Goddess

Chapter 3

The interior of the space station was kind of...posh. It seemed a strange label for a mercenary base, but it was the only description that fit.

Shrike knew it was a space station because the logistics of running a criminal organization from a mobile platform were untenable. This Nova base could be on some obscure moon, but the lack of windows, the airtight feeling of the halls, and the slight hum of background systems lent credibility to his instinctual conclusion. It could certainly be orbiting said obscure moon. He had learned to trust his gut a long time ago about these kinds of things.

When Brash insisted he be outfitted with a sensory dampening hood, Shrike hadn't complained. The guy was just doing his job. Allowing a freelancer to know the location of your base of operations was just bad policy. So, Shrike had spent the trip here with his head in a dampening bag and his feet up in the cargo hold to limit his access to windows. He and Brash were friendly, sure, and the big boss wanted to meet him, but that didn't mean he was getting a set of keys to the Nova mansion.

He'd had his hood removed once they were through the airlock and a fair distance into the station, if Shrike was any judge of distance traveled. The room in which he stood was a kind of lounge area, with a wraparound bar, elegant couches, an enclosed narcotic sauna, and stripper poles. Shrike whistled; clearly this area wasn't intended for the typical plebe recruit.

The lounge was empty but for Shrike, Brash, and their small escort, none of whom he recognized. They must be tenured Novas with cushy security duties.

Shrike squinted about good naturedly, and raised an eyebrow at Brash. "You take your leave here? Classy place. No wonder you're going soft."

"Piss off," Brash chuckled. "Where did I find you when I was recruiting? With your nose buried in the sorriest cleavage that would take your money and a drink in both hands."

"In one hand," Shrike corrected reproachfully. "The other hand alternates between the aforementioned cleavage and my shotgun. I exercise unemployment in locales that keep me on my toes."

"Admit it. You're jealous. Only the Boss and his crew leaders get to crash in this place."

The Boss. The Nova Rayn had once been the Nova Rain, a low-level enforcement organization of no more than casual consequence to the competing syndicates in independent space. When the Beta bosses received word that a grunt had staged a coup and taken control of the Novas, most had brushed off the news without so much as bothering to learn the instigator's name. Within three years, everyone in the Milky Way knew who he was, and Synic Rayn, through risky gambles, calculated betrayals, cunning deceit, and the ruthless elimination of competitors, had forged his newly christened Nova Rayn into a galaxy-wide criminal empire.

A full-sized mirror across the lounge slid back, and the Boss stepped through, accompanied by a Liari and a Craeken. Rayn himself was an exceptionally tall Alishkar, towering two feet over Shrike. His eight eyes were set in a thick, blocky head common to his species, and he wore a well-crafted set of deep blue Nova armor with falling streaks of gold. A Kestler pistol, customized to toggle between particle shreds and electrical ion beams for shield disruption, hung from his belt. Shrike tried not to show his envy.

"Corporal Shrike," Synic Rayn said as he strode forward. His top three eyes were trained on his face, seeming to bore into him. The others roved over his armor and hands, or flickered to the MK tattoo peeking above his neckline, taking in every detail. "I've heard a great deal about you. This meeting is a pleasure."

"Rayn," Shrike replied warily. "Same here, on both counts." They didn't shake hands. Mercs never shook hands, as trust was in short supply among such company. Any number of software viruses or hardware nanosites could be introduced to a suit of armor through a handshake, where the armor was most malleable for fine motor control. "It's not Corporal though. Not for a long time. Just Shrike."