All My Sins Remembered (5 page)

“Too many of us have not come home.” he whispered.  Then, as if realizing what he said, he blinked his eyes a couple of times and fixed Tasha with a cold stare. 
Twinkling blue eyes met brown for a few silent moments before Tasha shifted her gaze to stare slightly above the Commander’s head.  Perhaps unconsciously, Tasha felt her stance stiffen into something close to attention, unsure of whether or not she should have heard his whispered words.  So she did the only thing she knew to do, acted as if her superior officer had said nothing at all.

Sensing her growing discomfort, Nathan rumbled, “As you were.” and abruptly left the bridge.  Tasha’s stance relaxed as she stared at the door the Commander had exited through for a few long moments, and then slowly walked towards the exit while letting a lingering hand slide across the top of the coms station of the bridge with a sad look on her face as memories filler her mind.

“I just wished some of us could have come home.” She whispered sadly.  Bowing her head a moment, a tear coursed unbidden down her cheek before she could stop it.  Taking a deep, shaky breath and wiping away her tear, she squared her shoulders and purposefully left the bridge to tour the rest of the ship.

***

Hawke leaned back in his chair at the head of the briefing table with his feet propped up on it as he puffed on a Domidor, one of the finest cigars money could buy in this part of the Republic.  Not that he was given to smoking, but once in a while he indulged himself, maybe to the grand total of three or four times a standard year.  Given recent events, Hawke felt the need to kick back and relax a few moments while he waited for his officers to arrive.  The frantic pace of the last few hours found him a little tired.  Maybe he
was
getting a little old, he thought.  But no, he was only fifty-eight years old, which made him a little less than middle aged thanks to the wonders of modern medical technology.  If he was lucky, he would live until the ripe old age of 160, or 170, maybe even longer.  It depends on whether or not he could keep from getting shot.  Hawke was savoring a particularly long draw on his cigar when the door to the briefing room swung open on squeaky hinges as the ship’s senior officers made their way in.  Like Hawke, they weren’t too happy about being strong armed into another mission either, but every member of the Talons were professionals, and knew to keep their sentiments to themselves.

First to enter was Hawke’s newest
Marine officer, a man of Asian descent named Raijan Kemai.  He would be serving as the
Black Wave’s
tactical officer, though he still looked uncomfortable wearing the silver bar of a Second Lieutenant.  A former citizen of the Rejai Empire, Hawke met him during a rescue mission the Talons had been tasked with, and Raijan simply stayed when all the other rescued captives disembarked.  Hawke never really made an issue of it, and instead just made arrangements for him to be added to the company’s payroll as a Lance Corporal.  That was nearly five standard years ago, and since then Raijan had served with the Talons, exhibiting a knack for small group tactics, and astounding skill in hand to hand combat.  Recognizing this, Hawke quickly promoted him through the ranks.  Now, Raijan always served as tactical officer for whatever ship Hawke’s flag was on, even if his rank didn’t befit his station.

Of course there was Nathan Schultz, who stepped into the room after Raijan and looked around, looking his normal irritable self as he absently scratched at his beard.  He was Hawke’s rudder when he needed some advice
, helping him stay the course.  Bringing up the rear was James “Gordy” Gordon, Hawke’s chief engineer.  This man he trusted with keeping his small fleet running.  Give him a welding torch and some tin and Hawke would swear that the man could build a life pod to escape a ship while it was burning down around them, and never panic.  Gordy had a strange knack for always being one step ahead of him, no matter how impossible it seemed.  Hawke remembered him once saying, “Either we die, or we don’t, but until we do, I’ll work on keeping this bucket of bolts from falling apart.”  Which he did, time and again.

“Come in gentlemen.  Take a seat.” Hawke said, waving them to chairs around the table with cigar in hand.  As his senior officers were seated, Hawke sighed and reluctantly took his feet off the table, swinging them down to stand up.  Smothering his cigar and setting it aside, he began pacing, hands clasped behind his back.

