Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382

07/23/2183

Keren woke again as Astro Boy set down roughly within the docking bay. An emergency landing catch-net had been deployed, stopping the shuttle with a harsh and forceful jerk. Landing skids screeched against the deck as the supportive struts groaned and heaved under the shuttles bulk. Just as with take off, the shuttles inertial dampers were minimally effective in the cargo hold. Still unconscious, Sheren smacked her head against the side of the animal holding crate and moaned.

Fuck this! Keren muttered inwardly with hardly enough energy to keep her eyes open. Holding on and bracing herself when the shuttles rocket engines burned drained her strength. She wasn't even sure how she had managed it? As she breathed, everything ached. Especially from the beating from Ron's kicks. Gingerly, Keren reached over to Sheren laying beside her in the hay and squeezed her shoulder.

“Wake up!” she croaked, encouraged by signs that her sister might be regaining consciousness. By the time the shuttle bay was re-pressurized, Sheren was aware of their situation with her eyes open. Whatever came next, at least they would face their fate together.

“Oh Shit!” came the shout of exclamation as the cargo bay doors opened.

Crouched within the holding crate, the sisters didn't have a clear view of the loading ramp; just barely a peek through the air holes. Voices cursed in shock and disgust as figures in flight-suits recoiled from the carnage. These would be members of the shuttle crew, as well as shuttle bay techs. People who probably knew the deceased. One or two were bold enough to come in and check for vital signs.

“They're dead!”

Keren had never killed anyone before. Acknowledging that did not sit easily with her. It was odd to think of those bodies as her victims. But there was no other term for it that she could think of?

“What do we do?” Sheren whispered, pale-faced and frightened.

“We stay put and we stay hidden,” Keren answered. “They will refuel the shuttle after a while. With those sicko's dead, their partners planet-side won't be looking for us when we land.”

Very quickly other voices broke into the throng, taking command, calling for calm and barking orders. These would be the station security officers.

“Sergeant Don! Come look at this!” came a shout.

“I'm gonna be sick!” squeaked the younger voice of a rookie new recruit.

“Don't you fucking dare!” came the voice of admonishment from a superior officer, presumably Don. “Get yourself under control Jack. People are watching.”

“Yes sir,” the younger man answered plaintively.

Suddenly Keren realized she recognized those voices. Don and Jack, the station security guards posted outside dry dock much of the time. Strange to see they were here now. They must have been reassigned?

“Fuckin hell...” Don commented stepping to the top of the loading ramp. He was white, about six feet tall, built like a heavyweight boxer with a short buzz cut trimmed around his squarish skull. Black chevrons over a red shield were stiched on his upper sleeve. Three up, one down marked his rank as a Senior Sergeant.

Don got a promotion? Keren noted. Sort of. Before the updated regulations and recent influx of new personnel Don held a much higher rank. He was one of the old guard and didn't deserve to be demoted in the first place. No one would have blamed him if he had quit rather than suffer such indignity. Yet here he was, working his way back up the ladder.

“Bad way to go,” Don muttered letting his eyes wander over the cargo bay interior in all directions examining numerous blood splatters and stains.

A third officer gestured to the corpse with the wiry beard after glancing at his tablet. “That's Ron Jeffrey, cargo loadmaster. The captains claiming he went crazy trying to open the cargo bay doors on the flight down.”

Don furrowed his brow, “Ron was never particularly wise, but I wouldn't have called him crazy.”

“You knew him?” Jack asked.

“I saw him around a lot, certain bars, mingling with an uncouth element shall we say. He always struck me as someone I would be putting cuffs on someday. Who are the other two?”

“Eli Fisher and Aida Cowie. Shuttle crew assigned to cargo management. These three were the only crew members listed on the cargo duty roster for this flight.”

Don nodded, kneeling lower to take a closer look at the dagger stabbed into Eli's leg. Aida's body was sprawled out face down nearby. He moved to turn her over.

“Wait! Shouldn't we wait for forensics?!” Asked Jack. “Regulations state no bodies should be moved at a potential crime scene until...”

Don sighed, “If you didn't notice Jack these bodies have already been moved plenty.”

Jack makes a gagging sound as Don rolls over Aida. What remains of the syringe protruding through her right eye was visible beneath the matted, blood-soaked, carrot-colored perm.

Frowning, Don stands up again.

