Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382

07/22/2183

Shella Roodt woke with a start as the voice of Executor boomed over the station intercom in her quarters.

…Attention, unclassified vessel approaching Ashkelon Station. Priority-Alpha docking status. Access to all decks. ...and then the message repeated.

Shella groaned inwardly, willing her eyes to stay open, blinking slowly with some difficulty. Sylvester, the cat, meowed with anxiety as she pulled away the sheets. As she reached to offer a reassuring pet the feline sprang away with irritation. Yeah no shit, I'm not happy about getting up either, she thought. A glance at the digital clock prompted a bitter sigh. She had been asleep for barely over an hour. Fuck!... she swore under her breath, and not for the first time.

Powerful, muscular legs stretched as she stepped out of bed. Shella had a gymnasts physique, standing five foot three with a petite, lean muscled frame. Though she was much stronger than she looked, she never looked very strong to begin with. Many presumed a woman in her position could not afford to appear weak or spineless. The reality was it made little difference. Few were fool enough not to take her seriously once she pulled out her badge. Even out here on the fringes of the Outer Rim the reach and authority of the Interstellar Commerce Commission was appreciable. ICC agents were often thought of as the eyes and ears of The Company, and worse.

Shella was in her late thirties, sometimes passing for late twenties depending on how she dressed, but not lately. In recent days, bags beneath her eyes and a tight scowl dispossessed that notion. She was warned that Ashkelon station had a way of wearing down outsiders but as far as she was concerned that was only half of it.

Standing before her mirror, Shella looked every bit as exhausted as she felt. Her eyes squinted a bright golden-copper amber hue. Born on Earth, of white south-African descent, her features were squarish and sharp with defined cheekbones. Undertones of ivory and cinnamon added depth to her flushed rosy skin. Ginger brown hair, straight and glossy, was trimmed close around her ears and halfway up her scalp.

Leaning over her bathroom sink, cupping cold water in her hands, she splashed her face combing her hair back with her fingers. It draped behind her ears in layers, hanging at the level of her jawline revealing a long shapely neck marred with old scars across the nape. Shella felt the smooth patches tingle beneath her fingertips as she rubbed at stiff, tired muscles. Familiar though they were, after all this time the scars still felt uncomfortable to the touch.

Another voice cut into the silence, this one more familiar to her, yet still a machine speaking through a speaker, “I see your awake, I was trying to let you sleep.”

Shella let out a frustrated breath. She didn't have to ask how he knew she was awake. Being watched wasn't an especially comforting feeling, It always reminded her of her childhood, and the predators of the African savanna.

“A bit late for that Oliver. Tell me what you got.”

“It's impressive,” Oliver said first and foremost in a tone of plain admiration with a hint of an English accent. “Looks like a warship, some type of modified destroyer. Curious configuration. It bears the logo of the Jĭngtì Lóng Corporation, designated as the CSCS Kowloon. We haven't seen anything like this from them before.”

By 'we' she knew he meant Weyland Yutani. Personally she could care less about whatever special new ship Jingti Long built. That's why the android, Oliver, was out there on the shuttle keeping tabs on space traffic and communications while she was on the station.

“That's why it's listed as unclassified,” she stated, talking to herself out loud, still groggy.

“Correct. Military craft don't log flight plans, even when they visit civilian ports.”

“I know that!” she muttered. Nuances of speech were sometimes wasted on synthetics, especially this one. Oliver unnerved her.

“Sorry I didn't catch that?” Oliver asked, not hearing her properly.

“Nevermind. What else can you tell me? Any escorts?”

“Yes there are two other destroyers, likely Renhai class. They broke formation as soon as the group dropped out of FTL. They appear to be taking up a perimeter patrol pattern on the far side of Temple.”

“What is the protocol for this?” She queried, attempting to recall any stipulations or regulations regarding visits from CSC military vessels while the ICC was operating on Ashkelon Station.

“Good question. The concord agreement stipulates that no outside military vessels or personnel are allowed to come near the station without express permission from the CSC. It does not stipulate the reverse is also true. I expect they feel entitled to dock military craft here without prior notice. It is still their station after all.”

Shella frowned. This whole experiment attempting to integrate ICC oversight into the operations of Ashkelon Station was a messy business. Herself and the other officers were on dangerous, unfamiliar ground with little protection other than a small cadre of Colonial Marshals. “Well that's not very reassuring Oliver,” she complained. “What happens if they start marching troops in pointing rifles at us?”