“You all know why we’re here.  We’ve got a job to do.” Hawke began.  “We have been tasked with the destruction of a ship.  According to Naval Intelligence-” Hawke broke off as Nathan barked a laugh and mumbled something derogatory about Naval Intelligence.  The others chuckled, and Hawke allowed himself a small smile before continuing.  Every one of them had been bitten by what passed for ‘intelligence’ in the Gadari Republic’s Navy.  Raijan had even gone so far as to fielding a proposal to develop their own intelligence gathering apparatus, but Hawke had never been able to justify the expense.

“According to Naval Intelligence, this ship is responsible for the destruction of no fewer than forty-three ships ranging from cargo scows to a battleship.”  Hawke continued. Tapping a few buttons on the console in the middle of the table, four holographic displays projected themselves into the air, one facing each side of the table, showing the compiled report of all the ships listed as ‘destroyed’ or ‘missing’ that were localized to a few systems.  “No one seems to know anything about this ship, though Commander Schultz and I suspect that it is approximately the size of your average battlecruiser, capable of cloaking, and has solid firepower for a ship of its size.” Hawke paused a few moments as his words began to sink in, and then, predictably, there was a minor explosion as all the officers began talking all at once.  Hawke let it go for a few moments before slamming the palm of his hand down on the tabletop with a loud CRACK, making everyone jump and turn towards him.

“Yes, it’s impossible with our current technology.  Or at least, it was, but now we know that it is not.” Hawke acknowledge.  “And yes,” he added, holding up his hand to forestall more excitable comments from Gordy, “I know what that means.  To be honest, the thought of it scares me.”  Gordy swallowed hard, and settled back in his chair.  Of them all, only Nathan had kept silent.

“What we need to know, is
why
this ship is going around destroying other ships, and, perhaps more importantly,
who
this ship belongs to.” Hawke said.  Turning his eyes back towards the holographic display, Hawke tapped a finger on a tab in the report, which then displayed a map of the region in which the attacks took place.

“The following will show the attacks on a week by week basis, up to the most recent reports we have.” Hawke announced as he tapped a button on the display.  On the map, a light yellow overlay was superimposed on the map, followed quickly by a light green one, light gray, and so on, until every week was superimposed on the regional map, each with its own color.

“What do you see?” Asked Hawke.  The officers studied the map for a few moments before Raijan leaned back with a faint smile on his face.

“They overlap in a central location.” Raijan quietly responded.   Gordy nodded in agreement, his brows lowered in thought.

“They still need logistical support.” Gordy offered. “The overlap can help us narrow our search.”  Hawke nodded, then caught Nathan’s surprised look.

“Nate?” Hawke prompted.  Nathan folded his arms across his chest and a slow smile spread across Nathan’s face.

“They made a mistake.” He announced.  “Their attacks overlap near Gitmo.”  The other officers looked a little confused, but Hawke nodded knowingly as he navigated back to the original report and tapped a finger on one of the systems listed in there.  The display changed to show that system’s star chart.  There were assorted asteroid belts, a gas giant, and a second planet with an orbiting moon.  Hawke selected the planet with the moon.  The display responded by zooming in on the planet.  The officers could all see the planet was of average size, and extremely green.  The moon looked to have some kind of station built on it.

“This is Amazon.” Hawke said, indicating the planet. “For the most part, it is unremarkable, except for the fact that the planet is inhabited almost entirely by predatory animals, some nearly as large as a small frigate.” Several officers raised eyebrows, but said nothing as Hawke touched the holographic display of the moon, which automatically froze its rotation around the planet. “And on this moon there is a space station.” Hawke added, waving a finger at the station on the display, “It is called Gitmo, and that is where we are going to find some of our answers.”

