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“My name is Major Curtis Delgado, sir. I command the Marine garrison. Captain Nero Engstrom, Commonwealth Navy, the station's commanding officer, was murdered three days ago, and I took over.”
To say Zabala was examining Delgado with suspicion might be a bit strong, but he nonetheless felt under scrutiny by the naval officer.
“We were dispatched here at highest possible speed to help you with an unspoken threat under orders from Fleet HQ directly rather than via my chain of command, so please tell me what happened and how we can assist.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. I’ll preface this by saying my people and I work for SOCOM.” Zabala’s eyebrows shot up at hearing the acronym, but he remained silent. “Rear Admiral Hera Talyn of Naval Intelligence is my mission controller — we’re here at her behest — so you’ll understand when I say I can’t speak of certain matters.”
“The plot thickens. Understood.” Zabala nodded once. “I assume this is related to that WMD warhead depot you spoke about earlier.”
“Yes, sir. It was discovered a few weeks ago, and we relieved the regular garrison because intelligence realized unfriendly interests knew about the find and were keen to seize the weapons, which date back to the Second Migration War.”
Zabala grimaced. “Ugh. I can only imagine what horrors are down there.”
“We were attacked by a first wave of mercenaries — three ships, two of which landed to seize Tyrell but were seized by us instead, and one which we killed with the station’s guns. You’ll find the wreckage and an impact crater close to our location.”
“Really? Well done, Major. I’m impressed.”
“Both ships on the ground are undamaged, but we killed about half of the crews when they forced their way into Tyrell. The rest, over a hundred, are being held in the shuttle hangar as prisoners of the Fleet.”
“So those are bodies we see scattered on the tarmac.”
“Yes, sir. The mercs had an advance team on the inside, though we neutralized them before their arrival and led the raiders into a prepared ambush. Unfortunately, that advance team destroyed the communications module, one of the hydroponics modules, and damaged the reactor module. As my first sergeant put it, these were self-detonating tangos, likely from one of the religious sects which consider suicide in the service of their deity a blessing and hire themselves out to organizations conducting black ops.”
Zabala raised a hand. “Hang on. They damaged the reactor module?”
Delgado nodded. “We’ve been running on battery power since then. Fortunately, with no atmosphere to block the sun’s rays, they’re kept topped up during daylight hours. But the entire module will need replacing before the mine can go back into operation. Until then, the several hundred civilian personnel here are idle. Which brings me to the list of things for which I need your help.”
“Go ahead.”
“First, could you send a subspace message to whoever signed the orders sending you here, asking for an Assenari Mining Corporation ship to pick up the civilians as quickly as possible? This place will probably be out of business for a few weeks, if not a few months, and the workers aren’t exactly cheerful people.”
Zabala glanced away for a few seconds, and Delgado saw his lips move but heard no sounds. He turned back to the Marine.
“It’s going out in the next minute or so.”
“Thank you. Next, can I turn the sloops we captured and their surviving crews over to you? Since there’s no prize money involved and SOCOM is tight-lipped about our operations, they’re yours along with the honors involved.”
“Done. I’ll send prize crews within the hour. Make sure the prisoners are loaded aboard, suitably detained, but with access to sanitary facilities, water, and food.”
“Yes, sir. We’ve done this before, so you’ll find the sloops ready to lift the moment your people are aboard.”
A faint smile briefly relaxed Zabala’s serious countenance. “No doubt.”
“And I must send a full report to Admiral Talyn if you won’t mind transmitting it as an operational urgent. It’ll be encrypted.”
“Certainly. If I may ask, why didn’t you use the subspace transmitters in those mercenary ships to call home?”
Delgado let out a grim chuckle.
“We tried, but the relay in this system refused to recognize them as legitimate, and I couldn’t find anything resembling an authorization or override code. Of course, it would accept a distress call, but a general broadcast when I figured there were still more tangos inbound didn’t seem prudent, and I was right. My best gamble was seeing if the second wave believed their earlier comrades took possession of Tyrell. And I was right.”