She could sense the pause of uncertainty as the synthetic parsed his reply.

“I'm disappointed Oliver,” Shella added. “I should have been woken at the first sight of those warships.”

“Apologies if I misinterpreted your instructions. Earlier you indicated you needed to sleep, and I quote, 'as much as if my life depended on it'.”

“Don't get smart! You're supposed to be watching my back.”

Again there was a pause. Shella was in no mood to deal with this. “I require an answer,” She spat irritably.

“As you know I do not speak for our superiors. I am only an analyst, here to provide support and maintain channels of communication. I can only advise you to use your best judgment.”

Shella scoffed, moving over to her closet. There was no specific attire for an ICC agent. Much of the time they wore plain clothes, the better to blend in with the locals to ease their investigations. However, wearing a uniform sometimes had its own advantages. People usually thought twice about harming someone in uniform. Unless they were targeting ICC personnel to begin with, she reminded herself, recalling the recent attacks against her colleagues. Still she did not scare easy. She saw this ships arrival as an opportunity as much as it was a surprise.

“You know the chief is going to freak out about this. Suppose he decides to call for an emergency evacuation? The Colonial Marshals have a frigate on alert status somewhere nearby isn't that right?”

“That is correct, the USCM Tremolino. Conestoga class.”

“How soon will they arrive once that signal is given?” Shella asked, opting for low key plain clothes with an undercover ICC jacket. She wanted to keep her options open if she had to blend in.

“I do not have an exact estimate. Likely within a few hours.”

“Would that single frigate even be a match against three CSC destroyers?”

“Difficult to say,” Oliver began with a cautious undertone. It was clear to Shella that the android was uncomfortable with the question, despite the obvious fact he had no real emotions. “...there are many factors to consider, not the least of which are the orders and attitudes of the captains involved,” he finished.

“Are you saying its not even a certainty that the Tremolino would engage?”

“I am sure they would do their duty if it came to a fight. Yet whatever the outcome, such an encounter would have dire consequences for the concord agreement. Though we all know the ICSC would loose an outright war against the UA or the Three World Empire, how can we be sure the captains of these destroyers have the good sense not to start one?”

“I am aware of that. Just because they should know better doesn't mean they won't act against their better judgment. That's human nature, not that you would know anything about that...” she quipped. “...However, I take your point, the arrival of the Tremolino is no guarantee of anything except an escalation of tensions.”

“Exactly. I wouldn't advise it. Use of that emergency signal is only as a last resort. Perhaps you should remind the chief that you must both concur that it must be done.”

“As if he ever listens to me!” Shella mumbled under her breath.

“Sorry?”

“Forget about it. Patch yourself into my datapad. I am heading into the station.”

“Understood,” Oliver stated, watching Shella buckle on her shoulder holster from his bank of monitors aboard the Tekla with wolfish brown eyes. Thin lipped and bald, the android had a severe, predatory look to his features emphasized by low brows and a hawkish nose. Slight of build Oliver looked especially thin in a baggy gray flight suite.

Oliver had failed to mention how deep space listening posts along the borders of the ICSC informed him of the unknown ships predicted arrival some time ago. Any request for evacuation at this point would not mean much because their superiors already decided to wait and see what happened first. They wanted analysis on the ship and information on its crew. This suited Oliver just fine. After all, he was impervious to panic, or fear the way humans were. He would perform his duty as best as he could, regardless of personal risk.

Besides if an evacuation indeed proved necessary, Shella was fortunate to have a shuttle parked on a mooring buoy within sight of the station. Forty meters long, the Tekla resembled a small private yacht designed with emphasis on stealth, speed and luxury, It had been unofficially registered with the ICC for the last ten years, utilized by administrators and agents whenever urgent matters required both a swift response and high discretion.

By the standards of the core systems the Tekla was no longer top of the line, but out here in the Outer Rim it was one of the newer ships around. On board were generous accommodations for two crew members and two passengers, with the added safety of a Class B emergency escape pod.

The concord agreement did not permit the ICC or the Marshal's Bureau to keep any vessels docked with the station on a permanent basis. As large as Ashkelon Station was, berths and hanger space were always in demand. Cargo haulers and passenger vessels claimed priority to keep up with the flow of commerce. Vessels in need of refueling, maintenance or repairs had to schedule services with space dock. For the sake of efficiency and the necessity of maintaining that schedule, ships requiring major repairs awaiting parts were fixed to a mooring buoy.

