Dark Coordinates Pt. 01 - The Job

"That would be wise. Shall I comm ahead to Petra and tell her to start the engines?"

"Hell no, tell her we're hitting the mess hall first. I haven't eaten in ten hours, Qo'va, and I aim to fix that."

The tall, lithe alien looked up at the recessed light fixtures over ten feet above his head as they passed by. "I suppose I could eat as well."

Frank reached up, smiling, and clapped his companion lightly on his bony shoulder. "Make the call, Stretch."

Qo'va only gave Frank another small smile as he touched his earpiece and placed a call to their communications expert.

"Petra, come in. Yes, we've just left his office, and we have work to do. No, we'll brief you and everyone else later, Frank and I are heading to the mess hall on the other side of the station; if you're hungry, you can meet us there." There was a pause. "Oh! Very good, then," Qo'va continued, "yes, we'll see you there. Over and out." He tapped the earpiece once more and looked down at his colleague.

"They'll be meeting us in approximately fifteen minutes."

"Good! Now let's hurry, otherwise I'll starve to death before we even get underway, and fuck dying broke." Frank said, grinning, as they quickened their pace along the wide, gently curving corridor, looking for the nearest lift stop.

As the lift descended, the duo did not speak to each other or anyone else who joined them along the way. Both reflected silently about the same things, however: the images of the once-ferocious dead criminal, the AP transmission, the status of the missing crew, the General's demeanor, the money, and just what exactly Ms. Staedler and her cohorts had stumbled upon that could do as much damage as it had done. It was an ominous set of circumstances, to be sure, and deep down neither Frank nor Qo'va were entirely convinced that they wanted anything to do with it.

Between the station's rings, Frank couldn't help stare out the high-stress, multi-pane polycarbonate windows into the vast darkness of space, feeling that somewhere out in that great expanse there was something staring intently back, sizing him up. That runaway part of his imagination whispered to him that nothing, not even the near-impenetrable defenses of the Shield Maiden nor its exceedingly strong shields and hull could hope to protect him from this perceived malevolence, much less his rifle and sidearm. That creeping, underlying tinge of fear he had always felt before going on treks into uncharted territory was back...though this time, he felt that it had slithered just a little bit closer to the surface.

Qo'va, on the other hand, found himself dwelling primarily upon the Medi-Tech team's postmortem photos of Raia Steadler: her missing digits, the gashes and cuts that had been partially clotted by some sort of nanobot injection, the bruising, the broken bones, the hemorrhaging in various organs...it all pointed to a truly brutal encounter, and that worried him greatly, though he did not let on to his colleague the degree to which it did. He wasn't a reckless being by nature, despite what his career choice might have implied to those outside of it; he didn't like being in over his head if he could help it at all, and it was apparent that that was precisely where Raia Staedler had been prior to her death. It bothered him, and few things had the power to do that anymore.

These were among the fears and uncertainties that the two mulled over as they descended to the lower rings of the quadrant's largest and most powerful military installation. From a distance, the station resembled a vertical tube surrounded by bone-white rings that connected to said tube via a series of short, encased sky bridges. Each ring (or in a few cases, rings) was devoted to the different needs of the Armed Wing: combat training, engineering, R&D, armory, living spaces, officer quarters/offices, and hangars. This series of spoked wheels spaced apart on one axle, while certainly monolithic and highly impressive-looking, was also among the most lethal establishments is existence: it was covered with retractable turrets, both manned and automated, that could likely obliterate anything that came looking for trouble (that was, if trouble could get past the station's formidable shield defenses). In addition, one of the hangar rings was packed with fighting craft known commonly as Hornets: small, fast, one-man ships that were fully-loaded with brutally effective beam and gauss weapons, which could tear apart just about any enemy fleet in existence.

The result of an unprecedented years-long joint venture between human and alien investors, engineers and military leaders, this command center and others like it served to send a simple message to those who would seek to make trouble for the Alliance and its citizens: stay in your holes, or we'll bury you in them.