Gitmo
is actually a moon that orbits Amazon, whose predatory life forms are deemed too dangerous to allow colonization.  Not that it was never attempted, but rather the attempt had gruesome consequences.  When the discovery of the planet, and its moon, located on the fringes of Gadari space was first publicized, a travel company called High Adventure Expeditions had submitted a claim for building rights for both the moon and the planet it orbited.  The idea was that guests could stay at the resort on the moon, garnering spa-like environments in their three large biomes, allowing their guests views of a vast stretch of space filled with stars and colorful nebulas, as well as a wonderful view of Amazon, the planet around which the moon orbited, all while getting treated to massages, golf courses, five star accommodations, and five star restaurants.  There were also a choice of several different dance and night clubs for those so inclined.  When not enjoying leisurely activities on the moon, guests could charter guided adventures down on Amazon, which was named for its predominant rainforests and other tropical climates.  Guests could book adventures such as hiking, camping, rock climbing, and whitewater rafting.

At first, things went well for the company.  The resort on the moon was quickly completed, and was soon doing a great deal of business even before planetary structures had begun construction.  Unfortunately, that is where the their luck had run out, and the company soon abandoned operations due to a horrible disaster.  It seemed that the larger predatory animals had no qualms with eating humans, resulting in several fatalities among the construction crews before they could be pulled off the planet.  In retrospect, perhaps the company should have done a more thorough study of the animal life on Amazon.  Some of these predatory animals rivaled the ancient earth Tyrannosaurus Rex both in size, and demeanor.

Soon after the
incident, the company ceased operations, it sold its facilities on Amazon’s moon to a company that built and maintained correctional facilities across the Gadari Republic.  After repurposing the station on the moon, it was quickly populated with the worst scum the galaxy had to offer.  Murderers, rapists, and more called the once spa-like environs home, and soon gained the name “Gitmo” after some obscure reference to an ancient earth prison in which societies worst criminal element were incarcerated.  After nearly twenty years, the Navy discovered that the prison were summarily dumping inmates on death row onto Amazon, and secretly broadcasting the prisoner's battle for survival against the predators that made Amazon their home.  The warden then ran a gambling operation, taking bets on how long the prisoner would survive.  Raiding the prison moon, the Navy quickly apprehended all involved, transported the inmates to less inhospitable environments, and then shut Gitmo down for good.  Soon afterwards, the company that owned the now defunct prison facility collapsed, and Gitmo lay forgotten.

Gitmo's vacancy lasted for about ten years, until it found
new residents of similar stripe as its last occupants.  There were pirates, smugglers, members of terrorist groups, as well as a thriving black market on which you could buy nearly everything, all well away from the prying eyes of any kind of law enforcement.  Gitmo was also a good place to pick up information and rumors, for a price of course, which is why the Black Wave was docking a Gitmo.

***

Mike Archer, the owner of Archer’s Tavern, was an anomaly and an irony rolled into one.  He was considered to be about the only honest man in a place awash with people who trade on crime and lies, and it was Mike’s unique reputation of being impartial, fair, and honest that resulted in a majority of shady deals being arbitrated or mediated by Mike.  For a fee, of course.  In essence, he made sure both buyer and seller get what they agreed to, and if not, Mike typically found himself mediating the sale so that there was no bloodshed.  At least, there was no bloodshed while both parties were trying to complete the deal with his help, and under the watchful gaze of the few people he employed to make sure all went smoothly.  As a rule, both buyer and seller were prohibited from bringing any of their own enforcers, and they abided by that rule.  Before long, everyone had come to realize that Mike’s Tavern had somehow become a central hub for most of the large transactions that took place on Gitmo.  After all, it was an accepted fact that nearly everyone there were criminals, and no one trusted the other to live up to their obligations, yet everyone wanted to make sure the money flowed smoothly.

As important as Mike Archer’s services were, there was another oddity to
Mike, perhaps a byproduct of his commitment to honesty, and that was that he answered any question, if he knew the answer, making him a good source of information.  If you wanted to know what goods were flowing where, who was buying what, and for how much, everyone knew you could ask Mike.  In fact, you could ask Mike just about anything that happened on Gitmo, and he would likely have an answer, or at least a partially formed opinion based on his own observations.

