Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382
07/23/2183
Ze'ev looked uncomfortable as he and Storen approached a sad looking diner on one of the stations lower levels. It was positioned on the corner of two corridors on the edge of a small plaza between a liquor store and a smoke shop. Dull, flickering neon signage offered coffee, breakfast, hamburgers and pies behind dirty, streaky windows.
A short distance back, Chief Commerce Officer Dasha Zukhova, trailed them in disguise. Secretly an agent for the Union of Progressive Peoples, Dasha was assigned to spy on the old man while she served on his staff. She even played chess with the old fool, letting him win more often than not. Yet even as that was the case, this sort of 'field-work' was not normally required of her.
What she was doing now was foolish. Someone else could do this. Someone else should do this, but Dasha was as stubborn as she was ambitious. Even after years gaining Ze'ev's respect and trust, placing herself at his disposal, using every trick of her training to get into his head; understanding his plans, motives and desires wasn't enough. Word was her superiors were not happy.
Thus more drastic methods had to be adopted. Her handler, Miss Chen, insisted from the beginning that her best option was seduction. Dasha disagreed. He needs someone to look after like a granddaughter, not a whore to help him forget his loss. The old man abruptly banished her from his quarters two days ago when a priority private message came through on his comm terminal. Something about that message put Ze'ev on edge.
Shortly after that, he came personally to Lead Engineer Storen Bulls office in the command level of Ashkelon Stations dry dock. Dasha long suspected some secret agenda at work between those two. Ostensibly there was little reason for the station administrator to be there. Such a visit only reinforced that belief.
However, all her efforts to uncover what that agenda might be had little success. She could never even get recording devices anywhere near the director or the mysterious lead engineer. There was something about Storen that put her guard up. Her gut was rarely wrong about such things. He had the look of a man in control who was always prepared and aware of his surroundings. Most of all he was calm. Dangerously calm.
Yet with all the drama and stress of the recent arrival of the CSCS Kowloon and the subsequent tragedy at Dizzy's club she had a hunch Storen and Ze'ev would meet again soon. Her hunch was correct, and this time she was prepared to go 'old school'. She would eavesdrop on them the old-fashioned way. So far it was paying off. She already heard them comment about meeting men named Reese and Wade?
Russian by birth, tall, beautiful and spirited, Dasha's features were distinctly slavic in appearance with pale skin, soft features, wide rosy cheeks, full, pursed lips and deep blue eyes. Unfortunately such qualities that made her easy on the eyes also made her easy to recognize.
For that reason she took extra care in her disguise dressing in well-used, low-key street clothes that were both trashy and edgy enough to fit right in on these lower levels. Ripped and faded blue jeans, a gray polyester jacket, a beanie and flat Converse sneakers which also helped to minimize attention to her height.
Over her shoulder hung a black leather bag with a chain for a strap that matched the theme of her uncharacteristic black lipstick, nose ring and tacky sunglasses. Beneath a beanie, her long blonde hair was tucked under a black wig. Even her modestly pink nails were covered by press-on versions of a much darker shade. As an extra effort, she applied fake tattoos peeking out from under her sleeves and the cleavage under her blouse.
Even Ze'ev shouldn't recognize me now... so long as he doesn't take a close look, she thought to herself.
Ze'ev flinched as a man in an overcoat loitering nearby coughed loudly, lurching towards them with a limp, “Hey buddy, got any smokes?” he asked in a high, wheezing voice, slurring his words. One of the mans arms was stiff and paralyzed, curled up tightly against his chest.
Storen reached into his jacket and removed a cigar. The stranger reached for it eagerly, hand trembling with rough callouses. “Hey thanks!” he gasped.
Storen didn't hand it over just yet, “I'm headed into that Diner,” he stated with a nod. “Do me a favor and I'll give you another when I come back out.”
“What sort of favor?” the stranger balked suspiciously, coughing again with irritation.
“Keep a lookout for commando's. If you see any, walk past the windows.”
“Why? So you can slip out the back and ditch me for the other cigar?” he scoffed. “Hows that work out for me?”
Storen smirked, “Fair enough, I can't argue with the logic. I suppose I'll have to give you both up front. What's your name friend?”