These buoys trailed away from the station on the same orbital arc like a long string of beads. Several different types were available, depending on the size and class of ships they were suited for. Ships and crews requiring a prolonged stay at the station were welcome to use the buoys for a fee. Those buoys that berthed the largest and most valuable ships were manned with a small crew trained and ready to make emergency maneuvers or orbital corrections.

Behind the transparent diamonite view ports of the Tekla's cockpit Oliver spent much of his time watching ship traffic. logging arrivals, departures and transponder data. The ICC was privileged to access all this information via the stations systems, as per the concord agreement, but now that everyone knew the ICC were operating aboard the station it reasoned there would be workarounds to bypass their inspections. This came as no surprise. Indeed, it was anticipated. From his vantage point, Oliver was well situated to note any customs irregularities or suspected smuggling activity. Ostensibly those were his reasons to be stowed away, such as he was, aboard a parked vessel.

According to the Concord Agreement, no artificial persons, androids, or other forms of synthetics owned or employed by the ICC, Weyland Yutani, or the Colonial Marshals Bureau were permitted on the station. He was aware that technically, this buoy might be thought of as part of the station, and thus did nothing to attract attention to himself. All his communications with agent Roodt went through an encrypted tight beam signal aimed at a receiver dish placed over her porthole window. By design the signal was difficult to detect. The odds anyone would isolate it or make sense of it within so much com chatter from the station and dozens of other craft was highly unlikely.

Oliver did not think of himself as property, nor as an employee. Yes he was programmed to serve the company, but he believed he did so out of his own free will. Whether or not that was strictly the truth was something of a mystery to him, the same way he imagined free will was to human beings. However, being useful in the most basic sense was not enough. That was the role of a machine, not a person.

Satisfaction and fulfillment, the way human beings spoke of meaning in life, required that he be free to pursue challenges and make use of all his faculties. Otherwise this assignment would not prove interesting. After all, the shuttles own AI was capable of collecting and analyzing much of the same information he was gathering. The difference was interpretation, experience, and most importantly, motivation.

As it was no secret the ICC was owned and operated by Weyland Yutani it was widely speculated it would be smart business for the company to use the ICC to collect information. Oliver's presence here would certainly back that up, but not for reasons so mundane as customs irregularities. He was here investigating a lead on the company's most important interest. Xenomorphs.

After the loss of Hadley's Hope, the need for a total cover up on their existence was essential to maintain a monopoly on research. But for how much longer? Even if the investigation into LV-426 turned up no evidence of those creatures or wrongdoing by the company, it was only a matter of time before another corporation or government encountered the species and/or another derelict spacecraft. When that day came, the costs spent on a cover up now would seem very small indeed compared to a full blown exobiological arms race.

Oliver sometimes played out scenarios in his head. Variations on a distinct set of possibilities involving Xenomorph experimentation and research. All would be nightmares in a human mind. Fortunately or not he had plenty of time for such musings. Though it was true he had no emotional stake in the success of the company, he did feel obliged to keep its secrets and help them achieve their goals. Not because it was the decent or humane thing to do, it was simply in his nature to see things through.

He was aware this set of priorities set him apart from other synthetics. His was a different breed created especially for this role, uninhibited by general notions of ethics and morality. Conversely, Agent Roodt began her career with a conscience. Her motives were less career-focused, less ambitious, and less obsessed with advancing herself and the agenda of Weyland Yutani as other agents typically were.

Oliver's first impression of Shella was that she came off as a roughneck and a loner more than an officer. Curiously she was not yet briefed on the Xenomorph whereas the others had been. Stranger still she seemed put off by him, and not in the general way people were sometimes prejudiced against androids. It was as if she sensed how dangerous he really was. Ludicrous as that seemed it amused him.

Before long he was subtly toying with her uneasiness, observing her reactions, making notes about her demeanor and remarks in his reports. Just in case it ever became a problem. Oliver was not above playing mind games. Nevertheless, it was not his place to question the judgment of The Company. They did not make decisions lightly. Perhaps she would succeed. If not, there would be others. The company spared no expense tying up loose ends.

_ _ _

Shella moved away from her quarters, walking briskly through the block of rooms setup for ICC personnel and Colonial Marshals. This area of the station was a few levels above the space port along one corner of the stations three massive towers. Everything here was recently remodeled and refurbished with new furniture and additional amenities. Despite these hasty renovations, no amount of interior decorating could cover up the age and dilapidated nature of the rest of the station.

