloring, maybe, until a closer look showed that Helmi's hair was fairer, without the wiry kink that always showed in Fisk's no matter how close he cropped it.
Any passing resemblance ended there. Helmi might have been tall for a woman, but Fisk could see straight over the top of her head without trying. She was lean, wiry, stronger than she looked. He was stronger than he looked too, thanks to some of the most expensive custom upgrades in the Cluster, but broad enough across the shoulders to break up a bar fight just by getting to his feet. She might make half his weight, if she was soaking wet and he was wearing the clone that didn't have tempered metal instead of bone, and today he was wearing the body that could twist a man's head off. Helmi knew that if she'd told him why he should come he'd have jumpcloned down, been there right away in the clone that's just a standard body, that can lift as much as a strong man can and no more. That can talk in complete sentences.
Pilot needs to see the Fisk she knows, though. Stammer and all.
They walked in step, two very different figures with the same posture and gait. Straight backs, not too stiff. Ready to salute if an officer passes. Ready, too, for something worse, if it came.
His eyes were blue to her grey, but both their gazes scanned the hangar in the same pattern, noting everything that moves, each patch of cover, sightlines and vantage points.
They both had scars.
His were more obvious.
Hers just might be deeper.
Neither of them said a word aloud, as they strode side-by-side across the hangar deck, but there was a conversation going on all the same. Helmi preferred her implanted comm for privacy's sake. Fisk used his by necessity: some things can't wait five minutes for him to force a sentence out.
What do the doctors say? he asked, voice coming to her mind as intimate as a lover's whisper.
Helmi snorted aloud, replied silently. Fucked if I know. I'm not in the need-to-know loop on that. Try the XO.
Did. I'm not CTO, not even crew. You know what she's like.
Helmi did indeed know what Luisa Kamajeck was like. Well, shit.
He glanced at her. You said to get back here. Fast. Why?
You'll see, when you talk to Pilot.
Fuck that, Alpassi. What's going on?
Doc's gone, Sarge. Chief's dead. Pilot's sick.
Sick?
Real fucking sick. You'll see.
They stopped at the door to the secure container that held Pilot's hab-unit. Helmi punched keys, put her hand on the scanner, led the way inside.
The climate changed to crisp winter as they stepped over the threshold. Helmi could see her breath as she strode up the path to the front door.
Knocking would have been manners, normally. But with things as they were ... making Pilot come to the door would be worse than cruel.
Helmi pushed the door open and stepped inside, feeling Fisk as close behind her as a memory. "Pilot? You there?"
"Helmi? In here."
Helmi followed the voice to the living room. "Got a visitor for you, Pilot."
Pilot was lying on the couch, stockinged feet hanging over the edge, her dark uniform a stark contrast to the cream cushions and the porcelain perfection of her makeup. Pretty as a picture, if I hadn't seen the blisters that makeup covers when she hit the alarm at two this morning because she couldn't stop vomiting long enough to make an ordinary comm call to medical.
Pilot shook her head, carefully. Helmi could see even that slight movement start a trickle of blood where her collar touched her neck. Spirits. Doctors better fix this, and soon, or I'm going to start interpreting 'Personal Protection' a little more fucking broadly. "I don't think so, today, Helmi."
"Yeah, I think so, though, Pilot," Helmi said. "Sarge. Get in here."
Like always, he moved quietly, for such a big man. Helmi only knew he was in the room when Pilot's face changed.
Looked from Pilot to Fisk and saw something else she didn't want to see.
Well, shit, Helmi. It's not like you didn't know.
"I'll leave the two of you to visit," she said, not expecting an answer, not getting one.
Fisk moved aside for her as she headed for the door, the only sign he even knew she was still in the room.
Helmi'd long since calculated the spot in the garden that kept her close enough for an emergency and far enough away to respect Pilot's privacy. She went to stand in it now, hearing the murmur of voices inside, a familiar halting baritone, Pilot's slight Gallente slur, two voices more familiar to her now than her own mother's.
None of the words were distinguishable, and Helmi was careful not to strain to make them out.
Not like I didn't know.
Not like I lost him, to either of them.
Never was mine, was he? And not like I wanted him to be.
Not how most women would count it, that was certain. No fucking roses and lingering looks and dancing under a holographic fucking moon.
He'd broken her ribs. She'd broken his nose, twice.
Neither Pilot nor that hauler he's taken up with can say that.
They had parts of him Helmi'd never wanted.
She had things neither of them were smart enough to know mattered.
She had a sparring partner who'd kill her if she made a mistake, an NCO first through every door they'd taken together.
And one more thing no podder'd understand.
Small room, cheap furnishings, because the hotel manager knows that the teams for the Haadoken Summit take full advantage of the unofficial licence they get for the night following the last day of the competition.
People hollering and running in the halls. Laughter, somewhere.
Four Home Guard team members who just lost to Ishukone again and think maybe a SuVe cadet is just the thing to make them feel like they're at least tougher than someone.
Four Home Guard plus one. Last man down to Ishukone today, half his face purple from the blow that put him on the mat, the one eye that isn't swollen shut blue and cold and steady as the barrel of the gun he's pointing at his team-mates.
Helmi's shirt's torn. She's more than a little drunk.
She's more than a little scared.
The four guys are between her and the door and they aren't moving.
"Cadet! Secure their weapons. Move!"
First time he'd looked at her.
First order he'd given her.
First time she'd realized there was a way to shove fear and shame and everything else down into a box inside her and do her job just as cool and calm as a man who could make Ishukone Watch break a sweat.
Not something a podder would understand, sure as sure not something a sweet-faced Vherokior hauler pilot or a sentimental Gallente could ever comprehend.
Never was roses and moonlight, for me and the Sarge.
Never will be.
He'd broken her ribs. She'd broken his nose, twice.
He might kill her, if she made a mistake.
She had killed him, when someone else had.
They looked nothing alike, except maybe a vague similarity in coloring.
Helmi glanced down at herself, pretty blue shirt hiding the body-armor and the gun.
But me and him both know that looks ...
Looks are deceiving.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Conversations on the Fortune's Fist: Sixteen
"I've fucking seen him," Erin Tan snapped, "And don't you go saying I haven't!"
Helmi Alpassi didn't sigh or roll her eyes, although it took fairly heroic self-restraint. Ancestors spare me.
Not that they ever did, in Helmi's experience.
