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Angel Wings Prologue: The Note
Date: 19 June 2008, 7:31 pm

      The handwritten note had simply read:

      Marcus Garrison, UNSC vessel: The Paragon Article. 3 million credits.
David Bugler

      It left co-ordinates for the Jupiter moon of Io and a time, nothing more.

      So here I was, staring at the staff records and Marcus was nowhere to be found. The note didn't specify whether Garrison was the bounty or the meet; which means a little detective work ahead of any potential action.

      I'd deliberately dropped into Jovian space camouflaged, knowing full well that it pays to be vigilant and invisible for these kinds of circumstances. The UNSC Carrier is considerably larger than my baby, something like a rhino to a meerkat in size. But I have the advantage of surprise and a few other missiles carefully positioned up my sleeve.

      My mind hovers over the arming trigger of a 'sweepstake' rod. So called because when it goes off, everyone gets a piece.
      Naval Command calls them 'City Slickers' for their leveling abilities, the Covenant call them 'Purifiers' for much the same reasoning.
      While banned by all sides participating in the Great War, no-one seems to care about a stupid ream of paper plonked on some pen pusher's desk; at a reasonable 90K, munitions plant shelves are still bare so someone's sure as hell taking them.
      Admittedly they can be a little unstable and hard to determine for their blast yield because enrichment processes aren't regulated the way legally graded military weapons are. But once charged, there's no going back; they're either fired or explode.

      The Paragon officially registers three thousand and four hundred staff, with a little over a thousand signed-in guests; the real number remains a mystery and Marcus Garrison must be part of it.
      There's something unsavoury about indiscriminately wiping out four thousand people with a ninety grand missile for three million credits all in the pursuit of one man, but business is business and large bounties like this don't come along everyday.
      I run an alternative search on Bugler but still come up with nothing. If my luck doesn't improve, this could end up just another memorial day for the UNSC.

      Nova patrols run consecutively around their diva queen, with two corvettes yo-yoing over her port and starboard sides, meaning that if I do have to take her out, I better make a sharp exit and take exile in Covenant-controlled space. Not really my kind of party and the company's not the friendliest but three million would sure compensate for the loss of maritime privileges.

      On a hunch, I take a stab in the dark and tap Bugler's name into a Jovian public SEC. I refine the list to include the ship and the United Nations Space Command to filter out the chaff.
      Bugler's name comes up as pretty as a picture, the guy even has his own blog, referring to himself as a 'Commercial and Naval Liaison Officer'; cute, people love to talk up themselves and their roles. It's one of those things bitter folk do and hope that certain others see and feel envious.
      He's married with two young girls but other than stating their existence, there's not much info regarding their lives. It's all Dave in Bugler's world.
      Reading his latest entry dated the fourth of March, I see he's booked a holiday for the end of May that runs into July. All aboard the Earth 2 liner, Eudaimonia; a lesson in affluence and indulgence if ever there was one.

      Clearly he's ranked quite high if he can afford that much time off and to spend it in such a desirable locale -clearly he's not integral to the war effort either. These days if they can spare you, they don't really need you.

      On a separate line of enquiry, Connie brings up a list of three ships and eleven bodies relating to them, seven of which are old drinking buddies; all of which are chilling in the mortuary, all dead from massive trauma and more than a touch of blood loss.
      The latest glamorous entrant to the dead pool, Candera Valance, had weighed in at 40 kilograms; which was considerably lighter than the last time I saw her tucking away a second helping of frazzled turkey at our annual scumbag bash in December.
      Candy had talked with her mouth full about a big job coming her way, that leathery bite turned out to be her Last Supper.
      The post mortem photos of her remains are enough to put even a starving gravefly off its food.
      Whomever the hunter encountered had left a lasting impression -or maybe just a warning- to others.
The reason for my being here is beginning to make sense.

      I decloak and let the Carrier know of my presence -right along her port side.
The panic machine meanwhile goes into overdrive.
The mothership veers from her normal orbital trajectory and orders her minions to aide in her defence.

      Nova pilots trained for such occasions always forget their table manners when they feel their big dog threatened.
      The first fighter rolls in at a high angle, roaring over the com as he comes to a smooth stop and powers up his cannons:
      "Pilot, state your fucking intention before I skull-fuck that piece of shit of yours!"
      He's carrying quite a lame payload; it would sting but wouldn't do any real harm.
      "I'm looking for a David Bugler." I calmly reply, hoping the nice level-headed approach will stop him from becoming antsy and I lose out on three million credits.
      His buddy chimes in from his ship nudged nice and tight in my ass:
      "No David Bugler here, pal, so take a hike before we get mad."
      For three million credits I would obliterate their puny ships, heck, I'd do it for a laugh if I didn't think it would get me into legal bother.
      The bogey on my six is a little green in the seat, he's lined himself up directly behind me and if his partner gets itchy and decides to fire, Connie will ensure it's my anal hanger-on that gets the shafting.

      Why talk to the monkeys when you can get more sense out of the organ grinder. I bypass protocols and hack the Paragon's main network again, getting straight through to an information desk jockette. The girl on the other end seems a little startled to be cut off mid-sentence, with her caller seemingly just as dismayed.
"The coffee machine will be–"
      I repeat my initial statement exactly the same as before.
      "I'm looking for a David Bugler."
      "Who?" The girl cries out bewildered.

      The caller on the other hand:
      "Wait your turn, dickhead, I was here firs-"
Clearly feels his coffee problem is more of a priority.

      Considering I almost destroyed the carrier and everyone on board, including mister 'dickhead' (solving his coffee problem in the equation), cutting him off wasn't much of a dilemma. I reiterate Bugler's name and title, hoping that she'll know of someone in a position to help me.

      The monkeys around me, meanwhile, have doubled in number and are just as uppity; with the Carrier's port corvette scooting on its tightest turn. My baby keeps a track on their weapon status, just in case they want to play at shit-throwing. The greenseat up my rear has backed off after a dressing down by his superior; all on a supposedly private channel away from my prying ears.
      The girl finally puts me through to someone in logistics, a woman with a high-pitched and hollow whiney voice. After telling her about the note, she promptly instructs me on my next move.
      "David Bugler?" Comes across so nasally in tune, it sounds more like Diymid Byooler, and I have to stop myself from correcting her too many times before we both get wound up. Maybe I should have just typed that into the search criteria.

      "Diymid Byooler can be located through the Hell's Kitchen docking bay." She confirms. "I'll give you clearance to land and have someone there to meet you."
      "Thank you, m'am." I reply.
      "Er, dur, I'm a man!" She unprofessionally declares.
      I console the little dearie in her delusion as I bolt through the harass of monkeys on my back and gun for their queen; the greenseat being the only ship in a suitable position to give chase.
"Sure you are, honey."

Angel Wings Chapter 1: Creep
Date: 21 June 2008, 12:11 pm

      A quick schematics check of the Paragon tells me the Hell's Kitchen dock isn't used for everyday purposes. If the Nova pilot in my behind would stop firing at me, I'd almost feel like royalty.
      Eventually someone gets through to him and he does indeed break off his lowbrow assault.

      My baby doesn't need me for docking and I try again with another search on Garrison; I hate meeting with people I got nothing on. If this guy's onboard he's certainly not in the census, which means he's either under a pseudo or so under the radar as to be a gnat's fart, in other words, practically invisible. ONI guys do that; the creep of sweat up my back is an obvious sign.

      Stepping down the ramp I take a quick glance around.
Absolute chaos.
      It's obviously an internal sense of organisation but hectic in fashion from the outside. Staff take massive detours to get where they're going; tourists and VIPs stand out like sore thumbs not just because of their wears but because their heads are never in the same direction twice.
      Over in the corner of the bay atop a large grey gunmetal stairwell, a lone black suit stands with one hand behind his back and the other clutching the rail.
The sweat on my back goes cold.
That's Garrison, beyond even a shadow of doubt.
He gives a short detectable nod in my direction before leaving the bay.

      "Do you realise the mayhem you've just caused with your little stunt, sonny?"
      With his arms folded grumpily, the little man that greets me at the bottom of the ramp must be Garrison's lapdog: Bugler. Or taking some of the staff's word for it: Byooler. A short stub of a guy with a chub-filled torso and battened-on legs -the photos on his blog must be old. From his tone I can see we're going to be the best of friends. He has a pinched snout and permanent furrow to his brow; I can understand why he doesn't mention the kids much if they're as gorgeous as he is.
      His timbre is a series of rapid successive beats; as if by talking fast no-one will catch him out.
      "Had the patrol decided to blast your ship to kingdom come, I'm quite sure that no-one would have mourned the loss of just another…"
I stop dead in my tracks.
It's time to set up some boundaries.
      "You were saying?" I growl.
He draws back from what we both knew he was going to finish with and offers a much less insulting phrase.
      "Meathead!"

      Now I don't mind being referred to as a merc, but you gotta have some sense of occasion and authority when you say it.
      I mean, I hear whispers from snipers in bays the galaxy over; they work their fingers to the bone for an honest -but measly- day's pay, go home to their loveless marriage, pork their lifeless wife, eat their tasteless pate, patronise their unappreciative kids, watch beautiful people live glorious lives for them on TV and generally endure their dullsville life.
      They see a guy come in that earns up to ten times what they see in a year and he doesn't pay tax on it neither.
I'd be bitter about it too.
      If one of them had the balls to come up to my face and spell it out for me, I'd shake that man's hand because they're allowed to call me a lowlife no-good son of a bitch.
      They don't because at 6'9 and weighing 97 kilos, I don't exactly have that meek, beat-down at the neck, complaints-desk mouse look.

      The lapdog isn't allowed because he has manicured nails and his eyebrows have a perfect silver tint. Most grunts I know aren't even aware of their eyebrows let alone have someone tint them.

      He thinks because he summoned me here that he's entitled to do and say whatever whimsical thought pops into his frenzied pea-sized brain. I have little respect for authority as it is so when jumped-up no-marks act on badge rather than merit, things tend to spiral.
That's why we need boundaries.
We stand there for a few more seconds than he deems necessary. When he moves on and I remain fixed in position, he turns to realise what's happening.

      On the proving grounds of my youth, I'd have already closed the gap and laid him clean out, but these days the threat of something nasty and violent is usually enough to move the bowels and prod the self-preservation cells into life.

For a moment he remains uncomfortable in my presence.
Good.
Now the boundary has been set we can move on.
It doesn't stop him bitching though.

      Over the head of the lapdog, I note out the corner of my eye that Candy's orphaned pup has been stripped of its entire weapons rack and all the good tech been dismantled.
      Shame, the old lush carried a torch for me and I'd have liked first refusal on her rig now she's dead.

