Junko Asagiri, Desert Fox, Sand Bitch, Bitch, Beauty of the Sands...
She had been called many things, but all of that was in the past.
Zipping up her jacket across her chest, the girl who had long ago decided to abandon her name—which meant absolutely nothing to anyone in the vastness of the galaxy—prepared to leave.
Now she called herself Kitsu Shagal—an aspiring assassin who had already begun building a reputation for herself. She'd had to work in a helmet, dye her hair, and move to a different part of the galaxy so the vengeful Helldivers wouldn't find her...
But she didn't despair.
Fully dressed, the girl checked the pulse of the drunken smuggler, into whose handfuls of drugs she had been tossing low-quality Ryll all evening.
The idiot had inhaled it so joyfully that she hadn't even had to undress—the boy passed out long before that.
"And that's wonderful, isn't it, honey?"
Patting the former ship Captain on the cheek, Kitsu joyfully tossed a small electronic key containing the ship's access codes. The old transport corvette, of course, wasn't exactly what she wanted to own, but she had time, right?
Swaying her hips, habitually drawing gazes, she left these slum districts and headed toward the hangars, where a small freighter should already be waiting for her.
Fine, she had to hide and start all over again. Whatever, it wasn't the first time.
Let her frenzied "friends" from Tatooine gladly draw her blood, if not take her scalp. She'd been through that too; the scars on her back—which she showed to no one—wouldn't let her lie.
Fine, the sweet little dog Kantu and his faithful henchman ended up behind bars in some horrific prison where the security forces shoved them... It happens. Kitsu will find a new fool dreaming of getting into her pants. There were hundreds of them on Tatooine, and in the galaxy, she'd find even more. Season it with money, successful jobs, and voila—loyal comrades for a couple of years are guaranteed.
It was just a pity that men couldn't think with their dicks forever if they weren't fed once in a while... And the assassin didn't want to give herself to just any weakling. If she was going to serve under someone, it had to be someone promising, strong, and influential. Someone who wouldn't die like the overconfident Jabba, who had promised them mountains of gold.
"Damn slug, ruined so many of my plans... Whatever, to hell with him," exhaling through her nose, calming herself with a proven method, Kitsu shook her head, speaking to herself, "Remember, baby: don't get attached to anyone and don't rely on anyone."
The girl's gait became more cheerful, and she didn't even notice how she reached the hangars.
Checking the numbers one last time, Kitsu Shagal, the aspiring assassin, stepped into her brand-new ship, which she had traded just an hour ago for her old tub, obtained in much the same way.
***
Pressing the switch button, Somnia winced painfully as the bright, almost medical light flooded the room. An absolute silence hung around her, and her tired, sluggish footsteps echoed through the spacious cabin of the ship, which had been converted into an operational headquarters.
The decommissioned, modernized dreadnought that Rick Dicker had helped them obtain for a few small favors turned out to be a dream, not a ship. Powerful, armored, with plenty of space for useful rooms, and most importantly—as part of a small escort fleet, it could easily drive curious pirates away from Rishi, in whose orbit it hung.
Monitors slowly flickered to life around her, and the hum of machinery resonated from the walls, bringing a sense of calm. Waiting for their Operatives, the screens lit up with a soft blue glow.
Walking past a dozen desks, Somnia reached her spot and flopped with relish into her chair, which had already become far more dear to her than her own brothers.
A gift from Sam for more comfortable work, this piece of Alderaanian craftsmanship was incredibly comfortable. Considering how much time she had to spend at her desk... Even today, she had left here only five hours ago, and then only at the insistent request of a pair of brothers loyal to their Commander, who had been assigned to her as guards-slash-overseers.
And the pair of Zabrak bastards performed their duties perfectly.
Smirking at these thoughts, Somnia turned on her own computer and entered the password data without looking, then presented her eye for recognition, and finally spoke the code phrase she had come up with yesterday.
So much trouble, and all because a couple of snitches had appeared on the ship, leaking data to the Hutts, selling out their own, and hoping to walk away unscathed.
She had already personally hung a dozen of them on the outer armor of her brand-new ship and would gladly do the same to the rest.
The malicious fantasies finally helped her wake up, and the girl inhaled, sensing from afar the approach of a Drone with caf and her breakfast.
"You're my good boy, the best man I know," patting the little assistant on the head, the deputy commander of the Helldivers PMC took a sip from the hot cup with relish, letting out an indecent moan of pleasure, "I know, I know... But I can't help myself."
Habitually responding to the Drone's trill, she sent it for the rest of the food, which would be delivered right here so her assistants wouldn't wander off around the ship...
"Oh, I hope this ends soon. According to Sam, two more months... I hope we hold out."
Recalling the exhausted faces of her people, who served as her eyes and ears in the territories under her control, Somnia made a skeptical face, and when she saw the abundance of messages on the screen, she only laughed silently at their Commander's naivety.