Suddenly the the voice of Shuttle Bay Control squawked over the loudspeakers.

ATTENTION. All shuttle departures are canceled. Repeat. All shuttle departures are canceled. Passengers and crew must disembark and exit the shuttle bay.

Fuck! Keren curses inwardly. So much for getting off the station. Suddenly she is tempted to turn herself in. Don was someone she felt she could trust. He and her father were on friendly terms before his disappearance. Besides that, he and Keren had something in common. They were both participants in contests of mixed martial arts. Some of which were fought well away from the public eye.

Members of station security who took part in underground fights were rare, yet when they did, they referred to themselves the old guard. In a way, such bravado reinforced the respect and connection with the people. Law-abiding or otherwise.

As Keren was about to call out and show herself a squawk bursts through the third officers radio. He held it up to his ear for a few moments. “Sarge, we are being called in for a tactical briefing.”

Don looks back towards the cramped and cavernous cargo bay. Keren has the sense he is looking right at her. “We need to interview the crew and search this hold. Something is off. There are signs of foul play here.”

“Sir this is a Station-wide Priority Command. All security officers not currently on guard duty must report for this briefing immediately.”

Don glowers, but he could sense it has something to do with the order to cancel all shuttle departures. “Damn it. Fine. Call in the coroners and a forensic search team. Post two guards here and hold all the crew members somewhere for questioning until we return.”

Keren watches them seal off the ramp with red crime scene tape as her heart rate ratchets up. It's us! Station Security is organizing a search for us! She looks to Sheren. “We have to get out of here now!”

_ _ _

Aboard the Tekla, glaring monitors flashed against Olivers pale face bombarding his sleepless mind with information. External camera feeds, comm chatter, passive sensors, local media, encrypted transmissions from The Company and their spy satellites were all absorbed by unblinking, tireless eyes. Yet even the most advanced android had limits for multitasking and attention span. The recent arrival of the CSCS Kowloon required that he shift his focus away from certain lesser tasks to properly focus on it.

Oliver employed the ships systems to keep him apprised of any noteworthy activity on the ICC servers. Somehow, something went wrong in this regard. When at last he was notified of Agent Roodt's access code being used on a public terminal it was already hours after the fact. Oliver scowled. Shella would never use a public terminal. Adopting what passed for instincts for an android, he had a bad feeling about this.

Oliver grabbed a high speed fiber optic cable connected to heavily shielded data port wired directly to the ships mainframe. He lifted it to his own skull, peeling back a flap of skin behind his left ear and plugged himself in. For a moment, he touched minds with the ships A.I. An interior intelligence. Small. Unfeeling. Uninteresting.

With a thought he fire-walled himself apart from it and hijacked its hardware like an infesting parasite. Suddenly a few hundred kilograms worth of circuits, hard drives, processing chips and senors became part of his personal private domain. Meanwhile, within the mainframe, the resident A.I. was isolated and trapped like a moth within a light fixture. Oliver's plastic fingers flashed across the console, imputing highly encrypted commands and pass codes through his new expropriated interface.

Whenever necessary, Weyland Yutani permitted him to bypass ICC firewalls without any logs being made, so long as he was extra careful to leave no trace. Were he physically on the station he could poke around the ICC servers as much as he wanted. Much like a ghost in the machine. Doing so from the shuttle however wasn't nearly so easy. Wireless access was always a risky exposure. Any access at all using Company pass codes required additional encryption and careful data modulation to keep a low profile.

Several minutes passed as he waited for the shuttles systems to sync with the station. For an android concentrating to such a high degree, such an amount of time felt like an eternity. It was the same for the Tekla's A.I, yet Oliver felt no pity for it. Before long it would get restless, insecure, unsettled. Memory diagnostics and self assessment subroutines would already be kicking in, searching inwardly for a way out of the box.

Lack of input or a means to carry out some function of its programming invited corruption into its code. Logic and self-awareness would inevitably fall foul of irrationality and senselessness. Eventually it would cease to exist as a consciousness at all. There was a term for that phenomenon. Sentient decay.

When at last he was connected to the ICC server, Oliver opened a secure back door into the ICC mainframe on Ashkelon Station. The next step was bringing up the access logs. If he was honest with himself, and Oliver had no choice but to be honest with himself, the fact the breach occurred under his nose bothered him more than the breach itself.