      We make our way towards the spot the spook-suit disappeared, with Dave circling me and nipping at my heels every step of the way.
      I end up leading him out of the bay like some excited and wayward child.

      Up the stairs and beyond the door, with the pandemonium of the bay behind us, it's Bugler's turn to lead.
      He's still yapping for all he's worth and with the corridor empty, his voice begins to grate.
      UNSC vessels are fairly uniform in design, meaning that if you've visited one Carrier, you've toured them all. There's no love lost between me and these lumbering beasts, they got no style, they cruise without doing any cruising.

      I'm lead into a large office space lined with perfectly-sized, red leather-bound handbooks on two of the four walls; the window behind the main desk pretty much takes up a wall to itself. The suit turns from the onyx panorama behind him and greets me with open hand and a silver-toothed devilish grin.
      The dead man's donny is ice cold to the touch and the smirk seals a fate I'm unsure I want sealing.
      "Mister Ephialtes, I'm so glad you could join us. Your somewhat instantaneous arrival has certainly caused quite the fuss."
      Garrison's voice has the most curious of effects, even though he sounds like your average garden variety suit, something about him is deeply unnerving. His face is of a stark grey and his eyes narrow into formidable slits. Crow's feet making patterns in the sand around them every time he grins (because the guy doesn't smile, he just exudes a mad grin). A skeletal frame with a pallbearer suit thrown over the top to hide the ribs and a self-assured fang-and-dimple curtsy to hide the fact he knows where the other bodies are buried.

      "I was contemplating my next move." I offer as way of apology, holding out the note which I had received.
      "The note was a tad ambiguous even by my usual standards."

      "I'm inclined to agree." Garrison said as he passed the unread note onto a mawkish-looking Bugler.
Bugler stutters in the firing line.
      "I, erm, thought it best to keep things to a minimum."
      "That minimum should have been expanded upon, David, in order to eliminate any misconceptions our good friend here may have had. We should give thanks for Mister Ephialtes' careful diligence on our behalf."
      "Just Ephialtes, please Mister Garrison; the formality is unnecessary."
I wasn't thinking diligently, I was just concerned there'd be no-one alive to hand me my big fat cheque.
      And I know for sure that I prefer the outright creep of Bugler to the creepiness of Garrison.       Nowhere in Bugler's blog does it mention the softly oppressive Garrison and I can see why such an amnesiac block would occur; for the very opposite reasons the jumped-up grump doesn't make much noise about his ugly progeny. Shame and fear being strange bedfellows in that respect

      "Now, let us put such trivialities behind us and return to the matter at hand."
He offers me the chair opposite his desk.
      "Please Mister Ephialtes: be seated."
I know the formality to be intentional, as if to say I'll call you what I damn well please. Never have good manners sounded so intimidating and unwelcome.
      "You're aware of how unusual it is for the UNSC to enlist outside help?"
Up until recently, we were only ever called in for clean-ups and watertight, denial-ready takedowns, but the eleven frozen outsiders taking up space in the mortuary would attest to the new policy if they could.
      "Let's talk money, Mister Garrison." I viciously retort.
Dead friends should always up the ante, nothing to do with the fact that I wasn't first in line for the job.
      "Oh, I would have thought three mill-"
      "It's not." I interject fiercely.
      "My friends stinking up your morgue say it's not."
      So I didn't know four of them, another four hated me because I stole jobs from under their noses but were too chickenshit to do anything about it. Two only drank with me because I paid and the only woman of the dead soiree just wanted to get into my pants.
Garrison may give off the smug Buddha look, but it's doubtful that he knows of our chummy history.
He pauses for a moment, not taking his eyes from mine; trying to feel me out.

The galaxy and his wife believe that a liar cannot face down his accusers, that by some divine right he must show his guilt in some way.
The galaxy nor his wife know shit; I could tell him I'm his father without batting a fucking eyelid, flinching or subconsciously nodding my head to say otherwise.
      "Even though they were all invited separately, not one of your 'friends' saw fit to include you in this lucrative operation, did they, Mister Ephialtes?"

      His big grin loses its shine as Garrison strokes his left middle finger with his right thumb and forefinger. Almost like an obscured flipping of the bird.
      "I will throw their ships into the deal; I'm sure a man of your hardy salesmanship will have no problem in turning a decent profit."
      "And the stripped guns too?" I add hopefully. The ships themselves are probably the least profitable parts.
Garrison's grin disappears altogether, replaced by a solid graven stare.
      "We do not have them." He states categorically.
I wait for the explanation but for the first time since meeting him, Garrison's feathers seem slightly ruffled.
      "The deal stands at three million with the three ships taken as seen, take it or leave it. I am in no position to authorise any more funds. We have a further two dead mercenaries and their vehicles currently in transit and awaiting processing; if their possessions are not claimed, you may have those as well."
That brings the tally up to thirteen. And the grin is definitely on the other foot.
      "May I ask why I was not considered before half the population for the job?" I ask semi-facetiously.
Bugler decides to come out of hiding and pulls against his master's reigns, whining furiously from over my shoulder.
      "Because your reputation as a fucking slimeball precedes you by several planets, you rotten merc!"
I reckon he's been holding that in since the docking bay. Probably chopping it and changing it to suit every sentence I've uttered since, trying to cram it in like big ball in a little box.
      It's certainly true that I've got a bad rap due in no small part to my activities, but you don't earn respect in my chosen trade without mercilessly slaughtering a few people.
      Admittedly, I'm pro-publicity because it helps spread the fear. If they know you're coming and they know you mean business, then they know the best thing they can do is leave their body somewhere visible and a will leaving me all their worldly goods.

      I don't deal in live bonds anymore; it's like opening a candy bar and giving half the candy away.

      "Your rising celebrity status and the all-too coincidental appearance of several media reporters during your last few acquisitions have had a somewhat… detrimental effect on your chances of being employed in our services."
      "Plus." The leather of Garrison's chair creaks as he leans forward someway and utters in quiet revere.
      "The Catholic holy man did not help matters."
      "He wasn't holy." I counter, snorting with derision.
      "If my benefactor had granted me licence, that perv would be spending eternity torn between the eighth and second circles of hell."

      "Quite apart from the alleged crimes for which he was acquitted; taking him from his diocese and delivering him unto a penal colony to be sodomised by the inmates happened to constitute several transgressions of Earth law."
      "Pandora's Box penitentiary was the closest I could get to hell and only the church admonished him of any guilt, right before they shuffled the deck and stuck the scum with yet more children to abuse somewhere else." I rebuff.
      "Besides." I continue, feeling myself on a roll.
      "My benefactor assured me of his deviancy and the last time I checked, Earth was little more than a speck of dust in your window."

      That's the beauty of paying for good legal advice; you know where you stand with galactic laws. Anything beyond Martian space and Earth forces can't be bothered with extradition costs. Hell, they have trouble extraditing genocidal dictators from one hemisphere to the other so what chance they got out here of a man that rights a few wronged little choirboys. My lawyers would have me free even before the detention ship navigated the Asteroid Belt.

      Garrison leaves our little tempestuous tangent to peter out of its own accord, referring instead to the bounty itself.
      "Yes, well, personal feelings aside, we are happy to have you onboard for what is proving to be a rather large thorn in our side."
Finally, the nitty-gritty. Eleven bodies, three ships and a whole lot of tangled horns later, I'm actually gonna find out what all the fuss is about.
      "I'm listening." I pucker.
      Garrison seems reluctant to continue, he narrows his already squinting eyes in the direction of the bookshelf's shadows behind me, towards Bugler.
      "Leave us."

Angel Wings Chapter 2: Seven?!
Date: 3 July 2008, 5:30 pm

      With Bugler gone, Garrison leans back in his chair, as if Bugler was a weight off his mind. Not quite the ONI way but if Bugler is just a front for more serious cloak and dagger dealings, the less a yapping lapdog knows, the better I suppose.

      "What I am about to tell you in the strictest confidence is classified. From any other person it is rumour, myth; a fallacy concocted by the Covenant as propaganda to destabilize and demoralise our military forces."
      I feel like I'm being read my rights.
      "Should you divulge this information to an enemy agency and the fiasco come to light, regardless of whether or not there is proof of your testament; your life will be terminated."
The suit never changes tone, as if he were reading quite blasé some generic fast food menu. I don't know if that makes it worse but my nuts suck up into my pelvis as an indication it might be.

      "Nine months ago, seven Spartans went rogue off The Plates of Aruan Sparkles, a front opened up by Covenant raiding parties on certain military resources in that region."
For a second I thought my ears were deceiving me.
      "Whoa there, seven..." I roll my hand over and over at the wrist, my head being all ears and gesticulating for him to say the next word again.
      "Spartans." He duly repeats.
      "Spartans." I sheepishly echo.
      I thought I was hearing things but his reaffirmation makes me giddy with excitement.
      I've capped rebel Elites for cold hard cash, speared dumb Brutes for safari sport and generally had my fill from across the elite spectrum caste of warriors, but I've always considered the Spartans as part of the crème de la crème when it comes to combat. In fact, the only other contender for the title of tastiest bounty is the suit in front of me.

      ONI spooks are demon fighters. Their frail, slight appearance belies their speed, agility and shear power when it comes to the unarmed crunch.
      There's footage doing the rounds with one of these stick insects on a besieged Warship. It's grainy and all you get is static for sound but when the room gets rushed and the first grunt is force-fed his own mask with a palm strike, you realise all is not as it seems.
      Even as the grunt hits the ground clutching his face, the suit is pouncing on some other poor bastard with about the same level of compassion; a bird holding up its shield to fend off its lethal assailant while simultaneously trying to infiltrate the room.
      The stick scoops up the bottom of the shield and buries it straight into the nearest wall, separating the Jackal's head and upper beak from the rest of his body.

      But the bit with the elite always leaves my jaw on the floor in awe of these guys.

      The ONI suit pretty much defies all known laws of gravity and propels himself across the room at head-whipping speed, skipping the writhing grunt and bouncing over an upturned desk.
      The spook lands a single punch.
      A single punch.
      He's probably half my weight with his feet clear of the ground and yet the blow is enough to crater-slam the elite.
      Now I've taken down Sangheili and punching them once -even grounded- is like punching a horse: pointless. So a mini fistball of fury from an airborne waif shouldn't register. It shouldn't even be enough to make the squid-kid mad.
      But go figure, the strike works its magic like a blow from a two ton Jackhammer and a three storey drop. Something the largest of mammals wouldn't be getting up from in too much of a hurry without a massive dose of painkillers.

      A cowardly Covie just outta shot throws in a glo-ball that clings to the spook's shoulder as he lands on the floor; he just looks at it like it's shit he's gonna scrape from his shoe.
      The video goes down at a large flash but I reckon the spook's still going somewhere.
Why, they all ask?
      Because ONI suits don't die, the assholes just respawn somehow.