“Carl.”
At this moment, Dasha used this distraction as an opportunity to walk past them both, unnoticed, heading into the diner first. She had no idea if Reese and Wade were already inside, or what they looked like, so she didn't bother guessing. She went straight for the womens room.
Meanwhile, Storen handed over two cigars as promised, “Nice to meet you Carl. Glad we could come to an arrangement.”
“If you say so,” Carl answered tucking the cigars quickly into his overcoat pocket. “Maybe I can make this a full time gig huh? How'd that be?”
Storen chuckled, “A man's got to live off of more than cigars I would think?”
“Yeah you'd be right,” Carl answered sadly with a bit of drool dribbling from one corner of his mouth. Half of his face was slack, the same side as his paralyzed arm in fact.
Ze'ev frowned, “I can help you get a job Carl, if that's of interest to you?”
Carl turned his eyes down towards Ze'ev. He was tall, as tall as Storen but much leaner. Thin enough to be considered unhealthy and underweight, likely lacking for regular meals.
“What kind of job?” he asked, wiping away the drool from his mouth.
Ze'ev blinked. “Err, that depends on your skills? Do you have a trade?”
“I'm a welder,” Carl answered with as much dignity as he could muster. “I spent a lot of years putting this place together. Before they robbed me of my retirement and my pension,” he muttered.
Ze'ev swallowed, “I'm sorry. Did you suffer a stroke?”
“Fuckin-A,” he grunted. “But I ain't no beggar. Just waiting for the right opportunity. Having a smoke helps me relax. Gotta stay focused,” he smiled, eliciting more drool.
“OK I'll see what I can do,” Ze'ev smiled back.
“Who are you?” Carl asked out of hand.
Ze'ev hesitated, realizing he didn't have an answer ready. At this moment he didn't appear to be anyone important, opting for the plainest casual clothes he owned, plus a cap and glasses because Storen insisted he should dress 'incognito'. It wasn't much in his nature to lie without a good reason so he just responded with the truth, “I'm the station administrator, Ze'ev Darkon.”
Carl laughed, prompting another fit of coughing, “Funny I've never seen you around before. You haven't been down here much have you?” he said shaking his head, turning away, returning to where he was leaning against the wall of the smoke shop. Likely he figured Ze'ev was full of shit.
Storen gave Ze'ev a look as they resumed their approach towards the diner, “A lot of people have it rough down here. There's no point admitting who you are. It isn't going to help.”
“Why not? It is well within my power to get that man a job!” Ze'ev retorted with frustration.
Storen didn't reply, but Ze'ev sensed that was actually a kindness. Everyone blames me for everything. I don't like to be reminded how so many people here are struggling. Is that how I am thought of? As a failed leader?
Entering the diner, Ze'ev was immediately offended by the smell of bacon. Ich-seh! This is certainly not kosher. Inside a few dozen hungry patrons were spread around the booths surrounded by the soft noises of clinking plates and murmuring voices. “Was this place your idea?” he asked Storen.
“Actually no, but it's as good a place as any for a discreet conversation. I come here fairly regularly,” he answered.
Discreet? Ze'ev frowned, doubtful. Behind the counter a man looked up from the grill and Ze'ev couldn't help but stare. Something about his teeth had grown wrong giving his mouth the permanent expression of a fish.
“Hey Fred-O”, Storen stated with a raise of his hand.
“Hey Bull!” Fred-O answered with a wave of his spatula. “Your usual booth is open!”
Storen nodded and led Ze'ev back to a booth in the back corner. Beneath Ze'ev's feet the floor was worn linoleum, cracked, stained and squeaky under his loafers. They sat beside each other with Ze'ev taking the inside seat against the window.
Meanwhile, Carl watched them through the windows as he removed one of Storen's cigars from his pocket, raising it to his nose. Genuine tobacco! Not bad, he thought before he spoke into his sleeve in a whisper. “Comrade, they moved to a booth by the fifth window on the left. They are alone, no one else is seated there. Over.”
