Ashkelon Station: In Orbit of GL382

07/22/2183

Keren Ho-Stern walked slowly through the outer corridors of Ashkelon’s spaceport, elbows thrust out with attitude, hands stuffed into the pockets of a retro-punk black leather jacket. Beneath her skirt, fishnet stockings wrapped around long shapely legs with high-heeled flats pumping up her ankles.

At twenty two years of age Keren was still young enough to flaunt an attitude with aplomb. Her hair, wavy and black, was full of body and teased to fly about her shoulders wildly. Her eyes, dark and intelligent were accentuated by mascara, eye-liner and shimmering-purple eye shadow. These colors contrasted nicely against pale skin with blushed cheeks and cherry-red lips.

At five feet ten inches tall, even without the heels, Keren stood a few inches over others in the crowd. Though not exactly beautiful, Keren was pretty in her own way and well-proportioned. A ‘handsome girl’ was the phrase most commonly used by her relatives. Many of her features took after her Chinese father, especially her rounded chin and strong jawline. Her look of strength was matched by an excellent physique, worthy of an athlete or a soldier. Keren was neither exactly, but a bit of both. She was a fighter; more specifically, a brawler well-trained in the martial arts.

A few whistles and cat-calls of approval reached her ears as Keren entered her favorite spacers-club, Dizzy’s. Recognizing the voices as fellow spacecraft techs, Keren casually threw up a middle finger in their general direction and headed for the bar. Beneath her feet black floor tiles were outlined in squares of glowing white. Similarly, the surface of the two dozen tables and the bar itself were frosted synthetic crystal imbedded with fiber optic strands and pressure sensors. Each time an object touched them ripples of light spread across the surface.

At the center of the club was the dance floor, made up of luminous white tiles beneath elaborate laser light shows. Two levels of six tables each rose up on either side settled into half-booth-alcoves beneath dim spot lights. Around the dance floor was a broad handrail, suitable to lean against while observing the dancers. Anyone standing by this handrail was within the spread of lasers and spotlights circling above. By contrast the rest of the club was heavily shadowed. One could move around the place in relative obscurity, only revealing yourself once you decided to sit down or stand near the dance floor.

Patrons of every sort wandered in here from the spaceport attracted by the glitzy lighting, the music and the drinks. It was a fun place to loiter and observe others. Local residents from the station made up the bulk of the usual customers. Now things were changing. New visitors arrived to the station nearly every day and their numbers were growing. Keren didn’t mind. She enjoyed the attention of strangers. Her bold attire and makeup was her way to project herself as approachable and interesting. Every weekend was a different costume.

Once sat upon a stool at the bar Keren noted two other women dressed in similarly skimpy flashy outfits. They glared in her general direction and whispered something to each other. Keren ignored them. They were working girls no doubt. Ashkelon Station had its fair share but they needn’t worry. Keren had no interest in interfering in their business much as it might appear otherwise.

“…Wow sis,” a snarky voice admonished as a younger version of Keren strolled up holding a tray of empty glasses. Sheren was her sister, younger by four years. Shorter and sweeter she always said. Her hair was trimmed up above her shoulders with natural curls. It was not black, but rather a deep chestnut brown. Her face was cuter, more feminine, more like their mother.

Keren reacted to her comment with a curl at the edge of her lips intimating a smile. Slight as that expression might seem such an involuntary twitch felt like a total break of discipline for Keren. She loved it as much as she would never admit it.

“Something wrong with the way I look?” Keren asked with a sidelong glance across her shoulder.

Sheren’s eyebrows shot up as she grimaced, “No nothing at all, nothing that should bother you of course.” She coughed holding back a laugh.

“Whatever!” Keren snapped.

Undeterred Sheren slid her tray of glasses unto the bar puffing her breath out cheerfully. “Everyone’s looking at you,” Sheren smirked. “Imagine if mother could see you now…”

Keren refused to alter her expression. This was the game they played ever since they were little girls. It all started when Keren stood outside on the doorstep wearing mother’s clothes, jewelry and makeup. Neighbors laughed and strangers stared as little Sheren watched from the window, giggling, amused by her older sisters antics. Later it wasn’t so funny anymore.

