The cargo bay doors cycle open slowly, revealing a windswept gray landing pad marred by the touchdowns of hundreds of landing skids and supports. Acres of identical landing pads stretch out around the domed spaceport with their own scattered vessels of various sizes. Light gravsled and groundcar traffic flows in and out of the spaceport terminals and the smattering of support buildings, employee barracks, and leisure centers that surround it.
Past the spaceport and its landing fields, you see nothing but green. Aikoro's famed forests stretch far and wide across gently rolling hills. The single sun is more orange than Sol, washing everything in that Jerry Bruckheimer-esque pre-sunset golden light. The air, thank God, is pleasant. It has an undercurrent of Pine-Sol, a wisp of solvent stink, but you can't tell if it's the spaceport or the atmosphere itself.
The shrill alert of an approaching skimmer snaps you back to your situation. The orange and black Kansat skimmer steadily weaves its way through the landing pads just above ground level, finally coming to an eye-level hover about 30 feet away. A harsh blue lamp focuses on the team as a small surveillance drone - similar to the Botane ones - launches from the rear of the skimmer. An authoritative male voice calls from the vehicle's speakers, *Welcome to Aikoro. Imperial law requires you submit to a screening. Stay where you are and refrain from sudden movements.*
You note two cigar-shaped Turai scout craft lift off from the far side of the spaceport dome. They are definitely coming towards your platform.
Ngawai speaks up before a jumpy skimmer crew starts incinerating people. "I am Ngawai Holoni, Grand Apprehender, and these offenders are my prisoners." She's speaking at the drone, not the skimmer. "My scan should reveal my license details. The Whiirr is my co-arbiter, authorized under my license."
The skimmer doesn't respond at first - likely its crew are checking their cortex. The hard turns that the Turai ships pull are telling indicators that you're being let through, however.
*We confirm your identity, Apprehender Holoni. Do not cause trouble while on Aikoro. Congratulations on your success.*
The blue lamp shuts off and the skimmer retreats into the forest of landing pads. The drone, however, follows you from 30 feet above as you hump your gear down illuminated footpaths through the landing fields. It follows you as Fourth Claw tries to hire a segmented passenger gravsled for a handful of lats. It stays with the group as Fourth Claw enters the spaceport dome and returns several minutes later with a local credit chip, which finally grants you access to the gravsled. The sled lifts off on smooth-running impellers and snakes its way into departing traffic. Only then do you see the drone arc back towards its parent skimmer.
There is no driver; the gravsled's drone brain slides the vehicle over grassy, almost idyllic garden-like paths blazed through Aikoro's forest. The sled's about as long as a short school bus, about as tall as one of those ridiculous Humvee limos, and you'd guess it's whizzing across Aikoro at 90-100 miles an hour. The time to Gran's Hope - 40 minutes - is displayed in Imperial units along with local time - late afternoon on the 33-hour Aikoro cycle.
"This sled should be clear of surveillance," Ngawai offers.
"But if you are not sure, it is doubtful they can record my language - and your native tongue would be indecipherable," Fourth Claw signs.
Davis pulls a pad of paper and pen out of one of the bags and tosses it to Arketta. "*Translate for Ngawai and Fourth Claw. If you know any childhood secret codes, something really simple, now would be a good time to use them. Be sure to conceal what you write anyway, we don't know who's watching.*" He turns back to the rest of the group. "*So, who's going to make contact with our rebel friends?*" he asks, careful not to name their contacts. "*We're going to have to split up to do it. One group goes with our contact, the other hangs back and keeps a look out for a double-cross and for Imperials. The group that goes with the contact will probably have to take either Fourth Claw or Ngawai with them to maintain cover. Any ideas who should go where?*"
Arketta's scribbling follows Davis' words. *I think Fourth Claw and myself should hang back*, Arketta offers. *I believe in our cause, but the resistance may not get past my prior status. Take bounty hunter with contact group - if there is treachery, it would prove her worth, and if worse comes worse, it would not pain me to see her fall. Perhaps... Angel hangs back for support, Dr. Kilgore to keep eye on any comms?*
You note Arketta doesn't translate the part about Ngawai getting accidentally whacked.