Slowly, the hall filled with people. Operatives, guards, a pair of Zabraks who sat on either side of her and also quickly joined the work. Route calculations, soldier reports, duty schedules, training... Every day the workload only grew, even for them. Let alone for her.
"I need to find myself a deputy too, or better yet, a pair... And smarter ones, preferably... I wonder if Talia would agree to trade her University rector outfits for combat armor?"
Smirking at the imagined picture, Somnia moved to the very first entry, and immediately her rising positive mood plummeted. Setting the cup aside, she turned fully to the screen, not even noticing how her subordinates, watching her, froze in tension.
They didn't often see their Commander like this, and every time it happened—terrible things occurred.
A Helldivers ship was shot down.
Pirates carried out a successful raid on one of the colonies they protect.
Sabotage at the factories.
Theft of cargo by ship Captains with whom transport contracts had been signed...
Today was no exception.
Knowing she would be badgered with questions, she called the brothers over so they could review the report with her. Meanwhile, Somnia sent the data and the accompanying audio recording to Sam.
Only hoping that he wouldn't do something too stupid, and that before doing anything—he would contact her.
***
The recording from the helmet camera was constantly interrupted. Interference and clearly visible cracks on the lens showed that the Helldiver had recently been in a brutal fight, and most likely, the battle was still ongoing.
Turning through the narrow, dirty corridors of the ship, the soldier squeezed through a damaged door, reaching the corvette's reactor.
Dropping to one knee, he looked back frantically, not out of fear of death, but because he might not make it in time.
His heavy breathing through a broken, wheezing speaker and a compromised filtration system—it hammered at the ears. It felt as if you were right there next to him, sensing the final moments of the Helldiver's life.
Crawling through the corridors, leaving a long trail of blood behind him, the soldier unhesitatingly dumped the contents of his medkit onto the floor once he was hidden from the open space.
Feverishly fumbling with his fingers, he seemed to pick out medicines at random until he felt a special tube with a retractable needle. Clenching the item in his fist, he fearlessly struck it into his neck area, injecting the contents through a small gap in the armor.
"Ha... Ha..."
For the next few seconds, the soldier glanced into the corridor he had come from, aiming his rifle barrel there, but as time passed, nothing happened, so with difficulty, he managed to stand up.
Walking backward, never letting the darkness of the corridor out of his sight, the soldier reached the ship's reactor, then began connecting a cable from his armor to a backup transmitter.
Reciting the briefing under his breath, the young voice methodically followed the established instructions.
One minute. Executed perfectly. Any instructor would be proud of such speed.
Double-checking everything just in case, the young Helldiver tapped his finger on the wreckage of the microphone, hoping only that it would be enough to transmit the message.
"Ha... Ha..." The heavy breathing hit the ears again. The stimulant's effect was beginning to wear off, meaning the wounds were too serious, and even the narcotic energy boost couldn't give him more time. "Can you hear me? I hope so..."
Settling in more comfortably, the soldier leaned his back against the reactor. While one hand continued to hold the swaying rifle, with the other, he began to remove his blood-spattered backpack.
The heavy bag fell to the floor with a crash, as the weakened limb couldn't support the weight.
"Shit... This is Private 'A' six slash fourteen, callsign Cricket..." Swallowing saliva, the Helldiver coughed occasionally, shaking his head, but still continued to confidently carry out his plan. "As part of the boarding team of the CR-90 corvette Ghost of Righteousness, the survivors are..."
Somewhere in the distance, the crash of metal hitting metal was heard. The brief moment of silence broke, and blaster shots rang through the ship's corridors. For ten long seconds, Cricket fumbled in the backpack, connecting wires to the reactor while a battle raged somewhere out there.
But then the fight ended with the explosion of a thermal detonator. Red emergency light rolled across the ship, and an attentive listener would have caught the sounds of bulkheads closing.
"...The last survivor of the ship's crew..." The soldier swayed. His head kept drooping to the side, but he continued to hold the weapon in his hands while his hand methodically shredded the backpack, poking wires through the holes. According to instructions, he should have removed the contents of the backpack, but Cricket simply didn't have the strength to pull that off. "We've already lost... So there's no point in saving us..."
For a second, the soldier's helmet slumped down, but the sound of welding instantly brought him to his senses, and he set the rifle aside and began working on the reactor with both hands. Turning his head, trying not to keep his back to the passage for long, he laid a crumpled instruction sheet before him, reading the sparse lines.
"...If you receive this transmission... I... I... am not asking for help." Cricket began to get confused in his words, stuttering often and noisily drawing air through his mouth; he was barely remaining conscious. "...We don't need Reinforce... I... I'm not even mourning myself or my brothers..."
The sound of welding stopped, and the first door leading to the Helldiver gave way. Turning his helmet, he saw the first sparks beginning to emerge through the second door, as the faithful metal of the warship slowly yielded to the enemy.