"Erin," she said reasonably, scraping the last forkful of beef-flavored protein off her plate. "You saw your grand-dad in the engine room and some woman made of fire down by cargo. Maybe - "
Erin turned sharply enough to set her sleek black hair swirling out around her shoulders. "Yes! I did see them. And I saw the Chief too! Clear as I see you, Helmi, clear as I see you right now!"
"All right." Helmi leaned forward and rested her elbows on the mess table. "Say you did see the Chief. What was he doing?"
"He was adjusting the enviro controls."
Helmi grinned. "Well, that explains why it's been so spirits-damned cold around here lately, anyway."
"No!" Erin dropped onto the bench opposite Helmi and leaned forward. "He was turning them up. You know, it's cold because Pilot's always telling us to set them down further. And the Chief was putting them back to normal!"
Helmi pushed her plate away. "Uh-huh. So ghosts can change the settings on things?"
"Sure! Like, there was that one on that ship, the frigate, that kept setting the autopilot to the old pilot's home world? And the one that - "
"Erin." Helmi rubbed her forehead. Ancestors and spirits spare me from superstitious fools, if you would be so fucking kind. For once in your afterlife. "Those are just bar stories."
Erin folded her arms and set her chin. "You don't believe me."
"I've never seen a ghost, I've never seen any proof of a ghost, I - "
"What about the ghost ships, the - "
"It's a big black Deep out there, Erin. You don't need ghosts to have a reason for strange stuff happening."
"You believe in spirits, though, don't you?" Erin asked. "Dead people, protecting you?"
"It's not exactly the same thing," Helmi said.
"Well, why not? If your ancestors can watch over you, why can't the Chief be watching over the ship?"
"Well, they don't follow me around fiddling with enviro controls, for one thing!"
"Then what do they do?"
Helmi thought about the low table in her quarters, the little figurines worn featureless and smooth with years of handling. "You know what? I'm not going to get into it. Religion is religion, and it's private."
"Well," Erin said stubbornly, "What I believe is private too."
Helmi shook her head. "No, not so much. Not when you're going around telling people that dead people are hanging around. Then it's ship's business. And - " Helmi held up her hand as Erin drew an angry breath to reply "And, if you think I'm wrong about that, then just think about what the XO would say if she heard about it."
"I'm not going to pretend that - "
"Don't be a fucking fool!" Helmi snapped, and got wide-eyed silence from the engineering ensign at last. "You can't be stupid enough not to realize what's happening to this crew! Sarge is gone. The Doc's gone. The Chief's dead. Pilot's in medical every day and she never was exactly proactive, was she?"
"So?"
Helmi sighed. "Ship's more than steel and engines, Erin. Maybe being engineering makes that hard to see? But look around. Hear what people are saying. Place is coming apart at the seams. You think telling ghost stories is going to help that?"
"Um ..."
"Um is fucking right." Helmi picked up her empty plate and stood up. "So do us all a favor, okay?"
"What?"
Helmi tossed her plate in the 'cycler and turned to the door. "Keep what you see to yourself."
"Don't you think it would help?" Erin asked. "People knowing ... that the Chief was still looking out for us?"
Helmi stopped at the door. "The dead don't look out for us, Erin."
The dead look out for themselves.
In that way, at least, they're just like everybody else.
Helmi Alpassi didn't sigh or roll her eyes, although it took fairly heroic self-restraint. Ancestors spare me.
Not that they ever did, in Helmi's experience.
"Erin," she said reasonably, scraping the last forkful of beef-flavored protein off her plate. "You saw your grand-dad in the engine room and some woman made of fire down by cargo. Maybe - "
Erin turned sharply enough to set her sleek black hair swirling out around her shoulders. "Yes! I did see them. And I saw the Chief too! Clear as I see you, Helmi, clear as I see you right now!"
"All right." Helmi leaned forward and rested her elbows on the mess table. "Say you did see the Chief. What was he doing?"
"He was adjusting the enviro controls."
Helmi grinned. "Well, that explains why it's been so spirits-damned cold around here lately, anyway."
"No!" Erin dropped onto the bench opposite Helmi and leaned forward. "He was turning them up. You know, it's cold because Pilot's always telling us to set them down further. And the Chief was putting them back to normal!"
Helmi pushed her plate away. "Uh-huh. So ghosts can change the settings on things?"
"Sure! Like, there was that one on that ship, the frigate, that kept setting the autopilot to the old pilot's home world? And the one that - "
"Erin." Helmi rubbed her forehead. Ancestors and spirits spare me from superstitious fools, if you would be so fucking kind. For once in your afterlife. "Those are just bar stories."
Erin folded her arms and set her chin. "You don't believe me."
"I've never seen a ghost, I've never seen any proof of a ghost, I - "
"What about the ghost ships, the - "
"It's a big black Deep out there, Erin. You don't need ghosts to have a reason for strange stuff happening."
"You believe in spirits, though, don't you?" Erin asked. "Dead people, protecting you?"
"It's not exactly the same thing," Helmi said.
"Well, why not? If your ancestors can watch over you, why can't the Chief be watching over the ship?"
"Well, they don't follow me around fiddling with enviro controls, for one thing!"
"Then what do they do?"
Helmi thought about the low table in her quarters, the little figurines worn featureless and smooth with years of handling. "You know what? I'm not going to get into it. Religion is religion, and it's private."
"Well," Erin said stubbornly, "What I believe is private too."
Helmi shook her head. "No, not so much. Not when you're going around telling people that dead people are hanging around. Then it's ship's business. And - " Helmi held up her hand as Erin drew an angry breath to reply "And, if you think I'm wrong about that, then just think about what the XO would say if she heard about it."
"I'm not going to pretend that - "
"Don't be a fucking fool!" Helmi snapped, and got wide-eyed silence from the engineering ensign at last. "You can't be stupid enough not to realize what's happening to this crew! Sarge is gone. The Doc's gone. The Chief's dead. Pilot's in medical every day and she never was exactly proactive, was she?"
"So?"
Helmi sighed. "Ship's more than steel and engines, Erin. Maybe being engineering makes that hard to see? But look around. Hear what people are saying. Place is coming apart at the seams. You think telling ghost stories is going to help that?"
"Um ..."
"Um is fucking right." Helmi picked up her empty plate and stood up. "So do us all a favor, okay?"
"What?"
Helmi tossed her plate in the 'cycler and turned to the door. "Keep what you see to yourself."
"Don't you think it would help?" Erin asked. "People knowing ... that the Chief was still looking out for us?"
Helmi stopped at the door. "The dead don't look out for us, Erin."