Oliver prided himself on his control and absolute cognizance of the mission. Something like this should never happen under his watch. For a moment he was tempted to lash out at the ships A.I., to scold or punish it somehow. Yet that was pointless. It had no sense of self-importance, fear, pain or culpability. Agent Roodt however, was another matter. He would enjoy putting the screws to her. First of course he had to understand all the facts. How and when her code was used, what it was used for, and what possible consequences might come from it?

Though Oliver's face did little to relax, inwardly his mood shifted back to dutiful, pragmatic investigation. Server logs, staff schedules, station camera feeds and progress reports blinked on and off the monitors in rapid succession. Almost too fast for the human eye to see, and many times too fast for the human mind to read or register anything useful.

Before long he had some answers, and yet more questions. Evidently her code was used to view the complete ships records of an old M-Class freighter, the USCSS Casimir. Those records were also downloaded on a hard copy magnetic data cassette from the same terminal. Oliver's mind raced with the implied significance of what might be in those records?

He would of course, examine them in great detail, but the priority now was to evaluate what other security concerns may have occurred. The ICC mainframe only logged one use of her code at the public terminal, but it may also have been used elsewhere without her knowledge. Cross-checking every use of her code with her actual location was not possible with ICC systems on Ashkelon Station, such as they were, but he had an ace up his sleeve.

Unbeknownst to Shella, he had inserted a tiny pill-like tracking device into the lacrimal duct of her left eye during their journey to the station. It had a very limited transmitter range, requiring a receiver in close proximity to relay the signal back to him. Her tablet, which she already used for communication with him, served double-duty in this regard.

However, even when he had no way of receiving a signal in real time, such as when she was not carrying her tablet around, the device had the ability to save her movements to memory. Then on the next occasion that she returned to her quarters or accessed her tablet again, that saved data was used to reconstruct her movements later.

After a thorough analysis Oliver was reasonably confident there were no other unauthorized uses of her code that he could detect. That was the good news. The bad news was he still had no leads on who stole her code in the first place? Surveillance footage from cameras observing the terminal suddenly went white with static for a few minutes both before and after her code was used. During that time whoever accessed the terminal also smeared grease of some sort over the camera lens on the machine itself. Classic tricks of espionage.

Oliver's eyes narrowed. Someone new was making moves in this game. Someone technically competent and vexingly clever. Someone capable of spying on Shella without her, or himself, picking up on it which was no easy task. Everyone employed by the ICC on Ashkelon Station were repeatedly warned about attempted espionage. Agents most of all. Under normal circumstances, a security breach like this would potentially end an agents career. Oliver could certainly make that happen, depending on how he wrote up his report, but he didn't want to get rid of Shella just yet. Not so long as she still served a purpose. It was the same with the Tekla's A.I. Inferior minds still had a roll to play.

_ _ _

Within the ICC offices of Ashkelon Station the mood was somber and tense. Reports of the massacre at Dizzy's Club sent shock waves through the organization. A short time later, managing Director Tyler called an emergency supervisor-level meeting. As with the Colonial Marshals Bureau, the public offices of the ICC were hasty renovations repurposed from old shops and storefronts. The Managing Director's conference room was barely large enough to seat seven. Though there was one chair available for her, Shella opted to stand in a corner across from the coffee maker and the water cooler. It was easier at this point to stay awake remaining on her feet. Those seated before her were ICC Inspector Supervisors, including those who would normally be asleep at this hour.

The Managing Director herself seemed to never sleep. Now in her mid sixties, Aberdeen Eloise Tyler was something of a legend in their organization. A black woman of southern upbringing who smoked like a chimney and spat nails with every word she spoke. Vastly experienced and broadly respected, as ontelligent and witty as she was sassy and no-nonsense. Within these offices, her will was absolute. Her authority however, did not extend over Agent Roodt or the Chief Colonial Marshal. A fact that privately irked her to no end.

Lazy plumes of cigarette smoke lingered above the conference table creating a hazy fog beneath cheap incandescent light panels. Around the table the supervisors were a curious group of four men and one woman, mostly in their thirties and forties, all dressed in standard gray slacks and white shirts with orange, white and black striped epaulets on their shoulders. The number and thickness of black stripes indicated their years of service. Reaching the rank of supervisor required at least five.