*I'll monitor Imperial comm channels and let you know if the jig is up and such. That, and I don't really fancy the idea of being anywhere near that woman on an actively patrolled Imperial world.* adds the Action Scientist, looking at Ngawai with hesitant eyes.
*Let's do it,* Hugh says, happy that he doesn't have to lean on his authority to get the teamwork flowing. He almost explains the plan to Ngawai, but given that she only speaks Imperial, he doesn't want to chance surveillance. He'll just give her a nod when the team splits up to signify that that's the plan.
The gravsled continues on its steady clip without interruption. Most of the traffic here appears to be aerial, with only a handful of vehicles rolling through the narrow roads cut through the forests. Here and there the trees will give way to a wide rolling grassy hilltop or enclosed facility, all rounded blue-gray walls and antennas. A gray-blue river runs into a large lake off to the sled's right side; you spot splashes from aquatic lifeforms and even what might be a Cyllan just below the surface.
You near Gran's Hope and the forests thin out now, replaced with hab-domes and the monolithic towers of the defunct atmospheric monitors. The gravsled slows as traffic increases, dropping even with wheeled traffic. Surveillance drones rest in sconces built into the facades of streetcorner buildings, rotating to scan passing vehicles. The few people on the streets move with purpose, hurrying to catch a drone-sled or hurriedly entering their chosen buildings. The uniformly-spaced signs and muted holographics indicate this part of town is largely devoted to science, technology, and auxiliary administration.
Your sled slows further now, struggling to break 20 mph in the heavy traffic. The furtive businesspeople give way to a varied mix of humans who have the distinct look of the idle rich or flamboyant tourists. Some have the small spherical bodyguard drones; others walk with their families. Small open-air shops and rows of merchants barter and haggle their paltry wares to the naive. After Jang-xur, however, Gran's Hope is like a small-town flea market after walking the Vegas strip.
The grav-sled comes to a gentle stop on a side street behind three identical sleds. It's a sort of bus stop; people cycle in and out of the rental vehicles quickly, spurred on by the sleds' brisk voxes. The team exits their sled and the wide-eyed bystanders waiting to get in the fresh gravsled part for the group like the Red Sea. One man falls over in his haste to avoid you. Luckily, Ngawai's license must carry some real weight, because no drones harass you as you cross the street (an unnerving experience, as the grav vehicles simply boost their altitude and whip overhead while the wheeled vehicles stop en masse) and enter a pedestrian concourse that slopes down towards the colony center. The ground feels like rubberized cobblestone here, the air smells of sweet and savory food, and you can tell that the permanent structures in this section of Gran's Hope have a lot in common with what you've seen of Imperial spaceship construction. It's likely that the original ship(s) were cannibalized for materials, and your guess proves right as you spot the tip of the fountain monument at the end of the concourse. A five-story-tall column of metal rises out of a Bellagio-sized pool, capped by a large umbrella-shaped shield. You realize it's a model of a spaceship. Sunlight glows from the underside of the monument's canopy and focuses on a full-size statue of an explorer stepping through a Gateway set near the front of the pool. Water continually falls from the Gate monument, suggestive of an active portal. A cascade of tiny waterfalls run down the starship monument while holographics detailing the foundation of Gran's Hope and colonization of Aikoro use the mist to give their projections tangible volume. Behind the entire production, a large lake (or ocean maybe) reflects Aikoro's sun in golden waves. Islands dot the shallow lake.
There are Kansatai on patrol in the concourse, walking their beats slowly in pairs. You notice a skimmer making lazy circles over the center of the colony, now and then coasting out of sight.
Semo takes the lead on the field-stripping and prepping activities, pulling Mellish in on the labor. Fortunately, the work keeps him busy and occupied without having to think much. Just the way he prefers.
The landing, rough as it is, comes soon enough. Stepping out of the cargo bay, Semo takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the freshest air he's experienced in days. Looking beyond spaceport, the beauty of this planet nearly takes the breath away again. Would that he could go hiking in those woods some day...
The arrival of the skimmer and drone snap Semo out of his revery. As Ngawai converses with it, he just stands there quietly, looking dejected.
Soon, they are off, skimming amidst the abundant trees of this verdant forest. Just being this close to nature is refreshing.
Unfortunately, the reach Gran's Hope all too soon. Semo falls back into his passive attitude, doing as he's told by Ngawai and Fourth Claw.