The dead look out for themselves.
In that way, at least, they're just like everybody else.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Reflections
"Oh, I'm Helmi. I'm a friend of Pilot Roth's."
No.
Helmi Alpassi closed her eyes for a second, blew out a short breath.
"Oh, I'm Helmi. I'm a friend of Cia's."
She smiled, studied the smile in the mirror. Too cold. Fake.
There was a picture tucked into the frame of the mirror and she studied it for a moment.
A family group, all with the same fair hair, all grinning at the camera. Mother, father, brother and me.
Helmi looked from the picture to the mirror, pulled the corners of her mouth a little higher, squinted her eyes a little. Better.
"Hi, I'm Helmi. I'm a friend of Cia's."
Good. The smile looked natural. Her voice sounded normal, casual, to her own ears. To be sure, she flicked a button on her comm and listened as the recording played back. Yes. Normal.
Looking down at herself, she smoothed her hands over her shirt. She'd chosen it carefully, taking so long with the catalogue that the XO had said dryly No-one needs you to be a fashionplate, Helmi.
Looking in the mirror again, Helmi thought it had been worth the time. The light blue made her look younger, and gave an innocent tint to her grey eyes. The cut was long and loose, covering the sidearm nestled in the small of her back. The fabric was heavy, its stiffness disguising the light body-armor beneath.
"Hi, I'm Helmi, a friend of Cia's?"
Perfect.
She'd practiced with the shirt and the holster a hundred times, but she made sure again now. Her fingers flicked the hem of the shirt up and away with the beginning of the movement that brought her hand to the butt of her sidearm. Yank and drag, barrel to the ground. The gun came around her body angled so she wouldn't shoot herself with a misfire and snapped up to level on the mirror.
Over the fat black muzzle of the gun, her eyes held no innocence at all.
It was hard to tell just how fast she was, subjectively. Sarge said fast enough.
Fisk Hurun wouldn't have said it if he hadn't believed it. No way he'd let anything slide on Pilot's security.
He didn't draw that detail himself, anymore. Helmi could guess why. She wasn't the only one who'd seen him, when Pilot was out in Rens Bazaar or on the Interbus or where-ever, muscle jumping in his cheek, looking at little old ladies like they were about to jump Pilot and beat her to death with their string bags full of oranges.
It was understandable, she supposed. More than.
But it was a liability, too. A weakness. In a man she hadn't been used to seeing weakness in, not when she'd been a raw cadet in Peace and Order's junior team at the Haadoken Summit and he'd been the last man down in Home Guard's final match against Ishukone, not when he'd been the first through the door into the disabled transport full of Peace and Order marines expecting Blood Raiders rather than rescue, not when ...
But she didn't know if she'd seen weakness in him, that time.
He remembered.
She didn't.
Helmi holstered her gun and ran her fingers down the edge of the mirror. The edge of firmcopy was barely detectable, even knowing it was there. She scraped at it with a nail until she could prise it loose.
Not that I don't know it by heart.
A letter she would never have seen, not in this body, if her mother hadn't been concerned enough to write back.
A letter she couldn't remember writing, but that she had no doubt she had.
About plots and treachery, about danger to Pilot, about no-one to trust.
Sent from her account in that blank space between the land-car accident and waking up in the cloning vat to hear that she and everyone else on her team had been killed in action when Pilot was abducted.
They'd known it had to be an inside job, but no-one had known who, or how. Rumors of TCMCS, but who had fired, how it had happened ...
Helmi still didn't know how. The letter in her hand, with its insane conviction that Pilot was in danger from someone, maybe everyone, on her crew, and its veiled references to someone who can help...
The letter didn't tell her how. But the woman who'd written that letter, the woman completely certain that the only way to keep Pilot safe was to get her away from her crew and her guards and her friends ... the letter told her who had pulled the trigger.
Me.
She folded the letter back up and slid it back into its hiding place, met her own cool grey gaze in the mirror and tested that thought.
Not the sharp edges of it, the fruitless speculation, the what-how-when. That was there, yes, but it was irrelevant.
As irrelevant as understanding why Sarge had become a liability to knowing that he was.
No. She tested all the places the knowledge of that letter ran to, checking to make sure that what if it happens again and why didn't I know and did Sarge see me shoot him stopped where they should.
Stopped short of the job.
Yes.
The woman who had done that hadn't been her, in any way that she could tell. Had looked and sounded and walked and talked like Helmi Alpassi, no doubt, but the TCMCs had made her someone else. If it was me, Sarge would never have let them tap me for this job. He knows it wasn't me. Knows it was someone else.
And now she's dead. And I'm here.
She knew who she was, who she wasn't. What she had and hadn't done.
She wouldn't hesitate. Wouldn't overcompensate. Wouldn't think, when the time came.
Whatever the letter said.
Helmi looked at herself in the mirror again.
Smiled.
"Hi, I'm Helmi. I'm a friend, of Cia's?"
Perfect.
It was understandable, she supposed. More than.
But it was a liability, too. A weakness. In a man she hadn't been used to seeing weakness in, not when she'd been a raw cadet in Peace and Order's junior team at the Haadoken Summit and he'd been the last man down in Home Guard's final match against Ishukone, not when he'd been the first through the door into the disabled transport full of Peace and Order marines expecting Blood Raiders rather than rescue, not when ...
But she didn't know if she'd seen weakness in him, that time.
He remembered.
She didn't.
Helmi holstered her gun and ran her fingers down the edge of the mirror. The edge of firmcopy was barely detectable, even knowing it was there. She scraped at it with a nail until she could prise it loose.
Not that I don't know it by heart.
A letter she would never have seen, not in this body, if her mother hadn't been concerned enough to write back.
A letter she couldn't remember writing, but that she had no doubt she had.
About plots and treachery, about danger to Pilot, about no-one to trust.
Sent from her account in that blank space between the land-car accident and waking up in the cloning vat to hear that she and everyone else on her team had been killed in action when Pilot was abducted.
They'd known it had to be an inside job, but no-one had known who, or how. Rumors of TCMCS, but who had fired, how it had happened ...
Helmi still didn't know how. The letter in her hand, with its insane conviction that Pilot was in danger from someone, maybe everyone, on her crew, and its veiled references to someone who can help...
The letter didn't tell her how. But the woman who'd written that letter, the woman completely certain that the only way to keep Pilot safe was to get her away from her crew and her guards and her friends ... the letter told her who had pulled the trigger.