Sheren remembered the hushed discussions between their parents, the counselors and therapists who tried to help. Keren never grew out of her need to dress up. Childhood on Temple, (the world marked on the star charts as GL382) was far from easy to begin with. Adding to the family stigma only made it worse. Keren’s decision to move up to Ashkelon Station with their father, Guo, after the divorce six years ago was something of a relief to Sheren.

A lean dark figure approached from behind the bar dressed in slacks, white wing-tip shoes and a burgundy/purple velvet shirt. At his wrists were genuine ivory cufflinks as he reached up to tip his tweed ivy cap.

“…my-my-my...” He spoke smoothly through a familiar grin, “You’ve outdone yourself this time Keren.”

“Thanks Dizzy,” Keren said gratefully to her old friend.

Sheren smirked, rolling her eyes, “At least make her buy a drink if she’s gonna sit here all night starting trouble.”

“I’m sure I don’t need you telling me who has to buy drinks in my own place,” Dizzy said firmly as he removed the empty glasses from her tray. “Looks like you have more work to do anyway, get to it!” He stated leaving no room for argument.

Sheren scowled, pursing her lips together testily as she whirled away again, tray in hand.

“Sorry she’s such a pain in the ass,” Keren remarked apologetically. Having Sheren living with her and working at her favorite place to relax wasn’t easy.

“I’d say she’s just jealous,” Dizzy winked.

“How about a Pomegranate Martini?” Keren asked, changing the subject.

“You’ve got it!”

Before the divorce, Guo would bring Keren up with him to the station for a few days at a time. After his shift working private security they’d sit here at the bar talking to Dizzy. Once or twice Dizzy bought her a dress for her birthday. His wardrobe connections back in the Core Systems were legendary.

“You look sad,” Dizzy said as he made her drink.

Keren nodded, “I’ve been thinking about Eva.”

“Yes I heard there won’t be a memorial this year. Is that what’s bothering you?”

“It’s not fair!” Keren snarled balling her hand into a fist.

“Easy!” Dizzy said handing her the martini disarmingly.

Keren drank it down in three gulps.

“Look I know you miss her.” Dizzy said consolingly, adding, “Guo’s been missing too. It’s hard to imagine loosing a best friend and a father within a year of each other.”

Keren stared at the empty martini glass, bitterness welling up inside her.

Dizzy poured her another as a waitress called out for him. “Just relax, I’ll be back to check on you soon,” he said, reaching over to give her shoulder a squeeze.

The mysteries of what happened to Eva and her father never ceased to haunt Keren. The fact Guo was something of a mercenary; a refugee from the Union of Progressive People’s caused no end of drama for the family. For starters, Keren’s mother, Haylia, came from an orthodox Jewish family. For someone like her to marry a foreigner (and a former communist at that) shocked the community.

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By all accounts their wedding was very small and very cheap. Guo had no family and very few of Haylia’s kin could stomach the sight of him. What few mutual friends they had did their best to make it a festive affair, Dizzy being the best of them. Though he rarely spent much time outside his club since those days, Dizzy had a great memory and a talent for sharing stories. Keren learned more about her own parents from him than anyone else, including a few details about their early marriage. On the few occasions he described that period, before she and Sheren were born, Keren couldn’t help but notice he was usually itching to reach for bourbon. She also knew for a fact he wouldn’t dare speak about it if Guo was still here.

A warbling static sounded over speakers above the bar and elsewhere in the club followed by the haughty, imperious voice of Executor, the stations AI.

…Attention, unclassified vessel approaching Ashkelon Station. Priority-Alpha docking status. Access to all decks.

…and then the message repeated.

Executor only used the term, ‘unclassified’ to describe craft with confidential or classified registries. In the ICSC these could include any vessel carrying corporate executives, exceptionally high-value cargo haulers, survey and reconnaissance craft, expensive research vessels, prototype spacecraft, or any ship of their own military.