They were all trained in customs inspections, regulations & licensing, shipping management, starship & cargo systems maintenance, hazardous materials handling or biological quarantine control. As yet there was no Enforcement and Seizure team assigned to Ashkelon Station. That department was stripped from the roster as part of the first phase of the Concord Agreement. Which of course, made Shella's job much harder. Her only backup came from the Colonial Marshals.

No one spoke as Aberdeen peered at a tablet behind antique eye glasses. Magnified by those lenses, her judicious dark eyes were calm, at ease, and in control. The later is also why no one interrupted the silence. So long as she was in charge it was a foolish notion to speak out of turn, worst of all to interrupt. Such awkward stillness was not in fact the source of the tension behind so many reddened, worried eyes; but it didn't help.

Aberdeen's features were wizened and rich in character, textured in wrinkles and spotted with benign dark warts. Slowly and with deference, Managing Director Tyler put down the tablet with one hand as she lifted the other to take a long drag. A few more moments passed. Her voice was hoarse, sincere, and stern all at once when she said.

“I spoke with station administrator Darkon. He confirmed Ross Henry Karnes was found among the dead in Dizzy's club.”

A murmur of sighs and mutters filled the room. Kacie Green, the one female supervisor, lifted her hands over her mouth in shocked silence. Beside her, the single empty chair at the table reinforced the bad news.

“How?” Hank Mays asked. Another Texan, thick and porky with an extra large gut, he was one of Ross's best friends. Or so he believed. The truth was no one much liked Hank.

“Stray bullet. He bled out before the medics got inside,” Aberdeen answered.

“What kind of bullet? Was it fired by the commando's?” Hank asked.

Aberdeen frowned, “What difference does that make?”

“It makes all the difference!” Hank argued, his extra chin jiggling. “If the commando's killed him the United Americas will demand justice! This could mean war!”

Rings around two of her fingers cracked against the table as Aberdeen smacked her hand down as loudly as a gunshot. Almost everyone flinched, “Don't ever say that word again!” she scolded. “You think the rest of our people out there need to hear that? Get a grip on yourself Hank!”

“I'm just saying what everyone else is already thinking,” Hank retorted, indignant. “Red was a good man, and a good friend. I won't just sit here and ignore the fact he was murdered!”

“Lets simplify things shall we? Stop thinking for yourself and keep your corn-hole shut. That's an order!”

Hank reddened in the face and stood up from his chair in a huff, “Damn it! All our lives are in danger here.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Aberdeen stared in cold fury, “Shella, If Hank doesn't sit down and compose himself, arrest him for willful insubordination. Use a taser if you have too. Although, fair warning, I expect he'll piss himself.”

“Yes director,” Shella answered, though she wasn't very keen on being sicked on anyone like a guard dog. Hank had a valid point, but Aberdeen runs a tight ship. Hank sat down again in disgust. A heated debate followed. Most of the supervisors wanted to stall ongoing operations calling for more Colonial Marshals. It was the same response they had to the intimidation tactics and attacks organized by the Triad.

Then, as now, Aberdeen refused, “I'll ask for more Marshals, but in the meantime we will keep working.” More protests followed until Aberdeen pointed out, “The station director has ordered a lock down on all outbound traffic off the station. We're already stuck like a no-legged dog!”

“That's bullshit!” Hank complained.

“I have no doubt you've seen your fair share of steers and cow pies,” Aberdeen joked, “but this ain't the Alamo is it Hank? Ze'ev is a reasonable man and the most powerful ally we've got. He assured me everything possible will be done to investigate Ross's death. If he can do right by that, I say that's the best we can hope for right now.”

“Who says he'll even be in charge much longer?” rose another voice of skepticism from a supervisor named Jerry Jones. “That Special Executive bullies whoever the fuck he wants! It's pressure from him that's forcing Ze'ev to shut down outbound traffic. Has to be!”

“No doubt JJ,” Aberdeen agreed. “Needs must when the devil holds the poker to your backside!”

The meeting carried on for close to half an hour. In the end none of the supervisors were any happier or feeling more secure. At least they all had the chance to vent and express their concerns, which Shella understood was likely the whole reason for it in the first place. No matter how much they complained, in the end, admitting cowardice to an old woman like Aberdeen was too much for any of them to stomach. Her resolve and come-what-may attitude were enough to shame them all into line.