Me.
She folded the letter back up and slid it back into its hiding place, met her own cool grey gaze in the mirror and tested that thought.
Not the sharp edges of it, the fruitless speculation, the what-how-when. That was there, yes, but it was irrelevant.
As irrelevant as understanding why Sarge had become a liability to knowing that he was.
No. She tested all the places the knowledge of that letter ran to, checking to make sure that what if it happens again and why didn't I know and did Sarge see me shoot him stopped where they should.
Stopped short of the job.
Yes.
The woman who had done that hadn't been her, in any way that she could tell. Had looked and sounded and walked and talked like Helmi Alpassi, no doubt, but the TCMCs had made her someone else. If it was me, Sarge would never have let them tap me for this job. He knows it wasn't me. Knows it was someone else.
And now she's dead. And I'm here.
She knew who she was, who she wasn't. What she had and hadn't done.
She wouldn't hesitate. Wouldn't overcompensate. Wouldn't think, when the time came.
Whatever the letter said.
Helmi looked at herself in the mirror again.
Smiled.
"Hi, I'm Helmi. I'm a friend, of Cia's?"
Perfect.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Conversations On The Fortune's Fist: Fourteen
She has him pinned.
Arm around his throat, knee in the small of his back.
It's as close to an embrace as makes no difference.
She increases the pressure, cuts off a little more of his wind. If he doesn't tap out soon, she'll strangle him. She knows he knows it.
"Guess this isn't the kind of wrestling you're used to these days, is it, Sarge?" she whispers. "Do you miss it?"
He can't even breathe, let alone answer her.
She doesn't feel even a flicker of guilt at the fact that she has an unfair advantage.
There's no such thing as an unfair advantage, in the rule-book they both play by.
"Does she know you miss it?"
He won't give in.
She feels him shifting, trying for leverage. Forestalls him, once, twice.
The third time he flips her. They come down still locked together, her beneath him now. He's heavy, and she'd have to let him go to break her fall.
She doesn't.
Sees stars as his weight drives the breath from her lungs.
Holds on.
He lifts them up a little and drops back down on her. Something gives in her side with a stomach-turning crack. His hands are on her arm, waiting for his opportunity, waiting for her grip to ease.
She holds tight.
He taps her forearm, twice, lightly. It takes her longer than it should to feel it, and when she lets him go he rolls away from her and lies, heaving for breath. She stays on her back, looking at the ceiling, tasting blood and wondering how much it's going to hurt when she moves.
A lot, is the answer, as she discovers when she tries to sit up.
"You're fucking crazy, Alpassi," he says at last, not looking at her. "Fucking crazy."
She grins at the ceiling. "I won, didn't I?"
He gets to his feet and holds out his hand. "Fucking crazy," he says again.
She lets him pull her to her feet, chokes back a curse at the pain. "Takes one to know one, Sarge," she says. "Takes one to know one."
It really hurts. For a second her knees buckle, and he grabs her other arm to hold her up. Her eyes are watering, from the pain, that's all. Just from the pain.
She presses her face against his shoulder to hide the moisture on her cheeks.
It's as close to an embrace as makes no difference.
And she won't give in.
Arm around his throat, knee in the small of his back.
It's as close to an embrace as makes no difference.
She increases the pressure, cuts off a little more of his wind. If he doesn't tap out soon, she'll strangle him. She knows he knows it.
"Guess this isn't the kind of wrestling you're used to these days, is it, Sarge?" she whispers. "Do you miss it?"
He can't even breathe, let alone answer her.
She doesn't feel even a flicker of guilt at the fact that she has an unfair advantage.
There's no such thing as an unfair advantage, in the rule-book they both play by.
"Does she know you miss it?"
He won't give in.
She feels him shifting, trying for leverage. Forestalls him, once, twice.
The third time he flips her. They come down still locked together, her beneath him now. He's heavy, and she'd have to let him go to break her fall.
She doesn't.
Sees stars as his weight drives the breath from her lungs.
Holds on.
He lifts them up a little and drops back down on her. Something gives in her side with a stomach-turning crack. His hands are on her arm, waiting for his opportunity, waiting for her grip to ease.
She holds tight.
He taps her forearm, twice, lightly. It takes her longer than it should to feel it, and when she lets him go he rolls away from her and lies, heaving for breath. She stays on her back, looking at the ceiling, tasting blood and wondering how much it's going to hurt when she moves.
A lot, is the answer, as she discovers when she tries to sit up.
"You're fucking crazy, Alpassi," he says at last, not looking at her. "Fucking crazy."
She grins at the ceiling. "I won, didn't I?"
He gets to his feet and holds out his hand. "Fucking crazy," he says again.
She lets him pull her to her feet, chokes back a curse at the pain. "Takes one to know one, Sarge," she says. "Takes one to know one."
It really hurts. For a second her knees buckle, and he grabs her other arm to hold her up. Her eyes are watering, from the pain, that's all. Just from the pain.
She presses her face against his shoulder to hide the moisture on her cheeks.
It's as close to an embrace as makes no difference.
And she won't give in.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Conversations on the Fortune’s Fist: Twelve
((Co-written with Silver Night))
Master Gunnery Sergeant Demen Jadat of the Utopian Ideal leaned on the catwalk railing and looked down at the deck of the drone bay of the Dominix-class battleship Fortune's Fist. Today, as for the last three days, it held no drones. Today, some thousand or so of the crew of the Fist wandered around the huge, echoing space, casually dressed in civilian clothes. Making their way through the crowd was a small knot of people, also casually dressed, but not wandering: one small woman deliberately chosen for her resemblance to Ciarente Roth, and six of the marines assigned to Pilot Roth's close personal protection detail.
And somewhere in that crowd of a thousand were three or four of Demen's own people, also in civilian clothes. They were not there to add to the numbers of 'bystanders'.
They were assassins, or at least, pretending to be.
'Ms Roth' and her guards had made it less than twenty feet into the room before Demen's trained eye had picked out the first two 'assassins', noting the tell-tales in their stance that said concealed weapon, the hidden purpose to their apparently-aimless movement through the crowd.
"Do you see them?" he asked the man beside him.
Fisk Hurun nodded tightly.
Demen didn't take his gaze from the crowd below, mentally dividing the deck into quarters and checking each one in turn, letting his subconscious sort out what was normal, what was usual, what was dangerous. There's the third. At the same time, his peripheral vision showed Hurun's hands white-knuckled on the railing, muscle jumping on the back of one, and he registered the other man's breathing: short, rapid, strained.
