A Life Once Lived Pt.3: Maxamed Daahir & Hadassah van Leeuwenhoek
29 May 2018Gmanharmon
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03 Sep 3303
O’Donnell Ring
Chujohimba System
20:43
The landing skids of my Lakon Type-7 gave a metallic bang as they mated with the magnetic clamps of Pad 39 in O’Donnell Ring. Her name, Exxon Valdez II, was a leftover from her previous owner, and it was bad luck to rename a ship, even if it was an iteration of an ancient environmental disaster.
I clicked over to the station services menu and ordered a refuel & repair suite, negotiated the transfer of cargo, then clambered out of the cavernous Lakon cockpit to stretch my legs. The cargo ramp lowered to the deck and the canisters of consumer technology were illuminated by the artificial deck lighting, soon displaced by magnetic pallet jacks and cargo turtles, humping out 6 tons at a time. One of the deckhands uncoiled a massive H2 delivery hose and clamped it to the outboard fuel cell intake port, then locked it in place. He locked eyes with me for a split-second, then touched the brim of his slouch hat in a salute before returning to the fuel delivery. As I strode past, there was a discernible clank on the side of my mag-boot, but I paid it no mind until I reached the traders’ lounge and inspected the boot, finding a strange oblong metal container that looked like a teardrop. It didn’t take much force to pull it from the boot, but in the process it disintegrated and revealed a tiny piece of transparent cellophane with several dark smudges on it. While I looked over the cellophane, turning it around in my palm, the fuel jockey reappeared at my side, hat in hand. To my surprise, he turned out to be a she—the short-cropped hair was hidden underneath the hat and a gray compression top was visible underneath the partially-opened jumpsuit. Her blue eyes glowed with a brilliance that couldn’t possibly be human, and while I was mesmerized by her rugged beauty, I felt another presence to my right, and the telltale press of a weapon to my back. It was the square barrel of a Federal-issue sidearm, of that I had no doubt.
“On your feet, spacer,” the unseen gunman said, a thick Nubian basso spoken softly in the stale, recirculated air of the station. “Nice and slow.” I slid off my stool and gently extended my frame. I turned my head to take a good look at the meathead with the pistol; he was a lot slimmer than I was expecting, tightly wrapped Jheri curls adorning his scalp. He held the pistol close across his chest, keeping it out of view of the other spacers, and a gesture from the corner of my eye revealed the fuel jockey similarly strapped, her pistol concealed under her cap. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Aye-aye, Cap,” I replied. We stepped through the lounge, down several service corridors, through a patchwork of conduit and heating pipes, then down another corridor, until we arrived at a sweltering server room with a bird’s-eye view of Pad 39, and the Exxon Valdez, through a one-way plasteel viewing port.
“Had a good trip, Grayson?” Ashitaka Kenji revealed himself, turning from the viewport and grinning, revealing a shiny new set of palladium teeth. “Didn’t think we’d be back together so soon, now, did you?”
“Kenji,” I replied. “Nice set of choppers ya got there. Didja switch yer diet from Witchhaul beef to shieldless ‘vettes?” The muscle relaxed and holstered their sidearms, and Kenji and I embraced.
“Not quite, haven’t settled my stomach for Fed meat yet. You just met two of my associates, Hadassah and Maxamed.” I turned to the heavies and they both nodded. Hadassah’s eyes glowed brightly because, indeed, they were not her own. I could see her irises zooming in and out constantly, the glow fading and reappearing with different intensities. “She’s the best sniper with those eagle eyes of hers. Max is a veteran of the Third Congolese Regiment and has put down more bounty hunters than I have. Plus, he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
He stepped forward and opened his blazer, revealing a kinetic PDW painted in green and yellow stripes. “My heart yearns for the day when New Rhodesia will be made whole again. I believe your father once shared this sentiment.”
“Indeed he did, Max,” I replied, nodding. “He sure did.”
“Then let’s bust Sarah out of prison,” Kenji said with authority. On the table in front of us was a holographic schematic of the Warren Prison complex in Ross 128, hovering above physical blueprints and schematics obtained from public sources. “Gotta love transparency and open government. So, here’s what’s gonna go down...”