Of course this honesty had caused no small amount of problems for some of the criminal enterprises on Gitmo, especially among rival factions, but no one moved against Mike because of how important his services had become.  It was quite the contrary, in fact.  Most of the more powerful criminal enterprises actively worked to keep Mike safe, so that the money would keep flowing.  After all, without Mike in the mix of things, most transactions would probably implode, and the amount of
bloodshed would rise astronomically as war broke out between rival factions.  Instead, Mike provided safe transactions for everyone willing to follow his three simple rules: First, do not bring enforcers.  Second, do not bring weapons, and third, be prepared to complete your transaction.  Failure to observe any of these rules, and Mike would cancel the transaction, and force everyone out of his Tavern.  If breaking Mike’s simple rules become a habit, Mike would stop doing business with you altogether, and few could afford that.

In the mornings, business was slow in Archer’s Tavern.  Most of his patrons were
usually still sleeping off their indulgences from the night before, which is why the newcomers that walked briskly into his tavern came as a bit of a surprise for Mike, who stood behind the bar.  He was a thin, balding man with brown hair, and a pot belly that made him look more like a cartoon character rather than a serious business man.  Pausing in the act of wiping down glasses, Mike looked over the newcomers and rightly pegged them as mercs.  The fact that all three were clean cut, clean shaven, and obviously fit told him they were soldiers of some type, a belief enforced by the side arms they wore.  He recognized the side arms as being Magauss pistols.  The fact that they had arrived early told him they either didn’t drink, or that their ship had just docked.  In either case, a merc who didn’t drink was either supremely disciplined, or on the job.  The man with the crew cut and graying hair was the one obviously in charge, as he noticed the other two looking to him for direction.

Resuming his work in wiping down the glasses and sliding them into the storage racks above the bar, Mike watched them out of the corner of his eye.  They looked around, and then the two accompanying the man in charge moved, one to the left of the door, and one to the right, and found seats at a table that faced the room and
put their backs to the wall.  Yup, Mike thought, they were professionals.  Sitting like that allowed them to see the whole room, as well as allowed them the chance to get the jump on anyone that walked in the door.  Mike noticed the stenciled company logo on the front of their olive garrison utilities, and couldn’t help but allow a brief look of surprise cross his face when he recognized the Talon's crest.  He knew they would never frequent a place like Gitmo, unless there was a very specific reason for doing so.  The man in charge noticed Mike behind the bar, and strolled up with a smile and a polite nod.

“Good morning.” The man said quietly.  Mike finished polishing another glass and slid it into the storage rack.  Leaning thin forearms on the bar, Mike tried to make himself look a little bigger, which was much like a stork trying to flex its muscles.

“What can I do for you, Mr…?” Mike asked.  The man pulled out a steel barstool and sat.  Like most stations, the furniture was made of mostly metal.  In a bar, that was a double-edged sword, as furniture rarely broke, but people often did whenever a good old fashioned barroom brawl broke out.  There had been more than a few fatalities at Archer’s Tavern over the years by being whacked in the head by a steel chair or barstool before the Tavern’s bouncers could restore order, though most of the time Archer’s Tavern was a place of order.

“Just call me Hawke.” Hawke supplied.  “Do you have any Mallen Mead?”  Mike nodded.

“Twenty credits a glass.” Mike answered.  Hawke looked surprised, as well he should, for usually you could get a whole bottle of Mallen Mead for that much.

“It costs a lot to get, and I rarely have ample supplies.” Mike offered apologetically.  Grimacing, Hawke nodded and waved his hand over the RFID reader, and then pressed a button on the touch screen approving the transaction.  Giving Hawke a friendly smile, Mike reached under the bar, pulling out a bottle and retrieved a freshly polished glass from the storage racks overhead, filling it to the brim.  Raising his glass to the bartender in gratitude, Hawke drank fully half the glass before sitting it down with a satisfied sigh.

“Thank you.  You do not know how much I’ve been craving that.” Hawke said.

“I mean no disrespect, friend, but you did not come here for the mead.”  Mike said, a knowing look on his face.

