Seemed we’d been flying forever. The Varwol disengaged and the course coordinates finally became a reality. The ship lurched, bucked like a crotchety old mule. The slow corkscrew out of warp had minimal hiccups, I suppose.
In the viewport, the station loomed—a gigantic figure-eight with hundreds of birthing docks, bays and pods, with untold shield meshes, solar panels, tracking stations. My jaw dropped. Hundreds of ships passed in and out of the ring. So many? Another unexpected sight, these masses of ships converging on the space station. “What in—?” I wheezed.
TK grumbled, “Looks like a mass run on the station.”
“Something must have gone wrong on one of the nearby worlds. Look at those space junkers and tramp freighters. I sense desperation here. They’re ready to fall apart.”
“Should we try somewhere else?” Wren asked.
“No, we need supplies. Some news wouldn’t hurt at this point.”
I eased Starrunner through the bee-like swarm of traffic. We approached the far side of the station. From what I could see it was going to be slim pickings for berthing docks. Lucky to see two free stalls. I made contact with the ground personnel.
An officious voice resonated over the com. “Alpha Explorer XU6, proceed to reserve dock A2. Berthing will be restricted to two hours.”
“Two hours?” I croaked. “That’s not nearly enough time to either piss or shit—”
“Sir, we do not appreciate vulgarities. The station is under high volume. Do you wish to cancel your reservation?”
“No,” I growled. “But—okay, book it.” I cut the connection.
“Like a mass exodus,” said Wren, her eyes glowing in wonder.
“Never seen so many ships in my life,” mused TK.
True, every space vessel in the vicinity seemed to be seeking refuge.
“Seems we picked a bad time to dock. Okay, we’ll touch down, get our supplies and move on.”
Light seeped through the cracks as the circular gate opened and I docked Starrunner in berth A2-983. A snug fit but workable. Deep in the mooring bay, robot arms secured the prow. The hatch closed behind us and the chamber pressurized. I took my small hand weapon disguised as a small pen, and tossed a like model to Wren.
“Machine guns aren’t allowed, for obvious reasons.”
We de-boarded and I attached the water cable from the utility wall to Starrunner’s underbelly. After I’d inserted ten yols in the dispenser, the green light came on and with a grunt of satisfaction, I could hear water flowing into Starrunner’s bare tanks.
“Let’s hit the observation decks, since we have such a brief time. The water’ll shut off on its own.”
TK nodded and herded Billy down the wide hall. Wren looked about with wonder, smelling much better after her shower. Her eyes flashed on the polished chrome railings, imitation marble floors, small potted trees and dust-free cleanliness. “This is a snazzy station.” Seemed all these sights were new to her.
“Not really. Skeller Station’s been around for centuries. But it’s improved over the years. Megal’s a rich world; they can afford to pay for some luxury.”
“Why so far out from Megal though?” TK asked, as if to no one in particular. His eyes wandered past the glass over Orves, the gas giant, looming below. Our orbit was hundreds of thousands of miles out, yet still the giant planet arched below us like a monstrous white and red banded egg.
I shrugged. “Tradition? Who knows? Probably its ore-rich moons were the first mining interest before the inner planets were settled. I think they were more interested in mining rights than terraforming the inner worlds. Over time the place became a resort stop. You’d have to ask the builders, but they’re four hundred years in the grave.”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” said TK.
We passed the first checkpoints, me sliding through with my breezy confidence. No, sirs, we came directly from Wiesen in Cassiopeia. No sirs, no illicit drugs or firearms. These are a couple of travelers I picked up on the ride roster en route to Alphanor. We’re more interested in getting repairs than any layovers. Thank you, sirs.’
All kinds of outworlders milled about, from those with hair piled up on their heads like donuts, to those in trim, tight space jumpers: pilots, shuttle monkeys, cargo couriers. Some were in worse shape than others. A babel of sound hummed in the background, making conversation difficult.
From the port window, a security docker ship, squat and unsightly like a gray bloated toad, floated with ominous import. Such a ship would be looking to maintain law and order—shakedown any runners peddling contraband or out to leverage any of the station’s business. Skeller’s Run would not be an easy place to work scams.
I tapped a tall outworlder on the shoulder, carrying a parcel in one hand and a paneled, cameo briefcase. He looked like an Arkadian on official business caught in an inordinately busy rush. At any rate, someone who knew what was going on. “What’s up, chief?” I asked. “Why the hubbub?”
He turned a high forehead to me crowned with a sculpted drift of tan-colored hair. “Haven’t you heard? Ah, you just came in, didn’t you? Megal’s been attacked. Some rogue bandit just declared war and flew in with his stealth craft and took over the planet.”
I blinked. “Planetary defenses?”
“Minimal and antiquated. This Mong’s got state-of-the-art equipment, and know-how.”
“Who?” I croaked.
“Mong.”
I frowned, recalling that name. “Why attack the space station? Didn’t they just nab a world?”
“Out of the way. Easy spoils.” The man’s eyes darted to the destination boards, as if distracted. “He’s taking ships and men, everything. Laying waste, crippling any offenses, moving on.”
TK mused, “That sounds like a tried and true formula, repeated throughout history, like the Vandal hordes and Blitzkrieg of