"...All I ask for..." He had to rest the top of his head against the reactor to keep from collapsing. "...Is vengeance... Ten... No... A hundred times more than our spilled blood... Yes, finally..."
Connecting the last wire, which lit up with a soft green light, the Helldiver leaned tiredly against the reactor, listening to the countdown of the timer set for twenty seconds.
"Oh, right... And tell... Tell my mom..."
The soldier's head jerked one last time, then slumped onto his chest, rhythmically dangling from side to side. The helmet camera captured the final moment when the door yielded to the cutters and crashed inward, letting a real pack of various aliens—famous for their aggressive and overtly thuggish nature—into the reactor room.
As soon as they entered, they saw the dead Helldiver and began to smile joyfully, but at that exact moment, the device from Cricket's backpack counted down the final seconds.
"Two. One. Hellbomb, activated."
***
Closing the PDA, I struggled to keep myself from giving in to emotion. A cold mind was more necessary now than righteous fury, but its time would come too.
My fingers clenched into fists, and I looked through the viewport, staring at Roon, where our ship was supposed to have arrived, but somehow it had been discovered and caught.
Unable to restrain myself after all, I punch the wall, sending a vicious ring of metal through the cabin, saturated with my mood.
And here we go again. Another defeat on the path to our perfect Democracy. Another ship full of good soldiers and assistants who believed in our ideas, who were inspired by them.
Such a corvette in its standard modification could hold almost a hundred and forty people, and the ones we use for carrier ships or transport... Even more.
Leaning my forehead against the cold surface, I hear new messages arriving on the PDA to the sound of my teeth grinding. I knew it was my people. Somnia, the brothers, Shorty... they're probably afraid I'll do something stupid.
"Oh, I'll do it. I'll make sure you pirate scum forever forget about hanging around in sectors where the banner of the Helldivers flies."
A gruesome, bloodthirsty smile spread across my face.
Right. No point in being sad or mourning those who can't be brought back. They did their duty, to the end. They fought to the very last soldier, believed in what they were doing. So why should I do otherwise?
"A hundred times more blood, then? No, Cricket... We'll spill more, we'll cut out all these beasts one by one and we won't forget you, or your boys."
The faces of the two home-grown Jedi who had flown to us as soon as the sluggish war with the Hutts flared up immediately flashed before my eyes.
And I thought I was the naive one. I don't know who made up all those stories about cannibals and robots without feelings, but simple monks who sincerely believe in their cause flew to me.
With an Investigator from the Judicial Forces and a couple of senators behind me, we easily talked our way out of these weaklings, especially when the question turned to personalities and the effectiveness of the Peacekeepers themselves, as they call themselves.
I didn't like those guys... I won't form an impression based on a couple of naive blockheads who clearly flew in from the capital or somewhere in the Core Worlds and called us children playing a sluggish little war for profit, claiming we don't care about innocent lives.
Well, sluggish... Compared to the rest of the galaxy—yes, but for us—it was a war for survival in which we were slowly but surely tearing out a victory. Not just for us, but for everyone in these sectors who had the strength to raise their heads to resist the criminals and bastards.
Not through seizing territories or bloody clashes of huge armies. We were winning reputationally and financially...
Perhaps questions will immediately arise regarding the latter. But we were spending hundreds of times fewer Credits than the Cartel, and I consider that a victory. Gangsters love their money and reputation most of all, and the longer we trample on it, the angrier they get and the more mistakes they make.
And over the last month, they've made a whole heap of them, as have those who follow them.
Pirates. Slavers. Assassins. Gangs of savages from backward planets. All of them decided the Hutts would protect them, but that's not the case.
Opening the PDA, I find a message that has been bothering me for days. The seal of the Corporate Sector (CorpSec) emblazoned in the header already discouraged any desire for cooperation, but what these office rats were offering could solve most of our problems.
For a long time now, the Corporate Sector authorities have repeatedly made unsuccessful attempts to liberate Ando Prime from the rule of Zorba the Hutt. The vicious bastard and father of Jabba, who has been terrorizing us for six months now.
On this Ice World, he owned a massive podracing track and reaped a giant profit from it, roughly the same as what we now get from the races on Tatooine.
Imagining himself invincible, he had sheltered behind an entire fleet of ships and openly allowed all sorts of scum to moor in his spaceports and orbital docks. Thousands of pirates and thugs. Dozens of warships and battle stations hanging in orbit.
If we attack right now, everything we've achieved will be destroyed. And it's not a fact that we'd manage to win. Jabba's father was smarter, craftier, and more dangerous than his son, which is why I was seriously considering binding myself in blood with the Corporate Sector to rid ourselves of the Cartel forever, at least in this part of the galaxy.
Of course, others will try to take their place...
Let them try.
Turning the PDA toward me again, my finger hovered over the "Send" button, for I had composed the reply a long time ago; all that remained was to make the decision.
***
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