It is a piteous sight to see a being who, only moments before, believed itself invincible, stripped of all power in the blink of an eye. Omgu, the most feared cartel boss on the station, trembles as Thrackham wipes his victims’ blood from his sword.
“The contract,” he asks again.
Omgu scrambles about before pulling a slate from a compartment beneath the slime-covered couch. With trembling arms, he tosses it at Thrackham’s feet. Thrackham sheathes his sword and picks it up.
“An escort job?”
“Y-yes, a very lucrative one. The Freen requested a Nomad for security and are willing to pay a substantial fee,” Omgu answers, and I translate.
Thrackham scans the slate. The job appears well beneath the skills of a Nomad. The payment, however, is more than suitable. Ten million upon successful completion. That sum could fund the tribe’s fuel and food needs for several years.
“How much of a cut do you get?” Thrackham asks.
Omgu wilts beneath his gaze, if such a monstrosity can be said to wilt. It curls itself into a bulbous ball, leaving only its fat head visible.
“A two-million finder’s fee,” it replies.
Thrackham draws his sidearm and aims it at Omgu’s head.
“That is now mine. Consider it compensation for your attempt to claim the Edutai’s bounty. Try something like that again and it’ll be you being scraped off this floor.”
To its credit, Omgu is wise enough to keep its mouth shut.
Thrackham slots the slate into the scanner on his wrist and leaves. He walks back through the now-silent club. Every eye follows him, yet no alien dares make a sound. Disappointingly, none attempt to shoot him, and he exits the saloon without further incident.
Stellios Andraste Station is vast and home to several million aliens. Orbiting a red dwarf, its location once made it a major hub of the glorious human empire. Remnants of its former splendour can still be found throughout the station. Once-magnificent marble statues line the main concourse, their bodies broken and their features worn away. They were raised in honour of great men and women, but their names have long since been forgotten. Missing heads and limbs, they now resemble little more than slabs of battered stone.
Thrackham passes beneath their sightless gaze and continues through the concourse. aliens move aside as he approaches, parting before him without a word. Traders pull their wares closer. Scavengers lower their eyes. Even station enforcers suddenly find something else to occupy their attention.
The fear is pleasing, though it is not what it once was. There was a time when the sight of a Halcyon suit would have brought entire armies of aliens to their knees. Now these creatures recognise only the armour of a Nomad. They know nothing of the civilisation that forged it or the species that once ruled the stars.
Thrackham opens the contract on the inside of his visor. The slate transfers its contents to me, and I begin analysing the data.
The client is a Freen merchant named Shev Arak. Captain of a vessel called the Gilded Promise, a thoroughly uninspired name for what appears to be an equally uninspired ship. Its registered cargo is listed as agricultural machinery, medical supplies and industrial components, though several sections of the manifest are encrypted.
The route begins at Stellios Andraste and ends at the Carthan Exchange, four systems away. A short journey, but one that passes through the Veiled Reach, a region plagued by raiders, smugglers and other alien vermin.
“This contract is suspicious.”
Thrackham continues walking.
“The payment is excessive for a simple escort mission. Either the Freen expects serious opposition or the cargo is worth considerably more than the manifest suggests.”
He says nothing.
“Freen are avaricious creatures. Small-minded even by alien standards. One would not part with ten million credits unless it expected to earn far more.”
Thrackham dismisses the manifest and opens the information on Shev Arak. A holo-image appears in the corner of his visor. The Freen is thin and hunched, with four narrow eyes arranged across a long, wedge-shaped skull. Its mouth hangs open to reveal several rows of tiny teeth.
“A revolting specimen.”
Thrackham closes the image.
“You asked for my assessment.”
Thrackham ignores me and steps onto a descending transit platform. The ancient machinery shudders beneath his weight before carrying him into the lower levels of the station.
The grandeur of the concourse soon gives way to cramped passages and exposed conduits. Human signs still mark the walls, though few of the station’s current inhabitants can read them. They have painted their own symbols over the words and driven cables through the carved stone. Market stalls have been built inside old administrative chambers. Shrines to primitive gods occupy alcoves once reserved for navigational terminals. Filth runs through channels that may once have carried water through the station’s gardens.
Stellios Andraste was built to house the finest minds of the empire. Scientists, navigators and engineers once walked these halls. Now they are infested by creatures who cannot even repair the systems keeping them alive.