Checking the relative positions of the 'assassins' to 'Ms Roth', he casually moved a little further away from Hurun, giving himself a little clearance. Just in case.
Not for the first time since he and his people had arrived to give Ms Roth's security teams what Commander Invelen had described as 'a little extra training', Demen reflected that it was a good thing the standing orders on Ms Roth's ship's prohibited all but checkpoint from carrying sidearms as a matter of course.
Not a man who should have a gun handy, he thought with a glance at Fisk as the first 'assassin' worked his way through the crowd to less than thirty feet from 'Ms Roth'.
The Commander had given him a heads-up on Ms Roth's CTO, Recently shot. Newly wired. Jumpy. Three things that, put together, did not in Demen's experience bode well.
And an instruction, along with the description. Let me know what you think of him, Gunny. Whoever's running Cia's security has gotta be up to the job. I want you to treat this like you're training my protection detail, or Captain Night's.
A flurry of movement down below broke into his thoughts.
Without the neural wiring Demen wouldn't have been able to sort out what happened, training or no - it was that fast.
The first 'assassin' drew a 'pistol' - actually a laser-tag gun exactly like the kind Ms Roth's little sister played with - and aimed towards 'Ms Roth'. Even as Demen saw the movement, one of the marines guarding 'Ms Roth' was turning, her own weapon coming up. The 'assassin' didn't have time to aim before a bright splotch of light appeared on his chest.
Demen concentrated, opening a channel on his internal comm to the marines below.
Who was that?
The marine who'd fired touched a finger to her ear-piece. "Alpassi, sir."
It didn't surprise Demen. Private Helmi Alpassi had been the stand-out since the day he'd arrived, having every procedure memorized before the others had even finished reading it, her speed and accuracy with her sidearm telling of many long hours practice, with a cool vigilance that would have been remarkable in someone with twice her training and four times her experience. What tipped you off? he asked.
Alpassi's answer sounded abashed. "I don't know, sir."
Think about it, Demen said. At the end of the exercise you'll be telling your team-mates how it was that you saw the shooter before they did."
"Sir, yes si - "
'Assassin' number two took the opportunity of Alpassi's distraction to make her move. The knife that appeared in her hand as she dived between the marines at 'Ms Roth' was of course blunt.
So was the steel-capped toe of the boot that caught her in the solar plexus before she was anywhere near in range.
Demen heard the thud over Alpassi's open comm line and the Sorry! that followed it from the marine who'd dealt the kick.
You okay, Tiroshi? he asked.
She grunted, and it sounded vaguely affirmative. As Demen watched she rolled over and looked up at him, opening her shirt to show him her light body-armor cracked down the front.
"I'm sorry, sir," the marine said over the comm. "I didn't have time to pull it or - "
That's why she's wearing armor, marine, Demen said. So you won't learn the bad habit of pulling your punches.
The marine nodded, and Demen saw him bend to help Specialist Tiroshi to her feet, made a note to mention it at the end of the exercise. Sloppy. Loss of focus, when 'Ms Roth' is still in an open, unsecured space.
"Pay attention, Legeen!" Alpassi snapped. Demen pursed his lips a little. Legeen was Sergeant Legeen, and Private Alpassi shouldn't be using that tone to him, regardless of the legitimacy of her rebuke.
He caught enough of Legeen's response, combined with the body language Demen could see from his vantage point, to know that Legeen was making just that same point.
Focus. Demen thought of reminding them, but that would have defeated the purpose of this particular exercise. They're not going to have a Gunny hovering like God above them when it's the real deal.
He saw the movement. Saw the rifle coming into view, saw Alpassi see it too, felt Hurun lock up beside him like a clenched fist. Demen did the geometry in a half-a-heartbeat, the clear line of fire for the 'assassin', the people obstructing Alpassi's own shot, the rest of the bodyguards-in- training seeing the same thing now, but too late.
Alpassi's answer sounded abashed. "I don't know, sir."
Think about it, Demen said. At the end of the exercise you'll be telling your team-mates how it was that you saw the shooter before they did."
"Sir, yes si - "
'Assassin' number two took the opportunity of Alpassi's distraction to make her move. The knife that appeared in her hand as she dived between the marines at 'Ms Roth' was of course blunt.
So was the steel-capped toe of the boot that caught her in the solar plexus before she was anywhere near in range.
Demen heard the thud over Alpassi's open comm line and the Sorry! that followed it from the marine who'd dealt the kick.
You okay, Tiroshi? he asked.
She grunted, and it sounded vaguely affirmative. As Demen watched she rolled over and looked up at him, opening her shirt to show him her light body-armor cracked down the front.
"I'm sorry, sir," the marine said over the comm. "I didn't have time to pull it or - "
That's why she's wearing armor, marine, Demen said. So you won't learn the bad habit of pulling your punches.
The marine nodded, and Demen saw him bend to help Specialist Tiroshi to her feet, made a note to mention it at the end of the exercise. Sloppy. Loss of focus, when 'Ms Roth' is still in an open, unsecured space.
"Pay attention, Legeen!" Alpassi snapped. Demen pursed his lips a little. Legeen was Sergeant Legeen, and Private Alpassi shouldn't be using that tone to him, regardless of the legitimacy of her rebuke.
He caught enough of Legeen's response, combined with the body language Demen could see from his vantage point, to know that Legeen was making just that same point.
Focus. Demen thought of reminding them, but that would have defeated the purpose of this particular exercise. They're not going to have a Gunny hovering like God above them when it's the real deal.
He saw the movement. Saw the rifle coming into view, saw Alpassi see it too, felt Hurun lock up beside him like a clenched fist. Demen did the geometry in a half-a-heartbeat, the clear line of fire for the 'assassin', the people obstructing Alpassi's own shot, the rest of the bodyguards-in- training seeing the same thing now, but too late.
Alpassi dropped her gun and dived as the 'assassin' pulled the trigger. The marine hit 'Ms Roth' hard and slammed her to the ground, her own body between her and the 'assassin'. Legeen and the other marines returned fire, belatedly. The 'assassin' lit up in four different colors, telling Demen that at least one of the five who'd fired needed more range time.
"No, no, no - " Alpassi said, her voice breaking. "Oh, no, no..." She pushed herself to a sitting position and the movement let Demen see 'Ms Roth', her forehead lit with the trace of a laser-tag that told the world that Alpassi had been a split-second slow.