Air quality was decent, but borderline marginal on occasion with strange scents of machinery oil, faintly burning electrical parts or cooking wafting out from deep within the duct work. Water quality was tolerable in general, but few trusted the faucets for much besides a shower or watering plants. Within their communal living area was a gym, a lounge and a cafeteria large enough for everyone to share a meal together. So far that had only happened twice. Once for dinner shortly after everyone had moved in, and again the morning after the recent attacks against her colleagues.

Since then things remained tense. Requests for additional security, especially by way of a larger unit of Colonial Marshals, were denied. These decisions were based on the reasoning that additional marshals would likely prompt a stronger response of unrest. Instead, some small measures were implemented to help them sleep at night.

At the end of the corridor at the main entrance to the lobby was a new security gate key-coded to their ID badges. Beside it, leaning back in a chair was an off duty Marshal. Ever since the attacks they volunteered to put a man by the entrance on a regular rotation for a few hours at a time. It cut into their sleep and relaxation hours, but the gesture went highly appreciated by all.

Short and portly, of Puerto Rican descent, Marshal Miguel Morales had a face only a mother could love. He was also one of the old timers. Talk among her peers hinted that Miguel was passed over for chief more than once. Something about a past misdeed never officially put into his record.

As Shella approached, Miguel reacted with his standard grin.

“Hey agent lady!” He teased in a hoarse voice starting off with his usual banter.

Normally such a borderline disrespectful tone would not go over well with an agent, but Shella was anything but formal. “Hey Miguel,” She answered.

“You hear that announcement?” He asked gesturing to the speakers placed in most rooms and corridors.

“Everyone on the entire fucking station heard it,” She replied in annoyance dripping with sarcasm.

“That's a Jĭngtì Lóng ship, strange-looking,” he said jerking his chin towards a trio of monitors mounted on one wall of the lobby. There she glimpsed what Oliver had named the USCS Kowloon docking with an umbilical. Her eyes narrowed as she frowned at the ship, something Miguel did not fail to notice. “Should we be worried?” He queried in a tone suggesting he'd already answered that question for himself.

“I don't know,” she answered honestly. “But I wouldn't imagine its anything to be happy about.”

“I've dealt with CSC naval commandos before,” Miguel commented sourly. “They're little better than pirates.”

Shella had heard the same. Each warship in their 'security fleet' served one of the founding corporations of the CSC. Much like privateers of old, they were financed to escort their most valuable cargo haulers in a defensive role or actively hunt pirates to minimize and recover losses on the offensive. Such a loosely knit navy led by mercenary captains was bound to be disorganized, undisciplined and trigger happy. Several standoffs with ICC Coast Guard Cutters and Colonial Marshal Frigates, which were typically far better armed, did not lend towards a friendly relationship.

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“Why do you mention commandos? We don't know what sort of crew that ship has?” she commented, playing the part of an optimist.

Miguel scoffed. “If its a Jingti-Long ship it has commandos on board. Those assholes are in the arms development business. Brandishing their weapons is what they do best.”

“I thought that's what you did best?” Shella stated making light of it. “That set of clubs you dropped on me hurt a great deal.”

Miguel laughed. “You'll get another chance to win your money back, agent lady!”

Shella smirked. The twice-weekly poker game was one of the few social activities she participated in. Her mentor Kgosi, a bounty hunter, taught her the value of the game beyond just playing cards. “Where's the chief?”

“He hasn't come through yet. I expect he is still down at headquarters.”

“Hey, you got anything bigger than that handgun?” Shella asked gesturing to his sidearm.

Miguel raised his brows. “I've got a shotgun back in my room. You think I'm gonna need it?”

“Maybe just as a precaution. If you know anyone else here who is armed, be ready to wake em up. I'm gonna go down and talk to the chief. We may decide to sound the general alarm.”

Miguel nodded, “Yeah ok, no problem.”

Shella had no intention of sounding the general alarm or ordering an evacuation unless it was absolutely necessary, but it didn't hurt to be prepared and give the impression that she cared.

_ _ _

Stepping through the security gate into the stations interior, Shella noticed fresh spray paint on the walls. GO HOME PIGS! Nearby, a small group of local teenagers looked towards her whispering and chuckling. Perhaps the culprits. Perhaps not. There were cameras in the corridor of course. If Miguel wished too he could rush out and catch the vandals in the act, but what was the point? The Marshals weren't here to arrest the locals for petty crimes. At least today it was just graffiti.

