Chapter 3
R&R: Rescue and Recruitment
People and beings scrambled to get out of the way of the black-clad redheaded Alliance "Intelligence" woman as Quillan stormed down the corridor toward the penal holding facility.
Alliance Intel was known throughout the galaxy as being almost as ferocious as the Stellar Marine Corps. Despite the fact that the woman carried no visible weapons, she could probably rip a throat out with her fingernail. This one looked mighty pissed off; eyes narrowed, shoulders set, head slightly forward, face passive yet showing that "something." Better off just to move out of her way.
Quillan blew through the open door of the holding facility and made a beeline for the desk sergeant. She brushed past an enormous, eight-legged, tentacled Terthon who was about to growl at her when he saw that she bore no Alliance insignia, but wore the uniform. He shut up.
"Where's my commander?" she demanded, before the startled sergeant could ask her business.
"Uhhh...er...w-who?" he stammered. A pissed-off Intel chick...all he needed.
"Commander Wilkerson, you moron. Dressed just like me. Short brown hair. Drinks a lot. Probably has a broken hand. Where the fuck is she?"
"Cell fourteen, ma'am. Another woman is in the same cell," he said as he pointed toward a door marked, OFFICIAL PERSONNEL ONLY. "I need your thu-thumbprint for access, please."
"No, you don't. Just open the trashmatter door and let me see my officer," she ordered, as she turned and walked toward the portal. "It had better be open by the time I get to it..."
It slid aside. Good acting, she thought, with an inward smile.
Holding cells hadn't changed much over the millennia. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall bars, these being made of tritanium; a simple four-cot room with a toilet and exposed shower nozzle which would spew cold water.
As she stalked down the tight passage, a hand reached out of a cell to grab her breast. Without losing stride, she bent her own arm upward, trapping the hand against her chest, and let leverage do its work. She released the arm only when she heard a snap followed by a scream of pain as the bone broke, caught between her body's momentum and an immovable bar of the cell. She smiled.
Stopping before cell fourteen, she eyed the two occupants a long time, her stern expression plain. Charleen, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees as she stared at the floor, looked up, gulped, and dropped her head again. Lt. Klaksell grinned sheepishly and wisely remained silent. The uniforms of both women were torn and ripped in various places, their hands wrapped in gauze bandages. Small cuts and scratches adorned their forearms and faces. At long last, Quillan spoke.
"Well?" was all she said.
Charleen stood up a bit stiffly, sore no doubt, and assumed the posture of attention; Lt. Klaksell following suit. Backs straight, chins tucked, thumbs along the creases of their ripped uniforms, feet at a forty-five degree angle to each other. As senior officer, Charleen was in charge of relaying the tale.
"Requesting permission to speak, ma'am," the barrel-like commander said in a clipped voice.
"At ease. Normal tones. Make me WANT to get you out of here..."
The pair relaxed slightly and glanced at one another with sly grins, like high school kids getting caught doing something fun but slightly illegal; out after curfew.
"The lieutenant and I went down to the Cemetery because we'd heard that all sorts of interesting things happened there." Charleen grinned at Quillan. "Oh, yeah, there was LOTS of good shit there. Drinks, carousing, partying...we stayed away from the drug tables...for the record." Charleen cleared her throat and continued. "We wandered through there looking around and...er...imbibing...a lot of imbibination was taking place..."
Lt. Klaksell leaned over to whisper in her ear. Charleen glanced at her again, a questioning look on her face.
"You sure? Yeah? Pardon, Captain Margoles, the word is, 'imbibition.'" She cast a wary eye at the lieutenant, then went on, making a mental note to check that word for herself. "Anyway, Captain, we had more than a few drinks that were sort of a glowy-orange...tasted pretty good, we should find the recipe..." She trailed off as Quillan folded her arms and began tapping a foot impatiently.
"Yes'm...short story...there were eight or nine guys fucking the shit out of a slave and they woulda killed her if we hadn't stepped in and done something about it." Charleen inhaled deeply and spoke again, "So the lieutenant and I kicked their asses, pooled our money, grabbed the slave, threw the money at one of the doormen to pay for the slave and ran to the ship where Muffin was waiting for us and the girl is safe onboard and here we sit...uh...stand..."
Huffpuffhuffpuff.
"Can we have that advance on our next payshares you were talking about?"
Quillan stood in the security watch commander's office as she patiently listened to the woman next to her.
Vanessa Harbinger, commonly known as Nessie, was the wealthiest woman on the station. Her wealth rivaled that of Infernus. The only reason she didn't have more than he did was simple; he demanded forty-five percent of her income. In fact, every vendor and establishment on the station paid the exorbitant fee for the privilege of operating there. With over four thousand of these establishments, he was raking in over a thousand credits a second...on a bad day.
Nessie's thick, shiny, pitch black hair reached her soft shoulders and was immaculately combed. Her gold-trimmed, low cut, flowing black dress was contrasted by the bright red lipstick on her kissable lips and fluorescent red fingernail polish on her long fingers. Her massive chest, rivaling Charleen's, threatened to spill over, it appeared that her areolae were hidden barely out of sight. In one hand, she held a wineglass containing some sort of reddish-green liquid which seemed to pulse on its own. Her other hand held two leashes which were attached to collared, muscular, bare-chested male slaves who were sitting cross-legged before her, staring at the floor.
"The slave in question is of no consequence to me or my establishment, Chief Capino," she said, haughtily. "The way she was 'bought,' for want of a better word, is dubious. The procedures which were set forth by Infernus must be followed. She needs a full medical workup, quarantine, the transfer papers must be completed, and of course, the remainder of the credits for her price and repayment for the hospitalization of my patrons."
She took a sip of the liquid in her glass, it glowed brighter as it hit her lips. Then turned her haughty stare toward Quillan.
"And why would Alliance Intel want to purchase a slave, anyway?" She imperiously raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow.
Quillan sniffed disdainfully and gritted her teeth, not liking this woman in the slightest.
"The matters of Intel do not concern you, miss. Suffice to say that we have a vested interest in this girl. My apologies for the way she was acquired. As you are aware, slavery is punishable by death within the Alliance territories. Only the fact that this station is one million miles outside of Alliance jurisdiction is saving your hoidy-toidy ass from summary execution." Quillan brushed invisible lint from her sleeve and continued. "The Alliance will pay you for any damages incurred, as well as seeing that all of the proper paperwork is on file. You're lucky we don't just blow holes in the Cemetery...let the air out."
Quillan turned to the security chief, and smiled tightly.
"But, we're not monsters. We're here to protect, not destroy. I need my two officers out as soon as possible."
How do I get myself into these situations? Quillan asked herself.