A group of squat, fur-covered aliens blocks the passage ahead. They are arguing over the remains of a machine they have torn apart, waving tools and screeching at one another in their coarse language. One notices Thrackham and falls silent. The others follow its gaze. They abandon their prize and press themselves against the wall.
“At least some species possess a rudimentary survival instinct.”
Thrackham passes without acknowledging them.
I continue examining the contract. The departure time is less than two standard hours away. Shev Arak’s ship is berthed in Docking Spire Nine, on the far side of the station. The Freen has requested that the Nomad arrive alone and has provided a temporary access cipher for a secured dock.
The transit platform carries us deeper into the station. With every level, the last traces of human grandeur fall away. The broad concourses narrow into a tangled warren of passages, dwellings and makeshift markets. Habitation pods have been welded into maintenance shafts. Walkways hang between support columns, held together by scavenged plates and lengths of cable. Open cooking fires burn beneath ventilation ducts that have not functioned for centuries, filling the air with smoke and the greasy stench of unfamiliar foods.
Above it all, the station groans. Ancient bulkheads creak beneath stresses their current inhabitants do not understand. Lights flicker. Power conduits spark behind cracked wall panels. Somewhere below, a warning alarm has been sounding for so long that the locals no longer notice it.
The deeper levels are home to the poorest of the station’s aliens, wretched creatures scratching out pitiful existences amid the bones of human greatness. The cartels and megacorporations control the upper sixty levels, along with the docks, power systems and functioning manufactories. Everything beneath belongs to refugees, criminals and those too impoverished to buy passage off of the station.
They have come from the countless conflicts consuming the galaxy. Wounded soldiers. Dispossessed labourers. Entire families driven from their home worlds. They crowd into abandoned storage vaults and derelict machinery bays, surrounded by possessions they can carry should they be forced to flee again.
Ah, for the days of the Pax Humanum.
If only these wretches had understood what would follow when they turned upon their betters. Humanity had given the galaxy order. Its armadas had guarded trade routes, settled disputes and crushed those foolish enough to threaten the peace. War had become a word confined to history.
Then the empire fell.
Without mankind to safeguard the stars, every species rushed to carve out a dominion of its own. Those too weak to seize territory were conquered, enslaved or exterminated. Old rivalries became conflicts. They became wars. Borders shifted with every passing year, and no corner of the galaxy remained truly safe.
Thrackham steps over an alien sleeping across the passage.
“You see what became of them without you.”
He ignores me.
Ahead the passageway narrows into a service tunnel. Ragtag encampments fill the sparse space, their destitute occupiers scratching a living in the grime. As the Nomad passes through, many stop and gawk. Some begin to beg for credits, and some of the more educated ones plea for his and humanity’s aid and return. A pleasant surprise that there are some who know their history, know what they lost. Thrackham ignores them. He cares nothing for their desperation. Why should he? His people are clinging onto existence by a mere thread. Scattered and leaderless it could be years before he even sees a fellow human again. Once he’d reached manhood as was customary for his tribe he was sent out into the stars to gather resources and funds to keep his people alive. With just his Halcyon armor and the skills taught to him by his elders every Nomad was committed to this task. Only once they had wandered the stars for sixteen years were they permitted to return. Thrackham had been gone for ten. Most never made it back alive.
Not that Thrackham dwells upon such things. He pushes onwards, leaving the grasping hands and pleading voices behind. The tunnel continues for another half-mile before opening into a vast industrial chamber built around one of the station’s ancient power conduits. The machine descends through the centre of the space like a metal spine, its armoured surface lost in the darkness above and below. Once, it carried energy from the station’s fusion core to the docking spires. Now crude cables have been grafted onto it, siphoning power into the surrounding slums.
Entire settlements cling to the chamber walls. Platforms of rusted metal have been bolted between support struts, each crowded with shacks, stalls and makeshift shrines. Narrow bridges stretch across the abyss without rails or safety fields. Aliens swarm over them, passing goods from hand to hand beneath strings of flickering lights.
They have built a city upon the corpse of our, or rather Thrackham’s once mighty civilisation.
Thrackham crosses the nearest bridge. The structure creaks beneath the weight of his Halcyon suit, sending several of the locals scurrying away. Far below, cooling fans turn slowly in the gloom. One failed step would send an unarmoured being falling for several minutes before it struck the machinery beneath.
The contract still troubles me. Not the danger. Danger is expected. It is the lack of information. Shev Arak has offered ten million credits for a journey that should require little more than an armed guard and a functioning ship. Either the Freen is transporting something of extraordinary value or it knows that someone is coming for it. Possibly both.
