Keller Hub shouldn't have been good for much more, going off fleet chatter and local rumors. An unimportant backwater station, its three wormholes inconvenient byways to anywhere, it should have been the perfect place for a "chance" encounter with an old shipmate with some information to pass along.
She hadn't showed.
The ship had arrived all right, locked outside one of the small commercial landing bays, its Rangers insignia bright in the glare of the docking lights. A casual inquiry of a less-unfriendly-looking Ranger in the C Deck concourse had yielded the information that Bel's contact was somewhere in situ; the careless "Let her know if you see her....." all the interest Bel could afford to show in a mercenary officer of a rival fleet. But she hadn't showed, and the short window of deniability was closing fast. Sometimes operations were like that.
The cold tension had started when four or five civilians -- if civilians had identically flat, dead eyes and a few too many weapons concealed under poorly-selected travel clothes -- had, apparently spontaneously, closed their vid screens or thrown away their drink bulbs and, one by one, wandered back in the general direction of the deck's docking ring. It might have been almost believable if all the active docks hadn't been two decks up on E.
They'd bypassed the gates' standby security, locks and passages stretching ahead into dim-lit confusion. Finally Bel, far enough behind not to be heard, had spotted a gate with its bolts slid open, and listened hard for a few moments before slipping through.
The workspace, a long tunnel lined with lockers and equipment, communicated between two different cargo bays, the better to access (or seal) the bays in case of a lock malfunction. Bel had taken it all in between sharp bolts of adrenaline -- the thin wail echoing down the tunnel, the frantic ring of boots, the stunner in hand as though it had leaped there by itself, the nick-of-time cover behind a hanging pressure suit just before one of the strangers bolted past, stinking of blood and fear and babbling into a wristcom.
Letting him go, Bel had dived into the suit and run in the opposite direction. The fleeing goon, Jacksonian by his accent, certainly hadn't been going for station security.
And who depressurizes an entire bay to get rid of one killer?
Going by the terrified babbling, it'll be too late for cryoprep by the time anyone else arrives. If it's too late already, station security can handle the remains. But first Bel has to know.
There's no sign of life through the tiny lock window. The spattered blood is rime-crusted, already starting to boil away with nothing to keep it pressurized. Bodies drift gently through the gore.
No Rangers uniforms are visible from here.
Little hope for cryonic intervention, either.
The last of the air hisses out of the intervening lock and Bel cycles the hatch. The bay is a bloody mess and getting caught in it won't help anyone. Two of the bodies are definitely strangers. The third might be the killer. It's hard to tell from here. Had four mercs wandered out of the hub? Or had it been five?
If the third body is a stranger, there's no reason for Bel to stick around. A quick look will be enough. Cautiously, one boot under the footrail for balance, Bel leans over the edge of the gravity shelf to pick the best approach.
Most murdery nanigans XD
Keller Hub shouldn't have been good for much more, going off fleet chatter and local rumors. An unimportant backwater station, its three wormholes inconvenient byways to anywhere, it should have been the perfect place for a "chance" encounter with an old shipmate with some information to pass along.
She hadn't showed.
The ship had arrived all right, locked outside one of the small commercial landing bays, its Rangers insignia bright in the glare of the docking lights. A casual inquiry of a less-unfriendly-looking Ranger in the C Deck concourse had yielded the information that Bel's contact was somewhere in situ; the careless "Let her know if you see her....." all the interest Bel could afford to show in a mercenary officer of a rival fleet. But she hadn't showed, and the short window of deniability was closing fast. Sometimes operations were like that.
The cold tension had started when four or five civilians -- if civilians had identically flat, dead eyes and a few too many weapons concealed under poorly-selected travel clothes -- had, apparently spontaneously, closed their vid screens or thrown away their drink bulbs and, one by one, wandered back in the general direction of the deck's docking ring. It might have been almost believable if all the active docks hadn't been two decks up on E.
They'd bypassed the gates' standby security, locks and passages stretching ahead into dim-lit confusion. Finally Bel, far enough behind not to be heard, had spotted a gate with its bolts slid open, and listened hard for a few moments before slipping through.
The workspace, a long tunnel lined with lockers and equipment, communicated between two different cargo bays, the better to access (or seal) the bays in case of a lock malfunction. Bel had taken it all in between sharp bolts of adrenaline -- the thin wail echoing down the tunnel, the frantic ring of boots, the stunner in hand as though it had leaped there by itself, the nick-of-time cover behind a hanging pressure suit just before one of the strangers bolted past, stinking of blood and fear and babbling into a wristcom.
Letting him go, Bel had dived into the suit and run in the opposite direction. The fleeing goon, Jacksonian by his accent, certainly hadn't been going for station security.
And who depressurizes an entire bay to get rid of one killer?
Going by the terrified babbling, it'll be too late for cryoprep by the time anyone else arrives. If it's too late already, station security can handle the remains. But first Bel has to know.
There's no sign of life through the tiny lock window. The spattered blood is rime-crusted, already starting to boil away with nothing to keep it pressurized. Bodies drift gently through the gore.
No Rangers uniforms are visible from here.
Little hope for cryonic intervention, either.
The last of the air hisses out of the intervening lock and Bel cycles the hatch. The bay is a bloody mess and getting caught in it won't help anyone. Two of the bodies are definitely strangers. The third might be the killer. It's hard to tell from here. Had four mercs wandered out of the hub? Or had it been five?
If the third body is a stranger, there's no reason for Bel to stick around. A quick look will be enough. Cautiously, one boot under the footrail for balance, Bel leans over the edge of the gravity shelf to pick the best approach.