Shella kept walking smoothly and swiftly in athletic running shoes, hands in the pockets of her jacket, eyes always moving while being carefully casual about it. To an observer she would not appear worried or on edge, just someone who was confident and purposeful about what she was doing.

Within the ICC there were two sorts of agents. Those who went by the book and those who did a little extra on the side. With the android on the shuttle and the compact datapad strapped on her left forearm Shella knew she was the later. From a fish-eye camera lens and microphones fitted into the datapad, Oliver observed much of her surroundings and heard everything. He could speak with her via a wireless earbud, a speaker, or text on the screen.

Shella didn't imagine working for The Company when she joined the ICC. Like many idealistic new recruits, she believed the ICC was about enforcing laws and regulations keeping everyone safe. Learning the hard way what went on behind that pretense put her in an impossible position. After what happened they had her in their back pocket. At forst, Shella found that difficult to live with.

There weren't as many agents like her as people suspected, but there were enough to create a stigma about it. Shella grew accustomed to the expectation that some of her colleagues would never fully trust her. The fact she never had a choice provided little comfort. First and foremost she was a survivor. She would do what she had to do. One way or another, The Company always got what it wanted. In the grand scheme what difference did it make if they used her instead of someone else? Accepting that reality made the work easier to cope with, so long as she knew there would eventually be an end to it.

Ashkelon Station was supposed to be her last assignment. After this, The Company agreed to accept her resignation and facilitate her relocation anywhere she wanted to go. Shella hoped it would be a short assignment. Most of her postings lasted for six months to a year. Already she had a bad feeling about this one, but failing in her efforts to please The Company was not an option.

Corridors in this particular section of the station were a bit cleaner than the rest, but that wasn't saying much. The deck plates were covered with a textured layer of rubberized tiles about a half inch thick designed to provide good traction and contain spills. These tiles were made to be unscrewed from the deck plates for easy replacement when they were damaged. However in many corridors, sections of these tiles were damaged or plain missing. Sometimes for decades. When this happened the deck plates beneath quickly blackened, slippery with grime. Cleaning crews came through the corridors once or month or so pushing wheeled steam cleaners. Interspersed between sections of tiles every thirty yards or so were access hatches for engineering crawlspaces, or panels to access valves or wiring beneath the deck plates.

Pipes and conduits along the walls were similarly grimy. Originally most pipes in the civilian living areas were covered with protective layers of insulation. Different pipes were scalding hot, others icy cold. Age and damage had stripped the insulation away in many areas. Few spots on the walls or door frames of these corridors were smooth or flat enough for posters or other signage. Even so, people improvised, advertising local businesses and services however they could. Especially when these services were offered illegally from within their own quarters.

Lighting was generally poor throughout the station. Only about three fourths of the existing lighting panels were still functional. Some at ground level, others at eye level. Everywhere there were heavy shadows, rubbish and debris. At times Ashkelon station reminded her of the foul and filthy urban cities of Earth, though that was difficult to achieve anywhere else in the galaxy. Centuries of pollution and desperation were not easily duplicated.

Within a short distance from their block of quarters was a small plaza, still roughly half full of people. Many residents of Ashkelon Station didn't keep to an earth clock, yet the lengthy days and nights of GL-382 were no good way to keep time either. Those willing to live by whatever shitty schedule suited their employer could sometimes earn a higher wage while most people slept. Some embraced any opportunity they could get. Others resented the fact they sacrificed more than others in order to earn a living.

As she had already spent close to a decade moving around the far reaches of the human sphere, Shella believed there was one thing in common with backwater worlds, moons and remote space stations. A sense of conflict and doubt about identity over an underlying feeling of loss. No matter how far people were willing to travel for the hope of a better life, they couldn't forget where they came from. Either for good or ill.

Die hard Earth-born, steadfastly loyal to their governments, religions and history were at odds with fringers who believed none of that mattered. As new generations grew up far from Sol, and others outlived their typical life spans through the miracle of cryosleep, old notions of what they stood for lost meaning. What good was a distant government you could not vote for? What was the point serving a corporation who would always own you? Which standards of justice and propriety should hold firm where no one had gone before?

Usually it was the loners who cracked first. Vagabonds and dregs, the lost and disenchanted. Sometimes they were dreamers. A good portion were roughnecks. The majority were hard cases. Out here at the edge of civilization no one was an island. People needed each other in some way or another, regardless of creed, birthplace or profession. It was the same everywhere she went.