Looks like we still have a bit of work to do, Demen told them all. Briefing room, five minutes.
He watched as Legeen helped 'Ms Roth' and then Alpassi to their feet. The young private seemed shaken, but she regained her composure as the general announcement of the end of the exercise began to send the crew-members playing the crowd on their way.
"Work to do still," Demen said. "But we're making real progress."
Hurun didn't answer.
Demen turned and saw the other man standing rigid, the railing buckling beneath his grip, tremors running through him. One leg twitched, then a shoulder, augmentations trying to respond to chaotic neural instructions.
"Hurun," he said. " Fisk."
The face that turned to him was blank and white, eyes wide with desperation. "Sh-sh-sh ... out." Hurun said. "G-g-g..."
"Take it easy, man," Demen said quietly. "You've got to calm down. You're full of hardware that you can hurt yourself with if you don't. Can you hear me?"
"N-n-n safe," Hurun blurted. "N-n-n ... h-have to g-g-g ... back."
Demen tried to open a connection to Hurun's internal comm, got a blast of static that made his head ring. "Your Pilot's safe, Fisk," he said. "She's down-planet. There's a security net around her that I couldn't get through. Calm down, and you can call her and talk to her and see for yourself. Calm down, now. Breathe in and out. Calm down, marine."
He kept talking, the same reassurances, waiting for a sign Hurun had heard him, waiting for a sign the potentially lethal panic was easing. Long minutes, until the twitching and the shuddering stopped, until Hurun's gaze focused on him, until finally the other man gave a short nod and released his death grip on the railing.
"I think maybe you need to take a break, Sergeant Hurun," Demen said, phrasing it as a suggestion rather than the order it would have been on the Utopian Ideal because this wasn't his ship and Hurun wasn't his man. A suggestion - but his tone said it was the kind of suggestion that a senior NCO might give to a fresh Lieutenant right before they walked into an ambush.
Hurun shook his head. "N-n," he said. "P-p ... Roth's. S-safety. M-m ... job."
He turned abruptly and began to make his way towards the stairs at the end of the catwalk, still a little unsteady on his feet.
Demen watched him go. He couldn't order the CTO of another crew to stand down or have him removed from active duty.
All I can do is report to Commander Invelen, he thought.
And I'd better make that a priority.
Because Pilot Roth's safety might be Fisk Hurun's job ... but right now, from where Demen Jadat was standing, the biggest threat to that safety might be Fisk Hurun himself.
"No, no, no - " Alpassi said, her voice breaking. "Oh, no, no..." She pushed herself to a sitting position and the movement let Demen see 'Ms Roth', her forehead lit with the trace of a laser-tag that told the world that Alpassi had been a split-second slow.
Looks like we still have a bit of work to do, Demen told them all. Briefing room, five minutes.
He watched as Legeen helped 'Ms Roth' and then Alpassi to their feet. The young private seemed shaken, but she regained her composure as the general announcement of the end of the exercise began to send the crew-members playing the crowd on their way.
"Work to do still," Demen said. "But we're making real progress."
Hurun didn't answer.
Demen turned and saw the other man standing rigid, the railing buckling beneath his grip, tremors running through him. One leg twitched, then a shoulder, augmentations trying to respond to chaotic neural instructions.
"Hurun," he said. " Fisk."
The face that turned to him was blank and white, eyes wide with desperation. "Sh-sh-sh ... out." Hurun said. "G-g-g..."
"Take it easy, man," Demen said quietly. "You've got to calm down. You're full of hardware that you can hurt yourself with if you don't. Can you hear me?"
"N-n-n safe," Hurun blurted. "N-n-n ... h-have to g-g-g ... back."
Demen tried to open a connection to Hurun's internal comm, got a blast of static that made his head ring. "Your Pilot's safe, Fisk," he said. "She's down-planet. There's a security net around her that I couldn't get through. Calm down, and you can call her and talk to her and see for yourself. Calm down, now. Breathe in and out. Calm down, marine."
He kept talking, the same reassurances, waiting for a sign Hurun had heard him, waiting for a sign the potentially lethal panic was easing. Long minutes, until the twitching and the shuddering stopped, until Hurun's gaze focused on him, until finally the other man gave a short nod and released his death grip on the railing.
"I think maybe you need to take a break, Sergeant Hurun," Demen said, phrasing it as a suggestion rather than the order it would have been on the Utopian Ideal because this wasn't his ship and Hurun wasn't his man. A suggestion - but his tone said it was the kind of suggestion that a senior NCO might give to a fresh Lieutenant right before they walked into an ambush.
Hurun shook his head. "N-n," he said. "P-p ... Roth's. S-safety. M-m ... job."
He turned abruptly and began to make his way towards the stairs at the end of the catwalk, still a little unsteady on his feet.
Demen watched him go. He couldn't order the CTO of another crew to stand down or have him removed from active duty.
All I can do is report to Commander Invelen, he thought.
And I'd better make that a priority.
Because Pilot Roth's safety might be Fisk Hurun's job ... but right now, from where Demen Jadat was standing, the biggest threat to that safety might be Fisk Hurun himself.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Conversations on the Fortune’s Smile: Nine
Nerila checked the controls on the last biostorage stasis unit. Like the others, it was at optimal. Like the others, it would keep the corpse inside exactly as it had been at almost the moment of death, give or take the time for transport and the autopsy.
Except unit 3, Nerila thought. Helmi Alpassi. Not quite as she was at death.
About six inches shorter, for one thing.
She turned to leave, saw an unexpected figure in the doorway and felt her heart-rate kick into overdrive in the second it took her to identify her visitor. Fisk.
"Gonna make you wear a bell around your neck," she said, aware her voice was shaking.
"Sorry," Fisk said. "You looked busy."
Nerila shrugged. "Administration, mostly." She around at the stasis units and back at Fisk. "Probably not the greatest idea for you to be down here, Fisk."
He followed her gaze. "I wanted to talk to you. Your tech said you were down here."
"What about?" she asked. "No, wait. Come on."
When she took his arm to draw him with her out of the room and towards her office it was a couple of seconds before the bicep beneath her fingers relaxed and he acceded to her urging. Nerila got him into her office with the door closed before she said anything else.
"How are you feeling, Fisk?" she asked, pointing him at the visitor's chair.
"Fine." He shrugged as he sat, ran one hand over the fuzz beginning to show on his scalp. "Like nothing worse happened than a bad haircut."