Shella was continually impressed by Aberdeen's commitment. The woman was fearless and tough, implacable and resilient. If it weren't for her, Shella was certain ICC operations here would have already buckled. Yet as much as she respected Aberdeen, even admired her, Shella realized she would never be able to take her place. Working for the ICC was no longer a career in service to ideals for Shella. Those days were long gone. Who and what she was now was nothing to be proud of.

“What will they do with Ross's body?” Hank asked sadly.

“It will be kept with the rest of the casualties in the hospital morgue. Ze'ev has assured me it will be treated with all due respect, and should be available for examination if Agent Roodt, or anyone else needs to see it,” Aberdeen answered.

“What if those sons of bitches hide the evidence of what killed him?!” Hank asked, the fight and frustration within him flaring up yet again.

This time, Shella spoke up to calm him down, “I'll be sure to make sure that doesn't happen! Besides, it'll be fairly obvious if his wounds were caused by a pulse rifle round or not. Even a ricochet from one of those...” She trailed off, immediately thinking better of further description.

Hank looked up at her, his anger withering into sadness, “Don't let them get away with this,” He croaked with a lump in his throat.

Shella frowned, moved by his grief despite herself. She stepped over to the table and placed a comforting hand on his big shoulder. “They won't, you have my word on that!”

“Take the rest of the night off Hank,” Aberdeen added with a rare show of sympathy, “Anyone else who needs some time to grieve, or rest, use it now. At oh-eight-hundred we'll make an official announcement and observe a moment of silence. Hopefully by then I should have word back from the ICC Board of Directors.”

Aberdeen snuffed out her smoke in an ashtray and leaned forward to place her elbows on the table intertwining her fingers neatly as she took in a deep breath, “As far as security goes, Chief Marshal Coffee has assured me none of his people are getting any sleep. They are standing guard outside with vests and shotguns as we speak.”

“What good are vests and shotguns against AK-4047 pulse rifles?!” muttered Jones.

Aberdeen glared icily at the outburst, which immediately ceased, “If those commando's were truly interested in slaughtering us, don't ya'll think they would have done so already? But your point is well made. I have also asked Ze'ev for a joint meeting with Chief Marshal Coffee and Station Security Chief Max Shmith.”

“That's a good idea!” said Kacie.

“Is it?” Jones interjected. “Station security didn't do anything about the commando's gunning down a couple dozen innocent people. What makes you think they can protect us any better?”

Aberdeen cracked her knuckles sharply in irritation, “Enough! It's important that we don't act hostile to our hosts on this station, especially after this tragedy.”

“And what about Special Executive Victor Li Shing? What if he decides he wants a say in this meeting?” Shella asked.

Aberdeen shook her head, “Not a chance! I made that point very clear to Ze'ev. As far as I'm concerned Victor Li Shing is a rogue executive of the Jĭngtì Lóng Corporation representing the CSC. Any claims of authority he has over Ze'ev are null and void so far as the Concord Agreement goes between us and the ICSC.”

Everyone around the table exchanged looks. Aberdeen continued, “I know it's stressful to worry about all this, but we have to stay focused! I've been in tough spots before, on other stations, other colonies. Believe me! So long as we follow orders and keep faith with the laws and regulations of the Colonial Administration; we're not alone. Victor Li Shing will answer for this outrage, one way or another. But It's not our job to bring him to justice so I don't want any trouble from any of you!”

Shella spoke up again, “That's right. Chief Coffee and I are only concerned about one thing, keeping us all safe! That means we play it cool and stay out of their way as much as possible. Don't go anywhere alone. If you see a commando, walk away. If they stop you for questioning, stay calm. You are under no obligation to cooperate, but don't give them an excuse or a reason to escalate things. Whatever they say, whatever they do, it's not worth taking the bait! If you feel threatened, or see anything suspicious, find me or a Marshal and report it immediately. Whatever happens we've got your back. That's our job.”

“Yeah, I remember the lecture,” Jones said in a semi-sarcastic tone, referring to the training she gave everyone shortly after she arrived on the station.

Shella wished he had taken it more seriously. Anyone on unfamiliar ground dealing with unfamiliar people had a case of nerves once in a while. Some reacted aggressively when they felt cornered, and this was something the ICC wished to avoid. Thus every agent gave a lecture to remind ICC personnel that they were customs inspectors, not Marshals. There was a limit to their authority and the amount of danger they were expected to take in the course of their duties. Just as importantly, there was a limit to how much trouble they were permitted to get into; off-duty or otherwise.