“Anything else we can do, Major?”
Delgado shook his head. “That’ll take care of the immediate issues. Once my report reaches HQ, I expect a flurry of orders to help us sort this out so we can go our separate ways.”
“In that case, Garibaldi, out.”
Once Zabala’s face vanished from the command post’s primary display, Hak gave his commanding officer a sardonic look.
“Flurry of orders? Doesn’t sound like the Admiral, sir. A single, all-encompassing directive is more her style.”
Delgado grinned at him. “But the good commander doesn’t need to know that.”
“True.” Hak stood. “I’ll go organize loading the prisoners aboard the sloops. Or rather, make that singular if we can fit every last one of them aboard Harfang. Otherwise, the prize crews will be stuck moving it from the passenger gangway to make room for Faucon.”
Before Delgado replied, Testo let out a stream of invective.
“What?”
“The sloops in orbit just destroyed their shuttles with anti-missile calliopes as they were on final approach, sir.”
Delgado and Hak exchanged glances.
“I guess they couldn’t manage a Class One decontamination process after all,” the latter said.
“Live by taking bad contracts, die by taking bad contracts. If ever I find myself beached, the last thing I’ll do is sign up as a private military contractor.”
“Amen, Skipper.”
“Aw, for frack’s sake.” Testo slumped in his chair. “The tangos in orbit blew themselves up.”
“More death worshiping zealots, I guess,” Hak said in a resigned tone. “I think we won’t like where this could go if the opposition keeps arming, equipping, and employing them. At least regular mercenaries and organized criminals know when it’s time to quit.”
Delgado allowed himself a brief grimace. “Which is precisely why they started using the self-detonators.”
“Captain Zabala’s calling again, Skipper. Coming up on the primary.”
“Did you catch that, Major? The ships in orbit self-destructed.” Zabala seemed like a man in disbelief.
“Yes, sir. We did.”
“Who kills themselves instead of surrendering?”
Delgado chewed on the inside of his lower lip for a few moments, wondering how much he should reveal, then decided information about this new threat would percolate through the Fleet soon enough.
“What follows is top secret, sir. Something I’d rather you didn’t discuss with your crew.”
“Understood. I’m in my day cabin, alone.”
“Ever heard of the Hashashin, sir? An ancient sect from which we derived the Anglic word assassin?”
Zabala shrugged. “Vaguely.”
“They were religious fanatics who’d give their lives to accomplish a mission and would rather die than be captured. The Hashashin vanished around the late thirteenth century, though fanatical fighters willing to die for their faith and cause never really disappeared. They just keep mutating from one era to the next, sometimes disappearing from the sensor screen for generations, only to reappear in a novel form. Well, they’re back once more. In the last year or so, someone weaponized the latest incarnation of these eternally present holy warriors, formed them into private military corporations as a cover, and sent them on one-way black ops missions, just like the Hashashin of old.”
“So, the crews aboard those ships were your Hashashin?”
Delgado nodded. “At least that’s my theory. They and the infiltration team that blew up three modules, killing themselves in the process before we stopped them. My people took care of the rest, thankfully, before they accomplished their mission. I’ve never encountered suicidal mercenaries before. The regular sort is in it for pay, not a holy death. By the way, we don’t know what they call themselves. Naval Intelligence named them Hashashin for lack of anything better.”
“And what god or gods do they worship?”
“Again, we don’t know. As I said, they emerged from the shadows so recently, we’re only now aware of their existence, though I suppose they were perhaps responsible for targeted assassinations or other small-scale black ops in recent times, incidents for which we never found the culprits.”
“I see.” Zabala rubbed his chin. “Does that mean the ones you took prisoner aren’t Hashashin?”
“No. They belong to a known PMC headquartered in the Protectorate Zone, one loosely affiliated with a large, diffuse organized crime group.”
“How did you tell the difference?”
A predatory smile lit up Delgado’s face. “They surrendered meekly after we bloodied their noses.”