"Okay, this is where we split up," Davis says without looking around. "Everyone knows where they're going, second team, just hang behind us fifty yards or so and keep an eye out. I'll signal you when we've made contact and are moving." He looks at Ngawai. "Lead the way, ma'am."
Ngawai leads the group, giving Semo a little push for show. Hugh, Davis, Putupu, Mellish, and Stanhill follow the bounty hunter down the concourse while bystanders clear the way. Max, Angel, and Arketta hang back at the top of the... well, crater that is the concourse with Fourth Claw.
"This plan does not seem to be conducive to stealth," Claw muses as his group tries to be as nondescript as possible. "Although the woman's status has stymied the Kansat well enough."
Ngawai's group hangs out at the fountain for 15 minutes or so. Angel notes a pair of Kansatai have altered their beat to keep a line of sight to Fourth Claw's group at all times. No doubt there's another pair watching the others.
The fountain monument is interesting at least. When it becomes apparent that whoever is supposed to meet you has yet to do so, the contact team starts paying idle attention to the holograms. Apparently the large mushroom-shaped column is a Gateship. Far larger than even the Needleships, the Gateships burn their way at near-lightspeed across the black gulf between stars, carrying orbital gates to new worlds surveyed by the Imperium's telescopes. The top of the statue, the umbrella-like canopy, is the shield that protects the massive vessel from impacts, both by virtue of its heavy armor as well as a kilometers-wide electromagnetic cone that funnels debris and particles away from the ship. The hub of Gran's Hope, the concave pedestrian concourse the team is in right now, was built up from the original Gateship's shield.
Max and Angel both notice now that the cops aren't the only ones taking an interest. One of the tourist shop staffers wasn't working at that clothing stall a minute ago. The nebbish-looking man quickly breaks eye contact with Max as their glances meet for a second, but it's Angel that notices the weapon bulge under the man's threadbare tunic. From that man, you follow his eyes over to the top of the concourse next to the busy gravsled stop where a tall, thin man seems content to wait while everyone else at the stand gets their vehicles first.
Twenty minutes in now, and a lone Kansatai accompanied by one of the tiny drones starts walking with purpose towards Ngawai's group. The harsh-featured face behind the open helmet seems unworried by the group's appearance. The officer's beamer is held casually, but it is in his hands nonetheless.
Davis reaches into his pocket and palms the mirror. He leans over to Ngawai. "I need you to knock me down. Hit me and deal with the Kansat while I signal the others and find out if they saw anything."
Ngawai might have taken Davis' suggestion too literally. He wakes up a split-second later with blood on his mouth.
"Talk to me again and I'll cut out your tongue!" Ngawai growls at him. She turns and approaches the Kansatai, who stops short after Ngawai's sudden attack.
"Can I help you, officer?" Ngawai asks politely, stepping protectively in front of her alleged payday and giving Davis a chance to flash his palmed mirror at Max, Angel, and Arketta.
The Kansatai peers warily at the group before returning Ngawai's eye contact. "I need you and your prisoners to come with me right now. I have orders from Rav-Kansat Bar Coda to remove this public disturbance."
Bar Coda? The pig just mentioned your contact from Jang-xur.
"Name-dropping some fat spink I've never heard of isn't going to impress me," Ngawai replies. "I have the authority to transport my prisoners without Kansat interference. Check your local control, we were scanned at the spaceport."
"I'll do that," the officer says, and Hugh and Luis notice his finger's slipping inside his trigger guard.
"Never heard of Bar Coda...and this is the hunter that caught us? Apprehender, all you care about is lats for our blood, and this will be my parting gift to you: Bar Coda, he will drown you in rewards. But you will see what he does with his prisoners and your soul will be blackened forevermore!"
He hopes that Ngawai gets the clue to take the deal before they have to shoot their way out again.
The Kansat's finger settles down at Hugh's words. He gives Ngawai an inquisitive eyebrow.
"All right," Ngawai says, nodding. "Lead the way." She gives the Kansat her trademark wink. The contact keys his vox-switch and whispers something in a language you don't recognize.
Up at the top of the concourse, the tall man by the gravsleds relaxes considerably.