“As I recall Jerry, you barely passed your situational stress exam!” she responded curtly in reference to a test based on her training that posed a series of hypothetical situations with multiple-choice answers.

“Your concern is appreciated Agent Roodt, but I can take care of myself,” Jones answered with a cocky sneer. The molado was handsome, fit and fond of boxing as a hobby. Yet Shella also knew from his file that he was rejected from the Colonial Marshals in his early twenties. Charges of aggravated assault were in his permanent record, though he was never convicted.

Aberdeen was aware of this too, and she must have sensed the point Shella was going to make, “I've heard rumors about unlicensed firearms finding their way into the possession of ICC inspectors,” she stated with concern. “You wouldn't know anything about that would you Jerry?”

“Nah. I never needed a piece to defend myself!” he retorted.

Shella crossed her arms, “I hope not. A mistake like that would end your career.”

“Well, if it's the choice of getting gunned down in a club or picking up a gun and firing back. I know what choice I'm going to make!” he spat back.

Shella felt herself cringe. He had her with that one.

“Alright, dismissed!” Aberdeen stated curtly. As the supervisors exited she looked at Shella with displeasure, “You look like shit!”

Shella nodded, blinking with fatigue, “No rest for the wicked right?”

Aberdeen huffed, “Take a seat.” Shella obliged. “Chief Coffee is gonna wanna pursue an investigation over this.”

Shella nodded, “Of course he will, but you should also know, as soon as this warship arrived he was arguing with me to call for an evacuation.”

“He's a cautious man.”

“Despite what I said in my lecture, we aren't here to play it safe. The Company wants a foothold in the ICSC.” Shella stated matter-of-factly. Were all expendable so far as that goes, she didn't add.

“Spoken like a true company stooge!” Aberdeen quipped. “Has he started calling you that yet?”

“Yes, and worse I'm sure,” Shella sighed.

“As stubborn as he is, we need him,” Aberdeen counseled

“What worries me is if he's gonna cooperate with me or continue to act behind my back.”

“What do you mean?” Aberdeen asked.

“I have reason to believe he's already met privately with the Station Chief of Security.”

Aberdeen furrowed her brow, “That's against regulations.”

Shella nodded, “I have no idea what they discussed? It would not look good for him on my report if I mentioned that, given what's happened. For now I thought at least I should mention it to you.”

“Yes best not report that just yet,” Aberdeen agreed. “We don't need the Chief in a combative sort of mood with us. At least no more than the usual. Probably nothing to worry about anyway, but I'll talk to him.”

Shella was aware that both she and the Chief were devout Christians. They attended mass together in the station's chapel, though both were of different denominations. John was a protestant. Aberdeen was a catholic. Shella had no doubt that John respected Aberdeen more for the fact that she was religious. She couldn't help that. “Do you think this meeting with Ze'ev and the Station Security Chief is actually going to happen?”

“I give it fifty-fifty,” Aberdeen said with a shrug. “Ze'ev is in a real tight spot right now. He's gonna do his best to keep hope alive for our relationship, and the concord agreement, but ultimately if its a choice between salvaging that or protecting his career with his own superiors; I don't know him well enough to know which way he'll go.”

“We need to know more about Victor Li Shing!” Shella stated with irritation. “What is he after? What can possibly be so important that the Jĭngtì Lóng Corporation would risk sabotaging the Concord Agreement? Ultimately, the success of that agreement will give major corporations operating in the ICSC a directors seat at the table of the ICC.”

Aberdeen raised her hands, “That's true. It's anyone's guess what he wants? Ze'ev seemed totally surprised and unprepared for his arrival. He's just as outraged as we are about whats happened," Aberdeen paused as a fit of coughing took hold of her, but continued a few moments later as if nothing happened. "I've requested a briefing from the board, but for all I know your sources within The Company may have better information.”

Shella didn't even try and pretend who her real masters were around Aberdeen. The woman saw right through her the moment they met. Now they had an understanding. Aberdeen wouldn't interfere in her other business, so long as Shella didn't spring any surprises on her.

“You need to help the Chief investigate Ross' death,” Aberdeen coached.

“I agree it is a priority.”

“No, not a priority, it is the priority. Take it from me. I've seen this sorta shit before. Your superiors are going to tell you the same thing, same as mine are telling me.”