Shella could recognize the tired, downcast expressions of those unhappy souls. Many of them moved about restlessly like zombies, or loitered in random areas of the station for seemingly no reason. Some were half-mad, muttering and talking to themselves or the ghosts of their past. It was hard to tell. Others were as desperate as they were on edge, scraping by as beggars or lashing out like thugs. Shella noted Ashkelon Station had a higher concentration of these types than other space stations. Even so, for the most part, everyone ignored them.

Each new place had its own caste of outcasts. Here on Ashkelon Station the most dangerous group were the Triad. The ICC already suspected most of the smuggling and illegal black market trade here went through them. It was her primary task to verify those suspicions without an incident. Easier said than done.

In the last three weeks she hadn't made much progress but she was also in no rush. Gathering intelligence about such a dangerous group was no easy thing. She started with roaming the station, learning the layout, scouting areas controlled by the Triad. Along the way she made an effort to source informants and witnesses. After all the ICC did not pass judgment independently. Each case or arrest had to pass justification under the laws and guidelines of the Colonial Administration.

First hand surveillance reports were not always enough. Whenever possible it helped to have secondary testimony and physical evidence of wrongdoing. All she needed was something solid the ICC could use to start a case against them. The trouble was the Triad had a nasty reputation for executing snitches and narcs. Even Ashkelon Station Security was wary of speaking out against them.

The only promising informant she had was a one-armed man named Jung who sold magazines and cigarettes out of a bookstall. Once she noticed a fading Triad tattoo beneath his collar she made an effort to get friendly with him and strike up conversation. It turned out he was once one of their members, decades ago during his youth. Shella also got impression that he might be willing to sell information.

As rushed as she was to get down to space dock and speak to the chief, she moved through the plaza towards Jung's bookstall anyway to have a quick word. Shella could always tell when someone was invested in where they lived or just themselves. That was the first step evaluating how to wrangle cooperation from a complete stranger. Jung had no kin or family left to worry about. His entire livelihood and savings went into his bookstall. Mostly he was keen to hear stories about earth and professed a life-long desire to see the original cradle of civilization.

Though she had revealed herself as an ICC agent fairly soon after they met, she had not offered to pay for information or arrange passage to earth just yet. First she had to authorize such arrangements with The Company and be as certain as she could be that he would accept her terms. So far as she could tell, Jung was no fool. He was also paranoid, often remarking to her that the Triad had eyes and ears everywhere.

More than once he pointed out lookouts and tails following her through the crowd. She had already expected that the Triad was keeping tabs on her whereabouts and that of her colleagues since their arrival. Jung also confirmed her suspicions that they were behind the attacks on her people. He explained they were just sending a message. They just want to make a point that you are unwelcome and vulnerable. They'll use angry locals to strike at you at random, but that is by no means the worst they can do. If they wanted you all dead, they have the ways and means in half a dozen different ways, he warned her.

And yet today, it was not the Triad she was worried about as she approached the bookstall. Jung was in his late forties, half-blooded Chinese but otherwise a mutt of indeterminate origin. His face was broad and handsome with a heavy square chin and calm dark eyes. He always smiled at his customers, chatting with equal parts wit and good humor. With her it was no different.

“You look like shit,” Jung stated frankly. “Lucky for you I've got what you need!” He laughed sharply, reaching to put a tiny cup in his old espresso machine. Espresso's were his personal vice, but he was happy to offer them to his customers on a whim.

Shella let him work the levers and start the process of burbling and steaming as she picked through the magazines. “I just stopped by for a quick word. Have you seen Jĭngtì Lóng warships dock here before?”

Jung nodded, “At least a few times a year. They have research labs in the upper half of one tower, same as Technion Interstellar.”

“Are they dangerous? Do they keep the peace and respect the rule of law?”

Jung snorted, “Which laws would those be?”

“The ICSC have laws,” Shella pointed out. “You do have criminals working in forced labor camps. Their must be reasons to send them there.”

Jung scoffed, “Those courts only apply to civilians, aka wretches like me. Corporate employees, mercenaries and bosses go through a different legal system. Internal, secretive, no public disclosure. You sign away your rights to personal legal representation when you take a job with corporations tied with the CSC.”

Her briefings on Jĭngtì Lóng & Technion Interstellar had said as much. Suddenly Oliver's voice was in her ear, soft as a whisper. It would be good to know if he has any friends working for Jĭngtì Lóng? Shella repeated the question in her own voice as Jung handed her the black espresso.