“True.” Hawke admitted, with a faint smile. “The mead was an extra bonus.  For now, the mead is enough.”  Mike nodded, understanding that Hawke wanted to be left alone for a bit while he enjoyed the rest of his mead.  He knew Hawke would get down to business sooner or later, when he was ready.  Hawke nursed his drink for another thirty minutes before he finished it with a sigh, and pushed the glass slightly away from him, signaling Mike that he was done, and ready to talk.  Drifting over towards Hawke, Mike picked up the glass, and set it aside.

“Well, I guess I just wanted to chat a bit.” Hawke finally said.  Mike nodded, suspecting as much.

“About anything in particular?” Mike asked, having played this game many time before.

“A ship.  A
particular
ship.  It may have only started coming around in the past few months.” Mike shrugged, a clueless expression on his face.

“You have to give me more than that.  Some of these crews arrive with new ships every time they dock.” Mike replied.  Hawke hesitated for a moment, and then answered.

“The stories I’ve heard says the ship can disappear into the blackness of space.” Hawke offered.  Mike nodded and his expression grew a little more serious, and did not immediately respond.

“That’s probably the
Guan Yu
.  She's painted black, and has only just recently begun frequenting the station every so often.” Mike said, and then hesitated before adding,   “I wouldn’t mess with them.  Their crew is not what you would consider average pirates.” Hawke nodded, then catching Mike's last statement looked curious.

“What do you mean?” Hawke asked.

“For starters, all of the crew members I’ve seen are Rejaian.  Second, they carry themselves with military precision, and third, they have a full squad of ground pounders.  If I had to guess, those ground pounders have only the best of gear.”  Mike replied.  Hawke stared at his empty glass as he processed everything Mike had said.  It sounded like the ship was a Rejaian Navy ship, an idea further reinforced by the name of the ship,
Guan Yu
, but the squad of soldiers is what Hawke was worried about.  A Rejaian Naval ship did not carry PMC personnel, as a rule.  Thus, these soldiers could only be Rejaian Special Ops, which Hawke knew had to be impossible, because the Rejai Empire had disbanded all of their standing armies, just like everyone else except the Mandil.

“Do you know when the Guan Yu will be coming back?” Hawke asked.  Mike began to shake his head no, but then stopped as a thought occurred to him.

“Actually, I think it may be due here in a day or two.  A freighter, the
R.E.S. Choyo
just docked yesterday.  One of the crew members had a bit too much to drink, and I think I overheard him say something about waiting for the
Guan Yu
to arrive.  He was not happy, because only one shift in three could disembark at any one time.” Mike smiled, but then cut a sharp look at Hawke.

“That’s all I am willing to offer, my friend.  Another mead?” Mike offered.  Hawke smiled as he waved his hand over the RFID reader again, and set to work draining another glass of mead.

An hour, and a few more glasses of mead later, Hawke made his exit and walked down the street with his two Marines following.  That was the peculiarity of Gitmo.  The central biome actually had grass, trees, and cobblestone streets, which was a strange juxtaposition against the kind of people that made the station their home, or frequently did business here.  There was even a plaza with a nice water fountain in it, or would have been, had it been operational.  Surrounding the plaza were several shops selling a variety of wares ranging from legal to illegal, though Hawke really didn’t pay attention to any of them.  Instead, he was trying to focus his thoughts on what he should do next.  Unfortunately, he was finding it a little difficult.

The truth is, he had drunk a bit too much at Archer’s Tavern, in the hopes that Mike would be willing to chat more, but Mike did not offer any further information.  Now, Hawke tried his best to focus his mind and ignore the wonderfully warm feeling that had spread throughout his body, as well as the lightheaded feel he had.  The mead had a little more punch to it than he had realized, and he was mildly embarrassed that he had miscalculated how much he could drink before starting to feel the effects of it.  He suspected that things would become worse before they became better.  He just hoped that his speech was not as slurred as his thinking felt.  Showing that kind of weakness on Gitmo could be detrimental to your health.