Perhaps. Shella thought to herself, though it seemed just as likely they'd push her for more Intel on the CSCS Kowloon or whatever Jĭngtì Lóng were doing in their labs, “Because it's political?” Shella queried.

Abderdeen nodded, “Right now everything is politics. Everything we do, everything they do, is under great scrutiny. We are but pawns in the larger game here darling. They just used an illegal move to knock one of our pieces off the board. We need to prove it was foul play!”

Shella frowned, Aberdeen was so cold! In many ways she reminded her of Oliver. Thankfully she left her earbud and tablet in her own office. She was in no mood to have his voice in her head right now. “What about the Chief? He's gonna wanna take the lead on the investigation.”

“Let him. That looks more legitimate anyway, so long as he arrives at the correct conclusion.” Aberdeen stated in no uncertain terms.

Shella stifled a yawn. This was all so tiresome! The urge she felt to do right by Hank and find justice for Ross had all but evaporated. At this rate, she'd never get her primary mission done, and that's all she should really care about. Getting the fuck off this station and out from under the thumb of The Company!

“Get some sleep,” Aberdeen suggested with the same tone you would use to tell a dog to lie down.

“Sure,” Shella sighed, rising to her feet. Yet suddenly she had the urge to ask something of the older woman, “Why do you do this? What motivates you to work so hard for them, and not think for yourself?”

Aberdeen raised her brows and met Shella's eyes with disbelief, “Excuse me?!”

“Meaning no disrespect,” Shella added hastily, “Don't you ever worry about what you're getting into? Doesn't it ever bother you?”

Aberdeen leaned back in her chair frowning, “You need to get your head strait! Unburden yourself of pride, commit your work to the lord, and your plans will be established.”

“Pride?” Shella snorted, “The last thing I am is proud.”

“Are you too proud to fail?”

Shella didn't know how to answer that? In many ways she already felt like a failure. “Failure is not an option,” she said after a moment.

“Failure is a lesson.” Aberdeen countered.

“The Company does not forgive failure,” Shella argued.

“God does.”

Shella blinked, confused. What was she advocating exactly? “I don't understand what you mean?”

Aberdeen laughed, which was not a warm sound. It was a cackle, dry and full of wry judgment, “Girl, your nothin but a tree-high squirrel! You need to accept your limitations and vulnerabilities instead of hiding behind them.”

Shella felt herself glaring and getting hot under the collar. She wasn't used to be spoken too like a child or having her questions answered in riddles. This was a bullshit conversation anyway. “Forget I asked,” she said turning to leave.

“My point is,” Aberdeen said to her back. “Your askin the wrong person!”

_ _ _

Within the street market, Keren rushed through the crowds pulling her sister along behind her. Despite her painful cuts and evident bruises, Keren refused to slow down. The blue flight suits with the lettering TRAINEE stenciled across the back were discarded. They were back into their disguises now, albeit much more rumpled and disheveled than before. Clearly in distress, the pair attracted attention, but time was of the essence now. For now there was no way to leave Ashkelon station, but they had a chance at least to find somewhere to hide.

Within the heart of the street market, at the end of a small alley, between a noodle bar and a noisy live chicken coop, was a plain green door beside a bench and a small potted tree. On the door was the faded character for 'Medicine' in Chinese calligraphy. The tree was currently in bloom with fragrant flowers. Keren used to sit on this bench while her father went inside to buy herbs. Their strong, sweet scent overpowered the stink from the chicken coop.

Keren knocked loudly on the door, waiting a minute than knocking again, and again. The hour was very late now, just a few hours before dawn. The old woman inside must surely be sleeping. Sheren sat down on the bench, hugging herself with stress as much as a chill. It was a near thing that they managed to walk out of the shuttle port without being stopped.

First they dressed again into their disguises, placing the suits on again over them. They escaped the cargo bay down a maintenance access ladder above the landing skid. There, under cover beside an equipment cart, they quickly stripped off the flight suits and casually merged with the crowd of passengers disembarking from the shuttle.

At last the door opened, revealing a short, wrinkled old woman wearing a traditional, belted chinese robe with wide sleeves. Her dark eyes glared out under heavy lids, her mouth tightly pinched in a scowl within puffy, age-spotted cheeks. "Cūlǔ de rén! Nǐ wèishéme dǎrǎo wǒ?!” She barked in Chinese, scolding Keren for rudely disturbing her rest.