Dasha immediately exited the womens room, glancing up to confirm what she just heard. Luckily for her the adjoining booth was empty. Casually she walked over to claim it for herself just as a tired woman in her fifties approached the pair carrying a tray with mugs and a pot of coffee. Her hair was cropped short, makeup minimal. Above her chin, a pale scar curled up to her lower lip.
“Coffee?” she asked as a rhetorica question setting the tray down on the edge of the table.
“Please,” Storen answered. Ze'ev noted her name tag read 'Lucy'. After the cups were poured Lucy pulled out a pair of menu's from her apron and left them on the table. “I'll be back in a minute,” she promised. Several ceiling fans hummed loudly overhead recirculating stale, recycled air in a blustery fashion.
“Are we on time?” Ze'ev asked, taking a sip of the harsh and bitter brew, flinching. He added more cream and sugar than he normally would.
“Yeah...” Storen said taking a glance at his wristwatch. “A bit early actually, but that's ok. There's something I want to show you.”
“Oh?” Ze'ev asked, puzzled, stirring his coffee with a spoon.
Meanwhile, against the backrest in the booth beside them, Dasha discretely reached up beneath her beanie, adjusting the earpiece she used to communicate with Carl and the rest of her team. This device could also function as a general hearing aid, canceling the ambient noise and amplifying nearby voices. Kakaya udacha! She thought to herself in her native tongue, quite pleased with her position.
Next she reached inside her handbag to turn on the tape recorder stashed inside. Though she should have no trouble remembering what she heard, the old hag always insisted on a recording whenever possible.
Storen handed Ze'ev the Polaroid he'd examined earlier. “I found this photo tucked in the pages of a book I borrowed from your library.”
Ze'ev picked it up with a bewildered expression on his face, shocked by the sight of the huge horseshoe-shaped alien craft and the craggy ice-encrusted moon. Several moments passed until he finally muttered, “How strange!”
“Do you recognize the name of the ship on the back?” Storen asked, prompting Ze'ev to flip it over and peer at the faded watermark he saw there.
Магнитогорск Юнайтед
巨头联合收割机
CSCCS Ivan Petlin
02/21/2098
“The Ivan Petlin? Of course! It was launched about five years after the Prometheus. An exploration/colonization ship; the first of its kind.”
Dasha couldn't believe what she was hearing. All this time there were hidden clues in his fucking books?! Cyka blyat!
“Who built it?” Storen asked.
“It was a joint project between Magnitogorsk United and the Jotou Combine,” Ze'ev stated pointing at the respective names of the Russian and Chinese characters on the watermark. “These were the largest industrial/aerospace manufacturers in east Asia at the time. Would-be competitors to Weyland Corp.”
“Were they members of the Central Space Consortium?”
Ze'ev rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “Yes and no. The CSC as we know it wasn't fully developed yet. The conglomerate that built the Ivan Petlin would have originally been members, yes. Yet once the Union of Progressive Peoples formed, those corporations ceased to function as independent business enterprises. The largest, wealthiest and most powerful of them were absorbed into the broadly-authoritarian communist government. The rest dissolved, or were stripped of their assets.
Imagine thousands of private factories, workshops, office buildings and labs seized and repurposed by the state while millions of men and women were suddenly laid-off without income. Most had no recourse apart from an evaluation/training facility setup to assess their health, fitness, skills and education. A few weeks later they would leave with an assignment in 'whatever role best served the people', ...if they were lucky enough to get one at all,” he added darkly.
“Fuck that!” Storen grunted.
As if you know shit about it! Dasha cursed to herself. The Union had to make sacrifices to survive and maintain sovereign independence. The United Americas and the Three World Empire were too far ahead economically. The Ivan Petlin was the best hope for the CSC to leap-ahead and catch up as an interstellar power. It was three times larger than the Prometheus and at least twice as costly to construct. Hard choices had to be made when it vanished. She, for one, was proud of her people. They made the right choice to break away from the CSC before it was too late. As a result the Union was strong!
Ze'ev nodded to Storen in agreement, “Those were hard times! My father lived through it before he found his way into the ICSC and settled on GL-382.”
Storen sipped his coffee in reflection on what he would say next to Ze'ev as Lucy came back to take their menu's. “What can I getcha?” she asked.