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“1950? You’re sure the transfer’s gonna happen then?” I said to Kenji, my finger tapping the closest blueprint of Warren Prison, a landing platform circled in red grease pencil. The cellophane fragment hidden away in the metal sinker from my mag-boot turned out to be a microfiche copy of next week's inmate transfer schedules.
“Give or take five minutes,” Kenji replied. “You know how the Feds are with their scheduling. No damn way they’re gonna pass up a chance at Ten Bears here.” He hooks his thumb over to the side, and I notice a cryopod holding a man within. The tag on the front under the viewport displayed SULLIVAN, D.
“You and Hadassah will be posted up here, on this ridge nearby,” he continued, drawing a line from the platform over to a distant mesa, approximately a kilometer away. “Once we trade inmates, you take out the head man, they’ll scatter like roaches. After that, knock out their Type-7 and whatever air support they can muster, most likely a couple of rickety old Eagles, to give the three of us a clear getaway. We’ll climb back in the Valdez with Sarah, you two will take the Stroopwafel up, and we’ll meet at the rally point just in time for tea.”
“The what now?” I said, hearing such an odd name for a vessel.
“Don’t worry about the ship, sir,” Hadassah said, with a strange timbre to her voice that sounded artificial. Her outstretched arm pointed beyond the Valdez, to a rich umber Asp Explorer crisscrossed with a dark brown checkerboard pattern. “I can fly just as well as anybody. All I care about is how well you can put rounds downrange.” She grabbed two tall and wide canvas backpacks, each weighing over a dozen kilograms, that clanked with unknown metal objects. I opened the flap and reached an arm inside, retrieving a giant stamped steel box filled with equally giant projectiles.
“Reckon we got enough firepower to punch down a Type-7 in here?” I said, looking Hadassah in the eyes. She smirked, taking the magazine.
“Plenty.”
“Time’s almost here, folks,” Kenji said, clapping his hands. Several more pirates clad in Imperial garb came from the shadows and scooped up all the documentation, tearing up the paper and either ingesting it or setting it alight in small metal rubbish bins. “I suggest we get out of here as soon as the Valdez is finished getting touched up.”
“Wait a minute,” I started. “What did y’all do to my ship?”
“Made it special, just for this op.” The pad opened up, and the Exxon Valdez trundled up to the surface of the docking bay, done up in Federal Corrections livery and bearing new tail numbers. “A few extra hull reinforcements, a special set of dirty thrusters, and a cell bank or two. Those CO’s will never know what hit ‘em.
“Alright, troops,” Kenji announced in a commanding voice, twirling two outstretched fingers above his head. “Skids up! Let’s get our friend back!” Hadassah, Maxamed, and I hollered and fell in behind Ashitaka, checking our flight suits and double-checking our equipment. I climbed aboard the oddly-colored Stroopwafel behind Hadassah, while Max and Kenji commandeered the Valdez.
“So, what is a stroop-waffle, anyway?” I said, calling up to Hadassah in her pilot’s seat perched above mine, in standard Lakon configuration.
“It’s a syrup biscuit,” she replied matter-of-factly. “A childhood treat.” She had tied an orange bandana to her left bicep before starting her preflight. It was a weird feeling, not being in the pilot’s seat for once, as I felt the Asp Explorer lift off the deck, following the Valdez out of the station. A flight of GU-97 fighters and an Imperial Eagle took special note of the Federal livery adorning the Valdez, flying circles around it and making sure we were well clear of the station’s exclusion zone before breaking off and resuming their patrol.
“I bet they never expected a Federally-marked ship to ever return to Chujohimba, much less fly out of their main starport,” Maxamed said through the comms, a hint of humor on his voice.
“Los Fenicios aren’t exactly the most attentive bunch,” Kenji replied, scoffing at the system’s major players, living under the thumb of Zemina Torval. “But they’re not our concern.”
Hadassah glided the Asp ahead of the Type-7, slaved our frame-shift drives up, and began the hyperspace jump. “Yet,” she muttered under her breath.