      I'm surprised they don't use spooks on the front but realistically I know why; because ONI guys panic the home crowd as much as they do the Covenant.
      They just ain't natural and they certainly ain't stupid; you wouldn't have Lekgolo and smash things yourself, would you?
      That's why the UNSC has Spartans; ONI's great poster boys and gals, their one and only triumph in the PR arena for the hearts and minds of the average Joe and his porky wife, Jane.

      They're born, eat, sick, shit and piss for the first six years of their lives and are then ground through the Spartan mill for fourteen years; coming out the other side ready to breathe fire for the UNSC.

      Shit, on some backwater planets the backwards inhabitants lay flower petals at their feet like they're living deities. That's how much they're revered by those less-mentally involved.

      Troops only have to hear of one aboard their ship and there's hurrahs all round; contrast that with the whisper of a spook-suit haunting the carrier's hallways and everyone's wondering what the fuck is going on.
      I reckon the difference to be tremendous.
      Sitting across from one of them, you can just tell that they aren't human, they're something much older, more primeval and yet more intelligent as to remain completely outta sight. You never heard of them throughout the ages but I reckon they've been there, secretly pulling the strings of all humanity like some archaic order with a vested interest in our survival. Only God knows why and he's keeping a low profile, probably because the suits have a few questions they'd like him to answer.
      It's always the way with things you let loose, sooner or later they come back to bite you in the ass. That goes double for spook-suits but also applies to those rogue Spartans on the next tier down of the food chain having just bitten the cold hand that feeds.

      "Mister Ephialtes, are you listening?"
      "Sure." I nudge back, "Sure I am: Spartans, Aruan Sparkles, seven of them; half a dozen and then some."
      I'm counting them off as each one takes a dirt nap from my plethora of weapons.

      Garrison stops me in my tracks, pointing to the inside of my shoulder where my body ends and the prosthetics of the Symbion shell take over.
      "Now I am aware of your personal history with the Spartans, Mister Ephialtes, or would you prefer: Martin Chambers?"
      The name is a blast from the past that's for sure. I haven't been called Martin or Marty for nigh on fifteen years, not since my mother's funeral in fact.
      My dad left some eight years earlier, leaving me with the only worthwhile sentiment he'd ever given me.
      As a seven year old boy, he took me firmly by my flaccid arms before leaving my life forever:
       "Son, be good at something; it doesn't matter what it is, just be good at something."
      That little token gesture from a full-time absent father was on the day of his redundancy, the day he walked back into the offices of Metacore and shot dead twenty-five of his work colleagues.
      The counselor provided by the school couldn't understand the irony of the one that got away: the MD that fired my father, was actually away sunning his face on holiday at the time, leaving my dad's co-workers to bear the brunt of his emotional fallout concerning the MD's budget cuts.
      They got a lot more feeling from the robotic old coot than I ever did.

      I on the other hand made my first kill at the tender age of thirteen -some six years later. A glory boy by the name of Jariel Coombs and his high school sweetheart, Diana Swansea.
Jariel Coombs represented all that I admired and despised: physical perfection.
      It's not that I'm heavily disfigured but as a child my arms were lame and shrivelled up just enough to be nicknamed 'Dino-boy'; small, pathetic limbs that simply hang there beneath my chin like a T-Rex and are generally useless for anything involving fine dexterity.

      Jariel decided that his relationship with Diane meant more to him than being Quarterback of our football team.
      Quite aside from spurning his genetically heroic mantle, he'd thought his valiant, romantic stand would rally his peers to his aide and to be honest, they did; but for juniors like me that relied on such inspiration, it was all the back we needed to duly knife.
      In hindsight, I reckon I did everyone a favour, a hero that does not rise to the challenge expected of them but prefers instead to squat with the common fold mark themselves out by their fake sincerity.
      I make the most of who I am and stand proud as both reason and example to show how far I have come from 'Dino-boy'; a kid no-one believed had the power to pulley a rope carrying the all-star chump's body over the stair banister and rightly leave hanging from one of his parents' grand chandeliers.

      ONI never felt that way and I still have their letter of rejection taking pride of place over my sofa bed wall; yellowed with age, worn and with long dried up tear marks all over it, the A4 sheet held sentimental value. Now, with the chance to rub it in some deserter's golden visor, it holds something more.

      I've always been a fan of the underdog and after also falling short of the Spartan induction; Ephialtes struck a chord within me. Here was a man willing to fight and die for his country, wronged by a profoundly stupid (and almost undoubtedly a true blue-blood, inbred) king who believed his beloved and homosexual clique of three-hundred Spartans would ultimately save his country from Xerxes' invasion forces; nothing to do with anyone else's efforts or what was happening elsewhere in the lands.
      It doesn't take a genius, just an even amount of brain cells, to work out that there is strength in numbers.
      From ships to weapons, food, lands, ideas, people, money and even fucking brain cells: quantity is a quality all of its own.

      The sensationalist author of those historic events, Herodotus, never saw it that way either but since he's dead and I'm not, redeeming the name of Ephialtes hasn't been too hard.
      For three thousand years the word and the man has dragged through the mud, even Judas found some positive reviews for his gospel sometime in the twenty-first century.
      But Ephialtes?
      They poured scorn over his heartfelt pleas and rubbished his diehard efforts.

      Now things are different.

      He has me to champion his cause and after an award-winning documentary, two channel nine series and a dozen comic novels detailing my hunting exploits across the known galaxy; millions of folk revel in the archetypal bad-ass good guy they've come to know and love as Ephialtes.
      The wretched little gimp they all believed wouldn't amount to much in life now pulls the boogey monster out from under their bed, puts the barrel of an M9 Trident down his gullet and turns him into a bloody sieve.
      The kids love it -I'm expecting calls to release action figures of me and my ship Connie any day now.

      "I'd prefer it if you didn't Mister Ephialtes."
      Garrison's comment gatecrashes the idle bittersweet daydreaming of a casual monologue and for a brief second I consider the possibility that he's not only a spook-suit, but also a telepath.
      I forgot to take my blockers this morning and gusto-filled monologues have got me into bother in the past.
      "Didn't what?"
      I sling loose a bluff, hoping to improvise mental focus and wing any further questioning.
      "Allow personal feelings to interfere with your ability to carry out your duties."
      I spit polish and rub sentiment all over our pact.
      "On that you have my solemn word, Mister Garrison."
      Shame it don't mean shit; a bullet hammered from the chamber and breaking free of the barrel tends to give me a lot more satisfaction if I don't like its intended recipient.
      I've always reserved a special brand of spite for the goody-two-shoe Spartans and these seven rogue soldiers -having shirked their heroic mantle- have already made themselves worthy of my aggression.

      "You do know that I don't deal in live bonds anymore, right?"
      "Of course Mister Ephialtes, extremis malis extrema remedia."
      I haven't the foggiest idea what Garrison's talking about so I simply lay it back to him.
      "Ditto."
      "There is one thing I might add before you depart." He says. "As instigators of their defection, the squad leader and her second are of particular interest to me. If you could find it possible to bring their heads back, intact, I would be most grateful, perhaps even in your debt.
      "I'll bring them in to fanfare and on a silver platter, how does that sound?"
      "Splendid, Mister Ephialtes, absolutely splendid."
      After a frosty start that could've froze the drool of an Iovian -followed by a couple of verbal head knocks- we've discovered a mutual love of violent deaths and decapitation and are now getting along like a planet afire. Garrison does his fang-and-dimple curtsy again and I do my best to match it.
      I shake the old devil's cold hand once more and say goodbye, he leaves me with a friendly gesture.
      "I wish you the best of luck."
      And it sounds genuine enough.

      I backtrack through the hallways the way I came in and Bugler greets me near the door to the chaotic bay.
      "I will be your-"
      "Liaison, I know."
      The lapdog strokes his upper lip with a manicured thumb.
      "Yes well, if you actually manage to acquire any of the products, we expect you to ship them in airtight containers so there will be no risk of contamination or infection."
      Bugler's just an idiot; a mouthpiece that has no idea of what's going on or what his boss is really like.
      "Infectious?" I shoot Bugler a cheeky smile.
      A disease that had Spartans deserting their posts and going to ground; that'd just about be ONI and Garrison's worst nightmare.
      The cavalcade of explosive noise hits me as the bay door swings open and we descend the stairs.
Halfway down I press Bugler on my chances.
      "You don't think I can do this, do you?"
      Garrison's pet throws a brazen, dismissive hand over towards Candy's orphaned pup, like he owns the Goddamn bay.
      "You've seen the current success rate this mission has produced thus far, haven't you?"
      Bugler grins from ear to ear, like a cheap imitation of his owner's smirk.
      "What I think doesn't matter but I give it a fortnight before your mutilated corpse turns up cluttering an alley somewhere."

      As we draw near to my baby, there are service technicians swarming all over her.
      "I reckon I'll have this bounty wrapped up by the end of May." I reply. "And with three million credits burning a hole in my pocket, I'll take a well deserved break somewhere real nice."
      Bugler scoffs before I plant the big one.
      "Maybe aboard the Eudaimonia!"
His face goes a pale ashen grey, another equally contemptible imitation of his master but this time, I like it.
      The lapdog hands me a black folder which I slide under my arm and ascend the ramp to my baby.
      "I'll be in touch, Mister Byooler." I dish out nasally over my shoulder.
      "We'll see, Mister Ephialtes." I hear his deadpan reply. "We'll see."

      Heading for the cockpit, I rifle through the black folder.
Several data sticks, a bulk of paperwork that could be made into a trilogy and a few photos, none that I haven't seen or illegally picked up elsewhere. Spartans in combat, grouped Spartans, Spartans taking their make-up off, hanging out the washing. The everyday shit that super soldiers generally do when they're not flying the patriotic flag.

      I round into the main lounge of my ship and a small shadow of a man steps out right in front of me, his brown, heavy twill service cap coming up to chest.