"Mmm hmm?" Nerila fished a scanner from her drawer and pointed it at him. "Headaches? Dizzy spells? Sleeping okay?"
"No. No. Yes."
The scanner gave her readings in the normal range. Pulse a little fast. Nothing that she wouldn't expect to see in a fit and healthy young man under a fair bit of stress. "So what did you want to talk to me about, Fisk?"
He hesitated, looked down at his hands, and then met her gaze. "Cloning."
"What about cloning?" Nerila asked gently and evenly.
"That body ... my body. Is it possible ... can you clone that brain? That pattern?"
"No, Fisk. Cloning only works on a living brain. Otherwise we would have. Back-ups are the sec-" She stopped.
"Second best option?" Fisk finished for her.
Except unit 3, Nerila thought. Helmi Alpassi. Not quite as she was at death.
About six inches shorter, for one thing.
She turned to leave, saw an unexpected figure in the doorway and felt her heart-rate kick into overdrive in the second it took her to identify her visitor. Fisk.
"Gonna make you wear a bell around your neck," she said, aware her voice was shaking.
"Sorry," Fisk said. "You looked busy."
Nerila shrugged. "Administration, mostly." She around at the stasis units and back at Fisk. "Probably not the greatest idea for you to be down here, Fisk."
He followed her gaze. "I wanted to talk to you. Your tech said you were down here."
"What about?" she asked. "No, wait. Come on."
When she took his arm to draw him with her out of the room and towards her office it was a couple of seconds before the bicep beneath her fingers relaxed and he acceded to her urging. Nerila got him into her office with the door closed before she said anything else.
"How are you feeling, Fisk?" she asked, pointing him at the visitor's chair.
"Fine." He shrugged as he sat, ran one hand over the fuzz beginning to show on his scalp. "Like nothing worse happened than a bad haircut."
"Mmm hmm?" Nerila fished a scanner from her drawer and pointed it at him. "Headaches? Dizzy spells? Sleeping okay?"
"No. No. Yes."
The scanner gave her readings in the normal range. Pulse a little fast. Nothing that she wouldn't expect to see in a fit and healthy young man under a fair bit of stress. "So what did you want to talk to me about, Fisk?"
He hesitated, looked down at his hands, and then met her gaze. "Cloning."
"What about cloning?" Nerila asked gently and evenly.
"That body ... my body. Is it possible ... can you clone that brain? That pattern?"
"No, Fisk. Cloning only works on a living brain. Otherwise we would have. Back-ups are the sec-" She stopped.
"Second best option?" Fisk finished for her.
"Sure," Fisk said. "Sure." He hesitated again. "So, you can't put that pattern - those memories on a new clone?"
Nerila shook her head firmly. "No. Not possible."
"If you can't put it on a blank clone, could you put it on an active one?"
"An active - " Nerila sat back in her chair. "No-one writes a neural pattern over an active clone. A living person."
"But could you? Write it ... " Fisk tapped his temple with one finger. "On here?"
"Not only do I doubt I could, I wouldn't." Nerila leaned forward, folding her hands on the desk. "Fisk, the injuries ... the pattern would be badly damaged."
He shrugged, and said with a tight smile. "I'm backed up. Living proof right in front of you. And damaged or not, there are things in that brain that aren't in this one. What happened."
"Fisk ... no. It's a bad idea."
"A worse one than sitting around doing nothing when there might be a way to find Pilot?"
Nerila sighed. "Look. I know it's frustrating. But - "
"You don't know." Fisk's voice rose for the first time. "I've watched that feed. The XO thinks I can pick something up that Ami didn't understand, but there's nothing. Whatever I heard, whatever they said, it's not on the recording." He clenched his fists. "It's in the brain of that body down the hall. So help me get it out."
"It's not medically possible." She smiled to soften it. "I'm good, Fisk, but I can't raise the dead."
"Can somebody else? Station medical? Pilot's Sansha friends? Some experimental procedure?" Fisk smiled tightly. "I'll volunteer to be the first guinea pig."
"I really doubt it," Nerila said. "I really, really doubt it."
"Will you ask? Will you find out?"
Nerila hesitated.
"Pilot's been gone a week, Nerila," he said. "A week. You know what can happen to someone in a week?"
"You're asking a doctor that?" she snapped.
"Then ask. Find out. Ask Ami's CMO. Ask on station. Ask the big research corps."
Nerila shook her head. "It's a bad idea. It's worse than bad."
"Just ask, Nerila." Fisk put his hands flat on her desk and leaned forward. "We all owe Pilot. Just ask."
Reluctantly, Nerila nodded. "I'll ask. No promises past that. But I'll ask."
She saw him relax, then. I promised to ask, Fisk. That's all.
The words died on her lips.
Doesn't matter how loud I say them, she thought. He'll hear what he wants to.
What he needs to.
Whatever I say.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Conversations on the Fortune's Smile: Seven
On his way out of the door of the mess, Private Visa Honka hesitated, then turned back. "M'm," he said. "Do you think she'll be different?"
"Who?" Corporal Satu Weilin asked absently, most of her attention on the datapadd she'd been reading while she ploughed through two helpings of flavour-enhanced beef-substitute.
"Alpassi. Do you think she'll be different. When she comes back."
Weilin looked up, letting the datapadd drop to the table. "Different how?"
"I don't know." Honka shrugged. " Different."
"She's still Alpassi," Weilin said firmly.
"Yeah, but ..."
" But nothing. She's still Alpassi. She just won't remember the last two weeks. And she'll be bald." It was Weilin's turn to shrug. "Worse things than being bald."
"How did it happen?" Honka asked.
"Landcar accident. Brake failure, or something." Weilin looked at her empty plate, then glanced at the servery. "Flipped, broken neck. Instant."
"That's .... random. For a marine."
"Life happens, right? At least for Alpassi, this time, life happening wasn't fatal." Weilin pushed her plate away. "Thanks to Pilot's generosity."
Honka paused. "I don't know what I should say to her."
"Just treat her as normal," Weilin said. "She's Alpassi. Just ... bald. And a little amnesiac."
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so," Honka said without conviction.
"You'll do more than guess so," Weilin said sharply. "It's an order, Private."
"Yes'm," Honka said.
He turned to go, and was almost out the door when Weilin spoke again.
"Visa," she said quietly. "If you don't know what to say to her - remember. We're all in the Significance program. Next time it could be me. Or you."
"Bald and amnesiac?" Honka said with a ghost of a grin.