After a short time, Frank and Qo'va disembarked at the third-to-last ring from the bottom, where the living quarters for most of the center's thousands of staff members had been established. After walking across the sky bridge to the entrance of the ring itself, they turned left down the bustling corridor full of representatives from approximately half a dozen species, all of whom were likely looking to either chow down or turn in after finishing ten to twelve-hour shifts, toward the mess hall. If there was one thing that was truly universal among all of these vastly different groups, Frank thought to himself, it was that everyone needed to kick back and get some grub after a shift.

After a few moments of walking (and occasional polite dodging), they came to the large door of the command center mess hall. As they passed through it, Qo'va spied an empty table near the entrance with enough room for the entire crew and quickly took two of the eight available seats, opposing one another. As they settled into the cushioned, egg-shaped seats, a small hovering drone made its way over to the pair, pausing at the edge of the table as if in anticipation of orders, which Qo'va made first.

"Pastrami and Swiss on sourdough, please." He remarked to the drone. Frank, smiling to himself, followed this request with one of his own for grilled chicken and a salad.

"Solid choice, man. You finally tired of BLTs?" Frank quipped after the drone had floated away to take the orders of other diners.

"Never, the BLT will always have my love. I simply desired a change. Variety is the spice of life, as your people are wont to say."

Frank chuckled, but before he could give his alien friend any more grief, a woman's voice called both of their names from the entrance of the mess hall, and they both turned in their seats to smile at the small group who had walked in to meet them.

"Hey, did you order yet?" Petra asked Qo'va as the four members of their crew sat down to join them.

"Just a moment ago," he replied, "Evening shifts seem to be ending, so you may have to wait."

"So I'm going to have to sit here and starve while I watch you wolf down another fuckin' BLT? Awesome." Grumbled Wyatt from the seat to Frank's right.

"Oh no, he went with a Reuben this time. He's mixin' it up!" Frank replied.

"You are mistaken, old friend." The alien shot back.

"What? How?"

"A Reuben is traditionally made with corned beef. You will note that I ordered pastrami."

His deadpan retort resulted in a brief bout of laughter from Frank and the rest of the group. Qo'va, far from human as he was, had been strangely enamored with sandwiches over the past six months, the most recent being the BLT. Before that it had been the French dip, before that the panini...the list went on. His taste for human fare-particularly sandwiches-had become somewhat of an inside joke between his companions, all of whom were human themselves.

When the laughter died down, Florence asked "Yeah okay, but hey Frank, Qo'va...what's up? Why'd Galloway drag us all the way back here? What was so important that he couldn't have just commed us?"

"Easy," Frank muttered back, "not here, okay? Eat, then we talk."

"I'm with Frank, I need to eat," said Clayton, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in his seat. "Whatever it is, it can wait. Man, where the fuck is that drone?"

Florence shot Clayton a dirty look, but did not ask any further questions. After a few minutes of chatter between the crew, the drone returned and took the rest of their orders. There was no more talk of business-Frank was not the type to hold back on his crew without good reason, and his reticence was a clear sign to the rest of them that something significant was about to be dropped into their laps. For now, Frank wanted simply to eat, drink, and be merry without having to relay tales of carnage within dark tracts of unknown space just yet.

***

The six-member crew of the frigate known as the Bolt looked and operated not dissimilarly from many others in the Alliance: a small group of highly-trained and heavily-armed specialists who worked together like parts in a well-oiled machine towards a very specific set of goals: money, status and adventure (but primarily money). They were known colloquially as PCs, or private contractors: crews who would, if the price was right, get just about any job done, whether it be private security, transporting cargo, bounty hunting, or any number of tasks that their employers didn't have the time, skill, or guts to do themselves.