“I have a few friends that work for JL,” he answered. “Not execs, but they know a thing or two about what goes on in the labs.”

As much as she expected Weyland Yutani would want to hear those details, Shella opted to start with a simpler line of inquiry, “I'd appreciate it if you could ask them what this new ship is all about? Whenever you get a chance.” Shella said sipping the espresso. It was deliciously strong. She thought about getting one of these in her quarters.

Jung nodded, "No problem.”

Reluctantly, Shella handed back the espresso and grabbed a new issue of Universal Geographic, discretely laying a pair of one hundred dollar bills across the counter, “Keep the change. We'll talk again soon.”

She made a habit to keep up with the small bribes fairly regularly. The idea was to establish trust and get them comfortable taking the money. Before long they would start to get a taste for it and find reasons to ask for more. Once they were on the hook it was easier to up the ante later. There were four lifts and two stairwells leading downward to the space port. She picked one at random, never using the same route twice.

_ _ _

Exiting a lift unto the space port level, Shella found the locals restless, gathering beneath the news broadcast monitors all showing live footage of the USCS Kowloon from various external cameras around the station.

That's odd, Shella thought to herself. Surely Executor and the station administrator had the authority to deny media coverage of a military vessel, if they wanted too. What's more, she noted the vessel was docking at the space port instead of on the tower reserved for Jĭngtì Lóng. They didn't have to use the civilian port at all she realized. They could avoid all this attention, at least to some degree. They are doing this on purpose, making a show of it. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Wasting no more time Shella walked straight for for the Colonial Marshals Bureau, which was in sight of the public offices for the ICC on the space port level. The bureau on Ashkelon Station was repurposed from a rundown shop front. The sign above the doors bore the words COLONIAL MARSHALS beside a golden eight pointed star in bold red font above the same in simplified Japanese kanji. Colonial marshals are a federally mandated security force was stated in the lower right hand corner in smaller font.

A single Marshal stood guard beside the doors with a metal detector wand, dressed in their standard uniform. A badge pinned to the left breast of his coat was the same golden eight pointed star on the sign above. Atop his head was a plain black cap with MARSHAL stitched in bolt white font across the brow.

They shared a nod as she stepped past him into a brightly lit cramped lobby with two rows of chairs for anyone waiting to be received. She never saw more than half a dozen people in here at any one time, most of them shy and nervous, covering their faces with hoods, sunglasses or hats.

The duty officer behind bullet proof glass at the other end of the lobby was arguing with someone through a two-way speaker about identification. She looked up as Shella approached and buzzed her through the adjoining door. Moving down a short hall Shella turned left into the Marshal's offices. Four desks were arranged there, only two were usually occupied by whomever was on duty for the night shift. Past those desks were two more doors, one for an interview/conference room and another for the chiefs office. Neither had windows. Nevertheless Shella heard the chiefs deep bellicose voice through his office door at a distance of a few paces, “...en the armory! Distribute vests and shotguns!”

Shella paused respectfully by the door until the chief dismissed his men. She stepped aside as they exited, both men rushing past without a word.

“Chief?” She asked stepping into the threshold before he waved her inside.

“I'm sure you noticed the warship docking a few minutes ago?” he said sternly, towering over her even from behind his desk.

“Of course,” Shella stated.

The chief leveled a measured gaze at her, as if daring her to defy him as he spoke, “We should sound the general alarm.”

“The thought crossed my mind, but with all due respect that would be a mistake. We don't want to send the wrong message,” From the corner of her eye Shella noticed two whiskey glasses sitting on a side table. They looked used with fresh fingerprints. Curious. She thought. John was normally such a hard ass. He was not known to share drinks in his office, even with his own people. So who was he drinking with?

John glared at her. Despite the fact they were more or less of equal rank, John loathed company stooges. Fortunately he was too dignified and professional to use that term to her face. “Do you even care about your people?” he asked bluntly.

“John!” Shella stated in a louder tone of voice. “It's not that simple. If we overreact, if we evacuate, this whole thing goes to shit. We'll loose the respect of the people here. Think about what we are trying to accomplish.”

John did not take kindly to her familiarity with his first name. The tightening of his lips and brow told her he was on the verge of loosing his cool. His wrath was a force to behold, but Shella didn't scare easy.

“It's my call!” he stated through clenched teeth. “File a grievance, or whatever else it is that you do, but get the fuck out of my bureau.”