"In your case, Private, an improvement," Weilin said dryly. "Now get out of here. Don't you have range-time booked?"
Honka sketched a salute, and was gone.
Weilin listened to his footsteps fading down the corridor, then made a note on her datapadd for CTO Hurun.
He wants to know what to say to her, she thought. What to say to a woman who died three days ago and arrives back on the ship tomorrow.
As if I know.
"Who?" Corporal Satu Weilin asked absently, most of her attention on the datapadd she'd been reading while she ploughed through two helpings of flavour-enhanced beef-substitute.
"Alpassi. Do you think she'll be different. When she comes back."
Weilin looked up, letting the datapadd drop to the table. "Different how?"
"I don't know." Honka shrugged. " Different."
"She's still Alpassi," Weilin said firmly.
"Yeah, but ..."
" But nothing. She's still Alpassi. She just won't remember the last two weeks. And she'll be bald." It was Weilin's turn to shrug. "Worse things than being bald."
"How did it happen?" Honka asked.
"Landcar accident. Brake failure, or something." Weilin looked at her empty plate, then glanced at the servery. "Flipped, broken neck. Instant."
"That's .... random. For a marine."
"Life happens, right? At least for Alpassi, this time, life happening wasn't fatal." Weilin pushed her plate away. "Thanks to Pilot's generosity."
Honka paused. "I don't know what I should say to her."
"Just treat her as normal," Weilin said. "She's Alpassi. Just ... bald. And a little amnesiac."
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so," Honka said without conviction.
"You'll do more than guess so," Weilin said sharply. "It's an order, Private."
"Yes'm," Honka said.
He turned to go, and was almost out the door when Weilin spoke again.
"Visa," she said quietly. "If you don't know what to say to her - remember. We're all in the Significance program. Next time it could be me. Or you."
"Bald and amnesiac?" Honka said with a ghost of a grin.
"In your case, Private, an improvement," Weilin said dryly. "Now get out of here. Don't you have range-time booked?"
Honka sketched a salute, and was gone.
Weilin listened to his footsteps fading down the corridor, then made a note on her datapadd for CTO Hurun.
He wants to know what to say to her, she thought. What to say to a woman who died three days ago and arrives back on the ship tomorrow.
As if I know.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Conversations on the Fortune's Smile: Four
"You can wait," Chief Tactical Officer Fisk Hurun said to the two marines in front of him. "Range is occupied."
"We booked - ouch!" Private Helmi Alpassi turned and glared at her squad-mate. "What was that for?"
Private Visa Honka turned a bland, innocent gaze to her, exactly as if he hadn't just elbowed her in the ribs. "Nothing," he said. "We'll wait, sir."
Alpassi sighed, and followed Honka as he walked a little way away to lean against the wall. "We booked." she hissed.
"CTO's outside, Pilot's in there," Honka said "Pilot's in there, we wait. Booking or not."
"Fine. For how long?"
Honka shrugged. "Until she's done. Or we're due back."
Alpassi sighed again. She leaned back against the wall and balanced on her heels, listening to the dull report of gunshots from inside the range. The shots came in long bursts, as if who-ever was firing was emptying the clip in one go and then reloading. "Sounds like she's just blazing away," she said. "Hurun should tell her to pick her targets."
"Mind your own business and let the CTO mind his," Honka advised.
"Fine." Alpassi stared at her toes and listened to the gunfire. "But she'll -"
"Mind your own -"
"Business, I know."
Alpassi had counted the rivets in the opposite bulkhead five times, multiplied them by the number of joins in the deckplating between where she stood and the range door and found the square root of the result to eighteen decimal places before the gunfire stopped. She straightened up and stood at attention as the door opened, seeing Honka do the same from the corner of her eye.
"Pilot," Hurun said, saluting.
"Fisk, thank you," the pilot said. "At e - stand easy. Please. All of you."
"Yes'm. Was everything to your requirements, m'm?" Hurun asked.
"Yes, thank you." Pilot Roth handed a small blaster pistol gingerly to the CTO. "Oh, have you been waiting? I'm sorry - "
"They don't mind, m'm," Hurun said.
The pilot still looked worried as she turned to the two marines. "I am sorry. I hope you haven't been here too long."
"No, m'm," Honka said promptly.
"All right then," the pilot said.
As she passed the two marines Alpassi was almost certain the pilot's eyes were red-rimmed, her eyelashes wet.
And wondered what Pilot Roth saw in the target silhouette, that took a full clip to kill.
"We booked - ouch!" Private Helmi Alpassi turned and glared at her squad-mate. "What was that for?"
Private Visa Honka turned a bland, innocent gaze to her, exactly as if he hadn't just elbowed her in the ribs. "Nothing," he said. "We'll wait, sir."
Alpassi sighed, and followed Honka as he walked a little way away to lean against the wall. "We booked." she hissed.
"CTO's outside, Pilot's in there," Honka said "Pilot's in there, we wait. Booking or not."
"Fine. For how long?"
Honka shrugged. "Until she's done. Or we're due back."
Alpassi sighed again. She leaned back against the wall and balanced on her heels, listening to the dull report of gunshots from inside the range. The shots came in long bursts, as if who-ever was firing was emptying the clip in one go and then reloading. "Sounds like she's just blazing away," she said. "Hurun should tell her to pick her targets."
"Mind your own business and let the CTO mind his," Honka advised.
"Fine." Alpassi stared at her toes and listened to the gunfire. "But she'll -"
"Mind your own -"
"Business, I know."
Alpassi had counted the rivets in the opposite bulkhead five times, multiplied them by the number of joins in the deckplating between where she stood and the range door and found the square root of the result to eighteen decimal places before the gunfire stopped. She straightened up and stood at attention as the door opened, seeing Honka do the same from the corner of her eye.
"Pilot," Hurun said, saluting.
"Fisk, thank you," the pilot said. "At e - stand easy. Please. All of you."
"Yes'm. Was everything to your requirements, m'm?" Hurun asked.
"Yes, thank you." Pilot Roth handed a small blaster pistol gingerly to the CTO. "Oh, have you been waiting? I'm sorry - "
"They don't mind, m'm," Hurun said.
The pilot still looked worried as she turned to the two marines. "I am sorry. I hope you haven't been here too long."
"No, m'm," Honka said promptly.
"All right then," the pilot said.
As she passed the two marines Alpassi was almost certain the pilot's eyes were red-rimmed, her eyelashes wet.
And wondered what Pilot Roth saw in the target silhouette, that took a full clip to kill.
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