Max has been keeping an eye as best he can on any worrisome transmissions. More access would require a high-profile attack on the Kansat vox network, so he's been staying with whatever he can grab locally. He has figured out that the resistance contact isn't a real Kansatai. The minidrone hovering above the man at all times is reading as the peace officer, not the man himself. It's sloppy, but for an in-and-out job it would fool anyone not looking too closely.
Ngawai and her group reach the top of the concourse a fair hike from the rest of the team. The resistance contact explains the plan.
"The tall man, by the gravsled stop. He will take you from here. I am pushing my luck in this uniform, but it was the only way to approach the apprehenders to ascertain your identities. Go now, and be safe."
The not-Kansatai voxes in the unfamiliar tongue again, and the tall man pushes his way back into the gravsled queue, ruffling quite a few feathers amongst the bystanders. They quickly change their tune, however, as Ngawai leads Hugh, Semo, Luis, Mellish, and Davis to the Imperial taxi stand analogue.
"Get back, step away," the bounty hunter barks. Most of the onlookers don't need to be told twice. The queue disperses into a curious throng as a gravsled - this one with a human driver - drifts into the pickup lane. The tall man cycles the sliding back doors and waves Team Ngawai inside.
Angel and Max watch the shopkeeper. He's taken quite an interest in the rest of the group's transport.
The tall man is the last inside the vehicle, and folds his knees up almost to his chest to fit his lanky frame inside the cramped gravsled.
"I am Bello," he explains as the sled's driver pulls into traffic moments before a drone sled slides into the same pickup lane. Bello consults a widget, adding, "It should be safe to talk now."
"I've got one contact besides the cops. That shopkeep looks to be tailing us, and he's definitely armed."
Stepping a few paces away from Angel.
*keys radio*
"Stay frosty. Watch him like a hawk and as I duck out sight. That should pique his curiosity enough to want to come find me. You then make with the Delta shit and take him down for questioning. Call me when you have him. Let's just hope he's alone." replies Max, moving for the nearest alleyway with pistol at the ready.
Max heads down a narrow alley between two of the concourse shops. It's not even wide enough for Max to get down without twisting his torso.
The reaction from the nebbish guy in the shop is telling - he turns away as Max disappears, but Angel spots jaw movement. He's talking to someone, probably over a vox.
Even with all their surveillance, it doesn't look like the -real- Kansatai noticed Max slipping into the alley.
The shopper doesn't move. He must have friends moving in on Max.
The orange Aikoro sun casts harsh shadows across the tops of the stalls and shop buildings, but in Max's little alley it's dark. Foil wrappers from cheap snacks scatter as he walks. The scientist makes it to a cross-through, a covered T-junction between two blocks of short concourse buildings. Two men are silhouetted against the light coming off the street. They don't have anything in their hands, but their features are hard to make out with the light behind them.
---
Back in public, the "shopkeeper" acts like he's confirming something to someone over his implanted vox.
---
"Max Kilgore?" one of the men calls to Max, his Imperial accent butchering the pronunciation with a telemarketer's expertise. Max's eyes adjust and he can see the two men are wearing loose windbreaker-type jackets over fitted suits with reinforced joints. It's hard to tell if they're packing under the lumpy jackets, but Max's gun is heavy and reassuring in his hand.
"Whoa! Whoa whoa hold on now!" says the guy on the right, putting his hands up and reflexively flattening against the alley wall. His partner pulls his jacket up and reaches for a small black weapon.
"You said he was unarmed! You said you fucking scanned-" BLAM BLAM! The gunman clutches his abdomen then sits down as Max double-taps him. He starts painfully sliding his way behind a recycler.
The less wounded of the pair pulls a similar black weapon and snaps a shot off at Max. The man's weapon makes a pwip and a puff of smoke followed by a faint tinkle as brass hits the hard alley floor. An honest-to-God bullet flattens on Max's strike plate and hammers his breastbone.
---
The rest of the team flinches at the pair of gunshots, but the effect on the crowd is bizzare. Without the visuals to equate the noise with a weapon, the bystanders and even the Kansatai scattered across the concourse don't know to seek cover or how to react. They look around, puzzled, granting a moment of quiet where the shopkeeper's voice is barely audible over the sudden hush.
"Abort, abort," you can just make out. The man disappears into the shop.
Admiral Duck Sauce