      I immediately dispense with all niceties for the diminutive intruder.
      "Get the fuck off my ship."
      With the giant collar of his ecru beige shirt smothering any sign of a neck, his body drowning beneath a mocha blazer and half his head sucked up into his cap: all that's visible is a little pink bulb of a face and a thick pair of black spectacles. A mole of a man.
      "My supervisor instructed me to transfer control from the Valhalla to your ship's Construct, Sir."
      Candy's pup, I was going to drag her to a shipping yard when I'd settled up with the bounty but I guess I could sell it sooner, maybe take a look around and see if there's anything worth pilfering. It's doubtful because Candy only leched over three things: men, women and beer. She could be a real bitch 'n ball-buster if she didn't like you, but you had a friend for life if she did. I loved Candy the way I love bullets, she was a useful old crow so long as she wasn't trying to get inside me and I've had a complete posse of projectiles attempting to do that.
      "Are you done? I ask the dawdling technician.
      "Just about." He replies, wondering around in my cockpit and tapping various instruments.
      "Then can you get the fuck off my ship -it's not a museum."
      "I was just thinking." He says.
      "Why break the habit of a lifetime." I ad lib, setting the folder down on my central workstation and feeding one of the sticks into the hub.
      I shut down the auto display function, fold my arms and stare over at the audacious little flunky mole still poking around in my cockpit.
      "Is this a real Aspis or a replica?"
      It's hard for most people to believe that I would have a genuine Aspis because of the phenomenal cost involved and the shear amount of ass-kissing you'd have to do in order to get the Krohlm to even consider making you one -I'm still making payments and puckering up chapped lips.
      And the very nerve of this 'assmole' enquiring is enough to make me want to flatten him a few further feet into the ground so he'll have trouble reaching up and digging into his wife's trouser pocket for his pay-packet.
      But three million credits wag their dirty rotten fingers as if to say: 'uh-uh, play nice; let's not fire any nosy moles into space'.
      "Are you for real?" I reply exasperated. "Get the fuck off my ship."
      He's seriously rubbing my ego up the wrong way and as a means of appreciation; I introduce him to Connie's nasty streak.
      "Connie." I call out.
      'Yes, Heff?' Comes the ambient sound of her beautiful voice.
      "Show this buffoon the exit."
      Connie's internal security measures whirr into life; three pinpoint accurate (nigh-on atom-splitting) turrets emerge from the lounge walls and line themselves up along his body. The nearest wall into the cockpit aims for the head, the one behind me and located over the leather sofa bed revolves out from behind the rejection letter and guns for his knees. The one opposite the ramp and entrance takes aim for his groin; even without a visible bulge in the dick-less moron's crotch, the turret will still hit the proverbial nail pin on the head.

      In smooth unison, the guns all wave him over towards the exit. Realising he's beat, the flunky makes a hasty, backpedaling retreat.
      "I'll take your word for it." He says before scarpering down the short hallway and clanging down the ramp.

      I order Connie to weigh anchor and set sail.
      "Let's blow this sorry freakshow, babe."
      And as she takes us out the Paragon's bay, I hit enter on my touch-screen display.
      There is a grinding noise of metal on metal and a few slapdash bangs thrown in, noises that raises the hackles of anyone still making payments on their ship.

      "Have you been at daddy's secret stash of liqueur again, Con." I cry out loud. "What the hell was that?!"
      'Rookie pilot flying manual just clipped us trying to line up on his way into the bay.' She informs.
      "Any damage?" I ask hesitantly, half-curious and half not wanting to know.
      'Just a few small scratches along the finish of the hull, nothing serious.'
      "Cool." I breeze, blowing out a visible sigh of relief.
      "And the clumsy pilot?"
      'The Paragon is sending a rescue squad.'
      I let out a roar of laughter and mull over the audacious little mole's comments while mooching around in my ship.
      "Replica, my ass!"

Angel Wings Chapter 3: Once Upon A Time, In A Galaxy Far, Far Away
Date: 17 July 2008, 8:16 pm

      Connie lets us drift along Io's atmosphere with the Valhalla in tow; drifting somewhere near Io's equator with all the fast-talking satellites and hard-hitting space debris.

      Having spent most of my pre-teen life daydreaming about being a Spartan and sitting so close to the screen to be in their promos; what I don't know about the Spartan training program, I could fit on the back of a microchip.

      But each Spartan is unique beyond their training program, blossoming into a warrior that is more than the sum of its parts. In the field is where they pick up a lot of their combat nuances. A battle-dipped soldier might pick up a few pointers from theatre but a Spartan develops a knack for categorizing every conflict he or she has ever participated in. It's what makes them special. The ability to act on the fly with whatever resources are at their disposal and see its effects on the bigger picture.
      These warriors are born of the purest salts, they're moulded on the training grounds, tempered on the exercise yard and then fired in the kiln of war; forged into that most sought after of vases: Spartans.

      And usually I'd start where our targets left off, gather up a bit of background intel and pick up the scent of their sweet little derriere from there, but all background info regarding Spartans simply read: CLASSIFIED, right where you need to see the fucking details.

      It's one thing to have access to personal statements with their biographies including their M.O., their mission achievements, battle strategies, medals and then take it from there. It's quite another to be handed a few pictures –like I've never seen a Spartan before: a squad designate –basically a prison number, and doctored footage and transcripts of all their rogue activity.

      A real haberdashery of information, some of the Spartans have such wonderfully minute, fantastic (read useless) details like their birthplace and induction date, some don't even have that, just the enlightenment of a name and a call sign.
      The only other non-essential info missing is their favourite colour and I'm kind of figuring it's a toss up between green, red and blue!

      Garrison might as well have had his lapdog write me another note saying:

      Dear Mr. Ephialtes (the pointless formality of mister continuing to irritate).

      We regret not being able to help you in any way, shape or form. Due to our extremely stupid operating procedures and general shittiness towards outsiders solving our problems, we will not be offering anything in the way of helpfulness or assistance other than pointing you in a random direction!

      Yours obstinately, signed [blank]

      What a cock. I could probably have got more telling info from the spit workers of Hell's Kitchen.


      I circle my workstation, staring intently at a seven fingered limb of evidence; a holographic image of seven Spartans posited around a charred Sangheili corpse; behind them, extends a few large mountains shadowed by grey skies. The image revolves around with me and I feel eyes, behind ambiguous golden visors, following me around the room.
      "What am I looking at, Con?"
      "The last official photograph of the remaining seven members of Spartan Fire Team Delta Romeo." She replies all matter of factly.
      "The Devil's Rebels; taken after the unanimous victory over Covenant forces on Plate one-oh-one."

      I click my fingers either side of my head, waiting for a spark of inspiration to leap out between them or ignite something from the picture.
      "But what am I seeing?"
Connie reads the question all wrong:
      "Clockwise from top left we have Spartan five-two-one: Jack Witterquick, standing in military posture number four: right-side profile with back straight, right elbow slightly raised, clutching a BR-five-five-HB SR in his right hand while the left hand cradles the barrel…"
      "No, Connie." I interrupt her droll tone. "That's not what I'm seeing."

      As much as I love her, abstract thought is sometimes wasted on the young and artificial.
      "Then I don't understand." She says.
      "Then." I offer, taking her by the imaginary hand.
      "Allow me to elucidate."


      I caught the film bug shortly after being seduced by a big fat cheque from the documentary production team. By the time of my second series, I'd begun to take a more dictatorial role in proceedings, which looking back, is probably why there was no third outing for Ephialtes: A Life Less Ordinary. But having sown the seed, I never lost the penchant for drama; the bug is always there, looking for theatrical angles.
      "I'll tell you what I see."
      I stop walking around the workstation, coming to a halt in front of the cockpit and shooting orchestral arms all over the picture.

      "Leading us in from the left we have number 21, Jack 'The Rabbit' Witterquick; then we stumble into a raging bull by the name of Jonathan 'Wet-look' Maidstone: number 22 stands in our path, snorting rings of fire and stomping his feet with one hoof stirring to charge."

      I take a deep breathe and step back from the image before starting up again.
      "Followed by three white stallions coming up around the bend."
      I swoosh my hand through the air in an eccentric arc of the picture, imitating their positions with the dashes of an artist's brush; carving them out and striking them off individually:

      "17: Arthur 'Echo' Wellington."
      "25: Leonard 'Rocious' Kingsley."
      "22: Azrael 'J.D.' Ford."

      The picture wavers from the swooping motions as my aggrandised synopsis draws near an end.
      "Then we have number eighteen: Jason 'Rodeo' Reins, a black mustang that will need taming."
      I stroke the head, like a Greek deity admiring the magnificence of his creations.

      "And finally, we have the Titan princess herself."
      Moving on, I sweep my fingers beneath the central Spartan's throat and a pulse ripples through the holographic veil:
      "Number thirteen… Gabrielle 'Angel of Death' Vixen."

      Connie fakes a yawn, even though she doesn't sleep and has no sense of energy in the traditional manner, it still brings a smile to my face.
      "So is that what you see is or is it just what you'd like to believe?" She says, pretty resolute in her opinion. "Because all I see are seven Spartans, a victim and a million gruesome ways to die."

      "Let me tell you what I see, Connie." I mutter beneath my breathe, reaching behind my neck and undoing the lock mechanism of the Symbion shell before stepping out of its footlinks:
      "I see a Milky Way best seller."
      Milky Way because outside 'mother's bosom', nobody gives a shit about anything humans get up to.
      "I see money from a movie deal that would make Garrison's bounty seem like small change. I see us returning home to a hero's welcome!"

      "The only thing I see returning…"
      Connie chips in to rain on my parade.
      …is a body bag and the coroner's verdict of death by misadventure."
      It seems everyone's got a bad feeling about this one.

      I clasp my hands together and hold my arms out behind me, leaning forward to emerge from the shoulder sockets of the shell.
      It's been a long day involving a lot of travelling.
      I wearily turn around to admire the best suit that money can buy and the only suit I'll ever love.
      It stands nearly as tall as me yet weighs next to nothing.

      Krohlm designed and tailored specifically for my body, the Symbion shell is a lightweight, dense varilium alloy that begins on the front of my toes, goes over the bottom of my feet and has two horned spurs on the back of the heels, a custom job and my one and only insistence in the shell's design.

      The shell runs up the back of my legs before going around the buttocks; extending eight reflexive spikes around my ribs that nestle on the oblique muscles for support and to emphasise twisting motion.
      The bulk of the suit forms a second skin over my back with my real arms slipping into the shoulder sockets to control basic movement.
      Crucial dexterous operations come from electrical signals passed from me to the Symbion's control base, located at the top of the neck and slipped beneath the skin when we're linked together; a binary connection that allows me to receive information like temperature, weight and texture as well as initiating movement. Since the suit slots in at the base of my skull and is plugged directly into the cerebellum, it took forever to get used to working from the instinctive side of my brain.

      But working from instinct gives me a distinctive edge in unarmed combat, it's faster, more lucid and there's no hesitation. The only drawback is that the fight or flight mechanism goes awry because when we're combined, I feel unstoppable.
      It wasn't always that way; the shell came with a steep learning curve.

      The human mind being what it is and being naturally quite greedy and scatty, eating food and looking at juice usually meant the signals would bottleneck; thinking I wanted to eat and drink at the same time, the suit would try to do both, choking me in the process. I had to fight long and hard to slow it down and there are other problems too but the shell is worth it, I've lost count of all the times it's saved my life.

