Stella, My Star

12

"So you're Lieutenant Stella Wood? You volunteered for the mission? Good to have you onboard."

I am immediately shocked by Captain Rex Brock's familiarity with me. It is obvious that at some point, a discussion has occurred behind my back. Regardless, he is friendly and accommodating to our needs. He orders coffee as we all spend valuable time planning our mission with the four crew accompanying us from the Berserker; Lieutenant Cort, and officers Donovan, Sykes and Brimley.

Brock has also assigned his personal droid, Gabriel, to join us, and I can't help but wonder if, like Roger, his programming has been remotely interfered with. Despite the fact I identify him as an older model, with less opportunity for such tampering, I decide to monitor him closely. As I scan his giant form, he turns and looks directly at me. He stares at me with emotionless eyes, watching as if reading my mind. It is not as unnerving to me as it would be to others, and it certainly doesn't mean he is some form of robotic spy. I turn away, and continue listening as I tie my hair into a ponytail.

Within half an hour, Rosetta's equivalent, Marilyn, makes contact with the Destructor as you are informed that we have entered the pod, and are ready for launch. We are harnessed in and launch smoothly toward Blood Diamond, piloted by Cort, whose reputation for deft flying ability precedes him.

"Woohooooo!" Donovan is getting off on the ride and the adrenaline that the mission brings, and he turns up some music on a speaker in his hip pack. It is an old tune, David Bowie's "Space Oddity." He starts singing loudly. The others from the Berserker laugh, knowingly, at him. He strokes the barrel of his Arrow 540. The weapon is massive, obviously size DOES count, and I am hoping he doesn't get too gung-ho on us, and blow a hole in the wall of the station so we all choke to death. I rest my head back.

Brimley, young and enthusiastic, looks to me and smiles.

"Lieutenant Stella Wood, hey? I heard you were transferred out of Concordia to a ship. I didn't know where or which one, but I'd heard it."

I look at him suspiciously. Who is this kid, fresh out of school?

"My dad worked under Commander Lynch as a battle advisor. He met you when you were one of the two bodyguards to the council. You and Green saved many lives that day the entourage came under surprise attack between Glitch Valley and Oasis. A couple of years or so ago, wasn't it? My dad told me all about you guys."

The memories are not positive ones. I smile back and nod politely. There was much bloodshed that day, my most intense call of duty. Despite our efforts, several representatives of the I.S.F. committee were killed by crazed rebels, including my much older mentor, Green. He died in my arms in that unstable, hellhole of a region. Sometime in the weeks following, I had received a medal for bravery, as had Green posthumously, after we had successfully shielded Lynch and other leaders from direct attack. Then I had dragged myself around the capital, in a haze for days, realising I had lost the closest person to a father I had ever known. I disappeared for awhile, hunting down one of the rebel leaders we had missed, Zahar. I had viciously knifed him with my blade when he stumbled from a sleazy brothel in Little Oasis. I had spat in his face as he took his last dirty breath. Selective elimination. I was amazed Lynch took me back after I was MIA for so long. I file that memory away within the darkest passages of my mind. Time to refocus on the current operation.

We slide our visors on as we approach the station, and pass in a low flyover to try and make visual contact with any immediate danger. It is an impressive design, built for research purposes, but now holding secrets we have yet to discover.

My gloved hand reaches down to my leg, and reassuringly I feel my blade strapped and sheathed at my thigh. I then fumble at my vertical pocket under my breast, knowing that a gun has also been stored by armory crew. I unzip it an inch or two to peek in. It is a Redpunk 12. How on earth..!? This is not a standard issue weapon. They are most definitely NOT a dime a dozen. I then realise, it is yours. Your initials, SR, are inscribed on the handle. The same Redpunk that disposed of Roger. I run my fingertip over the initials, knowing you have done the same in the past. I rezip the pocket and breathe deeply. I picture you standing on the observation deck of the bridge, arms folded tightly to your chest, watching with intense focus as we disappear from your vision through the glass, and reappear on a screen as a personal view from Gelding's visorcam.