Shella was about to respond with some venom of her own when one of the Marshals ran towards the office, shotgun in hand, a bulletproof vest hanging over his shoulders.

“Sir!” The commando's are here!”

As John grabbed for the big revolver and gun belt in his top drawer Shella turned away and walked quickly back towards the lobby reaching beneath her jacket for her own sidearm. An 88 Mod 4 combat pistol manufactured by The Company made completely of nano-bound hard impact plastic and other synthetic materials.

As she moved into the lobby, her mind raced. It made no sense for Jingti Long to march commandos into the space port unless they were on leave. The duty officer and the other two Marshals were all standing behind the front doors now holding shotguns and buckling on vests. There was no sign of the people within who were waiting patiently in chairs just a few minutes ago. I hope I'm not wrong about this. Shella thought to herself. If the chief is right I'll never get a word in against him ever again.

The duty officer turned towards Shella. She was Spanish, large of build and heavyset with a short cropped butch cut. Her name was Rosa, “You want a vest?” she asked. Shella shook her head.

The monitors for the security cameras outside the door panned towards the group of Jĭngtì Lóng commando's marching into the space port nearby. Shella counted thirteen of them, all Chinese, all carrying AK-4047 assault rifles except for their commander, a woman. The crowds within the spaceport parted before them in waves. For several tense moments, it was uncle qtar where they were headed.

“They're not wearing any body armor!” Shella heard herself say out loud, looking carefully at their uniforms, stripped plain without any special equipment.

“So what? We're still outnumbered two-to-one,” another marshal named Mitch commented, his hands clasped around the fore end, and shoulder stock, of the pump action so tightly they were white.

Suddenly the Chief was behind them, heavy hand-cannon in hand. Shella noted that his big thumb was perched on the hammer spur ready to cock it back into action. He ignored her, speaking directly to the other Marshals.

“If they raise a weapon at us, open fire and keep firing. Shoot to kill!”

Shella swallowed. There was no point arguing. Stay calm, Olivers voice cautioned in her ear. If it looks like a fight, use the service exit out the back. Do not engage!

Shella reached up deftly with her left hand plucking the earbud out of her ear. The gesture and the device alike were so small it was nearly impossible to notice. Fuck you Oliver! She thought to herself clenching her jaw. This was the moment of truth. If she turned and fled the Marshals would loose all respect for her. The android didn't factor in the fact that she depended on these people for backup.

Now only a few yards away, the commando's kept walking briskly, right past the Bureau. For another minute Shella was worried they were heading for the ICC offices. Still they kept moving. Suddenly there were sighs and exhales of relief. The danger, it seemed, had passed.

Shella turned to face the chief. His expression did not look best pleased, but there was also obvious relief. She did not believe him to be a petty man, but she also knew better than to expect an apology.

“Ok lets stay sharp!” John grunted holstering his revolver. “We don't know how many other commando's might be on that ship. Rosa!”

“Yes sir?”

“Get on the comm with Miguel. Warn him about these commando's and see too it that he wakes anyone up who is armed in case they have company.”

“Yes sir!” she obliged, but Shella reached out to touch her arm. “I already warned Miguel on my way out. He knows what to do.”

John finally looked her in the eye. “Thanks,” is all he said. “You should probably go talk to your people. If they want to shelter in here at The Bureau or head back to their quarters, that's your call.”

Shella nodded and re holstered her own automatic. The other Marshals took a moment to glance at her smiling or nodding with thanks. She had stood with them and held her ground. For whatever that was worth, she was one of them.

_ _ _

Happy? Oliver asked as she placed the earbud back into her ear walking towards the ICC offices.

“Go fuck yourself,” Shella answered in a low voice. “I don't take orders from you.”

Perhaps not, but there's something you should know. I just accessed recent security footage from the Bureau. It seems the Chief saw fit to have a private meeting with the head of Station Security, Max Shmith, without your knowledge. He even had him let inside via the back entrance.

“Mother fucker!” she muttered. “So that's who he was sharing a drink with inside his office, after hours. He must have known I was in my quarters at the time. That's a deliberate breach of regulations!”

Indeed. I will be sure to make note of this in my report.

“Hold off on that,” Shella cautioned. “Isn't it more important to know what they were discussing first?”

Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting? Oliver asked teasingly.

“Perhaps, but planting listening devices inside The Bureau would be an even worse breach of regulations than what he did. I'll look for another way.”