I breach the lighter encryption protecting the cargo manifest. One container alone weighs more than the rest of the cargo combined, yet its contents have been removed from the record. Its identification code belongs to a human classification system abandoned more than two centuries before the fall.Interesting.
Thrackham shows no outward reaction to the discovery. He simply continues towards the far side of the chamber, where an ancient transit carriage waits behind a cracked barrier. Its silver hull has been scorched black by age, and crude alien symbols cover the remains of the imperial crest upon its side.
The carriage is barely functioning. A quick scan reveals that its power cells are failing, three suspension nodes are damaged and its control system has been altered with alien modifications. I connect to it through the station network and force the doors open.
Thrackham steps aboard.
The occupants pour out through the opposite doors before he has even turned around. Within seconds, the carriage is empty.
Sensible creatures.
Thrackham selects Docking Spire Nine. The carriage lurches forwards, grinding against its rail before gathering speed. It races through the station’s outer transit ring, passing observation ports that look out across the red dwarf. Its light washes the interior in a dull crimson glow.
Stellios Andraste fills the view beyond the glass. The central station is a vast sphere of battered metal encircled by habitation rings, refinery stacks and communications arrays. Twelve docking spires radiate from its equator, each extending thousands of metres into space. Hundreds of ships crowd around them, from battered freighters to sleek megacorporate cruisers escorted by private warships.
None possess the beauty of human design. Alien vessels are inelegant things, built for function alone. Asymmetrical hulls, exposed engines and weapons were added wherever there was room. They resemble scrapyards given engines. The journey lasts eleven minutes.
When the carriage slows, Thrackham rises. The doors open onto Level Eighty-Seven, the main approach to Docking Spire Nine. Unlike the slums, this part of the station is almost deserted. The Freen certainly wanted to reduce the number of eyes on them. Cargo depots line the passage, their blast doors sealed. Loading machines stand abandoned between stacks of containers, and the overhead lights pulse at irregular intervals.
“Not another step Nomad,” a voice sounds from the gloom ahead.
Six aliens of various species approach. Only one is of interest. The Freen. The others are Tarini, short bipeds with long arms and large hands similar in appearance to the gibbons of ancient Earth. The Freen is wearing a space suit with various straps attached to it, a pistol is tucked into the belt on its waist.
“I am here to parlay with Shev Arak about his contract.”
The Freen turns to its comrades and they chitter amongst themselves in Frenise. A rather overcomplicated language but one that has been a real challenger to common Human since the fall. Many alien languages have risen and fallen in dominance in that time but none have stuck with Common Human still being used as the fallback. Perhaps that was mankind’s true victory over the savages, the dominance of their language despite everything else.
“Shev has been expecting you. I am Rheat, Shev’s second and his pilot. Come with us.”
Thrackham nods in response and falls into step with the aliens who guide us through a maze of corridors until we reach the docking bay. A dozen more Freen are bustling about with repairs to the dilapidated Freen cargo hauler the Gilded Promise standing in the centre. We cross the bay and come to a stop before a Freen with bright orange fur. Its beady black eyes regard Thrackham for a moment before a smile crosses its lips.
“A Nomad! I would never have imagined. Welcome. I trust you are here regarding the contract I posted. Never thought that slug Omgu had such contacts like a Nomad,” it says in very well spoken Common Human. Impressive. “I trust you have read it?”
“An escort job through the Veiled Reach. Which is, I assume, why you need someone like me.”
Shev frowns and nervously taps its fingertips together.
“There is that. Did you not read the briefing in full?”
“No.”
I sigh audibly in Thrackham’s helmet. I display the contract on his visor and this time highlight the part I decrypted. He takes a moment before saying, “So?”
“A job is a job. Pay is pay. I do not care what cargo you’re hauling.”
“Oh, excellent. I was a bit worried seeing as you are, well, one of them. So the transportation of human technology does not bother you then?”
“No.”
It bothers me. What is this alien doing with human technology? What exactly is it? Whatever it is it would be worth a fortune in the wrong hands.
Shrev looks nervously at his crew. It knows something.
“The cargo is hot?” Thrackham asks as he too notices the nerves.
“Well, yes. Every pirate and worse within a sector will likely be gunning for us. Our benefactor had hoped to keep our little mission a secret but somehow word got out. That’s why I sought out someone like you.”