While Frank and his crew preferred to operate within the boundaries of Alliance law (usually), it was an objective fact that some PC crews would resort to illegal activity in order to make ends meet. Those activities would frequently cross the line into outright heinousness: stories of crews that committed assassinations, engaged in outright piracy, trafficked stolen military armaments to crime syndicates, and kidnapped innocent civilians to sell as slaves in outlying territories-among other equally terrible things-were more common than the more law-abiding PC crews would have preferred. This resulted in many authority figures treating those involved in contracting work with suspicion and disdain, whether the crew in question were criminals or not. Several members of the Staedler crew had, at some point or another, been PCs themselves-and they, along with many equally unscrupulous others, had irreversibly tarnished the profession's name in the eyes of many of those in uniform. Therefore, while the Alliance acknowledged the inherent usefulness of private sector crews like that of the Bolt, they were still considered too unpredictable, too unreliable or too unorthodox to ever be treated like professionals, even if that is exactly what they were.

Frank Stigers may not have looked or always acted like a professional himself, but there was no more accurate term to describe him when it came to his results-even if men like Galloway were loath to admit it. At thirty-four years old, he was already an accomplished ship captain and pilot (and lover, in his own words), known and respected by his contemporaries as a man who could direct his crew decisively and get things done. Combining his skills, his toned musculature that had been earned through years of manual labor on his home planet of Selwyn IV, his dark, messy hair, deep brown eyes and natural wit, he was a natural leader and normally found it easy to win over anyone outside of Alliance authorities and the most hardened criminals. "And hey," he'd occasionally tell curious parties, "I can always shoot 'em if I can't charm 'em."

Frank, though, would be just as quick to inform an inquirer that he only constituted half of the leadership equation. The rest was made up by Qo'va, an alien who hailed from a race known as the Vai'ashi'i. Mirroring the close collaborative relationship that had blossomed between humanity and the Vai'ashi'i people as a whole, Qo'va had stuck with Frank through the good times and the bad over the course of many years. He was over seven feet tall (his people ranged typically from six to eight), and had a basic humanoid form, as all Vai'ashi'i did. He sported two pairs of arms: one primary, one secondary, each ending in four long, thin fingers, the former sitting just above the other on his surprisingly diminutive shoulders. His skin was a pale grey-blue, his frame slender, and his movements oddly graceful. His eyes were a deep violet, with black irises that shrouded any pupils that may have been present. From the top of his forehead to the base of his skull ran three bony parallel ridges, approximately an inch high apiece, before they turned into a series of nine-inch tendrils that served as his 'nose', which were as sensitive as a hunting dog's. And, as was a popular style among his people, he usually wore a long, semi-form-fitting robe made out of light, breathable fabric, completing his almost regal appearance.

Qo'va was second in command on the Bolt, though this was not out of nepotism on Frank's part. In truth, it was primarily because Qo'va, as was characteristic of the Vai'ashi'i people, had a knack for being cool, collected and level-headed, even under duress. His calm demeanor and slender build belied his true prowess, however. In truth, he was a ferocious combatant, both a highly capable gunfighter and a terror in hand-to-hand situations, both skills acquired through a combination of his people's mandatory military training and years of often brutal encounters with criminals. More than one shady character had discovered his propensity for ending fights the hard way after underestimating the alien due to his outward appearance (something that he was never above using to his advantage). All of these traits made him an ideal first mate, and the rest of the crew followed his orders and advice as readily as Frank's own.

Florence St. Claire was another story altogether, though. Born in Houston, Texas to a Ugandan mother and an American father, she was a dark-haired, dark-eyed spitfire with a temper the size of her home state who wouldn't think twice about breaking the nose of any man or woman who gave her grief. This occasionally put her at odds with Qo'va, who would every so often get on her case concerning her "lapses in judgment", as he called them (for example, the time in which she had laid out a drunk Volgohn whom she believed had attempted to grope her in a dive bar on Mars, but had really been grabbing clumsily for a bowl of peanuts that had been close to her chest, "or so he said!" she would shoot back). She was the Bolt's portside gunner, and it was agreed that she was the best shot among them, both in and out of a turret. Her athletic frame was frequently adorned with a bandolier bristling with .357 Magnum cartridges, a large revolver chambered in the same caliber holstered on her right hip. While she may never have worked a ranch, Florence certainly looked and acted the part of a hotheaded Texas cowgirl.