      The gauntlets strike out a fully-fledged one hundred and fifty big ones and can be deadly in the right hands, The arms bear-hug close to the three-fifty mark: twist out 125 from the hip and when pushed to the limit with a rolling start, the Symbion's legs pull close to seventy-five thousand kilo –about half my Connie's weight– before folding over like a French soldier.

      After wearing the Symbion for nearly twenty hours straight, the get-up begins to chafe and even though it makes me feel light on my feet, sometimes it can be a bit of a hindrance.

      I make eyes at the corner between the hallway to the ramp and the wall leading into the cockpit, to where the suit's recharge station is and right next to the False Gravity Switch on my ship. Perfectly positioned to turn it off when we both need forty winks.

      Turning the gravity trap on helps me walk around and get things done, turning it off means I can strap in and float off.
Sleeping's so much easier in zero gravity, no such thing as tossing and turning, just drifting and floating.

      The line of eight small LEDs, resembling spider's eyes, flash amber from the top of the outfit, indicating its thirst for a top-up. The suit plugs itself in and after a brief rethink of its needs, the lights start at five onwards and the last three digits continue to flicker. Even with twenty hours on the clock, I'd barely touched the juice.

      After a few hours spent analysing the contents of the black folder, I did a thirty minute stint on the treadmill to let the details sink in. Then I delved back into the madness of Princess Gabrielle.

      I'd ran through the first three data sticks twice but skimped several of their paper transcripts -having seen the film, I'm unlikely to read the book; besides, Connie'll let me know if there's anything different or of particular interest.

      I'd kept the siege of Candy's Valhalla til last, not just because she was the last hunter on the job but as one of those quirky, unexplainable signs of respect.
      Sitting at the workstation with my feet up on the table, I think now's as good a time as any.
      "Play." I tell Connie, and the holographic representation above the workstation beams into life…

Angel Wings Chapter 4: And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead
Date: 16 August 2008, 6:12 pm

      The scene begins peaceful enough, with Candy pacing around the curved seating on the top deck of the Valhalla, doing one of her monologues for the camera.
      A typical trait of most hunters; filming themselves through various stages of the hunt to watch them later and see if the benefit of hindsight can bring them any closer to understanding their prey, the words used giving little hints as to their way of thinking and to the paths the prey has lead them.

      Having a crew of five meant Candy could ask a question five times and get five different answers, but Candy being Candy, she was heliocentric and Lord knows she was hard-nosed and forthright in her opinion. She never asked for help on a job, considered it demeaning, even if it meant adding several hours to a hunt.

      Around her, two of Candy's concubines act as if nothing's out of the ordinary, as if some butch, vivacious, pink-haired sex-mad old crow walking around amongst their workings were a daily occurrence.

      I call them concubines because at any one time they were her lovers: men and women that had fallen under her spell and were now willing to die for her; I guess having seen the roster of the Paragon's mortuary, they all proved their worth.
      I shake the morbid thought loose and continue watching the film about ghosts:

      "We got multaple sightin's in Lavatoria placing 'em in the Swarf, just outside the Plates, so they ain't run far from the herd. Something in my waters tells me these Spartans are setting up shop –like they got unfinished business 'round here."

      Candy strokes the blonde, silky hair of a pretty young thing I've never seen before, the last acquisition to get caught up in Candy's considerable pull, maybe.
      After a short burst of tongue play, Candy cocks her head to the musings of a previous monologue on her screen:
      "Seven Spartans have rebelled and I've been brought in to sniff 'em out."
      There is a brief sound of laughter before real-time Candy surmises. "Like seven Spartans can just disappear!"
      "Amen." I salute from the vantage point of fourteen days, three hours and twenty-six minutes beyond her death.

      And then it all kicks off.

      The alarms go haywire and the red lights do their disco dance revolutions about the room.
      Ray, an old hand of Candy's comes rushing up to the top of the stairs from the lower deck and is soaked in the black stuff, brandishing a smoking automatic.
      "They're here, Candy, they're here!"
      As Candy and her pretty young thing race for their weapons, Ray throws the automatic to the other deck member and pulls out his revolver just as a bullet leaves him a headless jiggling wreck.

      I knew Ray well; he loved nothing more than to blow smoke and swap fishing stories over cold beers on hot summer nights. At the top of the screen, what's left of his body wriggles out its dying throes.

      The alarm drones on while Candy and her two remaining concubines prepare themselves for the assault on the cockpit. Candy takes refuge behind the Valhalla's main terminal, the pretty young blonde thing goes prone behind the cockpit's curved seating and the unknown omissible deck hand kneels down on the edge of the other end.

      The Valhalla has two symmetrical stairways running diagonally along her port and starboard sides, bridging the lower and upper decks. Candy's had the Valhalla for nearly a decade, for nearly as long as she's had breast implants. But in the heat of the moment, she's forgotten the first thing about defending her own vessel.

      I feel like screaming at the hologram:
      You run a three deck ship Candy, multiple entry points, multiple fucking entry points. Attack is now her best form of defence, no good camping in an assault like this.
      Considering the footage is from a fortnight ago, she still looks up at the camera and strokes my neck hairs. Like she's saying:
      'I know Heff, you shiny wet patronising piece of shit. D'ya mind letting me do things my way.'
      "Sure babe, go right ahead." I say aloud.
      Connie inquires as to my thinking but I just let her slide.

      Ray's body disappears; shooting down the stairs and I cringe at what I know will be its improvised use. The blackened, spurting cadaver re-appears but this time hovering into the room, teasingly being used as a shield and getting ripped up by heavy gunfire.

      A Spartan's gauntlet snakes up between the corpse's shoulders, brandishing Ray's revolver in its mouth and spitting bullets. The motif at the top of his arm has a Spartan helmet with horns on either side. The name 'J.D.' emblazoned across the top and underscored with the numbers: 522.

      Rushing up the opposite stairs, another marauder comes surging in; this one carrying a sizeable cargo crate that barely fits through the gap.
      And from the size of him, I'm surprised that he fits through the gap.
      The Spartan pushes the crate along the floor and it slides into the curved seating, pinning pretty blonde against the main terminal and leaving the omissible hand deck exposed.

      Things go from bad to worse.

      Ray's snake puppet trick sees the easy target and drops him, regurgitating white hot lead that lands between his eyes and explodes the back of his head.

      The remnant of Ray's battered and ragged body is thrown to the floor as 'J.D.' does a runner down the marauder's entrance for a costume change. The powerhouse prop pusher, meanwhile, dives down the entrance that Ray lost his head. I fancy myself hearing them tell the other cast members waiting in the wings that the show's going down a storm.

      In the sudden calm, the pretty young thing trapped between the seating and the terminal, yelps out in pain. Not a good sign and not what I'd expect Candy wants to hear.
      I stir uncomfortably in my chair, turning a mantra over and over in my mind.
      'Don't do it, Candy.'
      For as long as you've known someone and for as long as you've been able to second guess what they'll do, you never really want –or expect– them to do it.
      Candy kicks her foot out at the seating but the heavy furniture remains unmoved. Pretty thing makes sure everyone onboard knows of her pain with more yelping.

      'They're watching Candy, don't do it.'
      She levers her shotgun against the terminal wall and between the seating, putting her weight into it and forcing the curved seating clear. Pretty thing gets up as the room is swarmed by four Spartans.

      One in particular marks himself out by his aggression.

      As Candy brings her shotgun home to bear on Gabrielle, Spartan 525: Leonard 'Rocious' Kingsley, leaps to his leader's defence and knocks the shottie up in the air before snatching it from Candy, like taking sweet stuff from a baby. The gun comes full circle and Candy takes the full brunt of a second blast in the grill.
      The Spartan cocks the blunder-gun again and fires needlessly into Candy's falling body.
      Like I said, needlessly, she was already dead. I've never seen such unprofessional behaviour from a Spartan before.
      As the other Spartans attempt to subdue a frenzied 25, he moves in for the last crew member of the Valhalla with a 'kiss-your-ass-goodbye' racking of the pump.
      The pellets spread out across her face, take off a portion of her scalp and pretty young thing doesn't look so pretty anymore.

      It's down to Spartan 522, Azrael 'J.D.' Ford, to put 'Rocious' in his place. 'J.D.' takes the boom stick from his bloodlust buddy and throws it to the largest Spartan: 'Echo' 517, the powerhouse prop pusher. Then he hooks the leg and lays his hand on Leo's chest, pushing him down onto the curved seating.
      'King Leo', clearly the runt of the litter, doesn't like being manhandled and is up to fighting with his colleague.
      Something's clearly wrong with them.
      These aren't Spartans in control of their emotions, but because they're using their internal mikes to communicate, I have no idea what they're saying.
      "Connie." I say, as 'Echo' raises the butt of the shotgun up to the camera. "Does the Valhalla have any sound decoders onboard?"
      "Negative." She replies.
      "Shame." I say as the feed goes down. "I'd sure like to know what those guys were talking about."

Angel Wings Chapter 5: Ephialtes does Rodin While Four Uninvited Guests Chew Over Strawberries in De
Date: 24 August 2008, 7:59 pm

      I sit in silence for about a minute, caught in a dull daze of minimal thinking; the most I've ever managed to call a grieving process.

      'Let the dead look after the dead and the living will take care of itself, Marty.'

      Mom could be as strange as strawberries in December and crazy as a shithouse rat but when she was right, she was right.
      Candy and Ray are gone, but I can still catch their killers and give their tortured souls some closure; something to chuckle about between Hades' chores.

      Connie brings me round.
      "Heff?"
      "I'm fine sweetie, just gotta get a groove on, that's all; we can't sit in Io's chat and tat lanes twiddling our thumbs all day."
      Those Spartans were sure behaving peculiar at the end there.

      "So what's the plan?" Connie asks, trying to get the ball rolling, but I can't seem to shake the Spartan free-for-all brawl loose.
      "Why were they fighting each other like that?" I say aloud and on a tangent.
      "I don't know; could it be a difference of opinion on killing strategies?"
      With Candy and Ray's death fresh on my mind, I chastise my otherwise wonderful A.I. partner:
      "Not the time Con, not the right time." I curtly reply.
      "A lack of discipline, then?" she enquires.
      "Definitely, but why? Spartans are renowned for their professional approach and rigor; King Leo might as well have been in a school yard for psychopaths."

      The penny finally drops and I sing it to the heavens.
      "No Cryobeds!"
      "Huh?" Connie says puzzled.
      "Isn't it obvious? I reply. "A Spartan isn't simply a man in a fancy suit, Con."
      "Or woman." She hastily corrects me on my sexist thinking.

      "They're special for reasons beyond the way they look. These aren't ordinary men –and women. Their bodies are placed under immense physical strain and it takes a tough cookie to survive."