Whenever Executor pronounced arrivals as if rolling out a red carpet Keren visualized Elsie rolling her eyes back in spacedock control. Executor’s aloof, matter-of-fact tone set the status-quo as clearly as its own programming. Executor was more than a mere functionary or facilitator; it was the gatekeeper to the whole station. It was even possible the announcement occurred before the station administrator was even aware of the arrival.

Straightening up in her posture Keren looked towards the large outer viewports hoping to catch a glimpse of this ‘unclassified’ vessel. It didn’t take long. It was at least twice the size of an M-Class freighter, bristling with long-range antennae and sensor arrays. The sight of it furrowed her brow and piqued her curiosity.

Her sense of melancholy forgotten Keren slipped off the stool and walked around the bar to get a closer look. A few others had the same idea. Past the thick synthetic quartz glass the warship drifted closer. There was no doubt it could be anything else, though the exact type and design was unfamiliar to her. The ICSC’s ‘Navy’ was little more than a ragged, disparate fleet of older mercenary destroyers, each employed by individual corporations within the CSC. Compared to those old wrecks, this was something else entirely.

Ashkelon Station may have been at the edge of known space but it was also near to Liberty Echo, main naval base of the United Americas Outer Rim Defense Fleet. Colonial Marine warships passed near the station fairly regularly, and Keren was more aware than most civilians about their armaments and capabilities. She was able to identify the difference between a laser or a rail gun turret, but there were only a few of those visible on the sleek hull. One very large, prominent cannon barrel of some sort extended out from the nose by at least twenty five meters.

“Looks like a Marlin!” A voice to her right commented with a slight drawl and half a chuckle.

Keren recognized the voice of Ross Henry Karnes before she even glanced over to confirm it. She was a tad bit surprised at how easily he moved up in her blind spot. Keren wasn’t usually caught off guard. The ICC supervisor was dressed casually (of a fashion) in cowboy boots, denim jeans and a grey/green patterned long sleeve shirt. Around his waist was a genuine cow-hide belt with a broad steel buckle. Some of the other inspectors took to calling him ‘Red’ due to his ginger-colored hair.

“What’s a Marlin?” She asked.

“It’s a fish! Or should I say, was a fish before pollution and over-fishing killed them off,” he explained producing a pack of cigarettes tapping on the bottom in the highly ritualized and measured way a practiced smoker did. “They had great long spears jutting out from their skulls which meant you had better be careful pulling one unto your boat.”

Meanwhile the sleek warship drew close enough for an extended docking umbilical, carefully firing its thrusters to match the stations precise orbit above GL382. Upon its smooth charcoal-grey hull there was little in the way of identifying markings or insignia except for two things. Upon the tallest sail like structure amidships was a stylized orchid-flower, bright red-over-white with five petals. Most tellingly, near the bow, the words USCS Kowloon were stenciled boldly in white.

Keren found herself intrigued by this fish Ross spoke of as much as this new ship. She knew he was referring to the great oceans of Earth of course, not that she’d ever had the pleasure of visiting that blue planet. Out here there was almost nothing in the way of nature to learn about, much less see with her own eyes. “How large were they?” she asked.

Ross expertly flicked two cigarettes up out of his pack and gestured towards her politely. She noted the brand was one of the few still made from genuine earth-grown tobacco. Despite the fact she never particularly liked him she found herself reaching for one. Ross was arrogant and uptight most of the time. He cursed at her and the other techs in the loud, self-important way some men from Texas were known to do.

“They were plenty big!” he says with a slight grin. “The Atlantic Blue Marlin could reach over five meters in length and weigh over eight hundred kilograms. More impressive still, they were some of the fastest swimmers in the sea.”

Keren leaned close towards him as he lifted an old-fashioned zippo lighter towards her politely. The scent of booze was on his breath but she also noted he wasn’t stealing a glance down her low-cut blouse. In fact he wasn’t much looking at her at all, and not because he was embarrassed. She realized at that moment that he hadn’t yet recognized her. How funny.

“So they could easily kill a man?” she asked taking a puff of the flavorful smoke. Damn these are good cigarettes.