“Sausage, eggs and grits with a side of biscuits-and-gravy,” Storen answered first.
Ze'ev didn't feel very hungry, but he didn't want to be rude either, “I'll have oatmeal with a bowl of fresh fruit and Jewish-Rye toast. Also fresh butter, if you have it.”
Lucy gave him a despairing look and repeated, “...oatmeal, a side of canned-fruit, white toast-with-margarine... coming right up!”
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Lucy took notice of Dasha before she walked away and stepped over to her booth, “Do you need a Menu darling?”
“Sure,” she said softly taking one from her hand.
“Want some coffee?” Lucy asked next. Dasha shook her head no. Go away damn it!
“I looked into what I could find about the Ivan Petlin in the official records of the CSC,” Storen stated. “There's not much there. The whole mission remains classified, except to say that it was presumed lost with all hands.”
“Yes,” Ze'ev nodded, “it was a big mystery and a huge scandal. All their talk of settling a prosperous new frontier for the CSC, 'succeeding where the great Peter Weyland failed', ultimately came to nothing.
Not so long after that the newly-merged Weyland Yutani Corp. began construction of the Covenant, which was twice the size of the Ivan Petlin. Rumor was Jotou attempted to sabotage that mission on multiple occasions. Though little of that was ever proven.”
Ze'ev flipped over the Polaroid again. There was something malevolent about that alien craft. He could feel it in his bones. “I presume there's no mention of this discovery in the official records of the Ivan Petlin?”
“No, but the date on that photo is sometime after last known contact with the Ivan Petlin.”
“Really?!” Ze'ev gasped, “How fascinating!” For a moment he gave Storen a side-long look. “How could this end up in my library? Is this some sort of prank?”
Storen shook his head, “It's no prank of my making. You know me better than that. Besides, that photo was not all there was tucked into the book,” he added, removing the folded paper note from his pocket.
Ze'ev took it and Storen watched his face go pale as he read it.
Ze'ev, I have never had the courage to tell you everything. Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil. Evil being the root of mystery, pain is the root of knowledge.
Take care not to follow my footsteps too closely.
Your loving father, Aleksandr Nikolayevich Chilingarov
Carl's voice broke into Dasha's concentration through her earpiece, “Comrade, be advised, two men approaching the diner. Really big guy, black, and a skinny guy, white. These two might be coming to meet with your target. Over.” Dasha felt her heartbeat beating faster, At last I will get to the bottom of this!
At that moment Storen felt a vibration under his sleeve. The sensation came from his sophisticated bug-detector, strapped to his forearm, warning him that a radio frequency burst transmission was in progress. The device was of his own making, and its value could not be understated. It allowed him to walk into any room and feel secure that it was not being monitored.
Of course right now it was telling him the opposite. Casually, Storen reached up to yawn and took a look around as he did so. Nobody appeared to be watching them or aiming a microphone in their general direction, but then again, nobody halfway skilled at surveillance would be.
Storen reached over to put his hand on Ze'ev's arm, warning him something was up. He was annoyed that they needed to leave and also worried the administrator could be in danger.
“What's wrong?” Ze'ev asked, startled. His mind was distracted. The words of his father reaching out from the past disturbed him.
“We've gotta go,” Storen stated in a flat-whisper.
“What? Why? What about the meeting?”
Given the circumstances, Storen would have preferred not to answer that question at all, but he had no choice, “I'll explain later,” Storen replied, frustrated. He started to rise from his seat.
Cyka blyat! They got tipped off! Dasha realized. Immediately she was moving, grabbing her bag and sliding across the cushion to leave the booth. Her heart was racing now and that surprised her. It also frightened her. Suddenly she wasn't so confident anymore.
Storen's instincts told him she looked wrong. He didn't see her face or hear her say more than a single word, but he could sense something wasn't right. His intuition was screaming at him that she had something to hide.
Suddenly he was reaching for her, grabbing her shoulder, “Hey!” he said.
Dasha panicked, snatching a taser from her bag and pressing it against his hand. A powerful current of electricity jolted through it just as Storen recoiled attempting to yank his hand back. He didn't move quite fast enough. The shock hit him hard, yet it might have been worse. The device was calibrated to be lethal. Adrenaline surged through him.