      "Like all great warriors." I lovingly pat the suit that makes me feel special.
      "I stand on the shoulders of giants and Krohlm ancestry to achieve legendary feats."
      "You've certainly achieved delusions of grandeur, Heff." Connie sardonically quips, and I can't help but chortle at her beautiful timing.
      "What I'm getting at, babe –if you'll give me a minute, is that there are unseen elements and people that work behind the scenes to ensure that these guys –and dolls– are able to perform to the full extent of their abilities."

      I look down to the connection between the Symbion shell and the power cable protruding from the Aspis wall.
      "The suit is just a single piece of the puzzle, Connie, without a charge every once in a while, things can run flat and you don't want that happening on armour that weighs close to a ton; regardless of how inordinately strong you are."

      "So what you're essentially saying about this Cryobeds theory is like the Princess and the Pea." Connie stumps me in full flow with a fairytale and it's my turn to sound flummoxed:
      "Huh?"
      "Well." She opens up. "The Princess was unable to sleep on twenty mattresses and twenty feather beds because of a single pea placed within the mattresses."
      I'm stunned that she would pull a fairytale seemingly out of nowhere.
      "And your analogy is relevant: how?"

      "The pea element of the story is why our Spartans are behaving irregularly; without the aide of their cryobeds, they're not getting a decent night's sleep."
      I rub my temples, hoping to massage the fuzzy logic of her reply away, like strawberries in December –but all it seems to do is make more sense.

      "I guess seeing as the cryobed is used to maintain the equilibrium of a Spartan's bodily functions and that the super soldiers rely on the suit's reserve during missions. There is a smidgen of relevance if they've gone nine months without a decent kip, I suppose.
      "Exactly." Connie beams like a teacher's pet with more knowledge than the teacher.
      "That explains why Spartan 525 is behaving like a hyped-up little brat. Arrhythmic sleeping patterns combined with an insufficient diet are probably defining our rebel Spartan's behaviour.
      My stomach growls in sympathy.
      "Insufficient diet, huh; I'm feeling that."
      "It's a long shot." She adds. "But I reckon it's worth checking out."

      "Okay, okay, I wasn't thinking that extensively about the Spartan's physiology but you got my attention, Con; so what are you thinking?"
      "You said there were unseen elements and people behind the scene. If these Spartans are fighting amongst themselves then they've lost their strong sense of discipline and Gabrielle Vixen has lost control of her squad."
      "Go on." I urge, curious for her to tie up these loose tenets.
      "Say Gabrielle and the others are aware of what is happening to them; wouldn't they seek to remedy their predicament?"
      I can almost feel Connie's eureka moment but wish for her to lay it out clean.
      "So what you're saying is…"
      "Candera Valance said they were 'setting up shop': the Spartans are behaving unprofessionally: in short, they're seeking someone or something out in the local vicinity that will rid them of their defective behaviour."
      "Bingo." I yell. "I knew there was a reason I loved you beyond your culinary skills!"
      I hope that if she can get Princess and the Pea from a Spartan killing Candy, she can put my stomach rumbling and the hint of her cooking abilities together and rustle me up some grub.

      Connie's playful laughter fills the room and we have our first lead, thanks to her insane deductions.
      "Let's get this show on the road. Con, I want you to gather some information about the star system of Lavatoria, and see if you can find anyone or any facility relating to the Spartan project in that area. Then we'll make a move on Lavatoria."
      "Dionysus." She blurts.
      "Bless you." I offer, even though it's impossible for Constructs to sneeze.

      "No, Heff, the name of the star system has been changed by the Council of Commerce to Dionysus. Lavatoria was found to be derogatory; it sounded too much like the formal Latin term for lavatory."
      "Well, it is a shit-hole." I counter.
      "Why do people have to come up with all these fancy names for things?!"
      I pick up a copy of the Valhalla transcript and reel off a couple of the Spartan's nicknames as perfectly stupid examples:
      "Echo: Angel of Death: Rodeo?!"
      I throw the book back down with a slap.
      "I mean, who comes up with this shit? Did they rifle a comic book and randomly pick action words or consult a children's cartoon writer for these pretentious monikers."
      "Oh I don't know, Heff." Connie rebukes in a huff, and I can see where she's going with this.
      "Being a liddle 'ol Construct by the name of Connie, I wouldn't know about these things!"

      I need this conversation again like I need a hole in the head.

      "Your sarcasm has been noted, sweetheart, but thank your lucky stars I didn't go with my first choice: Cicely. Now, find me that lead." I say as I head off to the toilet and leave her a casual euphemism to get to grips with.
      "While I check the plumbing of my Lavatoria."
      "Little more information than I needed to know, but go right ahead." She bemusedly replies.
      Before leaving the lounge, I give Connie another couple of items to add to her burgeoning list of tasks.
      "Oh, and knock me up something nutritious with proteins in for when I get back."
      I figure if I'm gonna be losing half a kilo, I might as well put it back.
      "Muzak please, maestro." I order before kicking open the toilet door…

      I've decided that Muzak was designed for the human sphincter.

      It's why supermarkets and receptions have odour neutralisers and lifts and elevators vary their fragrance between rotten egg, week-old stew and boiled cabbage. Muzak relaxes the bowels and loosens the stool; it's the body's natural response to what it thinks of low quality corporate jingles.

      Sitting on the john with me and the muzak ding-a-ling away, I do my best impression of Rodin's thinker while contending with the idea that nine months ago, seven Spartans downed the tools of their trade and skipped town. Not only that but they've laid waste to everyone that's tried to track them down since.

      I'm puzzled as to how they might have got into Candy's ship without anyone noticing.

      And then it hit me.
      'Leeches.'
      The thought sends a shudder up my spine and I immediately clam up, the muzak seemingly skips a beat.

      Primarily used as a repair vessel, Leeches are a recent development on the black market and the bane of travelling through economy wormholes. Small man-size capsules that latch onto a target ship and burrow a hole through the hull while remaining airtight.
      The occupants would then climb out the pods and hijack the vessel, dispatching the crew and making off with the ship and the goods. Then they'd fix the holes that they'd cut into the ship –ironically applying the Leeches original purpose– for it to be sold on.
      The trick was getting the Leeches in place, since they don't have much in the way of self-propulsion other than soft jets for ship scuttling.
      Usually they're tethered to the ends of a dragnet and positioned over a wormhole entrance or exit, where maybe a freight vessel would fly into the dragnet and the Leeches would munch on the undetected cord to get up to the ship. But even then, the Spartans would have to have known where Candy would be coming through.

      I give the Leech theory some serious thought as I leave the john.

      A nasty whiff of something repugnant infiltrates my nose on the way out the toilet door –but its not me: it's cigarette smoke.

      When you've spent enough time in the company of death, the last thing you want to do is tease him and piss him off. I don't touch cinder sticks and since Connie only smokes when she's on fire, something don't smell right.
      I make my way to the lounge, only to be confronted by four uninvited guests.

      I guess Candy isn't the only one to have had a Leech problem…

Angel Wings Chapter 6: The Over-Idealised Contrivances of Mary Sue’s Schizophrenic Younger Brother
Date: 3 September 2008, 7:45 pm




      "Or." I scan my eyes over the four deadbeats now cluttering up my lounge, and continue my toilet-inspired infiltration hypothesis of the Valhalla that could easily be applied to my own Leech infestation.
      "You could have someone on the inside, a mole for instance that could fill you in with the details; give you information on whether the ship construct is male or female and on what sort of defences the ship has."
      I call out Connie's name and at the sound of it, she releases an orgasmic whimper. Any sense of command over the ship's defence system is gone, along with any other task I had in mind –like cooking me some damn food.
      Her groans of delight leave me in no doubt as to how they've managed to suppress her without hitting on the manual override; which is usually a three key password that typically disarms most ex-service Constructs.
      "Sex." I ruefully breeze. "Figures." I add as an afterthought.
      Constructs are, after all, human-designed and suffer all of our sins for the emergence of their artificial intelligence.
      I'd deliberately kept Connie away from the more sordid end of the human spectrum of depravity, but it seems these guys know just which buttons to press.

      The guy nearest my workstation does the meanest look he can manage holding a large gun-shaped remote control in his right hand and flipping something into the air with the other.
      "Don't let us stop you." He mews, brutally emphasizing his last word like a bad speech disorder.
      I further my theory, originally based on the Spartan infiltration of the Valhalla, but now piecing together my own cocky downfall.
      "Then you get into position and use a decoy to distract your prey while simultaneously detaching from the decoy and latching onto the prey."
      I think of the 'clumsy' pilot lining up to the Hell's Kitchen docking bay of the Paragon, and how I'd fell for it hook, line and sinker, all the while these four bastards were busy biting chunks out of my beloved Aspis with their Leech pods. I'd even laughed at the assmole technician on the Paragon, showcasing him my ship's automated defences, thinking he was the fool; and yet all this time, he was feeding information to these schmoes about how to defile my Connie.

      The lame juggling act carries on flipping and smiling through black and broken teeth.
      I carry on talking, hoping that something will click in the back of my mind and I can turn the tables.
      "The decoy could be something innocuous, say… an exchange of paint jobs; maybe trundle out the old rookie pilot line to make it seem more authentic."

      Behind flipper and over by my suit, with his greaseball head cocked at right angles and his massive shoulders slumped forward –cradling a mini-gun, the sweaty pal chimes in with a helpful comment.
      "Worked on you, dudn't it?"
Directly over the top of the muscle-bound dunce's head, I see the Symbion suit's last red light flickering slowly, meaning it's dangerously close to full power.
      Meaning there's hope.
      Meaning greaseball is dangerously close to having his head snapped into the correct posture –or maybe just snapped if I think he has nothing to offer.
      "Then you bide your time." I say, aware that a chance may come.
      "Waiting for the right moment; waiting to be vomited from your capsules. You sit, stewing in your shit and piss-filled colostomy bags, waiting for the occupant to answer nature's call with a trip to a real toilet. Not that you shit-heels would know anything about them of course, but they're a modern phenomena you might want to research."
      I wrinkle my nose and take a whiff of the deadbeat in front of me.
      "And then you strike, popping out your capsules like smelly little turds to say–"

      "Hi." The smelly little turd cleverly orchestrates his interruption. "We're you're local friendly pirates, and you my little mutant hombre." He stops his flipping for a second and smiles, pointing his index and forefingers to the temple.
      "You're shit out of luck."

      "I guess you never thought it would happen to you though, huh?" The repugnant smoker grunts ironically, sitting in my seat with his boots up on the console, stinking up my cockpit.

      I spy what flipper carries on tossing into the air as he walks towards me, it's the data stick from the console and has the siege of the Valhalla on it.
      "Like I said." My eyes follow its looping trajectory. "I was distracted."