Thrackham studies the ship.
“Your freighter has shields?” he asks.
“It does. She may not look like much, but this vessel is sturdier than she appears. We also have four fusion cannons and a fully stocked magazine of phasic missiles, all scavenged from Skadar Prime,” the Freen replies, clearly proud of the ugly vessel.
“Good. I will fly cover and keep anything off your tail.”
He turns his attention to Shev’s crew. There are twelve of them altogether: the six who greeted him at the docking bay entrance and six others gathered around the freighter.
Two are Xentari, tall, muscular beings whose broad frames and upright posture make them appear almost human. Little is known about their reclusive species, although they have earned a fearsome reputation on battlefields across the galaxy. The larger of the pair meets Thrackham’s gaze and gives him a slow nod. Thrackham returns it. A warrior recognising another.
Nearby, two Rafo wearing overloaded tool belts and several pairs of goggles squabble as they work, their rapid language sounding like pure gibberish. Short bipeds with rotund bodies, they have a dozen large eyes covering the tops of their dome-shaped heads. Their translucent, jelly-like flesh quivers with every frantic movement. Despite their ridiculous appearance, the Rafo are renowned engineers. Their flexible bodies allow them to compress themselves enough to reach machinery inaccessible to most species.
Rounding out the bizarre collection is a tall, reptilian Alosar. Lean and long-limbed, it stands beside the boarding ramp with its clawed hands folded behind its back. The species’ lightning-fast reflexes and senses far beyond those of most xenos make them exceptional pilots.
Then Thrackham sees the final member of the crew.
No. It cannot be.
They are standing beneath the ship’s cockpit, their attention fixed upon a length of damaged cabling hanging from an open access panel. At first, he assumes the figure is merely another humanoid xeno. Then they straighten, pushing a mane of long red hair away from their face.
A human. A human female, to be exact.
She is only a little shorter than Thrackham, with a lithe build hidden beneath grease-stained coveralls. A heavy tool belt hangs around her waist, while a compact pistol rests in a holster against her thigh.
For the first time in ten years, Thrackham stands in the presence of another human.
For several seconds, Thrackham just stares.
I run the woman through every database available to me. Facial structure, body proportions, skin temperature and respiration all fall within human parameters. There are no visible prosthetics or signs of genetic alteration. Even her scent, detected through the Halcyon suit’s external sensors, contains the correct biological markers.
A Human. Undeniably human.
“At last.”
Thrackham’s gaze remains fixed upon her.
“Do you understand what this means? Another survivor. Another tribe, perhaps. There could be hundreds of them. Thousands.”
He says nothing.
I search the station records, but find no mention of a human among the crew of the Gilded Promise. No name. No identification. Not even a falsified species designation. According to every manifest submitted by Shev Arak, the woman does not exist. Understandable. Humans are hunted by the Druj, keeping a low profile is the only wise course of action. She appears young, perhaps twenty-five standard years, but appearances can be deceptive. Human rejuvenation treatments can remain effective for centuries when properly maintained. She works quickly, stripping away the damaged cable and splicing in a replacement without once glancing at the Rafo arguing nearby.
Thrackham watches her hands, his visor zooming in for a closer look.
There are no tribal markings. No scars of initiation. Nor slave tattoos visible. She carries only the pistol at her thigh, an old human model modified with a xeno power cell.
The woman finishes securing the cable and closes the panel. She wipes her grime covered hands on her overalls and only then does she notice him. Her body goes still.
Recognition flashes across her face, followed by something harder to identify. Surprise, certainly, but not relief. Her hand does not reach for the pistol, though it drifts close enough to draw it quickly.
Thrackham notices.
“She knows what you are,” I say. “She recognises the armour.”
His hand rests near his own weapon.
Shev Arak continues speaking about launch preparations, seemingly oblivious to the significance of the silent exchange. Thrackham hears none of it. His attention remains fixed upon the woman as she studies the Gravene plates, the Phaseglass visor and the tribal markings carved into his breastplate.
Thrackham turns back to the Freen.
“I need to prepare my ship.”
Without waiting for an answer, he walks away. The crew part before him as he crosses the deck, but he can still feel the woman’s eyes following him.
I access the cargo bay’s security feeds before we reach the doors. She remains beneath the cockpit, staring after us.
“She is human,” I insist.
“I don’t care..”
Thrackham leaves the cargo bay.
This seems significant, if not momentous. Looking forward to the next chapter!