Storen still had enough control over his muscles to reach for her again. His fingers grabbed for her collar but only managed to snatch her beanie. As she ducked and bolted he pulled it free, taking her wig off with it. Then Storen toppled over, groaning.
Ze'ev stared open-mouthed as his assailant dashed through the diner, glancing back towards them once to be certain they weren't in pursuit. Dasha?! It made no sense!
_ _ _
- BOOM - BOOM - BOOM
BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM
The echo of John's .357 revolver overwhelmed the lighter caliber 9mm automatic Max Shmith was firing. Still it was undeniable Max was putting more lead down range.
Emptied, John flicked open the cylinder of his weapon and dumped the spent shells into a pouch he brought to collect his brass. Later he would reuse them. Ashkelon Stations private firing range left much to be desired. It was cramped, hot, and generally unkempt. Above his head harsh fluorescent lighting glared trough a protective metal grate making his eyes squint more than usual. He was tired and it was affecting his aim a little.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet me here,” Max said, taking advantage of the silence as they both reloaded. Their protective ear muffs had cables connected to an intercom system so shooters could talk to each other between firing lines.
“Not a problem,” John answered, taking note of the stress under Max's words. He was different now. Not quite the same cocky, self-assured and confident Chief of Station Security that met with him yesterday. “I see your not using that 7mm case-less pistol anymore? Having second thoughts about it?”
“I'm having second thoughts about a lot of things,” Max answered bluntly, “We need to talk about Victor Li Shing.”
John wasn't surprised. Rumors about the stand-off between the Chief of Ashkelon Station Security and the Special Executive spread fast. Whats worse, from the sound of it Max was loosing control of his people. Or perhaps worse still, he never really had control to begin with?
“I'm not sure what sort of help I can offer?” John stated frankly, “It should go without saying that Colonial Marshals don't have jurisdiction over naval commandos or CSC Special Executives. I can't arrest him without a special warrant from my superiors, signed by the Attorney General of the United Americas under mandate from the Colonial Administration. Besides, from what I heard, you already tried to arrest him yourself?”
Max grimaced at the memory, “That's correct, and with just cause! The man is a murderer and likely a sociopath!”
John didn't like the sound of that, yet everything he heard so far about Victor Li Shing wasn't good, “Have you met with the station administrator about this?” he asked.
“Of course!” Max responded with frustration, “His hands are tied same as yours. Ashkelon Station and Temple Colony on GL-382 below are just one outpost and one world among many in the ICSC. Special Executives represent the much larger interests of the CSC in the Core Systems. We can't interfere with his business unless our representative within the government, Director Candlish, (who represents all member colonies of the ICSC) sanctions it.”
John frowned, Which is probably exactly what I can expect to hear from the administrator in our scheduled meeting. Thanks for the heads up Max, “Look I appreciate you coming to me for help, but what exactly do you expect me to do? I asked the administrator for an emergency meeting with you so we can work out these issues together...”
“We don't have time for that!” Max broke in, “I'm telling you its gonna get bad, real bad, well before you get some kind of special warrant or we hear back from our director.”
John furrowed his brow, Fuck, “What aren't you telling me Max?”
“You know what went down in Dizzy's Club. You know these commandos are searching for 'persons of interest'. That's what set this whole thing off!”
“Yes I am well aware of what happened at the club. One of our ICC supervisors was among the casualties. I will be leading an investigation into his death. ICC agent Shella Roodt will no doubt also be involved in this.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Max put in hastily, “Have you looked into the files of those girls the commandos are searching for?”
“Keren's, at least, I have yes. Her records have to be available to the ICC as a spacecraft repair technician. Of course I cannot speak to the accuracy of her file since ICC regs have not been in place here before we arrived. I imagine what you're getting at is whatever reason there is for a Special Executive to send armed commandos after her isn't in that file?”
“Yes exactly,” Max confirmed, “I can tell you with reasonable certainty that Keren and Sheren Ho-Stern are not criminals and do not pose any sort of threat. I had to do a lot of digging on this, but best I can figure is Victor is looking for their father,” Max removed a file from his jacket and handed it over to John discreetly in the adjoining firing lane.