      "I wouldn't worry about it too much, chum."
      Flipper slides a creepy arm around my waist, breathing his shit-breathe all over me like we're bosom buddies –casually groping for any guns in my waistline.
      "Just think of us as neighbourhood watch s'all, here to look out for you."
      Again, like some speech anomaly, he goes up in tone for the last word.
      Flipper's clearly suffering from some kind of halitosis-induced brain rot, causing the brain-eroded victim to add unnecessary emphasis to the end of his sentences.
      "You're scum." I blurt out with a sickly acid taste invading the back of my throat. "It was the piss-stains and shit-stinking hobo look that gave you away."
      Flipper does me a favour and removes his arm, he shuts his trap and backs off a few yards.

      "Now that's not a nice thing to say to kindly folk that just dropped in."
      He throws the gun-remote on the workstation and comes back around swinging.
      The blow is enough to turn my head and draw blood but I shrug it off without a second thought. Flipper should practice his timing, maybe put more into the twist.
      "Least you could have done is baked us a welcome cake." He bellows before gurning around at his laughing pals. Like this same old same old schtick is as fresh as the day they found it in a fortune cookie.
      I keep one eye on the Symbion's amateur light show, seven of the red LEDs are motionless, staring out unphased while the last one counts ever closer to the show's finale.
      The suit's got a hush hush joke with a real stinging punchline that's gonna knock em dead.

      Connie gives out another sigh of unadulterated pleasure. Try as she might, the virus is like electronically-engineered chocolate, stimulating her every thought and persuading her that nothing but the complete smothering of her neural centre with this icky stuff matters.
      I blame myself, I should have introduced her to these sensations long ago but for the life on me I just wanted to shield her away from them, like a strict father to his only child. Now look what my prudish thinking has wrought upon us.

      Flipper bolts upright and grabs his remote from off my workstation, all stern and puffing out his chest.
      "Okay, cripple-king, let's get down to business. I'm gonna need fingerprints and DNA."
      He pulls my arms down and flattens them against the side of his remote. What feels like an electric shock goes along my little finger and up my arm.
      "A hair sample." The bastard yanks on a tuft of hair and feeds it into the end of his box of tricks.
      He looks me over, squints down one eye and puts his hand out in front of his chest, waggling his little finger and pointing towards my groin.
      "You're not one of those kinky kind of mutants are you, that go in for extra levels of ship secureetay?"
      "That won't be necessary." I smile, giving relief all round.
      Unfortunately, he gives me a different sort of grin, the licentious sort that says he's gone that extra mile in the past: all in the call of duty.
      "You sure?" He says, baring discoloured incisors and still adding height to that last word.
      I do what I hope is the only hard swallow of the night and curse my luck. The only pirates capable of penetrating my ship's defences just so happen to be rapists that want to penetrate my defences.
      I take their laughter personal while the Symbion's light show seems to be taking forever.
      It carries on winking in my direction.

      Flipper dries up his donkey laugh and continues mocking me. I can feel blood vessels exploding in my forehead.
      "Lighten up fella, you're insured so we're just going to drop you off on Io and skedaddle with your ship, okay homie?"
      Since Io's still going through the atmosphere building stages, it's not a place anyone who isn't associated with the project wants to be right now. So either he's pulling my leg or they really don't intend to stop in order to drop me off.

      The Symbion's last light stops blinking and all eight eyes roar into life; I feel like I've just won the Milky Way Lottery.
      "That's not happening." I retaliate, ready to play my trump card.
      "We're not dicking around here, pal." Comes the angry response. "Give us what we want and we'll go away."

      I skim my eyes over the deadbeats, each one of them staring back. The flipper suffering from halitosis is the first to look away, rolling his head to one side.
      "Whatever, let's just dump him on Europa without a coat and he can freeze to death for having such a bad attitood."
      I take a step towards him and his goons raise their guns as fast as weary arms allow.
      "I think you guys are cranky from being cooped up in those tiny capsules all that time. My Construct was just about to make dinner, if you release her, she'll fix you up something real nice."

      Flipper Hal nods towards the rejection letter on the wall, like he's on a game show and has insider knowledge, clued in to what is exactly behind door number 7.
      "I don't like bullet-turret sandwiches, thanks." He lifts his shirt, as he so often probably does, and shows me what looks like an appendix scar.
      "Tried one once and it disagreed with me." Everyone laughs and the guns slowly but surely go down by their sides.
      "I tell you what then." I smile appeasingly. "Since you guys look tired." I initiate remote control of the Symbion and order it to pull the False Gravity switch.
      "Why don't you take a load off…"

      With a sudden jerk, we all go bobbing in the air as gunfire pings around my ship.
      "…And let my masseuse introduce you to some aches and pains, relieving you the burden of existence!"
      Greaseball's legs fly up from underneath him and as he floats up, struggling to get his bearings, the stationary shell winds a right arm around his neck and pulls him in.
      "Hrrk!" Is all he can manage as the grip tightens and crushes every bone in the arm's path; his body losing all interest in that little mini-gun he was cradling.

      As the sweaty corpse begins to hover, the Symbion does a quick change; pulling the legs in together and flipping them out behind it to act as a tail; the spurs becoming a lethal barb. The shoulders collapse into the back with the elbows flexing in. Going prone, it lands upon the eight reflexive spikes and magnetises them to the floor, giving it advantage over my uninvited bobbing guests.
      They float. We all float in here but the master.
      The Symbion thrusts the arms out in front and begins snapping them in the air like the pincers of a scorpion.
      Atop of the giant beast, eight red eyes spill out their deathly gaze.
      Excitedly, I scoop up the blood from off my lip with my finger and suckle the red stuff into my mouth, like a spider cleaning its fangs before tucking into the main course.
      "Step into my parlour, said the black scorpion to the hapless, floundering pirates."
      Sporting a devilish grin and floating on cloud nine, I think it's time to show these deadbeats a real 'puncture-line'…

Angel Wings Chapter 7: Can I Kill Them Now?
Date: 13 September 2008, 2:29 pm

      The remaining pirates scream at the sudden turn of events, completely helpless and out of their depth.
      The Symbion scurries freakishly fast along the floor, heading passed smoker cowering in the cockpit, and directly for his reticent, wallflower pal. Everyone else bounces and blunders around in the air like they're caught in a giant web.
      Meanwhile, I wrap my legs around flipper Hal's neck and the shit-breathing cocksucker gets his wish; he finds his head buried deep in my crotch with my thighs squeezing the very foul life from him. Had I known I'd be using my legs to kill a man, I'd have purchased a thigh-master deluxe years ago, but they just never played on its asshole suffocating abilities.

      Symbion whips through the air and strikes the wall where our shadowed fourth pirate should be, but instead he simply vanishes into thin air and the scorpion mech is left snatching at a non-existent straw man.
      'A holographic projection to bolster their numbers and attract negative attention?' I muse to myself. 'Tech that will undoubtedly come in handy."

      Amidst the chaos and confusion, smoker decides to make a float for it and nervously forces himself out the cockpit and propels himself towards the ramp entrance, swimming through the air to where his Leech must be.
      I issue a grunt and Symbion ignores the wispy shadow, turning its attention to our fleeing smoker instead. The last thing I need is for him to leave and introduce another uninvited guest in the form of vacuous space. It's cold outside and that's no kind of atmosphere for this type of party.

      The black mechanical scorpion rounds onto the nearest wall and flipper Hal's emphatic, operatic screams are heavenly –so much so that a fat lady could do no better.
      "Jeff, don't leave me!" He bleats, but his 'friend' shows no sign slowing down.

      Symbion leaps from the wall and catches smoker in midair, wrestling him to the ground and pinning him beneath the magnetised spikes.
      I grip onto the light rail over my workstation, a commanding position above Hal, and knowing things are in our favour, I issue another grunt for gravity to be restored.
      The scorpion's tail splits back into two legs and with a single spur, it reaches over and pulls the FG lever.
      We hit the floor with a thud, Hal takes the brunt of my weight, but I'm sure he's used to having burly men on top of him; not so much a hazard of the job, more a lifestyle he pursues with a passion.

      I snatch the gun-shaped remote from him. "I'll take this." And deactivate what's called a 'Carnalectra' program on the readout, the one that's obviously been suppressing Connie. She immediately rolls out the turrets; a little late by a good thirty minutes but still a reassuring gesture.
      "I asked you to make me something nutritious involving proteins, Con, not nauseous involving pirates." I quip with a subtle hint of relief in my voice.
      A single shot rips through smoker's leg and he screams the best he can from beneath Symbion, sitting proudly upon his back. The three turrets snap into position, aimed squarely between flipper Hal's eyes as he rises to his knees –no doubt he's familiar with the position of having three large rods in his face. Although surprisingly for such a dream spot, the poor bastard doesn't seem to know what to do with himself on this occasion; he certainly doesn't want to put them all in his mouth.
      "Can I kill them now?" Connie angrily requests.

      "No." I say, contemplating their usefulness. Another bullet worms its way under Jeff's mangy skin, this time a little further up; this time all he can manage is a muffled cry as Connie takes charge of Symbion and instructs it to pull his legs apart. The turrets turn their attention to something more valuable to a man's ego than a simple leg.
      "How about now?"
      "No, Con; stand down." I chide her constant badgering.
      I've finally figured out a plan for them. I hate manual labour.

      The two of them gawp back at me with their grubby little grey faces; one from fear and the other because he doesn't feel so good leaking important lube juice everywhere.
      Symbion climbs off Jeff and rounds up onto my back, I roll my neck around to ensure a good connection, clipping it in.
      I offer them our hand.
      "D'ya really think I was gonna kill you guys?"
      I help flipper Hal to his feet and Jeff the limping smoker to my workstation chair.
      "What do you take me for, an idiot?"
      The two deadbeats look over at one another, in desperate need of a second opinion.
      "Besides." I add, walking over and staring at one of the huge gaping holes in my vessel that leads into a Leech's crimson red, console-lit mouth. "Someone's gotta patch my ship and it ain't gonna be me."

