2951-05-03 – Tales from the Inbox: A Midnight Visitor

I have gotten many questions since last week’s entry about life and leisure aboard the Sagittarius Gate spaceport, and thought that I might answer a few of the most common before introducing this week’s entry.

The station’s name, officially, is Centaur Hub 2, but colloquially it’s known as the Sprawl. Centaur Hub 1 is an industrial facility built by the same firm just before the war started, and the other habitats in the system bear more standard designations.

The Sprawl is, as has been noted in these pages, home to populations of multiple Sagittarius-native sapient species, and many, many exotic pests. The Yixhari are the most common of these, but a tall, square-shouldered, lumpy-skinned humanoid known to Reach spacers as Cutters (they use scars as a form of self-ornamentation, hence the name) are perhaps the most interesting. I do hope to interview one of their more prominent representatives at some point; contact with their kind was lost in the flood of news surrounding the Lost Squadrons and I fear most of our audience has not heard of them. Their home-world is allegedly occupied by Incarnation forces, and they seem to want the Navy to help them liberate it.

 The food aboard the Sprawl is mostly the same as it is aboard ship, with a few exceptions courtesy of the gardens and a large hydroponic habitat that has been built in-system. In short, getting a salad is easy, getting a good Periclean ribeye is impossible.

The staff of the botanical garden does not, as a rule, permit poorly understood sapient species to enter their domain. This is not because there have been problems; they just don’t know whether any of their plants poses any threat to these beings. Strangely, the Nuisance (who do a good job of pretending not to know the meaning of off-limits most of the time) seem to avoid the place voluntarily. Perhaps something there really is poisonous for them.

The original main concourse of the station is actually rather small, owing to the fact that the Sprawl was never designed to grow as big as it currently is. A second concourse ring that isn’t much bigger than the first is the de-facto main area for commerce aboard, and the original has become something of a seedy locale, and despite military authorities doing their best to limit unsavory trades in Sagittarius Gate, black marketeering and other illicit activities seem to gravitate there.

Finally, yes, Sam Bosch is still with Seventh Fleet. Where he seemed destined for an Academy rotation after the Lost Squadrons were relieved, he ended up back in command of a cruiser after only a brief return journey to the Core Worlds. His new ship is the Cameron Hauer, a heavy cruiser much larger than his prior command but also much older. In fact, the ship is significantly older than Bosch himself, launched in the late 2890s. I have reached out and asked if he would like to give an interview, and he has not yet responded.

This week's entry (which we will continue for at least two successive weeks) comes from a reader back in Maribel aboard one of the civilian habitats in the outer system. Though Maribel has been raided several times, few of these habitats have been much threatened, since they are not terribly useful military targets and most of them are inconveniently placed for a marauding cruiser to perform a hit and run without subjecting itself to strike-craft harassment for a long period of time. The names used in this account have been anonymized by the sender, for reasons that may not be clear until next week's entry.

Noxolo L. blinked at the man who had been leaning on the door-chime for the last few minutes. He was tall, broad shouldered, and with that unmistakable air of officialdom which she’d learned not to have anything to do with under any circumstances. The dimmed night-cycle lighting cast his face into long shadows.

With a scowl, she hugged her robe closer to her body and slapped the door control. “Come back with a warrant. At a reasonable hour.”

The man put one huge arm in the path of the closing door panel, then used its brief hesitation to shoulder his way inside, having to duck under the regulation two-meter lintel to do so. Noxolo darted backward, emitting an effeminate squeak that would probably sound harmless and terrified. Even as she did, she flicked the safety off the stubby scattergun she’d pulled out from under her bed before answering the door. Whoever this was, whoever he worked for, would be the coroner’s business shortly.

The door hissed shut. Noxolo spun around and leveled the scattergun, bathrobe flying open. She’d never gotten the hang of pajamas, so the man would get one good look before his cranium was radically reorganized.

The man froze, hands raised. The butt of a gun protruded from a holster under his arm. “Noxie, it’s me.”

Noxolo knew that voice, even if it didn’t match the man’s stoically rectangular face. Her finger loosened its pressure on the trigger, seemingly of its own accord. “Damien?”

“I need your help and there isn’t much time.” Without lowering his hands, the man crossed one hand over the other wrist and tapped at a glowing marker on his cuff. His face shimmered, and the familiar angular, hawk-nosed features of Damien Falkner appeared there. He had a scar above his left eyebrow that hadn’t been there two years ago, and one cheekbone was puffy and discolored as if still healing from a recent bruise. He was doing his best – which had never been very good, even when Noxolo was mostly clothed – to maintain eye contact.

If Damien had expected Noxolo to drop the gun and rush into his arms, then he had never known her as well as she thought. Damien represented many pleasant memories, but also several painful ones. Instead, she lowered the weapon to point to the deck, then quickly grabbed the corners of her loose-hanging robe and held it closed over her otherwise naked body. “Stars afire, what lunacy brought you all the way out here?”

“That’s a story I’ll have to tell later.” Damien glanced meaningfully at the gun. “You’ve been practicing, I hope?”

Noxolo raised one eyebrow. “Of course.” Business had been good lately and she had gotten a bit lax with her practice sessions, but she knew she could still ace a Marine-style marksmanship drill.

Damien nodded, gesturing to the table and two chairs in the tenement’s front room. “Mind if I sit down?”

Noxolo glanced to the table, then back to Damien. One corner of her mouth tugged downward as she considered the question. After a few seconds, she shrugged and released her bath-robe to extend a hand, palm up, ignoring the fact that the garment flopped open all over again. After all, there was nothing underneath Damien hadn’t had the luxury of inspecting before, on quite a few occasions.

Damien frowned, trying to keep his eyes on her hand with extremely limited success. “My gun? Really?”

“You said there isn’t much time.” Noxolo wiggled her fingers. “So if you’re going to do the bruised ego dance, do it quickly.”

Damien sighed, then slowly pulled the gun out from his holster with two fingers. “I’ll need this back.” With one step, he crossed the distance between them and dropped the weapon into her palm.

Noxolo tucked Damien’s gun into the pocket inside her robe, then gestured with her own weapon toward the table. “Start talking, Damien, dear.” She leaned against the bulkhead, pressing one bare foot against its cool metal in a way that ensured her bare leg protruded from the opening of her robe. “I’m very curious why you think I would help you.”

Damien, his eyes not leaving Noxolo even though they took a leisurely tour of the dark skin not covered by her bath-robe, sat down at the table. As he did, his shoulders slumped, and his head drooped. “I wouldn’t have gotten you involved if there was any other way.” He paused and drew in a long, slow breath. “Everyone on this station is in danger, and I probably only have a shift or two to do something to stop it.”