“His name is Guo Ho. He came to Temple first as a refugee from the UPP. Then he married into the Stern family and eventually started working private security here on Ashkelon Station. Before that he was something of a mercenary. There are accounts he was involved in some shady business down on Temple in years past. It's all in the file,” Max said.
John flipped through it, pleased to see nothing was redacted or omitted. Looks like he's serious about collaborating this time, “Where is this guy?” John asked.
“No one knows. He disappeared about four years ago, which as it happens, was also right before I took over as Chief. From what I've managed to piece together though it's likely he left the station aboard a smuggler's ship. Destination and whereabouts unknown.”
“That doesn't explain why Victor is looking for him?”
“I have a theory, but it's not in the file. Off-the-record, if you catch my drift,” he added hastily.
“Ok,” John stated.
“I think Guo was working for Ze'ev.”
Suddenly they both heard footsteps behind them as men finished loading their pistols, unleashing another volley. Bullets plinked and thudded against the soft metal backstop behind the targets followed by another pause.
“Doing what?” John asked when the coast was clear again.
“Investigative work most likely. Off the books. The kind of thing you hire an ex-mercenary for if you know what I mean.”
John frowned, skeptical. “How do you know this?”
“When I was promoted as Chief I replaced a much more experienced man named Ernest Hart. Old-school like you. Tough-as-nails and a shrewd investigator. You'd like him.”
John kept listening as he dropped more expended shells into his pouch.
Max continued, “Guo Ho on the other hand wasn't someone I knew personally but in certain circles he was well respected for his street-cred. Ernest had his eye on him for years, and yet, I remember seeing them sharing drinks at Dizzy's Club on a few occasions. At the time I didn't find that odd because Ernest had a soft-handed approach to law enforcement. He was personable and good-natured. He tried to talk to people before he ever put cuffs on them.
People said Guo walked the line between what was legal and what wasn't. That is also likely what made him so successful as a private security consultant. He knew what the real threats were when his clients had no idea. Rumor was he might have been doing more for his clients than just security though.”
“And you think the administrator was one of his clients?”
“I am fairly positive he was. I think Ze'ev used Ernest as a go-between and I think that's why they were sharing drinks. Talking business.”
“That's circumstantial evidence at best. What do you know the administrator needed him for?”
“I'm getting to that,” Max promised, “The important thing to mention here is how Guo went missing not long after Ze'ev's granddaughter, Eva, and his son-and-law vanished. As if by coincidence, Ernest decides to retire not long after Guo left, but his stuff is still there in his quarters collecting dust. Who retires and leaves everything behind?
I've asked Ze'ev about Ernest now and then. They were very close so it makes sense they would keep in touch, and yet, Ze'ev won't admit to me where Ernest is or what he's been doing? In fact he seems to go out of his way to avoid talking about him.”
John scratched his brow, pondering, “So you think Ze'ev sent them both off to go find his missing granddaughter? Seems kinda thin.”
“Except that Eva's best friend was Keren Ho-Stern, Guo's daughter.”
Huh? John was starting to sense something here. Max had good instincts, “OK Max I'm following. But why does all this mean things are going to get 'real bad real soon?'”
“Think about it John. You've seen the images from the club. It was a massacre. Those girls had no chance to get away from those commandos without help.”
“Some of the witnesses say it might have been Dizzy who helped them get out? He refused to cooperate with the commandos, and he was Sheren's employer,” John argued.
“He was more than that actually, he was an old friend of their dad. And yes, it looks to me like Dizzy must have tried his best to give them a chance to get out. But it wasn't him who gunned down so many commandos was it?”
“No it was the goddamned Triad...” John hesitated, mid-sentence, “Are you suggesting the Triad enforcers were protecting them?!”
“It makes sense doesn't it? Guo must have been doing business with the Triad. Somehow. Someway. No one in his position on this station could avoid it. There were strong rumors he and Dizzy were smuggling things through Triad connections. Back in the day they might have been working for them directly? Hard to say. All I could find out about that is in the file.” Max explained.