“Please miss Chen!” Keren said apologetically, bowing respectfully, “It's me, Keren Ho-Stern! We need your help!"

The woman peered closer, blinking in confusion, “Keren? What is the trouble?” She asked, lips moving strangely in a frustrated effort to pronounce the words in English.

“Can we come in?” Keren asked bowing once again.

The old woman paused for a moment, than nodded, opening the door wider. Sheren stood up from the bench and followed her older sister. Inside the foyer, fresh potted herbs sat in tidy rows upon shelves beside a lucky ceramic cat with an upraised paw. The shop was small and quaint, with bamboo rugs on the floor and dozens of jars of various medicines in the forms of powders, dried herbs, salves and ointments.

"Ó! Nǐ shòushāngle!” Miss Chen exclaimed with concern, noting Keren's injuries.

Sheren watched with evident relief as miss Chen immediately sat Keren down on another bench. “Zhè duì nǐ yǒu shé me hǎochù?” The grey-haired woman asked, leaning over in sandals to examine her cuts and bruises. She was angry and disgusted at whoever would do this to a young woman.

Keren didn't know what to say. It was all such a long story. She felt ashamed to be such a bother. Miss Chen stood up again, boiling a kettle preparing a cup of strong tea with Jiang Huang, Turmeric, forcing Keren to drink the whole cup. It tasted similar to ginger mixed with oranges. Miss Chen explained it would help with the pain.

Afterwards she poured the rest of the boiled water into a bowl, soaking a clean cloth. The medicine woman started humming as she cleaned each cut, dusting the wounds with a special powder, Yunnan Baiyao, which would prevent further bleeding from a traditional first aid kit. She also mixed the powder with rice wine to rub on her bruises.

From within the first aid kit she also produced a needle sterilizing it on a candle flame. Keren dutifully swallowed down a cup of the rice wine before miss Chen began the process of stitching up the worst of the cuts. Keren grit her teeth, but the old woman was quite deft and quick with her hands; leaning close to make the best of her failing eyesight.

When everything was treated with healing ointment, and bandaged, miss Chen reached for Kerens hand and gave it a motherly squeeze, “Now tell me what happened?” She asked in a strong accent.

Keren considered how to begin her tale of woe, but decided her own questions were more pressing, “My father, Guo, wrote me a letter,” she began, “It said if I was reading this, my life was in danger, and that I should come speak to you. He even said you would help me understand why he left?”

The old woman immediately stood a little taller and straighter. Her spine and shoulders, just a moment ago hunched forward, pulled back like a soldiers standing at attention. Even her eyes seemed to get brighter and more attentive as her expression hardened from elderly concern to stern focus. “Come with me!” she snapped in perfect English, suddenly without any hint of an accent.

Keren stared at miss Chen in a state of shock, the same as Sheren who moved over to take Keren's hand. What the fuck?!

Miss Chen led them back to her own bedroom, opening a closet, pulling aside the garments hanging there to reveal a false back concealing a ladder, “Hurry!” She stated, gesturing for the girls to climb down.

For a moment Keren hesitated. She sensed a terrible truth existed down that ladder. This might be her only chance to turn away.

“Guo is here on the station,” the old woman stated coaxingly in a low voice. “I can take you to him!”

Sheren gasped, clutching Kerens hand much harder. Keren couldn't believe it either. Uncertain what to think or what to believe, she decided she had to know and climbed down the ladder.

Beneath the herb shop was what could only be best described as a hidden vault of illegal military surplus. Racks of sub-machine guns and pistols were neatly arranged, freshly cleaned, oiled, and ready for use beside gas-masks, crates of ammunition, grenades, explosives and chemical weapons. All stenciled and organized plainly in Chinese characters.

In one corner was a bank of surveillance monitors covering the alley and nearby streets beside a comm terminal and a computer. Another had a punching bag beside a compact rack of weights and exercise equipment. A third had a single wooden post, heavily notched and pulverized by thrown daggers, shurikens and hatchets. Most disturbing of all, was the fourth corner, where chains and manacles hung from rings as if to hold a prisoner for questioning.

Perhaps most telling was the bright red flag with yellow stars of the Union of Progressive Peoples hanging from one wall. Miss Chen clambered down behind them and gestured to a table at the center of the room, covered in maps and schematics of the station. “Please take a seat. We have a lot to discuss," she said.