Wyatt and Clayton Schutt were the youngest of the crew, ages twenty-four and twenty-five, respectively. A pair of stocky, sandy blonde-haired brothers hailing from Kenosha, Wisconsin, they'd left the frigid cold of their hometown to join the Armed Wing of the Interplanetary Alliance as soon as they had both come of age. Both had dreamed of uniforms covered in medals and plenty of notches on their rifle stocks, but Wyatt had ended up behind the controls of an Alliance Destroyer turret instead, raining death upon hostile ships and troops from far above, instead of up close and personal with a rifle like he'd initially planned, a skill that translated perfectly to the Bolt's own starboard turret. He may not have been quite as good as Florence was with small arms, but he could match her easily in a gunners' seat.

Clayton, however, had borne witness to a near-constant parade of death and destruction, and it had been right in front of his face the entire time. He'd become a combat medic and occasional mechanic, patching holes in both flesh and metal for the Armed Wing in war zones across the universe. He'd been the most reluctant among them to join the Bolt's crew, having signed his walking papers and left the Wing wanting to take up a quiet job fixing generators, water pumps and farming equipment for any settlement that would have him. He'd decided when his terms of enlistment were up that the carnage wasn't worth the potential military accolades, and that life in the private sector was preferable. Wyatt had been insistent upon the two of them staying together upon his own exiting of military service, however, and while it had taken some convincing, he'd eventually managed to wrangle his brother into joining the crew alongside him as a maintenance technician and occasional medic, both tasks at which he'd excelled thus far. Clayton's hands stayed as filthy as they'd ever been while he had served with the Wing, sure, but the difference was that now they were only occasionally covered in blood.

Rounding out the crew was the Ukrainian-born, Mars-raised Petra Khachiyan, who had been brought on five years earlier as the Bolt's communications specialist. Her father had been a famous physicist who had relocated his family from Kiev to Maxis, the Red Planet's largest colony, in order to work on the then-developing Alliance Command Center shield defense project. Petra herself had been only two years old at the time, and the change hadn't been an entirely positive one: her father's work occupied most of his time, leaving Petra and her mother alone for sometimes days on end, when he would only come home in order to eat, sleep and go right back to work afterwards.

It hadn't helped matters when, at the age of nineteen, Petra informed her parents that after she completed her education that she planned to become a private contractor, and join up with the crew that her friend Florence had become a part of. They'd been beside themselves, neither of them viewing contracting work as stable or safe, insisting that she was squandering her potential, but Petra had made up her mind. She hadn't wanted to settle for a cushy corporate gig like so many of her classmates had, even if the pay could potentially be more substantial. She had wanted to see the universe, and Frank had held up that part of the bargain reasonably well in the intervening years. Tall, thin, and sporting bright green eyes that shone from underneath a crop of jet black hair, she shared her father's devotion to the job and kept the communications equipment on board the Bolt in tip-top shape, claiming that no other PC crew kept cleaner and better-optimized consoles than she did.

Soon, their food arrived and they were chowing down, Frank morbidly wondering at one point if any of his crew mates would be sickened enough at the sight of Raia Staedler's autopsy photos to induce vomiting. No, he thought, they were of stronger stock than that. They'd be just fine.

***

"Cap, is that-?"

"Yeah, it is."

Wyatt went silent, his eyes as wide as those of his three crew mates who hadn't been present in Galloway's office that afternoon. They could only stare silently, in awe and disgust, at the collage of images being displayed via the projector built into the table that they now sat around. The only sounds were those of the Bolt's various systems working away in the background, humming quietly while the crew were left to comprehend the sights of brutality in front of them.

They had returned to their craft not long before, and had left the Command Center behind. After they were out in open space, Qo'va had called a meeting in the frigate's command room, whereupon Frank had insisted that they all sit down before he would discuss their upcoming mission. It might have seemed dramatic at the time, but after the images had come up, it was clear that he'd been right to do so. The four of them couldn't quite believe what they were seeing. After a moment, Petra spoke.

"Mother of God. What...what happened to her? She looks as if she's been mauled!"