“Even if that's true, that's an awful big favor for two Triad enforcers to go down that way. Why do they owe him that much? According to what you've said, nobody's heard from Guo for years. His own daughter's presume he's dead don't they?”
“Yeah, but I'd bet that he's not dead,” Max stated confidently.
“Why not?” John asked.
“Victor wouldn't be here looking for him if he didn't know something we don't right? Ostensibly he arrived with this new destroyer on Jĭngtì Lóng business, whatever the fuck that's about, but he's also here looking for Guo. That much is clear. He didn't give Ze'ev a heads up because he might already suspect Guo was working for him. It's also likely he didn't want Ze'ev to warn Guo's daughters.”
“You think Guo is alive and holed up somewhere here on the station?” John asked.
“It's possible isn't it? However unlikely. Maybe the Triad are protecting him, same as his daughters? Either way, Victor isn't taking any more chances. He's shut down all outgoing ship traffic and he's forcing me to organize a station-wide manhunt; backed up by his commandos. In fact if we don't find them in less than forty eight hours, he's going to assume command of the station under military control!”
Fuck, “Ok Max, I appreciate the heads up. But I still don't know what you think I can do to help?” John stated.
Max sighed. He was strung out even worse than John. Fatigue added a desperate timbre to his voice, “Don't you get it John?! The Triad don't take kindly to the likes of us kicking down doors on their turf. My gut tells me we're gonna have a real fucking shit show on our hands! People are going to get killed. Potentially lots of people! I won't be able to guarantee anyone's safety.
I'm asking you to do something, anything, to avert this disaster. Reach out to your superiors in the Colonial Marshal's Office, the ICC, the Colonial Administration, the fucking Colonial Marines, I don't care. Warn them about Victor before its too late!”
“How much time do I have?” John Asked.
“I'm organizing the men to move out in a couple hours. Victor has already put me on notice, if not exactly in so many words. If I delay the search any longer I will be relieved of my rank. Of course, part of me wants to quit already. I can hardly stomach the thought of doing his dirty work. Unfortunately I would never forgive myself if I didn't try to minimize the damage he'd do with one of his boot-licker's in my place.”
John sighed. He didn't envy Max to be in such an uncomfortable position. It was obviously a hard fact to swallow that he and the station administrator were beholden to a corporatocracy worse than anything in the UA or the 3WE. The ICSC had no equivalent to a Colonial Marshal's Office or a Colonial Administration. Men like Victor Li Shing weren't autonomous in the literal sense. They only appeared to be. In truth they were merely a specter born from the shadow of their corporate overlords.
Max saw him as a man, a villain; discernible with a face, a body and a name. John recognized him for what he truly was; agenda given form.
The coming of the lawless one is by the activity of Satan with all power and false signs and wonders. - For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places.
John recalled that verse as he said, “Max I have very limited jurisdiction here. I can't justify an arrest based on this file and a half-crazy theory...”
“You've got to try! Else wise, the only sure-fire way to stop Victor is to step up and put a bullet in his head!” Max exclaimed.
John swallowed. He didn't like that tone of voice, “Max you've got to stay calm.”
“I'm not the only one who feels this way John! People are furious. Residents of this station aren't a bunch of pushovers. Blood has been spilled! People are going to get justice for that, one way or another!”
John took in a deep breath. Blessed are the peacekeepers, for they shall be called the children of God, “I'll do my best Max. You have my word. But I have a request to ask in return.”
“What's that?”
“Get more evidence while your still in a position to do so. As you say it's not just your career on the line. If Victor gets away with this it sets a precedent for worse to follow. Others like him will come, which may or may not be long after we're gone. Each of us swore an oath to uphold the law and to serve and protect the people! Regrettably what's legal isn't always right.
In times like these, extraordinary circumstances require extraordinary sacrifice. Going after Victor is the same as going after the very institutions that funded this station; perhaps even those who pay your salary? In fact, regardless of the outcome, neither or us may be able to keep our badges after this. That's an unfortunate fact of the law, politics being what they are.”
“Maybe not,” Max agreed, “But that's a price I'm willing to pay. I would give anything to put cuffs on that asshole!”