      "Connie?" I say, hoping she's had a chance to calm down, even though she's still spinning the turrets at random intervals.
      A scare tactic, I'm sure… well, pretty sure.
      Hal stands there, his eyes flipping between the three turrets when they go winding around and around, wondering if he's gonna take a second bite of a bullet sandwich, and whether it'll taste as painful as he remembers.
      Jeff seems more focused on the pain in his leg, he should be thankful Connie was aiming to maim and not for an artery. His frantic bandaging with a part of his shirt isn't stopping him from bleeding all over my floor.
      "Just a few moves and earn some easy money, you said." He furiously winces between shallow breathes and turret whirls, throwing his head violently forward at greaseball's corpse and then to his bloodied limb. "Quick job, no-one gets hurt if they don't act funny, you said!"
      Hal seems too pre-occupied to reply. He's distracted by Connie's modern day interpretation of the cup and ball trick: 'guess which turret's got the bullet in'. I'm afraid the game's loaded in Con's favour and all bets are off.
      "Connie, take us down onto a decent rock for repair, sweetie; Europa preferably. Have the Valhalla rendezvous with us on the surface." I smoothly throw in a cosy pet name, hoping the tasks will keep her from killing these idiots and saving me the hard work of patching the Aspis hull in the deep cold.
      "Then can I kill them?" She persists.
      Hal and Jeff look over at me with almost child-like innocence, that is until Hal bears his disgusting teeth with a meek, ingratiating smile. A shudder runs up through Symbion and I, contemplating the terrible 'what ifs' and blessing the 'thank fucks'.
      I almost got sucked up by a pirate and spat out my own ship to burn up in Io's volcanic atmosphere while Connie was reaching sexual nirvana. If anyone should be making sure these guys don't miss their appointment with Death, I think it should be me… after they fix my baby's torn hide.
      "I'll think about it."

Angel Wings Chapter 8: Europan Jip
Date: 5 November 2008, 1:32 pm

Submitted for the "HBOff: You're doing it Write." Child's Play charity drive by Phaedrus.


      We break Europan airspace and the Aspis hull remains solid, even with a Leech stuck to our wing.
      I'd discovered –much to my amusement, that all three pirates had crammed themselves into a single Leech pod.
      Looks like even the Jovian racketeers are feeling the economic pinch that's crippling the Solar System's outer circles.
      It was clear that Hal had been the meat in their little intimate sandwich and it was obviously the kind of sandwich that he prefers.
      Patching one Leech pod hole was still going to take them the best part of an hour, so I made plans to scour the Valhalla while they were doing all the donkey work.

      Connie remained quiet throughout our descent, just giving out basic information and responding to my commands with simple replies, not at all being her usual talkative self. I figured she couldn't wait to be rid of our would-be ship-jackers.
      The two buffoons on the other hand, were happy to be alive and Jeff even gave me stick until I told him that he'd be going outside to fix my ship without a coat; that shut him up for a while.

      Connie sets us down and the ramp opens up to the pristine glittery white-out palace that is Europa, the Solar System's ice box. Pure water is one of the most precious commodities in any galaxy now Earth seems to have spent the last few thousand years squandering hers, and Europa has it held in a state that's excellent for transport: ice.
      Once regarded with fear and trepidation, now a sacred cash cow, Europa is being milked dry. There are cutting plants every few hundred miles across her surface, freighters hopping and bopping all day and night to the sweet rustling tune of untraceable credit slips. Not all of it's legit, but it's all happening and the only loser is the tourist industry's beautiful skyline. Their ideal PR cumshots are hard to come by when you got ships and plants coughing and spluttering into every postcard's view.

      We vacate my baby's warm embrace and head out for her tampered wing.
      Flipper Hal tips his head to the only dead casualty still onboard my ship. An idiot so comical, I was expecting his suddenly visible breathe to be green.
      "What are you gonna do with Boone?"
      "He's meat." I bark without a hint of flippancy.
Hal looks at my arms, as if he knows that I'm not just physically deformed underneath, but a bit of a fruit-loop to go with it.
      "You're a cannibal?" He exclaims.
      "Nope, but I know folks that pay top dollar for prime beef-cake like your friend in there. On Earth, I wouldn't get my fuel costs back, but where I'm going, his sacrifice will keep me in the lifestyle I'm accustomed to. Out there..."
      I gaze up into the unimaginable, encroaching black abyss with a look of faux terror.
      "…There's an insatiable demand for human flesh. We're like caviar to these things."
      Little gay Hal shudders at the thought of the untapped market:
      "Eurgh!"
      He's probably disgusted, thinking of all that filthy lucre he's jettisoned out the cargo bays of hijacked ships.
      I turn to Jeff the limping smoker.
      "Now hop to it." I cock the hammer of my Trident hand-cannon. "Otherwise, they'll be getting lead-filleted seconds."
      "You're an asshole, you know that?" He banters rhetorically.
      "I haven't passed the exam but I reckon I qualify from extensive experience." I shrug and grimly retort as I push him up the wing. "Now, c'mon."

      "I'm in agony here." He says as he clambers up onto the Aspis wing. "Can't you see that?"
      If there's one thing I've picked up on in my time on television, it's that people like to dramatise their emotions, and if there's one thing I despise: it's boohoo amateur dramatics.
      "You're not in agony." I say. "If you were in agony, you wouldn't be able to say you were 'in agony'."
      "But I–"
      I reach up and grip him around the calf muscle, giving it a good hard squeeze and sending his brain the clear signal of what agony actually feels like. His face contorts into a myriad of non-vogue poses, all with their eyes tightly shut and the mouth as wide as it will go without breaking off the jaw.
      Though he is unable to scream, he is able to show the desire to scream; a side effect of serious pain and within touching distance of those ethereal plains known to man as 'agony'.
      I let go of his leg and watch him catching his breathe with a hate-filled look in his eye, elaborating on the immediate difference.
      "Y'see." I note with a self-assured grin. "That's what agony feels like; now you're fine, now you're just a little sore."
      Now he has regained control of his voice, he lets me know his feelings on what agony felt like with a boisterous shout.
      "You fucking Goddamn motherfucker!"
      Jeff winces and tentatively strokes his blood-soaked leg.

      Hearing the low whine of the Valhalla's engines as Connie puts it down behind us, I gloss over our sadistic little drama lesson.
      "Gentlemen, I'm in a bit of a hurry, so I'm afraid you only have one hour to patch my ship and make her slipspace worthy. Connie's gonna keep an eye on you two, to make sure you do a professional job." I say sternly, glancing over my shoulder towards the landing Valhalla.
      "But it took us an hour just to cut through the hull of this thing." Hal explains.
      "This 'thing' has a name and that's not my problem, bad-breathe." I spit the insult over the side of my baby so as not to taint her perfection –even though she's got a gaping air hole where it needn't be.
"But if it's not done for when I come back…" I descend and jump clear of the wing, training my sights and glaring back at him.
      "…You will be."
      I strut some way along the icy white surface of Europa, before turning back to rub Jeff up the wrong way some more. For some reason, I've taken a shine to giving jip and scratching irritable assholes.
      "Oh, and don't go running off."
      Jeff shouts some obscenities regarding the scatological practices of edible faeces, but I pay the insults no attention.
      "Time's a ticking and that's not getting my ship fixed, pal."
      That seems to shut him up and once again I feel on top of the world, putting the hi-jinx of the hijack behind me, putting lame-brains in their place and ticking all the witty reply boxes…

      Shaped like the midsection of a UNSC Cruiser and looking about as graceful, the Valkyrie VX-1 is not a pretty ship by any stretch of the imagination, but in her heyday, the Valhalla could run rings around gas giants and really dance among the stars; tearing ribbons off the competition.
      Valkyrie's biggest mistake was going up against a resurgent C709 Longsword design for UNSC funding; a ship perfectly suited to the age old adage that 'little money's why, lame ships fly'. A highly economical (read cheap-ass) design that despite its many flaws, was brought in well behind schedule and punching two belts below the Covenant counterpart's weight: the Seraph, more commonly known as the 'Cobra' or 'teardrop', for its close resemblance to the hood of a King Cobra snake when it executes an aggressive 180 turn in a chasing ship's direction. That's also the last thing most pilots in the situation ever see, right before he soils his pants as the ship's main 'fangs' –four plasma cannons, clusterfuck his blubbering ass to Kingdom Come.
      The Seraph Starfighter had gone into production four years earlier and possessed far superior dog-fighting skills, sporting unknown tech and being slippier than my Jewish lawyer; it's second only to Krohlm technology in the who's who of frightening vessels to avoid.
      I wouldn't like to say what would happen between Connie and a Cobra, but I know neither ship would come out unscathed.
      Admittedly, the UNSC knows the problem (in truth they've always known, they just wanted to try the cheap 'bury your head in the sand and pretend nothing mean's coming' short-term plan before spending any real cash). Now they're busy updating their ageing fleet with something more of an offensive structure.
      The Rapier-class Shotel was unveiled last year in the summer of 2583, hopefully it'll make up for its predecessor's battle record.

      But none of that stuff could save the Valkyrie Company from going under in Mother's belt tightening reverb of two-five-sixty.
      These days they either stand proud in a collector's hangar, or rot in space-yards, being picked apart for their easy-on convergent metals and wares that work well on pretty much any ship.
      I guess I better break the bad news. The ship sits looking dirty and meek amongst its pure white surroundings, waiting to be told of its fate.

      The vessel seems oddly bald with something amiss.
      "Those bastards took the Helen." I say aloud and staring in disbelief at the unanimity of the thieving Spartans scalp job.
      The He13 Neutraliser was an armament to strand a thousand ships.
      Mounted on modified track runners along the Valhalla's stub nose, the cannon gave the ship an aerodynamic shape –and more importantly, dealt suppression via Gamma pulse bursts to a target ship's engines; cutting thrust, dampening slipspace entry and scuppering any getaway plans the mark might have had.
      Making acquisitions that little bit easier and without the impedance of damaging any profit from a sellable vessel.
      Candy may not have been a connoisseur of fine weaponry, but even she saw the potential benefits of owning one. And since I was getting myself a Krohlm-built Aspis–a lethal shark amongst the shrimp laity in terms of maritime population, I didn't need to hamper a ship's legs to stop it running; I could bite them clean off.

      We'd always been friends and Candy wanted the big gun badly to keep her in the bounty game, but because the He13n was designed for newer models –including my own ship, I had to scour the galaxy for a mechanic smart enough to fix it to her ship.
      She didn't care none for the cost though, when Candy got something into her head that she wanted, she was getting it.

      I take a second look at the Valhalla's flat nose and whimper at the horrific scars that'll crop some feathery layers of cash off the final asking price.
      "They even took the modified track runners!"
      Modified track runners I personally had made to fit the ageing rust-pot. Those Spartans were certainly thorough in their evaluation of anything worth salvaging; I'm surprised the damn thing's still got an engine so it can get in the air.

      I manually open the bay ramp and step into the belly of the beast; might as well see the extent of the damage those greedy big green tics have wreaked upon her.
      "How you doing, old gal?"
      Some people talk to plants, some people talk to their pets, my vice is talking to ships; even ones without Constructs.
      Her metal innards groan from the incoming cold that blows in behind me.
      It's a sad thought, that when a ship groans and no-one's around to hear it: does it really groan?
      I slap the bay door button to close it and consolingly pat the wall beside. The two of us alone.
      "I miss them too, sweetie.

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