“Definitely!” Ross said lighting one for himself. “Swordfish could also injure you, think of those as the Marlin’s little cousins, but the Marlin was such a powerful swimmer it could leap out of the waves unto your boat before you were ready for it. In such a case, once it started thrashing and thrusting that spear-bill; the odds of survival, you might say, shifted slightly to its favor.”

Keren smiled. She liked this mental image.

Ross added, “I even read one account of a Marlin yanking a professional sport-fisherman overboard after his gloved hand got entangled in the wire leader attached to the hook. The fish didn’t even need to spear him dead. It just dragged him down into the depths to drown.”

“And ‘fishing’ was something people on Earth often did?” she asked raising a brow.

Ross grinned again, this time looking at her for a few moments as he exhaled before answering, “Ernest Hemingway once wrote, ‘You did not kill the fish only to keep alive and to sell for food. You killed him for pride and because you are a fisherman. You loved him when he was alive and you loved him after. If you love him, it is not a sin to kill him.'”

Keren stared at Ross with a baffled look. She had no idea who Ernest Hemingway might have been, but what he said made a strange kind of sense to her, even if she couldn’t quite fathom why. Keren remembered her own mother once told her there was great truth in old literature. Perhaps she was right.

Ross took advantage of the pause to change the subject. “Any idea what kind of ship that is?” he asked in a half-bored conversational tone. His eyes however took far greater interest. Keren noted the way his gaze poured over every detail, same as hers. It was lucky coincidence she happened to be standing here in one of the best spots to observe a docking ship. She had a keen appreciation for all things spacecraft-related and something like this was a rare sight indeed.

“Looks to be a derivative of a Chun-ying class destroyer, highly modified. The central bridge superstructure is much larger and bulkier, likely in no small part because of all those added sensor arrays. No doubt there are more signals analysis computer banks and personnel on board. The main drive section is entirely new. Normally there are five fusion-rocket motors, this one has six spaced out around an even larger central rocket of some kind. Looks unusual, I am not familiar with its type, but you can see how distended it is from the central hull. They have tried to disguise it by extending the rearward armor apron further back but it’s still obvious how massively over-sized that engine is.”

“I see… what else?” he prodded.

“Well there are less weapon turrets to speak of. Normally the Chun-ying has eight point-defense laser arrays, this one has only five.”

“What is the reason for that?”

“Well its common sense, those arrays are primarily defensive against enemy missiles or rail gun rounds. You place them everywhere you expect an angle of attack. Destroyers are faster and more maneuverable than the big ships. They zip around and through enemy lines, harrying the larger ships, drawing their fire away from their own support ships as much as possible. They expect to be fired on a lot from every angle. This ship only has a few on the bow and two on the stern because I expect it won't be engaging at close range or in large sorties.”

Ross nodded, “Because of that big cannon right?”

“Right, although I don’t know if it’s really a ‘cannon’ exactly, but it’s obviously a very big gun that isn’t mounted on a turret. This ship will have to aim itself at a target and won’t have the luxury of dodging while it does so. It may even be true that the weapon has such a range advantage it defeats the prospect of a counterattack.”

“I see you know your warships,” he commented appreciatively.

“I know a lot more than you ever gave me credit for, …Ross,” she stated in as much of a neutral tone as she could manage. From the corner of her eye she watched him do something of a double-take as he tried to remember where he might have met her before? She decided to let him wonder as she walked back towards the bar.

Murmurs of commotion caught her attention as a dozen or so armed men, and women, entered the club. Through the flashing lights above the dance floor she glimpsed black uniforms and automatic rifles. Though not held at the ready or otherwise brandished in a threatening manner, the sight of AK-4047 pulse assault rifles was still a sobering sight.

The soldiers, or naval commandos to be more accurate, split up into four groups, one of which approached the bar as the others went into a search pattern around the dance floor. Keren recognized their uniforms as ICSC Defense Fleet standard issue with the logo of the Jĭngtì Lóng Corporation; a stylized orchid-flower with five petals, bright red-over-white. She also noted one sailors’ cap read CSCS Kowloon.